Quirk Books Summer Reads, Curated by Planet Quirk!

ISBN: 978-1-59474-633-8 (e-book)

Bedbugs copyright © 2011 by Ben H. Winters Pride and Prejudice and Zombies copyright © 2009 by Quirk Productions, Inc. Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children copyright © 2011 by Ransom Riggs Night of the Living Trekkies copyright © 2010 by Kevin David Anderson Taft 2012 copyright © 2012 by Jason Heller The Last Policeman copyright © 2012 by Ben H. Winters

Quirk Books 215 Church St. Philadelphia, PA 19106 CONTENTS

Introduction ...... 4

Bedbugs ...... 5

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies ...... 43

Miss Peregrine’s Home For Peculiar Children . . . . . 106

Night of the Living Trekkies ...... 186

Taft 2012 ...... 259

The Last Policeman ...... 327 Thank you for downloading Quirk Books Summer Reads, curated by Planet Quirk!

Planet Quirk is a world of 99.4% pure imagination (and 0.6% evil genius). It’s a community where you can get your inner geek on. We offer advice on pairing the perfect beer with your favorite comic books. We compose poetry about Harry Potter. We share our favorite Etsy geek crafts. We give away cool stuff and much, much more.

Here we’ve rounded up some of the best fiction that Quirk Books has to offer. So if you like to geek out over any kind of sci-horror- fantasy-book-game-film-comics fandom, just pull up a captain’s chair, crack open this sampler, and stay as long as you like. (It’s cool—we know this guy with a machine that can get you back home before you left in the first place...)

And if you want more original entertainment, join Planet Quirk online. Resistance is futile.

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FOR RENT: Top two floors of beautifully WINTERS renovated brownstone, 1300 sq. ft., 2BR 2BA, eat- in kitchen, one block to parks and playgrounds. No broker’s fee.

Susan and Alex Wendt have found their dream apartment. Sure, the landlady is a little eccentric. And the elderly handyman drops some cryptic remarks about the basement. But the rent is so low, it’s too good to pass up. Big mistake. Susan soon discovers that her new home is crawling with bedbugs . . . or is it? She awakens every morning BEDBUGS with fresh bites, but neither Alex nor their daughter Emma has a single welt. An exterminator searches the property and turns up nothing. The landlady insists her building is clean. Susan fears she’s going mad—until a more sinister explanation presents itself: she may literally be confronting the bedbug problem from Hell.

BEN H. WINTERS was nominated for an Edgar Award for his novel The Secret Life of Ms. Finkleman. He is also the author of the New York Times best seller Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters. He lives with his wife and children in Boston.

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BEDBUGS

Ben H. Winters bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 4

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number: 2011922691

ISBN: 978-1-59474-523-2

Printed in Canada

Typeset in Bembo

Quirk Books 215 Church Street Philadelphia, PA 19106 quirkbooks.com

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“Hey, Al. Come look at this one.” Susan Wendt studied the screen of her MacBook while her husband, Alex, paused the DVR and walked over to the kitchen table. He read the Craigslist ad over her shoulder and delivered a quick verdict: “Bull crap.” He cracked his knuckles and scootched behind her to get to the fridge. “It’s total bull crap, baby.” “Hmm. Maybe.” “Gotta be. You want?” He held up a Brooklyn Lager by the neck and waggled it back and forth. Susan shook her head, scanning the Craigslist ad with a slight frown. Alex opened the beer and went to crouch beside her. “It’s one of those where the broker lures you in and then goes, ‘Oh that place? That place got taken yesterday! How about this one? Rent is joost a leeeee- dle beeeet more expensive. . . . ’” He slipped into a goofy gloss on the thick Brazilian accent of the most recent broker to take them on a wild-goose chase through half of south Brooklyn. Susan laughed. “But wait,” she said, pointing at the screen again. “It’s not a broker. See? ‘For rent by owner.’” Alex raised his eyebrows skeptically, took a swallow of the beer, and wandered back to the TV. Their apartment search, now two and a half months old, had been bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 10

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her thing more than his all along. He felt that their current place, a one- bedroom-plus-office-nook off Union Square, was perfect. Or, if not perfect, then at least perfectly fine. And the idea of moving, the logistics and the packing and the various expenditures—it all made him want to tear his own head off. Or so he rather vividly expressed it. “Plus,” Alex had argued, “I’m not sure this is the time to jack up our rent.” Susan had been calm but insistent: it was time. It was time for Emma to have a proper bedroom, one that wasn’t a converted office nook; time for Susan to have a place to set up her easel and paints; time for Alex to have a real kitchen to cook his elaborate meals. “And rents are a heck of a lot lower than they used to be, especially in Brooklyn. Besides, Alex,” she had concluded, making a blatant appeal to his vanity, “you’re doing really well right now. Come on. We can just look, right?” Alex had relented, and “just looking” rapidly escalated into a full- on search. Every evening that summer, after Emma had her bath and went to bed, while Alex settled in for his nightly dose of god-awful reality television, Susan trolled Craigslist and Rentals.com and the Times real estate section, entering rents and square footage and broker’s phone numbers on a master spreadsheet dotted with hyperlinks. On the weekends the family tromped from open house to open house, from Fort Greene to Boerum Hill, clutching cups of deli coffee and informational folders from Corcoran, pushing Emma in her bright-pink Maclaren stroller. They’d found places they loved for way too much, places in their price range that they hated, and, for occasional variety, places they couldn’t afford and hated anyway. Last weekend they’d schlepped all the way to Red Hook, riding the F train to Smith and Ninth and bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 11

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then the B61 the rest of the way. The apartment they’d seen there, a converted artists’ loft on Van Brunt Street, was Susan’s favorite so far. It was footsteps from Fairway, cater-corner from a hipster bakery famous for its salted-caramel tarts, and featured a master bedroom with a thin slice of East River view. But the apartment was forty-five minutes from the city, and with no utilities included it was just north of their budget. “We really can’t push it on price,” Alex said, shaking his head. “Especially with you not working right now.” Susan had smiled tightly, hiding her deep disappointment at his veto. She’d been increasingly and painfully aware, as the apartment search continued, that she had little leverage on the question of cost. It was true—she wasn’t working just then, a state of affairs Alex had totally supported, but it didn’t give her a lot of leeway on rent. She carefully transcribed the details of the “for rent by owner” Craigslist ad into the spreadsheet on her MacBook. They hadn’t even looked in Brooklyn Heights, because—well, what the hell for? No one was renting two-bedrooms in the Heights for under four thousand dollars a month, recession or not. No one except (Susan copied the name carefully from the ad) Andrea Scharfstein, who was offering the top two floors of her Cranberry Street brownstone: “1300 sq. ft., 2BR 2B, d/w, ample closets.” All for a startling $3,550. “Thirty-five-fifty?” Alex snorted, fast-forwarding through a commercial break. “Bull crap, baby. Guaranteed.”

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Andrea Scharfstein was waiting for them on the top step of her front stoop, reading the Sunday New York Times and sipping tea from a big yellow mug with the WNYC logo blazoned on the side. As they approached, their pink stroller bouncing over the uneven slate of the sidewalk, Andrea folded the newspaper and stood squinting down at them with her hands on hips: a thin and frail old woman with a big cloud of curly steel-gray hair, wearing a sixties- fabulous peach sundress, a gauzy taupe shawl, and big chunky bracelets on both wrists. “Look at this! Right on time,” she said approvingly, glancing down at her watch. Susan unbuckled Emma and scooped her out so Alex could fold the Maclaren. “I like you people already.” “Hi!” called Emma, climbing the tall steps with an exaggerated, marching stride, clinging to the banister. “I’m Emma.” “Of course you are, dear! And a lovelier specimen of Emma I’ve never seen. Did you pick your name?” “No!” Emma giggled. “My mama and dada picked it.” “Good for them. My name is Andrea.” Alex followed Emma, steadying her with a hand at the small of her back, while Susan lingered at the bottom, taking in the facade. The house at 56 Cranberry Street had steep concrete front steps, as- cending from a little black wrought-iron gate to the oversized front door, which was painted in a rich and pleasing orangey red. Sur- rounding the stoop was a front garden, overgrown with azaleas, crab grass, and small flowering trees. The house itself was red brick, with wooden shutters framing neat lines of windows, three per floor. There were window boxes, growing what looked like herbs, in the windows of the first-floor apartment—Andrea’s apartment. I bet it has pressed-tin ceilings, thought Susan, and then—suddenly, bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 13

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fiercely—I really want to live here. She teased herself as she caught up with Emma and Alex at the top of the steps. Down, girl. You wanna see the inside first? “You folks move quickly, I’ll give you that,” said Andrea Scharf- stein, shaking their hands briskly. “You called maybe five minutes after I wrote that ad. Or what am I supposed to say? After I ‘posted’ it. Anyway, ten minutes, at the most.” Andrea’s hand in Susan’s was dry and papery. She spoke quickly, with a voice that was thin and the slightest bit gravelly, like she was on the verge of a cough. Be- neath the bushy mass of hair, her face was a map of small lines and spots—from her face and body, which was slight and stooped, Susan would have put Andrea at seventy or older. But there was a sharp- ness and snap about her movements, a vigor that defied her physical appearance. “Well, follow me, this way, here we go,” Andrea said briskly, turning the handle of the big front door and leaning into it with a thin shoulder. Susan was fleetingly and pleasantly reminded of Willy Wonka leading the wide-eyed contest winners into his chocolate fac- tory for the first time. “Grab that mug for me, Alex. Is it Alex? It is, yes? If I leave a mug out here with even a drop of tea in it, we’ll have ants in no time.” Emma trotted fearlessly inside, a step ahead of Andrea, looking around in the dimly lit downstairs landing. “Is this your house?” she asked. “It is,” answered Andrea, patting the girl on the head. “What do you think?” “It’s really good.” Andrea took Emma’s hand and helped her up the interior stairs to the second-floor landing. I want to live here, Susan thought again, almost defiantly, and this time she didn’t bother to chastise herself. bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 14

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Instead she glanced at Alex, who had paused beneath the one dusty light fixture, a cheap chandelier shedding haphazard illumination on the stairwell. Susan felt like she could read his mind—he was cataloging flaws, looking for reasons to reject this charming and quaint old house. The stone of the stoop is slightly crumbling; the paint on the door is chipped and fading. Susan didn’t care. This was where she wanted to live.

The interior stairway led one flight up and ended at a small carpeted landing with a single door. “It doesn’t say ‘number two’ on the door,” said Andrea. “I hope that doesn’t bother you. You’d have to be pretty stupid not to find your own apartment. You just come in, come up the stairs.” Susan laughed politely, and Andrea smiled gently at her. “It was one big house, of course, until I lost my husband, Howard. I suppose it’s possible I’m still resistant to the change.” As Andrea cleared her throat noisily and led them inside, Susan wondered how long ago that change had occurred; how many other tenants had there been? There was something about Andrea that suggested the sturdy, independent spirit of a longtime widow. Following her bent back down the long front hallway of the apartment, Susan felt a wave of sympathy for this woman, smart and lively as she was, growing old and dying here alone. The door opened onto a hallway that ran lengthwise down the entire apartment, and featured not one but two coat closets. The ex- pansive hallway ended, on the Cranberry Street side, in a bright and cozy kitchen, with granite countertops and a decent, if not over- bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 15

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whelming, amount of pantry space. “So the kitchen’s not eat-in?” asked Alex, and shot a significant look over Andrea’s head, which Susan could easily translate: not a lot of space for cooking. . . . Susan just smiled. The kitchen in their current apartment was so small, the refrigerator and oven couldn’t be used at the same time, because the doors banged into each other. She ran her fingers along the countertops and crouched to open and close the cupboards while Emma played don’t-step-on-the-crack on the hardwood floor. Above the stove a pair of windows faced onto Cranberry Street, filling the room with gorgeous midmorning sunlight that cast the floorboards in lustrous browns. “Floor’s maybe a little uneven,” Alex noted, crouching to run his palms disapprovingly along the ground. Andrea shrugged. “Yes, yes. Actually, Howard was meaning to redo the floors in the whole place, but somehow we never had time.” Alex nodded as he straightened. Susan glanced down; the floors looked A-OK to her. “This building was first constructed in 1864, the same year as the Brooklyn Bridge. But it’s a solid old thing, and it’s got plenty of character. Much like myself.” She gave Alex a broad, almost vaude- villian wink, then brayed throaty laughter. Alex smiled politely and gave Susan another meaningful glance: We’re sure we want this old loon as a landlord? But Susan ignored him and laughed along with Andrea. Emma, too, squealed and hid her mouth behind her hands—at three and a half years old, she loved jokes, even when she had no idea what they were about. “Oh, by the way, in case you happen to care, the ceiling?” An- drea gestured upward with a thumb. “That’s pressed tin.” bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 16

If Susan had any doubts about the apartment, the thing that sold her on it, absolutely and irrevocably—what made her certain in the core of her being that she had to live at 56 Cranberry Street #2—was the bonus room. At the opposite end of the apartment’s first floor from the kitchen, back down the long entrance hallway and through an arch framed by two funky old-fashioned sconces, was the living room, spacious and irregularly rectangular, with light flooding in from two big back windows. The center of the far wall bulged into the room like a semicircular column; it was an odd architectural detail, and at first Susan thought there might be a pillar behind it. Closer inspection revealed it to be an air shaft, separating 56 Cranberry Street from the house next door. It even had two decent-size windows, which let in yet more light. “Very strange, I know,” said Andrea of the shaft, tapping on one of its windows with a big costume-jewelry gold ring she wore on her pinky. “It runs from the roof all the way down to the basement. You’ll see when we go upstairs, it cuts through the bathroom up there. Lots of light, though, lets in lots of light.” “Cool,” said Susan, and Alex peered through one of the windows, craning his neck to look up and down the shaft. bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 17

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“My best guess is, it was a dumbwaiter when this house was first built,” Andrea continued. “Run drinks from the kitchen up to the second floor, that sort of thing. One time a bird got in there somehow and couldn’t get out. Flapped around and made the most pitiful noises until it died. Awful. Just awful.” Even Alex couldn’t criticize the living room, considering their current apartment didn’t even have one. While Andrea stood with hands on hips in the archway and Emma walked the room’s periph- ery, playing some complicated game of counting steps, Susan slipped next to him and squeezed his hand. “What are you thinking?” she whispered. Before he could respond, Andrea strode across the room and pulled open a door in the left rear corner—a small door, painted the same color as the wall, so innocuous that Susan hadn’t even realized it was there. “Back here is this funny little room,” she said, gesturing them over for a look. “I call it the bonus room, because it’s sort of, you know, a bit of something extra. It’s what we would have called the ‘sewing room,’ when I was a child. Of course, when I was a child we were sewing sweaters for our pet dinosaurs.” “Pet dinosaurs!” Emma shrieked, raising her hands to her mouth in exaggerated amazement. “Whaaaat?!” “This one, I like,” said Andrea, patting Emma on the head while Alex smiled. Susan stepped into the bonus room. It was barely a room at all, really, more of an overgrown closet, with the one door and a single window, letting in a steady and unbroken stream of golden light. This is it, Susan thought, experiencing such a powerful wave of joy that she had to clamp her hands to her mouth to keep from bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 18

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whooping aloud. This is it! She’d had second thoughts galore since leaving her job last year. Second thoughts, third thoughts, and more—it seemed so audacious, so unrealistic, so selfish, after all this time to abandon her career and “go back to her painting.” But she had done it. She had worked up the nerve to tell Alex what she was considering and found him to be not only understanding, but incredibly supportive: “Of course,” he’d said. “If that’s what you want, we’ll make it work.” She’d given her notice and gone to Sam’s to supply herself with new brushes, new oils and pastels and turpentine. And then . . . somehow, the subsequent months had flown by, and Susan found one reason after another to put off starting. She’d gotten involved in a friend’s run for city council, spent a month going door to door with pamphlets, collecting signatures; Emma had been seriously ill for five days, ended up at New York-Presbyterian one harrowing night with an IV line; they’d gone to Alex’s parents for a week in July; and then of course she’d decided their apartment was too small, and they had to move. Things kept interfering—or, as Susan knew very well, she let things keep interfering, so that she wouldn’t have to face this enormous life change she’d set up for herself. But now, in this room . . . When she was at Legal Aid, counting the hours until she could go home, feeling like a fraud and a liar, her toes throbbing in her pinchy black work shoes, she would indulge flights of fancy in which she stood painting on a sunny midmorning, bathed in a shaft of sunlight and lost in a cloud of artistic effort. On such occasions it was just this kind of room in which she always imagined herself. God, Susan thought, tears welling in her eyes. I don’t even think it was this kind of room. It was this exact room. “I didn’t even mention it in the ad,” said Andrea, as she and Alex bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 19

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ducked into the room and stood next to Susan. “I’d feel like a huck- ster, because you can hardly count it as a room. Good for storage, though. Or a nursery.” “Or a studio,” Susan said softly. “Oh? Are you an artist?” “Well, it’s kind of a long story. I was—I mean, I am. But—” “Yes,” interrupted Alex, throwing his arm over her shoulder. “She is.”

Emma was getting antsy, so Susan set her up in the center of the empty living room, producing from her oversized pocketbook a box of crayons, a stack of construction paper, and a small snack of dried fruit and cheese. “Stay in this room, please,” said Alex, and Emma nodded without looking up, already deeply engaged in her coloring. “My goodness, she’s a happy duck, isn’t she?” said Andrea as she led Susan and Alex up the narrow uncarpeted staircase to the second floor. “Howard and I never had any of our own, but I’ve always loved children. Even the miserable snot-nose types, but especially happy little ducks like yours.” The second floor was really just two large rooms, a master bedroom and a second bedroom, separated by the staircase landing and a decent linen closet. The upstairs bathroom, where the air shaft ended in a small arced skylight, was large, with room for both a shower stall and a full jetted tub. At the sight of it, Alex whispered a mock-lascivious “hey now” into Susan’s neck, and she nudged him playfully. The master bedroom, like the kitchen downstairs, faced bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 20

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Cranberry Street and was similarly bathed in warm and generous light. “All these windows are double paned, by the by,” said Andrea, rapping on the sturdy glass. “Noise reducing. Work like the devil. I got ’em downstairs in my apartment, too.”

On the way out, Susan asked to see the bonus room one more time. While Alex spoke to Andrea in his low, all-business voice, she walked in a slow, enchanted circle around the tiny room and then stopped to rest her hands on the windowsill and gaze outside. The small back lot was separated from the mirror-image lot, belonging to a house on Orange Street, by a weathered wooden fence. The lot was overgrown with wild grass and dotted with bent and spindly trees; Susan wondered which of these gnarled beauties she would paint first. From all the way down the hall she heard Andrea’s voice saying, “So I’m sorry about that . . . ” and then something she couldn’t hear, to which Alex replied, “. . . I know how it is . . .” Then Andrea laughed a dry rustling titter and said, “Well, the less said about them, the better.” Emma could be heard giggling and hooting, having coronated herself princess of the living room, with a host of invisible subjects. Turning from the window, Susan was suddenly struck by a sour unsavory odor, a nasty staleness in the closed air of the room. She crinkled her nose, and in the next breath it was gone. She shut the door of the bonus room behind her, gathered up her daughter, and found Andrea and Alex in the kitchen, framed by the slanting sunlight. Andrea was nodding vigorously, eyes narrowed with interest, leaning into the conversation. “A photographer?” she said. “Is that a fact? bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 21

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“It is,” Alex said. “Two artists! My humble abode will be quite the atelier.” Susan glanced uneasily at her husband. Alex was not an art photographer—not anymore. Like Susan, he had begun his postcollege life a decade ago with high artistic aspirations. Unlike Susan, who had folded up her easel after eighteen months of desultory effort and gone to law school as her parents had always intended, Alex had bopped along for a while, enjoying just enough success to encourage him but never enough to make a living. What he had found instead was an unusual niche in the world of commercial photography, at which he had been unexpectedly successful—so successful, in fact, that he hadn’t taken what he would consider a “real” photograph in years. “I’m not really an artist,” Alex told Andrea. His tone was light, unoffended, and Susan exhaled. “I own a small company called Gem- Flex. We take pictures of diamonds and other precious stones, for jewelry catalogs and advertisements.” “Really? How interesting!” “Ah. That’s where you’re wrong,” said Alex, giving Andrea an easy lopsided grin. “But it pays the bills.” Back outside on the stoop, they all shook hands. Andrea knelt with some effort to give Emma a hug, which the girl surprisingly accepted. “Thank you so much for showing the apartment to us,” said Susan. “We’ll be in touch soon, OK?” “Take your time, take your time,” said Andrea, and coughed. “But I’ve got a good feeling about you people. I do.” They had Emma all buckled in when Alex turned back and called, “Oh, hey, Andrea? One more thing.” Susan squeezed her eyes shut: here we go. He was fishing for a bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 22

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problem, for a reason to exercise his magical with-you-not- working-right-now veto, to keep them entombed in their one-bedroom on Twelfth Street for all eternity. The place is amazing, Alex, she thought. This is where we’re going to live. Just accept it. “You seem like you’d be a great landlord,” he was saying. “But if there are, I don’t know, problems, with the heat or the toilet or whatever—” Andrea interrupted with her high, throaty, barking laugh. “Oh, good heavens! No. These ancient hands will not be plung- ing your toilet.” She held up thin, knotty fingers. “There’s a nice gentleman, an old friend, who is very handy and takes care of all that sort of thing for me. He can handle anything. I promise.” “Oh,” said Alex, seeming mollified. “Well, great, then.” That’s my girl, thought Susan, and beamed up at Andrea, who waved. “All right, folks. See you soon.”

It was three or four blocks down Cranberry Street to the Brook- lyn Heights Promenade, where Emma hopped out of the stroller for some much-needed running around. Susan and Alex leaned on the railing and stood side by side, gazing out across the broad expanse of the East River at the Statue of Liberty, the Chrysler Building, and the skyline hole where the World Trade Center had once stood. Susan glanced furtively at her husband over the top of her Ray-Bans, trying to assess his state of mind. It was turning into a hot day, and she wore not only her sunglasses but a big floppy hat to protect herself from the sun. She had sensitive blue eyes and the kind of pale Scan- bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 23

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dinavian skin that burned easily; Alex, rugged and dark, had no such problems. He never bothered to wear sunscreen, which made Susan envious and, occasionally, mildly irritated. They turned their backs to the railing and saw Emma streak by, shrieking merrily, in fervid pursuit of an adorable little boy in blue Crocs and a windbreaker, his hair in neat cornrows. “All right, dear, moment of truth,” Susan said at last. “What do you think?” “Well, I think a lot of things.” He let out a long breath and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Did you hear? Her last tenants ran out on her, so she’s asking for three months’ security deposit.” “Three months? Jesus.” Susan did some quick math in her head. “So that’s—” “It’s ridiculous, is what it is.” “Can we afford it?” “We can, because the rent is crazy low. I mean, really insanely low. In fact—” Alex gave Susan his most serious pretend-serious face. “It’s probably haunted, right? Gotta be haunted.” Susan cracked up and rested her head on his shoulder. She had a good feeling about where this conversation was going. “Totally,” she said. “Built on the only Indian burial ground in Brooklyn Heights.” “Shame,” he said. “Because otherwise it’s fabulous.” “It is, right? And a great neighborhood. And an easy commute for you.” “Yup.” “And, it’s got that . . . what did she call it?” Susan pretended to try and remember. “The bonus room. It’ll make a great studio, I think.” bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 24

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“Right. Now, did you notice? No washer/dryer.” “Eh. I’ll live.” Susan looked around for Emma and found her right away, on a nearby bench with the little boy, chatting merrily with a woman Susan guessed was the boy’s mother. Susan pointed to herself and then to Emma, mouthing “she’s mine,” and the other woman smiled back and waved cheerily. God, Susan thought. I love it here. “So, OK,” Susan said, turning back to Alex. “Why don’t we sleep on it tonight, and . . . ” She trailed off and broke into a surprised smile. Alex had his phone out. “Screw it,” he said, grinning. “Let’s call her right now.” Susan’s heart leaped in her chest. “Yeah?” “Yeah. We both know we’re going to take it. So let’s just take it.” As Alex dialed Andrea Scharfstein, Susan felt a sharp sting on her calf and bent to smack at the mosquito. She nailed it, and her palm came up bearing a thick bloody smear.

Andrea sent the lease three hours later to Susan via e-mail, exactly as she had promised. After Emma was asleep and after Alex left for a long-scheduled and eagerly anticipated game of Texas Hold ’Em with some college cronies, Susan sat down to review it. “I’ll take a look when I get home,” Alex promised. “Sure you will,” said Susan, and gave him a kiss as he headed out the door. He would, naturally, be drunk later, or at least buzzed, and the bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 25

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truth was she didn’t really need his help. She was, after all, the lawyer. Well, Susan thought with a smile, as the document emerged from their sleek miniature laser printer, former lawyer. The lease was obviously cut and pasted from a sample document floating around on the Internet. Across the top margin it said: SAMPLE OF A NEW YORK STATE RENTAL AGREEMENT, MODIFY AS NEEDED. But Andrea had not, so far as Susan could tell, modified it in the slightest. Still, it took her more than an hour to read through everything, not counting ten minutes of comforting Emma, who woke crying from an upsetting dream: in it, she said, while Susan kissed the tears from her cheeks, “Big Grandpa was chasing me”—Alex’s grandfather had died seven months ago—“and his face was all melty, like it was big chunks coming off of him.” Susan had no idea what could have inspired such an unsettling vision of decomposing, sliding flesh. She got Emma a glass of water and sang “Little Eliza Jane,” stroking her soft brown hair until she fell asleep. Alex got home after midnight, mildly but pleasantly drunk, rambling giddily about the monster pot he’d won by making trip sevens on the river. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But nice work,” said Susan. “You ready to sign a lease?” He grinned. “Totally.” Alex fell into the seat next to her and grabbed the pen. His sleeves were rolled up unevenly, and he smelled like cigars. “Oh! Wait! Shit. There was this guy at Anton’s, a lawyer, named Kodaly—Kodiak? Something. Starts with a K.” “Uh-huh?” “He said the person has to, like, promise the place doesn’t have bedbugs.” “Well, no. Not exactly.” Susan turned the pages of the document bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 26

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and found the clause the mysterious Kodiak was referring to. “Here. ‘The landlord or lessor warrants that the premises so leased or rented and all areas used in connection therewith in common with other tenants or residents are fit for human habitation.’ Blah, blah, blah, et cetera. It’s called a warrant of habitability, and . . . ” Susan stopped. “Um, excuse me?” “What?” Alex asked with sing-song innocence. He had leaned over in his chair toward hers and was busily working his hands into her shirt, fumbling for her breasts. Susan leaned back into his arms. “I thought you wanted to hear about the bedbugs.” “Not so much, as it turns out.”

As always, Alex fell asleep almost instantly after sex, sprawled out naked on top of the sheets; Susan lay awake, reading and listening to him breathe softly. After knowing him eight years, and being married for five, she still could not say whether or not she found her husband handsome. Attractive, yes: Alex was tall and solidly constructed, with dark hair and coloring, and he radiated a kind of easy magnetism— especially when he was smiling, which was most of the time. But there was also a kind of roughness about him, a coarseness in his features when you caught them in the wrong light. And the largeness of his body and features, the same largeness that made Susan feel safe and protected when he laughed and threw his arms around her, was a little scary when he was being sullen and aggressive. Susan pulled on her robe, poked her head into the curtained nook to check on Emma—sleeping soundly now, looking startlingly like her father in her open-mouthed dead-to-the-world repose— bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 27

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and padded back to the kitchen table and her MacBook. She e-mailed Andrea and said the lease would be on the way back tomorrow with the appropriate checks; she e-mailed their management company to let them know this would be their last month on their month-to- month lease; she went to the website of Moishe’s, a moving company she had used in the past, filled out their detailed move-request form, and pressed “submit.” It was now 2:47 a.m. on August 16, 2010. They were traveling to visit Alex’s parents on Labor Day weekend, so on the move-request form Susan had indicated they’d like to move to Brooklyn on Sep- tember 12, a Sunday. bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 28

The week after Labor Day, the week preceding their move, the news was dominated by a grisly murder that had occurred in Down- town Brooklyn, just one neighborhood over from the Heights. As was relentlessly reported on 1010 WINS and WCS-880, the twenty- four-hour news stations Susan listened to compulsively—especially when she was at home working on a large project, like packing—a young mother had killed her three-month-old twins. It was an unsettling crime, irresistible to the news stations because of the horrific and strange way the children had been killed; and, as Alex pointed out, because the alleged murderess was young, privileged, and white. The woman, whose name was Anna Mara Phelps, had taken her two daughters in their big black Phil and Ted’s double stroller to the roof of their sixteen-story luxury building and then rolled it off the edge, with the infants still inside. Horror-struck bystanders had watched the giant carriage flipping end over end as it plummeted toward Livingston Street, where it shattered, killing the babies on impact. Phelps was charged with double homicide and considered likely to plead guilty by reason of insanity. On the day of the move, while Alex supervised the crew from Moishe’s, Susan took Emma to buy picture hangers at a hardware store on Court and Livingston. She stopped to stare at the spot bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 29

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where the stroller had landed, now marked by a massive shrine of flowers and toys and dolls. “Well,” Alex said sardonically when she described the mournful scene, “welcome to the neighborhood.”

The movers were done by quarter to five, and Alex dipped into his low, all-business voice to thank each one for his hard work and slip him a twenty. Then Emma, Susan, and Alex wandered around their new home, navigating the monolithic wardrobe boxes, upside- down furniture, and lumpy duffel bags filled with clothing, pillow- cases, and knick-knacks. “Well, folks, we’ve got our work cut out for us,” said Susan. “First we get the TV set up, right?” Alex replied, half joking. “Where’s Mr. Boogle?” said Emma. “We didn’t put Mr. Boogle in a box, honey. He’s around.” Just before six, Andrea Scharfstein knocked on the door holding a bottle of cheap champagne and an autumnal bouquet in a dispos- able plastic vase. “You made it!” she growled pleasantly. “That is so sweet of you,” said Susan, and she meant it. The last time she’d been welcomed, when she and Alex moved in together on Union Square, it was with a three-page bulleted list of rules and reg- ulations that had been slid under the door by someone from the management company, even though they were home at the time. Andrea’s hair was tied back with a green cotton headband, and she wore a plain blue sheath dress. Susan reflected in passing how pretty she must have been, years ago—and still was, in her old-lady way, bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 30

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with wide deep-set eyes and high cheekbones. “Hi, Andrea!” piped Emma. “Hello, young lady.” “Did you bring your pet dinosaur?” “So clever, this one is! You should be on television, dear heart.” Alex invited Andrea to join them for dinner, but she declined, to Susan’s relief. “Oh, please. Get settled first. Another time.” On her way out, Andrea gestured to a thin stack of take-out menus she had left on top of a box, and Susan noticed that her hand trembled just the slightest bit. “Try the vegetarian Chinese place, on Montague. I forget what it’s called, but it’s good.”

The vegetarian Chinese place on Montague Street was called the Greens, as it turned out, and it was good. They ordered vegetarian moo goo gai pan, miso mushroom soup, and something called General Tso’s Soy Protein, which Alex proclaimed “vastly better than it sounds.” After dinner they dug up towels and shower stuff, plus enough books and toys for Emma to have a decent playtime before she bustled happily off to bed. “I don’t miss old house at all,” Emma intoned solemnly as Susan tucked her carefully into her white IKEA bed, which the movers had reassembled before leaving. “Really, sweets? It’s OK if you do.” “Of course it’s OK,” said Emma, her eyes already drifting shut. “But I don’t.” The movers had also reassembled the big queen-size bed in the bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 31

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master bedroom, a process that Susan had anxiously overseen. The bed was very possibly her favorite possession, and she had agonized over its purchase for several months for reasons both aesthetic and financial. It was a sleek low-slung modernist beauty with a sturdy slat- ted frame and a black-oak headboard, sold by Design Within Reach for $2,550 plus tax—a significant chunk of change, even back when she was working. True to form, Alex had protested, mildly, that their old double bed was just fine. “What’s wrong with it?” “Well, I’ve had it since college, for one thing. Plus we’re two people. We need a queen.” “But aren’t doubles for two people? Two? Double?” Susan had prevailed, arguing in part that a decent bed would help her sleep. She was a chronic insomniac, unlike Alex, who bragged that he could fall asleep in a muddy ditch or stay sleeping through artillery fire—a gift that had been maddening to Susan during Emma’s infancy, when he slumbered peacefully through many a late-night screaming session. After Emma was down they puttered around for a couple hours, drinking Andrea’s champagne from plastic cups and unpacking a few boxes marked UNPACK ME FIRST! Susan found the box of perishables and arranged its contents in the pantry while Alex focused on his treasured kitchen gadgets: the coffee grinder, the rice cooker, the nonstick frying pans, the knife block and full set of Henckels Twin Select cooking knives. Finally he yawned, announced that he was exhausted, and headed upstairs. “I can’t believe we have two floors,” he said, pausing midway up the steps and gesturing expansively at all their space, in the manner of a Roman emperor. “Nice work, Sue.” bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 32

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Susan finished her champagne and poured herself another cup, adding new items to her to-do list, until her eyes were drooping shut and she admitted to herself there was nothing else that could realis- tically be accomplished that night. She went upstairs to the bathroom, unzipped her gold toiletries bag, and fished around until she found the Altoids tin in which she kept her Ambien. She counted the pills, each one a perfect little white oblong: there were twenty-seven ten-milligram tablets left, out of an original stash of fifty, prescribed eighteen months ago with instructions to take half a pill when anxiety made it impossible to asleep. On nights like this one, however, with her mind racing through all the upcoming tasks, Susan gave herself a dispensation. Carefully she split a pill with her fingernail, put one half back in the Altoids tin and placed the other half on her tongue, cupped her hands to collect a scoopful of water from the faucet, and washed it down. But if the Ambien worked, it didn’t work nearly enough. The minute Susan’s head hit the pillow, her mind busily began annotat- ing and revising the to-do list, which she could see in her mind’s eye as clearly as if it were displayed on the iPhone screen in front of her. Unpacking, of course, was at the top of the list, broken down into several subcategories: Emma’s things, her and Alex’s things, kitchen things, sheets and towels. Now that they had more space, they would need more furniture, and there was a sublist for that, too: small end- tables for the living room, some sort of sideboard for the kitchen. . . . and could they afford new furniture? How much had the movers ended up charging? Alex would know the exact figure, but Susan couldn’t remember—four thousand? five?—plus that massive security deposit—moves were a money sieve, Alex was right . . . Susan’s restless mind jumped to the universe of small activities, bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 33

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mundane but crucial, that went with setting up a new household: the making of keys, the filling out of address-change forms, the search for good grocery stores. It was to Susan, of course, that most of these tasks would fall. . . . since you’re not working right now . . . since you’re not working right now . . . She looked at her husband, his thick torso, his face squashed in his pillow, a thin line of drool connecting his lower lip to the collar of his ancient Pearl Jam T-shirt, and wondered just how angry he really was at her, just below, or not even below, the surface, how much resentment he harbored. Alex had artistic ambitions, too, after all, which he had long ago boxed up and stashed away, just as she had. But now she was taking hers back out again, unpacking the dreams of her youth like antique linens from an old chest, while he was stuck shooting pictures of watches and diamond rings, pretending to take pride in it . . . sup- porting her and their child, her and her dilettante ambitions. Of course he’s resentful, he must be, he . . . Susan took a deep breath. Alex had never expressed any such feelings to her, of course—everything he had said on the subject was quite to the contrary (“To tell you the truth, Sue, I think it’s a great idea!”) But that wasn’t good enough for Susan, lying awake in the Brooklyn dark in the middle of the night, surrounded by a shadowy forest of wardrobe boxes and furniture in an unfamiliar room. Surely Alex thought terrible things of her, surely he seethed every time he looked at her. Why, otherwise, had the question of more children never been raised between them? Somehow the time to bring it up always seemed wrong. Somehow it always felt like if she did bring it up, he would launch into a list of reasons why a bigger family was impossible right now, would slam the door on the question, just as he bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 34

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had slammed the door shut on the artists’ loft with a harbor view in Red Hook ...... oh, hell, Susan, you don’t need that place anymore, you got this place, remember? This thought, vaguely comforting though it was, led her back along her twisting maze of anxiety, to yet more things that needed to be done: find out when recycling goes out, find a nonfilthy Laundromat—no washer/dryer, remember?—look into preschool programs for Emma for January—she had secured a slot at a well-regarded place in the Flat- iron District, but now Susan had wrenched up the family and moved them here, for no reason, for no good reason . . . Susan sat up, panting, clutching a hand to her chest. “Shit,” she said to the darkness. The bedside clock read 2:34. Susan rose, stepped into the bathroom, and took the other half of the Ambien.

Reluctant to return to bed, Susan turned the other way out of the bathroom, slipped past the linen closet, and creaked open the door of Emma’s new room. Looking down at the peaceful, sleeping figure of her daughter, Susan felt almost unbearably in love with her. Emma’s little chest rose and fell, rose and fell. She had her father’s thick dark hair and big brown eyes, but her small frame and sometimes-playful/sometimes-hesitant spirit were all Susan. “Oh, sweet pea,” she murmured. Gingerly she eased the covers down from where Emma had tugged them up under her chin. She insisted on being tucked in so tightly, even in the late-summer heat. Then Susan glanced at the window and gasped. “Oh God! Oh bedbugs_interior2:Layout 1 6/23/11 3:57 PM Page 35

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my God!” she said, loudly, scaring herself in the quiet dark of the bedroom. Emma stirred but didn’t wake. Susan stepped closer to the window and gaped, wide-eyed, at where a person, or the shadow of a person, was standing in the backyard, leaning against the rickety back fence and staring up. The man was massive. In his hand was the long barrel of a gun, or some kind of club, or . . . something . . . in the darkness, from this distance, it was impossible to say. “Alex!” Susan shouted, but he didn’t answer. Susan’s heart was knocking at her ribs, and she clutched at the windowsill. “Alex! God damn it, Alex!” Emma shifted and moaned in her sleep. Susan opened her mouth to scream again—she would have to go in there and shake him awake. But then she looked again, and there was nothing—no one—in the yard. Whatever Susan had seen, or thought she had seen, it was gone. End of this sample. Enjoyed the preview? Buy Now zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 1 zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 1

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 2

“A FEW OF THE GUESTS, WHO HAD THE MISFORTUNE OF BEING TOO NEAR THE WINDOWS, WERE SEIZED AND FEASTED ON AT ONCE.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 3 zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 4

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number: 2008937609 ISBN: 978-1-59474-334-4 Printed in Canada This book was printed on 100% post-consumer recycled paper Typeset in Bembo

Cover zombification and design by Doogie Horner Cover art courtesy the Bridgeman Art Library International Ltd. Interior illustrations by Philip Smiley Production management by John J. McGurk

40 39 38 37 36 35 34 33

Quirk Books 215 Church Street Philadelphia, PA 19106 quirkbooks.com zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 5

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

A few of the guests, who had the misfortune of being too near the windows, were seized and feasted on at once. frontispiece

Mr. Darcy watched Elizabeth and her sisters work their way outward, beheading zombie after zombie as they went. page 15

Elizabeth lifted her skirt, disregarding modesty, and delivered a swift kick to the creature’s head. page 29

Two adult unmentionables—both of them male—busied themselves feasting upon the flesh of the household staff. page 81

The wedding took place, and no one other than Elizabeth seemed to suspect the bride’s condition. page 111

“My dear girl,” said her ladyship. “I suggest you take this contest seriously. My ninjas will show you no mercy.” page 131

One of her kicks found its mark, and Darcy was sent into the mantelpiece with such force as to shatter its edge. page 150

The rules were simple: Sneak up behind one of the large bucks grazing in the nearby woods, wrestle it to the ground, and kiss it on the nose before letting it go. page 183

The smoke from Darcy’s musket hung in the air around him, wafting Heavenward through his thick mane of chestnut hair. page 200

“Weak, silly girl! So long as there is life in this old body, you shall never again be in the company of my nephew!” page 291

The creatures were crawling on their hands and knees, biting into ripe heads of cauliflower, which they had mistaken for stray brains. page 303 zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 6 zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 7

CHAPTER 1

T IS A TRUTH universally acknowledged that a zombie in pos- I session of brains must be in want of more brains. Never was this truth more plain than during the recent attacks at Netherfield Park, in which a household of eighteen was slaughtered and consumed by a horde of the living dead. “My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is occupied again?” Mr. Bennet replied that he had not and went about his morning business of dagger sharpening and musket polishing—for attacks by the unmentionables had grown alarmingly frequent in recent weeks. “But it is,” returned she. Mr. Bennet made no answer. “Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impatiently. “Woman, I am attending to my musket. Prattle on if you must, but leave me to the defense of my estate!” This was invitation enough. “Why, my dear, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune; that he escaped London in a chaise and four just as the strange plague broke through the Manchester line.” “What is his name?” “Bingley. A single man of four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!” “How so? Can he train them in the ways of swordsmanship and musketry?” “How can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 8

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“Marriage? In times such as these? Surely this Bingley has no such designs.” “Designs! Nonsense, how can you talk so! It is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes.” “I see no occasion for that. And besides, we mustn’t busy the roads more than is absolutely necessary, lest we lose more horses and carriages to the unfortunate scourge that has so troubled our beloved Hertfordshire of late.” “But consider your daughters!” “I am considering them, silly woman! I would much prefer their minds be engaged in the deadly arts than clouded with dreams of marriage and fortune, as your own so clearly is! Go and see this Bingley if you must, though I warn you that none of our girls has much to recommend them; they are all silly and ignorant like their mother, the exception being Lizzy, who has something more of the killer instinct than her sisters.” “Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves.” “You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard of little else these last twenty years at least.” Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and self-discipline, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. Her mind was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was dis- contented, she fancied herself nervous. And when she was nervous—as she was nearly all the time since the first outbreak of the strange plague in her youth—she sought solace in the comfort of the traditions which now seemed mere trifles to others. zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 9

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The business of Mr. Bennet’s life was to keep his daughters alive. The business of Mrs. Bennet’s was to get them married.

CHAPTER 2

R. BENNET WAS AMONG the earliest of those who M waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second daughter employed in carving the Bennet crest in the handle of a new sword, he suddenly addressed her with: “I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.” “We are not in a way to know what Mr. Bingley likes,” said her mother resentfully, “since we are not to visit.” “But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him at the next ball.” Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters. “Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven’s sake! You sound as if you have been stricken!” “Mother! What a dreadful thing to say, with so many zombies about!” replied Kitty fretfully. “When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?” “To-morrow fortnight.” “Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “and it will be impossible to introduce him, since we shall not know him ourselves. Oh, how I wish I had never heard the name Bingley!” “I am sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Bennet. “If I had known as much this morning I certainly would not have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 10

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The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the while. “How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! And it is such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and never said a word about it till now.” “Do not mistake my indulgence for a relaxation in discipline,” said Mr. Bennet. “The girls shall continue their training as ever—Bingley or no Bingley.” “Of course, of course!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “They shall be as deadly as they are fetching!” “Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr. Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife. “What an excellent father you have, girls!” said she, when the door was shut. “Such joys are scarce since the good Lord saw fit to shut the gates of Hell and doom the dead to walk amongst us. Lydia, my love, though you are the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball.” “Oh!” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I am the youngest, I’m also the most proficient in the art of tempting the other sex.” The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon Mr. Bingley would return Mr. Bennet’s visit, and determining when they should ask him to dinner. zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 11

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CHAPTER 3

OT ALL THAT Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of N her five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in various ways—with barefaced questions, ingenious sup- positions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all, and they were at last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next ball with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! “If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,” said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.” “And if I can see all five of them survive England’s present difficul- ties, then neither shall I,” he replied. In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat about ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty and fighting skill he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper window that he wore a blue coat, rode a black horse, and carried a French carbine rifle upon his back—quite an exotic weapon for an Englishman. However, from his clumsy wielding of it, Elizabeth was quite certain that he had little training in musketry or any of the deadly arts. An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 12

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housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable to accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite dis- concerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to retrieve a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of ladies, but were comforted by hearing that instead of twelve he brought only six with him from London—his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the ball, it consisted of only five altogether—Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another young man. Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women, with an air of decided fashion, but little in the way of combat training. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien—and the report which was in general circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having slaughtered more than a thousand unmentionables since the fall of Cambridge. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration, until his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased. Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. And though he lacked Mr. Darcy’s proficiency with both sword and musket, such amiable qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast! Mr. Darcy was the proudest, most disagree- zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 13

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able man in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his having slighted one of her daughters. Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it. “Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner.” “I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.” “Upon my honour!” cried Mr. Bingley, “I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty.” “You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet. “Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable.” “Which do you mean?” and turning round he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.” As Mr. Darcy walked off, Elizabeth felt her blood turn cold. She had never in her life been so insulted. The warrior code demanded she avenge her honour. Elizabeth reached down to her ankle, taking care not zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 14

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to draw attention. There, her hand met the dagger concealed beneath her dress. She meant to follow this proud Mr. Darcy outside and open his throat. But no sooner had she grabbed the handle of her weapon than a chorus of screams filled the assembly hall, immediately joined by the shattering of window panes. Unmentionables poured in, their movements clumsy yet swift; their burial clothing in a range of untidiness. Some wore gowns so tattered as to render them scandalous; other wore suits so filthy that one would assume they were assembled from little more than dirt and dried blood. Their flesh was in varying degrees of putrefaction; the freshly stricken were slightly green and pliant, whereas the longer dead were grey and brittle—their eyes and tongues long since turned to dust, and their lips pulled back into everlasting skeletal smiles. A few of the guests, who had the misfortune of being too near the windows, were seized and feasted on at once. When Elizabeth stood, she saw Mrs. Long struggle to free herself as two female dreadfuls bit into her head, cracking her skull like a walnut, and sending a shower of dark blood spouting as high as the chandeliers. As guests fled in every direction, Mr. Bennet’s voice cut through the commotion. “Girls! Pentagram of Death!” Elizabeth immediately joined her four sisters, Jane, Mary, Catherine, and Lydia in the center of the dance floor. Each girl produced a dagger from her ankle and stood at the tip of an imaginary five- pointed star. From the center of the room, they began stepping outward in unison—each thrusting a razor-sharp dagger with one hand, the other hand modestly tucked into the small of her back. From a corner of the room, Mr. Darcy watched Elizabeth and her sisters work their way outward, beheading zombie after zombie as they went. He knew of only one other woman in all of Great Britain who wielded a dagger with such skill, such grace, and deadly accuracy. By the time the girls reached the walls of the assembly hall, the last of the unmentionables lay still. zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 15

“MR. DARCY WATCHED ELIZABETH AND HER SISTERS WORK THEIR WAY OUT- WARD, BEHEADING ZOMBIE AFTER ZOMBIE AS THEY WENT.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 16

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Apart from the attack, the evening altogether passed off pleasantly for the whole family. Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they were the principal inhabitants.

CHAPTER 4

HEN JANE AND ELIZABETH WERE ALONE, the for- W mer, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister just how very much she admired him. “He is just what a young man ought to be,” said she, “sensible, good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners! So much ease, with such perfect good breeding!” “Yes,” replied Elizabeth, “but in the heat of battle, neither he nor Mr. Darcy were to be found with blade or bludgeon.” “Well, I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I did not expect such a compliment.” “He certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him, despite his lack of gallantry. You have liked many a stupider person.” “Dear Lizzy!” “Oh! You are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see a fault in anybody. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your life.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 17

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“I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone.” “With your good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others! You like this man’s sisters, too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.” They were in fact very fine ladies; not deficient in the power of making themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and conceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first private seminaries in town, but knew little of the deadly arts in which she and her own sisters had been so thoroughly trained—both in England, and during their trips to the Orient. As for Mr. Bingley himself, between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of great opposition of character. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well- bred, were not inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually giving offense. But what no one—not even Mr. Bingley—knew, was the reason behind Darcy’s cold demeanor. For until recently, he had been the very picture of pleasantry; a young man of merry disposition and utmost attentiveness. But his nature had been forever altered by a betrayal he had not the stomache to speak of.

CHAPTER 5

ITHIN A SHORT THOUGH PERILOUS WALK of W Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly a maker of fine burial gowns of such stately beauty that the King had seen fit to knight him. He had made a tolerable fortune, until the strange plague zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 18

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had rendered his services unnecessary. Few thought it worth the expense to dress the dead in finery when they would only soil it upon crawling out of their graves. He had removed with his family to a house about a mile from Meryton. Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth’s intimate friend. “You began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with civil self-command to Miss Lucas. “You were Mr. Bingley’s first choice.” “Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.” “Oh! You mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice, and because she fought so valiantly against the unmentionables.” “Did not I mention what I heard between him and Mr. Robinson? Mr. Robinson’s asking Mr. Bingley how he liked our Meryton assem- blies, and whether he did not think there were many pretty women in the room, and which he thought the prettiest? And his answering immediately to the last question, ‘Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point.’” “Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed.” “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend, is he,” said Charlotte. “Poor Eliza! To be called only tolerable.” “I beg you would not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his ill-treatment; for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night . . . ” Mrs. Bennet’s voice failed her at the thought of poor Mrs. Long, her skull crushed betwixt the teeth of those wretched creatures. The ladies sat in silent contemplation for a few moments. “Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, finally, “that he never speaks much, unless among his intimate acquaintances. With them he is remarkably agreeable.” “His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend me so much as pride zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 19

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often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a right to be proud.” “That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine. I dare say I would’ve cut his throat had not the unmentionables distracted me from doing so.” “Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed.” Elizabeth could not help but roll her eyes as Mary continued. “Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.” At this point, Elizabeth let out a most palpable yawn. Though she admired Mary’s bravery in battle, she had always found her a trifle dull in relaxed company.

CHAPTER 6

HE LADIES OF LONGBOURN soon waited on those of T Netherfield. Jane’s pleasing manners grew on the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was found to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted with them was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest pleasure, but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody. It was generally evident whenever they met, that Mr. Bingley did admire her and to her it was equally evident that Jane was in a way to be very zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 20

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much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered by the world in general. Elizabeth mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas. “It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him. In nine cases out of ten a women had better show more affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.” “But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. Remember, Charlotte—she is a warrior first, and a woman second.” “Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance, and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.” “You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.” “Remember, Elizabeth—I am not a warrior as you are. I am merely a silly girl of seven-and-twenty years, and that without a husband.” Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticize. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she hardly had a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes, and her uncommon skill with a blade. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 21

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acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing, and her arms surprisingly muscular, though not so much as to diminish her femininity. He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards con- versing with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas’s, where a large party were assembled. “What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?” “That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.” “Well if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. I have not yet forgiven him for insulting my honour, and may yet have his head upon my mantle.” Mr. Darcy approached them soon afterwards. Elizabeth turned to him and said, “Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?” “With great energy; but balls are always a subject which makes a lady energetic.” “It depends on who’s throwing them, Mr. Darcy.” “Well,” said Miss Lucas, her faced suddenly flushed, “I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.” “You are a very strange creature by way of a friend! Always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody!” Elizabeth’s performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who, at the end of a long concerto, joined eagerly in dancing with her younger sisters, some of the Lucases, and two or three officers at one end of the room. Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas stood beside him, till Sir William thus began: zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 22

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“What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!” “Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance. Why, I imagine even zombies could do it with some degree of success.” Sir William only smiled, not sure of how to converse with so rude a gentleman. He was much relieved at the sight of Elizabeth approaching. “My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.” He took Miss Bennet’s hand and presented it to Mr. Darcy, who was not unwilling to receive it. But she instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William, “Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.” Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested the honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined. She looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured her with Mr. Darcy, for indeed he was thinking of her with some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley: “I can guess the subject of your reverie.” “I should imagine not.” “You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner—the insipidity, the noise, the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!” “You conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.” Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied: “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 23

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“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “Defender of Longbourn? Heroine of Hertfordshire? I am all astonishment. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed; and, of course, the two of you would fell many an unmentionable with your combined proficien- cies in the deadly arts.” He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed long.

CHAPTER 7

R. BENNET’S PROPERTY consisted almost entirely in M an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant rela- tion; and unfortunately for all, was surrounded on all sides by high ground, making it troublesome to defend. Their mother’s fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the defi- ciency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds. She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London, where he had earned his letters in science, and where he now owned a pair of factories dedicated to the war effort. The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, despite the unmentionables which frequently beset travelers along the road, to pay their duty to their aunt and to a milliner’s shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than their sisters’, and when nothing better zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 24

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offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours, and occasionally, practice their skills. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, wresting coffins from the hardened earth and setting fire to them. Meryton was to be the headquarters. Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers’ names and connections, and fresh news from the battlefields of Derbyshire, Cornwall, and Essex—where the fighting was at its fiercest. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley’s large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign, and the excited manner in which he spoke of beheading the stricken with a single touch of his sword. After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed, “From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced.” “I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be so ready to think your own children silly.” “If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.” “Yes—but as it happens, they are all of them very clever. You forget how quickly they became proficient in those Oriental tricks you insisted on bestowing them.” “Being practiced enough to kill a few of the sorry stricken does not make them sensible, particularly when their skills are most often applied for the amusement of handsome officers.” “Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson’s as they did when they first came; she sees them now very often burning the crypts in Shepherd’s Hill Cemetery.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 25

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Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the foot- man with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer. “Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about?” “It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud.

MY DEAR FRIEND, If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives, for a whole day’s tête-à-tête between two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this, provided the road is free of the unmentionable menace. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers. Yours ever, CAROLINE BINGLEY

“Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that is very unlucky, given the troubles on the road to Netherfield.” “Can I have the carriage?” said Jane. “No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and they spring so easily from the wet earth. I should prefer you have speed at your disposal; besides, if it rains, you must stay all night.” “That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure that they would not offer to send her home.” “I had much rather go in the coach,” said Jane, clearly troubled by the thought of riding alone. “But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are they not?” “They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them, and too many slaughtered upon the road already.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 26

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Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it rained hard, and the soft ground gave way to scores of the disagreeable creatures, still clad in their tattered finery, but possessing none of the good breeding that had served them so well in life. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission; Jane certainly could not come back. “This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet more than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her con- trivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield brought the following note for Elizabeth:

MY DEAREST LIZZY, I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my being set upon by several freshly unearthed unmentionables during my ride to Netherfield. My kind friends will not hear of my returning till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been to me—and, excepting a few bruises and a minor stab wound, there is not much the matter with me. YOURS, ETC.

“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note aloud, “if your daughter should die—or worse, succumb to the strange plague, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.” “Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of cuts and bruises. She will be taken good care of.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 27

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Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horsewoman, walking was her only alternative. She declared her resolution. “How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such a thing, with so many of them about, and in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get there, assuming you make it alive!” “You forget that I am student of Pei Liu of Shaolin, mother. Besides, for every unmentionable one meets upon the road, one meets three soldiers. I shall be back by dinner.” “We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and Lydia. Elizabeth accepted their company, and they set off together, armed only with their ankle daggers. Muskets and Katana swords were a more effective means of protecting one’s self, but they were considered unladylike; and, having no saddle in which to conceal them, the three sisters yielded to modesty. “If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked cautiously along, “perhaps we may see something of Captain Carter before he goes.” In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one of the officers’ wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and spring- ing over puddles. During this impatient activity, a bootlace came undone. Not wanting to appear unkempt upon her arrival at Netherfield, she knelt down to tie it. There was suddenly a terrible shriek, not unlike that which hogs make while being butchered. Elizabeth knew at once what it was, and reached for her ankle dagger most expeditiously. She turned, blade at the ready, and was met with the regrettable visage of three unmentionables, their arms outstretched and mouths agape. The closest seemed freshly dead, his burial suit not yet discolored and his eyes not yet dust. He lumbered toward Elizabeth at an impressive pace, and when he was but an arm’s length from her, she plunged the dagger into his chest and pulled it skyward. The blade continued upward, cutting through his neck and zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 28

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face until it burst through the very top of his skull. He fell to the ground and was still. The second unmentionable was a lady, and much longer dead than her companion. She rushed at Elizabeth, her clawed fingers swaying clumsily about. Elizabeth lifted her skirt, disregarding modesty, and delivered a swift kick to the creature’s head, which exploded in a cloud of brittle skin and bone. She, too, fell and was no more. The third was unusually tall, and though long dead, still possessed a great deal of strength and quickness. Elizabeth had not yet recovered from her kick when the creature seized her arm and forced the dagger from it. She pulled free before he could get his teeth on her, and took the crane position, which she thought appropriate for an opponent of such height. The creature advanced, and Elizabeth landed a devastating chop across its thighs. The limbs broke off, and the unmentionable fell to the ground, helpless. She retrieved her dagger and beheaded the last of her opponents, lifting its head by the hair and letting her battle cry be known for a mile in every direction. Elizabeth found herself at last within view of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of exercise. She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise. That she should have walked three miles with so many unmentionables about, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt for it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their brother’s manners there was something better than politeness; there was good humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the occasion’s justifying her to take the great risk of coming alone, with nothing but a dagger between her and death. The latter was thinking only of his breakfast. zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 29

“ELIZABETH LIFTED HER SKIRT, DISREGARDING MODESTY, AND DELIVERED A SWIFT KICK TO THE CREATURE’S HEAD.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 30

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Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish and not well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth attended her, silently worrying that her beloved sister had caught the strange plague. When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having examined his patient, said, much to the relief of all, that she had caught not the strange plague, but a violent cold, no doubt from doing battle in the rain. When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage. When Jane testified such concern in parting with her, Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer to an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay and bring back a supply of clothes, and at Elizabeth’s request, her favourite musket.

CHAPTER 8

T FIVE O’CLOCK Elizabeth retired to meditate and dress, and A at half-past six she was summoned to dinner. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter. Their indifference towards Jane when not immediately before them restored Elizabeth to her former dislike. Their brother, Mr. Bingley, was the only one of the party whom she could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 31

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feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the others. When dinner was over, Elizabeth returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence; she had no conversation, no style, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added, “She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being well-schooled in the ways of combat. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild.” “She did, indeed, Louisa. Why must she be scampering about the country in such dangerous times, because her sister had a cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!” “Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and pieces of undead flesh upon her sleeve, no doubt from her attackers.” “Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.” “You observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley; “and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition.” “Certainly not.” “To walk three miles, or whatever it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! With the unmentionable menace dragging poor souls off the road and to their doom day and night? What could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independ- ence, a most country-town indifference to decorum.” “It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” said Bingley. “I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley in a half whisper, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.” “Not at all,” he replied; “they were brightened by the exercise.” A zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 32

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short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again: “I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.” “I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney on Meryton.” “Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.” “That is capital,” added her sister, and they both laughed heartily. “If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside,” cried Bingley, “it would not make them one jot less agreeable. Have you no regard for them as warriors? Indeed, I have never seen ladies so steady-handed in combat.” “But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world,” replied Darcy. To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their hearty assent. With a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to Jane’s room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her sleep, and when it seemed to her rather right than pleasant that she should go downstairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole party at cards, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. “Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather singular.” “I prefer a great many things to cards, Mr. Hurst,” said Elizabeth; “Not the least of which is the sensation of a newly sharpened blade as it punctures the round belly of a man.” Mr. Hurst was silent for the remainder of the evening. zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 33

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“In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said Bingley; “and I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well.” Elizabeth thanked him, and then walked towards the table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others—all that his library afforded. “And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever looked into.” Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. “I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!” “It ought to be good,” he replied, “it has been the work of many generations.” “And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books.” “I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these. What have we to do but stay indoors and read till the cure is at last discovered?” Elizabeth turned her attention away from her book and drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. “Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley; “will she be as tall as I am?” “I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height, or rather taller.” “How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for her age!” “It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 34

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“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?” “They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.” “The word is applied,” said Darcy, “to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. My sister Georgiana deserves the distinction, however, for she is not only master of the female arts, but the deadly as well. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are thus accomplished.” “Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley. “Then, Mr. Darcy,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.” “A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages; she must be well trained in the fighting styles of the Kyoto masters and the modern tactics and weaponry of Europe. And besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half-deserved. All this she must possess, and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.” “I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.” “Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all this?” “I never saw such a woman. In my experience, a woman is either highly trained or highly refined. One cannot afford the luxury of both in such times. As for my sisters and I, our dear father thought it best that we give less of our time to books and music, and more to protecting ourselves from the sorry stricken.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 35

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Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order. All conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room. “Elizabeth Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, “is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.” “Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, “there is a meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cun- ning is despicable.” Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject. Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not hear of—it was too dangerous to dispatch a rider at night; but she was willing to comply with their brother’s proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his house- keeper directions that every attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister. zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 36

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CHAPTER 9

LIZABETH PASSED THE CHIEF of the night in her sister’s E room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid. She requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judg- ment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, but the rider was met with a group of freshly unearthed zombies on the road and dragged off to his presumable demise. The note was dispatched a second time with more success, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls and their longbows, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast. Had she found Jane in any apparent danger of having the strange plague, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen, therefore, to her daughter’s proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected. “Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.” “Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of!” Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. “I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends I do not zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 37

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know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, no doubt due to her many months under the tutelage of Master Liu.” “Might I expect to meet this gentleman here in Hertfordshire?” asked Bingley. “I rather think you shan’t,” she replied, “for he has never left the confines of the Shaolin Temple in Henan Province. It was there that our girls spent many a long day being trained to endure all manner of discomfort.” “May I inquire as to the nature of this discomfort?” “You may inquire,” said Elizabeth, “though I would much prefer to give you a demonstration.” “Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.” “I hardly knew you to possess such character,” said Bingley. “My own character is of little consequence,” replied Elizabeth. “It is the character of others which concerns me. I devote a great many hours to the study of it.” “The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but a few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society.” “Excepting, of course, when the country is overrun with the same unmentionables as town.” “Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite as much of that going on in the country as in town.” Everybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph. “I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, particularly since the wall was built. It may be a fortress replete with shops, but it is a fortress nonetheless—and hardly fit for the frag- zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 38

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ile nerves of a gentle lady. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?” “When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, both in regards to the plague and otherwise. For while I sleep more soundly in the safety of town, I find my general disposition much improved by my present surroundings.” “Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was nothing at all.” “Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town, which you must acknowledge to be true. Just as Mr. Darcy would surely acknowledge that the scarcity of graveyards makes the country altogether more agreeable in times such as these.” “Certainly, my dear; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families. Well, three-and-twenty, I suppose—God rest poor Mrs. Long’s soul.” Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield. zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 39

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Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance. She had every bit of Lizzy’s deadly nature, though little of her sense, and had vanquished her first unmentionable at the remarkable age of seven-and-one-half years. She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother’s ear. “I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when she is ill.” Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh! Yes—it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given your ball,” she added, “I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.” Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations’ behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of her, in spite of all Miss Bingley’s witticisms on fine eyes.

CHAPTER 10

HE DAY PASSED much as the day before had done. Mrs. T Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The card table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter and repeatedly zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 40

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calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game. Elizabeth took up the oiling of her musket stock, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. “How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!” He made no answer. “You write uncommonly fast.” “And you prattle uncommonly much.” “How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!” “And how odious indeed that I should so often suffer to write them in your company.” “Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.” “I have already told her so once, by your desire.” “How can you contrive to write so even?” He was silent. “Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp; and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table.” “Miss Bingley, the groans of a hundred unmentionables would be more pleasing to my ears than one more word from your mouth. Were you not otherwise agreeable, I should be forced to remove your tongue with my saber.” “Oh! It is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?” “They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not for me to determine.” “It is a rule with me that a person who can write a long letter with ease, cannot write ill.” “That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her brother, “because he does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 41

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Mr. Darcy continued to work on his letter in silence, though Elizabeth perceived him to be a great deal annoyed with his friends. When that business was over, Mr. Darcy applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with some alacrity to the pianoforte; and, after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the way, she seated herself. Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister as Elizabeth played.

When once the earth was still and dead were silent, And London-town was for but living men, Came the plague upon us swift and violent, And so our dearest England we defend.

While they were thus employed, Elizabeth could not help observing how frequently Mr. Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine, however, that she drew his notice because there was something more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him too little to care for his approbation. Miss Bingley played next, varying the charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said to her: “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?” She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence. “Oh!” said she, “I heard you before, but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their pre- meditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 42

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I do not want to dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.” “Indeed I do not dare.” Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry; and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger of falling in love, and were it not for his considerable skill in the deadly arts, that he should be in danger of being bested by hers—for never had he seen a lady more gifted in the ways of vanquishing the undead. Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth. She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance. “I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check Miss Bennet’s unladylike affinity for guns, and swords, and exercise, and all those silly things best left to men or ladies of low breeding.” “Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?” At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself. “I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest she had been overheard. “You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away without telling us that you were coming out.” Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rude- ness, and immediately said: zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 43

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“This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue.” But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered: “No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Besides, that path is most assuredly rife with zombies, and I have not the inclination to engage in fighting them off to-day. Good-bye.” She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.

CHAPTER 11

HEN THE LADIES REMOVED after dinner, Elizabeth W ran up to her sister, and seeing her well, attended her into the drawing-room, where she was welcomed by Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst with many professions of pleasure. Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Despite their lack of fighting skill, she had to admit that their powers of conversation were considerable. “If only words were capable of beheading a zombie,” she thought, “I would presently find myself in the company of the world’s two greatest warriors.” But when the gentlemen entered, Miss Bingley’s eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed himself to Jane, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he was “very glad indeed that it had been but a cold, and not the strange plague.” But the greatest warmth remained for Bingley’s salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first half-hour was spent in piling up zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 44

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the fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone else. Elizabeth took to the small grinding wheel in the corner of the room and watched it all with great delight whilst sharpening the gentlemen’s swords—which she had found embarrassingly dull upon examination. When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the card- table—but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with one of Elizabeth’s throwing stars, joined now and then in her brother’s conversation with Miss Bennet. Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy’s progress through his book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading!” “Spoken like one who has never known the ecstasy of holding a still-beating heart in her hand,” said Darcy. Miss Bingley—who was quite used to having her lack of combat training impugned—made no reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest for some amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said: “By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you to consult the wishes of the present zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 45

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party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.” “If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he chooses, before it begins—but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as the ground has sufficiently hardened and the present increase in unmentionables has passed, I shall send round my cards.” “I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they were carried on in a different manner.” “You should like balls infinitely better,” said Darcy, “if you knew the first thing about them.” Elizabeth blushed and suppressed a smile—slightly shocked by his flirtation with impropriety, and slightly impressed that he should endeavor to flirt with it at all. Miss Bingley, ignorant of his meaning, made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more, and, turning to Elizabeth, said: “Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.” Elizabeth needed no such refreshment—she had once been ordered to maintain a handstand for six days in the blistering Beijing sun—but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down the room together, either of which his joining them would upset. “What could he mean?” She was dying to know what could be his meaning—and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him? “Not at all,” was her answer; “but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 46

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Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of such self-discipline, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives. “I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he. “You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are incapable of sitting quietly, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, you are but silly girls undeserving of my attention, and if the second, I can admire you much better from here. In fact, the glow of the fire casts quite a revealing silhouette against the fabric of your gowns.” “Oh! Shocking!” cried Miss Bingley, stepping away from the fireplace. “I never heard anything so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?” “I have several ideas on the subject,” said Elizabeth, “but I’m afraid none would meet with the approval of the present party. Have you no insight into his weaknesses, you and he being so intimately acquainted?” “Upon my honour, I do not. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me that. Mr. Darcy possesses calmness of manner, presence of mind, and bravery in battle.” “Yes, but does he not also possess vanity and pride?” “Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed, said Miss Bingley, “but pride— where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.” Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. “Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss Bingley, “and pray what is the result?” “I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect.” “No,” said Darcy, “I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. I have taken many a life for offenses which would seem but trifles to other men.” “That is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “But you have chosen your fault well, for it is one which I share. I too live by the warrior code, and would gladly kill if my honour demanded it. You are safe from me.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 47

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“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.” “And your defect, Mr. Darcy, is to hate everybody.” “And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to misunderstand them.” “Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst?” Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was opened; and Darcy was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.

CHAPTER 12

N CONSEQUENCE OF AN AGREEMENT between the sisters, I Elizabeth wrote the next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane’s week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was disappointing. Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday, for it had been badly damaged by errant musket balls during a skirmish between soldiers and a party of the sorry stricken near the encampment at Meryton. This was at least partially true—for the carriage had indeed been caught in a crossfire when Catherine and Lydia used it to visit with a group of officers; but the damage was in fact less severe than Mrs. Bennet suggested. In her postscript it was added that if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them. Against staying longer, zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 48

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however, Elizabeth urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made. The request excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to allow the ground to further harden; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jeal- ousy and dislike of Elizabeth much exceeded her affection for Jane. Mr. Bingley heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her—that she was not enough recovered to fight if the carriage should meet with trouble; but Jane reminded him that Elizabeth was as capable a bodyguard as there was in all of England. To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence—Elizabeth had been at Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked—and Miss Bingley was uncivil to her, and more teasing than usual to himself. He resolved that no sign of admiration should now escape him. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her. On Sunday, after morning service, the separation took place. Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole party in the liveliest of spirits. The ride to Longbourn was altogether agreeable, save for a brief encounter with a small herd of zombie children, no doubt from Mrs. Beechman’s Home for Orphans, which had recently fallen along with the entire parish of St. Thomas. Mr. Bingley’s coachman could not help zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 49

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but vomit down the front of his cravat at the sight of the tiny devils grazing on sun-hardened corpses in a nearby field. Elizabeth kept her musket close, lest they advance. But luck was on their side, and the cursed children took no notice of the carriage. They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet thought them very wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. Her protests were inflamed by the sight of vomit on the coachman’s cravat—a sure sign that they had encountered unmentionables en route. But their father was truly glad to see them, for the evening sparring sessions had lost much of their animation by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth. They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of human nature; Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged for engaging in base acts with a head- less corpse, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.

CHAPTER 13

HOPE, MY DEAR,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at I breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.” “Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in—and I am sure my dinners are good enough for her, since she is an unmarried woman of seven-and-twenty, and as such should expect little more than a crust of bread washed down with a cup of loneliness.” “The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 50

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Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. Bingley, I am sure! I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley. But— good Lord! How unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell—I must speak to Hill this moment.” “It is not Mr. Bingley, you senseless old cur,” said her husband; “it is a person whom I never saw in the whole course of my life.” After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained: “About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight ago I answered it. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.” “Oh! My dear,” cried his wife, “Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing in the world that your estate should be entailed away from your own children!” Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain that all five of them were capable of fending for themselves; that they could make tolerable for- tunes as bodyguards, assassins, or mercenaries if need be. But it was a subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about. “It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet, “and nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself.”

Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October

DEAR SIR, The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured father always gave me much uneasiness. He was zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 51

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a great warrior, as you once were, and I know he looked with fondness upon the days when both of you fought side by side—back when the strange plague was but an isolated inconvenience. Since his passing, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with anyone with whom my father had once vowed to castrate. My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having entered the priesthood, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh . . .

“Heavens!” cried Elizabeth, “He works for Lady Catherine!” “Let me finish,” said Mr. Bennet, sternly.

. . . whose skill with blade and musket are unmatched, and who has slain more unmentionables than any woman known. As a clergyman, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families. If you should have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the sat- isfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o’clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday following. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend, WILLIAM COLLINS

“At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,” said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially in light of his association with Lady Catherine. Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 52

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politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a short, fat young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters; said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this instance fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he could hardly wait to see a display of their legendary fighting skill. “You are very kind, I am sure; but I should rather see them with husbands than muskets, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly.” “You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.” “Ah! Sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must confess.” “I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more; but, perhaps, when we are better acquainted—” He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’s admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised; and his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property. The dinner too was highly admired; and he begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its cookery was owing. Briefly forgetting her manners, Mary grabbed her fork and leapt from her chair onto the table. Lydia, who was seated nearest her, grabbed her ankle before she could dive at Mr. Collins and, presumably, stab him about the head and neck for such an insult. Jane and Elizabeth turned away so Mr. Collins would not see them laughing. zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 53

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He was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good cook, and that her daughters were too busy training to be bothered with the kitchen. He begged pardon for having displeased Mary. In a softened tone she declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a quarter of an hour.

CHAPTER 14

URING DINNER, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when D the servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh was not only one of the King’s rich- est servants, but also one of his deadliest. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise, offering that he had never in his life witnessed such self-discipline in a person of rank. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but he had never seen anything but a singular dedication to the art of killing zombies. She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to his watching her spar nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a week or two, to visit his relations. She had even advised him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion. “I have oft dreamt of watching Lady Catherine spar,” said Elizabeth. “Does she live near you, sir?” “The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship’s residence.” “I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?” “She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property.” zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 54

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“Ah!” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?” “She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex, because there is that in her features which marks the young lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her from following her mother’s example in regards to the deadly arts. I fear can she hardly lift a saber, let alone wield one with such skill as Her Ladyship.” “Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court.” “Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. You may imagine that I am happy to offer these little delicate compliments which are always accept- able to ladies.” “You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet. “May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?” “They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible.” Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance. When tea was over, Mr. Bennet was glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed. Other zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 55

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books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce’s Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with: “Do you know, mamma, that my Uncle Philips talks of an additional battalion coming to join Colonel Forster’s? My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, assuming one of my sisters is willing to join me.” Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said: “I have often observed how little young ladies are uninterested by books of a serious stamp. I will no longer importune my young cousin.” Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised for Lydia’s interruption, which, claimed Mrs. Bennet, would have earned her ten wet bamboo lashes had she still been under the tutelage of Master Liu. They promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon.

CHAPTER 15

R. COLLINS WAS NOT a sensible man, and the defi- M ciency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guid- ance of a brave but illiterate father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had oft borne the condemnation of his peers for a perceived lack of bloodlust. The subjection in which his father had zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 56

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brought him up had given him much knowledge of the art of combat; but it was a good deal counteracted by his weak head, fleshy figure, and now, the ease of his current patronage. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who had been forced to behead her previous rector when he succumbed to the walking death. Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report. This was his plan of amends—of atonement—for inheriting their father’s estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively generous on his own part. His plan did not vary on seeing them. The eldest daughter’s lovely face and striking muscle tone confirmed his views, and for the first evening she was his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter of an hour’s tête-à-tête with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. As to her younger daughters, she could not take upon her to say—she could not positively answer—but she did not know of any prepossession; her eldest daughter, she must just mention—she felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged. Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, and perhaps surpassing her in skill, succeeded her of course. Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of the day before was now high in her good graces. Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister except Mary agreed to go with her, determined that she survive the trip. Mr. Collins was to attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet, who zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 57

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was most anxious to get rid of him, and have his library to himself. Mr. Collins used the walk to Meryton to his advantage, spending most of it at the side of Elizabeth—who was watching the surrounding woods, prepared to meet to first sign of trouble with her Brown Bess. Jane and the others followed behind, their muskets also thus engaged. Mr. Collins, who fancied himself a man of peace, carried neither barrel nor blade; he happily puffed away on his ivory and chestnut pipe—“a gift from her ladyship,” he boasted at every opportunity. They were scarcely a quarter mile past the old croquet grounds, when Elizabeth first caught the scent of death. Seeing her body tense, the other girls raised their muskets and closed ranks, ready to meet an attack from any direction. “Is . . . is there some sort of trouble?” asked Mr. Collins, who suddenly looked as if he might faint. Elizabeth pressed a finger to her lips, and motioned for her sisters to follow. She led them along a set of carriage tracks, her footsteps so light as to leave even the smallest grain of sand undisturbed. The tracks continued for a few yards before suddenly veering toward the woods, where broken branches signaled the very spot it had left its wheels and plummeted into the ravine that paralleled one side of the road. Elizabeth peered over the side. Some twenty yards below, eight or nine blood- soaked zombies crawled over a shattered wagon and its leaking barrels. Most of them were busy picking at the innards of the carriage horse; but one happy dreadful was scooping the last morsels from the broken skull of the driver—a young girl the sisters recognized at once. “Good Heavens!” whispered Jane. “Penny McGregor! Oh! Poor, miserable girl! How often we warned her not to ride alone!” Penny McGregor had delivered lamp oil to Longbourn, and most of the estates within thirty miles of Meryton, since she was scarcely old enough to talk. The McGregors owned a modest home not far from town, where they daily received cartfuls of whale blubber, and processed it into lamp oil and fine perfumes. The smell was unbearable, especially zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 58

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during summer; but their goods were desperately needed, and the McGregors were known to be among the most pleasant people in all of Hertfordshire. “God have mercy on that wretched girl,” said Mr. Collins, who had joined them. “Can’t we just be on our way?” asked Lydia. “There’s no helping her now. Besides, think of how dirty our dresses will get if we have to fight in that awful ravine.” As Jane expressed her shock at such a senti- ment, and Kitty argued in favor of it, Elizabeth took the pipe from Mr. Collins’ mouth, blew on the glowing tobacco, and threw it over the side. “That was a gift from her ladyship!” he cried, loud enough to draw the attention of the zombies below. They looked up and let loose their terrible roars, which were cut short by a violent, fiery explosion as pipe and oil met. Suddenly engulfed, the zombies staggered about, flailing wildly and screaming as they cooked. Jane raised her Brown Bess, but Elizabeth pushed the barrel aside. “Let them burn,” she said. “Let them have a taste of eternity.” Turning to her cousin, who had averted his eyes, she added, “You see, Mr. Collins . . . God has no mercy. And neither must we.” Though angered by her blasphemy, he thought better of saying anything on the matter, for he saw in Elizabeth’s eyes a kind of darkness; a kind of absence—as if her soul had taken leave, so that compassion and warmth could not interfere. Upon entering Meryton, after stopping at the McGregors to deliver the unhappy news, the eyes of the younger ones were immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers, and nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or the wail of the undead, could recall them. But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking with another officer on the other side of the way. The other officer, Mr. Denny, was known to Lydia, and he bowed as they passed. zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 59

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All were struck with the stranger’s air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined to find out, led the way across the street, under pretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were seen riding down the street. On dis- tinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Jane Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger. Elizabeth happened to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other, so slight as to escape all but her highly trained eye. Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, touched his hat—a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return. Elizabeth could tell by the miniscule twitches of Darcy’s sword hand that he had briefly flirted with the notion of drawing his blade. What could be the meaning of it? In another minute, Mr. Bingley, without seeming to have noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend. zombies_interior3:Layout 1 11/11/10 12:04 PM Page 60

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Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of Mr. Philips’s house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia’s pressing entreaties that they should come in, and even in spite of Mrs. Philips’s throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the invitation. Mrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly welcome. Her civility was claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane’s introduction of him. She received him with her very best politeness, which he returned with as much more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with her. Mrs. Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put to an end by exclamations and inquiries about the other; of whom, however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant’s commission in the regiment which was presently engaged to the North. She had been watching him the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr. Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now except a few of the officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become “stupid, disagreeable fellows.” Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr. Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Philips protested that they would have a little bit of hot supper, and a nice comfortable noisy game of Crypt and Coffin. The prospect of such delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or both, had they appeared to be in the wrong, she could no more explain such behaviour than her sister. End of this sample. Enjoyed the preview? Buy Now orphans_interior4B:Layout 1 12/13/10 4:19 PM Page 1

MISS PEREGRINE’S HOME FOR PECULIAR CHILDREN orphans_interior4B:Layout 1 12/13/10 4:19 PM Page 3 orphans_interior4B:Layout 1 6/9/11 3:32 PM Page 4

Copyright © 2011 by Ransom Riggs All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number: 2010942876 ISBN: 978-1-59474-476-1 Printed in the United States of America

Typeset in Sabon Designed by Doogie Horner Cover photograph courtesy of Yefim Tovbis Production management by John J. McGurk

Quirk Books 215 Church Street Philadelphia, PA 19106 quirkbooks.com

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Sleep is not, death is not; Who seem to die live. House you were born in, Friends of your spring-time, Old man and young maid, Day’s toil and its guerdon, They are all vanishing, Fleeing to fables, Cannot be moored.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson orphans_interior4B:Layout 1 12/13/10 4:19 PM Page 7

PROLOGUE orphans_interior4B:Layout 1 12/13/10 4:19 PM Page 8

had just come to accept that my life would be ordinary when extraordinary things began to happen. The first of these came as a terrible shock and, like anything that changes you forever, split my life into halves: Before and After. Like Imany of the extraordinary things to come, it involved my grandfather, Abraham Portman. Growing up, Grandpa Portman was the most fascinating person I knew. He had lived in an orphanage, fought in wars, crossed oceans by steamship and deserts on horseback, performed in circuses, knew everything about guns and self-defense and surviving in the wilderness, and spoke at least three languages that weren’t English. It all seemed unfathomably exotic to a kid who’d never left Florida, and I begged him to regale me with stories whenever I saw him. He always obliged, telling them like secrets that could be entrusted only to me. When I was six I decided that my only chance of having a life half as exciting as Grandpa Portman’s was to become an explorer. He encouraged me by spending afternoons at my side hunched over maps of the world, plotting imaginary expeditions with trails of red pushpins and telling me about the fantastic places I would discover one day. At home I made my ambitions known by parading around with a cardboard tube held to my eye, shouting, “Land ho!” and “Prepare a landing party!” until my parents shooed me outside. I think they worried that my grandfather would infect me with some incurable dreaminess from which I’d never recover—that these fan-

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tasies were somehow inoculating me against more practical ambitions—so one day my mother sat me down and explained that I couldn’t become an explorer because everything in the world had already been discovered. I’d been born in the wrong century, and I felt cheated. I felt even more cheated when I realized that most of Grandpa Portman’s best stories couldn’t possibly be true. The tallest tales were always about his childhood, like how he was born in Poland but at twelve had been shipped off to a children’s home in Wales. When I would ask why he had to leave his parents, his answer was always the same: because the monsters were after him. Poland was simply rotten with them, he said. “What kind of monsters?” I’d ask, wide-eyed. It became a sort of routine. “Awful hunched-over ones with rotting skin and black eyes,” he’d say. “And they walked like this!” And he’d shamble after me like an old-time movie monster until I ran away laughing. Every time he described them he’d toss in some lurid new detail: they stank like putrefying trash; they were invisible except for their shadows; a pack of squirming tentacles lurked inside their mouths and could whip out in an instant and pull you into their powerful jaws. It wasn’t long before I had trouble falling asleep, my hyperactive imagination transforming the hiss of tires on wet pavement into labored breathing just outside my window or shadows under the door into twisting gray-black tentacles. I was scared of the monsters but thrilled to imagine my grandfather battling them and surviving to tell the tale. More fantastic still were his stories about life in the Welsh children’s home. It was an enchanted place, he said, designed to keep kids safe from the monsters, on an island where the sun shined every day and nobody ever got sick or died. Everyone lived together in a big house that was protected by a wise old bird—or so the story went. As I got older, though, I began to have doubts.

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“What kind of bird?” I asked him one afternoon at age seven, eyeing him skeptically across the card table where he was letting me win at Monopoly. “A big hawk who smoked a pipe,” he said. “You must think I’m pretty dumb, Grandpa.” He thumbed through his dwindling stack of orange and blue money. “I would never think that about you, Yakob.” I knew I’d offended him because the Polish accent he could never quite shake had come out of hiding, so that would became vood and think became sink. Feeling guilty, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “But why did the monsters want to hurt you?” I asked. “Because we weren’t like other people. We were peculiar.” “Peculiar how?” “Oh, all sorts of ways,” he said. “There was a girl who could fly, a boy who had bees living inside him, a brother and sister who could lift boulders over their heads.” It was hard to tell if he was being serious. Then again, my grandfather was not known as a teller of jokes. He frowned, reading the doubt on my face. “Fine, you don’t have to take my word for it,” he said. “I got pictures!” He pushed back his lawn chair and went into the house, leaving me alone on the screened-in lanai. A minute later he came back holding an old cigar box. I leaned in to look as he drew out four wrinkled and yellowing snapshots. The first was a blurry picture of what looked like a suit of clothes with no person in them. Either that or the person didn’t have a head. “Sure, he’s got a head!” my grandfather said, grinning. “Only you can’t see it.” “Why not? Is he invisible?” “Hey, look at the brain on this one!” He raised his eyebrows as if I’d surprised him with my powers of deduction. “Millard, his name

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was. Funny kid. Sometimes he’d say, ‘Hey Abe, I know what you did today,’ and he’d tell you where you’d been, what you had to eat, if you picked your nose when you thought nobody was looking. Some- times he’d follow you, quiet as a mouse, with no clothes on so you couldn’t see him—just watching!” He shook his head. “Of all the things, eh?” He slipped me another photo. Once I’d had a moment to look at it, he said, “So? What do you see?” “A little girl?” “And?” “She’s wearing a crown.” He tapped the bottom of the picture. “What about her feet?” I held the snapshot closer. The girl’s feet weren’t touching the ground. But she wasn’t jumping—she seemed to be floating in the air. My jaw fell open. “She’s flying!” “Close,” my grandfather said. “She’s levitating. Only she could- n’t control herself too well, so sometimes we had to tie a rope around her to keep her from floating away!” My eyes were glued to her haunting, doll-like face. “Is it real?” “Of course it is,” he said gruffly, taking the picture and replac- ing it with another, this one of a scrawny boy lifting a boulder. “Vic- tor and his sister weren’t so smart,” he said, “but boy were they strong!” “He doesn’t look strong,” I said, studying the boy’s skinny arms. “Trust me, he was. I tried to arm-wrestle him once and he just about tore my hand off!” But the strangest photo was the last one. It was the back of somebody’s head, with a face painted on it.

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I stared at the last photo as Grandpa Portman explained. “He had two mouths, see? One in the front and one in the back. That’s why he got so big and fat!” “But it’s fake,” I said. “The face is just painted on.” “Sure, the paint’s fake. It was for a circus show. But I’m telling you, he had two mouths. You don’t believe me?” I thought about it, looking at the pictures and then at my grandfather, his face so earnest and open. What reason would he have to lie? “I believe you,” I said. And I really did believe him—for a few years, at least—though mostly because I wanted to, like other kids my age wanted to believe in Santa Claus. We cling to our fairy tales until the price for believing them becomes too high, which for me was the day in second grade when Robbie Jensen pantsed me at lunch in front of a table of girls and announced that I believed in fairies. It was just deserts, I suppose, for repeating my grandfather’s stories at school but in those hu- miliating seconds I foresaw the moniker “fairy boy” trailing me for years and, rightly or not, I resented him for it. Grandpa Portman picked me up from school that afternoon, as he often did when both my parents were working. I climbed into the passenger seat of his old Pontiac and declared that I didn’t believe in his fairy stories anymore. “What fairy stories?” he said, peering at me over his glasses. “You know. The stories. About the kids and the monsters.” He seemed confused. “Who said anything about fairies?” I told him that a made-up story and a fairy tale were the same thing, and that fairy tales were for pants-wetting babies, and that I knew his photos and stories were fakes. I expected him to get mad or put up a fight, but instead he just said, “Okay,” and threw the Pon- tiac into drive. With a stab of his foot on the accelerator we lurched away from the curb. And that was the end of it. I guess he’d seen it coming—I had to grow out of them eventu-

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ally—but he dropped the whole thing so quickly it left me feeling like I’d been lied to. I couldn’t understand why he’d made up all that stuff, tricked me into believing that extraordinary things were possible when they weren’t. It wasn’t until a few years later that my dad explained it to me: Grandpa had told him some of the same stories when he was a kid, and they weren’t lies, exactly, but exaggerated versions of the truth—because the story of Grandpa Portman’s childhood wasn’t a fairy tale at all. It was a horror story. My grandfather was the only member of his family to escape Poland before the Second World War broke out. He was twelve years old when his parents sent him into the arms of strangers, putting their youngest son on a train to Britain with nothing more than a suitcase and the clothes on his back. It was a one-way ticket. He never saw his mother or father again, or his older brothers, his cousins, his aunts and uncles. Each one would be dead before his sixteenth birthday, killed by the monsters he had so narrowly escaped. But these weren’t the kind of monsters that had tentacles and rotting skin, the kind a seven-year-old might be able to wrap his mind around—they were monsters with human faces, in crisp uniforms, marching in lockstep, so banal you don’t recognize them for what they are until it’s too late. Like the monsters, the enchanted-island story was also a truth in disguise. Compared to the horrors of mainland Europe, the children’s home that had taken in my grandfather must’ve seemed like a paradise, and so in his stories it had become one: a safe haven of endless summers and guardian angels and magical children, who could- n’t really fly or turn invisible or lift boulders, of course. The peculiarity for which they’d been hunted was simply their Jewishness. They were orphans of war, washed up on that little island in a tide of blood. What made them amazing wasn’t that they had miraculous powers; that they had escaped the ghettos and gas chambers was mir- acle enough. I stopped asking my grandfather to tell me stories, and I think

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secretly he was relieved. An air of mystery closed around the details of his early life. I didn’t pry. He had been through hell and had a right to his secrets. I felt ashamed for having been jealous of his life, considering the price he’d paid for it, and I tried to feel lucky for the safe and unextraordinary one that I had done nothing to deserve. Then, a few years later, when I was fifteen, an extraordinary and terrible thing happened, and there was only Before and After.

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CHAPTER ONE orphans_interior4B:Layout 1 12/13/10 4:22 PM Page 20

spent the last afternoon of Before constructing a 1/10,000-scale replica of the Empire State Building from boxes of adult diapers. It was a thing of beauty, really, spanning five feet at its base and towering above the cosmetics aisle, Iwith jumbos for the foundation, lites for the observation deck, and meticulously stacked trial sizes for its iconic spire. It was almost perfect, minus one crucial detail. “You used Neverleak,” Shelley said, eyeing my craftsmanship with a skeptical frown. “The sale’s on Stay-Tite.” Shelley was the store manager, and her slumped shoulders and dour expression were as much a part of her uniform as the blue polo shirts we all had to wear. “I thought you said Neverleak,” I said, because she had. “Stay-Tite,” she insisted, shaking her head regretfully, as if my tower were a crippled racehorse and she the bearer of the pearl-han- dled pistol. There was a brief but awkward silence in which she continued to shake her head and shift her eyes from me to the tower and back to me again. I stared blankly at her, as if completely failing to grasp what she was passive-aggressively implying. “Ohhhhhh,” I said finally. “You mean you want me to do it over?” “It’s just that you used Neverleak,” she repeated. “No problem. I’ll get started right away.” With the toe of my regulation black sneaker I nudged a single box from the tower’s foundation. In an instant the whole magnificent structure was cascading down

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around us, sending a tidal wave of diapers crashing across the floor, boxes caroming off the legs of startled customers, skidding as far as the automatic door, which slid open, letting in a rush of August heat. Shelley’s face turned the color of ripe pomegranate. She should’ve fired me on the spot, but I knew I’d never be so lucky. I’d been trying to get fired from Smart Aid all summer, and it had proved next to impossible. I came in late, repeatedly and with the flimsiest of excuses; made shockingly incorrect change; even misshelved things on purpose, stocking lotions among laxatives and birth control with baby shampoo. Rarely had I worked so hard at anything, and yet no matter how incompetent I pretended to be, Shelley stubbornly kept me on the payroll. Let me qualify my previous statement: It was next to impossible for me to get fired from Smart Aid. Any other employee would’ve been out the door a dozen minor infractions ago. It was my first les- son in politics. There are three Smart Aids in Englewood, the small, somnolent beach town where I live. There are twenty-seven in Sara- sota County, and one hundred and fifteen in all of Florida, spreading across the state like some untreatable rash. The reason I couldn’t be fired was that my uncles owned every single one of them. The reason I couldn’t quit was that working at Smart Aid as your first job had long been a hallowed family tradition. All my campaign of self-sab- otage had earned me was an unwinnable feud with Shelley and the deep and abiding resentment of my coworkers—who, let’s face it, were going to resent me anyway, because no matter how many dis- plays I knocked over or customers I short-changed, one day I was going to inherit a sizable chunk of the company, and they were not.

* * *

Wading through the diapers, Shelley poked her finger into my chest and was about to say something dour when the PA system

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interrupted her. “Jacob, you have a call on line two. Jacob, line two.” She glared at me as I backed away, leaving her pomegranate- faced amid the ruins of my tower.

* * *

The employee lounge was a dank, windowless room where I found the pharmacy assistant, Linda, nibbling a crustless sandwich in the vivid glow of the soda machine. She nodded at a phone screwed to the wall. “Line two’s for you. Whoever it is sounds freaked.” I picked up the dangling receiver. “Yakob? Is that you?” “Hi, Grandpa Portman.” “Yakob, thank God. I need my key. Where’s my key?” He sounded upset, out of breath. “What key?” “Don’t play games,” he snapped. “You know what key.” “You probably just misplaced it.” “Your father put you up to this,” he said. “Just tell me. He does- n’t have to know.” “Nobody put me up to anything.” I tried to change the subject. “Did you take your pills this morning?” “They’re coming for me, understand? I don’t know how they found me after all these years, but they did. What am I supposed to fight them with, the goddamned butter knife?” It wasn’t the first time I’d heard him talk like this. My grandfather was getting old, and frankly he was starting to lose it. The signs of his mental decline had been subtle at first, like forgetting to buy groceries or calling my mother by my aunt’s name. But over the summer his encroaching dementia had taken a cruel twist. The fantastic stories he’d invented about his life during the war—the monsters, the

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enchanted island—had become completely, oppressively real to him. He’d been especially agitated the last few weeks, and my parents, who feared he was becoming a danger to himself, were seriously considering putting him in a home. For some reason, I was the only one who received these apocalyptic phone calls from him. As usual, I did my best to calm him down. “You’re safe. Every- thing’s fine. I’ll bring over a video for us to watch later, how’s that sound?” “No! Stay where you are! It’s not safe here!” “Grandpa, the monsters aren’t coming for you. You killed them all in the war, remember?” I turned to face the wall, trying to hide my end of this bizarre conversation from Linda, who shot me curious glances while pretending to read a fashion magazine. “Not all of them,” he said. “No, no, no. I killed a lot, sure, but there are always more.” I could hear him banging around his house, opening drawers, slamming things. He was in full meltdown. “You stay away, hear me? I’ll be fine—cut out their tongues and stab them in the eyes, that’s all you gotta do! If I could just find that goddamned KEY!” The key in question opened a giant locker in Grandpa Port- man’s garage. Inside was a stockpile of guns and knives sufficient to arm a small militia. He’d spent half his life collecting them, traveling to out-of-state gun shows, going on long hunting trips, and dragging his reluctant family to rifle ranges on sunny Sundays so they could learn to shoot. He loved his guns so much that sometimes he even slept with them. My dad had an old snapshot to prove it: Grandpa Portman napping with pistol in hand.

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When I asked my dad why Grandpa was so crazy about guns, he said it sometimes happened to people who used to be soldiers or who had experienced traumatic things. I guess that after everything my grandfather had been through, he never really felt safe anywhere, not even at home. The irony was, now that delusions and paranoia were starting to get the best of him, it was true—he wasn’t safe at home, not with all those guns around. That’s why my dad had swiped the key. I repeated the lie that I didn’t know where it was. There was more swearing and banging as Grandpa Portman stomped around looking for it. “Feh!” he said finally. “Let your father have the key if it’s so important to him. Let him have my dead body, too!” I got off the phone as politely as I could and then called my dad. “Grandpa’s flipping out,” I told him. “Has he taken his pills today?” “He won’t tell me. Doesn’t sound like it, though.” I heard my dad sigh. “Can you stop by and make sure he’s okay? I can’t get off work right now.” My dad volunteered part-time at the bird rescue, where he helped rehabilitate snowy egrets hit by cars and pelicans that had swallowed fishhooks. He was an amateur ornithologist and a wannabe nature writer—with a stack of unpub- lished manuscripts to prove it—which are real jobs only if you happen to be married to a woman whose family owns a hundred and fifteen drug stores. Of course, mine was not the realest of jobs either, and it was easy to ditch whenever I felt like it. I said I would go. “Thanks, Jake. I promise we’ll get all this Grandpa stuff sorted out soon, okay?” All this Grandpa stuff. “You mean put him in a home,” I said. “Make him someone else’s problem.” “Mom and I haven’t decided yet.”

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“Of course you have.” “Jacob . . . “ “I can handle him, Dad. Really.” “Maybe now you can. But he’s only going to get worse.” “Fine. Whatever.” I hung up and called my friend Ricky for a ride. Ten minutes later I heard the unmistakable throaty honk of his ancient Crown Victoria in the parking lot. On my way out I broke the bad news to Shelley: her tower of Stay-Tite would have to wait until tomorrow. “Family emergency,” I explained. “Right,” she said. I emerged into the sticky-hot evening to find Ricky smoking on the hood of his battered car. Something about his mud-encrusted boots and the way he let smoke curl from his lips and how the sink- ing sun lit his green hair reminded me of a punk, redneck James Dean. He was all of those things, a bizarre cross-pollination of subcultures possible only in South Florida. He saw me and leapt off the hood. “You fired yet?” he shouted across the parking lot. “Shhhh!” I hissed, running toward him. “They don’t know my plan!” Ricky punched my shoulder in a manner meant to be encouraging but that nearly snapped my rotator cuff. “Don’t worry, Special Ed. There’s always tomorrow.” He called me Special Ed because I was in a few gifted classes, which were, technically speaking, part of our school’s special-education curriculum, a subtlety of nomenclature that Ricky found end- lessly amusing. That was our friendship: equal parts irritation and cooperation. The cooperation part was an unofficial brains-for-brawn trade agreement we’d worked out in which I helped him not fail Eng- lish and he helped me not get killed by the roided-out sociopaths who prowled the halls of our school. That he made my parents deeply un-

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comfortable was merely a bonus. He was, I suppose, my best friend, which is a less pathetic way of saying he was my only friend. Ricky kicked the Crown Vic’s passenger door, which was how you opened it, and I climbed in. The Vic was amazing, a museum- worthy piece of unintentional folk art. Ricky bought it from the town dump with a jar of quarters—or so he claimed—a pedigree whose odor even the forest of air-freshener trees he’d hung from the mirror couldn’t mask. The seats were armored with duct tape so that errant upholstery springs wouldn’t find their way up your ass. Best of all was the exterior, a rusted moonscape of holes and dents, the result of a plan to earn extra gas money by allowing drunken partygoers to whack the car with a golf club for a buck a swing. The only rule, which had not been rigorously enforced, was that you couldn’t aim at anything made of glass. The engine rattled to life in a cloud of blue smoke. As we left the parking lot and rolled past strip malls toward Grandpa Portman’s house, I began to worry about what we might find when we got there. Worst-case scenarios included my grandfather running naked in the street, wielding a hunting rifle, foaming at the mouth on the front lawn, or lying in wait with a blunt object in hand. Anything was possible, and that this would be Ricky’s first impression of a man I’d spoken about with reverence made me especially nervous. The sky was turning the color of a fresh bruise as we pulled into my grandfather’s subdivision, a bewildering labyrinth of interlocking cul-de-sacs known collectively as Circle Village. We stopped at the guard gate to announce ourselves, but the old man in the booth was snoring and the gate was open, as was often the case, so we just drove in. My phone chirped with a text from my dad asking how things were going, and in the short time it took me to respond, Ricky managed to get us completely, stunningly lost. When I said I had no idea where we were, he cursed and pulled a succession of squealing U-turns, spitting arcs of tobacco juice from his window as I scanned the

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neighborhood for a familiar landmark. It wasn’t easy, even though I’d been to visit my grandfather countless times growing up, because each house looked like the next: squat and boxy with minor variations, trimmed with aluminum siding or dark seventies wood, or fronted by plaster colonnades that seemed almost delusionally aspirational. Street signs, half of which had turned a blank and blistered white from sun exposure, were little help. The only real landmarks were bizarre and colorful lawn ornaments, of which Circle Village was a veritable open-air museum. Finally I recognized a mailbox held aloft by a metal butler that, despite his straight back and snooty expression, appeared to be crying tears of rust. I shouted at Ricky to turn left; the Vic’s tires screeched and I was flung against the passenger door. The impact must’ve jarred something loose in my brain, because suddenly the directions came rushing back to me. “Right at the flamingo orgy! Left at the multiethnic roof Santas! Straight past the pissing cherubs!” When we turned at the cherubs, Ricky slowed to a crawl and peered doubtfully down my grandfather’s block. There was not a single porch light on, not a TV glowing behind a window, not a Town Car in a carport. All the neighbors had fled north to escape the pun- ishing summer heat, leaving yard gnomes to drown in lawns gone wild and hurricane shutters shut tight, so that each house looked like a little pastel bomb shelter. “Last one on the left,” I said. Ricky tapped the accelerator and we sputtered down the street. At the fourth or fifth house, we passed an old man watering his lawn. He was bald as an egg and stood in a bathrobe and slippers, spraying the ankle-high grass. The house was dark and shuttered like the rest. I turned to look and he seemed to stare back—though he couldn’t have, I realized with a small shock, because his eyes were a perfect milky white. That’s strange, I thought. Grandpa Portman never mentioned that one of his neighbors was blind. The street ended at a wall of scrub pines and Ricky hung a

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sharp left into my grandfather’s driveway. He cut the engine, got out, and kicked my door open. Our shoes hushed through the dry grass to the porch. I rang the bell and waited. A dog barked somewhere, a lonely sound in the muggy evening. When there was no answer I banged on the door, thinking maybe the bell had stopped working. Ricky swatted at the gnats that had begun to clothe us. “Maybe he stepped out,” Ricky said, grinning. “Hot date.” “Go ahead and laugh,” I said. “He’s got a better shot than we do any night of the week. This place is crawling with eligible widows.” I joked only to calm my nerves. The quiet made me anxious. I fetched the extra key from its hiding place in the bushes. “Wait here.” “Hell I am. Why?” “Because you’re six-five and have green hair and my grandfather doesn’t know you and owns lots of guns.” Ricky shrugged and stuck another wad of tobacco in his cheek. He went to stretch himself on a lawn chair as I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Even in the fading light I could tell the house was a disaster; it looked like it’d been ransacked by thieves. Bookshelves and cabinets had been emptied, the knicknacks and large-print Reader’s Digests that had filled them thrown across the floor. Couch cushions and chairs were overturned. The fridge and freezer doors hung open, their contents melting into sticky puddles on the linoleum. My heart sank. Grandpa Portman had really, finally lost his mind. I called his name—but heard nothing. I went from room to room, turning on lights and looking anywhere a paranoid old man might hide from monsters: behind furniture, in the attic crawlspace, under the workbench in the garage. I even checked inside his weapons cabinet, though of course it was locked, the handle ringed by scratches where he’d tried to pick it. Out on the

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lanai, a gallows of unwatered ferns swung browning in the breeze; while on my knees on the astroturfed floor I peered beneath rattan benches, afraid what I might discover. I saw a gleam of light from the backyard. Running through the screen door, I found a flashlight abandoned in the grass, its beam pointed at the woods that edged my grandfather’s yard—a scrubby wilderness of sawtoothed palmettos and trash palms that ran for a mile between Circle Village and the next subdivision, Century Woods. According to local legend, the woods were crawling with snakes, raccoons, and wild boars. When I pictured my grandfather out there, lost and raving in nothing but his bathrobe, a black feeling welled up in me. Every other week there was a news story about some geriatric citizen tripping into a retention pond and being de- voured by alligators. The worst-case scenario wasn’t hard to imagine. I shouted for Ricky and a moment later he came tearing around the side of the house. Right away he noticed something I hadn’t: a long mean-looking slice in the screen door. He let out a low whistle. “That’s a helluva cut. Wild pig coulda done it. Or a bobcat maybe. You should see the claws on them things.” A peal of savage barking broke out nearby. We both started then traded a nervous glance. “Or a dog,” I said. The sound triggered a chain reaction across the neighborhood, and soon barks were coming from every direction. “Could be,” Ricky said, nodding. “I got a .22 in my trunk. You just wait.” And he walked off to retrieve it. The barks faded and a chorus of night insects rose up in their place, droning and alien. Sweat trickled down my face. It was dark now, but the breeze had died and somehow the air seemed hotter than it had all day. I picked up the flashlight and stepped toward the trees. My grandfather was out there somewhere, I was sure of it. But where? I was no tracker, and neither was Ricky. And yet something seemed to

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guide me anyway—a quickening in the chest; a whisper in the viscous air—and suddenly I couldn’t wait another second. I tromped into the underbrush like a bloodhound scenting an invisible trail. It’s hard to run in a Florida woods, where every square foot not occupied by trees is bristling with thigh-high palmetto spears and nets of entangling skunk vine, but I did my best, calling my grandfather’s name and sweeping my flashlight everywhere. I caught a white glint out of the corner of my eye and made a beeline for it, but upon closer inspection it turned out to be just a bleached and deflated soccer ball I’d lost years before. I was about to give up and go back for Ricky when I spied a narrow corridor of freshly stomped palmettos not far away. I stepped into it and shone my light around; the leaves were splattered with something dark. My throat went dry. Steeling myself, I began to follow the trail. The farther I went, the more my stomach knotted, as though my body knew what lay ahead and was trying to warn me. And then the trail of the flattened brush widened out, and I saw him. My grandfather lay facedown in a bed of creeper, his legs sprawled out and one arm twisted beneath him as if he’d fallen from a great height. I thought surely he was dead. His undershirt was soaked with blood, his pants were torn, and one shoe was missing. For a long moment I just stared, the beam of my flashlight shivering across his body. When I could breathe again I said his name, but he didn’t move. I sank to my knees and pressed the flat of my hand against his back. The blood that soaked through was still warm. I could feel him breathing ever so shallowly. I slid my arms under him and rolled him onto his back. He was alive, though just barely, his eyes glassy, his face sunken and white. Then I saw the gashes across his midsection and nearly fainted. They were wide and deep and clotted with soil, and the ground where he’d lain was muddy from blood. I tried to pull the rags of his shirt over the wounds without looking at them.

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I heard Ricky shout from the backyard. “I’M HERE!” I screamed, and maybe I should’ve said more, like danger or blood, but I couldn’t form the words. All I could think was that grandfathers were supposed to die in beds, in hushed places humming with machines, not in heaps on the sodden reeking ground with ants marching over them, a brass letter opener clutched in one trembling hand. A letter opener. That was all he’d had to defend himself. I slid it from his finger and he grasped helplessly at the air, so I took his hand and held it. My nail-bitten fingers twinned with his, pale and webbed with purple veins. “I have to move you,” I told him, sliding one arm under his back and another under his legs. I began to lift, but he moaned and went rigid, so I stopped. I couldn’t bear to hurt him. I couldn’t leave him either, and there was nothing to do but wait, so I gently brushed loose soil from his arms and face and thinning white hair. That’s when I noticed his lips moving. His voice was barely audible, something less than a whisper. I leaned down and put my ear to his lips. He was mumbling, fading in and out of lucidity, shifting between English and Polish. “I don’t understand,” I whispered. I repeated his name until his eyes seemed to focus on me, and then he drew a sharp breath and said, quietly but clearly, “Go to the island, Yakob. Here it’s not safe.” It was the old paranoia. I squeezed his hand and assured him we were fine, he was going to be fine. That was twice in one day that I’d lied to him. I asked him what happened, what animal had hurt him, but he wasn’t listening. “Go to the island,” he repeated. “You’ll be safe there. Promise me.” “I will. I promise.” What else could I say? “I thought I could protect you,” he said. “I should’ve told you a long time ago . . . ” I could see the life going out of him. “Told me what?” I said, choking back tears.

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“There’s no time,” he whispered. Then he raised his head off the ground, trembling with the effort, and breathed into my ear: “Find the bird. In the loop. On the other side of the old man’s grave. September third, 1940.” I nodded, but he could see that I didn’t understand. With his last bit of strength, he added, “Emerson—the letter. Tell them what happened, Yakob.” With that he sank back, spent and fading. I told him I loved him. And then he seemed to disappear into himself, his gaze drifting past me to the sky, bristling now with stars. A moment later Ricky crashed out of the underbrush. He saw the old man limp in my arms and fell back a step. “Oh man. Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus,” he said, rubbing his face with his hands, and as he babbled about finding a pulse and calling the cops and did you see anything in the woods, the strangest feeling came over me. I let go of my grandfather’s body and stood up, every nerve ending tingling with an instinct I didn’t know I had. There was something in the woods, all right— I could feel it. There was no moon and no movement in the underbrush but our own, and yet somehow I knew just when to raise my flashlight and just where to aim it, and for an instant in that narrow cut of light I saw a face that seemed to have been transplanted directly from the nightmares of my childhood. It stared back with eyes that swam in dark liquid, furrowed trenches of carbon-black flesh loose on its hunched frame, its mouth hinged open grotesquely so that a mass of long eel-like tongues could wriggle out. I shouted something and then it twisted and was gone, shaking the brush and drawing Ricky’s attention. He raised his .22 and fired, pap-pap-pap-pap, saying, “What was that? What the hell was that?” But he hadn’t seen it and I couldn’t speak to tell him, frozen in place as I was, my dying flashlight flickering over the blank woods. And then I must’ve blacked out because he was saying Jacob, Jake, hey Ed areyouokayorwhat, and that’s the last thing I remember.

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CHAPTER TWO orphans_interior4B:Layout 1 12/13/10 4:22 PM Page 35

spent the months following my grandfather’s death cy- cling through a purgatory of beige waiting rooms and anonymous offices, analyzed and interviewed, talked about just out of earshot, nodding when spoken to, repeating myself, Ithe object of a thousand pitying glances and knitted brows. My parents treated me like a breakable heirloom, afraid to fight or fret in front of me lest I shatter. I was plagued by wake-up-screaming nightmares so bad that I had to wear a mouth guard to keep from grinding my teeth into nubs as I slept. I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing it—that tentacle- mouth horror in the woods. I was convinced it had killed my grandfather and that it would soon return for me. Sometimes that sick panicky feeling would flood over me like it did that night and I’d be sure that nearby, lurking in a stand of dark trees, beyond the next car in a parking lot, behind the garage where I kept my bike, it was waiting. My solution was to stop leaving the house. For weeks I refused even to venture into the driveway to collect the morning paper. I slept in a tangle of blankets on the laundry room floor, the only part of the house with no windows and also a door that locked from the inside. That’s where I spent the day of my grandfather’s funeral, sitting on the dryer with my laptop, trying to lose myself in online games. I blamed myself for what happened. If only I’d believed him was my endless refrain. But I hadn’t believed him, and neither had anyone else, and now I knew how he must’ve felt because no one

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believed me, either. My version of events sounded perfectly rational until I was forced to say the words aloud, and then it sounded insane, particularly on the day I had to say them to the police officer who came to our house. I told him everything that had happened, even about the creature, as he sat nodding across the kitchen table, writing nothing in his spiral notebook. When I finished all he said was, “Great, thanks,” and then turned to my parents and asked if I’d “been to see anyone.” As if I wouldn’t know what that meant. I told him I had another statement to make and then held up my middle finger and walked out. My parents yelled at me for the first time in weeks. It was kind of a relief, actually—that old sweet sound. I yelled some ugly things back. That they were glad Grandpa Portman was dead. That I was the only one who’d really loved him. The cop and my parents talked in the driveway for a while, and then the cop drove off only to come back an hour later with a man who introduced himself as a sketch artist. He’d brought a big drawing pad and asked me to describe the creature again, and as I did he sketched it, stopping occasionally to ask for clarifications. “How many eyes did it have?” “Two.” “Gotcha,” he said, as if monsters were a perfectly normal thing for a police sketch artist to be drawing. As an attempt to placate me, it was pretty transparent. The biggest giveaway was when he tried to give me the finished sketch. “Don’t you need this for your files or something?” I asked him. He exchanged raised eyebrows with the cop. “Of course. What was I thinking?” It was totally insulting.

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Even my best and only friend Ricky didn’t believe me, and he’d been there. He swore up and down that he hadn’t seen any creature in the woods that night—even though I’d shined my flashlight right at it—which is just what he told the cops. He’d heard barking, though. We both had. So it wasn’t a huge surprise when the police concluded that a pack of feral dogs had killed my grandfather. Ap- parently they’d been spotted elsewhere and had taken bites out of a woman who’d been walking in Century Woods the week before. All at night, mind you. “Which is exactly when the creatures are hardest to see!” I said. But Ricky just shook his head and muttered something about me needing a “brain-shrinker.” “You mean head-shrinker,” I replied, “and thanks a lot. It’s great to have such supportive friends.” We were sitting on my roof deck watching the sun set over the Gulf, Ricky coiled like a spring in an unreasonably expensive Adirondack chair my parents had brought back from a trip to Amish country, his legs folded beneath him and arms crossed tight, chain-smoking cigarettes with a kind of grim determination. He always seemed vaguely uncomfortable at my house, but I could tell by the way his eyes slid off me whenever he looked in my direction that now it wasn’t my parents’ wealth that was making him uneasy, but me. “Whatever, I’m just being straight with you,” he said. “Keep talking about monsters and they’re gonna put you away. Then you really will be Special Ed.” “Don’t call me that.” He flicked away his cigarette and spat a huge glistening wad over the railing. “Were you just smoking and chewing tobacco at the same time?” “What are you, my mom?” “Do I look like I blow truckers for food stamps?” Ricky was a connoisseur of your-mom jokes, but this was apparently more than he could take. He sprang out of the chair and

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shoved me so hard I almost fell off the roof. I yelled at him to get out, but he was already going. It was months before I’d see him again. So much for having friends.

* * *

Eventually, my parents did take me to a brain-shrinker—a quiet, olive-skinned man named Dr. Golan. I didn’t put up a fight. I knew I needed help. I thought I’d be a tough case, but Dr. Golan made surprisingly quick work of me. The calm, affectless way he explained things was almost hypnotizing, and within two sessions he’d convinced me that the creature had been nothing more than the product of my over- heated imagination; that the trauma of my grandfather’s death had made me see something that wasn’t really there. It was Grandpa Port- man’s stories that had planted the creature in my mind to begin with, Dr. Golan explained, so it only made sense that, kneeling there with his body in my arms and reeling from the worst shock of my young life, I had conjured up my grandfather’s own bogeyman. There was even a name for it: acute stress reaction. “I don’t see anything cute about it,” my mother said when she heard my shiny new diagnosis. Her joke didn’t bother me, though. Almost anything sounded better than crazy. Just because I no longer believed the monsters were real didn’t mean I was better, though. I still suffered from nightmares. I was twitchy and paranoid, bad enough at interacting with other people that my parents hired a tutor so that I only had to go to school on days I felt up to it. They also—finally—let me quit Smart Aid. “Feel- ing better” became my new job. Pretty soon, I was determined to be fired from this one, too. Once the small matter of my temporary madness had been cleared

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up, Dr. Golan’s function seemed mainly to consist of writing pre- scriptions. Still having nightmares? I’ve got something for that. Panic attack on the school bus? This should do the trick. Can’t sleep? Let’s up the dosage. All those pills were making me fat and stupid, and I was still miserable, getting only three or four hours of sleep a night. That’s why I started lying to Dr. Golan. I pretended to be fine when anyone who looked at me could see the bags under my eyes and the way I jumped like a nervous cat at sudden noises. One week I faked an entire dream journal, making my dreams sound bland and simple, the way a normal person’s should be. One dream was about going to the dentist. In another I was flying. Two nights in a row, I told him, I’d dreamed I was naked in school. Then he stopped me. “What about the creatures?” I shrugged. “No sign of them. Guess that means I’m getting better, huh?” Dr. Golan tapped his pen for a moment and then wrote something down. “I hope you’re not just telling me what you think I want to hear.” “Of course not,” I said, my gaze skirting the framed degrees on his wall, all attesting to his expertness in various subdisciplines of psychology, including, I’m sure, how to tell when an acutely stressed teenager is lying to you. “Let’s be real for a minute.” He set down his pen. “You’re telling me you didn’t have the dream even one night this week?” I’d always been a terrible liar. Rather than humiliate myself, I copped to it. “Well,” I muttered, “maybe one.” The truth was that I’d had the dream every night that week. With minor variations, it always went like this: I’m crouched in the corner of my grandfather’s bedroom, amber dusk-light retreating from the windows, pointing a pink plastic BB rifle at the door. An enormous glowing vending machine looms where the bed should be, filled not with candy but rows of razor-sharp tactical knives and

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armor-piercing pistols. My grandfather’s there in an old British army uniform, feeding the machine dollar bills, but it takes a lot to buy a gun and we’re running out of time. Finally, a shiny .45 spins toward the glass, but before it falls it gets stuck. He swears in Yiddish, kicks the machine, then kneels down and reaches inside to try and grab it, but his arm gets caught. That’s when they come, their long black tongues slith- ering up the outside of the glass, looking for a way in. I point the BB gun at them and pull the trigger, but nothing happens. Meanwhile Grandpa Portman is shouting like a crazy person—find the bird, find the loop, Yakob vai don’t you understand you goddamned stupid yutzi—and then the windows shatter and glass rains in and the black tongues are all over us, and that’s generally when I wake up in a puddle of sweat, my heart doing hurdles and my stomach tied in knots. Even though the dream was always the same and we’d been over it a hundred times, Dr. Golan still made me describe it in every session. It’s like he was cross-examining my subconscious, looking for some clue he might have missed the ninety-ninth time around. “And in the dream, what’s your grandfather saying?” “The same stuff as always,” I said. “About the bird and the loop and the grave.” “His last words.” I nodded. Dr. Golan tented his fingers and pressed them to his chin, the very picture of a thoughtful brain-shrinker. “Any new ideas about what they might mean?” “Yeah. Jack and shit.” “Come on. You don’t mean that.” I wanted to act like I didn’t care about the last words, but I did. They’d been eating away at me almost as much as the nightmares. I felt like I owed it to my grandfather not to dismiss the last thing he said to anyone in the world as delusional nonsense, and Dr. Golan was convinced that understanding them might help purge my awful

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dreams. So I tried. Some of what Grandpa Portman had said made sense, like the thing about wanting me to go to the island. He was worried that the monsters would come after me, and thought the island was the only place I could escape them, like he had as a kid. After that he’d said, “I should’ve told you,” but because there was no time to tell me whatever it was he should’ve told me, I wondered if he hadn’t done the next best thing and left a trail of bread crumbs leading to someone who could tell me—someone who knew his secret. I figured that’s what all the cryptic-sounding stuff about the loop and the grave and the letter was. For a while I thought “the loop” could be a street in Circle Vil- lage—a neighborhood that was nothing but looping cul-de-sacs—and that “Emerson” might be a person my grandfather had sent letters to. An old war buddy he’d kept in touch with or something. Maybe this Emerson lived in Circle Village, in one of its loops, by a graveyard, and one of the letters he’d kept was dated September third, 1940, and that was the one I needed to read. I knew it sounded crazy, but crazier things have turned out to be true. So after hitting dead-ends online I went to the Circle Village community center, where the old folks gather to play shuffleboard and discuss their most recent sur- geries, to ask where the graveyard was and whether anyone knew a Mr. Emerson. They looked at me like I had a second head growing out of my neck, baffled that a teenaged person was speaking to them. There was no graveyard in Circle Village and no one in the neighborhood named Emerson and no street called Loop Drive or Loop Avenue or Loop anything. It was a complete bust. Still, Dr. Golan wouldn’t let me quit. He suggested I look into Ralph Waldo Emerson, a supposedly famous old poet. “Emerson wrote his fair share of letters,” he said. “Maybe that’s what your grandfather was referring to.” It seemed like a shot in the dark, but, just to get Golan off my back, one afternoon I had my dad drop me

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at the library so I could check it out. I quickly discovered that Ralph Waldo Emerson had indeed written lots of letters that had been pub- lished. For about three minutes I got really excited, like I was close to a breakthrough, and then two things became apparent: first, that Ralph Waldo Emerson had lived and died in the 1800s and therefore could not have written any letters dated September third, 1940, and, second, that his writing was so dense and arcane that it couldn’t possibly have held the slightest interest for my grandfather, who wasn’t exactly an avid reader. I discovered Emerson’s soporific qualities the hard way, by falling asleep with my face in the book, drooling all over an essay called “Self-Reliance” and having the vending-machine dream for the sixth time that week. I woke up screaming and was un- ceremoniously ejected from the library, cursing Dr. Golan and his stupid theories all the while. The last straw came a few days later, when my family decided it was time to sell Grandpa Portman’s house. Before prospective buyers could be allowed inside, though, the place had to be cleaned out. On the advice of Dr. Golan, who thought it would be good for me to “confront the scene of my trauma,” I was enlisted to help my dad and Aunt Susie sort through the detritus. For a while after we got to the house my dad kept taking me aside to make sure I was okay. Surprisingly, I seemed to be, despite the scraps of police tape clinging to the shrubs and the torn screen on the lanai flapping in the breeze; these things—like the rented Dumpster that stood on the curb, waiting to swallow what remained of my grandfather’s life— made me sad, not scared. Once it became clear I wasn’t about to suffer a mouth-frothing freak-out, we got down to business. Armed with garbage bags we proceeded grimly through the house, emptying shelves and cabinets and crawl spaces, discovering geometries of dust beneath objects un- moved for years. We built pyramids of things that could be saved or salvaged and pyramids of things destined for the Dumpster. My aunt

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and father were not sentimental people, and the Dumpster pile was always the largest. I lobbied hard to keep certain things, like the eight- foot stack of water-damaged National Geographic magazines teeter- ing in a corner of the garage—how many afternoons had I spent poring over them, imagining myself among the mud men of New Guinea or discovering a cliff-top castle in the kingdom of Bhutan?—but I was always overruled. Neither was I allowed to keep my grandfather’s collection of vintage bowling shirts (“They’re embarrassing,” my dad claimed), his big band and swing 78s (“Someone will pay good money for those”), or the contents of his massive, still-locked weapons cabinet (“You’re kidding, right? I hope you’re kidding”). I told my dad he was being heartless. My aunt fled the scene, leaving us alone in the study, where we’d been sorting through a mountain of old financial records. “I’m just being practical. This is what happens when people die, Jacob.” “Yeah? How about when you die? Should I burn all your old manuscripts?” He flushed. I shouldn’t have said it; mentioning his half-finished book projects was definitely below the belt. Instead of yelling at me, though, he was quiet. “I brought you along today because I thought you were mature enough to handle it. I guess I was wrong.” “You are wrong. You think getting rid of all Grandpa’s stuff will make me forget him. But it won’t.” He threw up his hands. “You know what? I’m sick of fighting about it. Keep whatever you want.” He tossed a sheaf of yellowed papers at my feet. “Here’s an itemized schedule of deductions from the year Kennedy was assassinated. Go have it framed!” I kicked away the papers and walked out, slamming the door behind me, and then waited in the living room for him to come out and apologize. When I heard the shredder roar to life I knew he wasn’t going to, so I stomped across the house and locked myself

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in the bedroom. It smelled of stale air and shoe leather and my grandfather’s slightly sour cologne. I leaned against the wall, my eyes following a trail worn into the carpet between the door and the bed, where a rectangle of muted sun caught the edge of a box that poked out from beneath the bedspread. I went over and knelt down and pulled it out. It was the old cigar box, enveloped in dust—as if he’d left it there just for me to find. Inside were the photos I knew so well: the invisible boy, the levitating girl, the boulder lifter, the man with a face painted on the back of his head. They were brittle and peeling—smaller than I remembered, too—and looking at them now, as an almost adult, it struck me how blatant the fakery was. A little burning and dodging was probably all it took to make the “invisible” boy’s head disappear. The giant rock being hoisted by that suspiciously scrawny kid could have easily been made out of plaster or foam. But these observations were too subtle for a six-year-old, especially one who wanted to believe. Beneath those photos were five more that Grandpa Portman had never shown me. I wondered why, until I looked closer. Three were so obviously manipulated that even a kid would’ve seen through them: one was a laughable double exposure of a girl “trapped” in a bottle; another showed a “levitating” child, suspended by something hidden in the dark doorway behind her; the third was a dog with a boy’s face pasted crudely onto it. As if these weren’t bizarre enough, the last two were like something out of David Lynch’s nightmares: one was an unhappy young contortionist doing a frightening back- bend; in the other a pair of freakish twins were dressed in the weirdest costumes I’d ever seen. Even my grandfather, who’d filled my head with stories of tentacle-tongued monsters, had realized images like these would give any kid bad dreams.

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Kneeling there on my grandfather’s dusty floor with those photos in my hands, I remembered how betrayed I’d felt the day I realized his stories weren’t true. Now the truth seemed obvious: his last words had been just another sleight of hand, and his last act was to infect me with nightmares and paranoid delusions that would take years of therapy and metabolism-wrecking medications to rout out. I closed the box and brought it into the living room, where my dad and Aunt Susie were emptying a drawer full of coupons, clipped but never used, into a ten-gallon trash bag. I offered up the box. They didn’t ask what was inside.

* * *

“So that’s it?” Dr. Golan said. “His death was meaningless?” I’d been lying on the couch watching a fish tank in the corner, its one golden prisoner swimming in lazy circles. “Unless you’ve got a better idea,” I said. “Some big theory about what it all means that you’ve haven’t told me. Otherwise . . . ” “What?” “Otherwise, this is just a waste of time.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to dis- pel a headache. “What your grandfather’s last words meant isn’t my conclusion to draw,” he said. “It’s what you think that matters.” “That is such psychobabble bullshit,” I spat. “It’s not what I think that matters; it’s what’s true! But I guess we’ll never know, so who cares? Just dope me up and collect the bill.” I wanted him to get mad—to argue, to insist I was wrong—but instead he sat poker faced, drumming the arm of his chair with his pen. “It sounds like you’re giving up,” he said after a moment. “I’m disappointed. You don’t strike me as a quitter.” “Then you don’t know me very well,” I replied.

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* * *

I could not have been less in the mood for a party. I’d known I was in for one the moment my parents began dropping unsubtle hints about how boring and uneventful the upcoming weekend was sure to be, when we all knew perfectly well I was turning sixteen. I’d begged them to skip the party this year because, among other reasons, I couldn’t think of a single person I wanted to invite, but they worried that I spent too much time alone, clinging to the notion that socializing was therapeutic. So was electroshock, I reminded them. But my mother was loath to pass up even the flimsiest excuse for a celebration—she once invited friends over for our cockatiel’s birthday—in part because she loved to show off our house. Wine in hand, she’d herd guests from room to overfurnished room, extolling the genius of the architect and telling war stories about the construction (“It took months to get these sconces from Italy”). We’d just come home from my disastrous session with Dr. Golan. I was following my dad into our suspiciously dark living room as he muttered things like “What a shame we didn’t plan anything for your birthday” and “Oh well, there’s always next year,” when all the lights flooded on to reveal streamers, balloons, and a motley assortment of aunts, uncles, cousins I rarely spoke to—anyone my mother could ca- jole into attending—and Ricky, whom I was surprised to see lingering near the punch bowl, looking comically out of place in a studded leather jacket. Once everyone had finished cheering and I’d finished pretending to be surprised, my mom slipped her arm around me and whispered, “Is this okay?” I was upset and tired and just wanted to play Warspire III: The Summoning before going to bed with the TV on. But what were we going to do, send everyone home? I said it was fine, and she smiled as if to thank me. “Who wants to see the new addition?” she sang out, pouring herself some chardonnay before marching a troupe of relatives up the stairs. Ricky and I nodded to each other across the room, wordlessly

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agreeing to tolerate the other’s presence for an hour or two. We hadn’t spoken since the day he nearly shoved me off the roof, but we both understood the importance of maintaining the illusion of having friends. I was about to go talk to him when my Uncle Bobby grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me into a corner. Bobby was a big barrel-chested guy who drove a big car and lived in a big house and would eventually succumb to a big heart attack from all the foie gras and Monster Thick- burgers he’d packed into his colon over the years, leaving everything to my pothead cousins and his tiny quiet wife. He and my uncle Les were copresidents of Smart Aid, and they were always doing this—pulling people into corners for conspiratorial chats, as if plotting a mob hit rather than complimenting the hostess on her guacamole. “So, your mom tells me you’re really turning the corner with, uh . . . on this whole Grandpa thing.” My thing. No one knew what to call it. “Acute stress reaction,” I said. “What?” “That’s what I had. Have. Whatever.” “That’s good. Real good to hear.” He waved his hand as if putting all that unpleasantness behind us. “So your mom and I were thinking. How’d you like to come up to Tampa this summer, see how the family business works? Crack heads with me at HQ for a while? Unless you love stocking shelves!” He laughed so loudly that I took an involuntary step backward. “You could even stay at the house, do a little tarpon fishing with me and your cousins on the weekends.” He then spent five long minutes describing his new yacht, going into elaborate, almost pornographic detail, as if that alone were enough to close the deal. When he finished, he grinned and stuck out his hand for me to shake. “So whaddaya think, J-dogg?” I guess it was designed to be an offer I couldn’t refuse, but I’d have rather spent the summer in a Siberian labor camp than live with my uncle and his spoiled kids. As for working at Smart Aid HQ, I knew it

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was a probably inevitable part of my future, but I’d been counting on at least a few more summers of freedom and four years of college before I had to lock myself in a corporate cage. I hesitated, trying to think of a graceful way out. Instead what I said was, “I’m not sure my psy- chiatrist would think it’s such a great idea right now.” His bushy eyebrows came together. Nodding vaguely, he said, “Oh, well, sure, of course. We’ll just play it by ear then, pal, how’s that sound?” And then he walked off without waiting for an answer, pretending to see someone across the room whose elbow he needed to grab. My mother announced that it was time to open presents. She always insisted I do this in front of everyone, which was a problem because, as I may have mentioned already, I’m not a good liar. That also means I’m not good at feigning gratitude for regifted CDs of country Christmas music or subscriptions to Field and Stream—for years Uncle Les had labored under the baffling delusion that I am “outdoorsy”— but for decorum’s sake I forced a smile and held up each unwrapped trinket for all to admire until the pile of presents left on the coffee table had shrunk to just three. I reached for the smallest one first. Inside was the key to my parents’ four-year-old luxury sedan. They were getting a new one, my mom explained, so I was inheriting the old one. My first car! Everyone oohed and aahed, but I felt my face go hot. It was too much like showing off to accept such a lavish present in front of Ricky, whose car cost less than my monthly allowance at age twelve. It seemed like my parents were always trying to get me to care about money, but I didn’t, really. Then again, it’s easy to say you don’t care about money when you have plenty of it. The next present was the digital camera I’d begged my parents for all last summer. “Wow,” I said, testing its weight in my hand. “This is awesome.” “I’m outlining a new bird book,” my dad said. “I was thinking maybe you could take the pictures.”

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“A new book!” my mom exclaimed. “That’s a phenomenal idea, Frank. Speaking of which, whatever happened to that last book you were working on?” Clearly, she’d had a few glasses of wine. “I’m still ironing out a few things,” my dad replied quietly. “Oh, I see.” I could hear Uncle Bobby snickering. “Okay!” I said loudly, reaching for the last present. “This one’s from Aunt Susie.” “Actually,” my aunt said as I began tearing away the wrapping paper, “it’s from your grandfather.” I stopped midtear. The room went dead quiet, people looking at Aunt Susie as if she’d invoked the name of some evil spirit. My dad’s jaw tensed and my mom shot back the last of her wine. “Just open it and you’ll see,” Aunt Susie said. I ripped away the rest of the wrapping paper to find an old hard- back book, dog-eared and missing its dust jacket. It was The Selected Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson. I stared at it as if trying to read through the cover, unable to comprehend how it had come to occupy my now-trembling hands. No one but Dr. Golan knew about the last words, and he’d promised on several occasions that unless I threatened to guzzle Drano or do a backflip off the Sunshine Skyway bridge, everything we talked about in his office would be held in confidence. I looked at my aunt, a question on my face that I didn’t quite know how to ask. She managed a weak smile and said, “I found it in your grandfather’s desk when we were cleaning out the house. He wrote your name in the front. I think he meant for you to have it.” God bless Aunt Susie. She had a heart after all. “Neat. I didn’t know your grandpa was a reader,” my mom said, trying to lighten the mood. “That was thoughtful.” “Yes,” said my dad through clenched teeth. “Thank you, Susan.” I opened the book. Sure enough, the title page bore an inscription in my grandfather’s shaky handwriting.

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the Selected Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson

Edited and with an introduction by Clifton Durrell, Ph. D.

Anthem Books • New York orphans_interior4B:Layout 1 12/13/10 4:26 PM Page 57

I got up to leave, afraid I might start crying in front of everyone, and something slipped out from between the pages and fell to the floor. I bent to pick it up. It was a letter. Emerson. The letter. I felt the blood drain from my face. My mother leaned toward me and in a tense whisper asked if I needed a drink of water, which was Mom-speak for keep it together, people are staring. I said, “I feel a little, uh . . . ” and then, with one hand over my stomach, I bolted to my room.

* * *

The letter was handwritten on fine, unlined paper in looping script so ornate it was almost calligraphy, the black ink varying in tone like that of an old fountain pen. It read:

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As promised, the writer had enclosed an old snapshot. I held it under the glow of my desk lamp, trying to read some detail in the woman’s silhouetted face, but there was none to find. The image was so strange, and yet it was nothing like my grandfather’s pictures. There were no tricks here. It was just a woman—a woman smoking a pipe. It looked like Sherlock Holmes’s pipe, curved and drooping from her lips. My eyes kept coming back to it. Was this what my grandfather had meant for me to find? Yes, I thought, it has to be—not the letters of Emerson, but a letter, tucked inside Emerson’s book. But who was this headmistress, this Peregrine woman? I studied the envelope for a return address but found only a fading postmark that read Cairnholm Is., Cymru, UK. UK—that was Britain. I knew from studying atlases as a kid that Cymru meant Wales. Cairnholm Is had to be the island Miss Peregrine had mentioned in her letter. Could it have been the same island where my grandfather lived as a boy? Nine months ago he’d told me to “find the bird.” Nine years ago he had sworn that the children’s home where he’d lived was protected by one—by “a bird who smoked a pipe.” At age seven I’d taken this statement literally, but the headmistress in the picture was smoking a pipe, and her name was Peregrine, a kind of hawk. What if the bird my grandfather wanted me to find was actually the woman who’d rescued him—the headmistress of the children’s home? Maybe she was still on the island, after all these years, old as dirt but sus- tained by a few of her wards, children who’d grown up but never left. For the first time, my grandfather’s last words began to make a strange kind of sense. He wanted me to go to the island and find this woman, his old headmistress. If anyone knew the secrets of his childhood, it would be her. But the envelope’s postmark was fifteen years old. Was it possible she was still alive? I did some quick calculations in my head: If she’d been running a children’s home in 1939 and was, say, twenty-five at the time, then she’d be in her late nineties today.

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So it was possible—there were people older than that in Englewood who still lived by themselves and drove—and even if Miss Peregrine had passed away in the time since she’d sent the letter, there might still be people on Cairnholm who could help me, people who had known Grandpa Portman as a kid. People who knew his secrets. We, she had written. Those few who remain.

* * *

As you can imagine, convincing my parents to let me spend part of my summer on a tiny island off the coast of Wales was no easy task. They— particularly my mother—had many compelling reasons why this was a wretched idea, including the cost, the fact that I was supposed to spend the summer with Uncle Bobby learning how to run a drug empire, and that I had no one to accompany me, since neither of my parents had any interest in going and I certainly couldn’t go alone. I had no effective re- buttals, and my reason for wanting to make the trip—I think I’m supposed to—wasn’t something I could explain without sounding even crazier than they already feared I was. I certainly wasn’t going to tell my parents about Grandpa Portman’s last words or the letter or the photo—they would’ve had me committed. The only sane-sounding ar- guments I could come up with were things like, “I want to learn more about our family history” and the never-persuasive “Chad Kramer and Josh Bell are going to Europe this summer. Why can’t I?” I brought these up as frequently as possible without seeming desperate (even once resorting to “it’s not like you don’t have the money,” a tactic I instantly regretted), but it looked like it wasn’t going to happen. Then several things happened that helped my case enormously. First, Uncle Bobby got cold feet about my spending the summer with him—because who wants a nutcase living in their house? So my schedule was suddenly wide open. Next, my dad learned that Cairn- holm Island is a super-important bird habitat, and, like, half the

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world’s population of some bird that gives him a total ornithology boner lives there. He started talking a lot about his hypothetical new bird book, and whenever the subject came up I did my best to encourage him and sound interested. But the most important factor was Dr. Golan. After a surprisingly minimal amount of coaxing by me, he shocked us all by not only signing off on the idea but also encouraging my parents to let me go. “It could be important for him,” he told my mother after a session one afternoon. “It’s a place that’s been so mythologized by his grandfather that visiting could only serve to demystify it. He’ll see that it’s just as normal and unmagical as anyplace else, and, by extension, his grandfather’s fantasies will lose their power. It could be a highly effective way of combating fantasy with reality.” “But I thought he already didn’t believe that stuff,” my mother said, turning to me. “Do you, Jake?” “I don’t,” I assured her. “Not consciously he doesn’t,” Dr. Golan said. “But it’s his unconscious that’s causing him problems right now. The dreams, the anxiety.” “And you really think going there could help?” my mother said, narrowing her eyes at him as if readying herself to hear the unvar- nished truth. When it came to things I should or should not be doing, Dr. Golan’s word was law. “I do,” he replied. And that was all it took.

* * *

After that, things fell into place with astonishing speed. Plane tickets were bought, schedules scheduled, plans laid. My dad and I would go for three weeks in June. I wondered if that was too long, but he claimed he needed at least that much time to make a thorough study of the island’s bird colonies. I thought mom would object—three whole

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weeks!—but the closer our trip got, the more excited for us she seemed. “My two men,” she would say, beaming, “off on a big adventure!” I found her enthusiasm kind of touching, actually—until the afternoon I overheard her talking on the phone to a friend, venting about how relieved she’d be to “have her life back” for three weeks and not have “two needy children to worry about.” I love you too, I wanted to say with as much hurtful sarcasm as I could muster, but she hadn’t seen me, and I kept quiet. I did love her, of course, but mostly just because loving your mom is mandatory, not because she was someone I think I’d like very much if I met her walking down the street. Which she wouldn’t be, anyway; walking is for poor people. During the three-week window between the end of school and the start of our trip, I did my best to verify that Ms. Alma LeFay Pere- grine still resided among the living, but Internet searches turned up nothing. Assuming she was still alive, I had hoped to get her on the phone and at least warn her that I was coming, but I soon discovered that almost no one on Cairnholm even had a phone. I found only one number for the entire island, so that’s the one I dialed. It took nearly a minute to connect, the line hissing and click- ing, going quiet, then hissing again, so that I could feel every mile of the vast distance my call was spanning. Finally I heard that strange European ring—waaap-waaap. . . waaap-waaap—and a man whom I could only assume was profoundly intoxicated answered the phone. “Piss hole!” he bellowed. There was an unholy amount of noise in the background, the kind of dull roar you’d expect at the height of a raging frat party. I tried to identify myself, but I don’t think he could hear me. “Piss hole!” he bellowed again. “Who’s this now?” But before I could say anything he’d pulled the receiver away from his head to shout at someone. “I said shaddap, ya dozy bastards, I’m on the—” And then the line went dead. I sat with the receiver to my ear for

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a long, puzzled moment, then hung up. I didn’t bother calling back. If Cairnholm’s only phone connected to some den of iniquity called the “piss hole,” how did that bode for the rest of the island? Would my first trip to Europe be spent evading drunken maniacs and watching birds evacuate their bowels on rocky beaches? Maybe so. But if it meant that I’d finally be able to put my grandfather’s mystery to rest and get on with my unextraordinary life, anything I had to endure would be worth it.

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CHAPTER THREE orphans_interior4B:Layout 1 12/13/10 4:27 PM Page 66

og closed around us like a blindfold. When the captain announced that we were nearly there, at first I thought he was kidding; all I could see from the ferry’s rolling deck was an endless curtain of gray. I clutched the rail and stared into the greenF waves, contemplating the fish who might soon be enjoying my breakfast, while my father stood shivering beside me in shirtsleeves. It was colder and wetter than I’d ever known June could be. I hoped, for his sake and mine, that the grueling thirty-six hours we’d braved to get this far—three airplanes, two layovers, shift-napping in grubby train stations, and now this interminable gut-churning ferry ride— would pay off. Then my father shouted, “Look!” and I raised my head to see a towering mountain of rock emerge from the blank can- vas before us. It was my grandfather’s island. Looming and bleak, folded in mist, guarded by a million screeching birds, it looked like some ancient fortress constructed by giants. As I gazed up at its sheer cliffs, tops disappearing in a reef of ghostly clouds, the idea that this was a magical place didn’t seem so ridiculous. My nausea seemed to vanish. Dad ran around like a kid on Christmas, his eyes glued to the birds wheeling above us. “Jacob, look at that!” he cried, pointing to a cluster of airborne specks. “Manx Shearwaters!” As we drew nearer the cliffs, I began to notice odd shapes lurking underwater. A passing crewman caught me leaning over the rail

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to stare at them and said, “Never seen a shipwreck before, eh?” I turned to him. “Really?” “This whole area’s a nautical graveyard. It’s like the old captains used to say—‘Twixt Hartland Point and Cairnholm Bay is a sailor’s grave by night or day!’” Just then we passed a wreck that was so near the surface, the outline of its greening carcass so clear, that it looked like it was about to rise out of the water like a zombie from a shallow grave. “See that one?” he said, pointing at it. “Sunk by a U-boat, she was.” “There were U-boats around here?” “Loads. Whole Irish Sea was rotten with German subs. Wager you’d have half a navy on your hands if you could unsink all the ships they torpedoed.” He arched one eyebrow dramatically, then walked off laughing. I jogged along the deck to the stern, tracking the shipwreck as it disappeared beneath our wake. Then, just as I was starting to wonder if we’d need climbing gear to get onto the island, its steep cliffs sloped down to meet us. We rounded a headland to enter a rocky half-moon bay. In the distance I saw a little harbor bobbing with colorful fishing boats, and beyond it a town set into a green bowl of land. A patchwork of sheep-speckled fields spread across hills that rose away to meet a high ridge, where a wall of clouds stood like a cotton parapet. It was dramatic and beautiful, unlike any place I’d seen. I felt a little thrill of adventure as we chugged into the bay, as if I were sighting land where maps had noted only a sweep of undis- tinguished blue. The ferry docked and we humped our bags into the little town. Upon closer inspection I decided it was, like a lot of things, not as pretty up close as it seemed from a distance. Whitewashed cottages, quaint except for the satellite dishes sprouting from their roofs, lined a small grid of muddy gravel streets. Because Cairnholm was too distant and too inconsequential to justify the cost of running power lines

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from the mainland, foul-smelling diesel generators buzzed on every corner like angry wasps, harmonizing with the growl of tractors, the island’s only vehicular traffic. At the edges of town, ancient-looking cottages stood abandoned and roofless, evidence of a shrinking population, children lured away from centuries-old fishing and farming traditions by more glamorous opportunities elsewhere. We dragged our stuff through town looking for something called the Priest Home, where my dad had booked a room. I pictured an old church converted into a bed and breakfast—nothing fancy, just somewhere to sleep when we weren’t watching birds or chasing down leads. We asked a few locals for directions but got only confused looks in return. “They speak English, right?” my dad wondered aloud. Just as my hand was beginning to ache from the unreasonable weight of my suitcase, we came upon a church. We thought we’d found our accommodations, until we went inside and saw that it had indeed been converted, but into a dingy little museum, not a B&B. We found the part-time curator in a room hung with old fishing nets and sheep shears. His face lit up when he saw us, then fell when he realized we were only lost. “I reckon you’re after the Priest Hole,” he said. “It’s got the only rooms to let on the island.” He proceeded to give us directions in a lilting accent, which I found enormously entertaining. I loved hearing Welsh people talk, even if half of what they said was incomprehensible to me. My dad thanked the man and turned to go, but he’d been so helpful, I hung back to ask him another question. “Where can we find the old children’s home?” “The old what?” he said, squinting at me. For an awful moment I was afraid we’d come to the wrong island or, worse yet, that the home was just another thing my grandfather had invented. “It was a home for refugee kids?” I said. “During the war? A

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big house?” The man chewed his lip and regarded me doubtfully, as if de- ciding whether to help or to wash his hands of the whole thing. But he took pity on me. “I don’t know about any refugees,” he said, “but I think I know the place you mean. It’s way up the other side of the island, past the bog and through the woods. Though I wouldn’t go mucking about up there alone, if I was you. Stray too far from the path and that’s the last anyone’ll hear of you—nothing but wet grass and sheep patties to keep you from going straight over a cliff.” “That’s good to know,” my dad said, eyeing me. “Promise me you won’t go by yourself.” “All right, all right.” “What’s your interest in it, anyhow?” the man said. “It’s not exactly on the tourist maps.” “Just a little genealogy project,” my father replied, lingering near the door. “My dad spent a few years there as a kid.” I could tell he was eager to avoid any mention of psychiatrists or dead grandfathers. He thanked the man again and quickly ushered me out the door. Following the curator’s directions, we retraced our steps until we came to a grim-looking statue carved from black stone, a memorial called the Waiting Woman dedicated to islanders lost at sea. She wore a pitiful expression and stood with arms outstretched in the direction of the harbor, many blocks away, but also toward the Priest Hole, which was directly across the street. Now, I’m no hotel connoisseur, but one glance at the weathered sign told me that our stay was unlikely to be a four-star mints-on-your-pillow-type experience. Printed in giant script at the top was WINES, ALES, SPIRITS. Below that, in more modest lettering, Fine Food. Handwritten along the bottom, clearly an afterthought, was Rooms to Let, though the s had been struck out, leaving just the singular Room. As we lugged our bags toward the door, my father grumbling about con men and false advertising, I glanced back at the Waiting Woman and wondered if

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she wasn’t just waiting for someone to bring her a drink. We squeezed our bags through the doorway and stood blinking in the sudden gloom of a low-ceilinged pub. When my eyes had adjusted, I realized that hole was a pretty accurate description of the place: tiny leaded windows admitted just enough light to find the beer tap without tripping over tables and chairs on the way. The tables, worn and wobbling, looked like they might be more useful as fire- wood. The bar was half-filled, at whatever hour of the morning it was, with men in various states of hushed intoxication, heads bowed prayerfully over tumblers of amber liquid. “You must be after the room,” said the man behind the bar, coming out to shake our hands. “I’m Kev and these are the fellas. Say hullo, fellas.” “Hullo,” they muttered, nodding at their drinks. We followed Kev up a narrow staircase to a suite of rooms (plural!) that could charitably be described as basic. There were two bedrooms, the larger of which Dad claimed, and a room that tripled as a kitchen, dining room, and living room, meaning that it contained one table, one moth-eaten sofa, and one hotplate. The bathroom worked “most of the time,” according to Kev, “but if it ever gets dicey, there’s always Old Reliable.” He directed our attention to a portable toilet in the alley out back, conveniently visible from my bedroom window. “Oh, and you’ll need these,” he said, fetching a pair of oil lamps from a cabinet. “The generators stop running at ten since petrol’s so bloody expensive to ship out, so either you get to bed early or you learn to love candles and kerosene.” He grinned. “Hope it ain’t too medieval for ya!” We assured Kev that outhouses and kerosene would be just fine, sounded like fun, in fact—a little adventure, yessir—and then he led us downstairs for the final leg of our tour. “You’re welcome to take your meals here,” he said, “and I expect you will, on ac-

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count of there’s nowhere else to eat. If you need to make a call, we got a phone box in the corner there. Sometimes there’s a bit of a queue for it, though, since we get doodly for mobile reception out here and you’re looking at the only land-line on the island. That’s right, we got it all—only food, only bed, only phone!” And he leaned back and laughed, long and loud. The only phone on the island. I looked over at it—it was the kind that had a door you could pull shut for privacy, like the ones you see in old movies—and realized with dawning horror that this was the Grecian orgy, this was the raging frat party I had been connected to when I called the island a few weeks ago. This was the piss hole. Kev handed my dad the keys to our rooms. “Any questions,” he said, “you know where to find me.” “I have a question,” I said. “What’s a piss—I mean, a priest hole?” The men at the bar burst into laughter. “Why, it’s a hole for priests, of course!” one said, which made the rest of them laugh even harder. Kev walked over to an uneven patch of floorboards next to the fireplace, where a mangy dog lay sleeping. “Right here,” he said, tapping what appeared to be a door in the floor with his shoe. “Ages ago, when just being a Catholic could get you hung from a tree, cler- gyfolk came here seeking refuge. If Queen Elizabeth’s crew of thugs come chasing after, we hid whoever needed hiding in snug little spots like this—priest holes.” It struck me the way he said we, as if he’d known those long-dead islanders personally. “Snug indeed!” one of the drinkers said. “Bet they were warm as toast and tight as drums down there!” “I’d take warm and snug to strung up by priest killers any day,” said another. “Here, here!” the first man said. “To Cairnholm—may she always be our rock of refuge!” “To Cairnholm!” they chorused, and raised their glasses together.

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* * *

Jet-lagged and exhausted, we went to sleep early—or rather we went to our beds and lay in them with pillows covering our heads to block out the thumping cacophony that issued through the floorboards, which grew so loud that at one point I thought surely the revelers had invaded my room. Then the clock must’ve struck ten because all at once the buzzing generators outside sputtered and died, as did the music from downstairs and the streetlight that had been shining through my window. Suddenly I was cocooned in silent, blissful darkness, with only the whisper of distant waves to remind me where I was. For the first time in months, I fell into a deep, nightmare-free slumber. I dreamed instead about my grandfather as a boy, about his first night here, a stranger in a strange land, under a strange roof, owing his life to people who spoke a strange tongue. When I awoke, sun streaming through my window, I realized it wasn’t just my grandfather’s life that Miss Peregrine had saved, but mine, too, and my father’s. Today, with any luck, I would finally get to thank her. I went downstairs to find my dad already bellied up to a table, slurping coffee and polishing his fancy binoculars. Just as I sat down, Kev appeared bearing two plates loaded with mystery meat and fried toast. “I didn’t know you could fry toast,” I remarked, to which Kev replied that there wasn’t a food he was aware of that couldn’t be improved by frying. Over breakfast, Dad and I discussed our plan for the day. It was to be a kind of scout, to familiarize ourselves with the island. We’d scope out my dad’s bird-watching spots first and then find the children’s home. I scarfed my food, anxious to get started. Well fortified with grease, we left the pub and walked through town, dodging tractors and shouting to each other over the din of generators until the streets gave way to fields and the noise faded be-

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hind us. It was a crisp and blustery day—the sun hiding behind giant cloudbanks only to burst out moments later and dapple the hills with spectacular rays of light—and I felt energized and hopeful. We were heading for a rocky beach where my dad had spotted a bunch of birds from the ferry. I wasn’t sure how we would reach it, though—the island was slightly bowl shaped, with hills that climbed toward its edges only to drop off at precarious seaside cliffs—but at this particular spot the edge had been rounded off and a path led down to a minor spit of sand along the water. We picked our way down to the beach, where what seemed to be an entire civilization of birds were flapping and screeching and fishing in tide pools. I watched my father’s eyes widen. “Fascinat- ing,” he muttered, scraping at some petrified guano with the stubby end of his pen. “I’m going to need some time here. Is that all right?” I’d seen this look on his face before, and I knew exactly what “some time” meant: hours and hours. “Then I’ll go find the house by myself,” I said. “Not alone, you aren’t. You promised.” “Then I’ll find a person who can take me.” “Who?” “Kev will know someone.” My dad looked out to sea, where a big rusted lighthouse jutted up from a pile of rocks. “You know what the answer would be if your mom were here,” he said. My parents had differing theories about how much parenting I required. Mom was the enforcer, always hovering, but Dad hung back a little. He thought it was important that I make my own mistakes now and then. Also, letting me go would free him to play with guano all day. “Okay,” he said, “but make sure you leave me the number of whoever you go with.” “Dad, nobody here has phones.” He sighed. “Right. Well, as long as they’re reliable.”

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* * *

Kev was out running an errand, and because asking one of his drunken regulars to chaperone me seemed like a bad idea, I went into the nearest shop to ask someone who was at least gainfully employed. The door read FISHMONGER. I pushed it open to find myself cow- ering before a bearded giant in a blood-soaked apron. He left off decapitating fish to glare at me, dripping cleaver in hand, and I vowed never again to discriminate against the intoxicated. “What the hell for?” he growled when I told him where I wanted to go. “Nothing over there but bogland and barmy weather.” I explained about my grandfather and the children’s home. He frowned at me, then leaned over the counter to cast a doubtful glance at my shoes. “I s’pose Dylan ain’t too busy to take you,” he said, pointing his cleaver at a kid about my age who was arranging fish in a freezer case, “but you’ll be wantin’ proper footwear. Wouldn’t do to let you go in them trainers—mud’ll suck ‘em right off!” “Really?” I said. “Are you sure?” “Dylan! Fetch our man here a pair of Wellingtons!” The kid groaned and made a big show of slowly closing the freezer case and cleaning his hands before slouching over to a wall of shelves packed with dry goods. “Just so happens we’ve got some good sturdy boots on offer,” the fishmonger said. “Buy one get none free!” He burst out laughing and slammed his cleaver on a salmon, its head shooting across the blood-slicked counter to land perfectly in a little guillotine bucket. I fished the emergency money Dad had given me from my pocket, figuring that a little extortion was a small price to pay to find the woman I’d crossed the Atlantic to meet.

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I left the shop wearing a pair of rubber boots so large my sneakers fit inside and so heavy it was difficult to keep up with my begrudging guide. “So, do you go to school on the island?” I asked Dylan, scur- rying to catch up. I was genuinely curious—what was living here like for someone my age? He muttered the name of a town on the mainland. “What is that, an hour each way by ferry?” “Yup.” And that was it. He responded to further attempts at conversation with even fewer syllables—which is to say, none—so finally I just gave up and followed him. On the way out of town we ran into one of his friends, an older boy wearing a blinding yellow track suit and fake gold chains. He couldn’t have looked more out of place on Cairnholm if he’d been dressed like an astronaut. He gave Dylan a fist-bump and introduced himself as Worm. “Worm?” “It’s his stage name,” Dylan explained. “We’re the sickest rapping duo in Wales,” Worm said. “I’m MC Worm, and this is the Sturgeon Surgeon, aka Emcee Dirty Dylan, aka Emcee Dirty Bizniss, Cairnholm’s number one beat-boxer. Wanna show this Yank how we do, Dirty D?” Dylan looked annoyed. “Now?” “Drop some next-level beats, son!” Dylan rolled his eyes but did as he was asked. At first I thought he was choking on his tongue, except there was a rhythm to his sput- tering coughs, —puhh, puh-CHAH, puh-puhhh, puh-CHAH—over which Worm began to rap. “I likes to get wrecked up down at the Priest Hole / Your dad’s always there ‘cause he’s on the dole / My rhymes is tight, yeah I make it look easy / Dylan’s beats are hot like chicken jalfrezi!” Dylan stopped. “That don’t even make sense,” he said. “And it’s

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your dad who’s on the dole.” “Oh shit, Dirty D let the beat drop!” Worm started beat-box- ing while doing a passable robot, his sneakers twisting holes in the gravel. “Take the mic, D!” Dylan seemed embarrassed but let the rhymes fly anyway. “I met a tight bird and her name was Sharon / She was keen on my tracksuit and the trainers I was wearin’ / I showed her the time, like Doctor Who / I thunk up this rhyme while I was in the loo!” Worm shook his head. “The loo?” “I wasn’t ready!” They turned to me and asked what I thought. Considering that they didn’t even like each other’s rapping, I wasn’t sure what to say. “I guess I’m more into music with, like, singing and guitars and stuff.” Worm dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “He wouldn’t know a dope rhyme if it bit him in the bollocks,” he muttered. Dylan laughed and they exchanged a series of complex, multi- stage handshake-fist-bump-high-fives. “Can we go now?” I said. They grumbled and dawdled a while longer, but pretty soon we were on our way, this time with Worm tagging along. I took up the rear, trying to figure out what I would say to Miss Peregrine when I met her. I was expecting to be introduced to a proper Welsh lady and sip tea in the parlor and make polite small talk until the time seemed right to break the bad news. I’m Abraham Portman’s grandson, I would say. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but he’s been taken from us. Then, once she’d finished quietly dabbing away tears, I would ply her with questions. I followed Dylan and Worm along a path that wound through pastures of grazing sheep before a lung-busting ascent up a ridge. At the top hovered an embankment of rolling, snaking fog so dense it was like stepping into another world. It was truly biblical; a fog I

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could imagine God, in one of his lesser wraths, cursing the Egyptians with. As we descended the other side it only seemed to thicken. The sun faded to a pale white bloom. Moisture clung to everything, bead- ing on my skin and dampening my clothes. The temperature dropped. I lost Worm and Dylan for a moment and then the path flattened and I came upon them just standing, waiting for me. “Yank boy!” Dylan called. “This way!” I followed obediently. We abandoned the path to plow through a field of marshy grass. Sheep stared at us with big leaky eyes, their wool soggy and tails drooping. A small house appeared out of the mist. It was all boarded up. “You sure this is it?” I said. “It looks empty.” “Empty? No way, there’s loads of shit in there,” Worm replied. “Go on,” said Dylan. “Have a look.” I had a feeling it was a trick but stepped up to the door and knocked anyway. It was unlatched and opened a little at my touch. It was too dark to see inside, so I took a step through—and, to my surprise, down—into what looked like a dirt floor but, I quickly realized, was in fact a shin-deep ocean of excrement. This tenantless hovel, so innocent looking from the outside, was really a makeshift sheep stable. Quite literally a shithole. “Oh my God!” I squealed in disgust. Peals of laughter exploded from outside. I stumbled backward through the door before the smell could knock me unconscious and found the boys doubled over, holding their stomachs. “You guys are assholes,” I said, stomping the muck off my boots. “Why?” said Worm. “We told you it was full of shit!” I got in Dylan’s face. “Are you gonna show me the house or not?” “He’s serious,” said Worm, wiping tears from his eyes. “Of course I’m serious!” Dylan’s smile faded. “I thought you were taking a piss, mate.” “Taking a what?”

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“Joking, like.” “Well, I wasn’t.” The boys exchanged an uneasy look. Dylan whispered something to Worm. Worm whispered something back. Finally Dylan turned and pointed up the path. “If you really want to see it,” he said, “keep going past the bog and through the woods. It’s a big old place. You can’t miss it.” “What the hell. You’re supposed to go with me!” Worm looked away and said, “This is as far as we go.” “Why?” “It just is.” And they turned and began to trudge back the way we’d come, receding into the fog. I weighed my options. I could tuck tail and follow my tormenters back to town, or I could go ahead alone and lie to Dad about it. After four seconds of intense deliberation, I was on my way.

* * *

A vast, lunar bog stretched away into the mist from either side of the path, just brown grass and tea-colored water as far as I could see, featureless but for the occasional mound of piled-up stones. It ended abruptly at a forest of skeletal trees, branches spindling up like the tips of wet paintbrushes, and for a while the path became so lost beneath fallen trunks and carpets of ivy that navigating it was a matter of faith. I wondered how an elderly person like Miss Pere- grine would ever be able to negotiate such an obstacle course. She must get deliveries, I thought, though the path looked like it hadn’t seen a footprint in months, if not years. I scrambled over a giant trunk slick with moss, and the path took a sharp turn. The trees parted like a curtain and suddenly there it was, cloaked in fog, looming atop a weed-choked hill. The house. I understood at once why the boys had refused to come.

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My grandfather had described it a hundred times, but in his stories the house was always a bright, happy place—big and rambling, yes, but full of light and laughter. What stood before me now was no refuge from monsters but a monster itself, staring down from its perch on the hill with vacant hunger. Trees burst forth from broken windows and skins of scabrous vine gnawed at the walls like anti- bodies attacking a virus—as if nature itself had waged war against it—but the house seemed unkillable, resolutely upright despite the wrongness of its angles and the jagged teeth of sky visible through sections of collapsed roof. I tried to convince myself that it was possible someone could still live there, run-down as it was. Such things weren’t unheard of where I came from—a falling-down wreck on the edge of town, cur- tains permanently drawn, that would turn out to have been home to some ancient recluse who’d been surviving on ramen and toenail clippings since time immemorial, though no one realizes it until a property appraiser or an overly ambitious census taker barges in to find the poor soul returning to dust in a La-Z-Boy. People get too old to care for a place, their family writes them off for one reason or another—it’s sad, but it happens. Which meant, like it or not, that I was going to have to knock. I gathered what scrawny courage I had and waded through waist-high weeds to the porch, all broken tile and rotting wood, to peek through a cracked window. All I could make out through the smeared glass were the outlines of furniture, so I knocked on the door and stood back to wait in the eerie silence, tracing the shape of Miss Peregrine’s letter in my pocket. I’d taken it along in case I needed to prove who I was, but as a minute ticked by, then two, it seemed less and less likely that I would need it. Climbing down into the yard, I circled the house looking for another way in, taking the measure of the place, but it seemed almost without measure, as though with every corner I turned the house

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sprouted new balconies and turrets and chimneys. Then I came around back and saw my opportunity: a doorless doorway, bearded with vines, gaping and black; an open mouth just waiting to swallow me. Just looking at it made my skin crawl, but I hadn’t come halfway around the world just to run away screaming at the sight of a scary house. I thought of all the horrors Grandpa Portman had faced in his life, and felt my resolve harden. If there was anyone to find inside, I would find them. I mounted the crumbling steps and crossed the threshold.

* * *

Standing in a tomb-dark hallway just inside the door, I stared frozenly at what looked for all the world like skins hanging from hooks. After a queasy moment in which I imagined some twisted cannibal leaping from the shadows with knife in hand, I realized they were only coats rotted to rags and green with age. I shuddered involuntarily and took a deep breath. I’d only explored ten feet of the house and was already about to foul my underwear. Keep it together, I told myself, and then slowly moved forward, heart hammering in my chest. Each room was a disaster more incredible than the last. News- papers gathered in drifts. Scattered toys, evidence of children long gone, lay skinned in dust. Creeping mold had turned window-adjacent walls black and furry. Fireplaces were throttled with vines that had descended from the roof and begun to spread across the floors like alien tentacles. The kitchen was a science experiment gone terri- bly wrong—entire shelves of jarred food had exploded from sixty seasons of freezing and thawing, splattering the wall with evil-looking stains—and fallen plaster lay so thickly over the dining room floor that for a moment I thought it had snowed indoors. At the end of a light-starved corridor I tested my weight on a rickety staircase, my boots leaving fresh tracks in layers of dust. The steps groaned as if

80 End of this sample. Enjoyed the preview? Buy Now trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 10:59 AM Page 1 trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 10:59 AM Page 3

NIGHT OF THE LIVING TREKKIES

BY KEVINDAVIDANDERSON AND SAMSTALL trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/28/10 4:23 PM Page 4

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number: 2010928603

ISBN: 978-1-59474-463-1

Printed in Canada

Typeset in Bembo, House 3009, and OCRA

Distributed in North America by Chronicle Books 680 Second Street San Francisco, CA 94107

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Quirk Books 215 Church Street Philadelphia, PA 19106 www.irreference.com www.quirkbooks.com trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/28/10 4:20 PM Page 5

ATTENTION ALL STARFLEET PERSONNEL

The following text is an original work of fiction/horror/parody. Night of the Living Trekkies is not sponsored by, affiliated with, or endorsed by the owners of the Star Trek® brand. Any personnel claiming otherwise will be sentenced to one year of hard labor in the penal colony of Rura Penthe. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 10:59 AM Page 7

“It isn’t all over; everything has not been invented; the human adventure is just beginning.” —Gene Roddenberry

“Horror is the genre that never dies.” —George A. Romero trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 10:59 AM Page 8 trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 9

PROLOGUE: Space Seed

“Space, the final frontier . . . ” “Shut up.” “These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise ...” “I said, shut up.” “Its five-year mission: to explore strange worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations . . . ” “You’re pissing me off.” “To boldly go where no man has gone before.” “Quit rubbing it in, okay?” First Lieutenant Mallory Kaplan, U.S.Air Force Medical Service flight nurse, finished her recital and smiled triumphantly. “Actually, that last bit doesn’t quite capture the current situation,” she said.“Plenty of men—and women—have already gone where I’m going. But I’ll be the first person currently in this room to make the trip.” The room of which she spoke was an underground bunker. She and her senior watch officer, U.S.Air Force Captain Les Marple, spent four eight-hour shifts inside it each week, studying images and readouts on computer monitors. During the long, boring stretches when nothing inside the almost completely automated facility required their attention, they passed the time by harassing each other. “You’re being unprofessional,” Marple said.“I’m your superior trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 10

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officer. Show some respect.” “Can’t help it,”Kaplan said.“I’m so excited about my uniform.” “You’re dressing up?” “Of course.That’s half the fun of attending a Star Trek convention. I’m portraying one of the greatest captains ever to command the Enterprise.” “You mean Kirk?” “Kirk’s a man.” “I know,but I think you could pull it off.” Kaplan smacked him lightly on the head with her clipboard. “I’m going as Captain Rachel Garrett,”she said. Marple shot Kaplan a puzzled look. “Who the hell is that?” he said. “The captain of the Enterprise-C, which served a couple of decades before the Enterprise-D from StarTrek:The Next Generation.A temporal rift brought it forward in time, changing future history. In order to repair the damage, it had to go back to its own era, even though . . . ” “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Marple said.“Seen it, bought the Blu-ray. What’s the point of going as someone so obscure? No one will recognize you.” Kaplan’s sly smile let him know that he’d walked into a trap. “Oh,that’s right,”she said with mock concern.“You’ve never been to GulfCon.You don’t know that the convention attendees like to go as incredibly obscureTrek characters.It’s a joke that started at the first one, five years ago. If you make it through the entire weekend without anyone guessing your identity,you win a hundred bucks.” “Screw that,” Marple said.“I’d go as Picard. He’s what inspired me to join the Air Force. I kept thinking that one day I’d be explor- trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 11

NIGHTOFTHELIVINGTREKKIES 11

ing space and commanding my own ship.” “Me, too,” Kaplan said wistfully.“How’s that working out for you?” Marple surveyed his surroundings.The bunker in which the two of them sat was located on the grounds of the Johnson Space- flight Center, just outside Houston,Texas. Not that the general public—or, for that matter, most of the center’s staff—knew that. Their duty station, secured behind a steel door that opened only to those who passed a retinal scan,was a dimly lit,concrete-floored room with a single long desk, upon which sat two massive computer monitors—monitors that formed the centers of their professional lives. “Not exactly like I’d hoped,”Marple said. “At least you’re bald, like Picard,”Kaplan said. “I’d rather have no hair than Janeway hair. First season Janeway hair.” “You’d also make a great Orion. Since you’re already green with envy.” Marple was about to tell Kaplan to stick her high-horse attitude straight up her Jefferies tube when a single ding emanated from the monitors parked in front of them. “Box Seventeen,”Kaplan said, suddenly all business. Marple’s fingers flew across his keyboard.A grainy black-and- white shot of a steel-walled enclosure popped up on both their screens. Inside, a small four-legged animal paced back and forth twice. Then, with its head pointed squarely into a corner, it stopped. “Haven’t seen this one before,”Kaplan said.“It looks like it’s been partially skinned.” “Back in the day,when they were still working on these things, some genius decided to vivisect it,” Marple said.“Or maybe dissect is trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 12

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the correct word. It didn’t go according to plan.The guy who tried it is in Box Thirty-two.” Kaplan dutifully noted the incident in her log.Not that it was necessary.Everything—absolutely everything—that happened in the facility was closely monitored at an off-site command center.There was no need to send reports.The Brass watched it all in real time. “We’re getting dinged a lot today,”she said.“It’s like they’re restless or something.” Marple laughed. “They’re not restless,”he said.“They’re not anything.They go in one direction until they hit a wall, then go in another until they hit another wall.” “Still,”Kaplan said,“four dings is a lot.” Marple knew she was right. Often entire shifts passed without movement.The four incidents they’d logged so far were noteworthy. Especially since they’d all occurred in the last two hours. Each came from a different specimen, two of which had gone months without so much as a twitch.Yet today they got up and walked. Or staggered. Or crawled. It was unprecedented. Kaplan and Marple hated it when the unprecedented happened, because there was always the chance that it could quickly morph into something horrible. Something that could never, ever be allowed to see the light of day. Like the guy in Box Thirty-two. “Sometimes I wish I was still back in a silo, serving on a Min- uteman missile crew,”Marple said.“It was less stressful.” “Isn’t that why they picked you for this?” Kaplan said. “Yeah. My psych profile was exactly what they wanted. Some- one who wouldn’t mind spending a lot of time underground staring at the end of the world.” trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 13

NIGHTOFTHELIVINGTREKKIES 13

His monitor emitted a muted alarm. “What?” Kaplan said.“What is it?” Marple studied the readouts on his screen. His eyes grew wide. “There’s a problem with the security system,”he said.“Big-time malfunction.” “What kind?” Kaplan said. Marple looked at the screen for a few seconds more. “We’ve lost containment on boxes Nine and Twelve.” “Does that mean . . . ?” “Give me a visual on Twelve,” Marple said.“Maybe it’s a false reading.” Another black-and-white image of a steel-lined cell appeared on their monitors. It was empty. “Switch to exterior,”Marple said. The view showed Twelve’s door.A door that hadn’t been un- sealed, so far as they knew,in more than two years. Now it was wide open. “We’re screwed,”Kaplan said.“We’re totally screwed.” “Keep it together,”Marple said, sweat beads dotting his forehead as he typed.“A computer glitch sprung them. But we’re safe in here. Nothing can get through a two-inch steel door.” “Dammit,” Kaplan said.“More of them are opening! Lost containment on Thirty,Twenty-Five, Eight . . . ” “Stop. I get it. Check Box One.” Kaplan switched to the enclosure just in time for them to see the door open, revealing a rectangle of impenetrable blackness. The two watched the doorway in terrified fascination.The room’s interior camera had malfunctioned months earlier. Since no one was allowed into the room under any circumstances, the creature lurking in Box One remained a mystery. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 14

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“Maybe it’s dead,”Kaplan whispered as they both watched their screens.“I mean, really dead.” Almost before she got the words out, something shambled out of the darkness.The thing was naked, but it was impossible to tell its sex. Its desiccated skin was drawn tightly over its skeleton. Its hair was gone, its eyes had shrunk into their sockets, and its lips were drawn back over its teeth in a permanent grin. Yet it walked. “That’s twenty feet down the hall,”Kaplan said.“We’ve got to get out of here.” “No,”Marple said.“Something’s opening every computer-controlled door in the place.We step out there and we’re dead.Worse than dead.” “Every computer-controlled door?” she asked. Marple caught her meaning.They turned together and gazed at the back of the room. Just in time to see the door to their duty station glide open. Outside in the darkness, something moaned. Kaplan reached out and grabbed Marple’s hand. “I’m sorry I said you were bald,”she whispered. “I’m sorry I said you had Janeway hair,”he replied. Marple looked up at the ceiling-mounted video camera perched directly in front of them, dispassionately transmitting everything to the off-site command center. “What are you waiting for?”he shouted at it.“For God’s sake,just do it!” Five hundred miles away, a two-star general leaned over the shoulder of a technician, watching the nurse and the former missile commander’s last moments.The general rubbed the back of his neck, surveyed the frightened faces of the half-dozen officers surrounding trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 15

NIGHTOFTHELIVINGTREKKIES 15

him, and then spoke. “That’s it,” he said.“Detonate the fail-safe weapon. Deploy the cover story.” trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 16

CHAPTER 1 A Private Little War

It was late winter of 2009 and Jim Pike was in Afghanistan. He’d arrived there a few weeks earlier with the rest of his U.S. Army unit, the 10th Mountain Division’s 3rd Brigade Combat Team. It was windy and cold, and the mountainous terrain looked like another world. A world composed almost entirely of steep slopes and thousand-foot drops. He was twenty-three years old and in full battle dress, leading a squad of soldiers through an outlying neighborhood of Asadabad, the capital of Kunar province. Kunar was a flyspeck of land wedged hard against the Pakistani border.In good times it sheltered smugglers moving everything from illegally harvested lumber to drugs. In bad times—and these were very,very bad times—it harbored guerillas of every stripe, from al Qaeda to the Taliban to mujahideen. Asadabad, a maze of narrow streets and walled compounds shel- tering roughly half the province’s thirty thousand people, was their unofficial capital.The troops called it A-Bad. Jim watched his six-member squad, the lead element in a three- platoon-strong raiding party supported by Stryker combat vehicles and Apache helicopter gunships, move down a dusty, crooked street. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 17

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They kept an eye out for snipers and covered one another as they advanced. An old man sitting on the curb, his ragged, mud-colored chapan pulled tight against the cold, barely acknowledged their passing. They stopped near the door of a weather-worn house.They were pretty sure, based on drone images presented during the pre- raid briefing, that it harbored a cache of contraband weapons.The boxes stacked in the building’s dusty courtyard, plainly visible in the photos, were the right shape and size. The soldier on point tried the door. It was locked. Jim was about to order an entry.Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the old man in the chapan stand up and disappear down an alley.In Afghanistan it was never a good sign when people vanished like that. It meant they knew something was about to happen. And that they didn’t want to be around when it did. “Hold up,”Jim said. But his soldiers didn’t seem to hear.They bunched up at the entrance, ready to begin. “Hold up!” Jim yelled. No one listened.One soldier kicked down the door and charged into the blackness.Two more followed. An explosion rocked the street. Dust and flames poured out of the doorway.The concussion blew one of the soldiers out of the house. He lay on the ground, clutching his face. The other two didn’t come out at all. Jim rushed into the burning building, trying to locate the missing soldiers in the choking blackness. He staggered around for what felt like forever, walked for what seemed like miles. Slowly,it dawned on him that he couldn’t possibly still be in that tiny, bombed-out dwelling on the fringe of A-Bad. That’s when he found his soldiers. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 18

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The missing were privates Eric Willman and Lou Jones. Both were new to the 3rd. Both were covered with blood, their uniforms shredded and blackened.Yet both were on their feet, standing calmly at parade rest. “Why didn’t you listen to me?” Jim asked. “We couldn’t,”Lou said.“You weren’t here.” The two, Jim realized, were dead.Yet there they stood, giving him looks that could have burned holes in stone. “We were your responsibility,”Eric said. “Where were you?” they both asked. Jim tried to answer, but no words came out. “Where were you?” they asked once more. Again, Jim struggled to speak. “Wake up,”someone else said. The darkness lightened, the faces of the dead soldiers faded. A new,only slightly less insistent voice replaced theirs. “Wake up!” it shouted.“Some kid’s going nuts with a phaser.” Jim sat up. The newspaper draped over his lap fell to the floor. He rubbed his forehead and looked around. Afghanistan was gone. So was 2009. Instead, he found himself sitting in a heavily upholstered chair in the lobby of the Botany Bay Hotel and Conference Center in downtown Houston. It was late afternoon on a Friday. And he was asleep on the job. The owner of the voice stood over him, a disapproving scowl drawing tight lines across her sun-worn face. “Hey, Janice,”he grunted.“How’s it going?” “You’re lucky the GM likes you,”replied Janice Bohica, placing her hands on the sides of her head as if to steady a throbbing brain. “But why,I have no idea.You’re the last person in the world I’d trust with responsibility.” trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 19

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Jim had heard this spiel before. He suspected that Janice honed it on a long string of underlings during her oft-referenced seventeen years as the hotel’s daytime manager. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “How about getting your act together and behaving like a grown-up? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re shorthanded today.” Jim glanced around the lobby, which was uncharacteristically quiet for a Friday afternoon.“Looks like everything’s under control,” he said.“Aside from two or three hundredTrekkies,we’re pretty much empty.” “We have precisely 262 registered GulfCon guests,”Janice said, “but we’ll have north of three thousand walk-ins for the convention. These people can be very high maintenance.You’re going to be running all weekend.” Jim sat up in the chair and yawned. “What were you saying about a guy with a Taser?” “Phaser,”Janice corrected.“One of those handheld ray guns from Star Trek.There’s a kid on the second floor and he’s pointing it at guests. Scaring people.” “Where’s our chief of security?” “Dexter’s busy. Someone from the seventh floor reported a drunk mime.The guy actually attacked someone.” “A drunk mime?” Jim said. “A man in a leotard with his face painted.Tried to jump Dex- ter, too. But Dexter laid him out with his baton, cuffed him, and brought him down for the cops.” “Crap,”Jim said.“He’ll be filling out forms for hours.” “Exactly,”Janice said.“Which is why you’re dealing with phaser boy.” “You can count on me.” trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 20

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“I’ve heard that before,”Janice said.“But I know you don’t mean it.Your goal in life is to avoid being counted on.” Jim felt his discomfort level rising. Janice was bitchy.She was of- ficious. But the thing that irritated him the most was that she totally had him pegged. “Look, enough of the psychotherapy,all right?” he asked.“I get it; I’m a drag on your existence.Why do you want to spend more of it cataloging my shortcomings?” Janice looked him up and down. “Because you could be more than this,”she said, gesturing at his hotel uniform.“It really doesn’t become you.” Jim felt a keen desire to change the subject,so he knelt and gathered up his newspaper—that morning’s edition of the Houston Chron- icle. He surveyed the front-page headline before placing it neatly on the chair’s side table: JOHNSON SPACEFLIGHT CENTER LOCKED DOWN. “A gas leak caused an explosion,” Janice explained.“It’s been cordoned off for the recovery crews.They’re going over the whole place with tweezers.” “Sounds like you’re following the story pretty closely.” “Current events are important, Jim. Especially current events happening fifteen miles away.Now,please go fetch that phaser kid.” Janice turned abruptly and walked back toward the front desk. Jim stood up and ran his hands through his close-cropped chestnut hair. He kept it only slightly longer than the buzz cut he’d worn in the army. But his hotel uniform was radically different. Instead of desert camouflage, a helmet, and body armor, he wore black boots, black khakis, and a white mock turtleneck under a red double- breasted jacket. It wasn’t exactly the best choice for Houston in Au- gust, but inside the hermetically sealed Botany Bay, where the hyperactive climate-control system chilled everything to a crisp sixty- trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 21

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eight degrees, it was tolerable. Certainly, it was more tolerable than the place he’d just come from. He walked quickly through the hotel’s sunlit seventeen-story atrium.The side and rear walls were lined with hotel room windows. The north-facing wall held the main entrance—a battery of glass doors.Across from it was the front desk—a long, black marble check- in counter. Just past the front desk sat a bank of four glass-enclosed elevators. Jim pressed the call button and then fished a walkie-talkie from his jacket’s interior vest pocket. Someone had written “Property of BBH&CC” on its back with a Sharpie. “Hey,Dexter, are you there?” he said. “I’m in my office,”came the reply.“Administering first aid.” “To who?” “To myself.That clowny son of a bitch sank his teeth into my arm.” “You’re serious?You were bitten by a mime?” “It’s not funny, Pike. I’m bleeding. I just poured a gallon of hy- drogen peroxide on this thing.” Jim was tempted to reply that he’d seen worse wounds in his lifetime, but there was no point in trying to explain it to a civilian. “I’m going to pick up this phaser kid,”he said.“You want me to bring him down to your office?” “Hell, no,just bring me his toy,”Dexter said.“I don’t want to call the cops again. It took forever for them to pick up Marcel Marceau.” The elevator on the far right of the bank dinged. Its doors opened and Jim stepped inside.“I’m on my way,”he said as the doors closed.“See you in a few minutes.” Jim slid the walkie-talkie into his jacket, stepped aboard the el- trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 22

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evator, and pushed the button for the second floor. Playing on the hotel audio system was a scratchy recording of William Shatner singing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”The GulfCon organizers had prepared an entire playlist that was tailored exclusively toTrekkie conventioneers;there were pop songs covered by Leonard Nimoy,film scores by Jerry Goldsmith, and the occasional warbling song of a humpback whale. Jim guessed this last bit was a nod to Star Trek IV: TheVoyage Home, but really it was anybody’s guess. A moment later, the elevator doors opened, revealing a wild- eyed teen wearing aT-shirt that read “There Can Be Only One Kirk.” He pointed a plastic phaser at Jim and squeezed the trigger.The toy emitted a blast of bright red light. “Toh-pah!” the kid shouted. Jim’s hand darted out and grabbed Mr. Phaser by the wrist— then yanked him into the elevator and pressed him up against the wall.The move was all reflex. He didn’t even need to think about it. “You shouldn’t point guns at people,” he said.“The last person who did that to me ended up in a rubber bag.” The teen, thoroughly terrorized, dropped his toy. Jim reached down to pick it up, ashamed of himself for over- reacting. It’s not like this high school sophomore was a threat to anyone. He just needed a little discipline. “Look, why don’t you just go to your room?” Jim suggested. “Go watch TV or something.” “TV’s busted.” Wonderful, Jim thought. Another problem. He asked the kid for his room number and then tried to clarify the issue.“You mean the TV’s broken? Or you’re not getting a clear picture?” “It’s static,”the kid explained. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 23

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Jim promised to send up a maintenance person by the end of the day.“And you can get your toy back after the convention.Ask for it when you check out.” He was back in the lobby a minute later and emerged from the elevator to find a pretty, young woman waiting for the lift. Judging from her navy-blue suit and Coach handbag, he guessed she’d arrived on business. The woman smiled at him.“Nice costume.” Jim looked down at his red hotel jacket—and the toy phaser— and realized she had mistaken him for aTrekkie.“I’m not here for the convention,”he sheepishly explained.“I work with the hotel.” She stepped aboard the elevator.“Then you might want to holster your ray gun.” Jim started to protest further, but it was too late.The doors were already sliding shut. It’s going to be that kind of weekend, he thought. At the front desk, he passed a member of the maintenance crew who teetered on a ladder, struggling to hang a banner reading “Wel- come Fifth Annual GulfCon” over the check-in area. Jim stepped behind the counter and through a doorway, walking past banks of cubicles until he reached an actual office with regular walls.The sign on its closed door read “Chief of Security.” Jim used the butt of the phaser to knock. “Enter,”came a voice from the other side. Jim walked into the office of Dexter Remmick and tossed the toy phaser into a large box of lost-and-found objects. Dexter’s more than three-hundred-pound bulk was wedged behind his metal desk, whose surface was strewn with the contents of the hotel’s first-aid kit. A fresh bandage cocooned his left forearm. “Well,well,”Dexter said.“The Assistant Uniformed Staff Man- trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 24

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ager has decided to bless us with his presence. How was your nap?” “Very refreshing,”Jim said.“Thanks for sending Janice after me.” “My pleasure. How’s that promotion treating you?” Jim smiled grimly as he sat down. He’d spent most of his six months at the Botany Bay as a lowly bellhop. His “promotion”—now a standing joke between Dexter and himself—happened out of the blue.The general manager called him into his office one day and said he’d heard good things about his “management style” and his ability to “energize” the rest of the uniformed staff. Dexter had guessed,accurately,that much of Jim’s vaunted“lead- ership style” sprang from the fact that he was six foot two and a muscular two hundred and twenty pounds.Which tended to produce excellent compliance when he asked staffers to do things. Like the time he cornered Ted,the pool guy, and warned him to stop leering at female guests while cleaning the filters.Ted seemed thoroughly motivated after that encounter. “Any more motivated and he would have pissed himself,”Dex- ter had joked at the time. “When are these people going to realize I took this job to avoid responsibility?” Jim said. “You and me both, buddy,” Dexter said.“I’m having zero luck with that today.Kevin should have had my back when I collected that goddamned mime, but he’s home sick. Right now, I’m the only law west of the Pecos.” “At least we’re not full up,”Jim offered. “Thank God for that. If this place was hopping, we’d be screwed. People have been calling in sick all day.” He scowled at his bandage.The gauze was starting to turn pink. “You need to get that looked at,”Jim said.“It’s bleeding way too much.” trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 25

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“I’ll take care of it after work,”Dexter said.“Things are too hectic for me to duck out of here.” “Hectic, huh? Then I better switch to Emergency Mode.” “What’s that? Jim stood up to leave.“It’s where I toss my walkie-talkie down the fire stairwell and hide in the freight elevator.” “Sounds like a plan.And say hello to Sarah for me.” “What are you talking about?” Jim said. “You think I’m stupid? Every time you visit me, you find an excuse to visit the new girl’s cubicle. It must be instinctive. Like those sparrows that fly back to Caracas every year.” “It’s swallows, and they fly back to Capistrano,”Jim said.“But I get your point. I’ll tell her you said hi.” “And watch your back,”Dexter added.“That mime could have friends.” “I really doubt that mimes have friends,” Jim said as he walked out the door. He found Sarah Cornell, the hotel’s recently hired twenty-five- year-old assistant catering coordinator, sitting in her cubicle. “Hey,”he said.“How’s the food business?” Sarah glanced up from her desk. She looked tired. “I need thirty pounds of edible jelly worms for one of the Gulf- Con banquets.They’ll be part of an alien buffet—something called goog.” “You mean gagh,”Jim corrected.“It’s a type of worm favored by Klingons.” “Whatever, nerd,” Sarah said.“I’m driving to a warehouse club to buy some.” “It’s gotta be a hundred and ten degrees outside.” “Doesn’t matter. Neither rain nor snow nor extreme heat shall trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 26

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stay this courier from getting a bunch of fake worms for sci-fi geeks to nosh on.And then I’m sneaking home early.I really,really need to take off my bra.” “I can help with that,”Jim offered.“I’m kind of an expert.” “No, seriously.Look at this.” Sarah pulled back her blue silk blouse to reveal her bare right shoulder. Just below her collarbone sat a purplish bruise about the size of a lemon. Her bra overlapped its edge. “Itches like crazy,”she said. “You should see a doctor,”Jim said. “If I had health insurance,I would.But our company has a three- month probationary period for new hires.”Sarah retrieved her purse from under her desk and stood up.“Can you do me a favor?” “Of course.” “Rodriguez is setting up a dinner buffet in the exposition hall. We’re waiting on a big cake shaped like a . . . a . . . ” She retrieved a sticky note from beside her computer. “A D7-class Klingon battle cruiser. But I can’t get anyone at the bakery to take my call. So, you need to give Rodriguez their phone number, okay?” Sarah handed him the sticky note, and Jim noticed a wad of tissue wrapped around her right index finger. “My neighbor’s four-year-old bit me,”she explained. “You’re serious?” he asked.“Dexter was just telling me he—” “I couldn’t believe it,” Sarah continued.“Little brat sneaked up on me while I was walking to my car. I thought he was going to chomp it right off.” She showed him the wound—just some bloody, baby-tooth- sized dents. But as Jim watched, the dents welled up with blood. Sarah wiped them with the crumpled tissue and then threw it in her trash trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 27

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can.A can that was already half full of bloody scraps. “It’snot the end of the world,”she assured him.“Just find Rodriguez for me, all right?” Sarah stepped out of her cubicle and walked away.Jim watched her leave. Then he looked down at the note. It was speckled with bright red flecks of fresh blood. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 28

CHAPTER 2 Balance of Terror

Little kids bite grown-ups every day, Jim told himself.And a drunk mime nipping a security guard was nothing to get worked up about. It was just a weird coincidence. Yet his famed “spider sense” was tingling. Jim had learned to trust his instincts during his first combat tour, when he realized he always seemed to know, maybe half a minute before everyone else,that the crap was going to hit the fan. His sergeant said it reminded him of how dogs can tell when an earthquake is coming. He earned his reputation early in that first deployment. He was on patrol with his unit, marching down a rutted gash in the ground that the locals generously called a road. Beside it sat an old, rusted-out pickup truck that looked like it had been there since before the So- viets invaded. Jim’s unit had marched past it a dozen times on a dozen different days.The wreck was part of the landscape. Except this time.As they approached it,Jim sensed something awry. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what,but he felt it so strongly that he summoned the nerve to mention it to the captain leading the patrol. Not surprisingly,the captain ordered him to elaborate. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 29

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“The vegetation around the truck—it’s been disturbed,”Jim said, thinking fast.“I think someone’s been screwing around over there.” Which, Jim figured, might have been true. Perhaps that’s the particular detail his ever-alert subconscious registered.What mat- tered was that his unit gave the truck a wide berth.And that later the captain notified ordnance disposal, which opened its hood and found two freshly placed 105-millimeter artillery shells linked to a radio- controlled detonator.Whoever was supposed to press the button was long gone. So, he knew he had a sixth sense about danger. It served him well in combat zones, where he understood the threats. But now he was standing in the middle of a two-star hotel on a sunny August day, surrounded by innocent civilians, while his internal shit-storm detec- tor buzzed for attention. He didn’t have a clue what it wanted. Maybe I’m just bored, Jim thought. Maybe I’m so tired of this bellhop crap that my unconscious is trying to manufacture something for me to worry about. He held Sarah’s note between his thumb and index finger as he walked the long, long hallway linking the lobby to the Endeavour Room, its main exhibition hall.To his right, restrooms and storage areas lined the wall.To his left were doors leading to smaller meeting and dining areas. Most had easels out front stating that, at some particular time on Saturday afternoon, they’d host events with names like “Cheating DeathViaTransporter” or “Klingons and Bynars and Gorn, Oh My!” Jim stopped just long enough to read a large poster taped to the door of the auditorium. It explained that Saturday night’s keynote address would be given by a Harvard professor named Eli Sandoval, an acclaimed exobiologist and one of the world’s leading authorities on the possibilities of extraterrestrial life.Jim wondered how the GulfCon trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 30

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organizers lured a fanboy with Ivy League credentials all the way down to Houston in the middle of August. By the time he reached the Endeavour Room’s entrance, across from the GulfCon registration desk, the blood on Sarah’s note had started to dry.It was five fifteen and he was supposed to meet his sister in less than an hour. She and her friends were driving more than a hundred miles to attend the convention and hoped to arrive at six o’clock, or thereabouts. Jim took out his cell phone and scrolled down the menu to “Rayna.” His sister’s cell rang four times before she picked up. “Hey,Jim,”was all he heard before a blast of static overwhelmed the connection. “Rayna?” he said. “ . . . stupid phone . . . ” “Is everything okay?” Jim asked. For a moment the static abated. “We’re good,”Rayna said.“Traffic’s a bear.” “What’s wrong with your cell?” Jim said. “ . . . phone connections get worse the closer we get to you . . . ” More static. “I’m not sure this convention is worth all the effort,” Jim said. “You guys might want to detour and hit the beach instead.” His half-shouted message got through.The reply came in fragments. “ . . . really looking forward . . . ” “ . . . biggest all-Trek con in the South . . . ” From the background Jim heard a male voice. It said something about nonrefundable room deposits. “All right,” Jim shouted again.“I’ll see you soon. But please be trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 31

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careful. And let me know when you’re close by, so I can meet you. What are you driving?” Jim thought he heard laughter. “You’ll see,”Rayna said.“And you won’t believe your . . . ” Her final words were swallowed by a howl of interference. Jim looked at the phone, swore under his breath, then snapped it shut and slipped it into his pants pocket. Only then did he notice that his bellowing had drawn the attention of pretty much everyone at the GulfCon registration table. “Trouble with your communicator?” asked a short, stout man dressed as a Ferengi. “Subspace interference,” Jim said to the fifteen or so Trekkies staring at him.“It’s always really bad in this sector.” A Tellerite and a Romulan nodded knowingly. Rayna’s twenty years old, Jim thought. She’s a grown-up. I’m acting like an overprotective father. But Jim knew he couldn’t help it.He’d played that role ever since their real father had died in an oil refinery accident. Even now, Jim’s mental picture of his sister was the indelible image of a ten-year-old girl with tears in her eyes, struggling to understand that Dad wasn’t coming home and that from now on she’d have to make do with just a mom and a brother. Actually, she wasn’t even that lucky.Their mother, a borderline alcoholic before the accident, decided to go all the way afterward. She wasn’t violent or loud. She just wasn’t . . . anything. Every day, Jim would come home from football practice—with Rayna tagging along because after school she didn’t have anything else to do but sit in the bleachers and do her homework. And there Mom would be, parked on the couch, sipping wine and watching Springer. She died from a heart attack while Jim was in Afghanistan. It was trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 32

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yet another example, he told himself, of how he was never around when people really needed him. His little sister picked the casket, planned the funeral, and even spoke at the sparsely attended memorial service. Jim was discharged from the army two months later. Everything about his relationship with his sister changed. Rayna became the responsible one while he devolved into a lost, frightened child. She was a college junior, powering toward a psychology degree. She had a life. She had friends—even if some of them were science-fiction nerds. She had a future. Meanwhile, Jim was a glorified bellhop. His only “goal” was never again to put himself in a position where others depended on him. Because he knew he’d fail. Just like he failed Rayna. Just like he failed in Afghanistan. “Excuse me,”a voice said,interrupting his reverie.“Are you with the hotel?” Jim snapped out of his funk. Standing before him was a trim, balding, middle-aged man wearing an impeccably tailored Voyager- style medical uniform. He bore an uncanny resemblance to the show’s holographic doctor. But Jim instantly recognized him as GulfCon’s keynote speaker, the exobiologist from Harvard University. “How can I help you, Dr. Sandoval?” The doctor stiffened.“You know who I am?” “I just saw a poster for your lecture,” Jim explained.“It’s pretty heroic of you to come all this way just to brief a bunch of Trekkies.” “Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Sandoval said, seemingly relieved. “Public outreach is an important part of my job.And I wouldn’t miss GulfCon for the world.” “You’ve been here before?” Jim was a little surprised.There were certainly biggerTrek conventions than GulfCon, and going to Hous- trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 33

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ton in August could hardly be a draw. “I come every year,”Sandoval said.“It’s a great place to dissem- inate . . . news about my work.” “Any big breakthroughs in exobiology?” Jim asked. “One could say that,”Sandoval agreed, smiling.“But you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to learn more. For now, if you could point me to the men’s room, I’d be quite grateful.” Jim pointed the doctor down the hall, then proceeded to the Endeavour Room. He was confronted by what looked like a vast outer-space flea market.The front quarter of the expo hall was given over to vendors. It was lined with rows of eight-feet-wide by twelve- feet-deep stalls separated by fabric partitions.There were roughly a hundred vendors on hand—a typical industry-convention exhibitor floor. What wasn’t typical was the stuff they offered. As he made his way deeper into the convention space,Jim saw booths hawking everything from StarTrek bobblehead figures to Spock and Kirk nutcrack- ers to Starfleet Academy coffee mugs.There were bottles of Pon Farr Perfume forWomen,a USB webcam shaped like the USS Enterprise— even a full-size replica of the ship captain’s chair. Perfect for the nerd who has everything except a life, Jim thought as he walked past. A sparse crowd perused the booths, some of which weren’t yet open for business.GulfCon had officially started at noon,but like most conventions it wouldn’t hit its stride until the weekend.The folks who turned out early were the hardest of the hardcore, the most eager of the eager. Jim spotted an old-going-on-elderly man dressed as a Talosian from the first Star Trek pilot episode,“The Cage.”Then a stroller-bound toddler decked out like Balok from “The Corbomite Maneuver.” trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 34

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No matter the outfit,Jim easily identified them all.That is,until he crossed paths with a man wearing a pink jumpsuit and what appeared to be a werewolf mask. The costume was so absurd that he wondered if its wearer didn’t know GulfCon was a Trek-only affair.This guy looked like a character from a weird Japanese video game. Yet,the more Jim studied the weird ensemble, the more it tick- led his memory. The werewolf noticed Jim staring at him. “Go ahead,”he said.“I dare you to guess.” Suddenly,it clicked. “You’re a Kzinti from StarTrek:The Animated Series.” “Damn!” the man exclaimed.“You’re the first person to nail it.” “It’s a great costume, but it isn’t canon,”Jim said. “That’s totally debatable. If you think the cartoon show isn’t part of the official StarTrek universe, then how do you explain that Kirk’s middle name,Tiberius, was first mentioned in the animated episode, ‘Bern’?” Jim felt a surprisingly strong urge to respond. Back in the day, he’d gone round and round in various Internet chat rooms about whether the obscure animated series, which ran on NBC from 1973 to 1974—a decade and a half before he was born—was a full-fledged part of theTrek universe. He even knew that the wolflike Kzinti were portrayed in pink uniforms because that particular episode’s director was color-blind and didn’t realize how absurd they looked. In his younger years, he would have spent hours debating the finer points of Trek continuity with a man dressed as a pink werewolf. But that was before he’d enlisted,before Afghanistan,before he’d sampled the real world.A real world that had annihilated his passion for Star Trek like so much antimatter. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 35

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“That’s a very interesting point,”Jim said curtly to the faux Kz- inti. “I hope you enjoy the remainder of your stay.” He was almost clear of the vendor area when one last booth caught his eye. It was full of lethal-looking edged weapons, all of unfamiliar design. Behind a folding table stood a vision of menace—a giant, scowling linebacker of a man in full Klingon makeup, including a massive cranial crest and braided, reddish-black, shoulder-length hair tumbling down over his dark skin. Every inch of his chiseled, roughly six-foot-eight-inch frame was swathed in impeccably tailored leather and metal armor. Jim walked up to the booth and examined an exotic-looking, extremely heavy dagger.There was a button on the hilt.When he pressed it, two smaller spring-loaded blades popped out of the base. “That’s a d’k tahg,”the big Klingon boomed.“The finest work- manship. A warrior such as yourself could slay many a hu’q with it.” Jim looked down at the blade. He could tell from a glance that the edge was dull. “None of these are sharpened, right?” Jim said. The Klingon’s demeanor subtly changed. “You’re with the hotel?” he asked. “Yeah.” “Don’t worry,nothing in the booth has an edge,”he said.“I have a few pieces with live blades, but they’re under lock and key in my room.” Jim thanked him for his cooperation. One of the biggest dangers in hosting a science-fiction convention was the presence of live blades on the show floor. Most people brought them with no real intention of hurting anyone; they were simply seeking an additional degree of verisimilitude. But when attendance skyrocketed and the aisles were jammed with guests, those sharpened blades became a real liability. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 36

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All it took was one person pushing and shoving his way through the crowd to get a peek at Patrick Stewart,and the result could be a punc- tured lung. “This is an outstanding collection,” Jim said.“Do you make all of these yourself?” The Klingon smiled, revealing a mouthful of pointy fake teeth. Or at least Jim assumed they were fake. “I am Martock, expert weapons maker and second in command of the bird of prey Plank’Nar.” “No, seriously,”Jim said.“Speak English.” “I own a metal-fabricating shop in Atlanta,”Martock said.“This stuff’s like a sideline for me.A really,really profitable sideline. I do Lord of the Rings, Xena, Highlander, you name it. If you see a movie and like a particular piece of hardware, I can make you a copy.” Jim took in the weapons on display.There were daggers of various lengths, all with contorted, nasty-looking blades.There were also several large,crescent-shape contraptions with three leather-lined han- dles on one side and four sword points and a continuous yard-long edge on the other. “Nice bat’leths,”he said.“Very authentic looking.” “You’ll find no finer swords of honor anywhere in the empire.” “Well,I hope you get lots of business.Turnout looks pretty light so far.” “Sometimes it’s slow on the first day of a con,” Martock said. “And that guy’s not helping things, either.” He pointed at the expo hall’s temporary stage. Martock’s booth was in the last row of the vending area,giving him a direct view of the day’s entertainment.As the two of them watched, a fat man sporting a jet-black pompadour, a one-piece sequined jumpsuit, and sickly grayish-green facial makeup took the stage. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 37

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“Oh,crap,”Martock said,unconsciously taking a step back.“He’s going on again.” Jim grinned.“I thought Klingons didn’t show fear.” “They’d show it if they had to listen to this guy. For the third time today.” “Ladies and gentlemen and otherwise, please give it up for Elvis Borgsley,”someone announced. “Really?” Jim asked.“They’re serious?” “He’s supposed to be Elvis Presley,if Elvis had been assimilated into the Borg Collective,” Martock said.“I’d like to assimilate him into the trunk of my car.At least until the end of the con.” Borgsley headed toward the microphone with stunted, mechanical movements. He launched into an off-key ballad called “Are You Isolated from the Collective Tonight?” “Why do they keep bringing him out?” Jim said. “It’s all they have,”Martock replied, visibly pained.“There was supposed to be a Trek metal band called Warp Core Breach, but they’re late.” “Bummer,”Jim said. He was about to walk away when he noticed a cot in the back of Martock’s booth. Someone was lying on it, but all he could see was a pair of dirty women’s athletic shoes sticking out from under a blanket. “Who’s your friend?” he asked, pointing to the cot. “My business partner,Karen,”Martock explained.“She does custom-tailored uniforms—Klingon, Cardassian, all the generations of Starfleet. Really nice work.” “Is she okay?” “She’s just hungover. She went out on the town last night.When she finally crawled back this morning, all she said was that she felt like trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 38

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crap and needed to crash. I hate to think how many commissions she’s missing.” “She might have a bug,”Jim said.“There’s definitely something going around.” “Or maybe she ate off that nasty buffet over there,”Martock said, pointing to the room’s far corner.“It’s been sitting out all day,with no attendants, no nothing.” Jim suddenly remembered Rodriguez and the note in his hand. “I’ll check into it,”he said.“Enjoy Mr. Borgsley.” Martock offered a halfhearted wave. Jim walked to the buffet and found a typical breakfast spread of bagels,sausage,eggs,and cartons of milk and juice.But it wasn’t breakfast anymore. Not even close.The drink cartons floated in a tub of lukewarm water that had formerly been ice.The Sterno candle under the warming tray for the sausage had gone out. Jim glanced around the room for Rodriguez or one of his min- ions. But there wasn’t a single hotel employee in sight. He took out his walkie-talkie. “Rodriguez,”he called.“Are you there?” No response. Jim stalked through a nearby door, into a service area. He found shelves lined with tablecloths, silverware, warming trays, and napkins, all where they should be. Deeper in the storeroom he passed crates of bottled water, soft drinks, and canned goods—just a small portion of the mountain of foodstuffs the Botany Bay kept on hand at all times,tucked away in various kitchens,freezers,and pantries. But still no staffers. Jim walked toward an exterior door where the hotel used to take deliveries. It led outside to an accessway—really just a wide alley— bracketed on one side by the hotel, and on the other by an office building. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 39

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He pushed open the heavy steel door and was rewarded with a blast of brightTexas sunshine.The humidity was stifling. He immediately started to sweat. And almost immediately he spotted Rodriguez, leaning against the wall with a soda bottle in his hand. “What are you doing out here?” Jim said.“You’ve got a breakfast buffet that’s about to go viral.” “I’ve been running around all day,” Rodriguez countered.“I’m just taking five minutes to catch my breath.And it’d be a lot more re- laxing if I wasn’t being spied on.” “I’m sorry,”Jim said.“Sarah sent me.” “I don’t mean you. I mean them.” Rodriguez pointed to the far end of the alley,which opened up next to the Botany Bay’s front entrance.A trick of architecture cast it into deep shadow.Jim could make out a couple of dumpsters and little else. But the longer he stared, the more convinced he became that there were people in the gloom.Several,actually.And they were looking at him. “Who are they?” Jim asked. “Homeless guys.There’s always a couple down there. Nice shady spot on a hot day. But for some reason they’ve been giving me the eye.” “All the more reason to go back to work.”Jim handed him the note from Sarah.“She wants you to call this bakery. It’s about some kind of . . . ” “D7 battle cruiser cake,”Rodriguez said, nodding.“I’ll deal with it.” Jim watched Rodriguez step back inside and then held the door for himself. Before returning to the storage room, he glanced one last time at the end of the alley. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 40

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The people in the dark were still watching. It was odd, but it didn’t really add up to anything.The bites on Dexter and Sarah were strange, too . . . but so what? Jim stepped back into the hotel and closed the door behind him. This isn’t Afghanistan, he thought, repeating his personal mantra. I’m not responsible for any of the trivial bullshit that happens in this stupid hotel. None of it really matters—and amen to that. Just then his walkie-talkie chirped for attention. Jim pulled it out and toggled it on. “Yeah?” he said. “Your sister just called.”The voice belonged to Oscar, the security guard who manned the control booth in the hotel garage.“She’ll be here in five minutes. Her friends reserved a spot in our secured parking area.” “Damn it,”Jim said. “You’re welcome.You coming?” “Right away.Where do I go?” “Space K-7.” “That’s a bus slot.” “Which suggests they’re arriving in a bus. But you’re welcome to drag your sorry ass down here and see for yourself.” Jim put away his walkie-talkie.Then, once and for all, he pushed aside any lingering worries about hotel-related problems.He had family to think about. Stuff that really did matter. It was time to go meet Rayna. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 41

CHAPTER 3 The Menagerie, Part I

The hotel’s parking garage contained seven levels, six above ground and one below.The cavernous underground lot accommo- dated tour buses, luxury motor coaches, and anything else that needed extra space and extra security.At night,a gigantic metal gate descended over the one and only entrance, locking it up tight. Jim stood beside K-7, awaiting the arrival of his sister. A voice crackled over his walkie-talkie. “Here they come,” said Oscar.“Holy shit.You are not going to believe this.” “Believe what?” Jim replied. Almost before he got the question out, his sister’s ride lumbered around the corner. It was an enormous recreational vehicle—the kind that rock stars use while touring and retirees take toYellowstone.Only Jim had never seen one like this before. It was painted a shiny,metallic bluish silver. Something resembling a satellite dish sprouted from the grill.Along the entire length of the roofline on both sides ran fat metal tubes with flickering red lights at the front. Jim knew exactly what he was looking at:a very costly,very elaborate, very pathetic attempt to turn the RV into the USS Enterprise. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 42

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“Houston, we have a freak show,”he muttered dejectedly. The RV came to a stop with a hiss of air brakes.The side door cracked open,and out jumped Rayna.She closed the ten feet between them in three excited strides and embraced him. He hugged her back, lifting her petite frame off the floor. “You’ve changed,”she said as she stared up at his face.“You look more serious.” “You have no idea,”Jim replied.“But you’ve changed, too.” “Really? How?” “You’re blue. And you have antennae sprouting out of your head.” “I’m an Andorian,”Rayna said.“We’re a warlike race from an M- class moon.You can call me by my proper name, LieutenantThellina.” “Already got your geek on, I see.” “You should be congratulating me,” Rayna said.“I’ve just been promoted to helmsman of the USS Stockard.” “What’s the ‘Stockard’?” Rayna pointed to the RV. “I see,”Jim said.“Who gave you this rank?” The door to the Stockard swung open again. Out stepped a tall, thin, twenty-something man wearing a gold jumpsuit with a matching gold jacket. He also had on aviator shades—the big ones thatTom Cruise sported in Top Gun. “Hey,Lieutenant Hottie,”he called.“Where’d you run off to?” Jim watched as Mr. Ray-Bans put his left arm around his sister’s neck. It wasn’t a hug as much as a mock wrestling hold. For a moment he wondered if he was going to give her a noogie. “Don’t mess up my antennae,”Rayna pleaded. Jim felt his neck and shoulders stiffen.He’d only just met this guy, but he’d already disliked him for years. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 43

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“Matt, this is my brother, Jim,”Rayna said. “Matthew Stockard,”he said.“Or rather, for the duration of this soiree, Commodore Stockard. Commander of the USS Stockard.” “Matt taught me how to drive this thing,”Rayna chimed in. “At first I worried she couldn’t handle a big rig,”Matt said.“But she’s a natural. Real enthusiastic.” It occurred to Jim that he would have no problem putting Com- modore Asshole on the garage’s cement floor. He certainly had the means, and Matt just handed him the motive. Rayna sensed her brother’s mood. “What he means is, I drove most of the way here,”she offered soothingly.“It’s really not that hard.” “I’m sure it’s not,”Jim said.“What do you do for a living, Matt?” “That’s ‘Commodore.’” “Whatever.What’s your actual job?” Rayna frowned.“Jim, during a convention it’s not good form to push people for details about their mundane lives,” she said.“If they want to volunteer information, that’s fine. But—” “I’m a software developer for Imp Entertainment,” Matt said. “Worked on a couple of games you’ve probably heard of.D’you know Shopping Maul?” As a matter of fact, Jim did. He’d played the game several times. It featured a post-apocalyptic shopping center overrun with mutants. You had to go from store to store, buying things while wiping out the bad guys with a chain gun. It was actually pretty challenging. Shooting people while pushing a shopping cart took some getting used to. “Sorry,it doesn’t ring a bell,”Jim lied. A look of disappointment flashed across Matt’s face. “Your loss,” he said. “It was only last year’s hottest first-person shooter game.” trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 44

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Matt turned his hands into finger guns and pointed them at Jim’s chest. “Ka-pow!” he said.“Ka-pow! Ka-pow!” Then he raised the finger guns to his mouth, blew away imaginary smoke, and pretended to holster them. Jim tried to think of something to say.He was saved from the attempt when another one of Matt’s passengers descended from the RV. She was Rayna’s age and sported a bobbed black haircut and clunky rectangular glasses.Her uniform consisted of a halter top and miniskirt, plus pointed prosthetic ears and a dagger holstered on her right hip. “Jim, this is my friend T’Poc,”Rayna said.“T’Poc, Jim.” “Hey,”T’Poc offered. Jim heyed her back. “T’Poc is aVulcan officer from the ISS Enterprise, which exists in a mirror universe ruled by the barbaric Terran Empire,” Rayna said. “You know,the inside-out dimension where all the good guys are bad guys and Spock has a goatee.” “Yeah,” Matt said. “Get her drunk and she’ll show you her goatee.” “If he’s lucky,”T’Poc smiled. “That sounds . . . great,” Jim said uncertainly.“What do you do in the real . . . ” Rayna shot him a look. “I mean,what do you do aboard the evil,mirror-image Enter- prise?” “I’m the commanding officer’s personal yeoman,”T’Poc said.“I assist him in his amoral, selfish quest to claw his way to the top of the command chain. It’s roughly analogous to the job belonging to my counterpart in this universe.” “And that would be?” trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 45

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“She’s my executive assistant,”Matt said.“Keeps track of all the stuff I’m too busy to remember.” “Speaking of which,” she said,“you need to get Gary off the ship. He’s really stinking up the place.” Matt sighed, then pounded on the side of the RV. “Hey Horta, get your pimply butt out here!” he shouted.“Front and center, mister, before Imp Entertainment decides to replace you!” “Coming,”called a voice from inside. The door opened once more, and a grossly overweight young man climbed out. Unlike the others, decked out in their full convention splendor, he wore ratty jeans, faded yellow Chuck Taylors, and a threadbare shirt that read “I Stole a Bird of Prey,Resurrected Spock, and Saved the Planet, and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt.” He also reeked of putrescence and was spattered with vile black goo. “Meet Gary Severin, my pet Horta,”Matt said.“You know what a Horta is?” “Not a clue,”Jim lied again, when in fact he knew all about the lumpy,silica-based, acid-spewing subterranean monsters that debuted in the classic Trek episode,“Devil in the Dark.”But he played dumb, forcing Matt to spend more than a minute explaining the concept. “I call Gary a Horta because he’s large and lumpy, too,” Matt concluded, just in case the comparison wasn’t clear. “I also suffer from acid reflux,”Gary said forlornly. Jim frowned.“Is that why you’re covered in slime?” Matt walked over to Jim and put his arm around his shoulders. He left it there, as if they were old friends.“Gary had a run-in a few miles back with a psycho soccer mom . . . or something.” “Or something?” Jim asked. “He can tell you all about it.As a matter of fact I guarantee he’ll trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 46

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tell you since he hasn’t shut up for one goddamn minute since it happened. But never mind all that.Right now we need to find our rooms and change our clothes, because the Klingon Feast starts at . . .T’Poc?” “Seven o’clock in the Gweagal Room,” theVulcan said tone- lessly. “We’ll be there ten minutes early,”Matt decided,“so we can find a table big enough for all five of us.” Jim did the math and then shot a look at his sister, who seemed to have found something very interesting on the garage floor to observe. “You told me we were meeting for dinner at seven,” he reminded her.“This was your plan?” “I’m booked all weekend,”Rayna apologized.“But I really want to see you.” “Trust me, you’re going to love it,”Matt said.“There’s a bat’leth demonstration, barrels of bloodwine, and all the gagh you can eat.” “I don’t want to spoil yourTrek buzz,”Jim said.“You go eat your gagh and have fun.” “Please come,”Rayna said.“For me?” “Actually . . . ” “Did I mention that Matt has been hitting on me nonstop for the last three hours?” “I’ll be there,” Jim decided. He retrieved a trio of room keys from his pocket and distributed them to Matt, Rayna, and T’Poc. “You’re all checked in,” he explained.“Just take the elevators over there. Gary and I will take the freight elevator way over there, so he won’t scare off the paying guests.” “Where are the elevators?” Matt asked, his head swiveling around.“I don’t see them.” “Lose the shades,”T’Poc said. Matt, with great reluctance, finally took off his Ray-Bans. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 47

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“Ah, target acquired,” he said.“See you later, Jim, Brother of Rayna.And here’s something for your college fund.” He slipped a ten-dollar bill into the breast pocket of Jim’s jacket. Jim felt a flash of true anger. He was about to suggest someplace else where Matt could slip his money when, once again, he caught a glimpse of his sister.And he refrained. Instead, he grabbed Gary’s duffel bag from inside the RVand then led him across the dimly lit garage toward the service elevators. “Hey, Oscar,” he said into his radio.“I’ve got my sister and her friends.Thanks for letting me know they were coming.” “Can’t talk now,buddy,”came the static-filled reply.“I got some knuckleheads causing trouble out here. Standing in the street. Harass- ing cars. Drunk frat boys, I’m guessing.” “You need help?” Jim asked. “Go have fun with your sister,”Oscar told him.“I’ve got this situation under control.” Jim clicked off his radio and turned his attention to Gary.“I don’t mean for this to come out the wrong way,”he said,“but is your buddy Matt as big of an asshole as he seems?” “You ain’t seen nothing yet,”Gary promised.“Once he settles down at the Klingon Feast and has a few drinks, his douche-bag powers will go to full strength. He’ll crank it all the way up to warp 9.95.” Jim assumed this was bad.Very bad. The two plodded the rest of the way to the elevator in silence. Jim mused that there was an excellent chance,a truly excellent chance, that Matt wouldn’t get out of the Botany Bay Hotel alive. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 48

CHAPTER 4 The Cage

Meanwhile, in a distant level of the hotel far, far away, Princess Leia Organa lay handcuffed by the wrists to the headboard of a queen- size bed. The man holding the key to her freedom was named Donnie Trill. He was a self-styled Web entrepreneur, videographer, and the closest thing she had to a confidant.They’d known each other for about a year.Whenever Trill needed a female model for one of his oddball Internet video projects—and had cash in hand—he gave her a call. She watched as Donnie messed with the settings on his digital camera. He wore an ill-fitting gold uniform from the original Star Trek series. It stretched in a profoundly unflattering way over his gut. But that wasn’t what troubled her now. She was mulling over the larger issue of how she’d reached such a crossroads in her life.How a perfectly normal—well, reasonably normal—person such as herself wound up doing such patently abnormal things. She’d been pondering that question a lot lately. “Tell me again what this is for,”she asked. “Some fan site,”Donnie said, not bothering to look up from his trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 49

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camera.“For people who despise the Star Wars franchise.Actually,it’s for Trekkies who despise Star Wars.” “Does it have much of a following?” “Just fifty thousand paying subscribers.” “Good Lord.” “You know what’s really impressive?Their creative director pays cash up front. I’ll send him the video tonight and it’ll go live almost immediately.” “What do I have to do?” “Just lie there.The premise is that you’re a Star Wars groupie dressed as Princess Leia, and that I’m an obsessed Star Trek fan who’s kidnapped you, handcuffed you to a bed and then . . . ” “Nothing sexual.” “Honey,have you forgotten who you’re with?”Donnie said.“I’m gayer than George Takei.All I’m going to do is stand around and be- rate you about how much the Star Wars universe sucks and how Star Trek is superior in every way.” “And then what?” “And then the Death Star explodes and the rebel base is saved. What do you think? I shut off the camera, unlock the cuffs, give you a thousand bucks, and we’re done.” She sighed and rolled her eyes. “How long will this take?” “Maybe fifteen minutes.The guy gave me a script.You don’t have any lines. Just look annoyed. Kind of like you do now.” “Well,hurry up. I’ve got another job right after this one.” “Booth babe?” “What else? They’ve got this ridiculous outfit for me—a silver- blue bathing suit—and they want me to carry a spear. I’m playing Shahna from ‘The Gamesters of Triskelion.’” trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 50

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“I have no idea what that means.” “It’s a classic Season Two episode. Kirk, Chekov, and Uhura are captured by disembodied brains who use them as gladiators—” “Do you wear a wig?” “A nice one,”she said.“Platinum blonde.Very Lady Gaga.” “The fanboys are going to love that. Maybe you’ll make a new friend this weekend.” “I’m just here for the money,”she assured him. She never had the interest nor the ambition to pursue conventional modeling—and at a healthy six foot one, she didn’t exactly have a clothes-rack body.But at a small-scale event like GulfCon, she was invariably a belle of the ball.And when the fanboys discovered that she genuinely loved science fiction—that she could quote chapter and verse from Deep Space Nine, they’d plead to have their pictures taken with her. She usually worked two or three gigs a month and every dime went right into the bank. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Okay, she thought. Character.Get into character.If I’m going to spend the weekend as bikini eye candy for pervy fanboys, no one has to know who I am.As long as I’m wearing this getup, I am Princess Leia. “A lot of these guys have serious bank,” Donnie remarked. “If you can look past the uniforms and the prosthetic ears,you could land yourself a really nice boyfriend.” “Just roll the camera, Dr. Phil.” “You don’t want a boyfriend?” “I don’t want to talk about it.” She fidgeted on the bed.The handcuffs were digging uncomfortably into the tender skin on her wrist.“The only person I like to depend on is me.” “Brrrrr, you’re frigid tonight!” Donnie said, grinning.“But I’ll tell you what.We’re going to get good and drunk in the hotel bar trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 51

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tonight and work through some of your issues.” He turned off the ringer on his cell phone and set it down on the nightstand along with the handcuff key.Then he mounted his camera on a tripod,turned on its tiny auxiliary light,and looked at the preview screen again. “Now when I start, I’ll do a few seconds of you trying to yank your hands free.Then I’ll walk in and start reading the script.” “You’re just going to stand there and read?” “Nothing in the contract says I have to memorize this.And no one’s going to be looking at me, anyway.I could hold a rabid raccoon and people wouldn’t notice.” Donnie shuffled through the several pages of typed,single-spaced dialogue.Then he cleared his throat. “And what’s with Jar Jar Binks?” he announced in a theatrical voice.“People say he’s a walking, talking Happy Meal toy. But you know what? That’s an insult to Happy Meal toys! They’re way more entertaining than Jar Jar!” “Is it all like that?” “Pretty much.The guy told me to sound really ticked off.” “Your fury is almost palpable. Let’s do this thing.” As Donnie switched on the camera,something thumped the wall above her head. “What was that?” Leia asked. “The people next door must be having a quickie,”Donnie said. “Their timing sucks. It’ll ruin the take.” A moan wafted through the wall. “We can’t wait for them to finish,”Leia said.“I have to be downstairs in—” “I know,I know,”Donnie said. There was a second thump, followed by a short, high-pitched trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 52

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scream. “You need to shut them up,”Leia said. Donnie turned off the camera and its light and then started toward the door. “Hey, I was kidding,” she said.“Don’t you dare leave me like this.” “Hold tight,”Donnie said.“I’ll just be a second.” He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.He pulled the door closed behind him, but it didn’t latch. Instead it bounced against the frame and then drifted open a couple of inches. Leia tested the handcuffs to see if she could slip free, but Don- nie had tightened them all the way. Thanks, buddy, she thought. A few seconds ticked by.Then a few more. She glanced over to the key on the nightstand. It was just eighteen inches away from her right hand—but it might as well have been a mile. “Donnie?” she called out. He didn’t reply. The seconds stretched into minutes. Leia considered calling out again, but the noises coming from the adjacent hotel room made her think better of it.There were more moans—but not the sort you’d expect to hear under such circumstances.There was no pleasure in these voices.They sounded like they were dying—or worse. Even more troubling, the voices seemed to be moving into the hallway.The stretch of hallway just beyond her slightly open hotel room door. Leia didn’t know what was happening, but she knew she wanted no part of it. She lay perfectly still, using a yoga technique to calm her breath- trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 53

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ing, hoping that Donnie would return, but gradually understanding that, for whatever reason, he wasn’t coming back. I’ve got a bad feeling about this, she thought. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 54

CHAPTER 5 Errand of Mercy

The service elevator was big and poorly lit. Some of the hotel staff used it for cigarette breaks, so it normally reeked of smoke. But today all Jim could smell was Gary. Or, rather, the black viscous goo on Gary’sT-shirt. The elevator’s doors slid shut. It slowly rumbled up toward the seventh floor. “You’ll have to forgive me for asking,” Jim said,“but what the hell happened to you?” “Crazy shit is what happened,”Gary explained.“We were heading down 249 and were just inside Beltway 8 when the Commodore stopped for gas.You can probably guess who had to pump.” Jim pointed at Gary. “Affirmative. Now the only other car in the gas station is aVolvo station wagon. And while I’m standing there waiting for the RV to tank up, I realize the driver of theVolvo isn’t moving. She’s slumped over the steering wheel. Her window’s down maybe six inches.The stink coming out of this car is unbelievable.” “What did you do?” Jim asked. “I tap on the glass and there’s no response. So I figure she’s dead. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 55

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I’ve found a dead body. I call out for Matt to come look, and in that split second the woman is suddenly grabbing me. Her hand’s through the open window and she looks nuts. Her face is smashed up against the glass and her mouth is snapping like a crocodile’s.That’s about all I remember. Matt says I did some crazy,girly-looking dance until she let go.” “He didn’t get out and help? “Nah. He said he felt obligated to stay clear, because he’d heard on a National Geographic special that you’re not supposed to screw around with nature’s rhythms. So he just sat there watching me while I fought off that crazy bitch.” “But the stuff on your shirt—” Gary nodded. “It was all over her hands.Actually, I’d swear it was coming out of her hands. Like blisters or lesions or something.They were all over her face, too.” Jim studied Gary’s face for a moment.Then he let out a long sigh. “That sounds like Dawn of the Freaking Dead,” he said. “You sure you aren’t jerking my chain?” Now it was Gary’s turn to study Jim. “You got me,”he said.“It’s all a joke. I rolled in roadkill, just so I could get you to believe my story about being attacked by an insane milf in aVolvo. Because even though we’ve only just met, I live to jerk your chain. I fantasize about it.” The elevator bell rang for the seventh floor and the doors slid open. Jim stepped out first to make sure the hall was clear. “All right,”he said.“Let’s go.” “I wouldn’t worry about scaring the guests,”Gary told him as he emerged from the elevator and followed Jim down the hall.“I won’t trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 56

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be the weirdest sight at a Star Trek convention.” “Maybe not,”Jim said as he stopped in front of room 744.“But you’re definitely the weirdest smell.” He passed the room card over the door, unlocking it.The accommodations included two queen-size beds, a small bathroom, and windows overlooking the Botany Bay’s vast atrium. Over each bed hung a painting—the same paintings that could be found in the majority of the Botany Bay’s guest lodgings. One showed Captain Cook landing for the first time on the Australian coast—at a place he’d soon name Botany Bay.The other showed his sailing ship, HMS Endeavour, in storm-tossed seas.The paintings were the hotel’s most obvious— and pretty much only—attempt to explain its name to patrons. Though why a hotel in Houston would choose for its theme the adventures of an eighteenth-century British sea captain was beyond Jim. “Thank Surak!” Gary exclaimed.“All I want to do is lose these clothes, grab a shower, and have a long, long nap.” “The first two are on the agenda, but not the third,”Jim said as he dropped his companion’s big, green duffle bag on the bed.“We’re due downstairs for the Klingon Feast.” Gary looked at him wearily and then unzipped his duffle bag, fished out a large, cardboard shirt box and a shaving kit, and disappeared with them into the bathroom.A few moments later the toilet flushed.Then the shower kicked on. Jim flopped into a tiny upholstered chair near the windows. He made a mental note to ask Gary to put his funky clothes in a plastic sack, so they didn’t stink up the place.He contemplated stepping out into the hallway and mooching a garbage bag from a housekeeping cart. Then he pushed the idea from his mind.Why should he give a damn if one of the hotel’s rooms smelled? Or, for that matter, if a trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 57

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Klingon battle-cruiser cake was delivered? Or if the catering staff abandoned their posts? None of it was life or death. But that business with the woman in theVolvo.That was life and death. It added to Jim’s general sense of unease. People bitten. People sick.A woman moaning and biting and reeking of death, just like Dawn of the . . . Gary emerged from the bathroom wearing a stupendously ill-fitting blue-and-black jumpsuit.The sight utterly derailed Jim’s train of thought. “First-season Next Generation,”Gary said.“My mom made it for me.What do you think?” It looked to Jim like the Starfleet recruiters were really scraping the bottom of the barrel, but he tried to frame his appraisal more diplomatically.“I’m probably the wrong person to ask,”he said.“I feel like I outgrew Star Trek a few years ago.”Then he gestured at Gary’s crotch.“But your sack is, like, right there.” Gary tugged resolutely at the suit’s inseam. “Better?” he asked. “You might want to do that every few minutes. Just to be safe.” Gary sat down on the corner of the bed. “I’m whupped,”he said. “Maybe the zombie milf infected you,”Jim suggested. “Dude, I never said she was a zombie.That’s you talking.” “But think about it. She tried to bite you,”he mused.“She was obviously out of her mind.And at least some of that slime on your shirt is blood. I’ve seen enough to know the look.And the smell.” “Now you’re freaking me out,”Gary said. “I’m freaking myself out,”Jim said.“But I know two people who were bitten today.One of them developed a really strange rash on her trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 58

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shoulder.And a lot of my coworkers are calling in sick. Isn’t this how zombie movies always start? With lots of minor, seemingly unrelated incidents?” “There’s just one problem with your theory,”Gary said.“Zombies don’t exist.Those movies are fiction.” “I know,”Jim said,“but the data all points to the same conclusion.” “The same highly illogical conclusion,”Gary clarified.“Speaking as someone with a really tenuous hold on reality, I think you might want to take yourself offline and undergo a full diagnostic, if you get my drift.” I’m not the one in a form-fitting jumpsuit, Jim thought, but he did- n’t see the point in debating it further. He didn’t really believe that the world was being overrun with walking dead—he just knew that his instincts were buzzing, and he was desperate to understand why. But first, they had a feast to attend. Jim and Gary left the room and headed down the hallway toward the elevators. Gary quickened his step when he realized it was almost seven o’clock.“I don’t need any shit from Matt for being late,”he said. “Relax,”Jim said.“Why do you put up with him?” “Matt can be a real jerk, but he’s already a legend in gaming. You’ll see tomorrow at the autographing session. He’ll have fans lined up for hours. I guess it goes to his head sometimes.” The elevator arrived and they stepped inside.“Being talented is no excuse for treating your employees like dog shit,”Jim said. Gary sighed.“He’s actually my employee. I’m his boss.” “Seriously?” “It’s like this,” he explained.“Thinking up a fresh, hugely popular game is hard. Designing one is even harder. Matt thought of one and also designed it.That means he’s valuable and has to be tolerated. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 59

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My job—one of my biggest jobs—is keeping the talent in my company happy.” The elevator descended smoothly and quickly.Its glass walls offered a panoramic view of the Botany Bay’s vast lobby. “You’re a professional punching bag,”Jim said. “An extremely well-paid professional punching bag,”Gary said. “But I’ll give Matt some credit: at least he doesn’t make stuff up. He says I’m fat, and I am. He says I can’t get a date, and I can’t. He says I live with my mother, and I do.” “If you’re so well paid, why don’t you get your own place?” Gary’s face suddenly grew serious. “Look, Mom’s sixty-seven years old and she’s been confined to a wheelchair since I was in high school. Ever since . . . the accident. She tells me I should get my own place, live my own life, but I can’t just dump her in a rest home and walk away.I want to take care of her, the way she used to take care of me. Do you understand?” “Yeah,”Jim said.“Actually,I do.” “Awesome. Because I just made all that shit up. My mom is healthy as hell. I live with her because I’m a social cripple.” Jim smiled. “And I thought Matt was a jerk,”he said. The elevator dinged,announcing their arrival on the lobby floor. Gary started to exit,but Jim stopped him with an arm across the chest. “Sack,”he said. Gary adjusted himself once more, and then they were on their way. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 60

CHAPTER 6 Wink of an Eye

Jim pointed Gary toward the Gweagal Room and then detoured to the Botany Bay’s front desk. He found Janice at the counter, all by herself. And none too happy about it. “Why are you still here?” he asked. “Dwayne hasn’t come in,” Janice said.“And his phone’s out of service, or something. I can’t reach him.” “Isn’t there anyone else?” “Would I be standing here if there was?” Janice gave Jim a long, appraising look. He thought he could hear the wheels in her head turning. “I suppose you could fill in,”she finally said. “Can’t,”Jim said.“I have a thing.” “Oh, a thing,”Janice repeated testily.“What’s her name?” “It’s not like that. My sister is here for GulfCon. I’m meeting her at the Festival of Klingons, or whatever it’s called. I can’t get out of it.” He backed his way down the hall before she could press him further. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 61

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“Way to take one for the team,”she called after him. Jim had no idea what took place at a Klingon Feast, but he had assumed it would be a little livelier than the scene he discovered in the Gweagal Room.It was in one of the Botany Bay’s smaller meeting areas and seated 150 guests for receptions,banquets,and corporate functions. Tonight,Jim pegged the head count at fifty,sixty tops.Most were either huddled around the bar or clustered in tight groups at tables. A few wore various iterations of Starfleet crew uniforms.The rest were done up in leather or faux leather and carrying fake blades. In one corner, several Klingons were engaged in a head-butting contest, slamming their cranial crests together like rutting mountain goats.And over by the bar, someone pounded out a monotonous Klingon opera on a synthesizer keyboard.A few onlookers sang the li- bretto in guttural, artificially low baritones. Jim’s understanding of the Klingon language was sketchy, but he recognized the words “fight,” “kill,”and “death” in the lyrics. He surveyed the banquet table, laden with Terran approxima- tions of various Klingon delicacies.The sights and smells ranged from exotic to flat-out disgusting. Among the more palatable items were krada legs (smoked turkey), pipius claw (conventional crab), and heart of targ (a quivering, livid, red Jell-O mold). Two men in full Klingon drag bellied up to the buffet. One grabbed a mock krada leg and took a hearty bite. “How is it?” Jim asked. “Bland,”the Klingon replied.“Needs more crapok sauce.” Jim grabbed what he hoped was an ordinary cheeseburger and then set off for the large, round table where Matt, Rayna, Gary, and T’Poc were already eating. Sitting across from them were a knot of Klingons. As soon as Matt caught sight of Jim, he glared at him. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 62

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“Dude, what kind of shithole is this place?” he asked. “Excuse me?” Jim said. “This is the worst Klingon Feast in five years of GulfCon. Look at all the empty chairs.You can’t even get a plate of gagh.” Now that was strange, Jim thought. Sarah Cornell had seemed determined to pick up those gummy worms, but apparently she had never made it back from the warehouse club. “We were expecting up to three thousand walk-ins,”Jim said. “Three thousand, my ass,”Matt said. Jim surveyed the room.The gathering didn’t look very festive. From what he could tell, there were only two distracted-looking servers.Ordinarily,for a dinner banquet in a hall this large,there would be seven. “Maybe everyone has con plague,”said Rayna.“Too many people, too many germs, too much alcohol, and not enough sleep. I had it pretty bad in San Diego last year. I spent the last two days of that show flat on my back, fighting a virus.” “Or maybe,”Gary said, delaying his response for maximum dramatic impact,“it’s the zombies.” “What?” Rayna and T’Poc exclaimed simultaneously. “Jim was talking about it earlier,”Gary said.“He thinks Houston’s been overrun by zombies.” “I didn’t say that,” Jim corrected.“I just said a zombie outbreak would explain some of the strange things that I’ve seen today.Two of my coworkers were bitten.The cops have been crazy busy.Some psycho lady smeared blood all over Gary’s shirt.This is not a normal day.” “You know zombies don’t exist, right?” Rayna asked. “I’m not the one with antennae sticking out of my head,”he reminded her.“Don’t accuse me of having an overactive imagination.” It was a slightly awkward moment, but T’Poc jumped in to de- trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 63

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fuse the tension. “Bring on the braaaaains!” she cheered.“I’d rather deal with the undead than a bunch of Babylon 5 fans!” Everyone at the table, Klingons included, voiced their hearty approval. “Most sci-fi conventions cover all the bases these days,”T’Poc told Jim.“But GulfCon’s just for Trekkers.” “Now that’s something I’ve never understood,”Jim said.“Is there really any difference between a Trekker and a Trekkie?” The table erupted in conversation.Several people tried to answer at once, but Rayna’s voice won out. “Everybody’s got their own opinion about this,”she said.“Some people consider ‘Trekkie’ to be a derogatory term coined by those who don’t understand the scene.They think it denotes someone without social skills who gloms onto Star Trek as a sort of substitute life.” “Trekkie,”Matt shouted, pointing at Gary. “Asshole,”Gary responded, pointing back at Matt. “I get it,”Jim said.“So what’s a Trekker?” “A Trekker is someone who tries to live by the philosophy and ideals espoused in the Star Trek universe,”Rayna said. “Like what?” Jim said.“Paint yourself blue?Wear shiny clothes?” “Like, believe in the perfectibility of the human race,” Rayna countered. “Or that tomorrow will be better than today,”one of the Kling- ons added. “Or that by working hard, we can bring real and lasting change,” Gary said. Jim resisted the urge to laugh at their naïveté.There were times when he felt compelled to describe the horrors he’d witnessed in Afghanistan. Decimated villages. Shattered limbs and burned bodies. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 64

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Little children who looked as broken and shell-shocked as grizzled combat veterans.These sights didn’t fill him with confidence about the future of the human race. But as usual, he kept his mouth shut, and the conversation turned to other subjects: the Gamma Quadrant, the Voyager, Leonard Nimoy’s career as a director. He decided to get up and walk to the bar.The two servers working the room were running themselves ragged,and Jim knew he’d get a drink quicker if he ordered it himself. “You want a Klingon martini?” the harassed-looking bartender asked him.“They’re gin and vermouth with a shot of bloodwine.” “What’s in the bloodwine?” “Everclear and red food coloring. It’s really popular tonight.” “I think I’ll just have a Bud,”Jim decided.“Make it a pitcher.” He returned to the table and offered the beer to the group. His new friends cheered—all except Matt,who appeared preoccupied with watching the entrance to the Gweagal Room. After everyone had a glass, Jim asked Matt if he was looking for someone in particular. “I’m supposed to meet a Klingon,” Matt explained.“He makes edged weapons. I ordered a bat’leth from him.All custom work.Made a fifteen-hundred-dollar down payment.” “I know that guy,”Jim said.“I think I met him right before you showed up.” “Well, he was supposed to be here ten minutes ago,” Matt said. “If he stole my down payment I’m going to kick his ass.” T’Poc answered with an amused snort.“Have you seen Martock? He’s, like, seven feet tall.The guy’s muscled up like an Augment.” “And he’s got enough knives and swords to arm an entire board- ing party,”Jim added.“He’ll carve you up like a serving of bregit lung.” Laughter rippled around the table. “Screw you guys,” Matt said.“I’m a central character. Nothing trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 65

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bad is going to happen to me.” “You’re a what?” Jim asked. “I’m the star of this show,”Matt explained.“Flag personnel in the various StarTrek series never get killed.” “What about me?” Gary said.“Can I get killed?” “Much as I hate to admit it, you’re probably safe, too,”Matt said. “You’re the comic foil.The funny characters always live to see another episode.” “And me?” Rayna asked. Matt furrowed his brow. “It doesn’t look good,”he said.“The commander’s romantic interests are always transitory.You’re slated to die in a horrifying final plot twist.” Matt moved on so quickly that he didn’t notice the irritated look on Rayna’s face. “I know where I stand,”T’Poc said.“I’m a semiregular character, like Guinan on Next Gen. I don’t even have to die. I could vanish tomorrow and things would go on without me.” “That about sums it up,”Matt said. Jim took a swig of his beer.“Think about this,” he proposed. “What if you’re all extras? Do you know how many starships, with their captains and their yeomen and their crusty doctors and their comic relief guys, got blown to bits during various StarTrek episodes? Maybe you’re one of those crews. Maybe you’re all just phaser fodder for some other set of characters that truly matter to the story.” Jim took another drink and let the Trekkies mull it over. “Dude, that’s deep,” Gary finally said. “We go around thinking we’re the big dogs,but maybe we’re all just crewmen on the USS Con- stellation or the USS Bellerophon or the USS Yamato.We exist simply to die.We make some minor plot point, then get dispatched.” trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 66

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“Heavy,”T’Poc said. “Bullshit,” Matt said.“I’m not an extra. I’m in the goddamn opening credits.” Jim was still formulating a response when a female Klingon returned to the table from the bar, cursing under her breath. “Party’s over,”she said.“They just ran out of bloodwine and they aren’t getting any more.” “What?” Matt said. He directed a glare at Jim, as if he were personally responsible. “Fine with me,”Gary shrugged.“I need some sleep.” “You can sleep when you’re dead,”Matt said.“Let’s go up to my room and par-tay.” Jim couldn’t believe that anyone was still using the word “par- tay”to describe an experience that was supposed to be enjoyable.Even the Klingons at the table seemed skeptical.They looked at each other, then at their watches. “We’re just going to call it a night,”one of them said.“We were supposed to do the bat’leth demonstration, but two of our guys got caught up in a riot. Down by the train station, I guess.They wanted me to pick them up, but no way am I driving in this traffic.” “Did you say riot?” Jim asked. “They said riot. It sounded like a riot.” “Maybe it’s the zombies,”T’Poc laughed.“Or wait—maybe it’s vampires! The sun’s set and now they’re finally making their move!” Gary and Rayna laughed. Jim didn’t. He knew people didn’t toss out the word “riot” in idle conversation. Cell phone reception was bad, but it wasn’t that bad.The kid with the toy phaser had complained that his television didn’t work. There was no signal. Just static. Jim’s instincts were screaming. He still couldn’t grasp the threat’s trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 67

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true nature, but he sensed its silhouette.And it was enormous. He told Rayna that he was going to swing by the front desk to check with the manager. “You do that,”Matt replied.“Tell them that theVIP in room 754 is having a meltdown about the shitty service. Use those exact words, okay?” “Got it,”Jim sighed.“Meltdown. Shitty service.” They rose from the table en masse.Their move triggered a general evacuation of the banquet, with everyone heading somewhat listlessly toward the doors. “You will come by,right?” Rayna said. “Count on it,”Jim said.“Watch yourself until I get there.” “Watch myself? What am I watching for?” “Trouble.” “Are you okay?You’re acting kind of paranoid.” “Something’s going on.I’m not saying it’s zombies,but it’s something. I’ve felt it all day.Now,suddenly,it’s worse. So keep your head on a swivel.” He watched as the group started down the hallway to the lobby. He hung around for a minute, waiting to see if anyone would appear to clean up the mess. No one did. Even the two servers seemed to have vanished. Finally he stepped out into the hallway,turned out the lights and locked the door behind him.Jim closed his eyes and then slowly rolled his neck from right to left. He opened them just in time to see Martock running out of the men’s room and heading toward the lobby. He was still in full armor and full makeup but moved with an urgency that didn’t look like play- acting. Jim was about to call out to him when he noticed something on the carpeted floor. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 68

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Something red. Something wet. Footprints. Jim followed them to the door of the restroom. It was located halfway down the long hallway that linked the lobby to the Endeav- our Room. He stepped cautiously up to the door and, not knowing what else to do, knocked. No one answered. He took a deep breath and pushed it open. It resisted slightly. He heard something metallic scrape across the floor. “Hello?” he called as he entered.“Everything okay in here?” A quick glance downward revealed that everything was, in fact, not okay.The scraping sound had come from a bat’leth lying on the floor. Jim figured Martock had dropped it on his way out. The blade was covered with blood. Jim stepped over it and entered the bathroom, backtracking over the Klingon’s crimson footprints. “Anybody in here?” he called. A bank of toilet stalls to his right prevented him from gaining a full view of the room. Jim stepped around them cautiously until he reached the row of sinks and urinals in the back. A blood-drenched body lay in a thick, red-black pool of rapidly congealing blood. “Hotel security,”Jim said, inching closer.“Are you okay?” He realized the body wore the same dirty athletic shoes he’d spotted on the woman sleeping in Martock’s booth. Then he realized the body was missing a head. Jim reeled back toward the sinks, managing to catch one to balance himself. Fighting nausea, he tried to put everything together in his mind.The Klingon had decapitated her with his bat’leth, then dropped it at the door and run away. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 69

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He turned around and stared at the mirror.There was a large, crimson smear in the middle of the glass. Jim looked into the sink beneath it. The bloody face of a young woman stared up at him. The rational part of his mind told him that the force of the de- capitation must have bounced the head off the mirror and plunked it into the basin.The primal part shouted for him to get the hell out of there. Now. For a moment, reason kept control. Jim gazed down at the face. There was an odd, purplish growth right in the middle of her forehead—just like the welt he’d seen on Sarah’s shoulder, only larger, roughly two inches in diameter. Otherwise he could swear it was the exact same mark. Jim leaned closer to study it. Suddenly the growth popped open, revealing a glaring, fully developed eye. It peered directly at him. All pretense of reason fled. Jim leapt away,caromed off the bathroom stall behind him and ran out the door as fast as his unsteady legs could carry him.He didn’t stop running until he reached the front desk. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 70

CHAPTER 7 A Taste of Armageddon

Jim found Janice standing behind the counter, utterly alone. “Call the cops,”he told her.“Now.” “The phones aren’t working,” she said. “I can’t get through to anyone.” “Did you try your cell?” “No service. Nothing works.” Jim gasped for breath. “Dexter,”he said.“Is Dexter still around?” “I don’t know.” “What about Oscar?” “He went out front twenty minutes ago.” “Why?” “Because I asked him to. Ever since the sun went down, people have been walking outside to get better reception on their cell phones.” “So?” “After a while I realized that none of them were coming back.” Jim’s breathing began to steady. He slowly got himself under control. As he did, he realized that something about Janice had trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 71

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changed. She didn’t seem angry or put-out or frustrated anymore. She seemed frightened. Profoundly and deeply frightened. “Oscar didn’t come back, either,”she whispered. Jim looked out the glass doors.All he could see was darkness. “All right,”he said.“I’ll take a quick look—” “No!” Janice said.“Didn’t you hear what I just said? Nobody comes back!” Jim hesitated.The crime scene he’d just witnessed had rattled him to his core. But seeing Janice—confident, dogmatic, in-control Janice—coming unglued was almost worse. “It’ll be okay,”he said.“I’ll just stick my head outside.You’ll never lose sight of me. Sit tight.” Jim headed toward the doors.Then he stopped and turned around. “One more thing,”he said.“I need you to do me a favor. My sister, Rayna Pike, is staying on the seventh floor. I want you to call her and tell her to stay in her room. She needs to stow her Star Trek crap for a while and look after herself.” Janice stared back at him. He wasn’t sure if any of his words had registered, and there wasn’t time to repeat them. He stepped through the first set of glass doors, into the main entrance’s air-lock. The doors shut behind him, leaving Jim, finally,with a fairly decent view of the outdoors.The Botany Bay was located on the edge of downtown Houston, just minutes away from the city’s convention center and financial district. Aside from the occasional fanboy convention, the hotel mostly catered to business travelers.The surrounding neighborhood offered little in the way of tourism or nightlife. There was an Applebee’s down the road, and a Starbucks that closed at eight o’clock, but the rest of the avenue was given over to generic office buildings and parking garages.Tonight the streets and sidewalks trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 72

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were empty,just like any other night. Jim glanced back into the hotel. Janice was behind the desk, staring at him. He waved at her, smiled, then opened the exterior door and stepped outside. A blast of hot,humid Gulf Coast air washed over him.He looked west, then east, and saw nothing unusual. Off in the distance, maybe two blocks away, he made out a pair of pedestrians. But something was wrong, and it took him a moment to realize what was missing. Smokers. On any normal night, one would find a knot of guests and staffers puffing away in front of the hotel, near the entrance to the alley where he’d spotted Rodriguez earlier in the day. It was the Botany Bay’s unofficial nicotine refuge. Midday or midnight, rain or shine, there were always smokers. Except now. Jim took a few hesitant steps toward the alley.He noticed a pack of cigarettes lying on the ground. And an iPhone.There was also a purse. And a smear of black liquid that might have been motor oil. Jim took a few more careful, quiet steps. He was close enough to hear noises coming from the alley.Footsteps shuffling.Voices grunt- ing. Something ripping. The homeless men and women he’d glimpsed earlier in the day, hiding in the shadows at the far end of the alley,were now just around the corner from him. And their numbers had grown.They sounded like an angry mob. For a moment he contemplated simply confronting them. Until he remembered that this was probably what Oscar had done. Oscar the ex-Marine who was now MIA. This isn’t in my job description, Jim thought. I’m just the goddamn bellhop. trekkies_interior3.qxd:Layout 1 5/14/10 11:00 AM Page 73

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He retraced his steps to the hotel entrance, keeping a careful eye on the alley’s mouth.He was almost to the doors when he realized the two pedestrians were now much closer,less than a hundred yards away. They were walking so strangely.Staggering, really.Just like zom— No, he thought. Rayna and Gary were right. Zombies did not exist. But these two people—whatever they were—were definitely staggering toward him.They’d seen him and were coming his way as fast as their wobbly legs could carry them. As Jim watched, he became aware of gunshots in the distance— the pop-pop-pop of a semiautomatic pistol, followed by a staccato blast that could only be produced by a fully automatic AK-47 assault rifle. All of a sudden, Houston sounded like A-Bad on a Saturday night. End of this sample. Enjoyed the preview? Buy Now

TAFT 2012 1

Taft 2012

taft_interior.indd 1 10/12/11 1:36 PM A novel By Jason Heller

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number: 2011933458

ISBN: 978-1-59474-550-8

Printed in Canada Cover design and illustration by Doogie Horner Cover photo by Sherwood Forlee Interior design by Katie Hatz Production management by John J. McGurk

Quirk Books 215 Church Street Philadelphia, PA 19106 quirkbooks.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

taft_interior.indd 4 10/26/11 5:16 PM To the real Irene: Margaret Smith, my grandmother, who came into this world the same week Taft was voted out of office. I hope you’re somewhere fixing a nice plate of chicken-and-dumplings for Big Bill right now.

taft_interior.indd 5 10/12/11 1:36 PM Prologue

taft_interior.indd 7 10/12/11 1:36 PM he bigness of the job demands a man of Taft’s type. He is thoroughly prepared for the task. . . . “TNever has there been a candidate for the Presidency so admirably trained in varied administrative service. Creed and color make no difference to him; he seeks to do substantial justice to all. There isn’t a mean streak in the man’s make-up. No man, too, fights harder when he thinks it necessary—but he hates to fight unless it is necessary.” —President Theodore Roosevelt, explaining why he endorsed William Howard Taft to follow him in office, 1908

“To be a successful latter-day politician, it seems one must be a hypocrite. . . . That sort of thing is not for me. I detest hypocrisy, cant, and subterfuge. If I have got to think every time I say a thing, what effect it is going to have on the public mind—if I have got to refrain from doing justice to a fair and honest man because what I may say may have an injurious effect upon my own fortune—I had rather not be president.” —President William Howard Taft, two years into his term, 1910

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December 6, 1912

Dear President Taft. I am sorry you lost your election. My daddy says Wilson is a lousy so & so. When you are not busy being President any more you can come visit me at my house because I am from Cincinnati too. I would like a Teddy Roosevelt bear for Christmas. Thank you for reading my letter. Liberty & justice for all. Signed, Irene O’Malley, age 6

The Washington Herald Editorial column March 5, 1913

The Herald editorial board would like to add a final note to our exclusive reportage of President Wilson’s inauguration. This newspaper has certainly had its disagreements with William Howard Taft during the four years he resided at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and we have not hesitated to point out the many occasions upon which “Big Bill” failed to live up to his predecessor Mr. Roosevelt’s fine example: for instance, his shameful treatment of that American institution, U.S. Steel. His refusal to sign legislation that would have sensibly restricted immigration to the literate. His un-American love for taxing businesses at the exorbitant rate of an entire percent of their annual income. This editorial board could go on at length! But, for all these faults, we must acknowledge that Mr. Taft usually

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managed to approximate the personal behavior of a civil gentleman while president, a fact that leaves us all the more scandalized by his behavior yesterday. After saying his good-byes at the White House door in the morning, Big Bill subsequently did not bother to show up at all for resident Wilson’s swearing-in. A more egregious snub, a more unpresidential breach of propriety, can hardly be imagined! Thus, having been granted no opportunity for a final interview with the twenty-seventh president of the United States—and, we might point out, the tenth president to be denied a second term by an unhappy American people—the Herald editorial board must deliver our parting words here upon this page: Shame on you, Mr. Taft. We surely don’t know what errand you could possibly have found so much more important than handing the reins of American democracy to your successor. Did you imagine Ohio could not wait another twenty-four hours to have its “biggest success” back? Or could you simply not bear to face a crowd of 250,000 people most eager to cheer your victor? In any case, we have no doubt that the American people will see Big Bill again soon. After all, how could we fail to see him? The man is so large, he had to be pried loose from the White House bathtub. A proud legacy indeed, sir.

taft_interior.indd 10 10/12/11 1:36 PM Part I 2011

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ark. It had been dark for so long. Dark and warm and wet Dand heavy. And silent. So silent. But not entirely so. He could hear things sometimes. A low hum of machines. A distant peal of laughter. A soft patter of either rain or tears. He could feel things, too. The settling of the soil. The tickle of roots. The stately migration of the seasons. And hunger. Good lord, the hunger. He gnawed at the loam sometimes as he dreamed. He imagined he was buried under an avalanche of roasted chicken and brown gravy and custard. All he need do was eat his way out. Instead, he slept. That is, until the lights came. It was a twinkling at first. They flashed intermittently, these lights, and then they quickly disappeared. He felt the dull thud of concussion, too, but knew not from where. But each flash and each

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thud brought him, bit by bit, out of his slumber. Damnation, was he hungry. With the hunger came memories. They lasted only as long as the flashes of light. First was a vision of a woman. A thin, pale woman. She spoke with difficulty, but she was happy, and she was strong-willed and alive. Even from this distance of space and time and consciousness, he drew from that strength. Then there were children. Small ones and grown ones. There was a house, white as though carved from ivory. There was a man: bespectacled face round and beaming, voice so much louder than his own. Then there was a smell. O glorious smell! The memory of it alone was almost enough to quell his ravenous, belly-clawing hunger. It was cherry. Cherry blossoms. The specter of the cool, sweet scent crept across his soul like a song. It came and went, but each time it faded, he clutched at it as if it were his own life’s blood. Then, one day or minute or millennium later, he didn’t simply dream of the cherry blossoms. He smelled them. The scent washed over him as he bolted upright. Other smells filled his nostrils too: rain and smoke and the familiar tang of roses. The cherry was faint, but it was there. He had to find it. He ignored his hunger, ignored his pain, and pulled himself out of the infernal pit in which he’d found himself. He knew he was slathered in mud. No matter; he’d had mud slung at him before. Groaning, his voice horribly coarse, he staggered into the light rain, looking for his beloved cherry blossoms. But there were none. It was autumn. The blossoms were long gone. So instead he ran toward the sanctuary. The place where his one true friend slept. The fountain.

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But before he could make it there, he heard screams. He answered them in kind. He kept running. That’s when he heard a crack like thunder and felt a fire like lightning in his leg. He fell. His waking dream had passed. When he woke again, water was running down his face. He could feel it stripping the mud from his skin and dripping from his mustache. He looked up. Hovering over him were men and women with brightly lit machines perched on their shoulders. In the distance, a man ran toward them. He held what looked like a gun. He opened his mouth. Words came out. “Hey, turn off those cameras! Back away! Oh, my God—that face. That’s impossible. Holy shit.”

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CLASSIFIED Secret Service Incidence Report WHG20111107.027 Agent Ira Kowalczyk

At approximately 1042, an oversized mammalian figure covered in mud appeared behind the White House South Lawn Fountain, approaching the press conference in progress on the lawn. It was unclear to me for several seconds whether the intruder was a man or a large animal as it lurched toward the crowd while moaning loudly. As the closest perimeter guard, I drew my firearm and ordered the intruder to halt while the executive guard secured POTUS. The intruder bellowed louder and attempted to proceed past the South Lawn Fountain in the direction of POTUS and the press corps. I discharged my weapon once, striking the intruder in the leg, and he collapsed against the fountain. I approached and saw that the water from the fountain, along with the morning drizzle, was washing the mud from the intruder’s body. He was a very large man, over 6 feet tall, probably 300 pounds, wearing a formal tweed suit. He had white hair and a handlebar mustache. My first thought was that he looked like some sort of deranged presidential history buff dressed up as William Howard Taft.

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From Taft: A Tremendous Man, by Susan Weschler:

I’ll never forget the moment I first saw him on the television screen. Not a picture—him. There was no mistaking him. I’d been studying the history of the man who owned that plump, jowled, puffy-eyed face my entire professional life: Taft. William Howard Taft. Twenty-seventh president of the United States. Weighed in at 335 pounds. Worked with unceasing devotion to the job for four years—but was so honest a politician, he ended up infuriating every single interest group that had ever supported him. Lost his 1912 reelection bid in a miserable, crushing defeat. And then just disappeared the morning of March 5, 1913, the day his successor, Woodrow Wilson, was inaugurated. Taft was never seen or heard from again; his last known words, spoken right outside the White House just hours before Wilson took the oath of office, were: “I’ll be glad to be going. This is the loneliest place in the world.” After that sad utterance, Taft never showed up for the ceremony. Or anything else. Ever. Which meant the chaotic footage they kept replaying on CNN couldn’t be real. Couldn’t be him. How could he be here now, a century later, stumbling mud-covered into the midst of an unsuspecting White House press conference? And yet that was clearly no fake girth, no Halloween mask. It was either the oddest terrorist attack in history, the stupidest reality-show prank imaginable . . . or it was Taft. Like some sort of jolly were-walrus, he sat on the edge of the South Lawn Fountain, blinking and grinning. He was still filthy, but the rain had finally uncovered most of the man. He wore a great wool overcoat, a suit so stuffed that it strained at the buttons, and a huge filthy mustache that swirled and twirled and bristled across his upper lip. Beneath his feet, the water of the fountain had turned faintly red. He appeared to be in shock—and then he spoke. His voice was much higher and more

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melodious than you’d expect from such a giant of a man as he uttered the words that now live forever in the annals of history: “I will gladly grant a Cabinet position, of your choice, to the first upright citizen who brings me pudding cake and a nice lobster thermidor.” Then, of course, he collapsed.

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e had slept, and woke, and slept again. Doctors had come and gone. So had men in black suits. Both had asked Ha great many questions. One or the other had drawn blood from the crook of his elbow and even had the unmitigated gall to clip a bit of hair from his mustache. The hair had been quickly sealed in a small transparent bag, but he felt scarcely strong enough even to wonder what that was all about, much less ask. Through it all, peculiar electrical devices whirred and pinged, and he faded in and out of consciousness. Finally, after his third or fourth doze, he sat up, lucid, hungry. Alone. He was in a well-appointed bedroom suite; under the bed sheets, he was naked and clean. Draped over an armchair lay a fresh gray suit that looked to be close to his size, though for some reason it included neither waistcoat nor hat. He climbed out of bed and found that the suit was impeccably tailored, but it was still difficult to squeeze into, particularly his left leg, the upper half of which was swathed in an ungainly bandage. Taft didn’t recognize the room, but he knew the smell of the

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place. It had filled his nostrils much as it had saturated his soul over the past four years. He was in the White House. No sooner had he spit-shined his shoes and curled the ends of what remained of his mustache, a knock came at the door. “Yes, by all means, come in!” The door creaked open, and a tall, thin man in a suit—also missing its waistcoat!—walked in. He crossed the room, smiled, and offered Taft his hand. “Mr. Taft, please. Don’t try to get up. You’ve been through a lot in the last twenty-four hours.” “It appears I have! And who might you be? Are you here to bring me my meal? You will be my eternal hero if you could run down to the kitchen and fetch me a ham or two.” The man closed his eyes for a brief moment before smiling again. “Dinner will be coming soon. First, I need you to listen. It may not seem like you were sleeping for long, and Lord knows we have no idea how or why this happened. But you went missing from the White House . . . quite some time ago. This is not exactly the world you remember.” Taft laughed. “Not the world I remember? Why, I’d have to agree with you there. Today I’ve been shot, assaulted with strange machines, and spoken to in riddles. I appear to be in a world where the president of the United States can be condescended to like a child. By a manservant such as yourself, no less.” “Mr. Taft,” the man said, “I need you to keep an open mind here, today and in the coming days. There is a lot you’re going to need to adjust to. First of all, I am the president of the United States. Not you. Not Woodrow Wilson. Me.” Before Taft could counter him, the man raised his hand and pressed on.

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“You’ve been missing and presumed dead—one of America’s great mysteries—for a very long time. Don’t worry, the United States is still strong, still proud, still prosperous. But—” He hesitated. “Well, I’d better just say it. You’ve apparently been asleep for almost ninety-nine years. Today is November 8. The year is 2011. Mr. Taft, welcome to the twenty-first century.”

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Transcript, Raw Talk with Pauline Craig, broadcast Nov. 9, 2011

PAULINE CRAIG: A giant beast of a man bursts into a presidential press conference, is shot by Secret Service, and now, two days later, the White House is telling us that this befuddled intruder in a carnival mustache really is the missing former president William Howard Taft. Almost a hundred years after he vanished. I’m used to the government telling whoppers, but come on, now! Well, one way or another, it’s history in the making, folks. You’re living it. And Raw Talk is here to break it all down for you. Our first guest today, with us via satellite, is Director of National Intelligence James Mackler. Director Mackler, you’ve come on Raw Talk, much to our amazement, to back up the president’s outrageous claim earlier today that the man who stumbled onto the White House lawn has turned out to be the real William Howard Taft.

JAMES MACKLER: Thank you, Pauline. Under normal circumstances, an ongoing national security investigation wouldn’t be something we’d publicly comment on so quickly. But with Monday’s bizarre incident happening live in front of cameras, and—and with the startling facts we’ve uncovered, the president wants to get the information out to the public as quickly as possible, to minimize confusion and head off any worries about possible terrorist threats. So, here it is. Let me first explain—there are many levels of government security. There’s secret, and then there’s top secret—

PAULINE CRAIG: And then there’s SCI, sensitive compartmented information, which is the very highest top secret.

JAMES MACKLER: Yes. We compartmentalize the most extreme federal security information. And in the very smallest compartment—the

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information that, until now, no one outside the tightest, most secure handful of officials has even needed to know even existed, much less known what it is—is the identification code every president since the Civil War has memorized to protect the government against infiltration by a presidential impostor.

PAULINE CRAIG: In case something like—well, something like this happens.

JAMES MACKLER: Yes. It’s never happened before. No president’s identity has ever been called into question, until two days ago. We asked our apparent Taft for the presidential ID code. He knew it.

PAULINE CRAIG: He knew it. I see. And you’re more prepared to accept the idea of a total violation of the laws of nature than the idea that a government secret could have leaked.

JAMES MACKLER: There are secrets, and then there are secrets, and then, beyond those, there are the secrets so secret they keep secrets from each other. I don’t know how to explain his appearance after a hundred years, but I do know as an absolute certainty that that man could not know that code unless he used to sit in the Oval Office.

PAULINE CRAIG: Well, let’s ask our second guest, also here via satellite: Dr. Ernest Cho, chief biologist at the Naval Research Laboratory. Dr. Cho, the intelligence community IDs this man as William Howard Taft. What does science have to say about the fact that it’s impossible?

ERNEST CHO: Pauline, I know this is all incredible, but—we’ve got two things to address, the if and the how. The if is pretty straightforward: the Smithsonian collection has vintage samples of President Taft’s hair. We spent yesterday running a DNA test, and it was a match. Genetically

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speaking, that man is either William Howard Taft or his brother. And, of course, his brothers have been dead and buried for a century.

PAULINE CRAIG: Well, gee, are you sure about that?

ERNEST CHO: Ah, yes. We’ve—we’ve checked. Sorry, I know that’s unpleasant, but there’s no room to be sloppy with something like this. On top of the DNA, every physical identifying trait also matches President Taft’s medical history, which is well documented. His wife was obsessed with his health. There are a lot of records. As for how he could have vanished for a century and still be not only alive but unaged—we don’t know. Ah, there are certain hunter-gatherer tribes in New Guinea that are able to arrest the human metabolism by absorbing a mixture of arboreal fungi, but nothing that approaches this magnitude. Mr. Taft, for his part, has no sense of time having passed whatsoever. He tells us he thought he’d just sat down outside and dozed off while walking to Woodrow Wilson’s inauguration.

PAULINE CRAIG: In 1913.

ERNEST CHO: Yes. There certainly have been cases of human hibernation reported occasionally throughout history. They’re far-fetched, obviously, and science is reluctant to accept the truth of things that cannot be explained. But every scientific tool we’re able to apply to this situation tells us that, this time, the far fetched is true. He’s Taft.

PAULINE CRAIG: Human hibernation. Well, if any human was going to hibernate, I guess it makes sense that it would be one who looks like a bear. Our final guest is preeminent Taft historian Susan Weschler of American University. Professor Weschler, you’ve been working on a biography of President Taft for years. Would you say you know him better than anyone else living today does?

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SUSAN WESCHLER: Uh, thank you, Pauline, that’s very kind. I suppose that’s true. But being the foremost authority on Taft is like being the foremost authority on—on Luxembourg.

PAULINE CRAIG: I don’t follow you.

SUSAN WESCHLER: Luxembourg is a tiny little nation surrounded by Germany, Belgium, and France. It’s overshadowed by its more powerful, more popular neighbors, so people never give it any thought. Taft is like that. His term was sandwiched right in between Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson, two of the most exalted presidents we’ve ever had.

PAULINE CRAIG: I’ve seen Taft, Professor, the pictures as well as the man on the White House lawn Monday. And I have to tell you, he’s no tiny little Luxembourg. Though I’m sure he does know about sandwiches.

SUSAN WESCHLER: Pauline, if you invited me onto your show just to crack fat jokes—

PAULINE CRAIG: Settle down, Professor, just a little humor to break the tension.

SUSAN WESCHLER: I’ll tell you this. Give me an hour with that man, and I’ll know whether he’s William Howard Taft.

JAMES MACKLER: Professor Weschler, I expect you’ll get that chance.

PAULINE CRAIG: Director Mackler, how will President Taft’s reappearance affect the political landscape? How does it change the dynamic of the 2012 election?

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JAMES MACKLER: I hardly think that’s on anyone’s mind right now.

PAULINE CRAIG: I hardly think it’s not. Unfortunately, President Taft’s great-granddaughter, first-term Ohio Congresswoman Rachel Taft, declined our invitation to come on the show today. Has the congresswoman spoken with her ancestor yet?

JAMES MACKLER: Congresswoman Taft is in Mexico right now with a trade delegation. The president has been in touch with her about the situation.

PAULINE CRAIG: Mark my words, America: if a Republican president from the past is back on the scene, his granddaughter in Congress just got a whole lot more interesting. We’ll be back after these messages.

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FROM THE DESK OF REP. RACHEL TAFT (Ind.–OH) To-do list—Wed. 9th

—Tour three more agricultural facilities in Santiago de Querétaro

—Prep for debate over provisions of International Foods Act

—Charity lunch for orphanage in San Miguel

—Phone conference with staff about budget- tightening measures

—Remind Trevor to pick up birthday cake for Abby

—Figure out what the hell is up with man who appears to be resurrected great-grandfather

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s chief executive and commander-in-chief of the United States of America, William Howard Taft had been Aprivy to many secrets. Some were trivial. Others were earthshaking. Many, he cringed to recall, still pressed heavily on his soul. But as he sat in an unnaturally comfortable chair in one of the West Wing meeting rooms—which was now, he marveled, equipped with an incomprehensibly begadgeted conference table—there was one secret above all that he wished he knew: how in thunderation did they get the meringue inside of these little yellow cakes? “What manner of witch is this Hostess?” he mumbled, putting down the plastic wrapper and peering at the creamy end of one of the half-eaten pastries. These so-called Twinkie cakes were the cap to the fine, sprawling meals the White House kitchen had been serving him the last two days. A couple of his favorite recipes had proven to be somewhat archaic, just as that Secret Service fellow, Kowalczyk, had warned him. But in the end the intrepid chefs had persevered by consulting an unseen scholar the agent had called

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Goggle or Google or something to that effect. God bless this encyclopedic Mr. Google, whoever he was. With his stomach near to bursting, Taft’s mood had likewise resumed its full capacity. His mind, though, was still quite a bit hazy—no doubt thanks to the pills the White House physician had been giving him since removing the bullet from his leg. But he’d warily palmed the last two tablets and slipped them into his pocket, and he’d begun at last to clear the cobwebs and gather the rudiments of his memory. All he could put together were bits and pieces. Flashes of Cincinnati. Fragments of the Philippines. The stout, sober face of his aide-de-camp and best friend, Major Archibald Butt. The wooden grimace and bad teeth of his victor in the 1912 election, Woodrow Wilson. Wilson. He remembered the man’s Inauguration Day, barely. His own last day in the White House. With his head in a cloud of melancholy thicker than the thunderheads that had suddenly marred the bright day, he had wandered into the rain to escape the pomp and circumstance of the coming ceremony. The storm had seemed to descend from the sky and enfold him, calm and warm, like having the eye of a hurricane all to oneself. Suddenly exhausted, he’d lain down in a soft, warm, wet spot, some garden or another on the Ellipse. Content at last to let go of the pressures and stresses and relentless scrutiny of his office, he slept. And then he’d woken up. Here. Now. It was all so incredulous. Still, he was a rational man. Perhaps it was merely a suggestible demeanor brought on by the pills he’d been given, but there was no doubt in his mind that he must indeed be in the future. This was too elaborate to be a hoax pulled off in the White House. And the taciturn Woodrow Wilson was hardly the joking type.

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But it was neither Wilson nor Butt whose memory gnawed at the very core of Taft’s spirit. There was something or someone else—a soul so intimately tied to his own as to be invisible in its pervasiveness—that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. At first he recalled a touch, so brittle yet so strong. And then a gaze, gray and infinite. And then that scent again, the sweet, faint, tantalizing tang of cherry blossoms— His reverie was interrupted by his new bodyguard, Agent Kowalczyk, clearing of the throat. “Sir, you okay over there? You look a little out of it.” “Hmm? Out of what, exactly?” “Out of . . . ah, never mind.” Kowalczyk folded his shiny black device—it looked like a tin of lozenges—and slid it into his pocket. “Just making sure you’re feeling okay. After—you know—I, um, shot you.” “Again I say, don’t fret over it. I’m embarrassed to have collapsed from such a glancing scratch. A bullet is naught but a glorified pebble. Why, a worthy opponent of mine once delivered a campaign speech just moments after being shot by some lunatic in Milwaukee. He didn’t let himself be stopped by some paltry slug.” Taft frowned. “Now, why for the life of me can’t I remember who that was . . .” Just as quickly as he had regained his good cheer, he’d become troubled once more. But it wasn’t because of the agent’s handwringing. A swift and spine-tingling chill lanced through Taft’s body. “Kowalczyk, tell me,” he said with a rippling shudder. “What room are we in exactly? I should know, but I don’t.” “What room? Oh, right. Things have probably been rearranged in the White House since you lived here. This is the Roosevelt Room. He built the West Wing, didn’t he? But it didn’t get named that until the ’60s, I think.”

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Roosevelt. The name flashed like lightning inside his skull. Theodore Roosevelt. His predecessor. His mentor. His friend. His greatest supporter, and then, later, his most terrible adversary. A man whose smaller yet somehow grander frame had always cast a shadow over Taft. But Roosevelt, he knew, must be long dead now. Dead like Woodrow Wilson. Dead like his children. Dead. Like Nellie. Taft dropped his snack cake as he felt a tightening in his chest. No, not a tightening. A clenching, as if the centuries themselves sought to rip his heart from his breast and send it hurtling back to its rightful place, its rightful time. Its rightful owner. Through a halo of pain and anguish, Taft heard Kowalczyk yell for the doctor. But Taft was already halfway out the door. Like an enraged beast—the kind Teddy used to make headlines shooting while on safari—he threw open the door of the Roosevelt Room and charged into the hallway, seeking only escape. Then he crashed into some other body and went down in a tangle of limbs. Hands pushed him. Arms pulled him. He unleashed a howl from the pit of his being. Like a tortoise rolled onto its shell, he found himself suddenly on his back. Next to him on the floor lay his wife. “Nellie! My dear, oh, my dear.” His tears came in torrents. “I thought you were gone, too. Oh, my Nellie. I thought you were gone.” As he pawed at his eyes, though, his vision came back into focus. This woman he’d collided with was small and slim like Nellie. She had the same serious look on her face, a fetching expression of

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certain, quiet determination. But she wasn’t his beloved. She wasn’t his wife. She wasn’t his Nellie. “President Taft,” the woman said awkwardly. “Ah . . . there now. It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.” Taft, his head buried in his chest and his sobs coming in gasps, felt thin, cool arms around him. “Mr. Taft, please. Take a breath. Deep breaths, okay? Good. Are you all right now? My name is Susan. Susan Weschler. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” Then the arms gripped him tighter. “Oh, you poor man.”

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Fox News Poll

If the election were held today, would you vote to reelect the president or vote for an unspecified Republican challenger?

Reelect the president: 43 percent Unspecified Republican challenger: 47 percent Undecided: 10 percent

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From the official White House biography of former First Lady Helen “Nellie” Taft:

As “the only unusual incident” of her girlhood, Helen Herron Taft recalled her visit to the White House at seventeen as the guest of President and Mrs. Hayes, intimate friends of her parents. The fourth child of Harriet Collins and John W. Herron, born in 1861, she had grown up in Cincinnati, Ohio, attending a private school in the city and studying music with enthusiasm. The year after this notable visit she met “that adorable Will Taft,” a tall young lawyer, at a sledding party. They found intellectual interests in common; friendship matured into love; Helen Herron and William Howard Taft were married in 1886. A “treasure,” he called her, “self-contained, independent, and of unusual application.” He wondered if they would ever reach Washington “in any official capacity” and suggested to her that they might—when she became Secretary of the Treasury! No woman could hope for such a career in that day, but Mrs. Taft welcomed each step in her husband’s: state judge, Solicitor General of the United States, federal circuit judge . . . [and] Secretary of War. His election to the presidency in 1908 gave her a position she had long desired. As First Lady, she still took an interest in politics but concentrated on giving the administration a particular social brilliance. Only two months after the inauguration she suffered a severe stroke. . . . The capital’s famous Japanese cherry trees, planted around the Tidal Basin at her request, form a notable memorial. . . . Retaining to the end her love of travel and of classical music, she died at her home on May 22, 1943.

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You’re listening to C-SPAN Radio. We now go to the Dirksen Senate Office Building on Capitol Hill for a live press conference with Massachusetts Republican senator Sean Brown of the Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Government Affairs, where a hearing earlier today determined that ex-president William Howard Taft is entitled to a federal pension. We join the event already in progress.

REPORTER: Senator, legal experts have suggested that if Mr. Taft is grandfathered into coverage under the Former Presidents Act, the government will be forced to grant him his pension back pay retroactively for the ninety-nine years since he left office. Isn’t this a hugely wasteful expenditure?

SEN. BROWN: It would be if it were true. Fortunately, it’s not true. I’m surprised that wasn’t made absolutely clear during the hearing. The committee has agreed with the General Services Administration that since Mr. Taft did not apply for coverage at any point before now, his pension and benefits will begin from their initial term of service this month.

REPORTER: Senator, these benefits include a two-hundred-thousand- dollar-a-year pension, a hundred-thousand-dollar annual budget for staff, an office, and a full-time Secret Service guard. Can you state, for the record, what’s the responsibility of a former president to continue qualifying for these benefits?

SEN. BROWN: The responsibility? I’m sorry, can you elaborate?

REPORTER: What does the former president have to give back to the American public in exchange for this ongoing compensation?

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SEN. BROWN: Well—wow. I think the idea inherent in “former president” is that he’s already served the American public at the very highest level of commitment. A former president doesn’t need to requalify every year—he’s in the history books forever, you know? Next question.

REPORTER: Senator, Mr. Taft will also be eligible to receive top medical care at VA hospitals. Doesn’t it set a bad example to allow him the same treatment as our veterans when his extreme obesity makes him a clear insurance risk? Will the First Lady’s anti-obesity campaign be addressing the matter of President Taft’s physical fitness?

SEN. BROWN: I’m not going to answer that question. Thank you, that will be all.

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CLASSIFIED Secret Service Incidence Report BBO20111114.134 Agent Ira Kowalczyk

At 0535, formally assumed command of guard detail at the secure 7th & E Street apartment location, now designated Big Boy One. Big Boy scheduled to move in at 0630. Prof. Weschler scheduled to arrive at 0900 for full security briefing before assuming position as special transition liaison. Confirmed agenda this week includes general orientation, historical education, meeting with Congresswoman Taft (see attached schedule). Requests from Big Boy include access to Library of Congress (suggest remote access), acquisition of permanent wardrobe (suggest calling in on-site tailor services), visit to “authentic Filipino restaurant” (suggest take-out).

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he view from the penthouse balcony was so bright it hurt Taft’s eyes. Electric lights glittered across Tthe city like a manmade firmament. Airplanes that must be the size of railcars roared overhead. He stood there gripping the handrail, the night air sighing across his bare and uncombed head, bringing with it the sounds of society and machinery he couldn’t imagine. This, he knew, was only the beginning of the wonders this new century had to offer him. The only wonder he wanted, though, was Nellie. Taft had run the Philippines as governor-general, stood up to the robber barons at U.S. Steel, faced down hecklers on stages and train platforms from sea to shining sea. Along the way, people had called him a dullard; they’d called him a traitor to both the Republican Party and the progressive cause; they’d called him prejudiced. Every sharp word had cut him to the quick. And yet he’d weathered such storms with as much fortitude as he’d been able to muster while in the White House. Let them call him a bad president, a spineless one. It was better to have them think he was

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weak than to have them know the truth: that it was, more than anything else, an acute case of heartbreak that had all but assassinated the twenty-seventh president of the United States. He remembered the day he’d first lost his wife. He’d been in office only two months; he and Nellie had been aboard the presidential yacht on a getaway to Mount Vernon. Nellie fainted. Ice was put to her temples and a brandy poured down her throat. By the time they’d made landfall, though, it was clear this was no bout of seasickness. The stroke laid Nellie low, left her unable to speak. More than that, though, it was a cruel trick of fate that left a woman of such great life force infirm and isolated—a child learning to use her body again—just as she’d finally achieved her lifelong dream of becoming first lady. She was still alive, and she fought hard to regain her faculties, thank the Lord for that. But the engine that drove Taft died that day in 1909, leaving him to finish out the rest of his long term just as hobbled as Nellie was. He’d downplayed it, of course, with his booming laugh and his beaming smile and his promises of national pride and equity. All that eroded quickly, of course. Taft was first deflated and then defeated. And now, he’d lost Nellie a second time. A final time. He had nothing left. Washington, D.C., was laid out below him, but it may as well have been Bangkok. “President Taft?” A woman’s voice. Taft gripped the guardrail lest he launch himself over the thing. “Ah, Miss Weschler.” He spoke but didn’t turn to face her. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me so. I had quite forgotten you were on the premises.” He felt a pang of guilt. The woman had been so kind to him, but, heavens, she needed to stop following him around like a little lost puppy.

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“I, ah, I apologize. You were just so lost in thought out here, I was wondering if you might want to talk.” He snorted and wiggled his mustache. “Talk. That seems to be the major preoccupation of you people of the twenty-first century.” He paused to let one of those violently loud mini-aircraft—what had Kowalczyk called it, a hell-copter? Appropriate name, given the infernal racket—shoot past overhead. “Ahem. Speaking of which. I started reading the notes you left me, Miss Weschler. On the twentieth century.” He closed his eyes. “So, correct me if I’m wrong, madam: Scarcely five minutes after I left office, the entire world burst into war. Woodrow Wilson led America to victory. And then it happened again twenty years later, and Teddy Roosevelt’s cousin led America to victory.” Taft pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “The atom has been split. Men have traveled to the Moon. Only one president has been assassinated since McKinley—not bad, I suppose, statistically speaking. Palestine is a Jewish state and the Arabs would like it back. China is now the United States’ largest debt-holder. China! And a singer named—what was it, Michael Jackman?—was the greatest artist of the twentieth century?” “Well, that last one is open to debate.” “Indeed. It seems only yesterday the newspapers were falling over themselves to bestow the title upon that boy Al Jolson.” “Mr. Taft,” she said quietly. “What do you think of all that? All those changes in the world?” Finally, he turned to stare at her. “What would you have me say?” “I don’t mean to be pushy. It’s just that . . . sometimes it feels better to talk. You know, about your feelings.” He snorted through his mustache. “I feel quite better shutting up, fine, thank you. In any case, I need to conserve my breath. Have you noticed how dreadful the air tastes? What do you people burn for fuel? Old shoes? In any case, besides an itch to play nine rounds

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at Chevy Chase and a tickle in my belly where my dinner isn’t, I’m afraid I don’t have any feelings to report.” She stepped forward and leaned against the rail next to him. “I mean your emotions.” He had to laugh at that. “Emotions? If you want emoting, Miss Weschler, I’ll take you to a fine night at the theater.” It must have been the glare of the city—he could have sworn she blushed. “No, Mr. Taft, that’s not what I meant exactly. I was just thinking you might be feeling scared. Or confused. Or maybe . . . alone.” “Oho!” Why hadn’t he seen it coming? “I understand now, Professor Weschler. You have an ulterior motive here, don’t you? You are a historian, are you not? Of the presidential persuasion? And picking my brain of its contents is surely a way for you to better your handicap among your peers, perhaps even secure a more auspicious post within the academy? Well, I won’t be the butt of your ambition, Miss Weschler. I assure you, I’m not anybody’s subject to be prodded, poked, and dissected. Since that first day in the White House, your doctors have gotten me medicated to the point that I’m sleepy and out of sorts half the day. I’ve had quite enough of that, I assure you, quite enough!” He stormed back into the apartment and slammed the sliding glass door behind him. A moment later, much more gently, he reopened it. “Oh, Miss Weschler, sorry to bother you. Just one more thing. Is there still a golf course nearby?”

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From Taft: A Tremendous Man, by Susan Weschler:

I’ve been asked countless times: Why Taft? Why did I choose for my life’s work to study this most hapless of one-term presidents? Was I just looking for an easy path to being the foremost expert in something, by picking a field that no one else cared about? People are obsessed with greatness. Washington led the Revolution and founded the presidency. Lincoln brought us to victory over slavery and separatism. FDR reinvented the institutions of civic life with the New Deal. Kennedy stood up for civil rights and led us into space. Yes, these are all defining moments in our nation’s history, in our human history. But the “great man” approach to history misses a much larger point: small moments also define us. In fact, aren’t the small moments what really define us? It’s the quiet little decisions we make every day that add up to who we are, from how we treat a homeless panhandler to whether we call our mothers and tell them we love them. Taft didn’t set out to leave his stamp on America, as Teddy Roosevelt did. But he understood that Roosevelt’s crusade against corporate monopolies was a valiant one, and he kept on fighting the good fight, even after Teddy complained that he was doing it wrong. Taft didn’t win any wars. He also didn’t start any. Interesting, isn’t it, how the presidents with proper military experience are so often the ones most committed to maintaining peace? Taft didn’t champion any sweeping social legislation like the other politicians who called themselves progressives. But the laws that already existed? He never, ever, ever exempted himself from them. Never made the argument that the president gets to be special. Because he didn’t think of himself as special. He thought of himself as an American—one among many. We should all be such “great men.”

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washington, DC craigslist > district of columbia > personals > rants & raves Re: HERE’S WHAT I THINK ABOUT TAFT. (Foggy Bottom) Date: 2011-11-15 9:42PM EST I think Taft is the bomb diggity. I think Taft is dead fucking sexy. I think Taft ought to play Santa Claus in every mall in America. I think Taft would take down Chuck Norris in four seconds flat. I think Taft is one bad mutha (SHUT YO MOUTH). I think Taft is going to stick around for a while. I think Taft was long overdue. Basically, I think Taft rocks my world. And really rocks that mustache. What do YOU think? • Location: Foggy Bottom

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“The first thing I noticed about my great-grandfather was his eyes. Well, no, I have to be honest, that was the second thing. The first thing I noticed was his size. Wow. You know, my whole family has a slight tendency toward being big boned—I’ve always been on the curvy side, and proudly so—but this was something else entirely. This wasn’t healthy. All I could think was, you’d think that hibernating for a hundred years would have used up all that fat. But then I saw his eyes, and that made me forget about the other thing. The kindness, the pain, the empathy, the hopefulness—I just felt immediately at home with him. Here was my family. Any lingering doubts that I’d had vanished—not only about his identity, but about whether he’d deserved the sort of derision and scorn that had hounded him out of office and then kept hanging around his legacy after he disappeared. Meeting William Howard, I knew right away that, whether or not he was a great president, he was definitely an excellent man.”

—Congresswoman Rachel Taft, interview with NPR

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t this moment, Taft was sure he’d never felt so perfectly full. Not his belly—he wasn’t even thinking A about that. But his heart was full to bursting with warmth, even as his arms were full of the best hug he could remember. He stepped back from the entryway of his apartment and held this woman at arm’s length—this woman whose father’s father had been his son Robert. He couldn’t quite convince himself that he recognized his son in either her solid frame or her sturdy, kind features, but he also couldn’t quite convince himself that he could speak without a lump forming in his throat. Finally, she chuckled nervously. “I feel silly for asking, but— what should I call you?” “Why,” he said, wondrously, “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose Grandpa should do nicely.” At last he let her go and harrumphed deeply. “Would you like to sit down? Or, rather, I should say, I think I need to sit down.” He motioned her toward the couch.

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“Sorry, I’m a little overwhelmed, too.” Rachel cleared her own throat, her eyes glittering. “Grandpa.” “So,” he said. “I hear you’ve taken up the Taft banner and been tilting at windmills here in Washington.” “Oh, you have no idea. Or maybe you do.” Taft nodded vigorously but said nothing; he’d picked up a bowl of candy from the coffee table and began rummaging through it, absent-mindedly popping pieces into his mouth, as she spoke. “It’s business as usual, I guess. The Republicans won control of the House in the last midterms—that’s when I was elected. The president’s taking his cue from Clinton in ’96 and hedging his agenda so that he can get some basic budget-balancing done. The polls aren’t looking good for him, and the presidential election is only twelve months away. Primaries start soon. And the economy is still more or less a mess.” She sighed. “At least we managed to avoid a second Great Depression.” “Second Great Depression? I’m assuming that means there was a first?” “Um, yes. You just missed that back in your day. And the First World War.” “And the second one of those wasn’t avoided.” He gestured toward the computer on the desk in the corner of the room. “I’ve read a bit about them on this Internet of Susan’s, but I’ve been a bit befuddled of late. And I type as if I have sausages instead of fingers.” Rachel smiled and suddenly stood. “Grandpa, I hate to reunite and run, but I’m due at the Capitol for a vote.” She reached for her coat. “What are you doing for dinner, say, next Thursday?” He blinked. “Next Thursday? I must say, I have no idea what I’ll be doing tomorrow, let alone next Thursday.” “It’s Thanksgiving,” she said, walking to the door. “And I’ll tell you exactly what you’ll be doing: coming to Cincinnati to have Thanksgiving dinner with my family. With your family. I’ve

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already made the arrangements. You’ll be flown out the day after tomorrow.” She patted his belly. “You think you can save some room in there for turkey?” Even beneath his mustache, Taft was fairly certain that the quiver in his lip as he pondered a holiday with family was visible. “Thanksgiving. Of course. That had quite slipped my mind. I . . . I’d like that very much, Rachel. I have a few pieces of correspondence to answer before then, but, yes, I think I’d quite like that.” “Then it’s a deal, Mr. President.” She hugged him, planted a quick kiss on his cheek, and shut the door behind her.

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Transcript, Raw Talk with Pauline Craig, broadcast Nov. 16, 2011

PAULINE CRAIG: With us today on Raw Talk: Jo L. Johnson, senior analyst at the Center for Right Ideas. Jo, talk to me about William Howard Taft, the Republican.

JO L. JOHNSON: Thank you, Pauline, it’s good to be here. You know, Republicans usually remember President Taft, if at all, as something of a failure, a man who lost his reelection bid horribly—horribly!—to the Democrat Woodrow Wilson. Taft took only two states—it was a total embarrassment. But the thing is, when we look back at that 1912 election now from the right perspective, we realize that the only reason Taft lost is that Teddy Roosevelt decided he wanted to be president again, and when the Republican Party refused to kick Taft to the curb and welcome Roosevelt as their returning hero, he abandoned the GOP, started his own new third party, the Bull Moose Progressives, and jumped into the race anyway.

PAULINE CRAIG: So, basically, Roosevelt betrayed the sitting Republican president and the Republican Party and lost them the election. But because liberals write all the history books, Roosevelt still gets to be considered a hero for all time.

JO L. JOHNSON: That’s right. If the conservative vote hadn’t split, Taft might have won his second term. You know, he wasn’t the sort of loud, crazy maverick that Roosevelt was.

PAULINE CRAIG: Well, today’s Republican Party seems to have come to its senses after the last election and decided it’s time to take a break from so-called progressive Republican mavericks and focus on good old-fashioned conservatives.

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JO L. JOHNSON: That’s right. There are definitely no RINOs hiding among the frontrunners right now—unless you count that former Massachusetts governor, but that’s open to debate.

PAULINE CRAIG: A debate we’ll save for another show. Now that Mr. Taft is back on the scene, what do you say: will he endorse one of the Republican candidates?

JO L. JOHNSON: Right now it’s tricky to say for sure, but I would imagine that Mr. Taft will endorse one of them eventually. He was always a loyal Republican, and I’m sure once he has a chance to see the state of America today, he’ll be eager to help put the party of common sense and American values back in charge.

PAULINE CRAIG: To right the ship of state, you might say.

JO L. JOHNSON: That’s right.

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oments after waking, Taft was up and busy. He laid out the only suitable set of outdoor clothes his Mcaretakers had given him. Curious things, they were: the fabrics were softer and flimsier than what he was used to, and, although they fit him passably, their cut was far more accommodating than he’d ever experienced. What really surprised him, though, was how little fashion appeared to have changed since his time—at least when it came to men. What women wore these days, he shuddered, was enough to send a man to a monastery. Or a cathouse. Then he bathed, dressed, trimmed his mustache, made himself a quick snack of bacon and coffee and buttered toast, and prepared to convince his handlers that it was time to let him venture into the streets of Washington. Future or no, he wasn’t doing anyone any good hiding in this damned apartment. A knock came at the bedroom door. “Bill! It’s me. I’ve got a little surprise for you. You decent?” Taft hurried to pull on his pants. “I’ll be right there, Kowalczyk!” He grabbed his coffee and marched out to the living room, where

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the agent was carrying a largish box under his arm. “Bill, check this out,” Kowalczyk said as he took off his jacket. He opened the box and began scattering its contents across the carpet. “Wonderful,” said Taft, mug in hand. “That looks like thirsty work. Would you like some coffee?” “Not right now, thanks.” He was wiring some kind of machine to the television set. Then, with a look of triumph on his face, he pulled out two white sticks from the box. “Look, Bill. You ready for a few holes?” Taft stared. The white sticks looked like golf clubs. Kowalczyk laid them on the sofa and picked up a device Taft had learned was called a remote control—a miraculous time-saver, even though the loud, maddening chaos of the television gave him a headache if he watched it for more than ten minutes at a sitting. Kowalczyk punched a couple buttons, and a picture was summoned to the screen. It was far from maddening. Just the opposite. It was a golf course. Taft almost dropped his coffee. “Well,” he said under his breath, “what have we here.” Kowalczyk beamed at him. “Come on! Take a club. Give it a try.” The agent didn’t wait for him. He’d already moved the coffee table aside and readied himself to tee off. On the screen, an animated little man mimicked Kowalczyk’s movements perfectly. “Agent Kowalczyk,” said Taft, with awe in his voice, “you golf?” “No, Bill. We golf. Here.” Taft put down his mug and took the proffered club. It felt odd. Lightweight and crafted of plastic, its grip and heft were a far cry from a solid one-wood or three-iron. Still, the feel of the lance in his hand immediately calmed him. He remembered how much he’d been ridiculed in the press—hell, even by his own staff, party,

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and family—about his near-daily trips to the links. Golf, after all, was the leisure activity of the aristocrat. But it was his way of exercising, his way of clearing his head. And, most important, it was the line he drew between the demands of being the most powerful man in America and being simply an honest, plain fellow who needed green grass under his feet, fresh air in his lungs, and a blue sky overhead. He assumed his address, aligned his club and body. Then he took a tentative test swing. The little man on the screen moved accordingly, like some kind of marionette connected to him by invisible strings. Taft couldn’t help but giggle. “This is quite remarkable, Kowalczyk. Quite remarkable.” He readied himself again and then took a swing. He duffed. “Damnation!” he howled in frustration. He tried again. This time, he took a deep breath and let his worries drain out of his head, down his spine, out his feet. True, there was no smell of shrubbery or tweeting of birds to lull him into a meditative state, as was often the case when he was on the course. But it was close enough; soon his breathing had slowed to a steady rhythm. Even his mind, which had been in such a half-drugged stupor over the past few weeks, had sharpened and focused on the shot at hand. “Fore,” he whispered. He let fly. The ball arced high into the air, above the trees. He watched it soar, the landscape whizzing by the ball on the screen as if by magic. Then it landed. It bounced. It rolled. Right into the cup. “Bully! Kowalczyk, did you see that?” Taft thrust his half-club into the air. “Incredible. My first drive in a hundred years, and by golly it’s a hole in one.” “Ready for the next one, Mr. President?” Taft squared his body and stared into the magical glowing green. There’d be time to go outside after lunch. Or tomorrow.

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FROM THE DESK OF REP. RACHEL TAFT (Ind.–OH) Notes—Fri. 18th—meeting with Fulsom Foods lobbyist

—International Foods Act to include provisions governing proper handling of overseas livestock involved in producing food item imports. Fulsom lobbyist says impractical, will bankrupt small farmers. I point out Fulsom doesn’t in fact work with small farmers but with poverty-wage laborers in giant agri-factories. Lobbyist suggests revisiting definition of “small farmers.” I suggest Fulsom meditate on well-established definition of “regulation.” Conversation is off to a great start.

—Is he serious? Fulsom wants to debate the definition of “food”? Not “processed food” or “raw food” or “organic food” or “healthy food,” but the whole concept of food??? Is this to do with genetic modification? No—what he calls “more sophisticated” method of chemical synthesis. Will look at their white paper but am highly dubious to say least.

—No, I cannot give out a mailing address at which Wm Howard might receive housewarming gift of a Fulsom Baskotti Bounty. Come on, now.

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CLASSIFIED Secret Service Incidence Report BBO20111119.005 Agent Ira Kowalczyk

At 0925, guard detail attempted to escort Big Boy to visit Library of Congress on foot, per his insistence. Made it two blocks east before rock-star phenomena kicked in: crowd amassed at a faster rate than the expedition’s walking speed. Big Boy was swarmed by civilians. Guard maintained tight perimeter, but the crowd was too enthusiastic to maintain a respectful distance per my instructions. Mob stopped short of being a riot, with everyone smiling and cheering and waving and snapping cell-phone photos, but the expedition was obviously unsustainable in this fashion so we returned to Big Boy One. Big Boy insists on going out again despite the security risk, so we will try it incognito. He won’t shave off his mustache, so we’ll trim it as small as he’ll let us and put him in a T-shirt and baseball cap.

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f it weren’t for the street signs, Taft would have already been lost. Even in his own day, the city had been a Ilabyrinth, at least compared to Cincinnati. Granted, Cincinnati was a far larger city. But Cincinnati had been a home. A genial city, an honest city. Washington, however, was run by a perverse logic as confounding as the city’s layout. Taft’s mind, sharp as it was, had always knotted itself into a pretzel trying to figure it out, just as his calves knotted now as he ambled in the general direction of Union Station and the Supreme Court. “What I wouldn’t give for a stiff rubdown with some witch hazel,” he muttered, smiling as he did so at an elderly woman passing him on the sidewalk. She scowled at him as if he he’d wagged his tongue at her. “And that’s another difference between Washington and Cincinnati,” he added as soon as she was out of earshot. Oh, but it felt good to stretch his legs and see people, no matter how surly they might be, no matter what ridiculous clothes he had to wear or how many plainclothes agents were in a ten-foot radius. His head felt clearer than it had in a long, long time. Even before his

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hibernation—he snorted at the word’s ursine connotation; surely some venomous journalist had already applied it to him—things had been tumultuous. The election had been a disastrous affair all around, a humiliation inexorably unfolding around him day by day for a solid half-year as Teddy—his friend, his mentor, the very man who’d encouraged him to run for president in the first place— stepped back into the limelight to denigrate Taft’s performance with ever more colorful language, ever more vehement invective. And yet, the electorate had loved that about Teddy, hadn’t they? They loved his safari-hunting, warmongering, hot-air-spouting passion. By the time November rolled around, even Taft had been resigned to the situation. Wilson seemed a solid enough fellow. Let him spend every night losing sleep over the world’s endless, bloody conflicts! And, in all honesty, Taft had felt a massive weight leave his shoulders the instant Wilson and his wife stepped into the White House that morning in March of 1913. Already Taft had been looking forward to returning to Cincinnati, finding work, perhaps even going on a real diet. He’d tried to manage his weight while in office, but then, out of the limelight, he hoped to peel off the extraneous seventy pounds he’d put on since being sworn in four years prior. Of course, he’d never had the chance. As he rounded a corner onto D Street, he tried to focus his newly sharpened thoughts on the day he’d disappeared. All he could remember was taking a walk in the rain—then waking up with Butt chasing him across the South Lawn— Wait. Butt? He’d meant Kowalczyk, of course. How odd. Then it all came back to him. Butt. His aide-de-camp. His dearest friend. He had died—but not after Taft’s disappearance. Butt had died in April 1912, along with his traveling companion on the Titanic, Francis Millet. That’s why Taft had built the Millet–

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Butt Memorial Fountain, just across the way from the South Lawn Fountain. That’s why Taft had, in his oafishness, blundered toward the fountains after waking. It was one of the few things his exhumed brain had been able to remember. Taft shuddered. It was only just past noon, but a chill had crept into his bones. He pulled his coat tighter about him. His stomach grumbled. “I hear you, old friend,” he said, changing course abruptly and crossing the street, incurring the wrath of a honking and altogether too fast automobile. So much was new in Washington; a hundred years, after all, was a hundred years. But surely there were some things from the old days that remained. “Yes, I hear you.”

The counter of Waldemann’s Deli hadn’t changed. Taft had to restrain himself from rubbing his eyes. The televisions in the corners of the room never used to be there, of course. And people surely never used to sit at the tables while speaking on their telephones. These telephones—so tiny, and no cables!—should have surprised Taft, but oddly they did not. In fact, he was more surprised when Susan had told him wireless telephones had come into vogue only a few years earlier. In his time, Marconi’s telegraphy had successfully transmitted Morse code between ships on open water. For some reason, he’d assumed they’d all have wireless telephones in his own lifetime. That was to say, his natural lifetime. But the rest of it looked the same. The gleaming counters. The checkered-tile floors. Even—yes!—the framed photograph of Taft and Butt hanging on the wall, although it had faded and collected dust to the point of being almost unrecognizable. He started to call Kowalczyk in from the door, where he stood guard, to show him the memento, before he remembered that incognito

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was the order of the day. “You gonna order?” The gruff voice came from behind the counter, but all Taft could see was the top of a bald head with a paper hat perched askew there on it. Taft froze. That voice. He knew it. “Mr. Waldemann?” The short man peered up at him from behind the counter. He wielded a cleaver in one hand and a bottle of mustard in the other. “No, it’s the Meat Fairy. Come on, I ain’t got all day. What’s your order?” Taft couldn’t believe it. Surely Mr. Waldemann, the proprietor of Waldemann’s Deli, had been dead for decades. Yet here stood his spitting image. Of course. Waldemann’s had always been a family business. Three generations of Waldemanns had worked behind the same counter together when Taft and Butt had come here every Thursday for lunch. It was one of their rituals; each week, under the pretext of a round of golf, the two of them would sneak out, evade the Secret Service, and stroll down to Waldemann’s for a brisket sandwich. He felt for all the world like a boy playing hooky again; he and Butt would laugh and gossip about the White House staff while gorging themselves on sandwiches as tall and as wide as their hats. And this little man? Why, he must be Waldemann’s descendent. His voice, his temperament, his lack of height: all Waldemann. “Yes, sir. My apologies. I’d like a double brisket sandwich on rye, if you please. And an egg cream.” “On rye, eh? As opposed to . . . ?” He lowered his head, grumbled, and began slapping at the side of an electric meat-shaving contraption. Once the rickety machine reached a sufficiently high pitch, he began feeding a skull-sized chunk of beef into it. The smell engulfed Taft. Oh, how he’d loved these sandwiches.

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He’d always had a hard time explaining just how comforted food made him feel. When the world was at his door and the dogs were barking at his heels, eating was the best way to take his mind off it all. The orderliness with which he ate his food, the fastidious way he’d mop up each morsel. . . . He knew that, in many ways, he spent so much time eating simply as a means of procrastination. He’d always had that problem, even as an athletic and relatively well built young man. But what was one to do when facing the enormity of all the world’s problems? Especially when, without fail, they all wound up on his desk? “Order up!” yelled Waldemann, who then rang a bell on the counter. The same bell the Waldemanns had always rung. The sound made Taft’s mouth burst into salivation. At the end of the counter sat a monumental sandwich and what may well have been a half- gallon of egg cream in a tall, frosty glass. Taft had to keep himself from running to the cash register. Once there, he pulled out the wallet Kowalczyk had given him. “Here, good sir. How much will it be?” “Nine seventy-five.” Taft gaped. He looked at the cash register to make sure he’d heard right. A sawbuck? For a lone man’s lunch? What had happened to this country? He’d have to look into the state of the economy. As soon, of course, as he’d finished this marvelous-looking sandwich. As Waldemann stared at him, Taft flipped through the wallet’s contents, pulling out and then pocketing a series of what appeared to be colorful, rigid business cards. Finally he found the (odd-looking!) currency. He handed a $10 bill to Waldemann, who squinted at him. “Keep the change, dear fellow.” Taft grinned at his own munificence. “A whole quarter? Gee, you’re too kind.” Indeed, Taft had to agree.

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Duly equipped with sustenance, Taft found the table toward the back of the small eatery, the one that had been unofficially reserved for him and Butt during the era of their frequent patronage. Remarkably—and, he liked to muse, due to his unassuming nature— he seemed to go mostly unrecognized during their weekly lunches. But at least once a month, a wide-eyed patron would approach him and either ask to shake his hand or make some unceremonious quip about the girth of both his gut and his government. But that was before. Today, a woman sat at his table, buried in a newspaper, oblivious to his presence. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, approaching from across the table. “I would like to ask you a favor. This table has . . . a certain sentimental attachment to me. Would you at all mind if I asked you to move?” The woman peered over the top of her paper at him. She was middle aged and a light-skinned Negro, Taft now noticed—no, he must remember to think African American, as Miss Weschler had told him was now proper—but dressed deceptively young for her age. She blew across her cup of coffee, her eyes still on him. “You know, it’s been fifty years since a white man made me give him my seat. I’m not so sure I want to go back to that right now.” Taft didn’t quite catch the meaning of her words, but he got the cut of her jib. “My deepest apologies, ma’am. I didn’t mean to put you out.” “I was joking. No offense taken.” She smiled. “I’ll tell you what. I’m not in the mood to move to another table, but you’re more than welcome to join me.” Taft grinned and sat down. “My name is Bill,” he offered. “Well, of course it is, dear. My name is Dee Dee.” She held out her hand. What a remarkably self-possessed woman! “Delighted,” he said, taking it. Bold and strong—now that’s how one shakes hands,

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regardless of one’s gender. His mother had shaken hands that way. Nellie, too. “Out for a stroll, Bill?” “Yes, indeed! I’ve always loved a brisk day in D.C. Sometimes it’s the only thing that can lift my spirits.” She nodded toward the sandwich he’d already begun attacking. “That and some brisket.” “Too true, too true. You know, Dee Dee,” he said, washing down a mouthful of meat with a swallow of rich, sweet egg cream, “D.C. isn’t my native land, but I do believe that if I’d ever lived here by choice rather than necessity, I’d have come to enjoy it much more than I do.” “I hear that. I’m no native either. I’m from New Orleans. Katrina made me move up here, to live with my daughter.” “And who is this interloping Katrina?” he asked, abandoning the egg cream’s inadequate straw and tipping back the glass for a gulp. She laughed. “Oh, you are too funny. Here.” She picked up a napkin and reached toward his face. “You’ve got that stuff all over your mustache.” Taft didn’t flinch. What a novel development. Clearly, a white man and a Negro woman sitting together in a restaurant was of no matter in the twenty-first century. He was less surprised than perhaps he should have been. He was, after all, a Republican, a member of the party of progress. In his heart of hearts, he had always believed it an inevitability that racial tensions would somehow ease as America grew and prospered, and that “separate but equal” was but a temporary measure. Some had thought the president should address the question. But for the executive branch to overstep its boundaries and poke its nose into such social matters was, in Taft’s estimation, unconstitutional. Of course . . . he hadn’t balked at stretching

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executive power to bust trusts or form the Postal Savings System. Was he merely rationalizing his handling of the Negro issue? Had he been a coward? If so, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d shied away—or outright run away—from one of the many urgent issues that had pressed like the stone of Sisyphus upon his administration. “There,” said Dee Dee, wiping the last of the egg cream from his whiskers, “that’s better. Lord, are you always such a mess?” “Just a hearty eater,” he said with a chuckle. “Some say I’m famous for it.” “Oh, really?” She leaned across the table, a mischievous look on her face. “Bill, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I know who you are.” “Oh?” “Uh-huh. Seen you on TV. You were even in my history books when I was a little girl.” Taft felt a blush creep up his neck. “History books. I must confess, that’s rather flattering.” “Flattering? Bill, you’re legendary! The Great Missing President. The man with the mustache. The bathtub guy.” Taft’s face drooped. “Bathtub? People still talk about that?” He pushed away his plate, which he realized he’d emptied without knowing it. “What else do you know about me? What else do the history books say?” “Oh, don’t fret. People don’t pay much attention to history anymore.” She glanced past Taft, and her eyes narrowed. “Except for Waldemann over there. Bill . . . is that your fan club?” Taft looked over his shoulder. Waldemann had approached the Secret Service agents and appeared to be suspiciously interrogating them. In his hand, the deli owner held the framed photo of Taft and Butt that had been on the wall, presumably undisturbed, for over a hundred years. A rectangle of brighter paint marked the spot where it had hung.

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With his other hand, Waldemann was pointing at him. Dee Dee nudged Taft’s glass of egg cream. “I think you’ve been made, Bill. Better drink up.” She stood up and gathered her coat and purse. He could have sworn she winked at him. “Sorry our little chat had to get cut short. Maybe I’ll run into you for lunch some day. If they ever let you out again.”

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KCMO Talk Radio 710 The following message is paid for by Kansas City Leaders for Responsible Development.

Three years into the worst American economy since the Great Depression, we don’t need government inventing more and more taxes to weigh down hardworking small-business owners. But the elitists on the Kansas City Council just don’t understand. They think you can afford to pay higher taxes every year, even though you’re making less. The small-business tax rate this year is already as high as 39 percent. It’s enough to make you wish for the days of William Howard Taft. After all, when Taft was president, businesses paid only 1 percent. Tell you what, City Council—next year, why don’t you try thinking a little more like Taft?

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From Taft: A Tremendous Man, by Susan Weschler:

During the course of America’s existence every type of man has been president: schemers, brutes, drunkards, braggarts—even a few good men. But there was one thing they all shared: the burning ambition to be president. But not Taft. Of all the U.S. presidents who followed George Washington, only Taft never aspired to the office. He’d always felt his true calling was on the Supreme Court, an honor he was painfully forced to bestow on others while he served as president. Afterward, he’d retreat to his own office and count the minutes until his four- year term was up. Some historians wondered: Was it selfish to be a reluctant president? Shouldn’t he have resigned if he’d hated it so much? In a word: no. Because Taft had people depending on him, and no matter what he might wish for himself, he would never let them down. People like his wife, Nellie, and his friend Roosevelt, both of whom did have selfish motives for pushing and pulling Taft into office. Nellie had always dreamed of being first lady, and Roosevelt wanted a successor who’d honor him, who’d continue his policies without ever outshining him. Power corrupts, goes the aphorism. But Taft tasted power— tremendous power—and instead of being seduced by it, he was repulsed by it. What kind of character does such a man possess? This question consumed me when I began studying history in earnest. And the more I learned about him, the more I wished I’d had the chance to meet this man. Just once. Just to say, The country may not have appreciated you. History may not have vindicated you. And since you disappeared on your first day as a free man, you never had the chance to prove them wrong, to find your true calling, to find happiness. But I understand you. I admire you. I know how you feel—because I feel the same way. And then, of course, the impossible happened, and I did meet

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him. His portraits didn’t do him justice. Sturdy, solid, protective without being patronizing, manly without being boorish. And with that distinguished mustache—the last mustache a U.S. president would ever wear. I sometimes suspect Taft was the reason later presidents stopped wearing facial hair. Anything to set themselves apart from the president who had become a cipher at best, a punch line at worst. If they only knew.

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FROM THE DESK OF REP. RACHEL TAFT (Ind.–OH) To-do list—Tues. 22nd—Things to discuss with Grandpa

—Won’t do any political appearances while we’re home. But maybe we can take just one picture with the Cincinnati Little League?

—Thanksgiving dinner. Please invite Agent Kowal- czyk to join us at the table.

—Please remember next time someone recognizes you that we all have cameras in our phones now. Phone waving is not a ritual greeting.

—Gay people. General catching up about all that.

—Your great-great-granddaughter is biracial. Please please oh god please don’t be weird about it. If you are, we’ll all deal. But please don’t. Oh hell.

taft_interior.indd 68 10/12/11 1:36 PM End of this sample. Enjoyed the preview? Buy Now policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 1

THE

LAST

POLICEMAN policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 3

The

Last

Policeman

By Ben H. Winters policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number: 2011963358 ISBN: 978-1-59474-576-8

Printed in Canada Typeset in Bembo and OCRA

Quirk Books 215 Church Street Philadelphia, PA 19106 quirkbooks.com 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 5

ToAndrewWinters, of the ConcordWinters policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 7

“Even forVoltaire, the supreme rationalist, a purely rational suicide was something prodigious and slightly grotesque, like a comet or a two-headed sheep.”

—A. Alvarez, The Savage God: A Study of Suicide

“And there’s a slow, slow train comin’, up around the bend.”

—Bob Dylan, “Slow Train” policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 9

PART ONE

Hanger Town

Tuesday, March 20

Right ascension 19 02 54.4 Declination -34 11 39 Elongation 78.0 Delta 3.195 AU policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 11

I’m staring at the insurance man and he’s staring at me, two cold gray eyes behind old-fashioned tortoiseshell frames, and I’m having this awful and inspiring feeling, like holy moly this is real, and I don’t know if I’m ready, I really don’t. I narrow my eyes and I steady myself and I take him in again, shift on my haunches to get a closer look. The eyes and the glasses, the weak chin and the receding hairline, the thin black belt tied and tightened beneath the chin. This is real. Is it? I don’t know. I take a deep breath, demanding of myself that I focus, block out everything but the corpse, block out the grimy floors and the tinny rock-and-roll Muzak from the cheap speakers in the ceiling. The smell is killing me, a pervasive and deeply unpleasant odor, like a horse barn that’s been splashed with French-fry grease. There are any number of jobs in this world still being efficiently and diligently accomplished, but the late-night cleaning of twenty- policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 12

12 THE LAST POLICEMAN

four-hour fast-food-restaurant bathrooms is not among them. Case in point: the insurance man had been slumped over in here, lodged between the toilet and the dull green wall of the stall, for several hours before Officer Michelson happened to come in, needing to use the john, and discovered him. Michelson called it in as a 10-54S, of course, which is what it looks like. One thing I’ve learned in the last few months, one thing we’ve all learned, is that suicides-by-hanging rarely end up dangling from a light fixture or a roof beam, like in the movies. If they’re serious, and nowadays everybody is serious, would-be suicides fasten themselves to a doorknob, or to a coat hook, or, as the insurance man appears to have done, to a horizontal rail, like the grab bar in a handicapped stall. And then they just lean forward, let their weight do the work, tighten the knot, seal the airway. I angle farther forward, readjust my crouch, trying to find a way to share space comfortably with the insurance man without falling or getting my fingerprints all over the scene. I’ve had nine of these in the three and a half months since I became a detective, and still I can’t get used to it, to what death by asphyxiation does to a person’s face: the eyes staring forward as if in horror, laced with thin red spiderwebs of blood; the tongue, rolled out and over to one side; the lips, inflated and purplish at the edges. I close my eyes, rub them with my knuckles, and look again, try to get a sense of what the insurance man’s appearance had been in life. He wasn’t handsome, that you can see right away. The face is doughy and the proportions are all just a little off: chin too small, nose too big, the eyes almost beady behind the thick lenses. What it looks like is that the insurance man killed himself policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 13

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with a long black belt. He fastened one end to the grab bar and worked the other end into the hangman’s knot that now digs brutally upward into his Adam’s apple. “Hey, kid. Who’s your friend?” “Peter Anthony Zell,” I answer quietly, looking up over my shoulder at Dotseth, who has opened the door of the stall and stands grinning down at me in a jaunty plaid scarf, clutching a steaming cup of McDonald’s coffee. “Caucasian male. Thirty-eight years old. He worked in insurance.” “And let me guess,” says Dotseth. “He was eaten by a shark. Oh, wait, no: suicide. Is it suicide?” “It appears that way.” “Shocked, I am! Shocked!” Denny Dotseth is an assistant attorney general, a warhorse with silver hair and a broad, cheerful face. “Oh, geez, I’m sorry, Hank. Did you want a cup of coffee?” “No, thank you, sir.” I give Dotseth a report on what I’ve learned from the black faux-leather wallet in the victim’s back pocket. Zell was employed at a company called Merrimack Life and Fire, with offices in the Water West Building, off Eagle Square. A little collection of movie stubs, all dating from the last three months, speaks to a taste for adolescent adventure: the Lord of the Rings revival; two installments of the sci-fi serial Distant Pale Glimmers; the DC-versus-Marvel thing at the IMAX in Hooksett. No trace of a family, no photo- graphs in the wallet at all. Eighty-five dollars in fives and tens. And a driver’s license, with an address here in town: 14 Matthew Street Extension, South Concord. policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 14

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“Oh, sure. I know that area. Some nice little town houses down that way. Rolly Lewis has a place over there.” “And he got beat up.” “Rolly?” “The victim. Look.” I turn back to the insurance man’s dis- torted face and point to a cluster of yellowing bruises, high on the right cheek. “Someone banged him one, hard.” “Oh, yeah. He sure did.” Dotseth yawns and sips his coffee. New Hampshire statute has long required that someone from the office of the attorney general be called whenever a dead body is discovered, so that if a murder case is to be built, the prosecuting authority has a hand in from Go. In mid-January this requirement was overturned by the state legislature as being unduly onerous, given the present unusual circumstances—Dotseth and his colleagues hauling themselves all over the state just to stand around like crows at murder scenes that aren’t murder scenes at all. Now, it’s up to the discretion of the investigating officer whether to call an AAG to a 10-54S. I usually go ahead and call mine in. “So what else is new, young man?” says Dotseth. “You still playing a little racquetball?” “I don’t play racquetball, sir,” I say, half listening, eyes locked on the dead man. “You don’t? Who am I thinking of?” I’m tapping a finger on my chin. Zell was short, five foot six maybe; stubby, thick around the middle. Holy moly, I’m still thinking, because something is off about this body, this corpse, this particular presumptive suicide, and I’m trying to figure out what it is. policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 15

THE LAST POLICEMAN 15

“No phone,” I murmur. “What?” “His wallet is here, and his keys, but there’s no cell phone.” Dotseth shrugs. “Betcha he junked it. Beth just junked hers. Service is starting to get so dicey, she figured she might as well get rid of the darn thing now.“ I nod, murmur “sure, sure,” still staring at Zell. “Also, no note.” “What?” “There’s no suicide note.” “Oh, yeah?” he says, shrugs again. “Probably a friend will find it. Boss, maybe.” He smiles, drains the coffee. “They all leave notes, these folks. Although, you have to say, explanation not really necessary at this point, right?” “Yes, sir,” I say, running a hand over my mustache. “Yes, indeed.” Last week in Kathmandu, a thousand pilgrims from all over southeast Asia walked into a massive pyre, monks chanting in a circle around them before marching into the blaze themselves. In central Europe, old folks are trading how-to DVDs: How to Weigh Your Pockets with Stones, How to Mix a Barbiturate Cocktail in the Sink. In the American Midwest—Kansas City, St. Louis, Des Moines—the trend is firearms, a solid majority employing a shotgun blast to the brain. Here in Concord, New Hampshire, for whatever reason, it’s hanger town. Bodies slumped in closets, in sheds, in unfinished basements. A week ago Friday, a furniture-store owner in East Concord tried to do it the Hollywood way, hoisted himself from an overhanging length of gutter with the sash of his bathrobe, but policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 16

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the gutter pipe snapped, sent him tumbling down onto the patio, alive but with four broken limbs. “Anyhow, it’s a tragedy,” Dotseth concludes blandly. “Every one of them a tragedy.” He shoots a quick look at his watch; he’s ready to boogie. But I’m still down in a squat, still running my narrowed eyes over the body of the insurance man. For his last day on earth, Peter Zell chose a rumpled tan suit and a pale blue button-down dress shirt. His socks almost but don’t quite match, both of them brown, one dark and one merely darkish, both loose in their elastic, slipping down his calves. The belt around his neck, what Dr. Fenton will call the ligature, is a thing of beauty: shiny black leather, the letters B&R etched into the gold buckle. “Detective? Hello?” Dotseth says, and I look up at him and I blink. “Anything else you’d like to share?” “No, sir. Thank you.” “No sweat. Pleasure as always, young man.” “Except, wait.” “Sorry?” I stand up straight and turn and face him. “So. I’m going to murder somebody.” A pause. Dotseth waiting, amused, exaggerated patience. “All righty.” “And I live in a time and a town where people are killing themselves all over the place. Right and left. It’s hanger town.” “Okay.” “Wouldn’t my move be, kill my victim and then arrange it to appear as a suicide?” policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 17

THE LAST POLICEMAN 17

“Maybe.” “Maybe, right?” “Yeah. Maybe. But that right there?” Dotseth jabs a cheerful thumb toward the slumped corpse. “That’s a suicide.” He winks, pushes open the door of the men’s room, and leaves me alone with Peter Zell.

***

“So what’s the story, Stretch? Are we waiting for the meat wagon on this one, or cuttin’ down the piñata ourselves?” I level Officer Michelson a stern and disapproving look. I hate that kind of casual fake tough-guy morbidity, “meat wagon” and “piñata” and all the rest of it, and Ritchie Michelson knows that I hate it, which is exactly why he’s goading me right now. He’s been waiting at the door of the men’s room, theoretically guarding the crime scene, eating an Egg McMuffin out of its yellow cel- lophane wrapper, pale grease dripping down the front of his uniform shirt. “Come on, Michelson. A man is dead.” “Sorry, Stretch.” I’m not crazy about the nickname, either, and Ritchie knows that also. “Someone from Dr. Fenton’s office should be here within the hour,” I say, and Michelson nods, burps into his fist. “You’re going to turn this over to Fenton’s office, huh?” He balls up his breakfast-sandwich wrapper, chucks it into the trash. “I thought she wasn’t doing suicides anymore.” policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 18

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“It’s at the discretion of the detective,” I say, “and in this case, I think an autopsy is warranted.” “Oh, yeah?” “Yeah.” He doesn’t really care. Trish McConnell, meanwhile, is doing her job. She’s on the far side of the restaurant, a short and vigor- ous woman with a black ponytail jutting out from under her patrolman’s cap. She’s got a knot of teenagers cornered by the soda fountain. Taking statements. Notebook out, pencil flying, antici- pating and fulfilling her supervising investigator’s instructions. Of- ficer McConnell, I like. “You know, though,” Michelson is saying, talking just to talk, just getting my goat, “headquarters says we’re supposed to fold up the tent pretty quick on these.” “I know that.” “Community stability and continuity, that whole drill.” “Yes.” “Plus, the owner’s ready to flip, with his bathroom being closed.” I follow Michelson’s gaze to the counter and the red-faced proprietor of the McDonald’s, who stares back at us, his unyield- ing gaze made mildly ridiculous by the bright yellow shirt and ketchup-colored vest. Every minute of police presence is a minute of lost profit, and you can just tell the guy would be over here with a finger in my face if he wanted to risk an arrest on Title XVI. Next to the manager is a gangly adolescent boy, his thick mullet fringing a counterman’s visor, smirking back and forth between his disgruntled boss and the pair of policemen, unsure who’s more policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 19

THE LAST POLICEMAN 19

deserving of his contempt. “He’ll be fine,” I tell Michelson. “If this were last year, the whole scene of crime would be shut down for six to twelve hours, and not just the men’s john, either.” Michelson shrugs. “New times.” I scowl and turn my back on the owner. Let him stew. It’s not even a real McDonald’s. There are no more real McDonald’s. The company folded in August of last year, ninety-four percent of its value having evaporated in three weeks of market panic, leaving behind hundreds of thousands of brightly colored empty store- fronts. Many of these, like the one we’re now standing in, on Concord’s Main Street, have subsequently been transformed into pirate restaurants: owned and operated by enterprising locals like my new best friend over there, doing a bustling business in comfort food and no need to sweat the franchise fee. There are no more real 7-Elevens, either, and no more real Dunkin’ Donuts. There are still real Paneras, but the couple who owns the chain have undergone a meaningful spiritual experience and restaffed most of the restaurants with coreligionists, so it’s not worth going in there unless you want to hear the Good News. I beckon McConnell over, let her and Michelson know we’re going to be investigating this as a suspicious death, try to ignore the sarcastic lift of Ritchie’s eyebrows. McConnell, for her part, nods gravely and flips her notebook to a fresh page. I give the crime- scene officers their marching orders: McConnell is to finish collecting statements, then go find and inform the victim’s family. Michelson is to stay here by the door, guarding the scene until someone from Fenton’s office arrives to collect the corpse. policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 20

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“You got it,” says McConnell, flipping closed her notebook. “Beats working,” says Michelson. “Come on, Ritchie,” I say. “ A man is dead.” “Yeah, Stretch,” he says. “You said that already.” I salute my fellow officers, nod goodbye, and then I stop short, one hand on the handle of the parking-lot-side door of the McDonald’s, because there’s a woman walking anxiously this way through the parking lot, wearing a red winter hat but no coat, no umbrella against the steady drifts of snow, like she just ran out of somewhere to get here, thin work shoes slipping on the slush of the parking lot. Then she sees me, sees me looking at her, and I catch the moment when she knows that I’m a policeman, and her brow creases with worry and she turns on her heel and hurries away.

***

I drive north on State Street away from the McDonald’s in my department-issued Chevrolet Impala, carefully maneuvering through the quarter inch of frozen precipitation on the roadway. The side streets are lined with parked cars, abandoned cars, drifts of snow collecting on their windshields. I pass the Capitol Center for the Arts, handsome red brick and wide windows, glance into the packed coffee shop that someone’s opened across the street. There’s a snaking line of customers outside Collier’s, the hardware store—they must have new merchandise. Lightbulbs. Shovels. Nails. There’s a high-school-age kid up on a ladder, crossing out prices and writing in new ones with a black marker on a card- policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 21

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board sign. Forty-eight hours, is what I’m thinking. Most murder cases that get solved are solved within forty-eight hours of the commission of the crime. Mine is the only car on the road, and the pedestrians turn their heads to watch me pass. A bum leans against the boarded-up door of White Peak, a mortgage broker and commercial real-estate firm. A small pack of teenagers is loitering outside an ATM vestibule, passing around a marijuana cigarette, a kid with a scruffy goatee languorously exhaling into the cold air. Scrawled across the glass window of what used to be a two- story office building, at the corner of State and Blake, is graffiti, six- foot-tall letters that say lies lies it’s all lies. I regret giving Ritchie Michelson a hard time. Life for patrol officers had gotten pretty rough by the time I was promoted, and I’m sure that the fourteen subsequent weeks have not made things easier. Yes, cops are steadily employed and earning among the best salaries in the country right now. And, yes, Concord’s crime rate in most categories is not wildly elevated, month against month, from what it was this time last year, with notable exceptions; per the IPSS Act, it is now illegal to manufacture, sell, or purchase any kind of firearm in the United States of America, and this is a tough law to enforce, especially in the state of New Hampshire. Still, on the street, in the wary eyes of the citizenry, one senses at all times the potential for violence, and for an active-duty patrol officer, as for a soldier in war, that potential for violence takes a slow and grinding toll. So, if I’m Ritchie Michelson, I’m bound to be a little tired, a little burned out, prone to the occasional snippy remark. policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 22

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The traffic light atWarren Street is working, and even though I’m a policeman and even though there are no other cars at the in- tersection, I stop and I drum my fingers on the steering wheel and I wait for the green light, staring out the windshield and thinking about that woman, the one in a hurry and wearing no coat.

***

“Everybody hear the news?” asks Detective McGully, big and boisterous, hands cupped together into a megaphone. “We’ve got the date.” “What do you mean, ‘we’ve got the date’?” says Detective Andreas, popping up from his chair looking at McGully with open-mouthed bafflement. “We already have the date. Everybody knows the goddamned date.” The date that everybody knows is October 3, six months and eleven days from today, when a 6.5-kilometer-diameter ball of carbon and silicates will collide with Earth. “Not the date the big meatball makes landfall,” says McGully, brandishing a copy of the Concord Monitor. “The date the geniuses tell us where it’s gonna hit.” “Yeah, I saw that,” nods Detective Culverson, settled at his own desk with his own paper; he reads the NewYorkTimes. “April 9, I think.” My own desk is in the far corner of the room, by the trash can and the little fridge. I have my notebook open in front of me, reviewing my observations on the crime scene. It’s actually a blue book, the kind college students use to take their exams. My father was a professor, and when he died we found about twenty-five policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 23

THE LAST POLICEMAN 23

boxes of these things up in the attic, slim paper books of robin’s- egg blue. I’m still using them. “April 9? That seems so soon.” Andreas slumps back down in his chair, and then he echoes himself in a ghostly murmur. “Seems soon.” Culverson shakes his head and sighs, while McGully chortles. This is what remains of the Concord Police Department’s division of Criminal Investigations, Adult-Crimes Unit: four guys in a room. Between August of last year and today, Adult Crimes has had three early retirements, one sudden and unexplained disappearance, plus Detective Gordon, who broke his hand in the course of a domestic-violence arrest, took medical leave and never came back. This wave of attrition has been insufficiently countered by the promotion, in early December, of one patrolman. Me. Detec- tive Palace. We’re pretty fortunate, personnel-wise. Juvenile Crime is down to two officers, Peterson and Guerrera. Tech Crime was dis- banded entirely, effective November 1. McGully opens today’s New York Times and begins to read aloud. I’m thinking about the Zell case, working through my notes. No signs of foul play or struggle // cell phone? // Ligature: belt, gold buckle. A black belt of handsome Italian leather, emblazoned “B&R.” “The crucial date is April 9, according to astronomers at the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics in Cambridge, Mas- sachusetts,” reads McGully from the Monitor. “Experts there, along with legions of other astronomers, astrophysicists, and dedicated amateurs following the steady progress of Maia, the massive aster- policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 24

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oid formally known as 2011GV1—” “Jesus,” moans Andreas, mournful and furious, jumping up again and hurrying over to McGully’s desk. He’s a small guy, twitchy, in his early forties, but with a thick head of tight black curls, like a cherub. “We know what it is. Is there anyone left on the planet who doesn’t know all of this already?” “Take it easy, pally,” says McGully. “I just hate how they give all the information over and over again, every time. It’s like they’re rubbing it in or something.” “That’s just how newspaper stories are written,” Culverson says. “Well, I hate it.” “Nevertheless.” Culverson smiles. He’s the only African American officer in the Criminal Investigations Unit. He is in fact the only African American officer on the Concord force and is sometimes lovingly referred to as “The Only Black Man in Con- cord,” though this is not technically true. “All right, all right, I’ll skip ahead,” says McGully, patting poor Andreas on the shoulder. “Scientists have been . . . I’ll skip, I’ll skip . . . some disagreement, now largely resolved, as to . . . skip skip skip. Here: ‘On the April date, with only five and a half months remaining until impact, sufficient points of declination and right ascension will have been mapped to pinpoint the precise location on the surface of Earth where Maia will land, to an accuracy of within fifteen miles.” McGully gets a little hushed at the end there, his baritone bluster softening, and he gives out a whistle, low and long. “Fifteen miles.” A silence follows, filled by the small clanging noises of the ra- policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 25

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diator. Andreas stands at McGully’s desk, staring down at the newspaper, his hands balled in fists at his side. Culverson, in his comfortable corner, picks up a pen and begins tracing long lines on a piece of paper. I close the blue book, tilt my head back, and fix my eyes on a point in the ceiling, near the scalloped light fixture in the center of the room. “Well, that’s the gist of it, ladies and germs,” says McGully, bluster recovered, sweeping the paper closed with a flourish. “Then it gets into all the reaction and so on.” “Reaction?” howls Andreas, flapping his hands angrily in the direction of the newspaper. “What kind of reaction?” “Oh, you know, the prime minister of Canada says, hey, hope it lands in China,” says McGully, laughing. “President of China says, ‘Listen, Canada, no offense or anything, but we’ve got a different perspective.’ You know. Blah blah blah.” Andreas growls in disgust. I’m watching all this, sort of, but really I’m thinking, eyes focused on the light fixture. Guy walks into a McDonald’s in the middle of the night and hangs himself in a handicapped stall. Guy walks into a McDonald’s, it’s the middle of the night . . . Culverson solemnly lifts his paper, reveals it to be cross- hatched into a large simple chart, X axis andY axis. “Official Concord Police Department asteroid pool,” he an- nounces, deadpan. “Step right up.” I like Detective Culverson. I like that he still dresses like a real detective. Today he’s in a three-piece suit, a tie with a metallic sheen, and a matching pocket square. A lot of people, at this point, have wholly given themselves over to comfort. Andreas, for exam- policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 26

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ple, is presently wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt and relaxed-fit jeans, McGully a Washington Redskins sweatsuit. “If we must die,” Culverson concludes, “let us first collect a few bucks from our brothers and sisters in the patrol division.” “Sure, but,” Andreas looks around uneasily, “how are we supposed to predict?” “Predict?” McGully whacks Andreas with the folded-up Monitor. “How are we supposed to collect, goofus?” “I’ll go first,” says Culverson. “I’m taking the Atlantic Ocean for an even hundred.” “Forty bucks on France,” says McGully, rifling through his wallet. “Serve ’em right, the pricks.” Culverson walks his chart to my corner of the room, slides it on the desk. “What about you, Ichabod Crane? What do you think?” “Gee,” I say absently, thinking about those angry lesions beneath the dead man’s eye. Someone punched Peter Zell in the face, hard, in the recent-but-not-too-recent past. Two weeks ago, maybe? Three weeks? Dr. Fenton will tell me for sure. Culverson is waiting, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Detective Palace?” “Hard to say, you know? Hey, where do you guys buy your belts?” “Our belts?” Andreas looks down at his waist, then up, as if it’s a trick question. “I wear suspenders.” “Place called Humphrey’s,” says Culverson. “In Manchester.” “Angela buys my belts,” says McGully, who’s moved on to the sports section, leaned way back, feet propped up. “The hell are you talking about, Palace?” policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 27

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“I’m working on this case,” I explain, all of them looking back at me now. “This body we found this morning, at the McDonald’s.” “That was a hanger, I thought,” says McGully. “We’re calling it a suspicious death, for now.” “We?” says Culverson, smiles at me appraisingly. Andreas is still at McGully’s desk, still staring at the front section of the paper, one hand clapped to his forehead. “The ligature in this case was a black belt. Fancy. Buckle said ‘B&R.’” “Belknap and Rose,” says Culverson. “Wait now, you’re working this as a murder? Awfully public place for a murder.” “Belknap and Rose, exactly,” I say. “See, because everything else the victim was wearing was nothing to write home about: plain tan suit, off the rack, an old dress shirt with stains at the pits, mismatched socks. And he was wearing a belt, too, a cheap brown belt. But the ligature: real leather, hand stitching.” “Okay,” says Culverson. “So he went to B&R and bought himself a fancy belt for the purposes of killing himself.” “There you go,” puts in McGully, turns the page. “Really?” I stand up. “It just seems like, I’m going to hang myself, and I’m a regular guy, I wear suits to work, I probably own a number of belts. Why do I drive the twenty minutes to Manch, to an upscale men’s clothing store, to buy a special suicide belt?” I’m pacing a little bit now, hunched forward, back and forth in front of the desk, stroking my mustache. “Why not, you know, just use one of my many existing belts?” “Who knows?” says Culverson. “And more important,” adds McGully, yawning, “who cares?” policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 28

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“Right,” I say, and settle back into my seat, pick up the blue book again. “Of course.” “You’re like an alien, Palace. You know that?” says McGully. In one swift motion, he balls up his sports section and bounces it off my head. “You’re like from another planet or something.” policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 29

There is a very old man behind the security desk at the Water West Building, and he blinks at me slowly, like he just woke up from a nap, or the grave. “You got an appointment with someone here in the building?” “No, sir. I’m a policeman.” The guard is in a severely rumpled dress shirt, and his security- guard cap is misshapen, dented at the peak. It’s late morning, but the gray lobby has a gloaming quality, motes drifting listlessly in the half light. “My name is Detective Henry Palace.” I display my badge—he doesn’t look, doesn’t care—I tuck it carefully away again. “I’m with the Criminal Investigations Division of the Concord Police Depart- ment, and I’m looking into a suspicious death. I need to visit the offices of Merrimack Life and Fire.” He coughs. “What are you, anyway, son? Like, six foot four?” “Something like that.” policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 30

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Waiting for the elevator I absorb the dark lobby: a giant potted plant, squat and heavy, guarding one corner; a lifeless White Moun- tains landscape above a row of brass mailboxes; the centenarian security man examining me from his perch. This, then, was my insurance man’s morning vista, where he started his professional existence, day in and day out. As the elevator door creaks open, I take a sniff of the musty air. Nothing arguing against the case for suicide, down here in the lobby.

***

Peter Zell’s boss is named Theodore Gompers, a jowly, pallid character in a blue wool suit, who evinces no surprise whatsoever when I tell him the news. “Zell, huh? Well, that’s too bad. Can I pour you a drink?” “No, thank you.” “How about this weather, huh?” “Yep.” We’re in his office, and he’s drinking gin from a short square tumbler, absently rubbing his palm along his chin, staring out a big window at the snow tumbling down onto Eagle Square. “A lot of people are blaming it on the asteroid, all the snow. You’ve heard that, right?” Gompers talks quietly, ruminatively, his eyes fixed on the street outside. “It’s not true, though. The thing is still 280 million miles from here at this point. Not close enough to affect our weather patterns, and it won’t be.” “Yep.” “Not until afterward, obviously.” He sighs, turns his head to me policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 31

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slowly, like a cow. “People don’t really understand, you know?” “I’m sure that’s true,” I say, waiting patiently with my blue book and a pen. “Can you tell me about Peter Zell?” Gompers takes a sip of his gin. “Not that much to tell, really. Guy was a born actuary, that’s for sure.” “A born actuary?” “Yeah. Me, I started out on the actuarial side, degree in statistics and everything. But I switched to sales, and at some point I sort of drifted up to management, and here I have remained.” He opens his hands to take in the office and smiles wanly. “But Peter wasn’t going anywhere. I don’t mean that in a bad way necessarily, but he wasn’t going anywhere.” I nod, scratching notes in my book, while Gompers continues in his glassy murmur. Zell, it seems, was a kind of wizard at actuarial math, had a nearly supernatural ability to sort through long columns of demographic data and draw precise conclusions about risk and re- ward. He was also almost pathologically shy, is what it sounds like: walked around with his eyes on the floor, muttered “hello” and“I’m fine” when pressed, sat in the back of the room at staff meetings, looking at his hands. “And, boy, when those meetings ended he would always be the first guy out the door,” Gompers says. “You got the feeling he was a lot happier at his desk, doing his thing with his calculator and his statistics binders, than he was with the rest of us humans.” I’m scratching away, nodding encouragingly and empathetically to keep Gompers talking, and I’m thinking how much I’m starting to like this guy, this Peter Anthony Zell. I like a guy who likes to get his work done. policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 32

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“The thing about him, though, about Zell, is that this craziness never seemed to affect him too much. Even at the beginning, even when it all first started up.” Gompers inclines his head backward, toward the window, toward the sky, and I’m guessing that when he says “when it all first started up,” he means early summer of last year, when the asteroid entered the public consciousness in a serious way. It had been spotted by scientists as early as April, but for those first couple months, it only appeared in News-of-the-Weird kinds of reports, funny headlines on theYahoo! homepage. “Death from Above?!” and “The Sky is Falling!”—that sort of stuff. But for most people, early June was when the threat became real; when the odds of impact rose to five percent; when Maia’s circumference was estimated at between 4.5 and 7 kilometers. “So, you remember: people are going nuts, people are weeping at their desks. But Zell, like I said, he just keeps his head down, does his thing. Like he thought the asteroid was coming for everyone except him.” “And what about more recently? Any change in that pattern? Depression?” “Well,” he says. “You know, wait.” He stops abruptly, puts one hand over his mouth, narrows his eyes, as if trying to see something murky and far away. “Mr. Gompers?” “Yeah, I just . . . Sorry, I’m trying to remember something.” His eyes drift shut for a second, then snap open, and I have a moment of concern for the reliability of my witness here, wondering how many glasses of gin he’s already enjoyed this morning. “The thing is, there policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 33

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was this one incident.” “Incident?” “Yeah. We had this girlTheresa, an accountant, and she came to work on Halloween dressed as the asteroid.” “Oh?” “I know. Sick, right?” But Gompers grins at the memory. “It was just a big black garbage bag with the number, you know, two- zero-one-one-G-V-one, on a name tag. Most of us laughed, some people more than others. But Zell, out of nowhere, he just flipped. He starts yelling and screaming at this girl, his whole body is shaking. It was really scary, especially because, like I said, he’s normally such a quiet guy. Anyway, he apologized, but the next day he doesn’t show up for work.” “How long was he gone?” “A week? Two weeks? I thought he was out for good, but then he turned up again, no explanation, and he’s been the same as ever.” “The same?” “Yeah. Quiet. Calm. Focused. Hard work, doing what he’s told. Even when the actuarial side dried up.” “The—I’m sorry?” I say. “What?” “The actuarial end. Late fall, early winter, you know, we stopped issuing policies entirely.” He sees my questioning expression and smiles grimly. “I mean, Detective: would you like to buy life insurance right now?” “I guess not.” “Right,” he says, sniffs, drains his glass. “I guess not.” The lights flicker and Gompers looks up, mutters “come on,” and a moment later they glow brightly again. policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 34

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“Anyway, so then I’ve got Peter doing what everyone else is doing, which is inspecting claims, looking for false filings, dubious claims. It seems loony, but that’s what our parent company, Varie- gated, is obsessed with these days: fraud prevention. It’s all about protecting the bottom line. A lot of CEOs have cashed in their chips, you know, they’re in Bermuda or Antigua or they’re building bunkers. But not our guy. Between you and me, our guy thinks he’s going to buy his way into heaven when the end comes. That’s the impression I get.” I don’t laugh. I tap the end of the pen on my book, trying to make sense of all the information, trying to build a timeline in my head. “Do you think I might speak to her? “To who?” “The woman you mentioned.” I glance down at my notes. “Theresa.” “Oh, she’s long gone, Officer. She’s in New Orleans now, I believe.” Gompers inclines his head, and his voice peters down to a murmur. “A lot of the kids are going down there. My daughter, too, actually.” He looks out the window again. “Anything else I can tell you?” I stare down at the blue book, spiderwebbed with my crabbed handwriting. Well? What else can he tell me? “What about friends? Did Mr. Zell have any friends?” “Uh . . .” Gompers tilts his head, sticks out his lower lip. “One. Or, I don’t know what he was, I guess he was a friend. A guy, kind of a big fat guy, big arms. Once or twice last summer I saw Zell having lunch with him, around the corner at the Works.” “A large man, you said?” “I said a big fat guy, but sure. I remember because, first of all, policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 35

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you’d never see Peter out to lunch, so that was unusual in itself. And second, Peter was such a small person, the two of them were kind of a sight, you know?” “Did you get his name?” “The big man? No. I didn’t even talk to him.” I uncross and recross my legs, trying to think of the right questions, think of the things I’m supposed to ask, what else I need to know. “Sir, do you have any idea where Peter got the bruises?” “What?” “Under his eye?” “Oh, yeah. Yeah, he said he fell down some stairs. A couple weeks ago, I think?” “Fell down some stairs?” “That’s what he said.” “Okay.” I’m writing this down, and I’m starting to see the dim outlines of the course of my investigation, and I’m feeling these jolts of adrenaline shooting up my right leg, making it bounce a little bit where it’s crossed over the left one. “Last question, Mr. Gompers. Do you know if Mr. Zell had any enemies?” Gompers rubs his jaw with the heel of his hand, his eyes swimming into focus. “Enemies, did you say? You’re not thinking that someone killed the guy, are you?” “Well. Maybe. Probably not.” I flip closed my blue book and stand up. “May I see his workspace, please?”

*** policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 36

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That sharp jolt of adrenaline that shot up my leg during the Gompers interview has now spread throughout my body, and it lingers, spreading up my veins, filling me with a strange kind of electric hunger. I’m a policeman, the thing I’ve always wanted to be. For sixteen months I was a patrol officer, working almost exclusively on the overnight shift, almost exclusively in Sector 1, cruising Loudon Road from the Walmart at one end to the overpass on the other. Sixteen months patrolling my four-and-a-half-mile stretch, back and forth, 8 p.m. to 4 a.m., breaking up fights, scattering drunks, rolling up pan- handlers and schizophrenics in the Market Basket parking lot. I loved it. Even last summer I loved it, when things got weird, new times, and then the fall, the work got steadily harder and steadily stranger and I loved it still. But since making detective I’ve been befogged by a frustrating unnamable sensation, some dissatisfaction, a sense of bad luck, bad timing, where I got the job I’ve wanted and waited for my whole life and it’s a disappointment to me, or I to it. And now, today, here at last this electric feeling, tingling and fading at my pulse points, and I’m thinking holy moly, this might just be it. It really might be.

***

“So what are you looking for, anyway?” It’s an accusation more than a question. I turn from what I’m doing, which is sorting methodically through Peter Zell’s desk drawers, and I see a bald woman in a black pencil skirt and white blouse. policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 37

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It’s the woman I saw at the McDonald’s, the one who approached the door of the restaurant and then turned away, melting back into the parking lot and out of sight. I recognize her pale complexion and deep black eyes, even though this morning she was wearing a bright red wool cap, and now she is hatless, her smooth white scalp reflect- ing the harsh overhead lights of Merrimack Life and Fire. “I am looking for evidence, ma’am. A routine investigation. My name is Detective Henry Palace, from the Concord Police Department.” “Evidence of what, exactly?” she asks. The woman’s nose is pierced, one nostril, a single understated golden stud. “Gompers said that Peter killed himself.” I don’t answer, and she steps the rest of the way into the small airless office and watches me work. She’s good-looking, this woman, small and strong-featured and poised, maybe twenty-four, twenty- five years old. I wonder what Peter Zell must have made of her. “Well,” she says, after thirty seconds or so. “Gompers said to find out if you need anything. Do you need anything?” “No, thank you.” She’s looking over and around me, at my fingers pawing through the dead man’s drawers. “I’m sorry, what did you say you were looking for?” “I don’t know yet. An investigation’s proper course cannot be mapped in advance. It follows each piece of information forward to the next one.” “Oh, yeah?” When the young woman raises her eyebrows, it creates delicate furrows on her forehead. “It sounds like you’re quoting from a textbook or something.” “Huh.” I keep my expression neutral. It is in fact a direct quote, policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 38

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from Farley and Leonard, Criminal Investigation, the introduction to chapter six. “I actually do need something,” I say, pointing to Zell’s monitor, which is turned backward, facing the wall. “What’s the deal with the computers here?” “We’ve been all-paper since November,” she says, shrugging. “There’s this whole network system where our files here were shared with corporate and the different regional offices, but the network got incredibly slow and annoying, so the whole company is operat- ing offline.” “Ah,” I say, “okay.” Internet service, as a whole, has been increasingly unreliable in the Merrimack Valley since late January; a switching point in southernVermont was attacked by some kind of anarchist collective, motive unclear, and the resources haven’t been found to repair it. The woman is just standing there, looking at me. “So, I’m sorry—you’re Mr. Gompers’s executive assistant?” “Please,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Secretary.” “And what’s your name?” She pauses, just long enough to let me know she feels that she could, if she chose, keep the information to herself, and then says, “Eddes. Naomi Eddes.” Naomi Eddes. She is not, I am noticing, completely bald, not quite. Her scalp is gently feathered with a translucent blonde fuzz, which looks soft and smooth and lovely, like elegant carpeting for a doll’s house. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Ms. Eddes?” She doesn’t answer, but neither does she leave the room; she policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 39

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just stands there regarding me steadily as I launch in. She’s worked here for four years. Yes, Mr. Zell was already employed when she started. No, she did not know him well. She confirms Gompers’s general portrait of Peter Zell’s personality: quiet, hardworking, socially uncomfortable, although she uses the word maladroit, which I like. She recalls the incident on Halloween, when Peter lashed out at Theresa from Accounting, though she doesn’t recall any subsequent weeklong absence from the office. “But to be totally honest,” she says, “I’m not sure I would have noticed him not being here. Like I said, we weren’t that close.” Her expression softens, and for a split second I would swear she’s blinking back tears, but it’s just a split second, and then her steady, impas- sive expression recomposes itself. “He was very nice, though. A really nice guy.” “Would you have characterized him as being depressed?” “Depressed?” she says, smiling faintly, ironically. “Aren’t we all depressed, Detective? Under the weight of all this unbearable imma- nence? Aren’t you depressed?” I don’t answer, but I’m liking her phrase, all this unbearable im- manence. Better than Gompers’s“this craziness,” better than McGully’s “big meatball.” “And did you happen to notice, Ms. Eddes, what time Mr. Zell left the office yesterday, or with whom?” “No,” she says, her voice dipping down a half register, her chin pressing against her chest. “I did not notice what time he left the office yesterday, nor with whom.” I am thrown for a moment, and then by the time I realize that her sudden pseudoserious intonation is meant to tease me, she’s con- policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 40

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tinuing in her regular voice. “I left early myself, actually, at about three. We’ve got kind of a relaxed schedule these days. But Peter was definitely still here when I took off. I remember waving good-bye.” I have a sudden and vivid mental image of Peter Zell, three o’clock yesterday afternoon, watching his boss’s beautiful and self- possessed secretary leave for the day. She gives him a friendly indifferent wave, and my man Zell nods nervously, hunched over his desk, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And now, if you’ll excuse me,” says Naomi Eddes abruptly, “I have to go back to work.” “Sure,” I say, nodding politely, thinking, I didn’t ask you to come in. I didn’t ask you to stay. “Oh, Ms. Eddes? One more thing. What were you doing at the McDonald’s this morning, when the body was discovered?” In my inexperienced estimation, this question flusters Ms. Eddes—she looks away, and a trace of a blush dances across her cheeks—but then she gathers herself and smiles and says, “What was I doing? I go there all the time.” “To the McDonald’s on Main Street?” “Almost every morning. Sure. For coffee.” “There’s a lot of places closer to here, for coffee.” “They have good coffee.” “Then why didn’t you come in?” “Because—because I realized at the last minute that I had forgotten my wallet.” I fold my arms and draw myself up to full height. “Is that true, Ms. Eddes?” She folds her own arms, mirrors my stance, looks up to meet policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 41

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my eyes. “Is it true that this is a routine investigation?” And then I’m watching her walk away.

***

“It’s the short fella you’re asking about, is that correct?” “Pardon me?” The old security officer is exactly where I left him, his chair still swiveled to face the elevator bank, as if he’s been frozen in this position, waiting, the whole time I was working upstairs. “The fella who died. You said you were on a murder, up at Merrimack Life.” “I said I was investigating a suspicious death.” “That’s fine. But it’s the short fella? Little squirrelly? Spectacles?” “Yes. His name was Peter Zell. Did you know him?” “Nope. Except I knew everybody who worked in the building, to say hello to. You’re a cop, you said?” “A detective.” The old man’s leathery face contorts itself for a split second into the distant sad cousin of a smile. “I was in the Air Force. Viet- nam. For a while, when I got home, I used to want to be a cop.” “Hey,” I say, offering up by rote the meaningless thing my father always used to say, when confronted with any kind of pessimism or resignation. “It’s never too late.” “Well.” The security officer coughs hoarsely, adjusts his battered cap. “It is, though.” A moment passes in the dreary lobby, and then the guard says, “So last night, the skinny guy, he got picked up after work by some- policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 42

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one in a big red pickup truck.” “A pickup truck? Running gas?” No one has gas, no one but cops and army. OPEC stopped ex- porting oil in early November, the Canadians followed suit a couple of weeks later, and that was it. The Department of Energy opened the Strategic Petroleum Reserve on January 15, along with strictly enforced price controls, and everybody had gas for about nine days, and then they didn’t anymore. “Not gas,” says the guard. “Cooking oil, by the smell of it.” I nod, excited, take a step forward, smooth my mustache with the heel of one hand. “Did Mr. Zell get in the truck willingly or un- willingly?” “Well, no one pushed him in there, if that’s what you mean. And I didn’t see any gun or anything.” I take out my notebook, click open a pen. “What did it look like?” “It was a performance Ford, an old model. Eighteen-inch Goodyears, no chains. Smoke billowing out the back, you know, that nasty vegetable-oil smoke.” “Right. You get a license plate? “I did not.” “And did you get a look at the driver?” “Nope. Didn’t know I’d have a reason to.” The old man blinks, bemused, I think, by my enthusiasm. “He was a big fella, though. Pretty sure of that. Heavyset, like.” I’m nodding, writing quickly. “And you’re sure it was a red pickup?” “It was. A red, medium-body pickup truck with a standard bed. policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 43

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And there was a big flag airbrushed on the driver’s side wall.” “What flag?” “What flag? United States,” he says diffidently, as if unwilling to acknowledge the existence of any other kind. I write quietly for a minute, faster and faster, the pen scratching in the silence of the lobby, the old man looking abstractedly at me, head tilted, eyes distant, like I’m something in a museum case. Then I thank him and put away my blue book and my pen and step out onto the sidewalk, the snow falling on the red brick and sand- stone of downtown, and I’m standing there for a second watching it all in my head, like a movie: the shy, awkward man in the rumpled brown suit, climbing up into the shotgun seat of a shiny red pickup running a converted engine, driving off into the last hours of his life. policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 44

There’s a dream I used to have, pretty consistently once or twice a week, going back to when I was right around twelve years old. The dream featured the imposing figure of Ryan J. Ordler, the long-serving chief of the Concord Police Department, long-serving even back then, whom in real life I would see every summer at the Family and Friends Picnic Potluck, where he would awkwardly tousle my hair and flip me a buffalo-head nickel, like he did for all the children present. In the dream, Ordler stands at attention in full uniform, holding a Bible, on which I place my right hand, palm down, and I’m repeating after him, pledging to enforce and uphold the law, and then he’s solemnly presenting me with my gun, my badge, and I salute him and he salutes me back and the music swells— there is music in the dream—and I am made detective. In real life, one brutally cold morning late last year, I returned to the station at 9:30 a.m., after a long night spent patrolling Sector 1, to find a handwritten note in my locker instructing me to report to policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 45

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the office of the DCA. I stopped in the break room, splashed water on my face, and took the stairs two at a time. The Deputy Chief of Administration at that time was Lieutenant Irina Paul, who had held the post a little more than six weeks, after the abrupt departure of Lieutenant Irvin Moss. “Good morning, ma’am,” I say. “Did you need something?” “Yeah,” Lieutenant Paul says, looks up and then back down at what’s in front of her, a thick black binder with the words U.S. DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE stenciled on the side. “Gimme one sec, Officer.” “Sure,” I say, looking around, and then there’s another voice, deep and rumbling, from the far end of the office: “Son.” It’s Chief Ordler, in uniform but no tie, collar open, shrouded in semidarkness at the small office’s only window, arms crossed, a sturdy oak tree of a human being. A wave of trepidation washes over me, my spine straightens, and I say, “Morning, sir.” “Okay, young man,” says Lieutenant Paul, and the chief nods minutely, gently, titling his head toward the DCA, letting me know to pay attention. “Now. You were involved in an incident two nights ago, in the basement.” “What—oh.” My face flushes, and I begin to explain: “One of the new people—newer, I should say—” I’ve only been on the force for sixteen months myself, “—one of the newer people brought in a suspect for preventive detention under Title XVI. A vagrant. A homeless indi- vidual, that is.” “Right,” says Paul, and I see that she’s got an incident report in front of her, and I’m not liking this at all. I’m sweating now, literally policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 46

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sweating in the cold office. “And he was, the officer I mean, he was being verbally abusive to the suspect, in a way I felt was inappropriate and contrary to department guidelines.” “And you took it open yourself to intervene. To, let’s see,” and she looks down at her desk again, flips over the onion-skin pink paper of the report, “to recite the relevant statute in an aggressive and threatening manner.” “I’m not sure that I would characterize it that way.” I glance at the chief, but he’s looking at Lieutenant Paul, her show. “It’s just, I happened to know the gentleman—sorry, the, I should say, the suspect. Duane Shepherd, Caucasian male, age fifty- five.” Paul’s gaze, unwavering but distant, disinterested, is flustering me, as is the quiet presence of the chief. “Mr. Shepherd was my scout leader when I was a kid. And he used to work as an electric- crew foreman, in Penacook, but I gather he’s had a hard time. With the recession.” “Officially,” says Paul quietly, “I believe it is a depression.” “Yes, ma’am.” Lieutenant Paul looks down at the incident report again. She looks exhausted. This conversation is taking place in early December, deep in the cold months of uncertainty. On September 17 the asteroid went into conjunction, got too close to the Sun to be observed, too close for new readings to be taken. So the odds, which had been inching steadily upward since April—three percent chance of impact, ten percent chance, fifteen—were stalled, late fall and early winter, at fifty- three percent. The world economy went from bad to worse, much policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 47

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worse. On October 12 the president saw fit to sign the first round of IPSS legislation, authorizing an influx of federal money to state and local law-enforcement agencies. In Concord, this meant all these young kids, younger than me, some recent high-school dropouts, all of them rushed through a sort of quasi-police-academy boot camp. Privately, McConnell and I call them the Brush Cuts, because they all seemed to have that same haircut, the same baby faces and cold eyes and swagger. The thing with Mr. Shepherd was not, in truth, my first run-in with my new colleagues. The chief clears his throat, and Paul leans back, happy to let him take over. “Son, listen. There is not a person in this building who does not want you here. We were proud to welcome you to the patrol division, and were it not for the present unusual circumstances—” “Sir, I was first in my class at the academy,” I say, aware that I am talking loudly and that I have interrupted Chief Ordler, but I can’t stop, I keep going. “I have a perfect attendance record, zero viola- tions, zero citizen complaints pre- and post-Maia.” “Henry,” says the chief gently. “I am trusted implicitly, I believe, by Watch Command.” “Young man,” says Lieutenant Paul sharply, and holds up her hand. “I think you misunderstand the situation.” “Ma’am?” “You’re not being fired, Palace. You’re being promoted.” Chief Ordler steps forward into a slant of sunlight from the small window. “We think that, given the circumstances and your particular talents, you’d be better off in a seat upstairs.” I gape at him. I scramble for and then recover the power of policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 48

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speech. “But department regulation says that an officer must put in two years and six months on patrol before becoming eligible for service in the detective unit.” “We’re going to waive that requirement,” Paul explains, folding up the incident report and dropping it in the trash. “I think we’ll also not bother with reclassifying your 401(k), just for the time being.” This is a joke, but I don’t laugh; it’s all I can do to stay upright. I’m trying to get oriented, trying to form words, thinking new times and thinking a seat upstairs and thinking this is not how it happens, in the dream. “Okay, Henry,” says Chief Ordler mildly. “That’s the end of the meeting.”

***

I learn later on that it’s Detective Harvey Telson whose spot I’m filling, Telson having taken an early retirement, gone “Bucket List” like many others were doing by this point, by December, heading off to do the things they’ve always wanted to do: speed around in race cars, experiment with long-suppressed romantic or sexual in- clinations, track down the old bully and punch him in the face. De- tectiveTelson, as it turns out, always wanted to race yachts. America’s Cup kind of stuff. A lucky break for me. Twenty-six days after the meeting in her office, two days after the asteroid emerged from conjunction with the Sun, Lieutenant Paul quit the force and moved to Las Vegas to be with her grown children. I don’t have the dream anymore, the one where Ordler lays my hand on the Bible and makes me a detective. There’s another dream that I’ve been having a lot instead. policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 49

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***

Like Dotseth says, the cellular phones are getting dicey. You dial, you wait, sometimes you get through and sometimes not. A lot of people are convinced that Maia is bending Earth’s gravitational field, our magnets or ions, or something, but of course the asteroid, still 450 million kilometers away, is having no more effect on cell- phone service than on the weather. OfficerWilentz, our tech guy, he explained it to me once: cellular service is chopped up into sectors— cells—and basically the sectors are dropping out, the cells are dying, one by one. The telecom companies are losing service people because they can’t pay them, because no one is paying their bill; they’re losing their executives to the Bucket List; they’re losing telephone poles to unrepaired storm damage, and they’re losing long stretches of wire to vandals and thieves. So the cells are dying. As for all the other stuff, the smartphone stuff, the apps and the gizmos, forget it. One of the five major carriers announced last week that it’s begun winding down its business, describing this fact in a newspaper advertisement as an act of generosity, a “gift of time” to the company’s 355,000 employees and their families, and warning customers to expect total suspension of service within the next two months. Three days ago, Culverson’s New York Times had the De- partment of Commerce predicting total collapse of telephony by late spring, with the administration supposedly crafting a plan to nationalize the industry. “Meaning,” McGully noted, chortling, “total collapse by early spring.” Sometimes, when I notice that I have a strong signal, I’ll make policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 50

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a call real quick, so as not to waste it. “Oh, man. Man oh man, what in hell do you want?” “Good afternoon, Mr. France. This is Detective Henry Palace, from the Concord Police Department.” “I know who it is, okay? I know who it is.” Victor France sounds riled, agitated; he always sounds like that. I’m sitting in the Impala outside Rollins Park now, a couple blocks from where Peter Zell used to live. “Come on, Mr. France. Take it easy, now.” “I don’t want to take it easy, okay? I hate your guts. I hate it when you call me, okay?” I hold the phone an inch or two away from my ear as France’s scattershot snarl pours from the earpiece. “I’m trying to live my life here, man. Is that such an awful and terrible thing, just to live my life?” I can picture him, the thug resplendent: loops of chain drooping from black jeans, skull-and-crossbones pinky ring, scrawny wrists and forearms crawling with several species of tattoo snakes. The rat-eyed face twisted with melodramatic outrage, having to answer the phone, take orders from a stuck-up egghead policeman like myself. But look, I mean, that’s what you get for being a drug dealer, and moreover for getting caught, at this juncture in American history. Victor may not know by heart the full text of the Impact Preparation Security and Stabilization Act, but he’s got the gist. “I don’t need much help today, Mr. France. A little research project, is all.” France blows out one last exasperated “oh man oh man,” and then he comes around, just like I knew he would. “All right, okay. All right, what is it?” policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 51

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“You know a little bit about cars, don’t you?” “Yeah. Sure. I mean, what, Detective, what, you calling me to fill your tires?” “No, thank you. The last few weeks, people have started con- verting their cars to vegetable-oil engines.” “No shit. You seen gas prices lately?” He clears his throat noisily, spits. “I’m trying to find out who did one such conversion. It’s a midsize red pickup, a Ford. American flag painted on the side. You think you can handle that?” “Maybe. And what if I can’t?” I don’t answer. I don’t have to. France knows the answer. One of the most striking effects of the asteroid, from a law- enforcement perspective, has been the resulting spike in drug use and drug-related crime, with skyrocketing demand for every category of narcotic, for opiates, for Ecstasy, for methamphetamine, for cocaine in all its varieties. In small towns, in docile suburbs, farming communi- ties, everywhere—even midsize cities like Concord, which had never experienced serious narcotics crime in the past. The federal government, after some tacking back and forth in the summer and fall, late last year resolved on a firm and uncompromising law-and-order stance. The IPSS Act incorporated provisions stripping the right of habeas corpus and other due-process protections from anyone ac- cused of importing, processing, growing, or distributing controlled substances of all kinds. These measures were deemed necessary “in the interest of con- trolling violence, promoting stability, and encouraging productive economic activity in the time remaining before impact.” policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 52

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Personally, I do know the full text of the legislation. The car is off and the wipers are still, and I’m watching as gray blobs of snow build up in uneven slopes on the windshield. “All right, man, all right,” he says. “I’ll figure out who juiced the truck. Give me a week.” “I wish I could, Victor. I’ll call you tomorrow.” “Tomorrow?” He heaves an extravagant sigh. “Asshole.” The irony is, pot is the one exception. The use of marijuana has been decriminalized, in a so-far-unsuccessful effort to dampen demand for the harder and more societally destabilizing drugs. And the amount of marijuana I found onVictor France’s person was five grams, small enough that it could easily have been for his personal use, except that the way I discovered it was that he tried to sell it to me as I was walking home from the Somerset Diner on a Saturday afternoon. Whether to make an arrest, under those ambiguous circumstances, is at the discretion of the officer, and I have decided in France’s case not to exercise that discretion—conditionally. I could lock Victor France up for six months on Title VI, and he knows it, and so at last he emits a long, agitated noise, a sigh filled with gravel. Six months is hard time, when it’s all the time you’ve got left. “You know, a lot of cops are quitting,” says France. “Moving to Jamaica and so forth. Did you ever think about that, Palace?” “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I hang up and put the phone in the glove box and start the car. No one is really sure—even those of us who have read the eight-hundred-page law from beginning to end, scored it and underlined it, done our best to keep current with the various amend- policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 53

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ments and codicils—not a hundred percent sure what the “Prepa- ration” parts of IPSS are supposed to be, exactly. McGully likes to say that sometime around late September they’ll start handing out umbrellas.

***

“Yeah?” “Oh—I’m sorry. Is this—is this Belknap and Rose?” “Yeah.” “I have a request for you.” “Don’t get your hopes up. Not a lot left in here. We been looted twice, and our wholesalers are basically AWOL. Want to come in and see what’s left, I’m here most days.” “No, excuse me, my name is Detective Henry Palace, with the Concord Police Department. Do you have copies of your register receipts from the last three months?” “What?” “If you do, I wonder if I could come down there and see them. I’m looking for the purchaser of one house-label belt, in black, size XXL.” “Is this a joke? “No, sir.” “I mean, are you joking?” “No, sir.” “All right, buddy.” “I’m investigating a suspicious death, and the information might be material.” policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 54

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“Alllll right, buddy.” “Hello?”

***

Peter Zell’s townhouse, 14 Matthew Street Extension, is a new building, cheap construction, with just four small rooms: living room and kitchen on the first floor, bedroom and bathroom upstairs. I linger on the threshold, recalling the relevant text from Criminal In- vestigation advising me to work slowly, divide the house into a grid, take each quadrant in its turn. Then the thought of the Farley and Leonard—my reflexive reliance on it—reminds me of Naomi Eddes: it sounds like you’re quoting from a textbook or something. I shake that off, run a hand over my mustache, and step inside. “Okay, Mr. Zell,” I say to the empty house. “Let’s have a look.” The first quadrant gives me precious little to work with. A thin beige carpet, an old coffee table with ring-shaped stains. A small but serviceable flat-screen TV, wires snaking up from a DVD player, a vase of chrysanthemums that turn out, on close inspection, to be made of fabric and wire. Most of Zell’s bookshelf space is given over to his professional interests: math, advanced math, ratios and probabilities, a thick history of actuarial accounting, binders from the Bureau of Labor Statistics and the National Institutes of Health. Then he’s got one shelf where all the personal stuff sits, as if quarantined, all the nerdy sci-fi and fantasy stuff, Battlestar Galactica: The Complete Series, vintage D&D rule- books, a book on the mythological and philosophical underpinnings of Star Wars. A small armada of spaceship miniatures is suspended policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 55

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from wires in the doorway to the kitchen, and I duck to avoid them. In the pantry are nine boxes of cereal, carefully alphabetized: Alpha-Bits, Cap’n Crunch, Cheerios, and so on. There is one empty slot in the neat row, like a missing tooth between the Frosted Flakes and the Golden Grahams, and my mind automatically fills in the missing box: Fruity Pebbles. A stray candy-pink grain confirms my hypothesis. “I like you, Peter Zell,” I say, carefully closing the pantry door. “You, I like.” Also in the kitchen, in an otherwise empty drawer beside the sink, is a pad of plain white paper, with writing on the top sheet that says, Dear Sophia. My heart catches on a beat, and I breathe and I pick up the pad, flip it over, rifle through the pages, but that’s all there is, one sheet of paper with the two words, Dear Sophia. The handwriting is precise, careful, and you can tell, you can feel that this was not a casual note Zell was writing, but an important document, or was meant to be. I tell myself to remain calm, because it could after all be nothing, though my mind is blazing with it, thinking that whether it’s the start of an aborted suicide note or not, it is definitely something. I tuck the pad into the pocket of my blazer, walk up the stairs, thinking, who is Sophia? The bedroom is like the living room, sterile and unornamented, the bed haphazardly made. A single framed print hangs over the bed, a signed still from the original Planet of the Apes film. In the closet hang three suits, all in dull shades of brown, and two threadbare brown belts. In a small, chipped-wood night table beside the bed, in policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 56

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the second drawer down, is a shoebox, wrapped tightly in duct tape, with the number 12.375 written on the outside in the same precise handwriting. “Twelve point three seven five,” I murmur. And then, “What is this?” I tuck the shoebox box under my arm and stand up, take a look at the one photograph in the room: it’s a small print in a cheap frame, a school picture of a boy, maybe ten or eleven years old, thin yellow flyaway hair, gawky grin. I tug it from the frame and flip it over, find careful handwriting on the back. Kyle, February 10. Last year. Before. I use the CB to raise Trish McConnell. “Hey,” I say, “it’s me. Were you able to locate the victim’s family?” “Yes, indeed.” Zell’s mother is dead, as it turns out, buried here in Concord, up at Blossom Hill. The father is living at PleasantView Retirement, suffering the opening phases of dementia. The person to whom McConnell delivered the bad news is Peter’s older sister, who works as a midwife at a private clinic near Concord Hospital. Married, one child, a son. Her name is Sophia.

***

On my way out, I stop again on the threshold of Peter Zell’s house, awkwardly carrying the shoebox and the photograph and the white notepad, feeling the weight of the case and balancing it against an ancient memory: a policeman standing in the doorway of my childhood home on Rockland Road, hatless and somber, calling, “Anybody home?” into the morning darkness. policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 57

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Me standing at the top of the stairs, in a Red Sox jersey, or it might have been a pajama top, thinking my sister is probably still asleep, hoping so anyway. I’ve already got a pretty good idea what the policeman’s there to say.

***

“Let me guess, Detective,” says Denny Dotseth, “We’ve got another 10-54S.” “Not a new one, actually. I wanted to touch base with you about Peter Zell.” I’m easing the Impala down Broadway, hands at ten and two. There’s a New Hampshire state trooper parked at Broadway and Stone, engine on, the blue lights slowly rotating on the roof, a machine gun clutched in his hand. I nod slightly, raise two fingers off the wheel, and he nods back. “Who’s Peter Zell?” says Dotseth. “The man from this morning, sir.” “Oh, right. Hey, you hear they named the big day? When we’ll know where she comes down, I mean. April 9.” “Yep. I heard.” Dotseth, like McGully, likes to keep up-to-date on every unfolding detail of our global catastrophe. At the last suicide scene, not Zell’s but the one before that, he talked excitedly for ten minutes about the war on the Horn of Africa, the Ethiopian army swarming into Eritrea to avenge ancient grievances in the time remaining. “I thought it made sense to present you with what I’ve learned so far,” I say. “I know your impression from this morning, but I think policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 58

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this might be a homicide, I really do.” Dotseth murmurs, “Is that a fact?” and I take that as a go-ahead, give him my sense of the case thus far: The incident at Merrimack Life and Fire, on Halloween. The red pickup truck, burning vegetable oil, that took the victim away the night he died. My hunch on the belt from Belknap and Rose. All of this the assistant AG receives with a toneless “interesting,” and then he sighs and says, “What about a note?” “Uh, no. No note, sir.” I decide not to tell him about Dear Sophia, because I feel fairly certain that whatever that is, it is not an aborted suicide note—but Dotseth will think it was, he’ll say, “There you go, young man, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” Which he pretty clearly thinks I’m doing anyway. “You got some straws to grasp at there,” is what he says. “You’re not going to refer this case to Fenton, are you?” “I am, actually. I already did. Why?” There’s a pause, and then a low chuckle. “Oh, no reason.” “What?” “Hey, listen, kid. If you really think you can build a case, of course I’ll take a look. But don’t forget the context. People are killing themselves right and left, you know? For someone like the fella you’re describing, someone without a lot of friends, with no real support system, there’s a powerful social incentive to join the herd.” I keep my mouth shut, keep driving, but this line of reasoning Idonotlike. He did it because everyone else is doing it? It’s like Dotseth is accusing the victim of something: cowardice, perhaps, or mere fad- dishness, some color of weakness. Which, if in fact Peter Zell was policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 59

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murdered, murdered and dragged into a McDonald’s and left in that bathroom like meat, only adds insult to injury. “I’ll tell you what,” says Dotseth genially. “We’ll call it an attempted murder.” “Sorry, sir?” “It’s a suicide, but you’re attempting to make it a murder. Have a great day, Detective.”

***

Driving down School Street there’s an old-time-style ice-cream parlor on the south side of the road, right where you pass theYMCA, and today it looks like they’re doing a pretty brisk business, snow or no snow, dairy prices or no dairy prices. There’s a nice-looking young couple, early thirties maybe, they’ve just stepped outside with their colorful cones. The woman gives me a small tentative friendly- policeman wave, and I wave back, but the man looks at me dead- eyed and unsmiling. People in the main are simply muddling along. Go to work, sit at your desk, hope the company is still around come Monday. Go to the store, push the cart, hope there’s some food on the shelves today. Meet your sweetheart at lunch hour for ice cream. Okay, sure, some people have chosen to kill themselves, and some people have chosen to go Bucket List, some people are scrambling around for drugs or “wandering around with their dicks out,” as McGully likes to say. But a lot of the Bucket Listers have returned, disappointed, and a lot of newly minted criminals and wild pleasure-seekers have found themselves in jail, waiting in terrified solitude for October. policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 60

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So, yeah, there are differences in behavior, but they are on the margins. The main difference, from a law-enforcement perspective, is more atmospheric, harder to define. I would characterize the mood, here in town, as that of the child who isn’t in trouble yet, but knows he’s going to be. He’s up in his room, waiting, “Just wait till your father gets home.” He’s sullen and snappish, he’s on edge. Confused, sad, trembling against the knowledge of what’s coming next, and right on the edge of violence, not angry but anxious in a way that can easily shade into anger. That’s Concord. I can’t speak to the mood in the rest of the world, but that’s pretty much it around here.

***

I’m back at my desk on School Street, back in Adult Crimes, and I’m carefully cutting away the duct tape that holds the lid of the shoebox, and for the second time since I met her I hear the voice of Naomi Eddes—standing there with her arms crossed, staring at me, so what are you looking for, anyway? “This,” I say, when I have the lid off the box and I’m staring inside. “This is what I’m looking for.” Peter Zell’s shoebox contains hundreds of newspaper articles, magazine pages, and items printed from the Internet, all relating to Maia and its impending impact with Earth. I lift the first of the articles off the top of the stack. It’s from April 2 of last year, an Associ- ated Press squib about the Palomar Observatory at Caltech and the unusual but almost certainly harmless object the scientists there had spotted, which had been added to the Potentially Hazardous Aster- policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 61

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oid list at the Minor Planet Center. The author concludes the article by dryly noting that “whatever its size or composition, this mysterious new object’s odds of impacting Earth are estimated at 0.000047 percent, meaning there is a one in 2,128,000 chance.” Zell, I note, has carefully circled both numbers. The next item in the shoebox is aThomson Reuters piece from two days later, headlined“Newly Discovered Space Object Largest in Decades,” but the article itself is rather mundane, a single paragraph, no quotes. It estimates the size of the object—in those early days still

being referred to by its astronomical designation of 2011GV1,—as “among the largest spotted by astronomers in some decades, possibly as large as three kilometers in diameter.” Zell has circled that esti- mate, too, faintly, in pencil. I keep reading, fascinated by this grim time capsule, reliving the recent past from Peter Zell’s perspective. In each article, he has circled or underlined numbers: the steadily increasing estimates of Maia’s size, its angle in the sky, its right ascension and declination, its odds of impact as they inch higher, week by week, month by month. He’s put neat boxes around each dollar amount and percentage of stock-value loss in an early-July FinancialTimes survey of the desperate emergency actions of the Fed, the European Central Bank, and the International Monetary Fund. He has, too, articles on the political side: legislative wrangling, emergency laws, bureaucratic shuffles at the Justice Department, the refunding of the FDIC. I am picturing Zell, late at night, every night, at his cheap kitchen table, eating cereal, his glasses resting at his elbow, marking up these clippings and printouts with his mechanical pencil, considering every unfolding detail of the calamity. policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 62

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I pluck out a Scientific American piece dated September 3, asking in big bold letters, “How Could We Not Have Known?” The short answer, which I already know, which everyone knows by now,

is that 2011GV1’s highly unusual elliptical orbit brings it close enough to be visible from Earth only once every seventy-five years, and seventy-five years ago we weren’t looking, we had no program in place to spot and track Near-Earth Asteroids. Zell has circled “75” each time it appears; he’s circled 1 in 265 million, the now-moot odds of such an object existing; he’s circled 6.5 kilometers, which by then had been determined to be Maia’s true diameter. The rest of the Scientific American article gets complicated: astrophysics, perihelions and aphelions, orbital averaging and values of elongation. My head is spinning reading all of this, my eyes hurt, but Zell has clearly read every word, thickly annotated every page of it, made dizzying calculations in the margins, with arrows leading to and from the circled statistics and amounts and astronomical values. Carefully I place the cover back on the box, look out the window. I place my long flat palms on the top of the box, stare again at the number on the side of the box, written firmly, in black marker: 12.375. I’m feeling it again—something—I don’t know what. But something.

***

“May I speak to Sophia Littlejohn? This is Detective Henry Palace of the Concord Police Department.” There’s a pause, and then a woman’s voice, polite but unsettled. policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 63

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“This is she. But I think you folks have got your wires crossed. I already spoke to someone. This is—you’re calling about my brother, right? They called earlier today. My husband and I both spoke to the officer.” “Yes, ma’am. I know.” I’m on the landline, at headquarters. I’m judging Sophia Little- john, picturing her, painting myself a picture from what I know, and from the tone of her voice: alert, professional, compassionate. “Officer McConnell gave you the unfortunate news. And I’m really sorry to be bothering you again. As I said, I’m a detective, and I just have a few questions.” As I’m talking I’m becoming aware of an unpleasant gagging noise; over there on the other side of the room is McGully, his black Boston Bruins scarf twisted up over his head into a comedy noose, going “erk-erk.” I turn away, hunch over my chair, holding the receiver close to my ear. “I appreciate your sympathy, Detective,” Zell’s sister is saying. “But I honestly don’t know what else I can tell you. Peter killed himself. It’s awful. We weren’t that close.” First Gompers. Then Naomi Eddes. And now the guy’s own sister. Peter Zell certainly had a lot of people in his life with whom he wasn’t that close. “Ma’am, I need to ask if there’s any reason your brother would have been writing you a letter. A note of some kind, addressed to you?” On the other end of the phone, a long silence. “No,” says Sophia Littlejohn finally. “No. I have no idea.” I let that hang there for a moment, listen to her breathe, and then I say, “Are you sure you don’t know?” policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 64

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“Yes. I am. I’m sure. Officer, I’m sorry, I don’t really have time to talk right now.” I’m leaning all the way forward in my chair. The radiator makes a metallic chugging noise from its corner. “What about tomorrow?” “Tomorrow?” “Yes. I’m sorry, but it really is very important that we speak.” “Okay,” she says, after another pause. “Sure. Can you come to my home in the morning?” “I can.” “Very early? Seven forty-five?” “Anytime is fine. Seven forty-five is fine. Thank you.” There’s a pause, and I look at the phone, wondering if she’s hung up, or if the landlines are now having trouble, too. McGully tousles my hair on his way out, bowling bag swinging from his other hand. “I loved him,” says Sophia Littlejohn suddenly, hushed but forceful. “He was my little brother. I loved him so much.” “I’m sure you did, ma’am.” I get the address, and I hang up, and I sit for a second staring out the window, where the slush and sleet just keep on coming down. “Hey. Hey, Palace?” Detective Andreas is slumped in his chair on the far side of the room, tucked away in darkness. I hadn’t even known he was in the room. “How you doing, Henry?” His voice is toneless, empty. “Fine. How about you?” I’m thinking about that glistening pause, that lingering moment, wishing I could have been inside Sophia Littlejohn’s head as she cycled through all the reasons her policeman_interior3:Layout 1 4/17/12 10:17 AM Page 65

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brother might have had for writing Dear Sophia on a piece of paper. “I’m fine,” Andreas says. “I’m fine.” He looks at me, smiles tightly, and I think the conversation is over, but it’s not. “I gotta say, man,” Andreas murmurs, shaking his head, looking over at me. “I don’t know how you do it.” “How I do what?” But he’s just looking at me, not saying anything else, and from where I’m sitting across the room it looks like there are tears in his eyes, big pools of standing water. I look away, back out the window, just no idea what to say to the guy. No idea whatsoever. End of this sample. Enjoyed the preview? Buy Now