Wave Read online

  His voice was groggy and confused. “Sarah? Sarah Collins?”

  “Yes, Danny. It’s me.”

  “What the hell time is it?”

  “It’s just after nine o’clock over here,” she replied, not bothering to add that that meant it was just after six Seattle time. “I’m really sorry to call so early, but there’s a tsunami heading toward us.”

  He sounded immediately alert. “What did you say?”

  “There’s a tsunami coming. Right now!”

  “You’re in New Jersey?”

  “Yes!”

  For a moment there was only silence. Collins became aware of the trip-hammer thumping of her heart, plus the fact that she had begun to perspire.

  “How do you know this?” Kennard was stern now.

  She sacrificed thirty seconds to recite the story.

  “Oh God,” was his reply. There was a dreariness to it that made Collins’s stomach twist.

  “There aren’t any advance warning systems out here, are there?” she asked. But it was more of a statement than a question.

  “No, none.” Another pause, and then, “You’ll have to do it the hard way.”

  With a calm that surprised even her, she said, “Okay.” She set the cell phone down, picked up the receiver on the Nixon-era desk phone, and dialed 911.

  As the rest of the nation became slowly hypnotized by the story of the latest terrorist attack, Long Beach Township Mayor Donald J. Harper hid in his now-darkened office, voluntarily isolated. There was a time when he’d leave the shades open all day and admire the view of the Atlantic. Not today. This had turned into nothing more than a waiting game, a long and tantalizing delay until the ax fell. He had given the nod himself, not that there was any choice. He had never felt so useless in his life—there was simply nothing to do. No objectives, no focus.

  He sat behind his desk in a slouch, a most uncharacteristic position for him. Until recently he had always made a point of sitting bolt-upright, regardless of where he was or what he was doing—at the office, at a restaurant, at home. You never wanted to give the impression of disinterest or dereliction. If you were in politics it was important to appear awake and alert at all times, ready for anything. Amazing how deeply the training had been rooted, the years spent preparing for a life of public service. And how easily all that could be thrown away….

  He slouched because he felt like slouching, and he remained in that position for a while. The air-conditioner switched on and off at least a dozen times. The shades were drawn; the only light in the room coming from between them. At one point he wondered if this was what Howard Hughes’s world was like during his final days, in that hotel room in Acapulco where his withered, ninety-pound body lay under a layer of filthy bedsheets as his “aides” stood by with the next shot of codeine, one of which would eventually put an end to his surreal existence.

  He took note of a small pile of papers Marie had left on his desk to sign. Well, it was something to do, he thought. He leaned forward, grabbed a pen, and began scribbling. He didn’t bother reading any of them; after all these years he only needed to glance to summarize the content. There was nothing of great substance here. Was that by circumstance or by design, he wondered? Had Marie, always one of his most faithful employees, already begun preparing for the regime change? Was she hiding a second, more substantial group of papers somewhere else?

  He didn’t know and wouldn’t be able to find out, and this only augmented his depression. In his heart he didn’t want to believe it—she’d been loyal from the beginning, but who knew anymore. After recent events, even the deepest loyalties began to falter. Was there anyone left in his corner? Any believers left in the parish? He supposed not.

  He finished, rose, and went out. Marie was at her desk in the next office, typing at her computer. She was small and aged, kind of wispy, but she had the constitution of a teenager and, at times, the tongue of a viper. Today she was wearing a blue polka-dot dress and a string of pearls. The paradox amused Harper—she always looked like the classic “little old lady,” but underneath lay the soul of a warrior.

  “These are signed,” he said.

  She looked up, startled. Or maybe she just pretended to be.

  “Hmm? Oh, thank you, Donald.” She set them aside and turned to her notepad. “You also had two calls. One from Mickey Blake, and one from Allison Cauldwell.”

  He nodded noncommittally. Blake owned an auto-repair shop on the mainland and was pushing for a second, in Spray Beach, but needed the zoning permits. He and Harper had gone to high school together. He was a nice enough guy and ran an honest business, so Harper had been planning to help him. Allison Cauldwell, on the other hand, was a little bitch who had taken over her late father’s three-office real-estate business and wanted to grow it to fifty. She was absolutely off her rocker, obsessed with becoming New Jersey’s next Diane Turton. Turton wasn’t any less driven or ambitious, but at least she had some finesse. Cauldwell had a set of lead-pipe sensibilities that would make a stampede of elephants look like a ballet recital.

  “Okay, thanks.” He ran a hand through his hair and headed back to the cave.

  He blanched when Marie’s phone rang again. This is how it was now—Could this be The Call? he wondered every time. He paused at the double oak doors, half-hoping for the worst just so this nightmare would come to an end.

  “Donald?”

  He tried to act as though he hadn’t been listening but it was an exercise in pointlessness; they both knew he had.

  “Hmm?”

  “A Major Gary Oberg for you. Says it’s urgent.”

  What would Gary be calling me for? Harper wondered. To offer condolences?

  A mild nausea came over him. Old friends and familiar faces would be emerging from every direction with wan smiles and words of tender reassurance. This has to be the worst part of it.

  Oberg was a genuine friend, one of the few people he trusted implicitly. Small and thin, with dark, almost Mediterranean features, he was a career military man who believed in the sanctity and fundamental goodness of the United States of America. He was old school, a product of the Greatest Generation, and slightly at odds with modern times. Harper met him in 1974 when they were assigned to the same base in Virginia, and they’d kept in touch after Harper left the service following his four-year tour of duty. Oberg was reassigned to the National Guard base in Sea Girt, New Jersey, in the spring of 1992, and since then the two men got together fairly regularly.

  Harper took the phone. “Hello, Gary.” He was aware of how tired he sounded but didn’t have the will to mask it.

  “Don, have you heard about the tsunami?”

  No preamble, no small talk, which was very unlike the man. Suddenly Harper felt uneasy.

  “Tsunami? What tsunami?”

  “Don, listen. You’ve got to get everyone off the island, and you’ve got to do it now. We just received an emergency call from Rutgers about a tidal wave that’s moving in your direction.”

  “Come on, Gary.”

  “No joke. You know that plane that went down this morning? The flight from the Netherlands?”

  “Yeah, I heard about it on the radio.”

  “There was a bomb on it. Part of some new terrorist plot. It was bound for DC, so they think that was the original target. But something went wrong and the plane went into the drink. The bomb exploded and somehow triggered this thing. I don’t know the details.”

  Harper absorbed every word and calculated the scenario instantly. He knew a little bit about oceanography, having been as enamored with the shore as millions of his fellow residents.

  “Jesus Christ. Are you certain, Gary? Absolutely certain?” The words sounded far away, as if they were coming from someone else’s mouth. Harper’s body had gone numb. Not cold, just…nothing. It was as if everything from his neck down was no more than a wooden prop for his head. A sufficiently surreal morning was developing into a trip through the Twilight Zone.

  “Yes, I’m positive.
Some Rutgers scientists in Tuckerton spotted it. They’ve checked and rechecked and there’s no doubt. It all adds up.”

  “My God….”

  “Don, I have to go. We’ve got a million things to do here. But I wanted to let you know because every second matters now. You’ve got to get everyone out of there, and fast. We’ll contact the Coast Guard from our end. They’ll clear out all the marine traffic.”

  “Okay, how long do we have?” Harper asked.

  There was a pause, and in that instant he knew the answer was going to be horrifying. He braced himself.

  “About two hours.”

  Inside Harper’s tall, broad-shouldered body—in fact, inside his very soul—every function paused.

  “Two hours?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that’s not enough,” Harper said in a whisper, more to himself than to his friend. “We’re almost into Memorial Day here. There are thousands of people on the island. I can’t guarantee we’ll get everyone off in just two hours!”

  “Don, if you need me, call me. And remember—you’re still the mayor, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

  “Good luck, pal,” Oberg said, clicking off.

  What happened next took all of about fifteen seconds, although inside it seemed like hours. Harper’s mind downloaded an image of himself standing at the bisecting point where two long country roads met. It could’ve been someplace in the South, like the Carolinas or maybe Georgia. There were no road signs, no cars, no people around. Just him, standing at a crossroad in the middle of a sunny and otherwise undeveloped area.

  He looked down each road, wondering which one was best. They all seemed about the same—that was the hard part. No real indication of which one he should take. For a flicker of an instant he felt angry, felt like he was being treated unfairly. There were no outward clues for him to follow. How could you be expected to make a decision without information?

  Then it occurred to him—the decision was supposed to be purely instinctual, supposed to be based on what was inside, not outside. That was the whole point. Gary had said it perfectly—Remember, you’re still the mayor. At first Harper didn’t understand why he’d thrown that in, but now it made perfect sense. He had to make a choice. The right road would become obvious after he decided what he really wanted to do with himself. He thought he’d lost that right. He thought everything had been stripped away, but it hadn’t. He saw that now, saw what it meant in the big picture.

  And he saw an opportunity, too.

  At the Schooner’s Wharf in Beach Haven, Tom Wilson sat in a quiet corner of the Gazebo Restaurant with Elliot Davis and plotted Davis’s glorious political future.

  “NJN began covering the story when it got too big to ignore,” Wilson said over a plate of neatly cut waffles. “I know the producer over there pretty well. He’s asked me a few times what I thought would happen once Harper is gone.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I was playing it cool at the time, but I’ll be calling him later today. The guy covering the story will want an update. That’s when I’ll mention you. They may want to talk to you at some point. In fact I’m sure they will. Now that Harper is on his way out, they’ll be looking for someone new to focus on. You should make yourself available. Can you do that?”

  After a pause, Davis said, “I believe so.” This was technically only a half-truth—he had a packed schedule in the coming weeks and had already cancelled a sailing trip with his eldest son. How was he going to work in press appearances?

  “Good, very good. Would you prefer they come to your office, or do you want to meet them outside, in the front?”

  “Is the bank a good place to meet? Didn’t you once say there was a danger in that? Something about me being too closely associated with money?”

  Wilson nodded. “I did worry about that at first, but I’ve changed my mind. Most of the people in this area are pretty conservative, even the Democrats. And everyone already knows you’re a bank president. If we try to hide that, it’ll make it look like we’re trying to hide it. That’ll suggest a crime where no crime exists.” He took a sip of coffee and waved his hand. “No, I’ve got a better idea. We’ll go ahead full-throttle with your image as a banker, but we’ll soften it. We’ll play up all the decent things you’ve done, all the high-risk loans you’ve given out, the late payments you’ve let slide. You’ve been a pretty fair and decent guy in a position where others have not. Let’s take advantage of that.”

  There was a scream in the next room—a woman’s scream. Similar sounds quickly followed—gasps, cries, and “Oh my Gods.”

  The two men exchanged a puzzled glance, then rose quickly and hurried from the table. The adjoining area was dominated by a long counter. The waiter on duty looked like the all-American boy working his way through college. He and some customers were trained on a television hanging from a high corner. On the screen, a woman from NJN was breaking the news of the oncoming disaster.

  “…predict the tsunami will strike the coast in approximately two hours. Governor Mayfield immediately declared a state of emergency, and all residents of the Jersey Shore from Belmar to Cape May are urged to move inland at once. Again, if you’re just tuning in, all residents of….”

  The restaurant cleared out at record speed. Keys jingled as they were pulled from pockets and handbags. The collective hum of group chatter rose to a meaningless cacophony as the herd migrated to the front exit. The waiter, apparently not loyal enough to go down with the ship, put one hand on the countertop and leapt out of his enclosure with graceful athleticism.

  “Jesus Christ, Tom,” Davis said hollowly. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

  He turned to his political advisor and, in one of the most unpredictable moments of his life, found him smiling.

  “No, Elliot…not yet.”

  Davis’s face crumpled with confusion. “What? What are you talking about? We’ve got less than two hours—we’ve got to go! I have to go home and get Helen. She’ll be—”

  He turned to leave, but Wilson caught his arm and held him.

  “This is your chance, Elliot. This is it.”

  “What? I don’t—”

  Wilson pointed to the screen.

  “The people are going to be looking for a leader right now. They’re going to need someone strong, someone commanding. Harper’s credibility is shot, so they’ll be looking for someone else. Every major news channel is going to be on this, so you’ll get exposure from coast to coast. Just as Giuliani’s name will be forever linked with New York City and 9/11, your name will be linked with this. Don’t you see?”

  Davis looked back at the screen. NJN had added the scrawl along the bottom—ALL RESIDENTS ALONG THE NEW JERSEY COASTLINE FROM BELMAR TO CAPE MAY ARE ORDERED TO LEAVE THEIR HOMES AT ONCE AND MOVE AT LEAST TWO MILES INLAND. COMMUNITIES TO THE NORTH AND SOUTH MAY ALSO BE AFFECTED BY THE TSUNAMI. NEW JERSEY GOVERNOR JIM MAYFIELD HAS DECLARED A STATE OF EMERGENCY….

  Davis swallowed hard into a dry throat. Every muscle in his body seemed to have turned to stone. “Well, okay. What do I need to do?”

  “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  { SIX }

  02:06:00 REMAINING

  BethAnn Mosley was happy. Springer had been a blast, an absolute blast. A group of teenage girls admitted they’d dabbled in prostitution in college—on campus, specifically, in order to make money for booze and drugs. Some of their former customers were there, too, waxing nostalgic about what an unforgettable time they’d had. What ol’ Jerry didn’t tell them, at least at first, was that all the girls’ fathers were also there, off-stage, listening to every word. Whenever the cameras went to the fathers, sitting there kneading their hands as they stockpiled homicidal thoughts, a charge went through Mosley. There was no word for it, no name for it, but she knew she was hopelessly addicted to it and always would be. When the fathers were inevitably released from their cages and the hunt began, Mosley actually clapped like a deligh
ted child and jumped up and down on the couch. When the fathers began beating on the boys and the cameras swayed around crazily, she leaned forward so she wouldn’t miss anything. One of the boys ended up with a broken nose that bled like a burst pipe. Another lay on the glossy studio floor, just off the riser, and moaned as he drifted in and out of consciousness. It was glorious. When it was over, she felt spent, exhausted.

  There was a commercial break—a top-of-the-hour commercial break, and that meant nearly ten free minutes. In spite of her undying devotion to television, she hated commercials; she didn’t have any money, so what good were they?

  She got up and ambled into the kitchen. Time for a snack. There was a frying pan in the sink from last night submerged in the basin. The water was skim-milk cloudy, and bits of something-or-other from the previous meal floated on the surface like pond scum.

  She “washed” the pan by holding it under a stream of cold water for a second, then shook it dry. The remaining moisture sizzled when she set it on the glowing coil. She smeared a blob of butter over the scoured teflon surface, then set down four slices of Taylor pork roll, which had been involuntarily donated by Acme.

  The TV sang—a single note sustained for about ten seconds. She glanced over with only partial interest while she ate, standing at the sink so the crumbs wouldn’t fall onto the floor. A message crawled across the bottom of the screen. She didn’t bother reading it, for she’d seen them, and heard the familiar beep, a million times. A storm warning of some kind. Thunderheads rolling in, maybe a rising tide. By pure luck, this mobile-home park had been built in a low-risk flood zone, and her particular unit had been propped on four rows of cinder blocks. The unit originally had been set on only one row, but Kenny had insisted on spending a small fortune to install three more. It would dramatically reduce the risk of flood damage, he claimed, while increasing the property’s value when it came time to sell it. BethAnn had argued with him about the expenditure, not because it didn’t make sense, but simply because she enjoyed arguing about things. But he’d been right—in the eight years she’d lived here, there had been no water damage. A few close calls, but the increased height made all the difference. She’d hated the fact that he’d been right and punished him for it in small ways. After he reached his emotional breaking point and left her for good, she decided to hate him in a more complete way. The fact that he was a good guy at heart and that she was the reason he wasn’t around any longer only served to enrich this hatred.