Conspiracies

  He opened his eyes and watched the water course over Gia's pale, lithe body as she leaned against him. The flow had molded her short blond hair against her scalp. He reveled in the soft feel of her.

  The bathroom was old-fashioned white tile with time-darkened grout. But the enclosed shower was relatively new and roomy.

  At Jack's urging, Gia and Vicky had moved into the Westphalen townhouse on Sutton Square. It was unofficially Vicky's anyway—she was listed in her aunts' will as the final heir. She'd be the legal owner when Grace and Nellie Westphalen were declared officially dead, but just when that would happen—their bodies never would be found—was anyone's guess. Since there was no one to object to Gia and Vicky living in the place and keeping it up, they'd done just that.

  With what seemed like enormous effort, Jack looked down at the three red lines running diagonally across his chest, starting near his left shoulder and ending at the lower border of his right ribs.

  The scene strobed through his mind as if it had been yesterday. Battery Park ... Kusum's ship burning in the harbor ... the scar-lipped rakosh closing in on Gia and Vicky ... Jack clinging to its back, trying to blind it ... the creature peeling him off and slashing at him ... the talons of its three-fingered hand raking fire across his chest ...

  "Not all the scars," he said. "Just the ones made by that rakosh."

  "Funny. They weren't red last time we made love."

  "Yeah, well, they've been kind of itchy lately." At least he assumed they were the source of that itching out in Monroe the other day. "I dreamed about the rakoshi again last night."

  "Again? Bad?"

  He nodded, thinking: Please don't ask if you were in it.

  Instead, she touched the scars again. "I'm hoping the whole thing will eventually seem like just a bad dream. But you'll always have these as reminders."

  "I like to think of them as proof that we really did run up against those things."

  "Who wants proof?" Gia said, snuggling tighter against him. "I want to forget them—forget they ever existed."

  "But they were real, right? We didn't just imagine them."

  She stared at him. "Are you serious? Of course they were real. How can you even ask?"

  "Because of the people I've been hanging with at the conference. UFOs and aliens and Antichrists are real to them. If one of them said to a friend, 'Are the gray aliens real?' he'd get the same look you gave me just now, and the friend would say, 'Are you serious? Of course they're real. How can you even ask?' You see what I'm getting at? These people are absolutely sure these conspiracies, these beings, these secret organizations are real."

  "Shared delusions," Gia said with a slow nod. She began soaping his chest, hiding the scars with lather. "I see what you mean."

  "To me, they're nut cases. I mean, talk to any one of them for five minutes and you know that someone has stopped payment on their reality check. But what if you and I went around talking about the rakoshi? Wouldn't people think the same about us? And with good reason—because we can't prove a damn thing. We have no hard evidence except these scars of mine which, as far as anybody knows, could have been self-inflicted."

  "It happened, Jack. We lived through it—just barely—so we know."

  "But do we? What do we know of reality but what we remember? When it comes right down to it, who we are is what we remember. And from what I've read about memory lately, it isn't all that reliable."

  "Stop talking like this. You're scaring me."

  "I'm scaring me."

  "At least we're not out there saying rakoshi are planning to take over the world, or responsible for everything bad that happens."

  "No ... not yet."

  "Now cut that out," she said, landing a gentle punch on the chest. "We're different from them because we're not focusing on it. That awful experience happened, we've dealt with it, and we've put it behind us—believe me, I'm doing my best to forget it. But they make it the center of their lives; they extrapolate it into a worldview."

  "Yeah. Why would anybody want to do that? Isn't reality complicated enough?"

  "Maybe that's the problem," Gia said. "Most of the time I find reality too complicated. Something happens because of this, something else happens because of that, another thing happens because of a combination of this, that, and the other thing."

  "And lots of times," Jack added, "things seem to happen for no damn reason at all."

  "Exactly. But an all-encompassing conspiracy simplifies all of that. You don't have to wonder any more. You don't have to fit the pieces together—you've got it all figured out already. Everyone else might be in the dark, but you know the real skinny."

  "Come to think of it, a lot of those SESOUPers do look kind of smug." Jack sighed. "But in spite of everything you've said, some of them almost remind me of ... me."

  "Get out."

  "I'm serious. Consider: They're always looking over their shoulders, I'm always looking over mine."

  "With good reason."

  "Let me finish. They tend to be loners; until I met you, I was a loner—big time. They're outsiders, I'm an outsider."

  "Way outside."

  "They're considered weirdoes by mainstream society, I'll land in the joint if mainstream society ever finds out about me. Really, despite the fact that I'm keeping my mouth shut, how do I know I'm not just like them, or"—he held up his thumb and forefinger, a quarter inch apart "this far" from being one of them?"

  "Because I say you're not," Gia said, then kissed him.

  If only that was enough, he thought, closing his eyes and holding her tight against him, needing her warmth, her presence, her very existence. Gia was his anchor to reality, to sanity. Without her and Vicky, who knew what wild shore he might be sailing toward.

  He glanced down once more at the reddened diagonal streaks of his scars and suddenly the image of Roma was before him, from the cocktail party last night, his three middle fingers hooked into rakoshi-like talons, raking the air between them along the exact angle of Jack's scars.

  "What's wrong?" Gia said as Jack's spine stiffened reflexively.

  "Nothing," he told her. "Muscle spasm."

  He held her tighter to keep her from seeing his expression, knowing it would give away his shock, his bafflement.

  Did Roma know? What had he said? How easily we forget. But Jack had not forgotten. And no way Roma could know.

  Then why make that weird three-pronged gesture, at just the right angle? Jack could think of no other way to interpret it. Roma knows. But how?

  Jack had no idea, but he intended to find out.

  But if Roma knew about the rakoshi scars, did he also know about Gia and Vicky? Could he have followed Jack here?

  He reached past Gia and ratcheted the hot water handle up another notch. The temperature in the shower seemed to have dropped a few degrees.

  8

  After arranging with Gia to give Vicky a little coaching on baseball later in the afternoon, Jack returned to the hotel. As he entered he thought he sensed the tension building in the atmosphere again. He looked around for Roma—Want to ask you a question or two, pal—but didn't see him. When he reached the second floor he spotted a Mutt and Jeff pair standing in the common area outside the meeting rooms: Lew and Evelyn. He headed their way.

  Evelyn was anxiously rubbing her tiny, pudgy Little Lotta hands together. She looked upset.

  "Something wrong?"

  "We still haven't found Olive?" she said. "No one's seen her since the reception last night? I'm getting worried?"

  "You've checked her room?

  Lew said, "I've called, I've knocked. There's no answer."

  "Maybe you should get the hotel to open it, just to make sure she's not in there in a coma or something," Jack said.

  Evelyn's hand fluttered to her mouth. "Do you really think so? I never thought of that? But what if she just forgot? And she's out sightseeing or something? How will she feel when she finds out we've been searching her room?"

  In any other
case, Jack thought, the person in question probably would be touched by their concern. With this crew ... it would all seem part of a sinister scheme.

  "I think you've got to risk it."

  Evelyn glanced at her watch. "I'll give her another hour? If I don't hear from her by then? I'm going to go to the management? I'll have them check? How does that sound?"

  "Sounds like a plan," Jack said.

  As Evelyn bustled away, Lew turned to Jack. "And I think I'll head back home for a while."

  "All the way to Shoreham?"

  "Yeah. I want to check and see if Mel might've come back, maybe left me a note or something," He blinked away tears. "First Mel, now Olive. I'm really scared. Anything new?"

  "Nothing definite," Jack said, and saw Lew's face fall. "But maybe you can clear up something for me."

  "Sure. Anything."

  "Olive mentioned that Melanie had given her a set of computer disks. Why would Melanie do that?"

  He shook his head. "I can't imagine. They weren't that close."

  "Think she's making it up?"

  "I couldn't say for sure. Maybe Olive is trying to make herself sound important. Or maybe Melanie did give them to her for safekeeping—you know, after she wiped out her GUT file. Perhaps she figured no one would think of Olive since she's a computerphobe."

  "It's a thought," Jack said. "When Melanie shows up, we'll ask her."

  "If she shows up." Lew took a deep, sighing breath. "I'll see you later," he said and walked off.

  Jack decided to check his messages, then try to catch one of these panels ... the elusive Miles Kenway was scheduled to moderate the next one. Jack wanted to get a line on him.

  As he was heading for the lobby he noticed the red-haired guy sitting in his wheelchair in a doorway, staring at him again, just like last night. The intensity of the scrutiny bothered him.

  What's so damn interesting? he wondered.

  He used his calling card to check his voice mail. Just his father ... again.

  Okay, time to bite the bullet and call him. He found the number in his wallet and punched it in. He'd moved way down in Florida, someplace near Coral Gables with the Everglades practically in his backyard.

  Dad was in. They made a little small talk—he always made sure you knew how nice and warm the weather was down there—then Jack got to the point.

  "Are your travel plans pretty well set?"

  "Yes," Dad said. "I've got my tickets and everything."

  "Gee, that's too bad, because I'm going on a cruise for a couple of weeks and it falls right in the time you'll be up here."

  A long silence on the Florida end of the line, during which hurt seeped through the receiver. Jack felt ropes of guilty perspiration begin to trickle down his face. Obviously Dad was trying to get closer to his wayward son in his sunset years, and Jack was giving him the cold shoulder.

  I'm such a coward, he thought. A lousy lying coward.

  Finally: "Cruise?" Dad said. "Where to?"

  Oh, shit—where? "Alaska."

  "Really? I've always wanted to cruise to Alaska, see those glaciers and all. I wish you'd said something. I would have gone with you. Maybe I can still arrange something."

  Oh no! "Gee, Dad. It's fully booked."

  Another long silence.

  Not only am I a lousy lying coward, I'm a rat.

  "You know, Jack," Dad finally said, "I realize you may not want me in your life, or that there may be aspects of your life you don't want me to know about ... but—"

  Jack went cold. "What ... what do you mean?"

  "Look, Jack, if you're ... if you're g-gay"—he seemed to have trouble getting the word past his lips—"or something like that, it's okay. I can accept it. You're still my son."

  Jack sagged against the phone. Gay? Is that the worst he can think of?

  "No, Dad. Guys don't do a thing for me. In fact, I can't understand what women see in them. I like women. Always have, always will."

  "Really?" Jack could hear the relief in his voice. "Well, then why—?"

  "I won't be around, really."

  "Okay. I'll buy that. But you did say you'd come down for a visit, right? When's that going to be? Let's set a date."

  "I can't set a date right now, but" ... he couldn't turn him down cold again ... "I promise I'll get there before the year is out. How's that?"

  "Okay! It's a deal!"

  He kept Jack on for a few more minutes of small talk, then let him go. Jack hung up and simply stood there, recouping his strength. He'd rather face any number of enraged monte grifters than a phone conversation with his father.

  He banged his fist against the wall. What did I just do? I promised to visit him, and I locked in a time frame: before the end of the year. Am I crazy?

  He hated to travel anywhere, but ... guilt springs eternal.

  He was stuck. He'd promised.

  Jack decided to go back to his room. He needed a rest.

  9

  Salvatore Roma sat staring at his room's TV, but was only vaguely aware of what was on the screen—a talk show featuring a panel of bizarrely coifed and accessorized males and females bemoaning their treatment by conventional society. His mind was elsewhere, imagining the near future, and the changes he would bring to this world. He smiled at the screen: You whine about your troubles now? Wait ... just wait.

  An insistent scratching at the door wrenched him back to the present. He pulled it open and Mauricio scampered in.

  "I found it," he said, hopping onto the bed.

  "It took you long enough."

  "I could only get into the rooms when the maids entered for cleaning. I'd still be running around with no answer if I hadn't staked out one room for special attention."

  Roma felt his fists clench of their own accord. "The stranger."

  "Yes! The mysterious Jack Shelby. The delivery is sitting under the counter in his bathroom."

  Roma squeezed his eyes shut. "Opened?"

  "Yes, but I saw no sign that he'd attempted to assemble it."

  "Not that it would matter. It is incomplete. And even after the rest of it arrives—"

  "Let's just hope he hasn't damaged it or lost some crucial component. I think we should reclaim it as soon as possible."

  "I disagree," Roma said. "Not with the Twins here. Besides, we have too many unanswered questions. Why did the delivery arrive in his room instead of the basement as planned? Was that his doing, or was it redirected from the other side? Who is this man?"

  "If I hadn't spent the whole day searching for the shipment, I might be able to tell you."

  "But why is he here? Is he connected to the Twins? If so, we might be playing directly into their hands by revealing ourselves if we make a move against him."

  "I don't like it," Mauricio said. He scampered to the door and looked back. "Let me out of here."

  Roma twisted the handle Mauricio couldn't reach in his capuchin form. "Where are you going?"

  "I need to think."

  As the monkey stepped out, it stared down the hallway and froze as if in shock.

  10

  The made bed in Jack's room indicated the maid had been through. He checked the bathroom and was relieved to see that no other crate had arrived. The original was still there, right where he'd left it.

  He lifted the lid and looked again at the miniature girders and rods. Maybe he should take a shot at assembling the damn thing. He checked his watch: no time. Only forty or fifty minutes before Evelyn called in the cavalry to charge Olive's room. Jack had a bad feeling about her no-show at her panel. Out sightseeing? Olive? In Sin City? Hardly.

  She'd told him yesterday she was in room 812.

  Well ... why not pay the room a visit? If she'd died in her sleep, he wanted to know. If she was alive and he found her hiding there for some reason, he'd just tell her he'd been worried about her. And if the room was empty, maybe he could find the disks she said Melanie had given her.

  The more he thought about it, the better he liked the idea.


  He grabbed a few goodies from his gym bag and headed up to the eighth floor. The hall was empty, and the maid was busy in a room down on the far side of the elevators. Now or never.

  He found a "Do Not Disturb" sign on 812's doorknob. That would keep the maid out, but not him. Just to be sure, though, he knocked and softly called Olive's name. No answer.

  Okay. He pulled out his own custom made slim-jim—a wafer-thin length of high-tensile steel, twelve inches by two, notched on one side about an inch from the end. He had his lock pick set, but this would be much quicker. He leaned on the door and slipped the metal between the jamb and the wood. The notch caught on the latch bolt. A wiggle, a pull, a slide, and the door was swinging inward—

  But only an inch. The swing latch was in the locked position.

  Jack froze. Those latches could only be flipped over from the other side. That meant Olive was still in the room.

  "Olive?" he said through the opening.

  No voice answered, but he swore he heard movement in there.

  Jack's heart picked up its pace. Something very wrong here. Someone—maybe Olive, maybe not—was sneaking around in Olive's room.

  Jack pulled the door closed again and checked the hall. Still no one coming. He worked his slim-jim between the jamb and the door again, this time at eye level, felt it clink against the swing latch, then pushed. He heard the latch swing back. The he reopened the knob latch and pushed the door inward.

  The breeze from an open window hit him immediately. He hadn't felt that a moment ago.

  But before he did anything else, he pulled out the tail of his flannel shirt and wiped the doorknob clean. Then he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  The bathroom lights were on. He glanced in. The shower curtain was pulled back—no one hiding in here. He moved into the room. The sheer curtains, billowing in the breeze from the open window, caught his eye first. One of those casement jobs that was supposed to slide back only a few inches. Someone must have pried off the safety stop. The window was open wide enough for someone to slip through.