Vox(90)

Sunday night—was it only just twelve hours ago?—Patrick decided he would dose the water and the coffee first. Then, whatever was left in the vial he would keep aside for himself, should the need arise. I shudder when I think of this way out, the Judas escape, but Poe tells me Patrick insisted on it. So many well-laid plans go wrong.

This is all I can see. Maybe my imagination isn’t up to the task. Maybe it’s too up to the task, Technicolor vivid and laser sharp. After all, who wants to daydream about her husband dying?

I check the clock on Sharon’s nightstand. Its hands say this is the time.





SEVENTY-EIGHT




I don’t sleep. I can’t. Instead, I walk with the kids to the horse barn, watching Sonia as she leads her brothers on a tour. She’s all words now, a geyser of them.

“This,” she says, patting the roan with one hand and stroking it between the eyes with her other, “is Aristotle. She’s a girl horse. Even though Aristotle was a guy. She’s also my favorite. Sharon says she’s super smart.”

As Sonia passes around thick hunks of carrot, instructing the boys exactly how to hold their palms flat and let the horse take the carrot without taking off a few fingers with it, I pull Sharon’s mobile phone from my pocket and dial a number.

The receptionist is not thrilled with my sudden change of plans.

“Mrs. McClellan,” he says, his voice as nasal and pinched as Morgan’s was.

“Dr. McClellan,” I correct.

He doesn’t apologize, only goes on with his lecture. “We schedule these tests in advance for a reason. You were supposed to be here an hour ago. I don’t know if we can fit you in until—” I hear papers rustling over the phone. “Until next week at the earliest.”

“Never mind. I’m not coming in for the test,” I say, and end the call.

“Come on, Mommy,” Sonia says. “It’s your turn to feed Aristotle.”

“If Aristotle eats any more carrots, Miss Sharon’s going to have a mess on her hands. And guess who she’ll ask to clean out the stable?” I say.

“It’s called mucking, Mommy.” Sonia looks absolutely ecstatic at the idea of spending an afternoon raking horse manure. Good for her, I think.

“Can I be a vet when I grow up?” she says.

“Maybe. Lots of school, though. You up for that?”

“You did it, Mom,” Steven says.

I think my heart might explode, and I know I made the right decision. “I’m going back to the house, okay?” I say, and leave, wiping my cheeks with the backs of my hands. The left side burns, although not nearly as much since Lin went to work redoing the bandaging. Still, the salt stings.

Lorenzo is sitting on the rear bumper of the van, looking out toward the road, waiting.

“Well?” he says when I join him.

“I can’t go without the kids.”

“Poe says you have to. Even if”—he pauses, as if he doesn’t want to say my husband’s name—“even if Patrick succeeds, nothing’s going to change overnight. They have our names. They’ve got pictures. We need to get out of the country.”

“Where is Poe, anyway?” I say, changing the subject. My mind’s made up—I need six passports, not one.

“He left with your husband,” Lorenzo says. Then, looking up: “Speak of the devil.”

Patrick’s car comes at us like a runaway train, skidding to a stop next to the van. A dust cloud rolls over the ground as the driver’s-side door swings open, and Poe climbs out.

The passenger door does not swing open.

“Where’s Patrick?” I say. “Where the hell is he?”

Poe responds by yelling at Lorenzo. I hear every other word: Go. Lin. Stop. Bleeding. Tried. Help. No. Time.

My brain fills in the rest, and I jerk the rear door open, hitting the side of the van. The noise is a dull thud. Inside me, there’s screaming, one long and final scream that draws itself out and finally breaks into nothing.

“What happened to him?” I say, but I don’t need to ask.





SEVENTY-NINE




I planned Patrick’s funeral as a quiet affair, but looking around at the crowd of men and women at the Rays’ small farm, I realize my efforts were in vain. Neighbors I didn’t think cared are here, including Olivia and Evan King. Julia, too, of course. She and Steven are talking with the tentative air of frightened children, which, I know, is what they are. A few old friends have driven in from the West Coast, since air travel has temporarily come to a halt.

The entire country is in a state of chaotic transition, thanks to Patrick.

In many ways, I still love him. In many ways, I’m sorry he’s gone.

Radios and televisions have stayed quiet these first few days, and newspapers are running already-told stories. Washington, DC, is locked down tighter than a bank vault. The hurricane of terror may be over, but we all know a storm will linger. We all know we’re still not safe.

Del and Sharon have decided to remain, though, and Jackie’s staying on at the farm to help with the resistance, to clear out the rubble and rebuild.

“I’ll stay, too,” I tell her after we put Patrick in the ground. “I want to.”

She treats me with the same heavy hand she always did, back when we were young and stupid. Or back when I was stupid. I don’t think Jackie ever was.