Sandra, who’d been on the verge of a panic attack earlier, was feeling pretty proud of herself. She’d turned it around. Sure, it would have been better if that Rebecca Geary had never asked questions about Kyle in the first place, but Sandra had given Lisa Carver a chance to circle back, make her speech about how the Arrival would make the world a safer place.
Sandra wasn’t expecting to be showered with praise — that didn’t happen often — but she wouldn’t be surprised to get a nod of acknowledgment for what she’d done.
When she and Ruskin entered the room, the walls lined with mats and shelves of basketballs and other sporting equipment, they found a stone-faced Lisa Carver.
She looked at Ruskin first.
“Of all the people you could have hired, you picked her,” she said, giving a slight tip of her head toward Sandra.
“We wanted to go local,” Ruskin said. “We thought it would help in winning over the islanders to have someone who knows them.”
“Excuses, Albert. Excuses.”
Sandra said, “If I might—”
Lisa, still looking at Ruskin, said, “I was humiliated up there. These people needed to keep to a script. Were there not questions prepared for them to ask?”
Ruskin stammered, “I believe, well, Ms. Montrose was just pointing out that the press don’t respond well to being told what to ask, so—”
“My God, what an amateur operation,” Lisa continued. “Bad coffee, bad questions, and no seedless, green grapes.”
Ruskin turned on Sandra. “You forgot the grapes?”
Sandra said, “No one ever told me—”
“Never mind,” Ruskin said.
Lisa, still not looking at Sandra, said to Ruskin, “I’d fire you if I didn’t need you so damn much, but you can certainly fire her.”
“I’m right here,” Sandra said. “If you’re not happy, you can tell me to my face. I’m not invisible.”
Finally, Lisa looked her way. “You might as well have been nonexistent for all the help you were.”
Sandra tried to say something, but found herself speechless. All the months she had worked on this, all the sleepless nights. And all for nothing because this — yes, she was going to go there — because this bitch got a hard question and a nasty cup of java?
“Wow,” said Lisa. “Good comeback.” Then, to Ruskin, “Let’s get out of this two-bit island backwater.”
“There’s still the photo op outside to do,” Ruskin told her.
Lisa appeared to deflate. “That,” she said resignedly. “Okay, we do the demo, and then we’re out of here.”
The two of them exited the room, leaving Sandra standing there, shell-shocked.
She could not believe what had just happened.
“Adam,” she whispered to herself. “Oh, Jesus, Adam, where are you when I need you?”
Brandon Kyle remained in his chair, tapping away at the laptop, as members of the media who’d been sitting nearby were gathering their things and preparing to leave.
Kyle looked at his screen, unable to take his eyes off the horizontal, thermometer-like graph, a red line moving from left to right. It inched its way to the far end, and when it had reached its destination, three words popped up.
FILE TRANSFER COMPLETE
Kyle smiled. It was done. The virus had infected the host.
“Locked and loaded,” Kyle said quietly. “Showtime.”
Nine
On his way to the ferry, Joe Bridgeman’s cell phone rang.
He was sitting in the front of the special black-and-white Arrival that had been outfitted for police duty. No steering wheel, no gas pedal, but it did come with a few items that the standard Arrival did not. The dashboard monitored the usual automotive functions, but it was also a police computer that allowed Joe to check license plates and personal IDs, connect with his own or other departments.
He’d balked, at first. What good was a cop car that you couldn’t drive like you were Steve McQueen in Bullitt? But Arrival’s theory was, if all the cars on the road were programmed to obey the rules, what was the point of police chases? At least it was possible to bump up the speed some on this model. Even in a world where there were no longer traffic accidents, break-ins, assaults and murders were still possible. Sometimes you needed to get somewhere, pronto.
Joe took out his phone, saw who was calling, and tapped the screen.
“Hi, Mom,” he said.
“Are you in the neighborhood?” she asked.
This was always how she started. Like, she didn’t want to be a bother, but if he did happen to be in the neighborhood, would he have a moment to drop by? But when you lived on an island that was not exactly as big as Greenland or Australia, you were pretty much always in the neighborhood.
“What’s up?” he asked her.
“It’s such a nice day, I was wondering, but this is only if you happen to be—”
“You want to be outside?”
“Well, the sun is out, and while it was a bit cool this morning, it’s warmed up nicely, so I was thinking maybe—”
“You want to sit out?”
“Oh! You guessed it right away.”
“I’ll swing by. But that’s all I’ve got time for.”
“Oh? What’s going on?”
“Five minutes, Mom.”
He ended the call and then said aloud, “Yeah, uh, Sherlock, could we stop by my house?”
“I’ll take you there,” the car said. It seemed a little weird, naming the car Sherlock when it only had a woman’s voice. Maybe he should reprogram it, call the car Herlock. No, that was too cute.
The car made a left at the next street, and as he’d promised, he was home in five minutes. He found eighty-one-year-old Lillian Bridgeman in her wheelchair just inside the front door. The house had been outfitted with a ramp that ran from the porch down to the driveway, and up until recently, she’d been able to get herself outside on her own. But her arms had grown weaker, and now she was having difficulty getting over the small doorsill bump that ran along the floor between the house and the porch.
Too bad that wasn’t the only problem.
She’d been using the wheelchair for two years now, but again, only recently had she been confined to it. She’d had strength enough to get out of it to attend to things in the bathroom, or get herself ready for bed. But now Joe was looking for someone to come in several times a day to help her with those matters. He nipped back as often as he could, but it wasn’t always possible.
But things were going to change. He’d found a placement for her at one of the island’s seniors’ facilities that he’d a) never thought he’d be able to afford, and b) figured there was a ten-year waiting list. But he’d been running the most recent financial numbers — his and his mother’s — and believed it was something they could swing, and whaddya know, the home had had a spot come open.
All he had to do now was break the news to her.
But not today.
He pulled into the driveway, told Sherlock to let him out, and ran to the front door, which his mother had already left ajar.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” she said once he had the door open all the way.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Joe said, getting in around behind her wheelchair. He gave it a shove to get it over the bump, and then managed to catch one of his own feet on it. He lurched forward, giving the chair a jolt, as he tripped.
His mother gripped the armrests of her chair and laughed. “I swear,” she said, “ever since you were a baby you’ve tripped over your own feet.”