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  “No, really. They turned to sludge in a matter of seconds. I was hoping you could explain why, as you’re a fund of useless knowledge.”

  Jack laughed—and this time the warmth reached his eyes. “No knowledge is useless if you need it.” He enjoyed showing what he knew; he had what his aunt called “a lecturing voice.” “Let’s start with the basics, Aunt Bea. Crude oil is liquid petroleum formed by the decomposition of organic matter.”

  “Even I know that,” she said impatiently.

  “Okay. Petroleum contains hydrocarbon compounds that can be extracted and used to create petrochemicals, which are a major component of fuels, explosives—and all the items we call plastic: meaning synthetic material cheap to manufacture and easy to mold into any shape you want. A lot of people pay good money for things they think are wood or metal but which are really plastic. It fattens the profit margins.

  “As for your question—that’s a tricky one. When plastic breaks down it usually disintegrates into tiny bits that are damned near indestructible. Marine biologists say there are more tons of plastic rubbish in the world’s oceans than tons of fish. But some plastics will dissolve to a certain extent if they’re broken up and boiled with oil. In poor countries the fumes are distilled and used as a substitute for gaso—”

  “What about my handkerchief?”

  “I can’t identify the stuff on your handkerchief, Aunt Bea. But there’s no doubt what its base is.”

  She lowered her spectacles and gave him what Jack called “the Aunt Bea Look.” Without glasses her eyes were dark hazel, almost amber. She was the only person who could intimidate him. “I don’t want a tutorial. All I want is to know is why our plastic’s doing what it’s doing.”

  “Beats hell out of me,” said Jack Reece.

  * * *

  When they finished their meal Bea said, “You’ve used every dish and bowl I have. Help me clean up?”

  “I’ll load the dishwasher, but I want to catch the main news on the wallscreen.”

  “Then we’d better hurry,” she said briskly.

  When speaking of his aunt Jack often remarked, “She takes no prisoners.”

  By the time they entered the living room the network news had concluded. On the wallscreen a commentator in three dimensions was saying, “… due to the ongoing danger of cyber sabotage. Now for something lighter: We have a couple of stories that prove the Silly Season has arrived. In San Diego an amusement park owner has claimed that vandals are destroying the concessions. The little plastic ducks in the…”

  Bea caught Jack by the arm. “Do you hear that?”

  “Ducks in San Diego?”

  “No, my dishwasher; it shouldn’t be making those churning noises. We’ll have to unload everything before it breaks my plates. I’ll call the service man tomorrow.”

  Jack switched off the wallscreen. “Don’t waste your money, I’ll take a look at it right now. Sounds like a bearing’s going, or maybe it just needs greasing. If it’s not purring like one of your cats by morning I’ll buy you a new one. In the meantime why don’t you have a cool bath and tuck up in bed with a good thriller? I brought you a couple from the airport, real books with covers. They’re on your bedside table.”

  Hours later, with the dishwasher performing normally and the kitchen littered with the contents of his aunt’s household tool box, Jack realized he was tired too. His flight had been a long one and the taxi driver did not know he was a local, so had tried to bring him to Sycamore River the long way.

  A mistake the man soon regretted.

  * * *

  The following morning Bea let Jack sleep late. When he returned from wherever he had been, doing whatever he did, he usually slept around the clock and awoke with his batteries fully charged. It was an ability she envied.

  She fixed her customary boiled egg and toast, fed the cats, and left the house by eight o’clock. She could hardly imagine the Old Man closing the bank for anything short of a world war, but yesterday’s events had interrupted the usual routine.

  As she drove Abraham up Dover’s Lane toward Elm Street the sun was already beaming down on the town, promising another hot day. The lawn sprinklers that had been illegally turned on during the night had been shut off. Everything appeared normal. And yet … there was the faintest shimmer on the air, like heat waves rising from the earth.

  Evaporation, Bea thought with annoyance. My lawn’s going to dry out and I’ll have to water the geraniums when I get home.

  She noticed Hooper Watson crossing his front yard; a stocky, bowlegged figure who walked as if he had just dismounted from a horse, though he did not ride. His round red face would have looked almost cherubic if not for the greasy ring of graying hair that encircled his bald dome. The former sheriff resented the encroachment of age and still made it his business to know what was going on in Sycamore River.

  Some people said he was just plain nosy.

  Bea pulled up at the curb and called, “Hooper!”

  He turned a blank stare in her direction. His rumpled clothes looked as if they had been slept in.

  Been hitting the bottle already, thought Bea. “Hooper, over here!”

  He tottered to the car and leaned in. “How you, Bea?”

  “I’m fine, but … do you know if the S and S will open today?”

  Watson pulled back a grubby shirtsleeve and attempted to read his watch. “’S too early, Bea, way too early.”

  “I know that, but we had some difficulties in there yesterday that might have—”

  “I’m not the sheriff anymore, I got voted out last year, remember? Did you vote for me? Hunh? Didja?”

  “Did you hear about our problems?” she countered.

  The puffy, unshaven face loomed close to hers. She struggled to keep from inhaling bad breath diluted with whiskey fumes. “I got my own problems, Bea. The wife’s gone off with a traveling salesman or some such. Again. Y’know anything about that? Nadine come in to get some of my money, maybe?”

  “No, but the bank—”

  “Trouble’s not limited to the bank. Nadine threw a fit yesterday ’cause her false teeth stuck in the bathroom glass. Like melted bubble gum, all that pink plastic. The bastard she’s running around with prob’ly don’t care, he might like her better without teeth anyway. He prob’ly…” Mumbling to himself, he weaved away down the sidewalk.

  There was a time when I thought Hooper Watson was an attractive man, Bea recalled. I certainly have a talent for narrow escapes.

  The employees’ entrance in the parking lot behind the bank had a heavy steel door that gave access to the keypad in the security hallway inside. Bea had not yet programmed her new AllCom, so she opened the door using her old one. There was no other way to enter.

  Once inside she discovered she was the first employee to arrive. She used the AllCom again, keying it with Oliver Staunton’s private number. The Old Man’s gruff voice answered—he hated being disturbed at home.

  “Is the bank going to be open today?” she asked him.

  “Unless hell freezes over. I’m leaving right now and we’d better not have any more trouble; you keep a sharp eye out, Bea.”

  What does he think I could do about it?

  5

  Shay Mulligan lived on the edge of town in an area where homeowners could have horses or a family-sized swimming pool. His son kept a horse in the stable at the rear of the property. Shay’s veterinary clinic was adjacent to the house. It was life in the country without being fully committed. No one made a fuss about barking dogs.

  Shay looked forward to his daily run; it was a self-imposed discipline. Five miles every day of the week, rain or shine, was a ritual with him. He preferred to go in the late morning, before lunch. Or instead of lunch. Running kept his head clear and his reflexes quick.

  By eleven that morning no more patients were in his waiting room and the appointment book was empty until two. Shay left his veterinary nurse, Paige Prentiss, in charge of the clinic with instructions to contact him if
an emergency came in. Tall, tanned and competent, in school she had been the captain of her soccer team. She wore no makeup, but her hair, the color of brown sugar, hung to the small of her back in a glossy braid.

  “Before you leave,” she said, “remember where we’re going this evening.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “The fund-raiser for the Daggett’s Woods Conservancy. I told you about it last week and you said you’d join me.”

  Shay snapped his fingers. “Sorry, Paige, I guess it slipped my mind. I have a date for tonight.”

  “Angela Watson?”

  “Who else? But I’ll go to the next one, I promise.”

  “There might not be another one: you know what we’re up against. This was important, Shay.”

  “Okay, I’ll write a check for it as soon as I get back,” he assured her.

  His nurse looked dubious. For a man with a degree in veterinary medicine, her employer was lamentably absentminded. He never forgot anything pertaining to the animals and their welfare, but things like bills to pay and family birthdays to commemorate flew right out of his head.

  Paige had concluded she could never be romantically interested in a man who would not remember her birthday.

  * * *

  Beginning at the grove of cottonwood trees that marked the boundary of the old Miller estate, Shay’s customary route for running took him past the derelict Miller mansion with its graffiti-covered walls, across the fields to Nelson’s apple orchard, two miles along the bike path that circled Alcott Park, and then back to the clinic, the long-established practice founded by his father. His parents now lived in a retirement community in Florida.

  Today Shay’s nearest neighbor, Gerry Delmonico, happened to look out a window and saw him go by. Gerry shouted, “Hold on and I’ll join you!” In less than a minute he emerged from his house clad in cutoffs and a T-shirt. “I don’t have to be in the lab until later,” he said, “so I was doing some work on my taxes.”

  Gerry’s long black legs took one stride for every two of Shay’s, but when he tried to alter his pace to accommodate his companion, Shay protested. “Hey, pal, don’t do me any favors.”

  “Don’t worry,” Gerry said amiably, “I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.” They jogged in silence until he remarked, “Speaking of fire, we’re having a barbecue on the deck on Saturday. Come on over, anytime. Gloria said to tell you to bring Angela.”

  “You’re supposed to tell me? You can’t just ask me, nice and polite-like?”

  “My wife said tell.”

  “That’s why you have a wife and I don’t.”

  Gerry cast a sideways glance at Shay. “You don’t have a wife because you don’t know a good thing when you see it.”

  “I do too. Tonight I’m taking Angela to that new French restaurant, Chez Pierre, and I’ve got cash for a big tip. Remind me to tell you what happened while I was at the S and S, by the way. You’ll never believe it.”

  They ran on.

  Halfway down the bike path on the way home Shay slowed to a trot; a walk; then leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. Gerry turned and came back to him. “What were you saying about the bank?”

  “Tell you in a minute. Stitch in my side.” Shay took a deep breath and slowly straightened up. “That’s better. First, let’s agree not to talk about Angela, I already heard enough on that subject. I know a problem when I see it. If I married Angela I’d have to take the whole package, including her man-crazy mother, when the woman bothers to come home, and her alcoholic father. I can’t set foot in their house without one or the other starting in on me.”

  “So don’t set foot in their house. Move Angela into yours, you have enough room. Evan likes her, doesn’t he?”

  Shay gave a rueful smile. “I’m not sure how he’d feel about it, I don’t discuss my sex life with my son, we’d both be too embarrassed. Besides, the only time I mentioned living together Angela made it plain she wanted marriage, so I haven’t pushed her. I’m not ready for that.”

  “You’re too soft for your own good, buddy. I don’t know how you can stand the vet business, you must see a dozen things a day that make you want to cry.”

  “Not a dozen. Since the last recession if I treat a dozen patients in one day I’m ecstatic. But if I see some I can help—and I help a lot of ’em—then it’s worthwhile. How about you out there in Bennett’s Bunker in the forest; you helping a lot of people?”

  “To be honest, Shay, I’m not quite sure what we’re doing anymore. When Robert Bennett hired me his company was involved in producing packaging for the pharmaceutical industry. My job was to help develop containers for sensitive or volatile materials; real cutting-edge stuff. The lab was equipped for a wide range of testing and it was a pleasure to work there.

  “Then Bennett started adding ‘peripheral products,’ as he calls them, and they’re taking over. They’re not, well—and this is between us—not strictly on the up-and-up. The other employees don’t seem to mind, but I’m not sure I want to be involved anymore. The money’s too good to turn down if we want to start a family, though, and we’re trying. Gloria plans to take a leave of absence from the hospital when she gets pregnant.”

  “Family man, hunh?”

  Gerry smiled. “We plan for two boys and a girl. Or two girls and a boy, either way, as long as they’re healthy. I was an only child and so was Gloria. We want our own tribe.”

  Shay gave a whistle. “That’s going to be some leave of absence.” He was about to start running again when he noticed a photographer and his assistant setting up a photo shoot in the park. They were accompanied by a reed-thin young woman in a semitransparent crimson toga with a matching pair of designer sunglasses. When she realized Shay was looking at her she assumed an aloof professional smile—that faded abruptly as she began to paw at her face.

  The designer sunglasses were oozing down her perfect cheekbones.

  * * *

  When they returned from their run the two men found a gleaming red convertible parked in front of the vet clinic. “Hey, look at that, Gerry! Jack Reece must be back in town. D’you know him?”

  “Not personally, but I’ve heard the name. He’s a … well, what is it he does?”

  “No one knows exactly, but he’s a hell of a guy. Come on in and I’ll introduce you.”

  It was obvious that Paige Prentiss knew Jack. She was watching him the way a greyhound watches a rabbit.

  A plastic pet carrier stood on the counter. The unseen occupant was complaining bitterly.

  “Who do we have here?” Shay asked Jack.

  “Plato, Aunt Bea’s oldest cat. He’s having trouble going up the stairs and she wants you to give him glucosamine.”

  “How old is he?”

  “At least twenty. If she can’t get a cat to live into his twenties she thinks she’s a failure.”

  “So I guess you don’t want him put to sleep.”

  Jack shook his head. “It would be more than my life is worth.”

  “My wife’s that way about plants,” said Gerry. “She even hates to kill weeds.”

  “She’s a gardener?”

  “She’s a psychologist at Staunton Memorial.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.”

  Shay said, “You two wait for me, I’ll take Plato to the back and examine him before I decide on his treatment. Come on, Paige, I’ll need you to hold him.”

  While they waited, Gerry told Jack about the model and the dissolving sunglasses. “Poor girl’s probably going to need help from my wife.”

  “Think she has psychological damage in addition to being burned?”

  “She wasn’t burned, which makes it stranger. The glasses weren’t any warmer than skin temperature, I touched them myself.”

  “But plastic won’t dissolve at skin temperature.”

  “You won’t convince me of that, Jack. I saw it with my own eyes; so did Shay. Some of the stuff even dripped onto the ground.”

  “Then I thi
nk you’ll be interested in what my aunt saw at the bank. Listen to this…”

  Shay soon returned, carrying the cat carrier with its now-silent contents. “Plato’s unhappy about having a shot in his spine and one in his neck, but he’s not hurting. We’ll repeat the process in six weeks and it should last him the rest of his life.”

  “No glucosamine?”

  “That’s outdated, Jack: nobody uses it now.” He noticed their expressions. “What were you two talking about, anyway?”

  They told him.

  “Aren’t you both describing the same thing?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “We’re having a hell of a hot season,” Shay said. “Could the climate be responsible somehow?”

  Jack shook his head. “You can’t blame the climate for things dissolving inside an air-conditioned bank. I think there’s something larger at work here.”

  “Based on what evidence?”

  “Gut instinct, Gerry.”

  “That’s a damned poor substitute for science. Tell you what, Jack; we’re having a barbecue at my house on Saturday, and by then we’ll probably know what’s going on. Shay’s coming, so why don’t you join us? Bring a friend if you want to.”

  “I’ve only been back in town for a couple of days, there isn’t anybody special.”

  “You never know, you might meet someone at the party. But I warn you; the most gorgeous girl there will be my wife, Gloria, and she’s strictly off-limits.”

  * * *

  By the weekend the inhabitants of Sycamore River knew their town was not unique. Similar incidents had been reported elsewhere around the country; plastic items were inexplicably dissolving. Small things; unimportant bits and pieces. News commentators began referring to the bizarre incidents as “the Change.”

  People made jokes about it.

  On Saturday afternoon a good-humored crowd gathered on the deck at the Delmonicos’ house to enjoy the barbecue. The Change was the main topic of conversation.

  “It’s weird, but is it dangerous?” a woman wondered.

  “Only if you’re plastic,” said a male guest, glancing at her breasts.

  She snapped, “Everything you see is real!”