Drop by Drop

4

Jack’s nostrils flared at the acrid odor. He drew back and gave her a puzzled look. “That reeks of crude oil, Aunt Bea. And something else I can’t identify. Why’s it on your handkerchief?”

“This morning it was a counter pen in the bank.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do we. But our pens and their holders have turned into this stuff.”

“Weren’t they made of plastic?”

“They were this morning; this evening they’re like the goo on my handkerchief. Our bank cards have dissolved too.”

Jack raised a single eyebrow. It was a trick he had practiced for hours in front of a mirror when he was a teenager. “They did this while pigs were flying overhead?”

“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?