Growth (8 page)

Bob hadn't moved in hours. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd been in the bathroom. The news was still maddeningly vague. Nobody knew anything, only that the island had suffered a massive, severe fire, and it was feared that there were no survivors. But that didn't stop all the speculating.

Bob couldn't even muster the indignation that the White House had not even held a press conference yet to express their sorrow and condemn those responsible. He couldn't understand why it was so difficult to simply provide a list of the known fatalities. A brief phone call from his son's employer was not enough. He needed the power of television to make the death of his son final. Then he could move on. Until then, he was stuck in a sort of formless limbo, caught between knowing deep in his guts that Bob Jr. was dead, and the irrational hope that refused to let him sleep, to rest, to even blink.

Around nine in the morning, a white van turned off the highway and cautiously trundled down the long driveway slowly, as if it wasn't sure it was in the right place. From his chair, Bob watched through the front windows as it approached the house. It got close enough for Bob to see the logo, WGON in bright blue letters, tilted slightly to suggest movement and urgency, and the words ACTION NEWS underneath. This was a TV station out of Springfield.

For the first time since the phone call, Bob worried he might throw up.

He didn't want to face reporters. Especially TV reporters. With cameras. He'd chew his own testicles off before he sent his wife outside, so he focused, planted his feet on the wool rug, and stood. The room wobbled a bit but straightened out, and for the first time in twelve hours, he felt almost strong. He suffered a moment of intense dizziness when he bent over to grab the remote, but it passed and he turned off the TV. Belinda had been quiet for a while now, and he closed the bedroom door, then went outside, hammered down the wide concrete back steps, trying to contain the rage and sorrow as he went to greet the unwelcome visitors.

He wished he had more bourbon.

The white van circled around the great oak in the center of the farm, taking its time, tires rolling over the smooth gravel. Bob got the feeling they were already filming and wondered how they would portray his life in the shape of the long equipment sheds full of irrigation and harvesting machines. It stopped and the young, hot reporter got out of the passenger seat while another person got out of the side.

Bob had been to enough political and business public displays of friendliness in the form of godawful free hot dogs, bags and bags of potato chips, and endless carbonated soft drinks. All as if the public was nothing but voracious cattle, lining up to feed at the trough when dinner is called. All free.
Free
. That magic word. Even if only half of the people that flocked to these garish campaign events voted, and even then, even if only half of those votes went to Bob's guy, it was all worth it.

During these grand openings and political rallies the media had not only been invited, but required. Bob had dealt with enough PR people to know that the girl reporter was a puppet, controlled by the guy next to her. He was the producer. He had on a Chicago Cubs hat. Bob hated him immediately. This was Cardinals country, and everybody else could get the hell out.

Bob had been used to being on their side. Today was different. He knew that the third guy to get out always had the camera. He didn't want to be onscreen and held up his hand.

This camera guy already had the soft light mounted on the camera lit when he climbed out behind the producer. The producer started talking fast. “Mr. Morton, Mr. Morton. I'm Allen Wilson, and WGON needs to know, sir, what have you heard about your son?”

“No. No. This is not the time for you to be here.” He shook his head. “Stop filming. Now.”

Allen was a go-getter. “Mr. Morton, please.” He knew when he was closest to big news and got to be first on the scene. “The American people deserve to know!”

Bob knew they'd edit out anything they said to make it look like he was shouting nonsense. He'd seen it happen dozens of times to political rivals, and now that it was happening to him, it made him tongue-tied and he couldn't even manage a simple “No comment.”

“Please leave,” was the best he could get out.

The WGON crew got closer. The producer gestured at the reporter and let her take over. She spoke in deep, sympathetic tones. “You have no doubt heard, Mr. Morton, that your son has been reported lost in what some are calling the West Island Massacre. What do you say to this news, tonight?”

“I . . . I . . . do . . . not wish to speak at this time . . .” Bob saw, out of the corner of his eye, another vehicle coming up the driveway. This one was a rental car, small, sleek, and gray, like a seal splitting through a green sea of corn.

The car didn't take the scenic route like the van. It aimed for the news crew and slid to a stop uncomfortably close, leaving a few feet of skid marks in the gravel. The man who jumped out wore a deep black suit and no tie. Sunglasses. Mid-thirties maybe, but there was some bad, bad years in there. Thinning hair swept back in perpetual irritation.

The man ignored Bob and targeted the news crew. “I'll ask you once. Leave. Now. I'll even be polite and say please. Just this once. Mr. Morton has just lost a son. When he is good and ready he will invite you to a press conference. Until then, understand that you are trespassing on private property and Mr. Morton has every legal right to defend his property. You have three seconds to get back in that van and leave immediately. One.”

“I'm sorry, who are you?” Allen asked as the cameraman swiveled to take in the newcomer.

“Two,” the man said, pulling out a thin, short-barreled 1911 handgun from a shoulder holster inside the suit. He racked the slide back and faced them.

Allen stood his ground. “If you think you're gonna stick a gun in our face and chase us off, you got another—”

The man put a bullet into the oak tree in the center of the driveway. The gunshot hit the quiet farm like a nuclear bomb. Even Bob jumped. The cameraman jumped as if he'd been pinched by a pair of pliers and dumped his camera into the backseat. The reporter didn't waste any time hopping into the passenger seat and locking the door. Allen wouldn't meet anybody's eye as he mumbled something about the First Amendment, but he scrambled into the van with the other two. The van pulled around, accelerating back down the driveway.

The man put the pistol back in its holster and turned to Bob. He extended his hand. “Mr. Morton. Paul Cochran. First of all, let me extend my deepest condolences on the loss of your son.”

“Thank you,” Bob said and shook Cochran's hand. His head felt numb.

“Forgive me, but I have to ask. Did you say anything about your son, anything at all?”

“No . . . no. I don't think I said . . . they just showed up.”

“Good. If am going to be able to help you, I need total and complete honesty. When was the last time you spoke with your son?”

“I . . .” Bob fought off a wave of grief so strong he thought he might start crying in front of Cochran. He bit it back and swallowed. “Last week. Maybe. I don't know. He was excited about his trip.”

“Okay. Did he say anything about any new products?”

“Just that they were about to announce something . . . something big.”

Cochran waited a moment, watching Bob closely. He tilted his head, and Bob could only see twin reflections of the blazing sun in the lenses. “Did he ever send you anything? Anything related to his work?”

Bob said, “No . . . no,” before he realized he had just lied. He didn't know why. It just seemed important to protect his son. So he didn't mention the seeds he had planted and the two acres of corn he had visited last night. “No. What is all this about?”

“Precautions. Nothing more.”

His time outside, in the sunlight, allowed Bob to focus. He remembered this was his farm and decided to act like it. “You said on the phone you were the Vice President of . . .”

“I am one of several acting Vice Presidents of Affairs, yes.”

Bob gestured at Cochran's side, indicating the gun. “And what all does your job description entail?”

Cochran gave an easy, empty smile. “Well, my duties vary. Let's just say I'm involved in whatever myself and my employers deem necessary.”

Bob nodded. “You're a fixer.”

Cochran shrugged slightly. “If there is a situation that I believe can be fixed, then yes. It depends. Right now, however, my job is to guide you through a difficult period. Look at it this way, Mr. Morton. I am your new best friend.”

“You're a lawyer?”

“I have a law degree, yes. And I will be happy to answer any other questions you and your wife may have. However, at the moment, decorum prevents me from continuing. I am afraid I have pressing business we must attend to first.” He went back to the car and withdrew a leather case from the backseat. He set it on the hood and popped the latches.

Then, with all the solemn dignity the situation required, he turned, holding up a silver urn.

The back door slammed. They both looked over to the house. Belinda stood at the top of the steps, one hand clasping her robe across her chest, the other holding a fistful of Kleenex up to her face. When she saw the urn, her eyes widened, then rolled back. She uttered a short cry, her legs gave out, and she tumbled down the back steps.

 

 

Kurt finally emerged from the bathroom, bowels empty, paper read, and hollered that he was ready for his breakfast. No one answered. He poked his head around the corner and started to get mad when he found the burner still on and Ingrid gone. The kitchen was a fucking mess. It looked and smelled like his wife had waded through pig shit and tracked it all over the tiles. He didn't want to step in the congealed remains of raw eggs and whatever else was on the floor, so he leaned over to turn off the burner. He opened the fridge as if she were hiding inside. Almost disappointed, he shut the fridge door and stood for a while looking at all the shit smeared across the floor.

Then he grabbed the hot frying pan and went looking for his wife.

First, he went upstairs, going through each room, under the bed, in the closets. All empty. Next was the basement. He had to go outside and kick open the warped doors that sloped down at an angle from the house to the overgrown lawn. Stomped down the cement steps. He hollered her name again. Still nothing. He went through the first floor again, in case he had missed something. He ended up at the front door and threw the frying pan at the fridge.

Kurt kept his .12 gauge Remington in his truck, his last refuge. This was where he would retreat from all the women in his life. He could live out of his truck, if necessary.

He got the Remington out and pumped it. Yelled, “I know you can hear me. You got one chance, right now, to come crawling back to me. You do that, and I forgot this all happened, just this once. You go back inside, we're okay. You don't come out right fucking now, I will cripple you, so help me Christ. I will break your fucking hip with the stock of this shotgun. This is it.” His words faded into the silent corn. “Last chance. Okay. Okay. I find you, I am gonna fuck you up so bad.” Kurt started out the driveway toward Highway 17. He didn't think things had gotten too far out of hand with Ingrid last night.

But then again, he hadn't taken a very good look at her. Come to think of it, he hadn't even seen her this morning. Most times, after he'd just fucking had it and unloaded all his anger and stress and frustration, that next day, he didn't want to be in the same room as her. He didn't like to be reminded of what he'd done, and it was easier to deal with everything if she kept her distance for a while. Until she healed up enough to talk without a lisp from a fat lip and swollen jaw. Eventually, things would go back to normal, but until then, he was happy for her to be in the next room.

He walked out onto the highway and paced around the hot asphalt for a while until he heard a vehicle. He faded back into the corn and watched, in case Ingrid came out of hiding and tried to flag down the driver. The pickup never even slowed down and Kurt never saw anything else move.

He started back to the house. His anger was starting to dissipate in the unflinching daylight, slowly, insidiously replaced by something else. Unease. He would never admit it. Not to anyone, not to Ingrid, especially not himself, but the fear that always lurked around the edges of his consciousness was flaring up and consuming his thoughts. The absolute one thing he could control, his wife, was gone. Not just out of the house, not just at the store, not just at her mother's, but
gone
. And without that central anchor, that one element in his life that he could keep his thumb on, everything else in his life was becoming unhinged and floating away untethered.

He was lost without Ingrid.

He checked the barn. He had no idea why. Ingrid had not stepped inside the barn in years. He may have forbidden her, back when he kept his skin magazines out there, but he couldn't remember now. It didn't matter. She wasn't inside. He found nothing but rotting hay, sagging timbers, and cobwebs.

He stepped back into the sunlight, clutching his Remington, holding it as tightly as a child seizing its favorite blanket in the throes of a nightmare. He screamed, “Ingrid! Ingrid!”

The cornfields were silent. Not even the insects answered.

A fuzzy green patch of mold was growing on the bottom corner of the bread. Sandy eyeballed it through the plastic wrapper and swore. Why the hell was it so hard for her to manage to make Kevin's lunch the night before? She never could get it done, and yet, every damn morning, she rushed to throw together something halfway healthy and fill in his lunch box. They were running so late she would have to put his bike in the back of the cruiser and drop him off at school. There wasn't enough time for him to ride.

Kevin sat at the table, listlessly pushing his spoon around his cereal bowl. It didn't look like he'd eaten anything.

“You gotta help me keep an eye on this stuff, too, okay? I can't keep track of everything in the fridge. You're in here more than I am.”

She found herself wondering if it would be safe to eat if she cut away the mold. Surely a little penicillin wouldn't hurt. Then she shook her head and threw the half loaf of bread in the trash in case she changed her mind later. Back in the fridge, she dug around and found a few slices of leftover pizza. Perfect. She didn't want to think about how long they had been in there.

Still buried in the fridge, Sandy said, “Okay, you win. No whole wheat bread today. How's pizza sound?”

Kevin shrugged.

She drew back and looked at him. Kevin could happily live off cold pizza and nothing else. Maybe Doritos on the side. Aware she was watching, he stuck a spoonful of cereal in his mouth. She slipped the slice into a gallon Baggie, sealed it, and put it in his lunch box, mashing down the grapes and chocolate milk. “You don't seem too thrilled.” She zipped the lunch box shut.

Kevin shrugged again. “It's great, Mom. Thanks.”

Sandy didn't want to push it. Tonight. Tonight, she promised herself, she was going to get to the bottom of whatever was happening with her son. Hopefully, her job wouldn't keep her out too late. “Come straight home after school. Mrs. Kobritz will be here. She'll feed you dinner and stay with you until I get home. Homework first, okay? No games until the homework is done.” She caught him rolling his eyes. “What? You want to spend next summer in math class too?”

She couldn't understand how her son, a kid who lived to toss dice around a table full of other sweet-natured dorks yelling about casting spells and killing orcs, could have failed his math class. She loved him dearly, and understood that his heart did not belong on a ball field or hockey rink. Kevin forever had his head buried in some book or was playing some space shoot-'em-up game that was far too complicated for her. Math should be easy for him. Maybe he just wasn't getting it, it was that simple. Maybe she was letting her own impressions of middle school cloud her reasoning. Back then, it seemed like if you were a smart kid, you were smart in every subject.

Sandy hadn't been one of the smart kids.

The phone rang. Kevin sensed a chance to escape and left his cereal and disappeared upstairs to find his shoes. She stood at the kitchen counter and watched him go. Tonight, she promised herself again. She answered the phone and immediately wished she hadn't. “Hello?”

“They told me you hadn't managed to make it into the office yet.”

Sandy recognized that flat drawl, that condescending tone, forever insinuating that she could never measure up as a genuine law enforcement officer. “Sheriff Hoyt.” His call was about as welcome as a fart at the dinner table.

“You heard about this mess down in Haiti? Fire wiped out a goddamn island.” His words sounded like a jackhammer driving a railroad spike into old concrete.

“I, maybe, I don't know. Haven't been watching the news much this morning.”

“Ain't surprised. Keeping up on current events does tend to get in the way of you gals' soap operas and reality television, don't it?”

Sandy started to ask, “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

Sheriff Hoyt interrupted. “If you'd been paying attention, you'd know that one of our own lost somebody down there.” He told Sandy all about Bob Morton Jr. and how the Allagro facility had been destroyed by eco-terrorists. “Bob Morton. He's one of us. One of the good guys. We're going to give him our full support. Least we can do as Americans. His boy's funeral and memorial is scheduled for tomorrow. Gonna need you there, to help with all the overflow traffic. Media, tragedy groupies, fuck knows. Think you can handle that?”

“You're asking me if I think I can direct traffic?”

“Yep.”

“I think I can handle traffic.”

“Good. Funeral is at the First Baptist. Starts at nine sharp. Gonna need you out there early. Take Main and Third. I want you out there right in the middle of the street. Don't be shy now. You and that half-wit deputy steer ever-body over to the parking lot at the Stop 'n Save. Citizens'll have to walk to the service. My boys'll be there, case you need help, positioned all down Third, watching ever-body. State Department's worried there might be follow-up attacks. Need you on your toes for this one. You send any troublemakers our way. We'll take care of any tree huggers looking for a fight.”

Sandy said slowly, “Okay, Sheriff.”

“That is, whenever you get into the office. No rush.” A high cackle. “This job may not be clocked, Chief Chisel. However, taxpayers do expect you to show up once in a while.”

 

 

Bob tried not to grunt as he strained against the toilet in the only bathroom. The house was damned quiet, and he didn't want to embarrass himself or his new houseguest. Most days, he was regular as clockwork. This morning, though, his body wasn't responding. Funny thing was, it felt like he had a basketball jammed up in there, but apparently it wasn't in any mood to cut loose.

Maybe it was the booze.

Maybe it was the thought of the ashes of his son in the front room on the mantel.

He zipped up and flushed the empty toilet. It wouldn't look right to spend all morning on the commode. He had things to do. Cochran had explained that, as a leader of the community, Bob had a responsibility. An obligation. The terrorist attack on the island had created a lot of turmoil and suspicion. It was up to Bob to set things straight in the town.

He washed his hands and was comforted at the thought that Cochran was in his house, looking out for him and Belinda, like a lawyer from hell. They hadn't had any more visitors from the media since Cochran had run those parasites from WGON off his farm. Bob was secretly thrilled that his very own attack dog was armed.

Cochran answered the phone now.

Belinda never really ventured from their bedroom anymore, poor thing. She was taking the death of their only child awfully hard. A few women from the church had stopped by, and after Bob told Cochran they were okay, they had all trooped upstairs to sit with his wife. Bob hoped that might have helped to snap his wife out of her darkness, maybe get her back in the kitchen, but no luck. She still wouldn't come out. Bob and Cochran had been forced to make sandwiches to feed themselves.

At least they would get a decent breakfast this morning.

It was time to visit the Korner Kafe.

The Korner Kafe had been nestled at the intersection of Highway 67 and Main Street as far back as Bob could remember. Some of his first memories were gobbling down chili dogs for lunch there with his father. Somewhere along the years, maybe from the very beginning, a few unwritten rules had been established regarding each of the meals for the Korner Kafe's diners. Lunch was reserved for the farmers to bring their children. The adults were silent, leaving the kids to chatter. Dinner was for the wives. But breakfast?

Breakfast was reserved for the men. The farmers.

Business was conducted at breakfast.

And in Parker's Mill, the Korner Kafe was the only place to take care of business. Handshakes sealed the deal. Paperwork was signed on the Formica countertops. The rest of it, such as filing paperwork with city hall, was pure formality. If you expected the rest of the men to take you seriously, you damn well showed up no later than six a.m., at least five days a week. The place was closed on Sundays.

Bob and Cochran stepped through the door at seven-thirty. Protocol permitted Bob to show up late; he'd lost his son, after all. Cochran followed behind; he was trying to blend in, at least a little. He'd left his suit and tie back at the farm and now wore a New Holland cap and plaid shirt with jeans and work boots.

Esther, the only waitress in the place, turned down the volume on the TV, perpetually tuned to Fox News, in deference to Bob's mourning. Somewhere on the far side of forty, Esther favored bras that had been hammered into torpedo shapes in the fifties, and sported a platinum blond dye job that looked like it might have been achieved using the same bleach the busboy splashed on the floor at the end of each day.

Bob always sat in the most enviable spot in the diner, the red stool at the end of the counter. The spot was reserved exclusively for him; he wasn't only the richest farmer in the valley, he was also the farmer with the most acreage under his control. The Korner Kafe was shaped like a large L; those with the most power sat closest to the ninety-degree corner where the cash register resided. If you weren't a farmer, and instead some nameless trucker passing through on his way to Chicago or St. Louis, you sat in one of the booths. Only local farmers had the right to sit at the counter.

Cochran settled onto one of the stools next to him. He was with Bob, so nobody said anything about where he sat.

Esther took Bob's hand, said, “So sorry to hear about your boy. We all know he had a hell of a future with that company.”

Bob nodded and pretended to study the menu. He could feel Cochran surreptitiously checking out the rest of the diners. The place was half full of men who dressed the same, but Bob knew there were key differences. Two of the nearest men, Perkins and Crews, wore hats emblazoned with the Allagro logo. The three along on the short, bottom end of the L-shaped counter wore caps stitched with competitor brands, like Monsanto and Syngenta. Bob wasn't sure if they would concern Cochran more than the shiftless farmers down at the far end that wore either caps with baseball or hockey logos or nothing at all. They were the men who had no allegiance, no stake in the seed wars currently raging across the nation. They were the ones who caused problems.

Bob didn't have to knock on the counter to get their attention. Everybody had stopped talking once he and Cochran had come inside. He said loudly, “I know there've been a lot of rumors flying around these past couple days.”

Nobody moved. Even the cook in the back held off on cracking any new eggs over the griddle.

Bob didn't look at anyone in particular. “This is what happened. Yes. My son was one of the men killed on that island two days ago. You all know he worked for Allagro. He died a hero, protecting our freedom. The memorial will be held tomorrow, at the Baptist church, at ten in the morning. Me and Belinda would be honored if you could make it.”

Silence reigned. One by one, the men climbed off their stools and came forward to shake Bob's hand and offer their condolences. The movement of the men along the counter was as slow and solemn as Good Friday in the Catholic church over in Jacksonville.

Forget the Internet and that social media bullshit. Hell, forget the damn phones. This was how news spread in Parker's Mill. By noon, everyone in town would know that Bob was as stoic and tough as the weathered visages at the top of Mount Rushmore, facing the death of his son with a firm resoluteness.

Bob's reputation would be stronger than ever.

The decision to confirm his son's death in the Korner Kafe was no accident.

Then some asswipe down at the far end of the counter had to pipe up with, “Have you heard then, how it, uh, exactly happened on that island?”

Cochran took a sip from his coffee mug to give Bob a chance to answer.

Bob didn't call out the asswipe by name, but he knew who'd asked the question. Buck Walsh, who farmed a piddly little sixty acres. He'd asked it just to drag up some bad decisions that Allagro had made, just to ruin the moment, just to be an asshole.

Bob repeated, in the same questioning tone, “What happened to that island?” He shook his head, looked around the counter at everybody. “I'll tell you exactly what happened. My son, and one hundred and sixty-three other souls, died. Murdered. In cold blood. Attacked without provocation. Attacked without warning, without . . . reason.” He paused, but not long enough to give the smartass a chance to say anything else, “Everyone on that island died a tragic, unnecessary death.”

Cochran had put the cup down and had his cell phone out. He tapped it on the counter, slowly, absentmindedly fidgeting with it, until the tiny black eye of the camera was facing down the end of the counter, waiting to catch a glimpse of the heckler.

Bob folded his hands. “Now, as best as I understand it, those responsible have been identified, and are now the subject of a manhunt the likes of which you have never seen. I'm talking Osama bin Laden level searching here. I have been personally guaranteed that forces on our side will erase those killers off the face of the earth.” Bob's eyes held the guarantee. “Our dead will be honored.”

“Yeah, but who were they? The terrorists?” Walsh asked.

Cochran got the question on video.

Bob thought it was obvious and talked like he was explaining the sunrise to a toddler. “The same sonsabitches that blow up medical testing centers. The same ones who hide railroad spikes in logging trees. The same godless bastards that think plants and bugs and dirt are worth more than human life.” He turned to address Walsh directly. Enough was enough. “What do you want from me? My son is dead.”

Walsh shrugged. “I know. And if it was me, I'd want to know exactly who killed him. Who told you it was eco-terrorists? Allagro?”

“Aw, give it a rest, Buck,” Perkins said. He was an overweight farmer a few seats down from Cochran and hid his baldness with his Allagro cap. “Nobody wants to hear you rant and rave this morning.”