“I wouldn’t trust any cheap hotel in this neighborhood. Listen, if you’ll trust me . . . my place isn’t that far. I promise I’m not an ax murderer.”
She studied him. Even through her exhaustion and dread she trusted her own instincts: He wasn’t an ax murderer. Nor a rapist, nor a thief. I like you.
He took her to a very small fourth-floor apartment on the West Side. Sparsely furnished, clean. She took off her shoes and fell asleep as soon as her head rested on the sofa, barely feeling James cover her with a blanket.
But after just a few hours, she woke. Pale winter light filtering through lowered blinds, the sound of garbage trucks banging Dumpsters. Fengmo. She cried out. There had been terrible dreams: herself trying to kill Cam, stalking her with a spear tipped with fire, waiting for the moment when Cam’s personal shield had been lowered and Soledad could spit her like a pig.
James was there, then, sitting on the sofa beside Soledad, putting his arms around her. She shoved him away, but the next moment she collapsed against him and finally, for the first time in years, let tears come in the presence of another human being.
39: FRANK
FRANK CALLED HIS GOVERNMENT CONTACT, Jim Thompson, on his cell. A cell wasn’t secure, of course, so all he could say was, “Meet me at Addie’s in an hour, okay?”
“You got it,” Thompson said.
There was no Addie’s. Frank and the agent had worked out a code to avoid the press jackals that just wouldn’t quit on getting that interview Frank was never going to give. To avoid, too, the occasional nut with a gun. Although Frank had received far fewer death threats than some of the other Witnesses. In his opinion, this was because he minded his own business, was an ex-cop, and looked like a normal person, not a pony-tailed leftie like Andy DuBois or a fake Hollywood starlet like Cam O’Kane or a snobby so-called intellectual like Jack Jones. The only other normal-looking American in The Six was Sara Dziwalski, trying to do her work as a nurse and be left the hell alone.
“Addie’s” was actually Mike Renfrew Toyota, on Culver Road. Frank rode his Harley there; on a bike it was easy to lose any tail, although Frank didn’t see anybody following him. But you couldn’t ever be too sure. Mike Renfrew was an old friend and his people were reliable. He let Frank leave the Harley in the service bay, behind the tire rack, and Jim picked up Frank on the back lot.
“Hey,” Jim said. “How you doing?”
“Fine,” Frank said. “You?”
“Can’t complain. Something up?”
“Yeah. Can we get coffee?” He wanted to sit face-to-face with Jim, easier to gauge reactions that way. Jim seemed like a good guy, but he was still government, and his interests were not the same as Frank’s.
They drove to a diner out on the highway. Red plastic booths, napkin dispensers on the table, no pop-ups at the slots. Frank put on his sunglasses and baseball cap and pulled the brim low. The place was full of lunchtime trade, but nobody glanced twice at them. Jim ordered coffee and Frank added cherry pie. He had a sweet tooth, and although Ma was a good cook, she didn’t bake much.
“Jim, I want to see Lucca Maduro in Canada.”
The agent blinked. “Lucca? Why?”
“That’s my business, so far. I’ll tell you when the time is right.”
Jim stirred non-dairy creamer into his coffee. “If I know what this is about, maybe I can help.”
“You can help by getting me over the border with no publicity, and then in to see Lucca. You said the Canadians are cooperating with us.”
“They are. But Maduro’s not very cooperative.”
“So I hear.” Frank sipped his coffee. He took it black and hot. “Can you do it?”
“I don’t know. I’m being straight with you, Frank. Maduro might be more receptive if we could tell him something, anything, to convince him that you have something important to say.”
That was fair. Of course the Agency—whichever one Jim was really with, FBI or CIA or NSA or Homeland or whatever—also wanted the information for themselves. But Frank had read how stubborn Lucca could be, and Frank could well see that something might be needed to convince him.
He said, “Let me think about that for a few minutes, Jim.”
“Sure.” Jim drank more of his coffee and waited. The cherry pie came and Frank started in on it.
Frank didn’t like Lucca Maduro. He’d met him during the orientation the Atoners had given all of them on the moon before the voyage out, in those bare gray rooms under the alien Dome. Frank had sized up Lucca as a spoiled rich kid. Smart, yes, he’d give the Italian that, after all Lucca had gone to some classy university in Britain and his English was as good as anybody’s. But Lucca was too smooth, too polished in that accent that drove all the girls crazy. Frank felt that Lucca looked down on the ordinary people who’d been accepted as Witnesses, people like himself and Sara Dziwalski and Rod Dostie. Frank had felt the same way about Hans Kramer and Amira Gupta and Jack Jones. Snobs.
But then Frank found out that Lucca had been married and his wife had been killed by a drunk driver. That changed Frank’s feelings a little. He hated drunk drivers, and when he’d been a cop he’d done his best to get the book thrown at every single one he caught. Irresponsible murderers, in his view. And if Lucca was grieving over his wife, then maybe that explained why he sometimes looked like he had a stick up his ass. Frank hadn’t liked him any better, but he’d cut Lucca some slack.
It wasn’t until they all got back home that Frank started to respect Lucca. First, the man wasn’t trying to capitalize on his fame. Like Sara, like Frank himself, Lucca just wanted to get on with his life, and the jackals wouldn’t let him. So he had taken a time-out and was waiting out his fifteen minutes of fame in Canada, since he was a British citizen as well as an Italian one and everybody knew that Italy was a country full of crazies anyway. Hiding wasn’t Frank’s way, but he could understand it. Lucca hadn’t sold his moon rocks on eBay, hadn’t gone all trashy glitter like Cam O’Kane, wasn’t New Age goofy like Andy DuBois out there in California.
But, more important, Lucca was the only one of “The Six” who didn’t believe that the people on Kular could actually see and talk to the dead. He was wrong—Frank knew what he’d seen on Susban—but Lucca stuck to his beliefs, and Frank had to respect that. Most people caved when they got a lot of group pressure from a lot of people who believed the opposite of their own conclusions. Not Lucca. He might be aloof and chichi and too snobby for his own good, but he had integrity. He wasn’t any kind of politician. You could trust the word of a guy like that.
And Lucca had money. A lot of money. You couldn’t believe everything in the news, not by a long shot, but that seemed true. Frank had seen the pictures of the vineyards Lucca’s family owned in Italy, the bank in Rome, the department stores in London. What Frank had in mind was going to take money.
Jim Thompson was still waiting. The waitress refilled both their coffees. Frank said, “Tell Lucca that I have something to tell him that is brand-new information about something he cares about.”
Jim said, “Brand-new information?”
“Yes.” He met the agent’s eyes directly. “Something I left out of my debriefing. And yes, I’ll tell you eventually, Jim. But I need to talk to Lucca first.”
If Jim was angry, if he was thinking lies or even treason, he didn’t show it. The man was good. He was, in fact, what Frank would have liked to be if he hadn’t discovered how government really worked. Police department politics, Washington politics—no different. But that was water under the bridge. The important thing was what Frank had to do now, to set things right with God.
To atone.
He hadn’t thought of it like that before, and he didn’t like thinking of it that way now. Aligning himself with the aliens—He hadn’t committed any huge crime against humanity. Just the opposite. He was going to help humanity, by doing God’s work.
“So can you get me in to see Lucca?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Meet me back at
Addie’s late this afternoon? Say, four o’clock.”
That fast. Despite himself, Frank was impressed. Jim was taking this seriously, so maybe the government—both governments, the Canadian, too—would take it seriously as well. Jim might be able to bring this off.
But all Frank said was, “Good.” Expressionless, both men put money on the table—Frank always insisted on paying his own tab—and left the diner, just as the waitress came up to ask if Frank wanted any more pie.
40: TRANSCRIPT, OVAL OFFICE
TAPE #16,845
Property of the White House
CHIEF OF STAFF WALTER STEINHAUER (WS): Madam President?
PRESIDENT: Come in, Walt. Have you seen this press statement from
Harry Melson?
WS: Yes, ma’am.
PRESIDENT: He wants the U.S. Air Force or NASA or somebody to blow the Atoner base to Kingdom Come! What’s wrong with those voters down in Georgia?
WS: Maybe it’s the heat. Madam President, we’ve heard from one of the special agents assigned to the Witnesses.
PRESIDENT: What is it? Has there been contact with the aliens?
WS: No, nothing so juicy. But Frank Olenik wants us to arrange a meeting with Lucca Maduro, through the Canadians. Olenik told his handler that he has important information for Maduro, quote, “something I left out of my debriefing,” unquote.
PRESIDENT: How serious do you think it is? Which one is Olenik, again?
WS: The ex-cop. He’s kept a low profile, and his contact says he’s pretty reliable.
PRESIDENT: Not all that reliable, if he lied in his debriefing. What do you think?
WS: I think we should do all we can to get him in to see Maduro. Olenik seems to trust his handler, and this is our best chance of finding out what this is all about.
PRESIDENT: Could be it’s all about nothing.
WS: Could well be.
PRESIDENT: But I think you’re right. If the Atoners won’t talk to us—Still nothing to NASA or the UN or SETI?
WS: Nothing.
PRESIDENT: Well, if the aliens won’t talk to us, we’ll have to get information from anyone who will. Get the ball rolling with the Canadians. And Walt—
WS: Yes, ma’am?
PRESIDENT: Try to find out if maybe Harry Melson was dropped on his head as a baby.
WS: That would explain a lot, yes.
PRESIDENT: Lord preserve me from elected idiots and inscrutable aliens. I should have been a plumber. No, don’t answer that, Walt.
WS: I’ll just go talk to Ottawa now.
41: SOLEDAD
JAMES SAID, “Soledad, I have to go to work now. I canceled this morning, but I have two patients I must see this afternoon. Are you going to be all right alone?”
Soledad scrambled to sit up on the sofa. Full harsh sunlight poured into the window, along with the honking of horns from the street below James’s building. James stood before her dressed in khakis, sweater, and tie, his blond hair still wet and gleaming from the shower. She felt sleep-dazed and frowzy. “Patients? Are you a doctor?”
He smiled. “No. Just a substance-abuse counselor.”
“Oh. What time is it?”
“Half past noon. Look, you can stay here as long as you like. I’ll be back by six, and we can go get some dinner, if you like.”
Suspicion flared in her sleep-deprived mind. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would we . . . I have to go to the hospital.” Fengmo.
James’s face changed from amusement she didn’t understand to concern. He sat beside her on the sofa. She smelled soap and James himself, a light spicy scent that dizzied her.
“Soledad, you can’t go to the hospital. You’ll be identified if you try to get anywhere near Fengmo. In fact, that may be the way the shooter knew who you were last night. . . . Did you see Fengmo earlier yesterday?”
“We had dinner in New York.” Which meant she was the reason Fengmo had been hurt.
“Let me stop by the hospital on my way home and check on him for you.”
Why? But this time she didn’t say it aloud, just nodded. After a moment James stood, touched her lightly on the cheek, and said, “See you at six. Make yourself at home.”
Soledad gave him time to reach the street. I can’t stay here. I don’t even know this man. But the strength of her longing to stay frightened her. Slowly, as if going to an execution, she walked into the bathroom. James had set out a boxed toothbrush near the sink, clean towels on the counter, a sweater folded neatly beside the towels with a little sign on it: SOLEDAD: WEAR THIS. She looked at herself in the mirror: eyes puffy from crying, hair wild, clothes rumpled on her stocky body. Fengmo’s blood stained the turquoise silk shirt she had worn because he liked the color.
She picked up James’s clean sweater. Sky blue, the exact color of his eyes, and cashmere. In Soledad’s experience, men did not buy such sweaters for themselves. Some woman had given it to him.
Walking back through the apartment, Soledad was scrupulous. She opened no drawers, examined no closets, did not turn on the computer. She studied only what stood out in plain sight, which wasn’t much.
In the bedroom: A bed with inexpensive green cotton bedspread, neatly made. Pine nightstand and matching dresser, topped with a silver brush and comb and a lamp from Sears. The sales tag was still attached to the cord. On the wall, two cheap framed prints of seascapes.
In the living room: The sofa, a plyboard desk with computer, television on a metal stand, one armchair, and a fake leather cube serving as a coffee table. Venetian blinds and two prints of landscapes. No curtains, no wall screen.
Nothing on the kitchen counter except a Braun coffeemaker and an unopened bottle of what looked like very good wine.
Soledad went back to the bathroom and again fingered James’s sweater. The cashmere was thick and soft, maybe even six-ply, with a discreet label she didn’t recognize but which suggested a men’s store with subdued lighting and British accents. She put the sweater down, buttoned her coat over her bloodstained shirt, and left the apartment.
James didn’t live there. Not really, or not yet. Maybe the place had been rented furnished and James’s personal things were still in transit from somewhere else. But if not, this was a weekday city dwelling only and James returned on weekends to wherever his real life existed. Soledad knew that well-paid executives sometimes did that, but not substance-abuse counselors. So perhaps someone else owned or leased this apartment, and if so, that woman didn’t live there, either.
At the station, Soledad caught the maglev north. Two hours later, she let herself into her front door and called Diane Lovett.
“Soledad! Is everything all right? When you didn’t call in this morning I wondered if—”
“I’m fine.
“Turn on visual, please.”
Soledad did and Diane’s face appeared. Taller and slimmer than Soledad, Diane was a pretty woman trying to appear plain. She wore her rich brown hair in a severe short cut, used no makeup, dressed in loose dark clothing of no particular style. But she hadn’t surgically altered her regular features, creamy skin, or huge blue eyes. She would have been a startling beauty except for her lips, which were unusually thin and made thinner by her habit of folding them tightly together when she felt tense. Soledad respected but didn’t really like Diane. Their lives had had no paths in common.
“The way you can go isn’t the real way”—Fengmo’s voice in her head.
Diane said, “Tell me what happened last night.”
Soledad told her about Cam’s lecture. From Diane’s expression, Soledad guessed that none of this information was new to her. Diane said, “And after you left the hospital?”
“I’m here now,” Soledad evaded. James was none of Diane’s business. “Will you check on Fengmo and get back to me? You can find out things I can’t.”
“Okay,” Diane said, and Soledad heard the usual restrained disappointment that she didn’t confide in Diane. Soledad didn’t apologize. She
confided in no one except Fengmo.
After a long, hot shower, Soledad poured herself a glass of wine and sat with it by the kitchen window, watching dusk gather in the woods that climbed the mountain behind her yard. The moon was the slimmest of crescents, a curved slash of light in the navy blue sky. Although she listened, tonight the owl didn’t hoot. At full dark she turned on the computer, fought with herself, and lost. Her e-mail account, set up for her by Diane, went through two remailers and was virtually untraceable. But James’s was easy enough to find using his name and street address.
James,
Thank you again. You saved not only Fengmo’s life but mine, too, in ways you probably can’t understand.
S.
She turned off the computer, drank another glass of wine, and went to bed. As she lay under the blanket, she finally heard the owl outside her window, low and mournful, surely the loneliest sound this side of the grave. The bird, she imagined, was hunting. Soledad slipped farther under her blanket and hoped for sleep.
THE NEXT MORNING, VERY EARLY, Lucca called. “Soledad! I saw the news—that was your friend among the injured at Cam’s lecture, wasn’t it? How is he?”
“In a coma.” She tried to remember when she had told Lucca about Fengmo. It must have been aboard ship during the voyage out, in that period of cramped and overheated intimacy among her and Lucca and Cam, all three of them taut with excitement over the unknown ahead. Lucca, she sensed, had been choosing between her and Cam. Soledad had wanted to engage his attention, this moody and exotic fellow voyager with the sexy Italian accent. He had chosen Cam, of course, and after that . . . But that was another lifetime.
“I’m so sorry,” Lucca said. “The newscasts say Fengmo’s condition is uncertain?”
“Yes.”
“Soledad, cara—why do you continue to go to hear Cam? It’s no more than flimsy theatrics. Like Cam herself.”
“Maybe,” she said neutrally. Lucca was not the philosophical bully that Cam was, but he was just as stubbornly fixated on his own view of what had happened on Kular A. Soledad didn’t want to argue with him. Not this morning.