Wave (34 page)

“No! Not far, I hope!”

“It’s not. Let’s get going and I’ll show you.”

“You sure about this?”

“Yes! Go—head south!”

Without another word the pilot lifted out of the parking lot and into the spring sky.

It was the last time Donald Harper would ever see the building where he had spent the most important twelve years of his professional career.

Jennifer tried her mother three more times on the cell phone before giving up. Thinking it might have something to do with her mother’s phone, she tried Mark again, then her father at work. She got the same recorded “No service available” message each time. She rarely lost her cool, but the urge to smash the phone on the ground was so powerful she had to struggle to suppress it.

So what now?

She looked at her watch—less than ten minutes left.

A moment of paralysis came and went. The notion of death was vague and unformed in her mind. She really hadn’t seen much of it in her brief life, nor for that matter any of its cousins—suffering, pain, misery, etc. Her parents had successfully shielded her from the darker aspects of human existence. An aunt in Colorado had died of pancreatic cancer, but Jennifer hadn’t seen her during the illness and in fact had not known her well—she’d only met her once, during a family trip when she was six years old, before the cancer formed. She remembered Aunt Janet as vibrant and lively, which was symbolic of the way her parents were bringing her up—let in the light, filter the dark.

And now she found herself staring death in the face. Facing the end of everything. Everything.

I was so stupid
, she thought, unable to restrain the tears.
I never should have come. I should’ve called the police. They would’ve sent someone—someone trained at finding missing persons.

And Brian…that jerk, leaving her here. No way of getting back now. She’d been stranded, plain and simple.

That bastard.

She looked at Mark’s car, the old, beat-up clunker. It barely ran, spent more time in a mechanic’s garage than in his own. The sight of it made her cry even harder.

He never had anything, ever. He had an awful life from the moment he was born. It’s so unfair, so goddamn unfair!

She’d thought about getting him a better car, somehow. Her parents had more than enough money, but they wouldn’t do it, so she never bothered asking. Deep down she knew her mom didn’t really like him because he came from the “wrong kind of family,” and her dad barely knew he existed. It wouldn’t happen. But she could’ve used the money she made at the supermarket. She wouldn’t be able to get him something great, but at least it would’ve been reliable. The guilt that arose from the fact that she lived so much more comfortably than he did often inspired ideas like this. She felt bad for him. He was a good person who deserved much more than he’d been given.

She opened the door and got behind the wheel. For a moment she wondered if maybe he left his keys somewhere. She checked the ignition, but no luck. Then she realized,
If you find them, what are you going to do? Take off and leave him here?

She couldn’t. She knew she’d never be able to go another sixty or seventy years carrying that kind of guilt. Just wondering if Mark might have come back to make his escape and found his car gone—stolen, essentially—would be enough to land her in the laughing academy, under constant sedation and fed through a tube.

She checked the trail through the windshield. “Come on, Mark, where are you?” She’d never felt so helpless.

She checked her watch again. Then, realizing the situation was now utterly hopeless and the chance for escape lost forever, she made a heroic decision—
I’m going to go down that trail, find the man I love, and die with him. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a way to survive this thing.

She got back out, slammed the door, and headed toward the trail. No sooner had she done so, however, then she caught the distant sound of a police siren. She paused, thinking perhaps she’d imagined it. It grew stronger, clearer.

It’s coming this way.

She turned toward the road. Seconds later a Long Beach squad car zoomed up, its lights swirling madly. She had little doubt it was here for her—perhaps her and Mark—but the sight of the person in the passenger seat made her stomach drop.

“Oh my God, Mom….”

The car pulled up just a few feet from her, doors already opening on both sides. Jennifer ran over, the two embraced. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Her mother stroked her hair. “I know, I know. It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

“Carolyn,” Mitchell said quietly but firmly from the other side. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

Without turning to face him, Carolyn King said, “There’s a helicopter coming, isn’t there? Didn’t I hear you ask for one?”

“I can’t say for sure. No one radioed back to confirm.” He looked at his watch. “They might all be gone by now.”

Mrs. King looked into the endless blue of the late spring sky. “Will we make it?” she asked, struggling to stay calm on the outside.

“We might,” Mitchell replied. “But not if we stand around here talking.”

“Okay, let’s go. Jen, get in the back.”

“But Mom, what about—”

“You heard what the officer said. There’s no time left.”

“Mom, I can’t just leave him here!” Her eyes reddened and she shook slightly.

“Jennifer, there’s no time for this! Get in!”

The sharpness of her voice—the undeniable command of it—made Mitchell’s heart jump. He’d never used such a tone with his own kids, but then he had never been in a situation like this, either.

A moment passed when nothing happened—Jennifer and her mother were locked in a staring contest while Mitchell watched with rapt fascination. No more than two seconds passed, but it felt like hours.

“No, I’m not going,” Jennifer said flatly. It came out pouty, almost childish, as if she was refusing to leave a toy store. But the face was a different story—cold, glaring eyes full of anger, the kind you associate with the courage of a person who stands by their convictions. Mitchell thought distantly that he was witnessing a measurable step in Jennifer’s evolution—for what was probably the first time in her life, she was standing up to her mother, afraid, and yet willing to deal with that fear for the sake of a principle.

Carolyn King had similar thoughts, and instead of simply raising her voice higher as she would’ve done in years past, she decided on a new tack—reason. A part of her felt the deepest pride and respect for the inner strength that had begun to bloom. But now was not the time to show it.

“Jennifer, I know how you feel about this, about Mark, but we have no time left. No time at all.”

“I can’t just leave him here!”

“But you can’t stay.”

Jennifer turned away from her, in silence, and it was more than her mother could take.

“If you think I’m going to stand here and let you die, Jennifer, you’re wrong. It’ll never happen, and I’m ordering you to get into that car right now!”

Jennifer turned back to face Carolyn, and for a moment Mitchell feared the girl would start into Round Two. At that point he’d have to step in and take action. Carolyn was right that there was no time left for this. None at all.

Then, to his great relief, Jennifer grabbed the handle of the rear door and yanked it. As the tears rolled from her eyes, Mitchell thought,
This will stand between them forever. This damn wave is going to destroy a lot more than real estate.

Jennifer slammed the door shut mightily; her mother did likewise up front. With two angry women inside and the race of his life ahead of him, Mitchell made the mental comment that this ride should be a real laff-riot.

He saw the helicopter before he heard it, a tiny white shape in the otherwise cloudless sky. If he’d gotten into the car a moment earlier, he probably would’ve missed it.

“Let’s go, Jeff,” Carolyn King said matter-of-factly, leaning over just far enough to make eye contact.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Mitchell countered. “But we may be in luck. Look.”

She got back out. As the chopper drew closer, she took her rosary beads from her pocket and kissed them.

Mitchell waved vigorously. The pilot spotted him after a few moments and landed about fifty feet away.

The passenger door flew open and the familiar figure of Donald Harper emerged, waving them on.

“Come on! Let’s go! There’s no time left!”

The three of them started over, then Jennifer stopped, turned—

“Mark!”

She was beyond ordinary grief now, bordering on a breakdown. She trembled violently, her face red and twisted.

Harper rushed over, put a hand on Carolyn King’s shoulder. “He never came out, I guess?”

“No.”

“Mayor!” the pilot called.

Harper hustled back. “What? What’s up?”

The pilot—late thirties, wearing a headset and sunglasses—said, “I have some bad news. We can’t carry this many.”

Harper shook his head. “I don’t think the other kid is coming. It looks like he’s still—”

“No, I mean even with what we have now! It’s too many!”

Now Harper paused. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was, but there’s no way I can take four people. Even if there were enough seats, we couldn’t handle the load.”

“Can we toss anything off?”

“I already did that—there’s nothing left to toss.”

Harper, hands on the doorway and arms spread wide, dropped his head. What a day.
What did any of us do to deserve this?

Then he had a sudden inspiration.

“Take these people, I’ll stay here!”

“What?”

“There’s a flush pipe on the western side of the refuge, big enough for a person to crawl into. I should know—I put it there. The DEP had a fit, but we had to do it. It doesn’t connect with the ocean, so I should be able to hide in it. If I find Mark I’ll take him with me.”

“Are you sure?”

“What choice is there?”

The pilot nodded, then put his hand out. “Good luck, Mr. Mayor. I’ll be back to get you when it’s over.”

Harper smiled and shook his hand firmly. “I’ll watch for you.”

He turned back to the group, waiting nervously. Jeff Mitchell kept glancing at the Atlantic. It was so calm, so peaceful, so…ordinary. He wondered for the umpteenth time if this was all some elaborate gag, like Orson Welles’s 1938 “War of the Worlds” radio broadcast. If it turned out to be a hoax, Mitchell, at heart a peaceful, forgiving man, would track down the people responsible and make their lives miserable.

“What’s up?”

“You guys have to get on, now.”

Jennifer, her eyes trained on the trail, said in a wobbly, choked voice, “I…I can’t leave without Mark.”

“I’m going to find him,” Harper said.

Everyone turned.

“What?” Mitchell asked.

“All four of us can’t fit on the chopper, so someone has to stay.”

“I’ll stay,” Mitchell said quickly. “I can—”

Harper shook his head. “I’m not intending to die, Jeff. I’m hoping to find Mark and take him to that flush pipe. Remember, two years ago? We put it in and the DEP blew their top? It’s the one with the pressure lock.”

“I remember,” Jeff said. “The one by the cove.”

“Exactly. If we reach it, we should be able to survive this thing.”

“Let
me
go,” Mitchell countered.

Harper gave him a look that enlisted so many different emotions it was hard to register all of them—sadness, desperation, the struggle of a repressed ambition, a plea for mercy. In that instant Mitchell understood. This is his chance to redeem himself. Maybe, just maybe, if he finds this kid and they both survive, the people will forgive him. This could be the closest thing to salvation he’ll ever have.

“Jeff, you’ve got your family to think about,” Harper said, giving Mitchell his escape route. “And this is something I need to do.”

The cop thought for a second, then nodded. “I understand, sir.” He put his hand out and Harper took it. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Jeff. You too.”

Carolyn King had been following the exchange. “Good luck, Don,” she said.

“Thank you, Carolyn.” He put a hand on Jennifer’s shoulder. “Take care of her.”

“I will.”

Harper turned and jogged off down the trail. The others watched wordlessly for a moment, then Mitchell said, “Okay, let’s go.”

They started for the helicopter, Jennifer pausing for one last moment before finally and fully resigning herself to the situation. She stumbled toward the chopper, every molecule of her body pulsing with emotion. Suddenly she felt like someone else, and no longer part of reality. The scene was dreamlike, disconnected, and abstract. Her mind became a slow-moving blender of words, phrases, and broken images. There was no black or white, nothing solid.

They loaded in, Mitchell up front, the Kings in the back. Carolyn went first, then she and Mitchell guided Jennifer to her seat. They secured her belts for her, as if she were an invalid. When Mitchell pulled the door shut, a fresh wave of the girl’s grief poured forth. Wordlessly, her mother wrapped her arms around her daughter and held her tight.

The chopper lifted into the sky and turned northwest. Toward the mainland, and safety.