CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Tony didn’t answer repeated knocks. Jack wondered if he was still outside extracting the computer. Through the east-facing window on the landing, he could see past an outbuilding to where the wrecked Escape lay among the weeds and saplings. No sign of Tony. He tried the door. It swung open as slick as a pair of Crocs on wet tile. Tony had a habit of oiling hinges every week whether they needed it or not. Warm air tinged with the aroma of coffee wafted out.

There was no one in the kitchen or living room. He felt an unprecedented urge for a drink. Tony had once kept a bottle of Jack Daniels in a cupboard above the fridge. It was still there, still full. He poured out half a tumbler, drank deeply, poured more, and strode toward Tony’s workshop at the rear of the apartment, carrying the glass, his chest burning with the liquor. As he passed the open bedroom door, he saw that the bed was neatly made, as always, covered with the old comforter that had once lain on their parents’ bed. He continued to the workshop and found Tony perched on a bench in front of three monitors, wearing a set of noise-canceling headphones. On the wall hung several gleaming compound bows that Tony had used in past archery competitions.

In front of his brother lay a rectangular device the size of a cigar box, its outer casing lifted to reveal a green circuit board studded with microprocessors. Cables ran from it to a large CPU below the bench. Tony’s attention was focused on the middle monitor where rows of numbers and symbols scrolled by as he tapped at a keyboard, near which lay his cell phone.

Not wanting to startle him, Jack took out his phone and texted. I’m in the room with you. Tony’s phone by the keyboard lit up. Tony looked at it, then swiveled toward Jack, removing the headset.

Jack pointed. “Is that it?”

His brother nodded, tapping the device with his fingertip. “Yes. The connections were corroded, but it works.”

Jack took a long drink and set the glass down, his throat burning. “What did you find?” Tony glanced away, evasively. It wasn’t something Jack often saw in him. It sent an icy wedge into his chest. “Tell me,” he said. “I need to know.”

Tony picked up a pencil and pointed at a line of letters and symbols on the middle monitor. “It starts there, Jack. The virus. It looks Russian. It’s very big.” The back of Jack’s neck tightened as Tony ran the pencil down the screen. “Looks like the code is integrated into the operating system in such a way that they can access everything.”

The coldness in Jack’s chest swirled and turned hot. He felt the whiskey going to his head. “Goddamnit,” he said, his fists clenching. He poured some more in the kitchen, drank it, and marched down the stairs into the barn, a storm now raging inside. Tony yelled after him. Jack grabbed a sledgehammer. He waded into the field grass and dead weeds, brambles grabbing at his pant legs. The rusted whiteness of the ruined Escape rose in front of him, ugly and malignant. He stopped, breathing deeply.

“Jack!” Tony had followed him. “What are you doing?”

“Go back inside,” Jack said over his shoulder, and raised the sledgehammer. He slammed it down on the middle of the hood, just behind where it had been creased when the car caromed off the tree and killed the love of his life, who had done nothing wrong.

“Dr. Forester.” The officer had jogged up next to Tony. “What’s going on here?”

Jack slammed the hammer through the already starred and cracked windshield. Swinging again, he bashed in what remained of the headlamps, blinking as glass shards peppered his face. Then he drove the sledge into the remnants of the radiator grill. Everything we love is eventually destroyed. But we persist in believing we can make a difference.

“He’s never been like this,” Tony said.

The sledge banged into the passenger door. I want to see Witner. I want him to come here. I want to kill him with my bare hands.

“Dr. Forester, you’re not thinking straight.”

He brought the sledge down with full force on the trunk lid, caving it in.

“Talk to me, sir.”

He dealt a blow to the trunk again, then straightened, his chest heaving. He looked at the officer. “I’m not hurting you, so kindly, leave me the hell alone.”

Bashing the trunk again, he saw Zellie lying in the casket. The undertaker had worked to hide the wound on her forehead where the skull had been broken and the skin was torn. But it still showed. He had run his finger across the wounded place, feeling the slickness of the makeup, the coldness, and kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips, all hard and cold.

He drew back the sledgehammer and aimed a blow at the left taillight, but it grazed off the bumper and ricocheted into his shin. A wave of pain shot through his leg. He stopped, feeling blood drip into his shoe. He aimed one more blow, bashing in the rear window, then threw the sledgehammer into the weeds and limped away. Tony and the officer were talking to him, but he was encased in a shell of dark, suffocating air.

As he hobbled down the driveway, the other officer climbed out of the cruiser. “Whoa, let’s take it easy here,” she said.

He continued toward the road.

Hearing bangs and shouting, Marianna, Zoë, and Julia had gone to the back window.

“What on earth?” questioned Zoë.

“Why’s Daddy hitting the old car?”

Marianna stared out with growing concern. Something had gone wrong inside of Dr. Forester.

Zoë made a deep sigh. “I always feared this might happen.”

“What does this mean?” Marianna asked.

Zoë looked at her, her face grave, and explained what the car was. Marianna blinked with surprise and then comprehension. He was trying to kill the thing that had killed his wife. But what had triggered this anger?

“I don’t want Daddy to go crazy,” said the little girl, on the edge of tears.

“He won’t, honey,” said Zoë, sighing again.

Now he was limping away from the wrecked car. His brother and two policemen were following. As he came closer, she saw the blood on his leg. Then he walked around the house out of sight. She expected to hear him come in the door, but he didn’t. While Zoë was reassuring Julia, Marianna threw on her coat and went outside. The wind was bitter. He was now almost to the end of the driveway. Tony and the police officers were following but keeping at a distance, as if not wanting to provoke him. She ran toward Jack. He had stopped at the end of the driveway.

The police and Tony stared as Marianna rushed by. “I will talk with him,” she said. She drew near, and he turned. She stopped. His eyes were red, his nostrils flaring, his mouth set.

“You’ve hurt your leg,” she said.

He took deep breaths. “It’s not bad.”

“You are very angry.” She came up to him. “You should hold some back for when you need it.”

“I apologize for this.” He looked down, his expression faltering.

“You do not have to apologize,” she said, smelling alcohol. She glanced over at Tony and the officers. They were hovering just out of earshot. “Are you ready to come inside?”

“I’ve let a lot of people down,” he replied. “I’m not who people think I am.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’ve let Kaitlyn down too. She was going to ask to stay here. I don’t know why.”

“You don’t know why she wants to stay, or why you let her down?”

“Both. You’re shivering, Marianna.” He paused, looking at her warmly. “You’re a good person. I mean that. I’ll try to help you the best I can.”

“I know that.” She steered the conversation back toward him. “What makes you so angry now?”

“It’s everything,” he said. “Everything.”

“I think you are like me—similar to a lake where you can see down to the bottom, except when wind wrinkles the surface. There is much wind now. Let’s go in and take care of your leg. Julia saw you through the window. You need to tell her you are good now and that she will be all right.”

“Okay,” he said.

She continued. “Zoë told me about that car. Why do you keep something like that at your home?”

He didn’t answer. They started up the driveway. He was limping more, but she wasn’t sure he would appreciate her hand. They walked past Tony and the officers. “We are going inside,” she said. “He will be all right.”

“You asked why I was angry, Marianna,” Jack said, stopping by the steps leading up to the kitchen door. “There are some things I need to catch you up on since last night. And there’s something I’ve never told anyone before about why my wife took that vehicle.”

Zoë watched Vlada and Jack trudge back up the driveway toward the house. Jack seemed to be talking nonstop, Vlada focusing on him. Julia was standing beside her, propped against her leg. They didn’t come right inside but stopped just outside the door. Jack was doing most of the talking, but she could not make out what was being said.

“It looks like Daddy’s crying,” said Julia in that objective, clinical sort of way that sometimes made her seem much older.

A few minutes later, they came in. As the door opened, Zoë heard Vlada say, “If a patient told you a story like this, you would tell them to forgive themselves. I know that. Come, we will clean your wound.”