The Leftovers

  “Listen,” he said, in the friendliest, most reasonable tone he could muster. “I don’t mean to be a jerk, but it’s really late, and we haven’t had a lot of sleep in the past few days. It would be really cool if you just went back to your seat and let us get some rest.”

  “No, no,” Henning protested. “It’s not like that. We’re just having a conversation.”

  “It’s nothing personal,” Tom explained. “I’m asking you nicely.”

  “Please,” Henning said. “I just need somebody to talk to. I’m going through some bad shit right now.”

  He sounded sincere, and Tom started to wonder if maybe he’d overreacted. But he just didn’t like the whole situation, the stranger pressed up against Christine, occupying the seat that Tom had so stupidly surrendered.

  “It’s okay,” Christine told him. “I don’t mind if Mark stays.”

  “Mark, huh?”

  Henning nodded. “That’s my name.”

  “All right. Whatever.” Tom sighed, acknowledging his defeat. “If it’s okay with her, I guess it’s okay with me.”

  Henning extended the bottle like a peace offering. What the hell, Tom thought. He took a small sip, wincing as the liquor ignited in his throat.

  “There you go,” Henning said. “It’s a long way to Omaha. Might as well enjoy ourselves.”

  “Mark was telling me about the war,” Christine explained.

  “The war?” Tom shuddered as a bourbon aftershock traveled through his body. All at once he felt clearheaded, wide awake. “Which one?”

  “Yemen,” he said. “Fucking hellhole.”

  * * *

  CHRISTINE DOZED off, but Tom and Henning kept talking softly, trading the bottle back and forth across the aisle.

  “I ship out in ten days.” Henning sounded like he didn’t quite believe it. “Twelve-month deployment.”

  He said he came from a military family. His father served; so had two uncles and an aunt. Henning and his older brother, Adam, had made a pact to enlist right after October 14th. He came from a small rural town full of Bible-believing Christians, and back then just about everyone he knew believed that the End Times were upon them. They were expecting a major war to break out in the Middle East, the battle foretold in the Book of Revelation. The opponent would be nothing less than the army of the Antichrist, the honey-tongued leader who would unite the forces of evil under a single banner and invade the Holy Land.

  So far, though, none of that had happened. The world was full of corrupt and despicable tyrants, but in the past three years, none of them had emerged as a plausible Antichrist, and no one had invaded Israel. Instead of one big new war, there was just the usual bunch of crappy little ones. Afghanistan was mostly over, but Somalia was still a mess, and Yemen was getting worse. A few months ago, the President had announced a big troop escalation.

  “I talked to a guy who just got back,” Henning told him. “He said it’s like the Stone Age over there, just sand and rubble and I.E.D.’s.”

  “Damn.” Tom took another hit of bourbon. He was starting to feel pretty loose. “You scared?”

  “Fuck, yeah.” Henning tugged on his earlobe like he was trying to yank it off. “I’m nineteen years old. I don’t wanna wake up in Germany with one of my legs cut off.”

  “That’s not gonna happen.”

  “Did to my brother.” Henning spoke matter-of-factly, his voice flat and distant. “Fucking car bomb.”

  “Oh, man. That sucks.”

  “I’m gonna see him tomorrow. First time since it happened.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Okay, I guess. They got him in a wheelchair, but he’s gonna get a new leg pretty soon. One of those high-tech ones.”

  “Those are pretty cool.”

  “Maybe he’ll be one of those bionic sprinters. I saw an article about this one guy, he’s actually faster now than he used to be.” Henning swallowed the last few drops of bourbon, then shoved the empty bottle into the seat pocket in front of him. “It’s gonna be weird seeing him like that. My big brother.”

  Henning leaned back and closed his eyes. Tom thought he was drifting off to sleep, but then he gave a soft grunt, as if something interesting had just occurred to him.

  “You got it right, Pigpen. Just go wherever you want, do whatever you want. Nobody ordering you around or trying to blow your head off.” He looked at Tom. “That’s the deal, right? You just wander around, looking for the party?”

  “It’s our duty to enjoy ourselves,” Tom explained. He was pretty familiar with the theology; a lot of the teachers he’d been training in San Francisco had gone through a Barefoot phase before becoming Holy Wayners. “We believe that pleasure is the creator’s gift, and that we glorify the creator whenever we have a good time. The only sin is misery. For us, that’s Rule Number One.”

  Henning grinned. “That’s my kinda religion.”

  “It sounds simple, but it’s not as easy as you think. It’s like the human race has been programmed for misery.”

  “I hear that,” Henning said, with surprising conviction. “How long you been doing it?”

  “About a year.” Tom and Christine had been honing their cover stories in preparation for exactly this sort of interrogation, and he was glad they had—he was a little too drunk to be improvising. “I was in college, but it all felt so pointless. Like, the world’s coming to an end, and I’m getting a degree in Accounting. What good’s that gonna do me?”

  Henning tapped his forehead. “What’s with the circle thing?”

  “It’s a bullseye. A target. So the Creator will recognize us.”

  Henning glanced at Christine. She was breathing softly, her head resting against the window, her features delicate in repose, as if they’d been sketched on her face rather than sculpted.

  “How come hers is a different color? Does it mean something?”

  “It’s a personal choice, like a signature. I do maroon and gold ’cause those were my high school colors.”

  “I could do green and beige,” Henning said. “Kind of a camo thing.”

  “Nice.” Tom nodded his approval. “I haven’t seen that before.”

  Henning leaned across the aisle, like he wanted to share a secret.

  “So is it true?”

  “What?”

  “You guys are into orgies and shit?”

  From what Tom had heard, the Barefoot People held these big solstice gatherings out in the desert, where everybody ate mushrooms and dropped acid and danced and fucked. It didn’t sound all that great to him, just a big, sloppy frat party.

  “We don’t call them orgies,” he explained. “It’s more like a spiritual retreat. You know, like a bonding ritual.”

  “I’m down with that. I wouldn’t mind bonding with a few cute hippie girls.”

  “Really?” Tom couldn’t resist. “Even if they hadn’t changed their underwear for a week?”

  “What the hell?” Henning said with a grin. “Purity comes from within, right?”

  * * *

  CHRISTINE NUDGED him awake as they pulled into the terminal in Omaha. Tom’s head felt big and unsupportable, way too heavy for his neck.

  “Oh, God.” He shut his eyes against the onslaught of daylight through the tinted windows. “Don’t tell me it’s morning.”

  “Poor baby.” She patted him gently on the forearm. They were sitting next to each other, Tom in the seat where Henning had been.

  “Ugh.” He swirled his tongue around the inside of his mouth. There was a vile taste in there—stale bourbon, pot smoke, bus exhaust, sadness. “Just shoot me and get it over with.”

  “No way. It’s more fun to watch you suffer.”

  Henning was gone. They’d hugged him goodbye around four in the morning, at a travel plaza in the dead center of the middle of nowhere.

  “I hope he’s okay,” she said, as if reading his mind.

  “Me, too.”

  He was on his way to San Francisco, hitchhiking westward with a
piece of paper in his wallet, on which Tom had written the address of Elmore’s Café and instructions to “Ask for Gerald.” There was no Gerald, as far as Tom knew, but it didn’t matter. The Barefoot People would take him in, with or without an introduction. Everybody was welcome, even—especially—a soldier who’d decided that he wanted no part of the killing and dying.

  “It’s kind of amazing,” Christine remarked, as they stood with the other passengers on the concrete apron, waiting to retrieve their luggage. “You converted him to a religion you don’t even believe in yourself.”

  “I didn’t convert him. He converted himself.”

  The driver was in a bad mood, tossing suitcases and canvas bags onto the ground behind him, paying no attention to where they landed. The crowd retreated a few steps, giving him room.

  “You can’t really blame him,” Christine said. “He’ll have more fun in San Francisco.”

  Their backpack landed with a thud. Tom bent down to get it, but must have straightened up a little too quickly. His legs went rubbery and he wobbled in place for a second or two, waiting for the dizziness to pass. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead, one clammy drop at a time.

  “Oh man,” he said. “Today is gonna suck.”

  “Welcome to my life,” she told him. “Maybe we can throw up together.”

  A redheaded family was standing inside the terminal, anxiously scanning the arriving passengers. There were four of them: a skinny father and a plump mother—they were around the same age as Tom’s own parents—a sullen teenage girl, and a haggard, one-legged guy in a wheelchair. Adam, Tom thought. He was smiling wryly, holding up a piece of paper, like an airport chauffeur.

  MARK HENNING, it said.

  The Hennings barely noticed Tom and Christine. They were too busy checking every new face that came through the door, waiting patiently for the right one to appear, the only face that mattered.

  SNOWFLAKES AND CANDY CANES

  KEVIN GOT TO TOWN HALL around eight that morning, an hour earlier than usual, hoping to squeeze in a little work before heading to the high school for a meeting with Jill’s guidance counselor. Fulfilling a campaign pledge, he’d opted for a hands-on style of governing, making himself available to meet with constituents on a first-come, first-served basis for an hour every day. This was partly a matter of good politics, and partly a coping strategy. Kevin was a social animal: He liked having somewhere to go in the morning, a reason to shave and shower and put on decent clothes. He liked feeling busy and important, certain that his sphere of influence extended beyond the boundaries of his own backyard.

  He’d learned this the hard way after selling Patriot Liquor Megastores, a sweet deal that left him financially independent at the age of forty-five. Early retirement had been the dream at the center of his marriage, a goal he and Laurie had been moving toward for as long as he could remember. They never said it out loud, but they aspired to be one of those couples you saw on the cover of Money Magazine—vigorous middle-aged people riding a tandem bike or standing on the deck of their sailboat, cheerful refugees from the daily grind who’d managed, through a combination of luck and hard work and careful planning, to get a chunk of the good life while they were still young enough to enjoy it.

  But it hadn’t worked out that way. The world had changed too much and so had Laurie. While he was busy managing the sale of the business—it was a stressful, protracted transaction—she was drifting away from the life they’d known, mentally preparing herself for an entirely different future, one that didn’t include a tandem bike or a sailboat, or even a husband, for that matter. Their shared dream had become Kevin’s exclusive property, and useless to him as a result.

  It took him a while to figure this out. All he really knew at the time was that retirement didn’t agree with him, and that it was possible to feel like an unwelcome guest in your own home. Instead of doing all the exciting things he’d dreamed about—training for an over-forty triathlon, learning to fly-fish, reigniting the passion in his marriage—he mostly just moped around, an aimless man in baggy sweatpants who couldn’t understand why his wife was ignoring him. He put on weight, micromanaged the grocery shopping, and developed an unhealthy interest in his son’s old video games, especially John Madden Football, which could consume whole afternoons if you weren’t careful. He grew a beard, but there was too much gray in it, so he shaved it off. That was what passed for a big event in the life of a retired man.

  Running for office turned out to be the perfect antidote for what ailed him. It got him out of the house and into contact with lots of other people without being anywhere near as demanding as a real job. As Mayor of a smallish town, he rarely worked more than three or four hours a day—a good part of which was spent wandering around the municipal complex, chatting with various clerks and department heads—but that little bit of structure made all the difference in his daily routine. Everything else fell into place around it—afternoons were for errands and exercise, evenings for relaxing; later on, there was always the Carpe Diem.

  * * *

  ON THE way up to his office, he popped into police headquarters for his daily briefing and caught Chief Rogers eating a massive blueberry muffin, a clear violation of his heart-healthy diet.

  “Oh.” The Chief cupped his hand over the broken dome of his muffin, as if to protect its modesty. “Little early, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry.” Kevin retreated a step. “I can come back later.”

  “That’s all right.” The Chief waved him in. “It’s no big deal. You want some coffee?”

  Kevin filled a foam cup from a silver push-button thermos, stirred in a packet of creamer, then took a seat.

  “Alice would kill me.” The Chief nodded with guilty pride in the direction of his muffin. He was a sad-eyed, flabby man who’d had two heart attacks and a triple bypass before the age of sixty. “But I already gave up booze and sex. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna give up breakfast.”

  “It’s your call. We just don’t wanna see you back in the hospital.”

  The Chief sighed. “Let me tell you something. If I die tomorrow, I’m gonna regret a lot of things, but this muffin won’t be one of them.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. You’ll probably outlast all of us.”

  The Chief didn’t seem to think this was a very likely scenario.

  “Do me a favor, okay? If you come in here some morning and find me keeled over on my desk, just wipe the crumbs off my face before the ambulance comes.”

  “Sure,” Kevin said. “You want me to comb your hair, too?”

  “It’s a matter of dignity,” the Chief explained. “At a certain point, that’s all you have left.”

  Kevin nodded, letting his silence mark the transition to official business. If you weren’t careful, small talk with Ed Rogers could last all morning.

  “Any trouble last night?”

  “Not much. One DUI, one domestic, a pack of stray dogs on Willow Road. The usual crap.”

  “What was the domestic?”

  “Roy Grandy threatened his wife again. He spent the night in the holding cell.”

  “Figures.” Kevin shook his head. Grandy’s wife had gotten an order of protection over the summer, but she’d allowed it to lapse. “What are you gonna do?”

  “Not much. By the time we got there, the wife was claiming it was all a big misunderstanding. We’re gonna have to turn him loose.”

  “Anything new on the Falzone thing?”

  “Nah.” The Chief looked exasperated. “Same old story. Nobody knows anything.”

  “Well, let’s keep digging.”

  “It’s blood from a stone, Kevin. You can’t get information from people who won’t talk. They’re gonna have to realize this is a two-way street. If they want us to protect them, they’re gonna have to play ball.”

  “I know. I’m just worried about my wife. In case there’s some kinda nut out there.”

  “I hear you.” The Chief’s somber expression turned sl
y. “Though I gotta tell you, if my wife took a vow of silence, I’d support her a hundred and ten percent.”

  * * *

  THREE WEEKS had passed since the body of a murdered Watcher had been found near the Monument to the Departed in Greenway Park. Since then, aside from conducting routine ballistics tests and identifying the victim—he was Jason Falzone, twenty-three, a former barista from Stonewood Heights—the police had made very little progress with the investigation. A door-to-door canvas of the neighborhood bordering the park had failed to locate a single witness who’d seen or heard anything suspicious. It wasn’t all that surprising: Falzone had been killed after midnight, in a deserted area several hundred yards from the nearest house. Only one shot had been fired from close range, a single bullet in the back of the head.

  The investigators had also been stymied in their efforts to locate the victim’s partner, or interview anyone within the G.R. itself, which refused, on principle, to cooperate with the police or any other government agency. After a contentious negotiation, Patti Levin, the Mapleton Chapter’s Director and spokesperson, had agreed “as a courtesy” to respond in writing to a series of questions, but the information she provided led absolutely nowhere. The detectives were especially skeptical about her insistence that Falzone was alone on the night of the murder, since it was common knowledge that the Watchers traveled in pairs.

  We don’t always have an even number of personnel on duty, she wrote. Simple math dictates that some of our people will have to work independently.

  Offended by what they saw as stonewalling, not to mention Levin’s condescending tone, some members of the investigation team had raised the possibility of using more aggressive measures—subpoenas, search warrants, etc.—but Kevin had convinced them to hold off. One of his priorities as Mayor was to dial down the tension between the town and the Guilty Remnant; you didn’t do that by sending a group of heavily armed officers into the compound on a vague mission to round up potential witnesses, not after what had happened the last time.

  As the days went by without an arrest, Kevin expected the police to come under fire from frightened residents—murders were exceedingly rare in Mapleton, and unsolved, apparently random ones were unheard-of—but the outcry never materialized. Not only that—if the letters to the local paper were any indication, a fair number of citizens believed that Jason Falzone had gotten more or less what he deserved. I’m not trying to justify what happened, one writer declared, but troublemakers who deliberately and repeatedly make nuisances of themselves shouldn’t be surprised if they provoke a reaction. Other commentators were more blunt: It’s long past time to expel the G.R. from Mapleton. If the police won’t do it, someone else will. Even the victim’s parents took a measured view of his death: We mourn the loss of our beloved son. But the truth is, Jason had become a fanatic. Before he vanished from our lives, he spoke frequently of his wish to die as a martyr. It appears that wish has been granted.