Powerless (23 page)

The next block is more of the same, with all types of shuttered retail establishments, including a Home Depot and a Best Buy. Sunlight glints off something the next block down, near the entrance to another restaurant. The horses surge that way and he tugs gently on the reins to slow Murphy. The glint turns out to be a small pond with a fountain at its center. The mermaid's mouth is dry and crusty but plenty of water remains. He slides off Murphy as the three horses eagerly begin to drink. A few colorful fish are swimming around the bottom, but the horses pay them no mind. Zeke wonders how long it will be before those fish end up on a spike of wood over a fire.

Being out of the saddle brings brief relief to his sore behind. He arches his back and wiggles his hips to loosen up, then takes off his cowboy hat and mops his brow. As the horses drink, he seeks refuge under an overgrown holly bush for a little relief from the interminable sun. Once the horses have drunk their fill, Zeke takes a sip of water from his canteen. He's running low on water but there's no way in hell he's drinking from the pond. With reluctance, he remounts Murphy and steers him back on the road as his eyes continually scan for threats.

 

P
resident Harris makes his way back to the Sit Room around four in the afternoon, slightly ahead of the twenty-four-hour delay that Admiral Hickerson had requested. His blue button-down shirt is open at the collar and the shirtsleeves are folded up nearly to his elbows. Under direct orders from his wife, they had enjoyed a long, private lunch and an escape upstairs to the residence for an afternoon tryst. As he waits for others to arrive, he exhales a contented sigh, thinking how lucky he is to have Katherine Harris in his life. She is far more than a wife. She is an equal partner in the marriage, a sounding board full of creative ideas, a wonderful mother to their daughter, and an enduring opti—

The President is stirred from his reverie when a steady stream of haggard military personnel trudges into the room. He reaches forward to pour himself a cup of coffee and calls the meeting to order. All the regulars are in attendance, a veritable who's who of the nation's top brass, with their aides lined up along the outer wall. Most of the military aides are dressed in shirtsleeves and their ties are loosened. Except for Admiral Hickerson, who is wearing a somewhat rumpled full dress uniform with the tunic buttoned up to his throat. All the requisite stars are attached to shoulder boards and buttoned in place.

President Harris takes a tentative sip of his hot coffee. “Admiral, what's the status?”

The admiral clears his throat, and when he speaks his voice is raspy. “We're ready to go, sir. We hit a small snag in getting enough drone pilots on location because of the satellite issues. We'll rely on the Common Data Link for field communications but we won't be able to view real-time video feeds here in the Situation Room. Strike Group One is in range and all ships and carriers are ready for battle-station alert upon your order.”

“What about the Israelis?”

“They're champing at the bit, sir,” Admiral Hickerson says.

Israeli Ambassador Har-Even had been invited to this afternoon's briefing but is not yet present.

“Are the Iranians offering air support to their troops?”

“Yes, sir. But they only have a couple of hundred aircraft available to them. A majority of their fighters are at least a decade old, and many much older. They're sloppy with their maintenance program, which leads me to believe the number of flyable aircraft could be much lower. Nevertheless, a good portion of their aircraft will be destroyed within the first hour of battle.”

The President places his coffee cup on the table. “Will we be able to listen in on real-time radio communications?”

“Some, sir, but not all. For the first time since World War II, we'll need to rely on commanders in the field to make the important decisions. I trust them to do so, sir. They know their mission and I'm more than willing to put the nation's safety in their hands.”

“I am, too, Admiral, but that doesn't mean we are out of the loop.”

“No, sir, you're correct. There will be some issues, but I believe we can make it work.”

President Harris turns from Admiral Hickerson and addresses the secretary of state. “Allison, any of our overtures to Iran had any effect?”

“No, sir. We tried to reach out to them, but they haven't even acknowledged our requests.”

“Fuck 'em, then,” the President mutters, but loud enough to be heard by the entire room. “Pardon my French. Frankly, I'm tired of the constant stream of horseshit that spews out of Tehran.” President Harris glances up to see nods from most of his advisors. “What about the Jordanians?”

“They've been receptive, sir. They're not happy about the Iranians massing at the border. We can rely on them to inflict some damage, but how much is an unknown.”

President Harris turns his focus to Secretary of Defense Martin Wilson. “Martin, how much damage can the Jordanians cause?”

“Skirmishes along the flanks of the Iranian troops. More of a pestering presence than anything else, but enough to force the Iranians to direct some attention their way.”

President Harris offers a nod and inhales a deep breath. “So are we a go?” He turns to each advisor around the table and receives nods of acceptance. The mood is somber, but tense.

“Thank you for your support.” The President turns back to Admiral Hickerson. “How is the operation going to unfold?”

“It's a fluid situation, Mr. President, but the Israelis are going to start the show by launching an aerial attack. That will allow our ships to pinpoint the Iranian radar sites along with their antiaircraft batteries. Our first salvo will be Tomahawk cruise missiles to eliminate those threats and then we launch our own aerial attack.”

The President takes a moment to digest the information before turning to CIA Director Isaac Green. “Isaac, what will the Iranian response be?”

“Well, sir, hopefully we'll hit so fast and so hard they'll have no choice but to haul ass back home.” His comment elicits a few chuckles. “In all honesty, sir, we don't know how committed they are to this path. We don't have any reliable assets in Tehran. We don't know if they're simply taking advantage of an opportunity, or if they are committed to the destruction of Israel, as they have asserted many times.”

The President steeples his hands beneath his chin. “Should we direct some of our assets toward Tehran?”

No one jumps to answer.

Eventually, Secretary of State Allison Moore takes the plunge. “Sir, I think we should focus our forces on the advancing troops for the moment and see what type of reaction we receive from the Iranian leaders. The situation with Islamists all across the Middle East and Northern Africa is on the precipice of exploding. The last thing we want to do is incite them further by a direct attack on Tehran.”

“All right, we'll hold off on attacking Tehran.” He raises one finger in the air. “But I want to make damn certain you all know that option is still on the table.” President Harris folds his arms across his chest and exhales a sigh. “Admiral, we are a go. Hit them with everything we've got.”

 

T
he earlier discovery of Sarah Chlouber's body has shaken Ruth and Carl to their cores. The children are no longer allowed outdoors and the family is barricaded in their no-electricity, no-running-water home. With strict rationing, they've made three days' worth of food stretch much longer.

Ruth steps inside from the garage, pours three fingers of water into four coffee cups, and hands one to her husband.

Carl drains his and places the cup back on the counter. “How much is left?”

Ruth shoves a stray strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “Six bottles.” She sags against the kitchen counter.

Carl steps over and wraps his arms around his wife. “The water wouldn't have lasted this long if you hadn't stocked up for Noah's soccer season.”

Ruth wipes away a tear. “Why didn't I buy more?”

“So you're a fortune-teller? No one could have predicted what happened. Who thinks about buying a hundred cases of water? Nobody. You buy one and when that's empty you run to the corner store and buy another.”

Ruth shrugs out of his embrace. “Kids, come get your water,” she shouts down the hall as she shuffles out of the kitchen.

The kids wander in for their cup of water.

Carl leans against the breakfast bar. “Anybody want to work the puzzle again?” The family has worked and reworked the thousand-piece puzzle so many times the edges are frayed.

Noah and Emma groan and shake their heads. “I think some of the pieces got lost,” Emma says.

“That'll make it more of a challenge.”

Noah sets his cup in the sink. “No, Dad, that makes it impossible. Who wants to work on a puzzle where half the pieces are missing? Besides, I'm reading.”

“Whatcha reading?”

“
Again? How many times have you read the series?”

“I dunno. But it's not like I can run to the library and grab something new.”

Carl ruffles his son's hair. “I guess you've got a point there, kiddo.”

All four are reading to pass the time. Books that had once been banished to the attic are now being recycled downstairs, but there is only so much sitting and reading a family of four can do. The bicycles parked in the closed garage are begging to be ridden.

Emma grabs her father's hand. “Dad, can I go over to Grace's house?”

The mangled face of Ruth Chlouber flashes in Carl's mind. “I don't know, sweetheart.”

She tugs on her father's arm. “Please? She's just down the street. Pleeeassse?”

“I don't think so.”

Emma lowers her head and stares at the tiled floor. Another piece of Carl's heart flakes away. “You know what, let me talk to Mom for a minute.”
How do you explain to a five-year-old that a killer may be prowling the neighborhood without scaring the hell out of her?

Carl finds Ruth sitting in the window seat, staring out the bay window. It's a frequent hangout for her since learning of Sarah Chlouber's death. Carl walks over and sits next to her.

“Emma wants to go down to Grace's house.”

Ruth turns toward her husband. “How do we know her parents weren't involved in Sarah's death? Absolutely not.”

Carl's anger and frustration bubble to the surface. “We're all going a little stir-crazy, but sitting in front of the window on constant lookout for a killer isn't normal, Ruth. We've known Grace's parents since the girls were born. Do you actually think they could be involved in Mrs. Chlouber's murder?”

“Desperate times mean desperate people, Carl.”

“We can't stay cooped up in this house suspecting our neighbors of murder. Especially people we've known for years.”

“How do you know there aren't other dead bodies? We're safer with all of us together.”

“I don't. And you don't, either.” Carl slumps against the wall. “Honey, we'll drive ourselves batshit crazy thinking about this.” Carl reaches over and kneads Ruth's shoulder. “I think it will do Emma some good to spend some time with Grace.”

Ruth closes her eyes in resignation. “Will you at least walk her down there and back?”

“Of course. I'll be back shortly.”

Ruth stands from her vigil at the window and moves over to the sofa. The interior is dim even in the middle of the day because the front of the home faces north. The sun's rays, low in the autumn sky, don't penetrate much beyond the windows. She picks up the book she was reading, riffles through the pages, and puts it back down. Ruth pushes out of the sofa and returns to the window seat.

That's where Carl finds her upon his return. He sits on the cushioned window seat and leans against the wall.

“What are we going to do, Carl?” she whispers to her husband.

“I don't know. What are the chances Zeke is on his way here?”

“Pretty good, I think, knowing Zeke. The overriding question is
when
. We can't survive here for more than another day or two. We need to come up with some type of game plan, but I don't have a clue where to begin.”

“We have nowhere else to go, Ruth. Leaving would be senseless. I'll get up early in the morning, around daybreak, and see if I can at least find some water.”

Ruth turns to face her husband. “And where are you going to find this water?”

“There are vending machines fronting businesses are all along Lovers Lane road. Hell, I bet I could find a bunch of them inside the high school.”

“What makes you think they haven't already been raided? Besides, how are you going to get inside?”

“I own a hammer and a crowbar. We need water, Ruth, and I don't care how I get it. Our family comes first.”

“What happens to our family if you get arrested for breaking and entering?”

Carl sighs. “I'm not going to get arrested. When's the last time you've even seen a cop?” He pauses for a moment, thinking. “I dunno, maybe going when it's dark is a better alternative.”

Ruth shakes her head. “Who knows what you could run into out there in the darkness?”

“I still have the pistol I bought from Zeke.”

“How long has it been since you shot the thing, Carl? Not only would I be concerned about you running into a bunch of thugs, now there's added worry about you shooting yourself in the dark.”

“How much water do we have left, Ruth?”

“I told you. Six bottles.”

“There you go. We need water. I can handle the gun. All you have to do is point and pull the damn trigger. How hard can that be?”

“Can you shoot it accurately if someone is chasing you? It's all fine and dandy sitting here in a locked house, but you don't know what's out there,” she says, pointing to the outdoors through the big bay window.

“So what do you want me to do?” Carl takes his wife's hands in his. “I've given you the options and you want to select none of the above, but that's not an option. We can't survive without water.”

“What happens if you run into trouble? You won't be able to call and tell me. Or call for help if you need to.”

Carl leans forward and brushes his lips against hers. “Nothing's going to happen.”

“Mom! I'm hungry,” Noah shouts from his room down the hall.

“Will you swipe some candy bars, too?”

Carl leans over and kisses her forehead “Almond Joy still your favorite?”

Ruth nods, a small smile pushing up the corners of her mouth. “When are you going to go?”

“Let's give it a couple of hours.” He stands and pulls her up. “Now get in the kitchen and whip us up some of your magic.”

She slaps him on the butt. “It'll have to be magic because there's only a can or two of stuff left to eat.”

“That's what I love about you—always thinking of the positive,” he says as she brushes past.

Carl grabs a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and steps through the connecting door to the garage. Ruth's two-year-old Lexus SUV, in desperate need of a car wash, is parked next to his almost-new BMW sedan. Now just two expensive hunks of metal taking up space. As he steps around the cars, he wonders what'll happen when the monthly payments aren't made. Then he stops in his tracks, wondering the same about the house. “I guess they can come and get them if they want them,” he mutters as he continues to his workbench. Tools lie scattered across the plywood surface peppered with oil rings and paint stains. On the wall is a pegboard with screwdrivers, pliers, and a couple of different hammers held on by small metal hooks. He grabs one of the hammers, a couple of different screwdrivers, and a pair of pliers. From one of the drawers he withdraws a small pry bar and a utility knife and piles it all into one of those canvas carryall bags that are all the rage at the big-box home improvement stores.

Carl carries the bag back into the house and places it on the kitchen counter before heading upstairs to the master bedroom. He kneels down by his side of the bed and pulls out the small gun safe Ruth had insisted on when he bought the gun from Zeke. He enters the combination and lifts the lid on a Smith & Wesson model 1911—a .45 caliber pistol with a stainless steel frame and slide, dressed with crosshatched walnut grips. Zeke had assured him the larger round would stop most anything on two feet but the only thing Carl has killed with it are a few paper targets. Recalling Zeke's words, he suppresses a sudden surge of trepidation. Next to the pistol rest two additional magazines, which his brother-in-law had thrown in on the deal.

Carl takes the gun from the safe and tucks it into the back of his waistband. He slides the extra two mags in his front pocket and, when he stands, his too-loose jeans fall to his ankles. He laughs as he pulls the jeans up and notches his belt tighter. He removes the heavy magazines from his front pockets and puts them into the pockets of a lightweight jacket from his closet. Before descending the stairs he checks himself in the large mirror and readjusts things until only a slight budge is visible.

“Your bowl of soup is on the counter,” Ruth says when he reenters the kitchen.

“Divide it between the kids. I'm not hungry anyway.”

“You need to eat, too, Carl,” Ruth says between spoonfuls of watery broth.

Carl grabs the bag of tools. “I'll find something while I'm out.” The news he is venturing out perks up the ears of his children.

Emma, back from Grace's, claps her small hands together. “Daddy, can you pick up some chicken nuggets from McDonald's?”

Carl cringes. “I don't think they're open now, sweetheart.”

Noah says, “Where are you going, Dad?”

“Just to run an errand, son.”

“Can I go?”

“Not this time, little buddy.”

Ruth stands from the table and sidles up next to Carl, whispering, “You're leaving now? I thought you were going to wait a couple of hours.”

Carl steers them toward the living room, talking in a low voice. “I was, but it's dark enough now, I think. It's still light enough that I won't need the flashlight for a while.”

Carl turns for the front door but Ruth steps around in front of him and tiptoes up to kiss him on the lips. “Be careful, Carl,” she whispers.

“I will. Lock the door behind me.”

“How long are you going to be gone?”

“Two or three hours probably. I'm not coming home empty-handed.” Carl slips out into the growing darkness.