Ben Winters - Countdown City

I’m coming, Brett. Here I come .

There’s a motion by the chain fence, some animal or stumbling citizen of the Free Republic, moving in shadow. We both turn our heads, see nothing, and then look back at each other. I watch Julia intensely considering, weighing factors, deciding whether to reject the truth of what I’ve said, simply because I’m the one to have said it. I watch her weighing her loyalty to Brett, her anger at him, her desire to see him safe from harm.

“I won’t tell you what he’s doing,” she says at last. “He made me promise to tell no one. I can’t betray him.”

“I understand,” I say. “I respect that.” And I mean it. I do.

“But I will tell you where he is.”

I’m sorry, Martha .

I can hear myself saying the words, imagine them hanging in the bright empty air of her kitchen, when I make it back to Concord, knock on her door like a cop with hat in hand to give her the news.

I’m sorry, ma’am, but your husband will not be coming home .

Had I been right, and had I found Brett Cavatone as I briefly imagined him, reclining on the thick grass of the quad, head in the lap of his long-lost love—or had I found him in a whorehouse or at a fuck-it-all beach party, staring up at the stars with something wicked sluicing through his veins—and had I then delivered Martha’s message, reminded him that “his salvation depends” on his return… had it all played out that way, there might still have been some small chance of success, some sliver of hope, that he would remember himself, hang his head, and come home.

But now what I know is that he’s out in the woods with two rifles. And whether he’s plunged himself into some terrible danger, as Julia seems to fear, or he’s performing some great act of end-days nobility, as Martha wants to believe, it is in all scenarios harder to see him having much interest in home.

I couldn’t find him , I could say to Martha. Neither hide nor hair of the man .

But I’ve always been a terrible liar. Maybe the best thing to do is never report back to my client at all. I could stay here in Durham, or return to Concord but never to her house on Albin Road, let the final months roll by for Martha in hopeful silence. Let her die on October 3 with that small diamond of possibility still pressed in her palm, that Brett might return, turn up suddenly to hold her tightly as the world explodes.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, panting and out of breath. One of the anarchists in the black T-shirts looks up and goes, “Oh, what time is it?” and there’s Houdini, perfectly fine, bounding around on the sloping lawn under the flapping flag of the Free Republic while Beau and Sport toss a Frisbee for his amusement.

“For God’s sake,” I say, and exhale. The girls’ shotguns lie carelessly on the steps like pocketbooks; the Black Bloc guys are sitting languorously on the dirt by the wall, bandanas off, faces warmed by the sunshine.

Houdini barks in recognition as I come into view but does not, I note sourly, come racing for the lap of his master. He’s having a great time, leaping delightedly between his captors, delivering the battered yellow Frisbee to each in turn. Beau crouches as if to protect him from returning to my ownership, and Sport waves merrily.

“Oh, hey,” she says. “Check it out.” She points to my dog. “Sit.”

He sits.

“Roll over.”

He rolls over.

“That’s great,” I say. “Wow.”

This a clear case of canine Stockholm syndrome, and I explain this to Houdini as he reluctantly falls into step beside me and we trot away back toward Main Street and India Garden.

I eat a Clif Bar and a peanut butter sandwich, pour out a cup of kibble for the dog, reviewing my obligation in my head, my contract with my client: I will do what I can to find your husband…. The problem now is that I know where he is. The problem now is that I could be there on the ten-speed in an hour. The problem is that I want to go. I’ve come this far and I want to deliver my message. I’ve come this far, and I need to see the man with my own eyes.

The door rings brightly. “Hey, can I get a palak paneer, please?” says Nico pulling up a chair. “And a thing of naan bread?”

She’s smiling her crooked clever smile, a cigarette hanging in the tough-girl style from the corner of her mouth, but somehow I’m not in the mood. I stand up and hug her for a long time, pressing her face against my chest and resting my chin on her head.

“What the hell, Henry?” she says when I let her go. “Did something happen?”

“No. I mean, yes. Not really.” I sit down again. “You smell like beer.”

“Yup,” she says. “I drank a bunch of beer.” She runs a hand through her spiky black hair, then flicks her cigarette butt into the corner. Houdini glances up disapprovingly from his food, sniffing at the smoke.

“So?” says Nico. “Did you find her?”

“My witness?” I say. “I did.”

“What about Martha’s husband?”

“Not yet. But I know where he is.”

“Oh, yeah? Where?”

“Maine, south of Kittery. At a place called Fort Riley. It’s an old state park.”

Nico nods blankly, helping herself to a bite of my Clif Bar. This is as far as her interest goes in my ongoing investigation.

“All right,” says, when she’s done chewing. “You ready?”

I rub my forehead with one hand. I know what she means, of course. I promised that if she guided me to and through the Free Republic of New Hampshire, then I would listen to all the sordid details of Nico’s Magic Plan to Save the World. I just wanted a couple more minutes. Just a moment or two of small normal happiness, a brother and a sister and a dog. I’m not ready , I want to say. Not yet .

But I promised. I did promise. “Okay,” I say. “Fire away.”

I cross one leg over the other and lean slightly forward and focus my energy on Nico, admonishing myself as she begins talking to listen with patience and good grace to whatever Hail Mary last-ditch song and dance I’m about to hear.

“The United States government,” Nico begins, and I clap one hand over my mouth, “if it wanted to, could detonate one or more near-surface nuclear explosions in the space surrounding the approaching asteroid.”

I tighten my grip over my mouth, clamp it closed, forcing myself not to speak.

“The effect would be to superheat the surface of the object, initiating what’s called a back reaction and altering its velocity sufficiently to keep it from impacting the planet.”

I shut my eyes now, too, and tilt my head forward in a position that hopefully looks like deep concentration, but is in fact a desperate attempt to keep myself from leaping to my feet and away from this monologue. Nico goes on.

“But certain officials, high in the government, have decided to suppress this information. Make it sound like it’s too late, or impossible.”

I can’t take it any longer, I remove my hand from my mouth. “Nico.” Just that, quietly. She doesn’t hear, or chooses not too. Houdini smacks his lips in the corner.

“Those with the knowledge to perform the operation have been jailed or made to disappear.”

This is talking points. I can smell it. I try again. “Nic?”

“Or, in one case, murdered.”

“Murdered?” I’m done. I stand up, lean forward across the table. “Nico, this is crazy.”

She leans back from me and says, “What?”

“This is the big secret? A nuclear explosion? Blast it from the sky? You can’t do that. It turns the one big asteroid into a million smaller ones. You haven’t heard that? There was a National Geographic special about it, for God’s sake. It was on the cover of the last issue of Time magazine.”