by Tim Washburn
“I don’t know. I don’t have any place to go back to. We put our home up for sale when I filed for divorce. Aubrey and I were still living in the house, but I have no desire to go back. I feel like I need to stay here just in case Aubrey and my father make their way home.”
Zeke has no desire to burst her bubble and offers no response. He grabs up his canteen and takes a long swallow, trying to frame the next question in the best possible light. He works on screwing the lid back on. “Any chance of a reconciliation between you and your husband?”
“Uh . . . no. We’ve been separated for over a year and a half. I held out some hope we might get back together, for Aubrey’s sake if nothing else. But the longer I was estranged from him, the more I came to dislike the man. What about you? Married?”
“No . . . yes . . . I . . . was—” Zeke stops, not sure he wants to break the scab of an old wound. His hand drifts toward the locket around his neck but he pulls it back. “I was married. My wife died during her first pregnancy.”
She covers her mouth with her hands. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s been over three years. Long enough that I should put the whole issue behind me.”
Summer takes a step closer toward him but pulls up short. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” He rakes his hand across his face. He can tell she’s on the verge of asking more. “All right if I leave the door open so the horses can get to the water?”
“Of course. Let the horses roam for a while. Let’s go back to the house and I’ll fix some of the leftover venison.”
They exit the barn and the chatter on the return trip is somewhat subdued. Zeke reaches for her arm and pulls her to a stop. “What happened was three years ago. You’d think I’d be over it by now.”
He releases her arm, but instead of turning away Summer threads her arm through his. “I can’t imagine how horrible that was for you. That’s not something you can put behind you very easily. Time heals all wounds, they say, but they never specify how much time. You’re a good man, Zeke Marshall.”
Back at the fire, Summer pours more coffee for them before disappearing into the house. Zeke carries his coffee over to the picnic table and takes a seat. But he doesn’t sit long. The hard wood sends a direct signal from his butt to his brain. Instead he makes his way over to the fire, contemplating how he’s going to sit in the saddle for another long day.
She returns from inside with a heavy cast-iron skillet. He reaches out to relieve her of the burden and their hands touch, sending a pleasant jolt tingling up his arm. The sensation felt exactly like a static shock, that little pop, and from her expression he can see she felt something, too. Unnerved, he sets the heavy pan on a nice bed of glowing coals while she returns to the house.
He takes advantage of her leaving and sneaks around the side of the house to relieve himself. As he returns around the corner she catches him.
“Bathroom?”
“How’d you guess? I kind of miss the sound of a flushing toilet.”
“Try being a girl. You’ve got it easy.”
She puts some meat into the pan and the sizzle and aroma make his stomach rumble. “I hope the meat’s not spoiled. I kept it down in the cellar overnight.”
He bends down to take a quick sniff. “I think we’re safe, but we should cook it little longer just in case.”
She nods and pours herself more coffee. They make small talk until the venison is cooked through. Summer loads up two plates and hands one to Zeke. Between bites, he looks toward the barn and sees the horses wander out and make their way to the water tank. After drinking their fill they leisurely graze on the few patches of still-green grass. I should be miles down the road by now. But the fire and the food are good reasons for the delay. Or so he tells himself.
The coffeepot soon runs dry, leaving Zeke without a ready excuse to hang around any longer. He takes his and Summer’s empty plates and washes them both in a tub of water sitting by the picnic table. Using a rag, he wipes the heavy cast-iron pan clean, and with nothing left to do, reluctantly turns for the barn.
“I’m coming,” Summer says, falling in step beside him. Inside the barn he saddles Murphy and puts the wooden carriers on both mares and secures their leads to one another. He leads the horses out into the bright sunlight, but pauses before putting his foot in the stirrup.
He turns to Summer. “Thank you for everything.”
“You’re very welcome.”
They’ve arrived at an awkward moment. Zeke desperately wants to wrap his arms around her, but instead he pulls himself up and screams out a groan when his ass hits the saddle.
Summer bursts out laughing. “A couple of days until you’re back?” she says, shielding her eyes from the sunlight.
“If you don’t mind us stopping.”
“I’ll be angry if you don’t.”
He gives Murphy a little tap with his heels and the gelding leads them away from the barn and onto the gravel drive. After a wave, he and the horses take to the deserted ribbon of asphalt while his brain cartwheels through a confusing number of emotions.
Three hours of riding brings them to the outskirts of Frisco. From his position atop Murphy he can see where the Dallas North Tollway begins off to the west. But it no longer resembles a major highway—the road more closely resembles an overcrowded mall parking lot two days before Christmas. The trailer doors on the big rigs are flung open and the foul odor of decay drifts on the breeze. Zeke doesn’t know if the stench is related to spoiled food or something worse.
The road he’s traveling, 289 south, cuts through the heart of Frisco, Texas. Their progress slows as he walks the horses around more abandoned vehicles. Neighborhoods dot the landscape and Zeke loosens the Glock, but leaves it holstered. Up ahead he spots a group of people walking along the side of the road. He reaches down and slides the Kimber rifle out a few inches for easier access. Zeke steers Murphy toward the opposite yellow line as they near the group. He relaxes slightly when he discovers the group to be five teenage girls, none older than about sixteen. He waves in passing and one or two of the girls shout for a ride while the others giggle.
He clears downtown Frisco with no further encounters. The weather is not blistering hot, but it is hot enough to be uncomfortable. Murphy is lathered around the edges of the saddle blanket and Zeke’s shirt clings to his back. He pulls the map from his pocket and checks their progress, trying to determine how much farther to the outskirts of Dallas proper. Best as he can tell they’re about twenty-five miles north of his sister’s house. He glances up at the sun and estimates the time—past midmorning—closer to noon than ten. If he pushes the horses a little harder they might reach Ruth’s house sometime well after nightfall. That would spare them from having to find another place to bed down for the night. He turns in the saddle to check on Ruby and Tilly and they appear to be holding up well. Murphy’s the one he’s worried about. He decides to play it by ear and not overburden the horses.
As they slog along, Zeke begins searching for a water source somewhere up ahead. A few more people are out and about, but well off the main road. No threats are pinging his radar. The road weaves back through a commercial area and he passes an Olive Garden, a Red Lobster, and an Outback Steakhouse. What once were windows or doors are now plastered with heavy plywood tagged with graffiti. It’s bizarre seeing all the businesses that only a short time ago would have been getting ready to serve an overindulgent meal. Now they’re abandoned, left to crumble in place.
The next block offers two shuttered banks and, for a brief moment, he thinks about money. Or, in his case, the lack thereof. Most everything will be based on barter for the near future. His thoughts turn to the fabulously wealthy people who inhabit portions of Dallas, including those who have purchased one of his hand-built tables. No food to buy, no trips to the mall, nothing on which to spend their vast sums of money. The playing field is leveled—socioeconomic barriers thrust aside.
The next block is more of the same, with
all types of shuttered retail establishments, including a Home Depot and a Best Buy. Sunlight glints off something the next block down, near the entrance to another restaurant. The horses surge that way and he tugs gently on the reins to slow Murphy. The glint turns out to be a small pond with a fountain at its center. The mermaid’s mouth is dry and crusty but plenty of water remains. He slides off Murphy as the three horses eagerly begin to drink. A few colorful fish are swimming around the bottom, but the horses pay them no mind. Zeke wonders how long it will be before those fish end up on a spike of wood over a fire.
Being out of the saddle brings brief relief to his sore behind. He arches his back and wiggles his hips to loosen up, then takes off his cowboy hat and mops his brow. As the horses drink, he seeks refuge under an overgrown holly bush for a little relief from the interminable sun. Once the horses have drunk their fill, Zeke takes a sip of water from his canteen. He’s running low on water but there’s no way in hell he’s drinking from the pond. With reluctance, he remounts Murphy and steers him back on the road as his eyes continually scan for threats.
CHAPTER 65
The White House Situation Room
President Harris makes his way back to the Sit Room around four in the afternoon, slightly ahead of the twenty-four-hour delay that Admiral Hickerson had requested. His blue button-down shirt is open at the collar and the shirtsleeves are folded up nearly to his elbows. Under direct orders from his wife, they had enjoyed a long, private lunch and an escape upstairs to the residence for an afternoon tryst. As he waits for others to arrive, he exhales a contented sigh, thinking how lucky he is to have Katherine Harris in his life. She is far more than a wife. She is an equal partner in the marriage, a sounding board full of creative ideas, a wonderful mother to their daughter, and an enduring opti—
The President is stirred from his reverie when a steady stream of haggard military personnel trudges into the room. He reaches forward to pour himself a cup of coffee and calls the meeting to order. All the regulars are in attendance, a veritable who’s who of the nation’s top brass, with their aides lined up along the outer wall. Most of the military aides are dressed in shirtsleeves and their ties are loosened. Except for Admiral Hickerson, who is wearing a somewhat rumpled full dress uniform with the tunic buttoned up to his throat. All the requisite stars are attached to shoulder boards and buttoned in place.
President Harris takes a tentative sip of his hot coffee. “Admiral, what’s the status?”
The admiral clears his throat, and when he speaks his voice is raspy. “We’re ready to go, sir. We hit a small snag in getting enough drone pilots on location because of the satellite issues. We’ll rely on the Common Data Link for field communications but we won’t be able to view real-time video feeds here in the Situation Room. Strike Group One is in range and all ships and carriers are ready for battle-station alert upon your order.”
“What about the Israelis?”
“They’re champing at the bit, sir,” Admiral Hickerson says.
Israeli Ambassador Har-Even had been invited to this afternoon’s briefing but is not yet present.
“Are the Iranians offering air support to their troops?”
“Yes, sir. But they only have a couple of hundred aircraft available to them. A majority of their fighters are at least a decade old, and many much older. They’re sloppy with their maintenance program, which leads me to believe the number of flyable aircraft could be much lower. Nevertheless, a good portion of their aircraft will be destroyed within the first hour of battle.”
The President places his coffee cup on the table. “Will we be able to listen in on real-time radio communications?”
“Some, sir, but not all. For the first time since World War II, we’ll need to rely on commanders in the field to make the important decisions. I trust them to do so, sir. They know their mission and I’m more than willing to put the nation’s safety in their hands.”
“I am, too, Admiral, but that doesn’t mean we are out of the loop.”
“No, sir, you’re correct. There will be some issues, but I believe we can make it work.”
President Harris turns from Admiral Hickerson and addresses the secretary of state. “Allison, any of our overtures to Iran had any effect?”
“No, sir. We tried to reach out to them, but they haven’t even acknowledged our requests.”
“Fuck ’em, then,” the President mutters, but loud enough to be heard by the entire room. “Pardon my French. Frankly, I’m tired of the constant stream of horseshit that spews out of Tehran.” President Harris glances up to see nods from most of his advisors. “What about the Jordanians?”
“They’ve been receptive, sir. They’re not happy about the Iranians massing at the border. We can rely on them to inflict some damage, but how much is an unknown.”
President Harris turns his focus to Secretary of Defense Martin Wilson. “Martin, how much damage can the Jordanians cause?”
“Skirmishes along the flanks of the Iranian troops. More of a pestering presence than anything else, but enough to force the Iranians to direct some attention their way.”
President Harris offers a nod and inhales a deep breath. “So are we a go?” He turns to each advisor around the table and receives nods of acceptance. The mood is somber, but tense.
“Thank you for your support.” The President turns back to Admiral Hickerson. “How is the operation going to unfold?”
“It’s a fluid situation, Mr. President, but the Israelis are going to start the show by launching an aerial attack. That will allow our ships to pinpoint the Iranian radar sites along with their antiaircraft batteries. Our first salvo will be Tomahawk cruise missiles to eliminate those threats and then we launch our own aerial attack.”
The President takes a moment to digest the information before turning to CIA Director Isaac Green. “Isaac, what will the Iranian response be?”
“Well, sir, hopefully we’ll hit so fast and so hard they’ll have no choice but to haul ass back home.” His comment elicits a few chuckles. “In all honesty, sir, we don’t know how committed they are to this path. We don’t have any reliable assets in Tehran. We don’t know if they’re simply taking advantage of an opportunity, or if they are committed to the destruction of Israel, as they have asserted many times.”
The President steeples his hands beneath his chin. “Should we direct some of our assets toward Tehran?”
No one jumps to answer.
Eventually, Secretary of State Allison Moore takes the plunge. “Sir, I think we should focus our forces on the advancing troops for the moment and see what type of reaction we receive from the Iranian leaders. The situation with Islamists all across the Middle East and Northern Africa is on the precipice of exploding. The last thing we want to do is incite them further by a direct attack on Tehran.”
“All right, we’ll hold off on attacking Tehran.” He raises one finger in the air. “But I want to make damn certain you all know that option is still on the table.” President Harris folds his arms across his chest and exhales a sigh. “Admiral, we are a go. Hit them with everything we’ve got.”
CHAPTER 66
The Sanders home
The earlier discovery of Sarah Chlouber’s body has shaken Ruth and Carl to their cores. The children are no longer allowed outdoors and the family is barricaded in their no-electricity, no-running-water home. With strict rationing, they’ve made three days’ worth of food stretch much longer.
Ruth steps inside from the garage, pours three fingers of water into four coffee cups, and hands one to her husband.
Carl drains his and places the cup back on the counter. “How much is left?”
Ruth shoves a stray strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “Six bottles.” She sags against the kitchen counter.
Carl steps over and wraps his arms around his wife. “The water wouldn’t have lasted this long if you hadn’t stocked up for Noah’s soccer season.”
Ruth wipes away a tear. “Why didn’t I buy
more?”
“So you’re a fortune-teller? No one could have predicted what happened. Who thinks about buying a hundred cases of water? Nobody. You buy one and when that’s empty you run to the corner store and buy another.”
Ruth shrugs out of his embrace. “Kids, come get your water,” she shouts down the hall as she shuffles out of the kitchen.
The kids wander in for their cup of water.
Carl leans against the breakfast bar. “Anybody want to work the puzzle again?” The family has worked and reworked the thousand-piece puzzle so many times the edges are frayed.
Noah and Emma groan and shake their heads. “I think some of the pieces got lost,” Emma says.
“That’ll make it more of a challenge.”
Noah sets his cup in the sink. “No, Dad, that makes it impossible. Who wants to work on a puzzle where half the pieces are missing? Besides, I’m reading.”
“Whatcha reading?”
“Hunger Games.”
“Again? How many times have you read the series?”
“I dunno. But it’s not like I can run to the library and grab something new.”
Carl ruffles his son’s hair. “I guess you’ve got a point there, kiddo.”
All four are reading to pass the time. Books that had once been banished to the attic are now being recycled downstairs, but there is only so much sitting and reading a family of four can do. The bicycles parked in the closed garage are begging to be ridden.
Emma grabs her father’s hand. “Dad, can I go over to Grace’s house?”
The mangled face of Ruth Chlouber flashes in Carl’s mind. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”
She tugs on her father’s arm. “Please? She’s just down the street. Pleeeassse?”
“I don’t think so.”
Emma lowers her head and stares at the tiled floor. Another piece of Carl’s heart flakes away. “You know what, let me talk to Mom for a minute.” How do you explain to a five-year-old that a killer may be prowling the neighborhood without scaring the hell out of her?
