Discord's Apple

“You’re Frank Walker’s daughter,” said a voice in her ear.

She turned around to stare straight at him. He might have been a classmate from high school; he seemed about the right age. But she didn’t recognize him. He looked back expectantly. Slightly shorter than she, he had an olive complexion, tanned, with dark eyes and brown hair, thick and tousled. Clean-shaven. He wore a blue felt pea coat over a white oxford shirt, unbuttoned at the neck.

“You a friend of my dad’s?”

“Not really.”

“Then how do you know that?” She took careful note of his features and tried to interpret his casual smile. She wondered if her father had reported his prowler to the police, or if he had gotten a description.

“It’s a small town. Not hard to find things out.”

“What do you want?”

“I only wanted to meet you.”

The clerk glanced up, then returned to swiping food over the sensor. Each item passed with a beep. Evie turned away from the stranger and dug in her pocket for her debit card. Strange, definitely strange. Strange the same way that guy in the duster back at the house yesterday was strange. His look was likewise unplaceable, his accent unidentifiable.

She paid as quickly as she could and started putting the bags in her cart. The man paid for his candy bar, walked past her and out of the store without a second glance. She sighed, relieved.

He was waiting for her at her car, standing by the rear bumper, hands in his pockets, watching for her. She stopped, gripped her cart hard, and considered going back into the store and calling the police.

Before she could make a decision, he came toward her and spoke. “Can I help you with your bags?”

He was short, and while she couldn’t judge his build under the coat, she thought she could take him if it came to that.

“Are you stalking my dad?” she said.

“Not at all. But I am looking for something. I think it might be in your father’s basement.”

“That’s it, I’m calling the police.”

“Please don’t, Evie.”

Her heart pounded. He wasn’t threatening her. He didn’t move any closer. He spoke kindly, with psychotic calm. The neighbors would say how nice and quiet he always seemed.

“Who are you?”

“Call me Alex.” He raised his hand, as if offering it to be shaken, but paused midmotion, hand outstretched, elbow bent, gaze studying her. Then he turned and walked away.

Civil defense posters decorated the outside of the supermarket. They were the same ones she saw everywhere in L.A.: the wickedly surreal poster of the bug-eyed face emerging from a cloud of gas demanding, DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR MASK IS? and the shadowed figure stalking behind a quaint family home, labeled REPORT STRANGERS! It seemed a little laughable finding them in Hopes Fort. Nothing ever happened here, no one knew the town existed, it surely wasn’t a target. But the schools still ran attack drills. Evie knew where her gas mask was: in its bag under the front seat of the car. In L.A., she carried it everywhere in her backpack, like everyone did. Here? It would be like locking her car doors in the driveway.

But as Johnny said, the rules were still in effect, even here.

She pulled onto Main Street and stopped at the police checkpoint. Johnny wasn’t there today. The deputy in charge was about twenty years older and surly.

She rolled down her window and offered her ID. “Where can I find Johnny Brewster?”

“Back at the station. Pop your trunk, please, ma’am.”

“You have the phone number?”

“Yeah.” The guy had to look in every single grocery bag.

“Can you give it to me?” she said after the pause made it clear he wasn’t going to answer.

He looked her up and down, then glanced at the California plates on the car.

“Look,” she said. “We went to high school together. I just have to ask him something.”