Wave (25 page)

He got back in his car, shaking his head and gritting his teeth, infuriated by all of it. In years to come, he would wonder if he’d really made the right decision this day. He slammed the door and gunned the engine, dropping it into reverse. The tires dug into the hard-packed surface of the bulldozed lot. As he drove out he checked the rearview mirror repeatedly, hoping beyond hope that one of them would appear.

It didn’t happen.

Mark was certain there’d been a mistake. He’d never received so many messages in his voice mail box—he didn’t even know it was possible to fill a voice mail box.

Under the clear blue sky, standing in the middle of nowhere on one of the nicest days he could remember, he entered his four-digit code and waited.

“First message…” the pleasant woman’s voice said.

“Mark, it’s Jay. Hey, there’s a tidal wave coming. I’m serious. Get out of there as fast as you can. Call me back if you get the chance. Hurry.”

Mark’s first thought upon hearing the words tidal wave was that it was a joke. Of course it was—how could it not be?

But, then, his photo editor at the
SandPaper
wasn’t the type to joke. He had a sense of humor, but not of this nature. He wasn’t a practical joker.

Also, what about the remaining forty-nine messages. Forty-nine.

That can’t be right. There must be some mistake.

He went to the next one.

“Mark, oh my God…” It was Jennifer. His stomach sank. “Mark, there’s a tidal wave coming. You’ve got to get out of there!” She was crying.
This is for real. Holy Jesus
. “Call me as soon as you get this message. I love you.” Her voice rose to a strangled squeal at the end.

He kept the phone to his ear to hear all the messages, but he also knew it was time to get moving. He tried to call Jen back but was unable to penetrate the overloaded network. He grabbed the camera bag off the ground and slung it over his shoulder. Then he broke into a slow jog—first heading to his left, then right, then back again….

“Oh shit,” he said aloud as it occurred to him:
I don’t even know where I am.

He tried to remember the way he’d come in. He found his way back to the main trail, but it forked into two other trails, and they forked into others still. It was a maze, a goddamn maze.

I’m going to die, he thought, suddenly feeling sick. I’m going to die simply because I can’t find my way out of here.

It was so depressing it was almost paralyzing. He had always been careful not to appear self-pitying to Jennifer, or to anyone else for that matter. He knew he lived in a world where self-pity found few sympathizers. But that didn’t change the fact that he often couldn’t help feeling sorry for himself—for having such a pathetic mother, losing his father at such a young age, and ending up with a scumbag for a stepfather. There were other problems, too, problems that weren’t of his own making, strokes of bad luck that had kept him on the lower rungs of life’s ladder. He didn’t whine about them because he thought doing something about them was a more productive approach. But there were days when he just felt overwhelmed, when—even though he knew it sounded irrational and even a little ridiculous—he felt like there were unseen forces in the universe working against him, working to hold him down. That really seemed like the only way to explain it.

And here again was an example—the one day when he decided to wander aimlessly around the refuge, the one day when he almost purposely let himself get lost, was also the one day in a billion that Long Beach Island, New Jersey, was due to be struck by a goddamn tidal wave. What were the odds of that happening?

The immediate urge was to give up—drop to the ground, cry, and wait for the end. He was tired of fighting. He’d clawed and scratched for everything he had, and it still didn’t amount to much. What would he be giving up? Did his life amount to anything? Would the future hold anything besides more struggling? Struggling to get nowhere?

But then he thought of Jen—his beloved Jen. The singular bright light in his life. She was so much more than just a girlfriend, she was the future. She represented everything he wanted—the stable home life, the pure and unaffected mind, the seemingly bottomless well of cheer and good nature. He was at a turning point, the transition from one chapter to another. Slowly, but surely, he was leaving the myriad old miseries behind and working his way toward a much better existence. All thanks to her.

He crouched down and studied the trail carefully. It was slightly concave, and the sugary sand had a way of consuming footprints as soon as they were made. But the trail to the right seemed more disturbed than the one on the left. The pine needles to the left looked as if they’d just fallen, whereas some of those on the right were crushed and partially buried.

I came from the right. Definitely.

At least I think I did.

He took a deep breath and, listening to the twenty-third message, began running.

Jennifer, while not as experienced in the wild as Mark, did manage to find her way back to the parking lot. When she saw that Brian’s car was gone, she panicked. When she found the note he left on Mark’s windshield, she began to cry.

Then she took out her own cell phone and tried to call her mother.

There was no getting through.

Tom
Wilson, sitting behind Marie’s desk, set the phone back in its cradle and scribbled in his notebook. He’d filled nearly ten pages in the last half hour.

“A Harrah’s bus heading north to pick up people for an Atlantic City trip happened to be passing nearby, so I got it over the bridge and up to Barnegat Light to pick up those twenty-two people at the Lutheran church. The driver is a Vietnam vet and was more than happy to help.”

Harper, behind his own desk but standing, nodded and gave the thumbs-up. “Excellent, Thomas, excellent.”

“
Thomas
,” Wilson thought.
How long has it been since I heard that?

There was a time when he was dead-certain he’d never hear it again, a time when he considered Harper his greatest enemy, his arch-nemesis. Were those feelings ever reciprocated? In quiet, reflective moments, did Harper ever think of him the same way?

It was hard to tell because Donald Harper was very difficult to read. Wilson thought he knew him better than anyone, yet he never would have foreseen the scandal that had erupted and brought such a swift end to the man’s political future. He was a complex individual, indeed, and perhaps that was what Wilson—who thrived on challenges—found so intriguing about him. Was it simply the urge to unravel the enigma of the man that had drawn him to Harper and fueled his devotion all these years?

Whatever the case, he was forced to admit he was enjoying the nostalgia of the moment. All the old comforts came roaring back, almost as if he’d never left. All the subtle “isms” of their relationship—the distinctive sounds Harper made when he walked (the right foot dragged just slightly, and the change in his pocket always jingled), the way he set his reading glasses almost on the tip of his nose and only wore them when he needed them (and never in public), and the somehow endearing fact that he still hadn’t mastered the fax machine and cursed at it when it wouldn’t do as he wished. He was so indirectly charming that Wilson began wondering just what he’d been so angry about in the first place.

The guy made a mistake—a stupid mistake, granted, but haven’t we all made them? Are any of us perfect?

He had never explored this forgiving philosophy toward Harper before, and with it came something quite unexpected—a feeling of guilt. Was it acceptable to have judged Harper so harshly simply because he was a public official? You could hold him to a higher moral standard for that very reason, but it was impractical and unrealistic to expect him to be perfect.

The guilt came from the feeling that he had abandoned Harper during a difficult time. He could have helped, could have augmented and enriched Harper’s defense, practiced a little damage control and put the right spin on things. Instead, he went on the offensive and became another attacker. (In fact, Wilson thought with a queasy feeling in his gut, there were times when he seemed to be spearheading the attack.) Why had he done it? What was his own motivation? Was it anything more substantial than the fact that he felt personally deceived? Yes, it was true Harper had disappointed him, but was that reason enough to sink his teeth into the man?

One of the phones on Harper’s desk rang yet again, and the mayor pushed the button that engaged the speaker.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Mayor? It’s Sergeant Howard.”

“Yes, Bill.”

“I wanted to let you know that the school bus that was stalled on Pike Avenue is moving again. It should be over the bridge in about ten minutes.”

The sounds of other cars groaning along, honking horns, and cops shouting instructions provided the background. It was all happening less than two miles away.

“That’s great, Bill. Thanks so much.”

“We’re more than halfway done, by our count.”

“Good, good. Let’s get the rest, and fast, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a brief pause, during which Harper wondered if perhaps Sergeant Bill Howard—a friendly associate who wasn’t sure what to do or say when the scandal broke but never flew the coop—had replaced his phone on his belt and forgot to turn it off.

Then Howard said, “If you don’t mind my asking, Don, when are you planning to go?”

Wilson, pretending to be reading some of his notes, paid particular attention.

“Soon, Bill. Very soon.”

“There’s only about forty-five minutes left, if the estimates are correct.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Another pause, shorter this time.

“Don, don’t do anything foolish, okay? It’s not worth it. That kind of stuff only looks good in the movies.”

Harper laughed. Wilson tried to read into that laugh, but he could not; he wasn’t sure if it was manufactured or sincere. The few “blind spots” he had into the man’s soul had bothered him in the past, but only mildly. Now they were maddening.

“Don’t worry, Bill. I know this isn’t a movie.”

“Okay, good. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks.”

He pressed the button again, and the street sounds disappeared.

“Let’s see now, what else….” Harper mumbled to himself.

Wilson got up, taking his notebook with him for some unknown reason, and went into the main office.

“Don?”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t really answer Bill directly.”

Harper looked up from his desk as if startled. “What? Oh, come on, Tom. I’m not into martyrdom.” He waved his hand and made a face as if it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

“But what you said to Elliot before, about the captain going down with his ship. That was pretty ominous. And I have to tell you, I’ve been wondering when you are going to leave. It doesn’t seem like you’ve made any plans.”

Harper went back to sifting through the paperwork; there was considerably less than an hour ago. He was getting near the end.

He nodded. “I have an escape plan, Tom, if you want to call it that. You remember Gary Oberg, right?”

“Sure. National Guardsman, major. You’ve been friends for years.”

“Right. He’s arranged for a helicopter to come and pick me up.” He checked his watch. “Should be here about ten minutes before the first wave hits. It’ll drop me off on the other side of the bridge, about a mile in. From there I can continue coordinating the rescue effort and start working on what comes after.” A moment passed in silence before he added, “If I’m still the mayor.”

Wilson froze—not just on the outside, but inside. It was as though every bodily function momentarily paused. He read a thousand meanings into that comment and had no idea which one—if any—was the “right” one. Was it a shot at him? A cheap right-cross that Harper had been waiting for an opportunity to deliver? Or was it a genuine moment of self-pity that slipped out accidentally? Then again, it could have been a practical concern—perhaps he truly wondered how much control he’d have over the situation once the tsunami had come and gone. Would people even listen to him? Would he be a lame duck, or would his words still carry influence?