The Summer Man

Chapter SEVENTEEN





It was dark, a half moon hanging low in the sky over the black, glittering bay, the trees in the park softening their afternoon symphony. The wind had become a breeze, a warm one. John figured it was the first night in a while that hadn’t turned cool after the sun disappeared, which meant the dog days had finally come to Isley. From this high up on the hill, one couldn’t hear the tourist sounds from the waterfront, the summer night parties that spilled from the bars and restaurants and piers, engines of cars and boats revving, laughter…but John knew they were down there, retired baby boomers and dot-com merge consultants and the idle well-off, interacting with the user-friendly locals. The glow from so many lights made it hard to see the stars.

John stood on Dick Calvin’s porch again, this time waiting for Bob and the police to join him. Bob had insisted, after hearing that the crotchety old man still wasn’t answering his door. John’s certainty, that Calvin wasn’t home, had faded for no reason that he could name, and he found himself pacing up and down the low steps, occasionally glancing up at the too-faint stars, wondering if Amanda Young had actually foreseen Calvin’s suicide.

When the phone buzzed in his pocket, he started. He was wound up, agitated, tired; the combination made him jumpy.

“Hello?”

“John? It’s Sarah.”

John felt his heartbeat pick up, just hearing her voice. “Hi, how are you?”

There was a brief silence, long enough for him to worry, and then she sighed. “I’m all right, I guess. I’m home—at Big Blue, I mean. Karen kicked me out; she said I needed some real sleep.” She laughed, a soft, wry laugh. “Except I’m not sleeping. I’m not even tired.”

“Oh,” he said, already guessing why she’d called. Say no. Say you’re busy. If earlier at the hospital was any indicator, they’d be in the sack before the door closed behind him.

“Do you think you could come over? Just for a little while?”

“I’m, ah, doing something right now…”

“If you don’t want to, that’s OK,” she said quickly.

“No, it’s not that. I really am busy.”

“Later, then?”

It didn’t seem to be in him to lie to her. “I could. I’d like to see you. I’m…I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, though, considering…considering what might happen.”

Another silence. He thought she would ask what he meant, but she surprised him. “Would that be so terrible?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “No, it’s not that I don’t want…ah, it’s just…”

Just what? Just, we may regret it? Just, we’re two single, lonely people and there’s no reason not to touch each other? Not to f*ck?

The images that flashed through his mind were explicit. Not the gentle lovemaking he’d envisioned earlier, not at all.

sweating sucking fingers sliding screaming

He cleared his throat, forcing the images away, willing his stirring erection to stand down…and abruptly thought of Nina McAndrews, his client and one-time real estate agent, who he’d sent out of town for a full medical workup.

“It’s like I start thinking about it, you know, it, and even the words in my head make me—I get, um, aroused.” Nina, huddled in the corner of his couch, as far from him as she could get. She wouldn’t look at him. “I can’t—once I start thinking about it, I can’t stop, I have to—I have to do something about it.” Nina, crying. “Oh my God, what’s wrong with me?”

“I’m starting to think that there may be some…some chemical influence here, in Port Isley,” he said, taking a breath. “Something that’s making people act rashly, or out of character.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, feeling himself steady. Saying it aloud sounded strange, but not crazy, not impossible. “Don’t you? I mean, I don’t know you that well, I don’t want to presume anything, but earlier, when you said you haven’t been yourself…”

“Wow,” she said. “You think—that would explain…Jesus, that would explain a lot of things.” She sounded almost relieved. “What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything for certain…some biological agent, maybe…” He thought of the open Word file on his desktop, the random, unclear jumble of theory and supposition that he’d tapped out after visiting Dick Calvin’s a few hours earlier.

Even as he spoke, Bob’s battered truck pulled up in front of Dick’s house.

“Ah, I have to go,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you back later, or—”

“But what is it?” she asked. “Should I be worried? Should I leave Tommy with his dad? He’s supposed to come back on Tuesday, but if you think—”

“Sarah—”

“I need to know,” she said. “Don’t tell me that there might be something—something toxic here, then hang up.” She sounded close to tears. “Tell me what’s happening. I feel like I’m all alone, suddenly, I feel—” Her breath shook. “Please, John.”

Bob got out of his truck, closing the door gently—and a PIPD patrol car pulled up behind the truck, its bar lights dark.

“I’ll come over,” he said. “As soon as I’m done here. We can talk, I’ll tell you what I know. What I think. But I have to go now, OK?”

“OK,” she said, on another shaking breath. “OK, good. I’ll be here.”

A lone cop got out of the patrol car—one of the summer officers, a tall, spindly young man John didn’t recognize—and joined Bob at the foot of the walk, talking into the radio clipped to his shoulder. John turned his attention to the two men as they started toward him—and realized that he could hardly wait to see her. Her face, her voice, her touch; whatever the consequences, he didn’t care.

Bob was talking to the young cop as they reached the steps, spinning a plausible tale. “…and when he didn’t show up, I called John, asked him to come check.”

Bob smiled tightly, nodding at John. “John Hanover, he lives in the last house on the block. Doctor Hanover.”

The officer blinked at John. He was early to mid twenties but had perfected a world-weary, jaded air, the kind that veteran cops always seemed to wear. His voice was bland, pleasant, bored. “Uh-huh. You friends with Mr. Calvin, Doctor?”

“Well, we’re neighbors,” he said, realizing how stupid that sounded as he said it. Obviously they were neighbors. Bob had just said so. “I came by two, three hours ago; there was no answer. Same when I tried again, just now.”

“Uh-huh,” the cop said again. He turned his attention back to Bob. “Has Mr. Calvin been sick, or…do you have any reason to be worried about him?”

Bob shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know him that well. He writes a column for the paper, we talk sometimes. Last time I saw him, he seemed a little down. Ah, depressed. I don’t know about what. We agreed to meet up tonight for a drink; he was supposed to come by my place. Like I said, when he didn’t show, I called his neighbor.”

The cop looked to John again, who nodded, hoping he looked as cool, as innocent as the reporter. The story sounded reasonable to John, but the officer’s gaze had gone calculating, skeptical.

Paranoid?

“Uh-huh,” he said, and stepped past John, muttering an excuse me. He rapped on the door, waited. Rapped again.

Bob cast a look at John, his eyes worried.

“Mr. Calvin!” The cop called, and John jumped. The cop put his hand on the doorknob. Turned it. The door opened, a sliver of stuffy dark beyond the frame. Thick, warm air swelled out.

“Step back, please,” the officer said.

“Maybe I should come along, make sure—” Bob began.

“You will wait here, sir,” the young man cut in, his voice too loud, his suspicious gaze hopping between the two of them, and John realized that he was nervous. His right hand had dropped to the black nylon holster on his hip. He wasn’t touching his weapon but looked like he was thinking about it.

Bob held up his hands, an OK-by-me gesture. The cop pulled a flashlight off his belt, clicking it on as he touched the radio at his shoulder once more.

“Sam-Two entering the premises at seven two two seven Eleanor, ten-twenty-three…”

He disappeared inside, leaving the door open behind him. John and Bob moved back from the front steps, pitching their voices low. John told the reporter some of what he’d experienced earlier in the day, and his reasonable belief that he wasn’t the only one.

Bob nodded. “It’s weird, all right. When I take a step back, look at what I’ve been thinking…well, more the way I’ve been thinking, I guess. I haven’t noticed anything really bad, in myself—well, past the drinking. I’m kind of obsessed with this theory, though—this story. I can’t stop thinking about it, about how and why and what I can do to fix it. I spent most of today reading, downloading articles, trying to find patterns…”

He turned and looked at Dick Calvin’s front door. The wedge of darkness inside hadn’t changed.

“You really think he’s dead?” John asked.

“I don’t know, Doc,” Bob said. “I hope not. Amanda seemed pretty sure that he wanted to kill himself, though.”

John hesitated, then asked, “If we’re all affected, do you think it’s possible that you believe this girl because…” How to put it gently? “Because you’ve been, ah, influenced?”

“Delusional, you mean?” Bob smiled and clapped a hand on John’s shoulder. John could smell a shadow of whiskey on his breath. “More things in heaven and earth, boyo. In this case, I hope she was wrong. I hope we’re all wrong.”

John nodded. “That’d be—”

Nice was blotted out by the shout from deep inside the house. The young officer sounded panicked. “Doctor! Get in here, right now!”

John broke and ran, faintly aware that Bob was right behind him. Up the steps, the cop was shouting again, upstairs, hurry! It was dark, only ambient streetlight from the windows to guide them to the stairs. John took them two at a time, using the banister to haul himself faster.

There was a bright line of light at the floor, the flashlight—the kid had dropped it—and by its sharp wedge of light, they could see the policeman supporting a long, inevitable shadow that hung from the roof, a body, Dick Calvin.

“Ah, shit,” Bob moaned, and they ran to help the panicked officer. Before they even cut him down, John knew they were much too late.





It was almost one in the morning before the soft tap came at the door. Sarah woke from her light doze at once and hurried to the door.

She smiled when she saw him and stepped aside to let him in. He only stood there. His hair was rumpled, his color pale; he looked very tired, and worried.

“I’m sorry it’s so late,” John said. Behind him, the street was silent and still.

“That’s OK,” she said. “Please come in.”

He didn’t budge. “One of my neighbors committed suicide.”

“Oh! Oh, John, I’m so sorry,” she said. She took a step toward him but saw that he didn’t want her to some any closer, the way he leaned away from her.

“I don’t know what to do,” John said. “I can’t seem to think straight. There are people killing each other, getting hurt, but others—the effects are so varied, I can’t imagine anything that would do what it’s doing.” He shook his head. “If I hadn’t felt—ah, different myself, I wouldn’t have believed there was any unusual influence. Even now, I keep half convincing myself that I’m just really stressed out.”

He smiled bleakly. “Bad things happen, all the time, everywhere. Just because a bunch of them seem to be happening here, that doesn’t mean anything. Not necessarily. And violence, murder—those things don’t happen in a vacuum. People are affected, vulnerable, anxious…prone to inventing the answers they need, when there are no sane answers available…”

He trailed off, and she could almost see him warring with himself, trying to decide if his theory was based on anything past wild speculation.

“So…what’s the next step?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“I don’t know. I can call the state, get them to send out some people to test the soil, the water…I’ve got a college friend who worked for the CDC for a while; I’ll try to get in touch with him. And I’m meeting a girl tomorrow morning, a friend of a friend, she might know something…”

He grinned, a self-conscious, slightly hysterical smile. “She’s psychic. How’s that for a logical approach to contagion? Maybe after I ask her to divine the source of our trouble, she can put me in touch with my grandmother.”

Sarah hugged herself against the early morning air. She didn’t know him well enough to know what would best soothe him, so she said what she felt. “I think keeping an open mind takes work,” she said. “But if you’re looking for an answer to an inexplicable problem, it’s kind of the best policy.”

“But what if the problem is only in my mind?” he asked, his expression stricken. “What if we’re just making up excuses, looking for ways to, to accept how we’re feeling? How can any of this be real?”

The way he looked at her then, she felt a hot, pulling need deep inside and found that she didn’t care if what she wanted was wrong, if what they both wanted was wrong. They both wanted it; that was what mattered. Suddenly, that was all that mattered.

“Come inside,” she said, and he gave in and stepped through the door. They didn’t speak again until he said her name, whispered against her neck sometime later.