Wave (15 page)

“This is an emergency, corporal,” she said, noting the two chevron shapes on his sleeve. She knew the rank from watching
M*A*S*H
as a child with her father. Radar O’Reilly had been a corporal and had the same insignia. “My two children are being watched by a friend who lives in Holgate, and she hasn’t been answering her phone. I don’t know if they got off the island yet.”

The corporal, whose last name was Moreland according to the patch above his shirt pocket, paused, apparently unsure what to do. Karen judged him to be in his early twenties. He was a good-looking kid, hardened by his training but still boyish in subtle ways. He probably had no children of his own and therefore couldn’t really relate to her predicament on that level, but he would understand that this problem could not simply be dismissed.

“Please wait here, ma’am.”

He walked over to one of his superiors, an older man who was speaking to a guy in an aging, faux wood-sided station wagon. A woman, presumably the driver’s wife, was in the passenger seat, leaning over to take part in the conversation. Two small children were playing in the back seat, blissfully unaware of the magnitude of the situation. Behind them, in the cargo area, was so much crap you couldn’t see into the windows.

The two soldiers conferred for a moment, then the corporal turned and came back. Karen smiled optimistically.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “My sergeant said no one is allowed to pass.”

“But corporal, I have to—”

“But what I can do, ma’am,” he continued as if she hadn’t interrupted, reaching behind himself, “is try to call your friend with this.”

He produced a small cellular phone made of hard black plastic that, Karen knew upon first glance, wasn’t a model available on the consumer market.

“What’s the number?”

“Corporal, I’ve been trying to get them for the last ten minutes,” she said, holding up her own phone. “All the lines are busy.”

“That won’t be a problem, ma’am,” he said, the tiniest smile crossing his lips. It wasn’t arrogance, it was the supreme confidence of the well-conditioned military mind, a confidence that comes from devoting all your time and energy to creating situations where things worked, things happened. And, she sensed, there was a bit of pride, too, as if this kid thought there was nothing cooler than having access to high-tech equipment.

“Okay, it’s 555-4347.”

“Area code 609?”

“Yes.”

Moreland dialed. As he waited, he surveyed his surroundings, returning to his original assignment rather than waste the few seconds unproductively. Distantly, Karen marveled at the discipline, the focus. She also realized for the first time that, in spite of the catastrophic danger that was headed this way, he didn’t seem the least bit frightened.

A few seconds passed, then a few more. Moreland bowed his head and stuck a finger into his other ear as if he was having trouble hearing.

“Did someone answer?”

Without looking up, he replied, “No, ma’am. It just keeps ringing.”

Karen’s stomach sank. “Dammit.”

“Doesn’t your friend have a machine?”

“No, they consider them annoying modern devices.”

Moreland nodded as if he understood completely. He turned the phone off and reattached it to his belt.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s the best I can do. I’ll try again in a few minutes.”

“Thank you. Should I wait here?”

“No, please pull over there.” He motioned toward the shoulder at the base of the bridge. Nothing more than a narrow, gravelly margin separating the blacktop from a stretch of reedy wetland. The southern branch of Barnegat Bay lay beyond, the gentle ripples twinkling like broken glass in the mid-morning sunlight.

“Thanks.”

He nodded and left.

The option of simply sitting there, waiting, while the precious seconds ticked away and that giant wall of water moved ever closer to Patrick and Michael never entered Karen’s mind. Perhaps the young corporal really did care about the fix she was in—she still couldn’t tell for sure—but the bottom line was that, at the moment, he wasn’t doing anything about it, and neither was she. That was unacceptable. Doing anything was immeasurably better than doing nothing.

For the time being she followed his orders and pulled to the shoulder, perhaps thirty feet from where the Causeway began its ascent. She could see across the bay, could just make out the rough shape of the famous “clam shack”—once a serviceable shelter for clammers and fishermen, now little more than a dilapidated novelty slowly being consumed by the unyielding force of the elements.

She knew Moreland expected her to turn the engine off, but she didn’t. Instead she sat and carefully watched him and his superior, Sergeant Whoever. Moreland was still scanning like a human security camera. The sergeant was too distracted to engage in such activity, trying futilely to keep the cars moving while, invariably, someone stopped to asked one idiotic question or another. The elementary concept of
keep mov
ing
was apparently too difficult for most people to grasp.

Moreland glanced in her direction every thirty seconds or so. She was sure this hadn’t been part of his routine—he simply wanted to keep an eye on her. Once she realized this, she grew irritated by the lack of trust.
Of course
, an inner voice said,
he has good reason not to trust you, doesn’t he?

At that moment a large military transport pulled up and Moreland approached it. Karen thought this might be her chance to ease away, but the young soldier remained vigilant. He talked to the driver from the passenger side rather than going around and letting her out of his sight. Nevertheless, each time he turned his head away she removed her foot from the brake and allowed the car to inch forward.

Moreland hopped down from the running board and started toward her. The truck rumbled away, the transmission groaning as it began the laborious climb. The corporal’s face appeared to have reddened, the jaw set tighter than before. He fixed her with a cold, pissed-off stare that sent fear shooting through every vein.
He noticed
, she thought.
He’s seen the car moving, knows exactly what I’m trying to do, and is going to tell me to turn around and leave.

As he reached back toward his service pistol, a 9mm that could blow a hole through a concrete wall, Karen felt all the blood drain from her face.

“555-4347, right?” he asked, producing the cell phone again. The pissed-off look apparently had nothing to do with her.

She couldn’t help but smile. “Oh, yes. Thanks.”

He entered the number, listened for a moment, then shook his head. “Still no answer.”

Now it was Karen’s turn to be pissed off. She was not one to anger easily, and in the all the years she’d known Nancy she was sure she had felt only the brightest emotions toward her. But now…
Why the hell can’t she have an answering machine like everyone else?

A little guilt came with this, but not much. Their home was a damn museum, two thousand square feet of the 1970s trapped in a vacuum. No answering machine, no computer, no cable TV, no cordless phone. It even
smelled
like the ’70s. Nancy and Bud’s refusal to join the rest of the world in the 21st century had caused a few minor problems before, but nothing serious. It was always something cute, something to be joked about. Karen and Mike even liked it in some ways—along with increased technology came increased negative influences. They didn’t want the boys to have free access to cable TV or the Internet. Now Karen wondered if those sacrifices had been worth it.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll keep trying on mine.”

“Right.”

He returned to his post, and she returned to her inching forward. Now she was sure—absolutely certain—he knew what she was up to. In another few moments she would reach the point where the shoulder ran out. She would have to make a decision then. Maybe the riskiest one of her life.

She tried Nancy’s number again. A recorded voice told her for the hundredth time that all lines were busy. She wanted to smash the damn phone on the dashboard, slam it so hard that it shattered into a thousand pieces. She felt the knot in her stomach tighten, felt the overwhelming helplessness. And the rage—the rage at being forced to sit here and do nothing while her two children were somewhere on the other side of that bridge, perhaps scared out of their wits and wondering where their mommy was. The only thing she knew for certain was that she wasn’t going to sit here for long. One way or the other, she was going to do something.

Soon.

Nancy kept the TV off as a matter of principle. Like Karen, Mike, her husband Bud, and about a zillion other people, she firmly believed television was bad for children. It had been bad enough in the ’60s and ’70s, but at least back then there were some good programs. Now it was almost all trash; mass-market brain candy. And not just incidental garbage, either—she and Bud had long ago decided there were certain media outlets that were purposely producing stuff that was bad for children. The drastic increase in sex and violence, for example, hadn’t been some kind of cosmic accident—a group of people had decided to make that happen.

So when the boys were over, the TV stayed off. She knew Karen and Mike appreciated that; it was one of the things Nancy loved about them. They were trying to bring their boys up right, and it gave her hope; hope that the values of the ’50s and ’60s had not been completely obliterated. Besides, even if the world of television hadn’t gone to the dogs, there was so much else to do. So many things that were more productive and educational.

A typical day for them began with breakfast at the small round table in the kitchen, which was covered with a vinyl tablecloth and always kept immaculately clean. Nancy prepared and served the meal while Bud and the boys handled the cleanup.

Then Nancy would take the boys into a spare room on the first floor that was once occupied by their daughter, Vicky, but had since been converted into a makeshift classroom with two small desks. Bud had attached a markerboard to one wall—one modernization Nancy had embraced rather than shunned. In all her years of teaching she always hated using chalk and was grateful that a better option had finally come along. Since neither Patrick nor Michael had seen the inside of a formal classroom yet, this playful facsimile thrilled them. Nancy had seen too many children begin their school years poisoned by parents who passed down their own bad memories. If nothing else, she was determined to fertilize a positive attitude and start them on the right foot. It wasn’t so much the academic angle; that would come in its own time. She wanted to make sure they were comfortable in the classroom environment. And she had a selfish motive, too—she still loved the opportunity to dabble in the practice she held a great passion for.

After an hour or so of basic education, the boys were allowed to color or play in the basement while Nancy made lunch. Often Bud would be down there in his workroom, building or fixing something. Patrick and Michael would sit and watch him, awestruck by his vast collection of tools, nuts, nails, and bolts. He’d let them help if they could help, and these were the only times the brothers came close to fighting—one would get to turn a screwdriver or hammer a nail, and the other would become swollen with jealousy.

After lunch everyone went for a walk. Nancy and Bud needed the exercise at their age—especially Bud, who had a cholesterol problem and arthritis in his knees. They usually walked the few blocks to the corner of Joan Road and Bay Terrace, where there was a small playground. The boys would monkey about while their minders admired the view of Little Egg Harbor Bay and enjoyed the breezes rolling off the water. Then they’d go back to the house, and the boys would nap for an hour or so. Sometimes, if he’d been busy enough during the first half of the day, Bud would nap, too, affording Nancy some quiet reading time. Throughout the years she’d accumulated hundreds of paperbacks for what she called her “retirement collection.” Now, at long last, she was getting the chance to knock them off one at a time. Most were classics, which she loved. Right now she was working her way through Mark Twain’s
The Prince and the Pauper
.

Karen usually arrived between four-thirty and five, but sometimes she got caught at the office and Mike would pick up the boys instead. So far there had never been a need for Nancy and Bud to feed them dinner. In her heart Nancy knew Karen would die if it ever came to that, but she also silently wished it would happen just once. With her own children grown and gone, she missed the liveliness, and even the occasional craziness, of the family dinner table.

On this particular day, there had in fact been someone in the house each time the phone rang. Bud was in the basement, repairing a broken coffee table that he’d found on the side of the road. It wasn’t that they didn’t already have a coffee table, or that they were so poor they were forced to resort to picking through other people’s trash. But there was a spare room down there that he planned to convert into a sitting area, a place where he could relax and do a little quiet reading of his own. He wasn’t much for novels, but he did have a growing pile of handyman magazines that he wanted to absorb, some of which hadn’t even been opened yet.