“I’m Emerson Knight. This is Miss Moon, my amanuensis. And this is Wayan Bagus, who is a personal friend of the Dalai Lama,” Emerson said.
“Lovely to meet you,” Cheryl Rhoads said to Wayan. “Are you really a personal friend of the Dalai Lama?”
Wayan Bagus nodded politely. “No.”
“Well, then, I’m a personal friend of the Dalai Lama,” Emerson said, “not that it’s important. We’re investigating some unexplained discrepancies between your nautical maps in the Pacific Ocean.”
“Discrepancies?”
Emerson pulled the NOAA book from his knapsack. He’d circled the monk’s missing island in red pen. “I’m looking for an island that’s not on your current online maps.”
Cheryl came around to the receptionist’s desk and accessed the NOAA maps. “You’re right. It’s not there. Weird. It could be that it was never there, that we made a mistake in the older maps and corrected it in the newer.”
“Wayan was living at those exact coordinates five months ago,” Emerson said. “That was after the most recent maps were published.”
Cheryl shook her head. “An island doesn’t just disappear from our database, unless somebody deletes it manually.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Emerson said. “We want to talk with the somebody.”
Cheryl typed her password into the computer and logged in to her account. After a couple minutes, she looked up from the computer.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t really help you. It turns out that this island and all the islands around it are part of the National Park of American Samoa. All the national parks are mapped by the Department of the Interior. Everything else is the responsibility of NOAA, at least when it comes to bodies of water. It’s been that way ever since the National Park Service was formed back in 1916. Interior is pretty territorial when it comes to the national parks.”
“Excellent,” Emerson said. “You wouldn’t happen to know who we should talk to over there?”
Cheryl scribbled down a name and phone number on a piece of notepaper. “I’d recommend you speak with the Park Planning, Facilities, and Land Directorate. They’re in charge of surveying all the national parks, including a lot of the waterways around American Samoa. If you want, I’ll send an email so you can get to see somebody without bringing the ‘Dalai Lama’ along with you.”
Emerson took the paper. “That would be helpful. Wayan Bagus isn’t a very convincing Dalai Lama, and the National Park Service has had it in for Dracula for years.”
—
The Office of Park Planning shuffled Emerson off to the liaison for the Pacific West Regional Office. The Pacific West Regional Office sent them to the Information Resources Directorate, and the Information Resources Directorate sent them back to Park Planning. Wayan Bagus had given up after the Pacific West Regional Office and was meditating in President’s Park.
“Look, James,” Emerson said to the paunchy middle-aged man sitting across the conference room table from him. “You’re in charge of surveying the national parks. Aren’t you the least bit curious how an island goes missing? An island that has been deleted from your survey, despite the fact that this emergency beacon clearly shows someone was living there?”
James shrugged. “Doesn’t seem especially significant to me.”
“And you don’t think it’s odd that my friend was forcibly removed from that same island, and when he came back it had disappeared?” Emerson asked.
James shifted in his seat and glanced at the security camera in the corner of the room. “Not really. These things happen all the time.”
Emerson paused for a moment. He leaned across the table and looked the bureaucrat in the eye. “Actually, they don’t.” He turned away and stared directly into the camera. “In fact, under normal circumstances, this never happens.”
“I’m not sure I’m the right one to help you,” James said.
Emerson continued to stare into the camera. “That’s the first honest thing anybody has said to me today. I won’t take up any more of your time.”
James stood to leave, but Emerson remained sitting.
“Um. Are we done?” James asked.
“You’re done. However, I am not.”
James turned the knob and opened the conference room door a couple inches. “You’re not coming?”
“No, I’d prefer not to.”
James opened the door fully and walked out into the hallway. He turned around to look at Emerson and Riley, still sitting at the conference table. “So, you’re really not coming?”
Emerson smiled politely. “Thank you. I’d prefer to stay here.”
“Okeydokey,” James said. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”
“No. We’re good,” Emerson said.
James stood in the doorway for a beat, unsure what to do next. He glanced at the security camera one last time, shrugged, and walked away down the hall.
Riley and Emerson sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity to Riley.
“So what are we going to do now?” she finally asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing! We can’t just do nothing!”
“Why not?” Emerson asked.
“Why not? Because this isn’t the couch in your living room. It’s a moldy old conference room in some government office building.”
Emerson slouched lower in the chair, getting more comfortable. “Wu wei.”
“Wu what?”
“It’s the Zen art of doing nothing. If we can do nothing in just the right way, the universe will provide the answers to all our questions.”
“How do we know if we’re doing it in the right way?”
“Spring comes effortlessly, the grass grows by itself,” Emerson said.
Riley gave him her most withering squint. “If you answer me with one more vague and basically meaningless piece of philosophical crap I’m going to kick you in the knee.”
Emerson opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and made the sign that he was zipping his lips shut.
Fifteen minutes later two men entered the conference room. The first was tall with a Mediterranean complexion and a lean and hungry look.
“Emerson Knight and Riley Moon? My name is Eugene Spiro. I’m chief scientist for the National Park Service.”
“The Park Service has a chief scientist?” Riley asked.
“It’s a relatively new position. I report to the director on the scientific assets of national parks and federal lands. I’m responsible for protecting park resources, ranging from dinosaur fossils to giant redwood trees.”
Emerson stood. “Then you’d be concerned to know that an entire island under your protection is missing.”
Spiro smiled. “I suppose an entire island would qualify as a park resource. Except that it’s impossible for an entire island to disappear. Do you know the principle of Occam’s razor? Given two explanations, the simpler one is usually correct.”
“I agree,” Emerson said. “Except that Occam’s razor assumes there are two explanations. I can think of only one.”
“And that is?”
“It’s been stolen.”
Spiro shook his head. “Even if such a thing were possible, and it’s not, then by whom? For what purpose? The entire area is an uninhabited marine sanctuary. It’s worthless except to a bunch of green turtles, humpback whales, and seabirds.”
The second man was at parade rest a couple feet behind Eugene. He was very fit. Closely shaved head and a three-day-old beard. Tattoo of two crossed sabers with a number one above them on his right hand. Both men appeared to be in their early forties. Both were wearing gray suits and white dress shirts. Top button open. No tie.
Riley thought neither looked like a scientist. She thought the man with the tattoo looked like a hired assassin, and Eugene looked like his pimp.
“We ran a background check on you just now,” the man with the tattoo said to Emerson. “Bottom line is, you’re a well-known troublem
aker.”
“That’s nice of you to say,” Emerson said. “But I’m not sure how well-known I am. Maybe in certain circles I’ve achieved some degree of prominence, but I wouldn’t really describe myself as famous. Really, I just put my pants on one leg at a time, like every other troublemaker.”
“Is that supposed to be clever?” the man said.
Eugene stepped to one side and turned slightly. “This is my associate, Tim Mann, but everyone around here calls him Tin Man. He’s in charge of protecting park resources for the Pacific West Region.”
“Tin Man,” Riley said. “That’s a clever play on your name.”
“And like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, I could be kind of human if I only had a heart.”
“Well, that’s certainly not extra creepy,” Riley said.
Emerson nodded. “I agree. There are so many other less creepy explanations you could choose. Like, I’m a grown man who collects tin soldiers in my spare time. Or, hello, would you like to see my tin thimbles, which happen to belong to me, a man?”
“Criminy, Emerson. That’s even worse,” Riley said. “Who asks someone he’s just met if she’d like to see his thimbles? That’s serial killer creepy.”
Emerson looked from person to person around the room. “Can we all just agree that Tin Man is creepy, but not, you know, serial killer creepy?”
No one offered any objection.
“Bottom line is, all those islands are protected marine sanctuaries, and unless your friend had a research permit from the NPS, he shouldn’t have been there in the first place,” Eugene said. “Notwithstanding that he broke about ten different federal laws and disturbed a fragile marine ecosystem, we’ll look into it and correct the maps during the next update.”
“So you don’t mind if we continue to look into it as well?” Emerson asked.
Tin Man locked eyes with Emerson. “Suppose I told you we do mind?”
“I would continue to look into it anyway,” Emerson said.
—
Eugene and Tin Man walked through the double doors leading to the private office of the director of the National Park Service. The director, Bart Young, was standing in front of a large window, watching Emerson and Riley leave the building.
“Boys,” Bart Young said, “the National Park Service was formed in 1916, and since that time there have been eighteen directors. And every one of those directors has been responsible for protecting probably this country’s biggest national secret. I am not going to go down in history as the director who failed to keep that secret.”
“I did a fast read through the dossiers on Knight and Moon,” Tin Man said. “Is this their complete history?”
“You were given the short version,” Bart Young said. “They were already in the system. It was easy to pull them up. Not long ago they created an international incident. Knight wanted to see his gold holdings, and things got out of hand.”
“We wouldn’t want things to get out of hand this time,” Tin Man said. “I would be happy to sanction them for you.”
The director looked over at Tin Man. “This is why I personally recruited you from Special Forces to lead the Rough Riders. Bloodlust. It’s a gift, really. Has there ever been anybody you haven’t wanted to kill?”
Tin Man smiled.
“Using this psycho and his army of thugs at this point is like using a cannon to kill a mosquito,” Spiro said. “Knight and Moon don’t know anything. They’re just stumbling around trying to pacify the monk. I think we should wait to see what they do next.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” Bart said. “A dead billionaire could draw some unwanted attention, and we don’t need that kind of scrutiny right now. How are you doing with your special project?”
“On time. More or less.”
Bart stared at him. “More or less isn’t acceptable.”
“Understood,” Spiro said. “We’ll be ready on time.”
“Follow Knight and Moon,” the director said to Tin Man. “Get wiretaps on their phones and monitor their Internet access.”
“And if they make trouble?” Tin Man asked.
“Then you do what you do best. You kill them.”
FOUR
Riley and Emerson collected Wayan Bagus in President’s Park. He rose when he saw them, bowed slightly, and followed them to the car. No questions asked.
Riley thought the monk’s heartbeat was probably around ten beats per minute. Her heartbeat was up there at hummingbird level. She was getting sucked into another whackadoodle conspiracy theory obsession that was going to step on all the wrong toes. Last time Emerson went off on a tangent like this, it was a disaster. Okay, so it ended well, but getting to the end was a freaking horror.
The ride back to Mysterioso Manor was quiet, Riley and Emerson thinking their own thoughts, Wayan Bagus watching Beauty and the Beast on his little screen. Riley parked the Maybach in the garage and told Emerson and Wayan Bagus she would see them in the morning. She walked across the circular driveway to her Mini Cooper, and Emerson walked with her.
“Now that you’re once again my amanuensis and we’re involved in another investigation, I feel it would be best if you moved into Mysterioso Manor,” Emerson said.
“For how long?”
“I was thinking permanently.”
Riley stopped breathing for a beat, not sure what he was suggesting.
“Permanently is a long time,” she said.
“Not as long as until the end of time or forever. That would indicate the potential for infinity.”
“Where would I stay?”
“It’s a mansion. There are plenty of guest rooms. Anywhere you want. Although I was hoping you would spend tonight with me in the library.”
“The library,” Riley said. “That’s where you sleep.”
“Yes. I sleep in the tent. I find it more restful than the cluttered, elaborate bedrooms.”
Holy crikey, Riley thought. He wanted her to spend the night with him. In the library. She supposed that was flattering, and she did find him attractive, but she wasn’t sure she was ready. How would it affect their work relationship? And he was just so darn odd.
“This is so sudden,” Riley said.
“I suppose it is. I was hoping we could jump right into it, but I guess it would be okay if you wanted to go home and pack a few personal things to bring back here.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to jump right into it. I mean, I like you. And there is a certain physical attraction…”
“Yes,” Emerson said. “I realize there’s a potential for distraction, but I’m sure we can work our way through that for the sake of the investigation.”
“The investigation.”
“Yes, and not just any investigation either. This one is worthy. A missing island. Sweet!” Emerson was practically vibrating with excitement. “We can do some research on the National Park Service tonight. Get a head start on tomorrow.”
“So you want me to drive all the way home, pack up a few personal things, drive all the way back here, and stay up all night doing your scut work?”
Emerson smiled. “Precisely.”
“And you want me to move in,” Riley said, making exaggerated quote marks with her fingers, “ ‘permanently,’ so I can be at your beck and call twenty-four hours a day?”
Emerson smiled again and looked relieved. “Exactly. So glad you understand.”
“For the love of Mike, Emerson. In the entire history of ideas, that one has to be one of the worst.”
Riley slid behind the wheel, cranked the engine over, and rolled away, talking to herself all the way down the driveway.
“Idiot, idiot, idiot,” she said, rolling her eyes, wrinkling her nose. “What was I thinking? What is he thinking?”
She took the back way home along Beach Drive, following Rock Creek and weaving around the National Zoo. While she waited for the traffic light at Massachusetts Avenue, she got a text from Emerson.
I do not contend with the world, rath
er it is the world that contends with me.
Taken at face value she thought this sounded a tad egocentric. Since it came from Emerson she suspected it had a loftier meaning. And because she didn’t have sufficient energy to suss out the meaning, she texted back that she would see him tomorrow morning at nine.
A black Cadillac Escalade pulled up behind her and followed her through the light and onto Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway. Several miles later she turned onto M Street and then again onto Wisconsin Avenue. The Escalade was still there. She pulled to the curb by the Apple Store, and the Escalade sped past before she could get a glimpse at the car’s interior.
She texted Emerson.
Think I was being followed by an Escalade. It’s gone now. What do you think?
Moments later she got his response.
Terrible. Only gets 15 mpg. Also, be careful. #unagi.
A half mile later Riley parked in the alley behind her apartment. She was renting half of the third floor of a redbrick townhouse in a great location on a tree-lined street. It was long on charm and short on plumbing. The heating system clanked, and the hot water was slow in arriving, but the crown molding was stunning. It was a one-bedroom, one-bath, and it was furnished in comfortable contemporary pieces, mostly from Crate and Barrel.
Riley walked into the dark apartment and flipped on the light switch. It was good to be home. Her apartment felt calm and sane. It reflected her tastes and her hope for a bright, successful future. It screamed “young professional.” It also whispered “small town Texas girl.” There were pictures of her parents, grandparents, her brothers, and the family dogs. Scuffed-up, square-toed shitkicker cowboy boots were in the closet beside four-inch stiletto-heeled Christian Louboutins.
She poured herself a glass of wine, pulled some mac and cheese from the freezer, heated it up, and added some Texas Pete hot sauce. She ate at the little table she’d placed in a corner of the kitchen, and she wondered about Emerson. What was he eating? Probably nuts and berries with Wayan Bagus. Or a vegetarian breakfast bar.
She forked into the mac and cheese and toyed with the idea of returning to Mysterioso Manor. As much as she hated to admit it, there was a decent possibility that an island had vanished. Been blown up, possibly, and sunk into the sea. What else could have happened to it? And there was also a decent possibility that the government was involved and trying to cover its tracks. They’d met too much resistance today. It felt off.