Chris Jordan - Torn

Jed pitched in for the first few projects, but then he got very busy at work and had to do a fair amount of troubleshooting, which took him away for days at a time. So I became a Haley-of-all-trades, no job too small, and I must say I did one heck of a good job. The house is as tight as a tick-a phrase picked up from the old-timers at Home Depot-and stays warm and cozy even when the Montreal Express comes wailing down from Canada and batters us with freezing forty-mile-an-hour winds.

The one thing I’ve never been able to repair is the creaking. When those big winds blow, my beautiful dream house moans and protests. Its old bones and beams creak ominously. The new windows shudder in their rebuilt frames. The chimney whistles mournfully. Jed always said the old place was talking to us. As part of our routine I’d dutifully ask, so what’s it saying, Jedediah? And he’d grin and go, it’s saying put another log on the fire and pour yourself a drink.

In those first crazy days after the school blew up I threw away all the alcohol in the place, refusing to numb myself to the pain, so the best I can offer Randall Shane is a mug of hot cocoa. Real cocoa topped with real whipped cream, the way Noah likes it.

“That’d be great,” he says.

“Throw another log on the fire,” I suggest.

He glances at the Hearthstone in the kitchen, which is already flickering merrily. “Really?”

“Kidding. It’s gas, not wood. Much cleaner. I meant you could turn up the thermostat if you’re cold.”

“Nah, I’m good,” he says, rubbing his big hands together. He listens for a moment. “That wind,” he says.

He makes small talk about the weather while I prepare the cocoa. Seems amazed that I bother to whip up the cream-haven’t I heard of Reddi-wip?-but then admits my version tastes way better than the canned stuff. Mug in hand he leans a hip against the counter, claiming he’d rather stand than sit, he’s had enough sitting for the day, thank you. Standing means I have to look up at him to respond, and suddenly it seems so strange to me, to be here in my familiar kitchen with the wind moaning and a tall handsome stranger in a leather bomber jacket, smiling at me with whipped cream in his mustache. My late husband had a jacket like that. There’s nothing going on, no actual sexual tension-swear on a Bible-but the casual intimacy of sharing a counter gives me such a pang of longing for Jedediah that I have to put my mug down and turn away and pretend to fuss with the Hearthstone.

“So where are we?” I ask after clearing the lump from my throat.

“We had a busy day, didn’t we?” Shane says cheerfully. “I learned a lot.”

“So you believe me?”

He speaks carefully. “I believe there’s a strong possibility that Roland Penny didn’t act alone, whatever the result.”

“That’s something, I guess. More than I ever got out of the state police detectives. So you’ll take the check? You’ll help me find my son?”

He holds up a cautionary hand. “We’re not quite there yet, Mrs. Corbin. I need to consult with a couple of experts before I make that decision.”

“What experts?”

“Former associates still employed by the FBI. I’ll make a quick trip to Washington, consult with them, and then get back to you.”

I’m not sobbing or anything, there are no convulsions of crying, but all of a sudden the tears are flowing freely and I have to brush them away or risk blubbering. “Get back to you,” I say, my voice thick. “That’s what they say when they reject you for a job. They’ll get back to you. They never do.”

“I will get back to you,” he promises.

“You’ll call. It’s easier to walk away by phone.”

He shakes his head. “No phone calls, I promise. Swear on my life. I’ll come back here, to this house-my car will be waiting at the airport, remember-and we’ll discuss the options in person, face-to-face, whatever I learn in Washington.”

“But what about the book!” I wail. “He had the book! That proves he’s one of them!”

Shane remains utterly calm, hands me a tissue to blot my tears. As if it’s a common occurrence, witnessing a mother cry her heart out, and for him I suppose it must be. “The book is why I’m going to Washington,” he explains. “I know very little about Conklin’s followers, or how his organization functions. I need to learn more.”

“Rulers-that’s what they call themselves. Like they’re rulers of the universe,” I add bitterly.

Shane takes the swollen paperback from his pocket. “Twelve million copies in print,” he says, glancing at the back cover. “And this is an old edition, so it must be more by now. Did your husband talk about this book? What it means? What they believe?”

“A little. Not much, really. It’s about being selfish, he said. How it’s good for the individual to be selfish.”

“Guess I’ll have to read it on the flight down.”

“Good luck,” I say. “I tried to read it once, so I’d have some idea what Jed went through as a boy, but to me it was all mumbo jumbo. This tedious stuff about bees and insects and parallels to human behavior, and the differences between hive minds and drone minds. None of it made sense to me, so I quit. When Jed found the book he threw it away. Said it made him uneasy to have a copy in the house. When I told him I didn’t understand it he laughed and said nobody did, not really. That was how his father made all that money, because people paid him to explain what the book really meant. Joining the Rulers means you keep paying them for more and more explanations, for as long as you live, because it takes a lifetime to understand what it really means, The Rule of One.”

Shane takes it in, considers his reply. “Just because Roland Penny had a copy in his trailer, it doesn’t mean he read it. Maybe he tried like you and then put it down. There are twelve-million-plus copies out there.”

“But that was the only book there, right?”

“Only one I could find,” Shane admits.

“So maybe Roland really did read it and it made him mental. Like those loonies who think The Catcher in the Rye is telling them to shoot people.”

Shane grunts and shakes his head. “The Catcher in the Rye doesn’t make you shoot people. I loved that novel.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do.” He tucks the book into his jacket pocket. “Listen, this is a bit awkward, but I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything, if it means you’ll look for Noah.”

“Could you drive me back to my motel? In my car? It would mean taking a taxi back here.”

I shrug. “Sure, why not? But what’s really going on? What’s the deal with not driving? You drove all the way from Connecticut. Six hours on the highway.”

He sighs, grimaces. “It’s boring, but I suffer from a sleep disorder. What I have is more than common insomnia, which can be pretty bad. When I’m unable to sleep-and I haven’t slept now for thirty-eight hours and counting-my brain does funny things.”

“Yeah? What kind of funny things?”

“It’s called wakeful dreaming. It means I sometimes see things that aren’t really there. Which makes it very dangerous to drive.”

The big man sounds deeply embarrassed, and I get the impression he wouldn’t be sharing unless it was absolutely necessary.

“That’s why you left the FBI,” I say, realization dawning. “You’re disabled.”

“I hate that word… But yeah.”

“Okay. So I drive you to your motel. How will you get from there to the airport?”

“I’ll be fine by morning,” he explains. “Tonight I’m taking a pill. It’ll knock me out for five or six hours and then I’ll be okay to drive.”

“What caused it?” I ask. “You didn’t have this all your life or you’d never have gotten into the FBI in the first place.”