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  “How many?”

  “Maybe a dozen, I don’t get much call for them.”

  “Where’d you get them from?”

  “A wholesaler in Benning. Why? You won’t need more than five.”

  “Call right now and tell them you’ll take all the high-perf tires they have in stock. Get a firm commitment before the rush starts.”

  “Are you crazy, Jack? I can’t afford that!”

  Jack lifted one eyebrow. “How do you know? You’re going to have a partner; me. A disaster can be an opportunity in a cheap suit.”

  * * *

  Acrylic paint was not immediately vulnerable to the Change, but in a matter of weeks people noticed that the protective covering on their walls, both inside and outside, was wet. Was beginning to run.

  Since the twentieth century contemporary artists had used acrylics to produce the intense colors. Occasionally they were used surreptitiously in restoration projects of the utmost delicacy. The Change evoked memories of the dreadful summer back in 2016 when the Seine flooded and priceless works of art had to be relocated from the basements of the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay. Fearing a similar disaster, museum staff began packing their modern masterpieces into hermetically sealed vaults in hopes of protecting them.

  Then the Mona Lisa’s inscrutable smile sagged into a jowly grimace.

  At about the same time America’s asphalt roads began to soften; the secondary network that helped connect the country.

  If Robert Bennett was right in assuming that industrial sabotage was behind the Change, it was sabotage on an unprecedented scale.

  * * *

  Shay Mulligan awoke promptly at five thirty every morning. It was his habit to lie very still at first, eyes closed, breathing shallowly, reluctant to let the world know he was available for more heartbreak. Then he’d take one deep breath, throw off the covers and spring to his feet as if he had all the optimism in the world.

  He had just thrown off the covers when he realized he was not alone in the bed.

  Shay froze, waiting for memory to return. Too much to drink last night. A blue-lit bar in an alley off Spring Street, and a girl he once knew …

  He eased himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. The rumpled sheets reeked of sex and sweat. A hundred horses were galloping through his skull. Slowly, to keep his head from falling off, he turned to look at the other occupant of the bed. “Lila?” he said tentatively.

  “Hmmm?”

  He knew she wasn’t asleep. Like a cat, she was fully awake and waiting.

  “Is that really you?”

  “Let’s see.”

  She sat up and stretched. Arms extended to their utmost, fingers curling like claws. The mattress adjusted to her weight as she crawled over to sit beside him, letting the covers fall away from her naked body. He watched as a single drop of sweat rolled down the slope of her breast, dangled from her dark pink nipple and trembled there.

  Shay wanted to lick it off. He licked his lips instead.

  The drop fell to the quilt.

  “It’s me, all right,” she confirmed. Her voice should have been husky, but it was clear and sweet. “I don’t think we had much conversation last night. you were bombed out of your skull. I wasn’t even sure you’d recognized me.”

  “I had, all right, but I couldn’t believe it. And I never expected to find you—”

  “In your bed? I suppose not, but I didn’t want to be alone last night; all the weird stuff that’s going on. You know?”

  “I know.”

  “You offered to bring me home because you didn’t have a pet.”

  “Did I really say that?”

  “You really did.”

  He needed to clear his befogged mind. “Okay, wait a minute. Let me fix a cup of coffee … fix us some coffee … and then…”

  Wrapping the lower half of his body in a bedsheet, he made his unsteady way to the kitchen. With his left hand he reached for a jar of instant coffee and two cups. He heard her come up behind him. He could feel her warm breath on his back but did not look around, in case she was a drunken delusion.

  It might be better if she was. Suppose Evan woke up and found his naked father in the kitchen with … “Lila?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You are Lila Ragland, aren’t you?”

  “And you’re a veterinarian.”

  “I’m a man with a teenage son who’s likely to walk in on us any minute.”

  “I heard someone leave the house a while ago.”

  “That must have been Evan, going out back to feed his horse,” Shay said. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “I would have, if I’d wanted to get up myself, but I didn’t. And now look at you.” She lowered her eyes and smiled. “You’re up already.”

  * * *

  For the first time since she took the job Paige Prentiss had been in the veterinary clinic for an hour before her boss arrived. She called him on his personal AllCom, but it was turned off—either that or the device was no longer working. Paige assured the Reed-Johnsons that Dr. Mulligan would attend to their bulldog’s erratic breathing as soon as he arrived. “Your dog’s probably just too fat,” she said.

  Mrs. Reed-Johnson bristled. “Chauncey only eats what I eat,” she retorted icily. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

  Paige regretted her words. Half of the dogs who came to the clinic were too fat, but their overweight owners didn’t want to hear it.

  By the time Shay entered the clinic the Reed-Johnsons had left with their bulldog and without paying their overdue bill, as Paige was quick to point out.

  It’s going to be that kind of day, Shay told himself. My clients don’t pay, and when I wake up with Lila Ragland she won’t tell me when I can see her again.

  * * *

  Two of the Nyeberger boys were rushed to the Hilda Staunton Memorial Hospital when Styrofoam cups containing Cokes dissolved into white goo. Flub and Dub mistook the goo for marshmallow whip and gobbled it down.

  * * *

  On a sweltering, overcast Saturday morning Bea Fontaine answered her doorbell to find an unexpected visitor standing on the porch.

  Bea unlatched the screen door and ushered the young woman into the house. “I’ve been almost expecting this. Dwayne Nyeberger saw you outside the bank a few weeks ago and had a nervous breakdown.”

  “Serves him right.”

  “I never thought you were dead.”

  “Neither did I,” Lila Ragland said with a wry smile.

  “Why come to me?”

  “I thought it would be better to explain to you privately, rather than in the bank.”

  “This is about money, I assume.”

  “Isn’t everything?”

  “Not in my experience, no.” Bea’s voice was cool. “If you want to talk, come into the living room and sit down; I’ll be right back.” She went to the kitchen for a pitcher of iced tea and a plate of vanilla wafers. The conventions of hospitality were as much a part of Bea Fontaine as her gold-framed eyeglasses. She would have done the same for Jack the Ripper.

  After taking a sip of tea Bea removed her spectacles to give the younger woman the Look.

  Which had no effect.

  “Do you want to open a bank account?” Bea queried. “You’ve picked a bad time for it.”

  “I don’t have any money to deposit.”

  “We couldn’t give you a loan, even if you had collateral.”

  “I don’t; at least I don’t think so, but I’m trying to get my assets together. Did my mother have a safe deposit box in your bank a long time ago?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Could you find out for me? Her name was Treasie Ragland and she died before I … went away.”

  “Do you have a death certificate for her?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You can get a copy of one from the courthouse. Then you’ll need a court order requesting us to give you the box. Don’t worry, it’s pretty straightforward.” Bea was beg
inning to feel sorry for Lila. She was well dressed and well groomed, but there was something almost forlorn about her.

  At that moment they heard the front door open. Footsteps sounded in the hall.

  12

  Jack Reece paused in the living room doorway with a copy of The Sycamore Seed tucked under his arm. His aunt had a guest, a not uncommon occurrence on Saturday morning. Bea’s house was in a long-established neighborhood. Friends often stopped by to chat with her when she was not at work.

  This visitor did not resemble Bea’s usual friends.

  Jack shot a quizzical glance at his aunt.

  The height of Lila’s notoriety had coincided with Jack’s most prolonged spell of globetrotting. By the time he returned the town’s interest had been captured by another tumultuous presidential election followed by a steep recession. Bea was uncertain how much he had heard about Lila—if anything. She believed old scandals were best left alone.

  Fortunately she had the old courtesies to fall back on. “Lila, this is my nephew, Jack Reece. Jack, Lila Ragland.”

  Bea was watching her nephew’s expression. It was obvious the name meant nothing to him. “Do you want some iced tea, Jack?”

  “No thanks, I just brought you a copy of the paper. The Seed has the local news, and our wallscreen’s not working,” he explained to Lila.

  “I’ve always liked newspapers myself,” she said. “And real books with hard covers.”

  “You and my aunt have something in common, then. She loves to read thrillers.”

  Bea reached for the newspaper. “Is there anything in here about the Change?”

  “It’s all about the Change, but not much that’s really new. A physicist in California did suggest that the squeezing and stretching of gravitational waves was affecting the planet.”

  “How would that work?”

  “Don’t ask me, I’m not a physicist.”

  “He knows something about everything, though,” Bea boasted to Lila. “Jack of all trades.”

  “And master of none,” he added. “Now tell me something about you, Lila. Where do you—”

  She stood up. “I’m sorry, but I have to go now. I have a lot to do.”

  “When you have that certificate bring it to the bank,” said Bea, “and we’ll help you.”

  After Lila left Jack commented, “That’s an attractive woman. Have you known her long?”

  “I don’t really know her at all. Her mother may have been a customer of the S and S, but as you saw for yourself, she’s not very forthcoming. Now, let’s see what’s in the paper.”

  She read aloud, “‘Mitchells Motors on Davis Street reports that new automobiles equipped with android boosters are not selling, even with real rubber tires. Customers are asking for old-model used cars with manually operated windows and door locks.’ Hunh! Abraham’s not for sale at any price.”

  Jack said, “The AllCom market’s suffering too. The newest ones seem to be failing first.”

  “And listen to this,” Bea went on. “In the competitive world of online shopping, business has slowed to a trickle. Telesales employees are looking for other work. Advertising revenues generated by data gathering from high-end consumers are dropping alarmingly.”

  Jack shook his head. “No wonder people are freaking out.”

  * * *

  Frank Auerbach knew a lot about advertising revenues. A fourth-generation newspaperman, he had watched with a heavy heart as social media decimated the industry he loved. The attention span of the public had been shrinking by the day. Few would take the time to read an entire page of newsprint anymore. The once-healthy circulation of The Sycamore Seed had dropped to a few hundred diehards who did not provide enough income to keep the presses running.

  Frank Auerbach had not given up.

  As the Change progressed he sought to provide a positive voice for a town teetering on the brink of a panic. “We are in an undeclared war,” he wrote in a front-page editorial, “which is imposing a new sort of rationing. We have endured rationing before, we can adapt. Toothpaste containers have failed, but we can mix salt with baking soda and continue to care for our teeth. Beginning with this issue, The Seed will be offering helpful hints to its readers. Please send us your own discoveries for the benefit of your friends and neighbors.”

  As components of his printing machinery began to fail Frank was fighting back. He improvised where he could; found or fashioned replacements. In desperation he dragged outdated equipment out of storage until what he had looked like something out of the nineteenth century, but was still serviceable. No plastic parts.

  A member of his staff showed up one day with an ancient typewriter. Frank appropriated the relic and set it up on his desk beside his computer. He sent his wife halfway across the state on a bus in search of typewriter ribbons.

  His employees teased him at first, then began looking for typewriters of their own; Royals and Underwoods from the last century, constructed of metal. They made a terrific clatter, but they worked.

  The redbrick building that housed The Sycamore Seed began to smell the way it had smelled when Frank Auerbach was a small boy; an amalgam of metal and ink and physical labor performed by men with their shirtsleeves rolled up.

  * * *

  “The Change is happening faster now,” The Seed reported. “The outskirts of Sycamore River are being littered with the corpses of consumerism. People are dumping nonfunctional, big-ticket appliances on curbs and along roadsides. Freezinfridges, washing machines, even supercycles and ride-on mowers—we urge you to retain these items for spare parts. You will need them in the future.”

  The calm editorial voice of The Sycamore Seed had a steadying effect on the town, though a barely contained hysteria was building beneath the surface.

  * * *

  As social media sites faded ghostlike from their computer screens, Nell expected her children to respond with adolescent histrionics. Colin was outraged that he could no longer communicate his feelings directly to the sports stars of the moment, who he assumed were eager for his critiques of every game.

  Jessamyn had revealed an unsuspected maturity. “I don’t think I’ll miss it very much, Mom. The internet’s, like, awful for self-esteem. If anybody’s going to call me fat I’d rather they said it to my face. Lots of snot-clots are hovering over their keyboards waiting to destroy other kids.”

  Nell frowned. “I hope you haven’t been doing that.”

  Jess dropped her eyes and pleated the sleeve of her blouse instead of answering.

  The nation received a shock when two high-speed passenger trains on the East Coast found themselves on the same track but going in opposite directions. The carnage was massive.

  In the Oval Office at 1600 Pennsylvania the president complained to the secretary of state, “Is everything on God’s green earth dependent on computers? How the hell did we let that happen?”

  * * *

  The small annoyances which had heralded the Change were as nothing compared to the discovery that a large part of the nation’s ground transportation network was compromised. The national highway authority predicted that automobile traffic in the United States could be cut in half by Christmas.

  With a corresponding decrease in carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, as meteorologists pointed out.

  To the average American male, whose automobile was emblematic not only of his financial status but also of his manhood, the situation was personal. “Road rage has taken on a whole new meaning,” the Seed reported. “Those who can still drive their cars are becoming the victims of those who cannot.” At first they were punched and cursed; soon they were being shot and stabbed.

  * * *

  Shay Mulligan and Gerry Delmonico still went for occasional runs together. The Change had been their major topic of conversation until Gerry announced, “We’re pregnant.”

  A smile furrowed the meadow of Shay’s freckles. “Gloria must be thrilled.”

  “She is and she isn’t. We’ve waited so long, and
now it seems to have happened at just the wrong time.”

  “How can there be a wrong time for something you’ve wanted so much? The Change is a big mess, I know, but we’ll get through it.”

  “Will we?” Gerry asked glumly. “I’ve lost my job at RobBenn. ‘We’re sorry, but…’ You know the drill, Shay. Bennett’s not sorry about anything but losing business. They don’t need anyone in the lab now, the assembly line’s shut down. So I’m unemployed and there’s a baby on the way. I’ve put money aside over the years, but it won’t last forever.”

  “There must be plenty of other things you can do.”

  “An industrial chemist in a town with no industry? We love our house, we don’t want to sell it; it’s ideal for raising children. But if I do find another job how will I get there? My tires have a whiff of rotten eggs and the ones on Gloria’s car are shot. I can run a few miles on shank’s mare, but that’s no way to commute to work. Or get to the grocery store or the doctor … the doctor, for God’s sake! Do you know any local doctors who still make house calls? I’ve put my name down at my car dealer’s for a set of high-performance tires, but there’s an eight months’ waiting list and it’s getting longer every day. You don’t know how lucky you are to have your place of business attached to your house.”

  “You think so? How are people without tires going to bring their pets to me? This thing’s having a tremendous ripple effect, we’re all stretched to deal with it. The town’s hoping to add more buses, but the mayor says there’s no money in the budget. Even if there were, what’s to prevent the buses from … say, how do you feel about dealing with the black market?”

  “What does a straight arrow like you know about the black market?”

  “In times like these a guy can’t afford to be a straight arrow. You know Eleanor Bennett?”

  “Not personally, but of course I know who she is.”

  “She’s been a client of mine for years. When she brought her dogs to me for their annual inoculations I commented on the fact that she was still driving her car. She told me her husband bought high-performance tires from a ‘private source,’ as she put it, a garage on the north side. Bud Moriarty and a pal of his had realized what was going on before the rest of us did, and cornered the market. Tell them Rob Bennett’s wife recommended them; I suspect you’ll get your tires.”