“This situation isn’t that simple. There are other details we need to iron out first, some of a highly sensitive nature.”
Sarah felt bewildered. She had read the evac procedures twice, all but memorized them word for word. Yes, there were details, but they were supposed to be determined by her, the local logistical crews, and the Guard commander.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Is this a secure line?” the governor asked.
“As far as I know.”
“And we are the only ones listening at present?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, good. Now, I believe — um, you understand that what you just told me about anyone else listening to this conversation is legally binding, correct?”
Butterflies materialized in her stomach. “Yes, I understand,” she said, lying.
“All right. Now, I also believe you know that I have been supportive of the nuclear-energy industry in this state from the beginning, correct?”
A layer of frost settled on her. “Yes,” she said carefully, “I’m aware that that’s been your stance on the issue.”
“And a thing like this, like what’s happened today, can backfire on a person in my position very easily.”
A siren began wailing outside, close enough that it could be heard clearly through the downpour. Sarah reached over and pressed down the towel-roll that lay along the bottom of the closest window frame. To her alarm, it was slightly damp now.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but I really have to—”
“Just hold your horses. What I’m trying to say is that I would be grateful to you if you would make certain to let the media know how cooperative and effective I have been to you throughout this crisis.”
Sarah was struck silent again. He didn’t just imply what I think he implied, did he? No, even he can’t be that—
“Sarah? Are you there?”
“Yes, yes. I’m here. And I understand what you’re saying. But… you wouldn’t not mobilize the Guard, would you? That’s pretty much standard procedure here, right? I mean, how would it look if—”
“No, not that,” Kent said. “Of course I’m sending in the Guard. I’m just as concerned about the welfare of your citizenry as you are. No, I’m talking about the other things.”
“Other things?”
Kent exhaled mightily, then chuckled. “You might just come out of this mess looking like the hero of the day. And if that’s the case, it would be to my great benefit to be touted by you as your vice-hero, particularly with election season looming on the horizon. You’re understanding me so far, right?”
She understood with much greater clarity than he imagined. What she could not wrap her mind around was how any human being, once newborn and vulnerable and free of corruption, could evolve into someone this nakedly self-serving. It wasn’t so much the epic ego the man wielded, but the unapologetic nature with which he wielded it. She did not sense even the remotest trace of embarrassment or shame. She also wondered — and this only compounded her revulsion — how many other conversations he’d had like this over the years.
“Yes, I get it,” she said.
“And you need to remember that the media’s a funny kind of animal. One moment it’s rubbing up against you like a kitten, the next it’s turned into a fully grown lion lunging at your throat. Doesn’t matter what side you’re on. Doesn’t matter what the truth happens to be.”
“I’ve experienced my share of—”
“Of course,” he rolled on, “many of those same media people are old friends of mine, so I do have something of an advantage over, say, someone who’s a bit lower down the ladder. And, of course, it’s always nice to be able to call in a favor or two if I need to cover my ass… or go after someone else’s.” Kent let this linger for a moment, then continued, “You understand what I’m saying on this point, too, don’t you?”
Her body had gone hollow; there was simply no feeling inside.
“I do,” she said.
“Good, I just wanted to make sure.” The warmth was back; he had flicked the switch again. “I’ll get on the phone to General Conover right now. He’ll be in touch, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“And if you need anything else, just call me.”
He hung up before she had a chance to respond. Her hand was shaking when she set the receiver back into its cradle.
She looked at her iPhone to make sure the recording had been made.
It had.
15
Sharon was a few paces ahead of Mark on the path, twirling and leaping about. Every now and then she would stop to open her mouth and drink the raindrops. Mark watched, hands in his pockets, adoring her and thinking she was crazy at the same time. Their hair was matted disastrously to their heads and neither cared a whit, so comfortable they were in each other’s company. Mark found himself wondering whether any damage was being done to the baby each time Sharon spun around, which made him realize he didn’t know very much about pregnancy.
“My God, don’t you just love the rain?” Sharon asked. Their clothes were soaked, so the generous curves of her breasts were now clearly visible. He had enjoyed that view on numerous occasions, but now an additional and troubling thought came with it—If she wasn’t so beautiful, maybe a horny little asshole like Carl Sampson wouldn’t have noticed her in the first place.
“I do,” he said, sticking his tongue out to absorb a few drops. They had a bitter, metallic taste, like the brown water that came out of the pipes at home once in a while, usually when there was blasting going on at McCann’s Gravelworks. But Mark was getting too much pleasure out of watching Sharon have fun to care.
She stopped again and took a theatrically deep breath, elevating her hands in front of her like a ballet dancer.
“There’s nothing about rain I don’t absolutely love,” she said. “The smell of the damp coming out of the ground, the feeling of being wrapped up in your own little world, and the sounds — just listen…” She pointed upward, to where the rain was drumming on the dense canopy formed by the oaks and maples that stood between the predominant pitch pines. “Isn’t that fantastic?”
“It is.”
She faced the sky, closing her eyes, opening her mouth, and sending her tongue out to wiggle in the damp air.
“You’re nuts,” Mark said, laughing.
“That’s the best way to be sometimes. Every now and then, you have to release your inner lunatic.”
“True.”
He leaned against one of the pines, the bark rugged and harsh under his hand, and tried to get a fix on what was going on inside her troubled mind. Not that she looked troubled right then, standing there with her arms outstretched, her clothes glued to her visibly pregnant body, and a swath of adolescent bliss on her face.
Ever since he’d learned of her pregnancy, he had tried to imagine how she felt: conflicted, uncertain, afraid, despairing? In his mind, he saw her with a block of cement the size of a small car on her back, forcing her downward until her knees almost touched the ground even though she labored to remain upright.
A ratchet of coughs came over him. As if on cue, the same thing happened to Sharon, and Mark realized that they had both been hacking away for a while. Leaning against another pine like she was trying to listen for the tree’s heartbeat, Sharon looked out across a meadow that lay adjacent to the path. It was a topographical oddity, a clearing about the size of a football field in an otherwise unbroken stretch of woodland. The shallow depression was clogged with yellowing grass that bowed under the wind and the impact of the rain.
“That was a lake once,” she said.
He knew that, although he wasn’t sure why. Probably learned it from Dad, Mark thought. His father was fascinated by American history in general and was particularly obsessed with their hometown. He was always talking with some old-timer or browsing through public records borrowed from the municipal building. “People travel hundreds, thousands of miles to get their history fix,” Pete Soames often said, “never realizing they’ve got plenty of it right in their own backyard.” He’d drop shiny nuggets of trivia on his family all the time, during rides to Sam’s Club or TV commercials or dinner. Mark went out of his way to act as though he couldn’t care less, rolling his eyes or pretending he didn’t hear. But apparently some of it had sunk in.