The Missing Page 19

  Maddie was dancing in front of her mirror on the second floor, and down below Meg was reading at the kitchen table. He focused on his daughter’s awkward hip thrusts (the girl was no Ginger Rogers), and the light that reflected against Meg’s still face, but his eyes kept leaking.

  What had happened at Lois Larkin’s house? He wasn’t sure he remembered correctly. She said she’d eaten a bird, and he’d believed her. He pictured her catching it in her hands, and stabbing those huge, gapless teeth into its chest. Why would he think something so outlandish? There was more. His mother. Sara had been there, too. But how was that possible?

  “Feel Flows” was playing on the radio. He tapped his fingers against the dashboard, which comforted him, because at least he was doing something. He wasn’t just sitting around, letting his eyes rust. He kept tapping, hoping that soon the world would make sense again. The Beach Boys were playing, after all. How bad could things be if Brian Wilson could still croon?

  He’d had a bad day. Not as bad as the day at Motel 6, room 69, where the carpet had been maroon, and the bedspread dirty gray. No, not that bad. But bad enough. Patients dropping like flies, kids cramming the hospital beds and morgue—a bad day. He tapped his fingers. Started humming “Feel Flows.” Tried to tune out his thoughts, until all that was left, like the end of the world, was one song.

  A voice called out to him from the void, and he remembered Lois’s bloody grin: Fennie, is it a lump?

  The basketball hoop over the garage had rusted, and its net was gone. Once he’d used an entire vacation day to play “horse” in the driveway with his son. He’d bested David at five games straight, and was ready to throw one so the kid would start smiling, when David ran into the house, crying like a girl. He’d hidden behind Meg’s skinny trousers and whined that he never wanted to play again, and he never did. Fenstad came walking in a minute later, ready to explain to the kid about winning and losing, how you need to be good at both to be a man, but Meg’s furious frown had stopped him.

  That’s what you got for trying with people. His whole life he’d done for others. Listened to their problems. Analyzed pointless dreams, held hands, filled bank accounts in his children’s names. And now his patients were turning on him one after the next: Albert. Lila. Lois. His kids were no better. Maddie and her screaming. David lost for good. Meg had loved the boy too much, squeezed him too tight. Made him a sissy who liked it up the ass. And then there was Meg. That whore. In his mind a dog was barking. In his mind it was tearing her apart while his house made of slate and wood began to smolder, and then blaze.

  Brian Wilson sang. He hummed along and wondered whether, when the end of the world came, anyone would recognize it.

  Encasing all embracing wreath of repose

  Engulfs all the senses

  …You know I was never sick, don’t you?

  And now he wasn’t sure: Was that his mother talking to him on the radio?

  Suddenly Sara Wintrob was knocking on the window. His heart beat fast and everything started screaming. In the dark, he saw her silhouette. Thin and pale. She grinned with gapless teeth, the bitch.

  Fennie, is it a lump? the radio asked.

  She was watching him. She wasn’t his mother anymore. Lois? Lila? He would throttle her. Pile her into the trunk. No one would guess if he waited until late tonight, and burned her body in the hospital incinerator. And if the other bitch who lived in this house happened to catch him in the act? Well, then he’d throttle her, too.

  The woman knocked harder. He’d gut her like a trout. His leaky eyes, they were starting to rust. She kept knocking. Meg. His wife. Lois, Sara. He’d punched them tonight. Which one?

  He waited for his eyes to clear. Thought about the Beach Boys even though the song on the radio now was “Wonderful Tonight.” Fennie, is it a lump? the radio asked. He thought about the track team and fermented cabbage. He thought about his first finger feel inside Joanne Streibler, and a bloody carpet, the missing rivets in Lois’s floors, and Lila Schiffer’s fat kids. Most of all he thought about how hard he’d worked his whole life, only to find his wife fucking a yuppie in room 69.

  Meg was shouting his name. Sure, now she wanted him. Now that Nero had infected her with the virus and she was used goods. “Let me in!” she shouted. He took a breath and waited for his eyes to clear. He made sure not to wipe them, but instead let them dry in the air. Finally he rolled down the window and flashed a jolly grin. “Yeah?”

  She was hopping on one foot. He couldn’t figure out why until he remembered her broken ankle. “What are you doing out here?” she asked. Her voice was soft, concerned. She poked her head through the window. He could slam her skull against the side of the door if he wanted. A tragic slip of the hand: Oops, sorry babe! By the way, faux gold trim mirrors all over the walls aren’t classy, just Guinea.

  “You look awful. Are you sick?” she asked. She stepped down off the runner and opened the door. He moved over and she climbed in. She smelled like sugary perfume, and her hair was pin-straight. Instead of shoes she was wearing ratty moccasin slippers.

  “Say something. You’re scaring me,” she said.

  He looked at her for a long while. Women’s faces played through his mind. Lois, Sara, Lila, Maddie, and finally he recognized her: Meg. She slipped her hand inside his and squeezed.

  She was so small. Her breath was fast, and her brow was sweating, which could only mean that she hadn’t taken enough codeine. “Fenstad?” she asked. “Can you hear me?”

  In easy listening paradise, Eric Clapton was telling his girl that she looked wonderful while diminutive Meg Bonelli peered up at him, and he thought about smashing her face.

  “Fenstad?” she asked. “Can you hear me?” Her voice cracked, and she held his face in her hands.

  A lump caught in his throat, and he thought he might cry again. He’d met her a thousand years ago, a waitress at the diner he liked, who also happened to be first-year law at Boston University. He’d asked her out when he ran into her at a bar on Boylston Street because she was pretty, and at the time he’d had a thing for brunettes. Unexpectedly, she got under his skin. Six months later, instead of heading to Germany for an internship, he finished his classes early and got down on one knee.

  “What is it?” she asked, and he felt himself crumble. He was going to leak all over her delicate hands. The tears built up inside him like a tidal wave ready to crash. He was going to have to tell her everything. From Lois, to Sara, to the fact that he might be infected, to the spying he’d done on her at room 69. Why had he watched such a thing outside the motel window and never said a word? Why had he tortured himself like that? It was time he told her. It would be a relief to tell her. She’d know now that there was something wrong with him. Maybe there always had been.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. His voice was hoarse. He climbed out of the car. She met him in front of it. He held her by the waist, and together, they walked to the house.

  TWENTY

  An Itch in Her Bones

  Meg scratched her leg with the wire from an untangled coat hanger while Fenstad sliced into his porterhouse. His eyes were red like he’d been crying, but she knew that was impossible; to the best of her knowledge, Fenstad Wintrob had been born without tear ducts.

  She’d been trying to report Graham Nero to the police when Fenstad had called and told her to retrieve Maddie from school. At first she’d thought he was overreacting—really, how often does a woman get an urgent call from her husband to gather the kids, lock the doors, and buy an air filter? It was ludicrous. Still, she’d done it. And then, as she and Maddie had flipped on the evening news tonight, he’d proved himself right. As usual. You could set a clock by Fenstad’s instincts. She’d looked at Maddie then, with whom she’d been sharing a blanket and rubbing toes, and been grateful. The man was handy in a pinch.

  Corpus Christi didn’t make just the local news. Even the networks reported on the illness contracted by half the population of
a small, affluent town in Maine. Ten people so far were dead, scores more were missing, and no one yet had recovered. It had chilled her to watch smiling Katie Couric announce that the state government was advising people in Mid-Maine to stay indoors. The EPA had ruled out chemical exposure, and while the CDC hadn’t isolated the agent of infection, they suspected a virus. At about eight tonight NBC announced that Maine’s governor was declaring a state of local emergency. To keep infection from spreading, starting tomorrow morning, all stores and businesses in Maine were closed.

  This explained Graham Nero’s visit to the library. The guy had been sick, half crazy, and maybe even dying. After getting Maddie safely home, she’d tried to call the police department for the third time, but all she got for her troubles was sixty minutes of Barry Manilow elevator Muzak. This time, at least, a harried receptionist answered at the end of the hold time. She told Meg that too many people were calling, and then accidentally, or maybe intentionally, hung up. In turn, Meg gave up. Her ankle was hurting pretty badly, and the back of her turtleneck was wet with sweat. She’d hardly made it to the high school, and after that had sent Maddie into Target with a credit card and a list, rather than joining her. When she got home she took three 200mg codeine tablets, and was even now still woozy, but at least her leg didn’t hurt. Probably she should see a doctor, but other than her husband, she doubted any were available.

  Fenstad sipped his V& T while she scratched her leg. She was having a hard time jettisoning the memory of Graham Nero. That fool had licked her. She wiped her face just thinking about it. Then she looked at Fenstad, who was staring at his quarter-pound steak like a mountain he’d never be able to summit, and blushed. What if Graham had given her the virus? What if she’d brought it home to her family?

  Fenstad took a small bite of steak. He chewed, swallowed, looked at his fork, then gave up and gulped down half his vodka tonic. The man was too tired to eat.

  “What was the hospital like?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Bad.” Then he took another swig. He kept his stress buried so deeply that when he was thirty his gallbladder backed up and he had to have it surgically removed. Yet he still insisted on V& Ts and steak three times a week, like the rules of healthy living didn’t apply to doctors. Mr. Cold Fish. Still, she was glad she was here with him. Glad to stay here with him tomorrow, too. It was safe in this house where her husband would protect her. Suddenly, after Albert and Graham and now this virus, that seemed very important.

  She scratched again. Her ankle itched so bad that she could feel it, not just on her skin, but in her bones. Fenstad nodded at her leg. “I told you to take the codeine.”

  She sighed and put the coat hanger on the table. He’d hardly said two words except to make sure that Maddie knew to stay in the house, and that the air purifiers were running. Before he sat down at the table he’d insisted on showering in scalding hot water and diluted bleach, in case he’d been contaminated at the hospital or Lois Larkin’s house. “You okay?” she asked.

  He didn’t look up from his plate. Hardly even paused. “Fine. Thank you.”

  What was wrong with him? He wasn’t even looking at her. Over the years, blue and green veins had crawled across her legs like ivy, and her slender waist had thickened, but Fenstad’s admiration of her figure had always remained constant. Even last month when he got food poisoning, she’d caught him checking out her rear as she’d emptied the bucket by his bed. But right now he wasn’t looking. He was acting distant. Hostile, even. Then it came to her. Someone must have told him they’d seen Graham’s Porsche at the library, and he’d drawn the wrong conclusion. She’d wanted to spare him this (been ashamed that it had happened at all), but now she’d have to tell him.

  “Something happened,” she said.

  He glared at her from behind his plate, and for a moment she was frightened. The expression was full of hate. But in an instant it was gone. She’d imagined it, surely.

  “What is it this time?” he asked.

  She wasn’t sure how to answer. She looked out the window and into the dark night. The bird was gone now. She’d thrown it away…But where were all the other birds? And the squirrels? And…the deer? “Graham Nero came to the library today,” she said.

  Fenstad didn’t answer, which was pretty much what she’d expected. She continued. “He made a scene. His wife left him. He was talking nonsense. He was sick with the virus, I think. I told him to leave…”

  Fenstad looked at his fingernails and began to pick out the dirt. Even for him, the reaction was peculiar. “Did he touch you?” he asked without looking up at her.

  “I told you. I made him leave. Nothing happened.”

  His took a deep breath through his nose so that his nostrils flared. She had the idea that he was smelling her skin for Graham’s scent. “Did he touch you?”

  She closed her eyes. “Yes…He had me pinned, and he licked me. I didn’t want him—”

  Fenstad stood so fast that his chair fell backward into the floor. It rattled as he spoke, so he yelled to be heard. “Stay away from Maddie. You could have the virus,” he said. Then he started out of the room.

  “Where are you going?” she called after him.

  “Target. I’m buying a deadbolt for the door, and some more water. In case you didn’t notice, we’re at the center of an epidemic. We may be camped out at the house for a while.”

  “Fenstad, that’s crazy. It’s twenty miles to Target, and you don’t even know how to install a lock.”

  He turned, and she realized that she hadn’t imagined the look he’d given her before, because it was back, only this time he was baring his teeth. She said it without hesitation or guile. She said it because it was true. “You know I love you.”

  He looked at her for a second, and then two seconds, and then three. His scowl softened. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I think…I know. I should get that lock, though. We’ll need it if there’s a quarantine and not enough police to patrol the streets. We could leave, but if we’re infected we’d be spreading it. I don’t want to do that. Besides, the less contact we have with the outside, the better.” He turned and headed for the door.

  In the next room she heard him stumble, then mutter, “Shit!” She gimped her way to the hall. Fresh pain and a groggy codeine hangover made her bite her lip anew. She found him standing in the doorway. He was holding the husk of a large, dead animal. Its fur was damp with blood. All that was left of its corpse was bones and pelt. Even its eyes were missing.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  Fenstad’s voice was barely a whisper. “Did you do this?”

  She didn’t know he was talking to her until he turned and glared. “How could you do this?”

  She was so shocked that all she could do was shake her head: I didn’t.

  He dropped the pile of gristle to the stoop. “Kaufmann, the Fowlers’ German shepherd. I couldn’t remember until now, but it’s the Fowlers’ dog…How did you know about my dream?” he asked.

  His voice was quivering, furious and full of emotion. Not at all like the man she knew. He walked over the corpse and headed for the car. She hardly noticed the dog, though, because she could have sworn—yes, she could have sworn—that as he’d climbed into the Escalade, Fenstad Wintrob had been crying.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Romeo and Juliet

  The cherry of Maddie’s Marlboro Light glowed. She was leaning out her window, and it was late Saturday night. She’d been trapped in her house for an entire thirty hours. As if grounding wasn’t enough, starting tonight, the whole freaking town had been put under quarantine. Enrique’s phone wasn’t working again (his brother sometimes wandered off with it, and forgot to recharge it), so she hadn’t been able to call him since he’d left her house in a huff. This was the longest she’d gone without hearing from him since her vacation to Gettysburg. She’d spent yesterday helping her dad drill holes for deadbolts into the front and back doors while Captain Ahab had watched with folded arms. “If someo
ne wants to get in, they will,” her mom had scolded, and her dad had answered, “No thanks to you,” which Maddie guessed had something to do with Albert. Everything between them was back to normal, which meant they hated each other.

  More people were sick with this virus, and she’d heard on the radio tonight that it had spread outside Maine to New Hampshire and Massachusetts. Isolated cases had been found as far south as Hartford, Connecticut.

  The government agencies that had come to Corpus Christi earlier in the week had finished collecting their samples and returned to Washington. The CDC declared the infection viral, and the result of the increase in sulfur in the Bedford woods after the fire. The sulfur fed a special bacteria, and the bacteria fed a virus that infected human brains. A statement issued by the governor and read on the local news advised everybody to remain calm, and that a vaccine would be made available as soon as possible. In the meantime, everybody living in Waldo, Kennebec, Knox, Lincoln, Androscoggin, and Sagadahoc counties was supposed to stay indoors. They suspected that the virus spread through blood and saliva, and that only the sick and immune-compromised had any risk of mortality. Well, that’s what they said. In an internal NIH document leaked to The Smoking Gun, the mortality rate was located at thirty percent, the virus was airborne, there was no vaccine in the pipeline, and not a single patient had recovered from infection.

  The state police replaced the CDC Friday night. They transported the sick to hospitals farther south, which sounded pretty stupid if they were really trying to contain the disease, but whatever. They left this afternoon to close I–95 to all nonessential traffic and enforce the quarantine. Army reinforcements were supposed to arrive tonight, but from what she’d heard, no one had seen them yet. For now, Corpus Christi was on its own.

  She’d heard from her dad, who’d heard from his boss, that a lot of people had died today, and the hospital morgue was full. They all died the same way—with lymph nodes so swollen that their necks had looked like goiters, and chests full of phlegm. Basically, this town was in the crapper.