Wide Blue Yonder (38 page)

“Why are people bad?”

“That’s a very good question. I don’t know the answer.”

“Is he bad?”

“Well, he’s acting bad.”

“Does everybody die? Good and bad?”

“Yes,” Josie said. “But people don’t like to talk about it.”

“No talking alking alking.”

“Nobody’s going to die here, Harvey.” The kind of thing chumps like her said as their famous last words.

“Does everybody have a mortal soul?”

Where was he getting all this? “I can’t say, Harvey. If I knew, I would tell you. I think we should just be quiet now.”

“If Daddy does, then I don’t want one.”

“Shh.”

This night was worse than the last one because the gunman kept up a steady muttering noise so that even when she did manage to sleep, her dreams had a crazy soundtrack, a voice whispering unintelligible words in the language of malice. And she started to itch. It was so embarrassing. She wondered if she’d caught the gunman’s cooties, or if it had something to do with wearing the same clothes for two days. All the tender places, behind her knees and elbows, under her arms, crotch territory, developed excruciating sensations that could only be soothed by digging in with her fingernails. Her mother always said that was how scratches got infected. Her mother was telling her to get up, she was late for something, school, probably. Josie tried to pry her eyes unstuck. Because her hair needed washing, it hung over her face and she could smell its muskiness, which was so gross. She swam her way out of sleep, already scratching her scalp. The gunman was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. He had the knife in one hand and the gun in the other. Every time Josie opened her eyes he was planted there, his voice turned down low like the television volume. Harvey’s knees dug into her back. There was no way to get comfortable. She knew every torture
spot on this couch, every place the bare bones of the frame poked through the upholstery. Josie dreamed that the Weather Channel was broadcasting in Spanish. Now that is strange, she told herself in her dream, and then she woke up.

It was morning, bright day. The gunman was asleep. It took her a minute of staring at him to realize this. His mouth was open; his tongue gleamed wetly. His hands were still curled around his weapons.

Josie couldn’t move. She was only a few feet away from him. Harvey was gone. His spot on the couch sagged empty. Had he escaped? Gotten out the back door? Josie moved her neck in a narrow arc. No sign of him. And just as she was beginning to test the springs of the couch, negotiate how much of her weight she could shift before they creaked, she saw the shadow behind her. Harvey crept in from the kitchen, holding Rosa’s favorite coated aluminum frying pan with both hands, like a club.

There was just enough time for Josie and Harvey to look at each other, and for Josie to shape her mouth into a silent question. The gunman stirred and Harvey brought the frying pan down on his head, WHUMPCRUNCH.

They stood over him. He looked like nothing so much as a heap of dirty laundry. Josie couldn’t decide if she was afraid he was dead or afraid he wasn’t. She kicked the knife away from him and his hands twitched. “Get his gun, get his gun!”

Harvey held it all wrong, by the barrel. “Careful,” warned Josie.

“Ain’t scaird.”

The gunman flopped over to one side and moaned and Josie dived for the frying pan; it seemed an easier weapon than the others. “Come on, Harvey.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the front door. But stopped short when someone began pounding on it. “Who’s there?” she cried.

“Mr. Sloan?” A man’s voice. Polite, or pretending to be. “Mr. Harvey Sloan?”

“Who is it?”

“We just want to talk to Mr. Sloan.”

“Who’s we?”

“Is Mr. Sloan there?” A little less polite. The doorknob turned, then the lock caught.

Josie led Harvey back to the couch, signed him to be quiet, and stepped over the gunman, who was still feebly twitching, to raise a corner of the window shade. Three men stood on the front porch, two of them state troopers in brown uniforms and Smokey bear hats. The third a civilian, in shirtsleeves. Although the window was shut, she could tell they were conferring, debating.

“… door,” said one of the troopers, but the civilian shook his head. “Let me …”

“Mr. Sloan?” Different voice, chummier, professionally friendly. “My name’s Randy. How are you today?”

Josie and Harvey looked at each other. Harvey whispered, “Do I have to tell him?”

“Mr. Sloan, how about you come for a ride with us? Frank sent us. What do you say?”

Her bastard father. He’d really gone and done it.

“Mr. Sloan?” The first voice. “We’ve got a court order here.” The gunman was attempting to get to his knees. Josie hit him with the frying pan, one-handed, and he went down again. It was like stepping on a particularly large bug when you could feel the shell crack. Then she screamed, convincingly, she hoped. “Don’t come in here! He’s got a gun!”

E
laine flew. Got herself to Harvey’s in nanoseconds. There was already a squad car blocking traffic, and two more pulled up across the street from the house. Frank was there, surrounded by walkie-talkies and flashing lights. Harvey’s place looked as fusty and tranquil as it always did. The shades were drawn. The elm tree in the front yard sent a stray brown leaf drifting to the ground. It seemed to be the only quiet place in the carnival of police and excited neighbor children. Frank saw Elaine coming toward him and met her eye without stopping the sour conversation he was having with some police type. She had to wait on the edge of the milling group until he was finished talking.

“What in the world is going on?”

The police type started in explaining, but Frank waved him off. “I got it, Joe.” He steered Elaine a few steps down the sidewalk. “Look, it’s going to be all right.”

“Where’s Josie?” “Inside with Harvey. I’m sure she’s fine. OK, it’s like this. When my team got here—”

“Team? Please.” “You want to hear this or not? I told you he was going into the hospital today. They were supposed to do intake, evaluation, physical, the works. It’s all legal. I got a judge to go for it.”

“Legal. Try screwed-up.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know he’d flip out? He’s got himself and Josie locked inside, and he won’t open the door.”

“How do you know it’s Josie, did you talk to her?”

“The phone’s not working. But she came to the window and waved.”

Waved?
“What is she doing there in the first place?”

Frank shrugged. “Hiding from you, I guess.” He was dressed for the office, freshly shaven and smelling powerfully of premium aftershave. Elaine was wearing the pants and shirt she’d had on yesterday. She didn’t feel well-groomed enough to say hurtful things back at him.

“I want to see her.”

“Well, you can’t yet. Nobody’s getting in. We’re waiting for the negotiators.”

“Negotiators,” Elaine echoed. “Don’t tell me they really do that.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s standard in a hostage situation. I’ve been talking to these guys; it’s actually pretty interesting. They have a procedures manual, training film. Impressive.” Frank nodded. He wasn’t trying to be crass. He just was.

“I want to know what they’re going to do,” she said, keeping her voice stern. She was determined not to cry in front of him and give him one more reason not to take her seriously.

“Make sure nobody gets hurt. Address his demands.” “What demands? What do you think this is, one of your action movies? Harvey just wants to be left alone. He wouldn’t hurt anybody. Especially not Josie.”

“Then what’s this gun business?” “I don’t know.” Elaine, exasperated, turned back toward the house. “These people should all just go away, they’re making everything worse. Let me see Harvey for five minutes. I guarantee I’ll talk some sense into him. Josie too. After I strangle her.”

“Getting hysterical doesn’t help anything.” “I am not hysterical. I’m emotional. It’s an appropriate response.”

The police had come up with a bullhorn and were taking turns talking through it, testing one two three, one two three. At least they’d stopped short of a SWAT team. Elaine didn’t like the enthusiastic way they were pitching, in. A chance to practice procedures. She kept waiting for someone to realize how ridiculous it all was. This was Harvey, for God’s sake. A slingshot was enough firepower to deal with him.

Elaine recognized the young, glum policeman who had come to the house, even though he was out of uniform. He stood under a tree, talking to another cop. She walked away from Frank and approached him. “Hello again,” she said. She realized that she had forgotten his name. “What a big production,” she said idiotically.

He turned toward her, his face puckering into a frown. “Oh, hi.” The other officer excused himself, giving Elaine a brief, noncommittal look that nevertheless made her feel he knew exactly who she was. Frank had probably made a general announcement. Expect my hysterical pushy ex-wife to show up at some point.

She was being paranoid. Although now that they were alone, the young man seemed reluctant or embarrassed to be seen with her, as if without his uniform he didn’t quite know how to behave. Still, she didn’t want to go running after Frank just yet, so she said, “Maybe you heard. My daughter’s in that house.” “Yes ma’am. They told me.” “She turns up right in the middle of a huge mess. Typical. I don’t really mean that. I’m just so worried.” “Of course, ma’am. It’s a serious situation.”

“I wonder if she can see me. I wonder if she’s watching right now.” Elaine shaded her eyes and looked down the street. “Maybe
I should hold up a sign or something.” She was talking too much, like always.

“That’s what they use the bullhorn for, ma’am. Communicating with the subject.”

“Oh. Sure.” He looked as if he was about to bolt, so she said, quickly, “I’m afraid somebody’s going to get all Ramboed up and do something that’ll only make everything worse. Harvey, the old man who lives there, is not … dangerous. He’s the most undangerous guy in the world. Can you help me make them understand that?”

It was hard to tell if she was making any headway with him. He was handsome in an almost cartoon fashion, all jaw and eyebrows. They hadn’t drawn in enough lines, his face wasn’t capable of doing certain things. “Please.” Elaine said. “If there’s anything you can do.” Wondering if she could get her crusted eyelashes to flutter appealingly.

“I could go in as part of a hostage exchange. Me for your daughter.” She’s not really a hostage, Elaine wanted to tell him, but he was already squaring his shoulders and looking resolute, obviously taken with the idea. “Well, if you think that would work,” she murmured.

“We’ll need to establish communications first. Gain his trust. Set up some ground rules.”

“You really don’t have to …” “I feel it’s my duty, ma’am. Following through on the case.” He did seem energized by his own words. Elaine had to admire his nearly classic profile. He could be on one of those television shows featuring Hollywood policemen.

“I’ll go talk to my lieutenant,” he told her, and Elaine thanked him, then promptly forgot about him. She stood by herself beneath the tree. It was one of those maples that turned so gold you wanted to put a leaf in your mouth. The sky was blue enamel and
the sun was bright. Entirely the wrong kind of weather for guns and cops.

Two little boys on bicycles rode up and skidded to a stop, making sound effects as if they were … eighteen-wheelers? Urban desperadoes? She had no idea what little boys pretended to be these days. One of them said, “They gone shoot that ol man. Boom-o.” More sound effects.

“Nobody’s going to shoot anyone,” Elaine told them. “That’s just foolish talk.”

“We got this machine gun at our house,” offered the other boy. Elaine said that she hoped he didn’t really.

“Big ol machine gun. Supersonic laser death ray.”

“You so full of it.”

“Shup, man.”

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Elaine asked.

“Naw, it’s a teacher day,” said the older boy, who looked to be around eight or nine. Elaine thought she recognized them as part of the family who lived across the street from Harvey. “We goin to Super-K with my mamma. When they shoot that man so she can drive us.”

“I wish you’d stop saying that.”

“They been shootin over there already.”

“What are you talking about?”

But the boys were already darting off on their bikes, as quick as dragonflies, calling to each other in their high, excited voices. The police were clearing people away and stretching yellow plastic tape around trees. Elaine looked for Frank and found him huddled with his new police buddies. “I want to talk to Josie.”

Frank intercepted her. “Let’s just let the professionals handle it, shall we?”

“What is the matter with you that you’re not worried about her?”

“Just because I’m not jumping up and down and screaming doesn’t mean I’m not concerned.”

“We don’t need the police here. Especially not a lot of police. They’re going to overreact, somebody’s going to get hurt.”

“Elaine, they’re going to make certain tactical decisions. They’ve got it under control, OK? Sometimes I think you just like worrying.”

She could have smacked him. Him and every other man you were supposed to believe when they told you not to worry about the world they were in charge of. Don’t worry about the DDT, the Agent Orange, the acceptable levels of strontium 90 in milk. The oil pipeline that would never rupture in the caribou breeding ground. The aging jetliner that was perfectly safe right up until the moment it went cartwheeling down the runway in flaming chunks. You couldn’t tell them anything because nothing bad had happened yet and when it did it was probably your fault anyway. The child wasn’t hurt, he was only crying because he was spoiled, and why were you making such a big deal out of a little blood, or a cough, or a rash, or a touch of food poisoning? What was it about men that they marched straight into disasters they swore would never happen, invincible in their arrogance? They needed women around so that they could make fun of them for reflecting their own fears.