Blind Lake

  “Sure.”

  “Get some sleep, Charlie. You sound worried.”

  Yeah, he thought. I am.

  Twenty

  Chris had spent most of the night consoling Marguerite. The fragmentary magazine page confirmed nothing but hinted at great danger, and Marguerite, anxious, cycled back repeatedly to the subject of Tess: Tess, threatened by Ray; Tess, threatened by the world.

  He had run out of things to say to her.

  She had fallen asleep toward dawn. Chris paced through the house aimlessly. He knew this feeling altogether too well, the double-barreled blast of dread and wakefulness that came with the morning sunlight like a bad amphetamine rush. He settled down at last in the kitchen, blinds open to the cobalt-blue sky, suburban-style row houses lit up in the efflorescence of dawn like tattered candy boxes.

  He wished he had something to take the edge off. One of those anodynes that had once passed so easily into his hands, some soothing and euphoriant chemical or even a homely little joint. Was he afraid? What was he afraid of?

  Not Ray, not the O/BECs, maybe not even his own death. He was afraid of what Marguerite had given him: her trust.

  There are men, Chris thought, who shouldn’t be asked to handle fragile things. We drop them.

  He called Elaine Coster as soon as the sun was decently up. He told her about the clinic, the comatose pilot, the charred page.

  She suggested a meeting at Sawyer’s at ten. Chris said, “I’ll call Sebastian.”

  “You really want to get that charlatan involved?”

  “He’s been helpful so far.”

  “Suit yourself,” Elaine said.

  He woke Marguerite before he left the house. He told her where he was going and he put on a pot of coffee for her. She sat in the kitchen in her nightgown looking desolate. “I can’t stop thinking about Tess. Do you think Ray really means to keep her?”

  “I don’t know what Ray might or might not do. The most immediate question is whether she’s endangered by him.”

  “Whether he might hurt her, you mean? No. I don’t think so. At least, not directly. Not physically. Ray is a complicated man, and he’s a natural-born son-of-a-bitch, but he’s not a monster. He loves Tess, in his own way.”

  “She’s supposed to come back Friday. It might be better to wait till then, see what he does when he’s had a chance to cool off. If he insists on keeping her, we can take steps then.”

  “If something bad happens to the Lake, I want her with me.”

  “It hasn’t come to that yet. But, Marguerite, even if Tess isn’t in danger, it doesn’t mean you’re safe. When Ray came to the house, that made him a stalker. He’s on a downhill slope. How smart are your locks?”

  She shrugged. “Not very. I guess I can generate a new key…but then Tess won’t be able to get in without me.”

  “Generate a new key and get Tessa’s card updated even if you have to go to her school to do it. And don’t get careless. Keep the door locked when you’re alone and don’t answer the door without checking. Make sure you have your pocket server handy. In an emergency, call me or Elaine or even the Security guy, what’s-his-name, Shulgin. Don’t try to handle it yourself.”

  “You sound like you’ve been through this before.”

  He left without answering.

  Chris staked out an isolated booth at Sawyer’s away from the window. The restaurant wasn’t crowded. The short-order cook and a couple of waitresses were showing up, Chris had surmised, largely out of habit. Menu selections were down to sandwiches: ham, cheese, or ham-and-cheese.

  Elaine arrived simultaneously with Sebastian Vogel and Sue Sampel. All three of them looked at Chris apprehensively as they sat down. As soon as the waitress had taken their orders Chris put the charred, plastic-covered magazine page on the tabletop.

  “Wow,” Sue said. “You actually stole this?”

  “We don’t use that word,” Elaine told her. “Chris has an unnamed high-level source.”

  “Look at it,” Chris said. “Take your time. Draw conclusions.”

  Only about a quarter of the printed page was legible. The rest of it was charred beyond interpretation, and even the legible extreme right quadrant was discolored and brown.

  Still decipherable was a fraction of a headline:

  OSSBANK STILL UNKNOWN, SECDEF SAYS

  And, under it, the right-hand fragments of a column of type:

  es Monday evening. Local residents have still or comment. To date, two infantry battalions ther death reported. Satellite photographs show ntinue to grow. The structure has been linsembling starfish or coral, suggesting a nongar L. Baum insists it would be premature to lusions.

  eatedly warned not to leave their homes, major highways east of the Mississippi. isturbing development, a “pilgrim,” idenepresents countless others who have oclaimed hope of spiritual redemputile but dangerous.

  overstated the danger; however, some ar from certain. At the Crossbank faemains of the original structure, nor idiculed reports of “plague,” the CDC is fear itself.”

  well as a team of United Nations obecial issue. Our in-depth reports begin as they arise.

  Elaine said, “What’s on the other side?”

  “A car ad. And a date.”

  She flipped the page over. “Jesus, this is nearly two months old.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The pilot was carrying this with him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And he’s still unconscious?”

  “I called the clinic this morning. No change.”

  “Who else knows about this?”

  “Marguerite. You guys.”

  “Okay…so let’s keep it at that for now, people.”

  The waitress brought coffee. Chris covered the page with a dessert menu.

  Elaine said, “You’ve had a while to think about this. What do you make of it?”

  “Obviously, there’s some kind of ongoing crisis at Crossbank. Not much clue as to what it might be. Something big enough to involve the infantry and maybe close down highways—what did it say?—east of the Mississippi. We have the word ‘plague’ in quotes and what looks like a denial from the Centers for Disease Control—”

  “Which could mean anything,” Elaine said. “Either way.”

  “We have ‘deaths reported,’ or possibly ‘no deaths reported.’ We have some cryptic stuff about coral, starfish, a pilgrim. A statement apparently attributed to Ed Baum, the president’s science advisor. The event was big enough to warrant major news coverage and policy statements from federal agencies, but not big enough to drive advertisers out of the magazine.”

  “That ad could have been bought and paid for six months earlier. Proves nothing.”

  “Sebastian?” Chris said. “Sue? Any thoughts?”

  They both looked solemn. Sebastian said, “I’m intrigued by the use of the word ‘spiritual.’”

  Elaine rolled her eyes. “You would be.”

  “Go on,” Chris prompted.

  Sebastian frowned, his pursed mouth almost disappearing under his enormous beard. The siege had left him looking more gnome-like than ever, Chris thought. He had somehow contrived to gain weight. His cheeks were berry-red. “Spiritual redemption. What kind of disaster generates even the illusion of redemption? Or attracts a pilgrim?”

  “Bullshit,” Elaine said. “You can attract pilgrims by announcing you saw a portrait of the Virgin Mary in a dirty bedsheet. People are credulous, Sebastian. They must be, or you wouldn’t have written a bestseller.”

  “Oh, I don’t think what we have here is the Second Coming. Though perhaps some people have mistaken it for that. It does imply something strange, though, don’t you think? Something ambiguous.”

  “Strange and ambiguous. Wow, great insight.”

  Chris put the magazine page back in his jacket pocket. He let them talk it through for a few minutes. Elaine was obviously frustrated to have only half an explanation in front of her. Sebastian seemed more intrigued than frightened,
and Sue clung to his left arm in chastened silence.

  “So maybe the critics are right,” Elaine said. “Something happened to the O/BECs at Crossbank. So we need to think about shutting down the Eye.”

  “Maybe,” Chris said. He had run through this scenario with Marguerite last night. “But if the folks on the outside wanted us shut down they could have cut the power months ago. Maybe they did that at Crossbank, and it only made things worse.”

  “Maybe, maybe, maybe, fucking maybe. What we need is more information.” She directed a meaningful look at Sue.

  Sue picked at her sandwich as if she hadn’t heard.

  “Good girl,” Sebastian told her. “Never volunteer.”

  Sue Sampel—with what Chris thought was a remarkable display of dignity—swallowed the last bite of ham and cheese and took a sip of coffee. Then she cleared her throat. “You want to know what Ray found when he raided the executive servers. I’m sorry, but I haven’t been able to find out. Ray’s paranoia has ramped up lately. All the support staff have to carry clocked keys now. We can’t come in early or stay late without a security waiver. Most of the offices have video surveillance, and it’s not just casual.”

  “So what do you know?” Elaine asked.

  “Only what I happen to see now and then. Dimi Shulgin showed up with a package of printouts, probably hard copies of whatever mail from Crossbank happened to be sitting in the caches before the shutdown. Ray’s been extremely nervous since he saw that. As for the contents, I haven’t been able to get anywhere near them. And if Ray ever really meant to make all this stuff public, apparently he’s changed his mind.”

  Ray’s not just nervous, Chris thought. He’s scared. His veneer of reasonability is flaking away like paint on a barn door.

  “So we’re fucked,” Elaine said.

  “Not necessarily. I might be able to get something for you. But I’ll need help.”

  Sue could do a pretty convincing impersonation of an air-head, but the fact was, Chris thought, she wasn’t stupid. Stupid people didn’t land jobs at Blind Lake, even as support staff. If the printouts were still in Ray’s office, Sue said, she could, just maybe and with a little luck, find them and scan them into her personal server. She could let herself into Ray’s office on a pretext and use her passkey to get into his desk, but she needed at least half an hour uninterrupted.

  “What about the surveillance?”

  “That’s where we benefit from Ray’s paranoia. Cameras are optional in executive suites. Ray’s had his turned off since last summer. I guess he didn’t want anyone to see him eating his DingDongs.”

  “DingDongs?”

  Sue waved off the question. “Security will see me go in and out of his office, but if I keep away from the connecting door that’s all they’ll see. And I’m in and out of there all the time anyhow. Ray knows somebody has a key to his desk, but he doesn’t know it’s me, and if this works he won’t even know I scanned the documents.”

  “You’re absolutely sure he keeps hard copies in his office?”

  “Not absolutely, no, but I’d bet on it. The question is how to get Ray and his buddies out of the way while I do this.”

  “I’m guessing you have a plan,” Elaine said.

  Sue looked pleased. “Weekdays are impossible. I can get in there on weekends during daylight hours without arousing suspicion, but Ray often drops in on weekends too, and Shulgin has been hanging around lately. So I looked at Ray’s calendar. This Saturday he’s doing the community center lecture-hall thing. Ari Weingart organized one of his big events, he’s got two or three speakers besides Ray. Knowing Ray, he’ll want Shulgin in the audience with him along with anybody else who might make a casual appearance—Ari, say, or any of the department heads apart from Marguerite. He’s taking this thing seriously. If I had to guess, I’d say he wants to drum up support for shutting down the Eye.”

  Chris knew about the Saturday debate. Marguerite was supposed to be one of the speakers. She’d written something for it, though she’d been extremely reluctant to appear on stage with Ray. Ari Weingart had convinced her it would be a good idea, increase her visibility and maybe shore up her support with the other departments.

  “How do we come into this?” Chris asked.

  “You don’t, really. I just want you guys in the auditorium keeping an eye on the stage. That way, if Ray takes off in a hurry you can give me a call.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “This is still far too dangerous. You could get in trouble.”

  She smiled indulgently. “I appreciate you saying that. But I think I’m already in trouble. I think we all are. Don’t you?”

  Nobody bothered to argue.

  Elaine stayed on a few minutes after Sue and Sebastian left.

  Business at Sawyer’s picked up a little around lunchtime. But only a little. The afternoon sky outside the window was blue, the air still and cold.

  “So,” Elaine said, “are you up for this, Chris?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “We’re in deeper shit than anyone wants to admit. Getting out of this alive might be the hardest thing any of us has ever done. Are you up to it?”

  He shrugged.

  “You’re thinking of your girlfriend. And her daughter.”

  “We don’t need to make it personal, Elaine.”

  “Come on, Chris. I have eyes. You’re not as deep and inscrutable as you like to think. When you wrote that Galliano book, you put on your white hat and set out to right some wrongs. And you got burned for it. You found out that the good guy isn’t universally loved even when he’s right. Quite the opposite. Very disappointing for a nice suburban boy. So you wallowed in some justifiable self-pity, and you’re entitled, why not. But here comes all this lockdown bullshit, plus whatever happened at Crossbank, not to mention Marguerite and that little girl of hers. I think you feel the urge to put that white hat back on your head. What I’m saying is: good. Now’s the time. Don’t resist it.”

  Chris folded his napkin and stood up. “You don’t know the first fucking thing about me,” he said.

  Twenty-One

  After Chris had left the house, and before the call came from Charlie Grogan asking her to pick up her daughter, Marguerite had spent the morning with the Subject.

  Despite the implied danger to Blind Lake and Ray’s explicit threats, there was nothing useful she could do, at least not right now. Much would be asked of her, Marguerite suspected, and probably very soon. But not yet. Now she was stuck in a limbo of dread and ignorance. No real work to do and no way to calm the churn of her emotions. She hadn’t slept, but sleep was out of the question.

  So she made herself a pot of tea and watched the Subject, scribbling notes for queries she would probably never submit. The entire enterprise was doomed, Marguerite thought, and so probably was the Subject himself. He appeared visibly weaker as the sun rose into a pale sky flecked with high clouds. He had been hiking for weeks, far from any traveled road, with scant supplies of food and water. His morning cloacal evacuations were thin and faintly green. When he walked, his body periodically contorted in angles that suggested pain.

  But this morning he found both food and water. He had entered the foothills of a tall range of mountains, and though the land was still terribly dry he discovered an oasis where a stream of glacial water cascaded down a terrace of rocks. The water pooled in a cup of granite, deep and transparent as glass. Fan-leafed succulents splayed their foliage around it.

  Subject bathed before he ate. He advanced gingerly into the pool, then stood under the falling stream. He had accumulated a coat of dust during his journey and it discolored the water around him. When he emerged from the pool his dermal integument was gleaming, changed from near-white to a somber burnt-umber. He swiveled his head as if scanning for predators. (Were there predatory species in this part of his world? It seemed unlikely—where was the game to support a large predator?—but was not, Marguerite supposed, impossible.) Then, reassured, he plucked, peel
ed, and washed several of the fleshy leaves and began to devour them. Moist flecks fell from his mandibles and collected at his feet. After he had eaten the leaves he found mossy patches on the granite near the waterfall, and he licked these clean with his broad blue-gray tongue.

  Then he sat patiently digesting his meal, and Marguerite called up the file she had been writing for Tess: her children’s-book story of the Subject’s odyssey.

  The act of writing soothed her, although the narrative was far from up-to-date. She had just finished a description of the sandstorm crisis and Subject’s awakening in the ruined city of the desert.

  She wrote:

  All around him in the still and windless morning were the pillars and mounds of buildings long abandoned and eroded by the seasons.

  These structures were not like the tall conical buildings of his home city. Whoever had made these buildings—perhaps his own ancestors—had made them differently. They had erected pillars, like the Greeks, and the pillars might once have supported much greater houses, or temples, or places of business.

  The pillars were hewn from black stone. The gritty desert wind had polished them to a fine smoothness. Some stood tall, but most had been worn to fractions of their original size, and where they had not fallen the wind had left them listing toward the east. There were the remains of other kinds of buildings too, some square foundations and even a few low pyramids, all of them as rounded as the rocks you find at the bottom of a stream.

  The storm had scoured the desert floor to a level surface, and now the sun cast stark shadows among the ruins. Subject stood in contemplation. The sundial shadows grew shorter as the morning wore on. Then—perhaps thinking of his destination—Subject began to walk westward once again. By noon he had left the ruined city entirely, and it vanished below the horizon as if utterly lost, and nothing remained ahead of him but glittering sand and the ghostly blue silhouettes of distant mountains.

  She had just keyed the period when she took Charlie Grogan’s call.