Hicks and Lloyd returned to a ghost town. The Bronco rolled along Main Street, the men peering through the windshield at desolate sidewalks and buildings. A bag of trash lurched down the street in front of them, the breeze carrying it this way and that, frustrating Lloyd’s attempts to avoid it. The door to Billie’s Travel Shoppe creaked open on its own. Hicks forced himself not to gape or say anything. The chief, stunned by what he was seeing, had nothing useful to say. He figured his lieutenant wouldn’t express surprise or anxiety if the boss didn’t, and that was the best he could hope for until they got some information.
Hicks rolled down his window to let in the late summer smells: charcoal smoke and ripe garbage and pine needles. Nobody liked this time of year. With all its quaintness—the brick facades and curlicue store signs—Mammoth View didn’t feel like a real place when there wasn’t snow on the ground. It felt like a mistake, a town removed from its proper time. No one knew what to do with themselves. Lloyd turned onto 3rd Avenue, toward the office, and as the vehicle swung around Hicks spotted Frank Lundstrum running toward them, a shotgun cradled in his arms. Hicks put a hand on Lloyd’s shoulder, nodded at the rearview. The chief leaned out the window as Lloyd pulled to the curb. Lundstrum grabbed onto the passenger-side door.
“Thank God, Chief. Thank God you came back.”
“Frank, what’s going on here?”
“I should have gone with everyone else. I wanted to protect my business, but my gun’s not working. Toby’s got a goddamn Gatling gun, and all I have is this damn thing.”
“Frank, slow down,” Hicks said. “Where has everyone gone?”
“What do you mean? You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“About the evacuation.”
Hicks looked at Lloyd, who shrugged, then back at Lundstrum. “There was an evacuation order?”
Lundstrum sputtered, confused. “Well . . . ain’t that right?”
“You seen Marco?”
“What?”
“Officer Barea.”
“No—no, haven’t seen him. Doesn’t he do night patrol?”
“Frank, just tell us what’s happening. What you’ve heard. Exactly.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t hear the announcement. It was on the radio. John Cranston told me. Billie Travers. I don’t know.”
“What did the radio say?”
Lundstrum banged the side of the Bronco in disbelief. “The invasion, Chief!”
Invasion? Invasion of what—locusts? He had guessed the thing on the radio this morning was some kind of hunting-party mishap that was being misreported, but now . . . he just couldn’t guess. Did Lundstrum mean the Russians? Could that really be possible? Hicks looked out the windshield for something to indicate they were in the middle of a national emergency. He smelled the air for something . . . different. Anything. What would an invasion smell like? Police work was all about gut feelings, and ever since the heart attack, his gut had been on the fritz.
“Is the military in charge, Chief?” Lundstrum asked. “NASA?”
Hicks picked up the police radio’s hand microphone, pressed the button. Still nothing. He thumped the transceiver down. NASA? Hicks began to wonder if Lundstrum had lost his marbles. Had everyone but he and Lloyd gone nuts? “Get in the back, all right, Frank? You’ll be safe with us.”
Lundstrum, as thankful as a rescued puppy, pulled open the back door and climbed in.
“And give me that gun,” Hicks said.
“Chief . . .”
“Come on, hand it over.”
Lundstrum passed the gun forward. Hicks popped the shells out and tucked it between his legs, barrel down.
Lloyd revved the engine like a nervous tic. “Chief,” he said. “Winnie’s at home.”
Hicks let out a breath, nodded. “Yes, of course. Let’s go.”
The vehicle jumped forward and Lloyd turned onto Custer Avenue. The needle on the speedometer swung to forty miles per hour. Forty-five. Two weeks ago, Winnie would have been downtown at this hour, but she left her bookkeeping job when she learned she was pregnant. Lloyd insisted on it, even though she wasn’t even showing yet. It hadn’t been very long since she’d quit, but Hicks knew Winnie just well enough to know she must be going stir-crazy at home.
Hicks held onto the door handle as Lloyd threw the Bronco into another turn. Now that Lloyd had expressed concern for his pregnant wife, Hicks thought of Sarah. Who wasn’t waiting for him at home. She’d hated it here from the first day. The Great Nowhere, she called it. She didn’t care that he wanted to be the boss for once in his life. He was fifty years old when the offer came. It was only going to happen in a small pond. A very small pond. She should have understood how much he needed this—to be called chief, to make decisions and sign off on payroll—but she didn’t. She’d never had a job. She’d never taken orders from anyone but her father and her husband. He had figured she would come around, take up hiking and enjoy the views, maybe even try skiing, but she loved Fresno too much. She loved the city life, their friends, their place in the world. Not that he believed it was her fault. At this late date he could hardly blame her unhappiness on the town. He hadn’t even tried to convince her to stay.
Lloyd slammed the vehicle to a stop, bounded out. “Honey! Honey!” he called.
Hicks snapped out of his reverie, climbed down from the cab. “Stay here,” he told Lundstrum, who was leaning between the seats, trying to see into the house.
Hicks stepped into the foyer behind Lloyd. Something didn’t feel right here, either. He put his hand on his holster, nervously drummed his fingers on the leather. He glanced to his left: the living room. A sagging couch, a loveseat, two leather chairs. The styles and wear suggested they were all hand-me-downs from dead relatives. He looked to his right: a small alcove—a mismatched desk and chair—leading to the dining room, then a hallway and the bedrooms. On the wall hung a framed poster from the 1974 Spokane Expo featuring the fair’s Mobius strip logo.
“Winnie?” Lloyd said quietly, soothingly. “It’s Johnny.” A sound tinkled from the back, and he bolted for it.
Hicks followed, carefully, peering into each room until he reached the kitchen. The afternoon breeze was banging the back door’s screen against the frame. Lloyd was on the porch gazing out at a fenced-in yard.
The officer looked over his shoulder as Hicks joined him outside.
“The house is empty,” the chief said.
Lloyd nodded, which turned into a shake of the head. “She’s gone. Just like old Tom Singer. Maybe they ran off together.” The lieutenant regretted the joke as soon as he said it. It was inconsiderate. He pulled the visor of his hat low on his forehead and dropped his eyes to the railing. “Sorry, Chief,” he said.