A Disorder Peculiar to the Country by Ken Kalfus Read Free Book Online Page B

intersection, its roof lights flashing. The way ahead was defended by a formation of black Humvees and a gray armytank. Concrete barriers lined the sidewalks, and sandbags were piled high at certain mysteriously strategic positions. Policemen crisply ordered civilians onto the sidewalks or off them according to unknown distinctions, while soldiers stood by with their rifles raised. It was all very thrilling. At the checkpoints pedestrians displayed their driver’s licenses for identification and passed through metal detectors. A soldier ordered Joyce to stand in a line that stretched halfway down the block. She was about to explain that she had important information about the anthrax attacks, but another soldier, swarthy and intense, came up and stared into her face as if to remember it and she remained silent. She wondered where Marshall was now and what he would do next.
    “Mrs. Harriman?”
    She turned, surprised and eager: her name had been spoken by the agent who had rescued her pocketbook the day before, and she realized that since then, whenever she had contemplated the FBI, she had been thinking of him. He had just come from around the corner with a cup of coffee in a paper bag. Evidently his night hadn’t been any more restful than hers. Perhaps he had never gone home. His skin hung loosely from his face; the haircut seemed a single day less stylish. He hadn’t smiled yesterday when he brought out her handbag. After waiting for her sobs to subside, he had asked again for a photo ID.
    Now Joyce explained, “They said we should come in for interviews.”
    The agent frowned. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t just stand there, look busy.”
    “It won’t be useful?”
    “Come with me,” he said, pulling her from the line. Several people had already joined it behind her. They watched her go with fierce interest. The agent’s light tap on her shoulder echoed up and down her arm. “We have a bioterrorist outthere and no leads at all,” he said. “So we’re checking everything, including pranks. They do enough damage anyway and we’ll press felony charges. But you’re absolutely right, this is a total waste of time.”
    They walked along the curb on the other side of the barriers. The queuing office workers gave Joyce dirty looks, but she stared ahead. At the first checkpoint the police waved them through. It was like being taken past the velvet ropes at a nightclub.
    She felt emboldened. “I don’t even know your name.”
    He didn’t respond at first, as if considering this declaration a piece of evidence. He replied reluctantly, “Special Agent Nathaniel Robbins. I’ll give you my card when we get inside. Now, please, Mrs. Harriman, can you tell me what’s your position in the company?”
    “Please call me Joyce,” she said.
    “Right,” he said. He asked the question again, and also for the name of her immediate supervisor and who she in turn supervised. She was definitely being interrogated, but he was distracted. The cover to his coffee cup had come loose and the bottom of the bag was wet. He kept it away from his body like a ticking bomb. He asked her who their main competitors were, who might benefit from the company’s temporary shut-down, and if she knew of any individual who might bear a grudge against the firm. She paused significantly before she answered the last question, inviting further interrogation, even though she feared it. He didn’t follow up. As they approached the last checkpoint, Joyce saw Alicia waiting to be wanded. Her bare, lathe-turned arms were up. She too was wearing black, an above-the-knees crepe sheath. She looked impatient. She turned at just the right moment to view Joyce glide past. Joyce had assumed a very serious, collegial expression. When they entered the building, Agent Robbins gently took her elbow, guiding her through the door.
    “Am I under arrest?”
    He laughed, briefly but easily, and his face shed years. A toothy, crooked smile remained there. At the elevator