Wave (22 page)

He dialed into his mail and waited. It took longer than usual for the call to go through, which he found peculiar—he was in the middle of nowhere and couldn’t imagine how much interference there’d be. He checked the screen to see if the signal was flat. It wasn’t. In fact it was reading full strength. He shrugged and brought the phone back to his head.

“Your voice mail is full, please check your messages.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said aloud, annoyed. Hardly a week seemed to pass without some technical problem affecting his life.

He hit “1” and “enter,” then heard, “You have twenty unplayed messages. Press the star key to hear new messages.”

He gave a quick snort and shook his head. “Pathetic.”

Then he hit the star key and listened.

Sarah Collins called her former professor again. Dr. Kennard answered on the first ring.

“Sarah?”

“Daniel, I’m going to read some numbers to you.” She had a pile of papers in her hand, all fresh printouts. In the background, Dolan was starting to load things into boxes.

When she was finished, Kennard said, “Are you certain those readings are correct? Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes. I did them all twice, and I ran a systems diag, too. Everything’s working fine.”

There was a pause, and then, “Listen, Sarah, as soon as you’ve sent out the necessary alerts, get the hell out of there. If those readings are right, you’re in the path of one of the biggest tsunamis in recorded history.”

Officer Jeff Mitchell, in his Harvey Cedars squad car with the lights swirling but without the siren on, worked his way down to the Causeway, riding mostly along the northbound shoulder, which, by order of Mayor Harper, had been left clear for emergency vehicles. All other lanes, including the shoulder on the southbound side, were open for general use and now flowed toward the bridge. Harper had also ordered that all cars parked on either shoulder be removed. Regardless, Mitchell encountered two, which he circumvented simply by deviating onto the sidewalk. As the vehicle bounced and scraped along the cement, Carolyn King remained silent and stone-faced in the passenger seat.

He was forced to use the siren when he reached the bridge, where traffic wasn’t moving as fast as it should’ve been. He felt a twinge of guilt as he broke the flow to get through.
It’s only a few seconds, but will they count later on? Did I just sign the death warrant of someone at the end of the line?

He peered over at his passenger, the reason he had to stall the traffic in the first place. She was staring straight ahead through the window, expressionless and apparently not the least bit concerned. Why was that so surprising?

He tried to be empathetic, tried to put himself behind her eyes. As a father of two, it really wasn’t all that tough. There was a part of him that admired her ruthlessness, her extreme focus. He’d had good parents and a good, solid childhood. Had they made similar decisions for him, decisions they never told him about, that he’d never know about? And would he do the same in a similar situation?

Of course you would. How could you not?

He guessed, accurately, that Mrs. King was under severe emotional strain. In fact, it was agonizing for her, pure torture. He felt this instinctively, as only a good cop can, and his attitude toward her softened. He wished he could do more, do something to soothe her soul. But he’d seen people like her all his life, knew the personality well. She was practical and pragmatic to a fault. Words were no substitute for action—she wanted results. The only way she’d feel better about her missing daughter was by rescuing her. Period.

He took the cell phone from his belt and flipped it open.

“I’m going to try calling Mark’s home. Maybe he’s there.”

“Didn’t the newspaper say he hardly ever was?”

“Yes, but it won’t hurt to try.”

He had to redial the number sixteen times before it worked. As soon as the call went through, he switched to the speaker.

“Hello?”

It was a male voice, low and gruff, and with the slightest hint of an accent—Southern or Midwestern, Mitchell thought.

“Is this the home of Mark White?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

Mitchell’s spine tingled—not from joy, but from wariness. He’d heard voices like this before and it was that of a suspicious, unsympathetic man. He didn’t like to profile, but wasn’t it part of a cop’s job, at least sometimes, to do just that? Wasn’t it a resource like any other that, when used responsibly, held genuine value?

“Officer Jeff Mitchell, Harvey Cedars Police.”

“Police, huh?” There was a pause. “Do you know where Mark is?”

“That’s why I’m calling. I was hoping maybe you did.” Mitchell remembered the girl at the
SandPaper
saying something about Mark having a mother and stepfather. “Is his mom there?”

“Yeah, but she’s pretty upset right now. She doesn’t know where he is, either, and we’re trying to get packed up and out of here.”

“May I speak with her, please? It’s important.”

There were some indefinable noises, then Mitchell heard the stepfather say, “Angie?” faintly. He glanced at King from the corner of his eye. She looked thoroughly disgusted. He could almost read her thoughts—
She’s never going to see that boy again. I’m not getting mixed up with a family like that. I wouldn’t dirty my hands with
—

“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice, light and airy. She didn’t sound particularly upset, Mitchell noted, but she did sound thoroughly confused.

“Mrs. White?”

“Yes?”

“This is Officer Jeff Mitchell, Harvey Cedars Police Department.”

“Who?”

King rolled her eyes.

“Jeff Mitchell. Harvey Cedars Police.”

“He’s a cop,” the stepfather said impatiently in the background.

“Yes, officer? What’s the trouble?”

“I’m in a squad car heading toward the Forsythe Wildlife Refuge.”

“The Forsythe…Wildlife…Refuge?” She said it with the halting uncertainty of a child just learning the words.

“Yes, ma’am. I believe your son, Mark, may be there. At least that’s what they told me at the
SandPaper
office.”

“Oh.”

Silence. Mitchell waited for more. He and Carolyn King locked eyes for a moment.

“Ms. White?”

“Yes?”

“Can you confirm that Mark’s there?”

More silence. Mitchell wondered if perhaps the word “confirmed” threw her off.

He was just about to rephrase the question when she said, “Uh, no, I can’t. I…I’m not sure where he is.”

King shook her head.

“Do you know about the tidal wave?” Mitchell asked.

“Uh, yes. Yes I do. We were just about to leave when you called.”

“Aren’t you worried about your son, not knowing where he is?”

“My son is quite capable of taking care of himself,” she said with as much force as her butterfly’s voice would permit.
Was that pride or anger?
Mitchell wondered. Probably the latter. He sensed there was a lot more brewing beneath the surface in the White household than he’d figured on, but frankly he didn’t want to get into it right now.

“Well, ma’am, I understand he may be with his girlfriend and that they may not be aware of the danger.”

“You could try his cell phone,” she said helpfully.

“Have you?”

“Yes…a little earlier.”

You didn’t even need to be a seasoned cop to know this was a lie. Mitchell’s stomach knotted. He was a fair and objective man, but people like this made him wonder if human beings really were the superior race on the planet.

“And…?”

“I couldn’t get through.”

The stepfather piped up in the background, “What the hell’s he grillin’ you for?” Jeff heard the voice of someone who had had his fair share of encounters with the authorities. “We gotta get the hell outta here.”

“Well, please keep trying. If you reach him, let him know that a police car will be arriving soon.”

“Oh, thank you, officer,” she said magnanimously. “Thank you so much.”

Mitchell could tell she was genuinely grateful—not because someone was going to try to find her son, but because she felt the burden had been lifted from her shoulders. He also fully understood in that moment why Mark didn’t spend much time at home. He applauded the kid for having the guts to get out of there, away from those two, and to try making something of himself.

He terminated the call without another word, thinking,
If we all survive this, I’m going to find out just what goes on in that house
. He wasn’t even sure if he could, legally—Mark was obviously over eighteen, so what responsibilities did his mother have to him? She still had a moral responsibility, yes, but he didn’t get the impression morality was something that kept her awake at night. Legally, on the other hand….

“How the hell can anyone be so—” he grumbled angrily to himself, then, startled, he remembered he had a passenger.

“Sorry about that, Mrs. King.”

He looked over at her, waiting for an admonishment.

Instead, without even the subtlest change in demeanor, she said, “That’s all right, I was just thinking the same thing.”

He allowed himself a smile and a little laugh.

“We’re going to find your daughter, you know. Don’t worry.”

From the corner of his eye he saw something that blew him away—a small tear rolling down Carolyn King’s cheek. Thinking she’d be embarrassed if she knew he’d noticed, he kept his eyes squarely on the road and said nothing.

To his surprise, she made no attempt to wipe the tear away. “I believe that,” she said in a near-whisper.

Marie was at the window, peering through the blinds. All of her personal items had been removed from her desk and placed in a brown paper shopping bag. The bag and her pocketbook sat on her desk chair, standing primly upright, waiting for her.

“He’s here,” she said, and turned back. She almost jogged to the chair to retrieve the stuff—Harper couldn’t remember the last time he even saw her walk fast.

“Good luck, Marie,” he said.

“Thanks, Donald.”

She turned to go, then stopped and turned back. “When are you leaving?”

Her husband, Art, began honking wildly outside.

“Soon. Very soon.”

“Don’t wait too long,” she said, sounding motherly again.

“I won’t.”

She reached for the knob, then paused and looked back one last time. Her eyes became glassy and red-rimmed. Her lower lip quivered just slightly.

“It’s been an honor working with you,” she said, her voice weakened by despair but steady. “You’re a good man, Don.”

Harper smiled. “Thanks, Marie. You’ve been great, too. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else in the world as my secretary.”

She smiled back. “God bless,” she said hoarsely, and went out. Art was honking more frantically now, yet Harper barely heard it. It was somehow detached from his own reality, soft and distant, like a radio playing in another room. He heard the car door slam, then the squeal of tires as if the driver were an insolent teenager.

He wandered over to Marie’s desk, to the pile of messages she’d organized so he’d have no trouble finding them once she was gone. He picked them up, shuffled through them. All unimportant, insignificant. More media outlets, well-wishers, locals sniffing around for brownie points by asking what they could do.