Firebird (8 page)

Eddy was heartbroken. Prior to arriving at Mill Harbor, he'd shown it to no one. “It was to be a special moment for the Vancouver Center, and for me,” he said in the aftermath of the event.

It had happened in 1341, ninety-three years earlier. We got interested when Eddy's
Varesque
became available, and some of our clients began commenting what a shame it was that nobody had ever found the
Clockwork
sculpture, and how much they'd give to get their hands on it.

So we went through the documents, read the media accounts, talked to two of the witnesses and several of the avatars. We visited the two train stations, which had changed considerably over the years, although their layouts were basically the same. We satisfied ourselves that, with the distribution of people reportedly on the platform at Cuirescu, no one could have gotten off the train carrying the sculpture without being seen.

I thought the conductor was involved. “He has to be,” I said. “The woman, whoever she was, needed help. A place to hide, both the sculpture and herself.”

“It's not difficult to search a train,” Alex said. “Not when you're looking for something that big. No, I don't think that's what happened.”

“So what
did
happen, Sherlock?”

He grinned. I've often wondered where that term came from. But I've never been able to find an origin. “Well,” he said, “I wonder why the thief discarded the wrapper?”

I shrugged. “Don't know.”

“I can see only one way it might have been done. I can't prove it, of course, but when you eliminate the impossible—”

“I'm listening.”

He enjoys moments like this. “It's unlikely that the woman could have hidden successfully from the police. They had witnesses who could identify her. What other explanation might there be for the fact that she, too, had gone missing?”

“She got out the back, somehow.”

“Well, I suppose the police might have been that sloppy. But—”

“Yes?”

“Let me ask
you
a question: If you were carrying a valuable sculpture around, what kind of wrapping would you use?”

“Something that would protect it, I suppose.”

“But would you advertise its presence?”

“No.”

“That raises a question: For what purpose would you use a transparent wrapper?”

I hesitated. “Only to show it off, I suppose.”

“Very good, Chase. It strikes me that the most feasible explanation is that this woman was never there in the first place. It was someone else, probably a male, wearing a disguise.”

At times like that, my head starts to spin. “Isn't it unlikely that she—or
he
—would have been on board, wearing a disguise, just in case a sculptor left something valuable in a seat?”

“Yes. I'd say so. Which suggests it would have been a setup.”

“A setup in what way?”

“Eddy was still at the beginning of his career.”

“And—?”

“A little publicity wouldn't hurt.”

I got a good laugh out of that. “I guess you'd know best. But where'd she hide the sculpture?”

“Chase, I don't think the
Clockwork
ever existed.”

“How do you mean?”

“It was a fable. From the beginning.”

“But he brought it on the train. There were witnesses.”

“What they probably saw was something thrown together, probably using corbicide. Or anything else that's dissoluble in water and can be broken apart fairly easily.”

At the time, we were sitting on one of the benches at Cuirescu. While I began to see what he was saying, a train glided into the station, kicking up a gust of wind. It settled down onto the rail, and passengers started climbing out. I had to raise my voice, almost shout, to make myself heard. “You're saying she flushed it down the toilet?”

“Then he took off the wig. And probably had dinner with Eddy that evening.”

“What was the payoff?”

“Oh, Chase. Instead of having a minor piece of sculpture on display at the Vancouver Center, he became the media highlight of the week. It's the kind of story everyone loves. A potentially valuable piece of art stolen. And before you object, the perception would be that it
must
be valuable, or it wouldn't have been taken. And certainly not in such an elegant manner. Add an apparently insoluble mystery. And there
are
some people who will tell you that Eddy never really lived up to his reputation. But he became famous because of the
Clockwork
incident. And he had just enough talent to make it pay off.”

As we started home on the train to Andiquar, his head sank onto the back of the seat, and his eyes closed. “You okay?” I asked.

“Tired.” He'd been tired a lot lately.

“You need a vacation.”

He smiled, but the eyes stayed shut. “Who'd run the business?”

“I'm serious.”

“I'm fine, Chase.”

The sunlight blinked off as we entered a tunnel. Within seconds, we were out the other end. “When are you going to set a date for the auction?”

“I've been thinking about it. The artifacts keep going up. But you're right. We ought to get it moving while we're still headed in the right direction.”

He fell quiet again.

“Is it Robin?” I asked.

“No. Why would you say that?”

I shrugged. “Just a thought.”

“He been on
your
mind?”

“A little.” He lapsed into silence again. I watched the forest racing past. “You know what I keep thinking—?” I said.

“That he might still be alive somewhere? Off in the islands enjoying himself?”

“It's a possibility.”

Alex shook his head. “Robin was too committed to his work to disappear. No, whatever happened, he didn't instigate it.”

“You have any idea at all?”

“Not a thing. I've talked with Shara. Told her about Robin's being at Sanusar and again at Skydeck when the sightings occurred.”

“What does she think?”

“She doesn't know
what
to think. But she told me what I guess she told you. Find the notebook.”

We rocked a bit as we entered a long curve. “I miss Gabe,” I said. “I don't know why, but I've been thinking about him a lot lately.”

He nodded. “Mysterious ships in the night.”

“I guess.” I sat listening to the air circulating through the cabin. We came out of the woods, intercepted the Melony, and charged along its bank. Alex rearranged himself, trying to get comfortable. The compartment was cramped.

“I'm getting the feeling,” I said, “we're going to be heading for Virginia Island.”

He didn't respond right away. “I hate even to start,” he said finally. “Robin wasn't a young guy when it happened. The chances that he's still alive somewhere—”

“When do we leave?”

“It's going to be a few weeks. I have all kinds of commitments here.”

“Well,” I said. “Why don't I go there and get the process started?”

“What would you do?”

“You don't trust me, do you?”

“Sure I do.”

But he was still waiting for an answer. “I'd do tourist stuff. Wander around a bit. Get to know people. See what I can find out. Somebody there must know something.”

SEVEN

A dream that survives becomes myth. And, ultimately, dogma.

—Tulisofala, Extracts, CLII, iii (translated by Leisha Tanner)

Virginia Island is located about ten minutes off the coast of Kinesia, four time zones away, on the other side of the equator. It's fourteen kilometers long, and, at its widest, you could walk across in twenty minutes. It was a hard, bitterly cold night when I left Andiquar, but it was summer on Virginia Island.

I'd ridden the last leg of the journey on a small shuttle from the mainland, which delivered me to the Windraven, a lodge with more modest accommodations than its name might suggest. It was midafternoon, and the walkways were crowded with tourists. I checked into my room, looked out at a series of low hills that framed my view of the ocean, and called Alex. “I'm here,” I said. “The place is gorgeous.”

“Good.”
He was at his breakfast table.
“The flight went okay?”

“Everything ran on time.”

“All right. Enjoy yourself.”

“I expect to.”

“And, Chase, there's no pressure, okay? It's a long time ago, so you're not likely to come up with anything, just try to get a sense of how Robin lived, what he was like, how much his fellow citizens knew about him. See if you can find out what he was doing on that last flight. And how long he was gone.”

“Okay.”

“Don't feel you have to get started right away. There's no big rush.”

“I'm glad to hear it. I think the first thing I'm going to do is head for the beach.”

“Very good. Umm—”

“Yes, Alex?”

“Have you been out to Robin's place yet?”

“Alex, I just got here.”

“Okay. Sure. Look, one thing—”

“Yes?”

“Jack Ramsay called last night. He'll get to you in a day or two for an interview. Be careful what you say to him. We don't want him to hear anything that gets in the way of the mythology. Right? If somebody knows what really happened, tells you he ran off with a local dancer, sit on it. We want Ramsay to be able to write that the ultimate skeptic—that's you, by the way—went out there against her will, and now she's beginning to wonder if there isn't something to all the stories. “

“Alex, you know as well as I do that Ramsay isn't going to buy any of that.”

“He doesn't have to buy it. All he wants from you is a story he can use. Okay?”

“All right.”

“Whatever else you find, save for me.”

It wasn't as if we hadn't done things like this before. Sure, it's not quite ethical to start rumors to increase the value of a client's holdings, but Alex's argument is that nobody gets hurt, that all we're doing is earning our money. Nothing wrong with that. And I wasn't being asked to lie outright. Exactly. Just provide some context. That was the term he normally used.
Context.

So okay. I decided to skip the beach for the moment. I put on a pair of shorts and a white pullover with an anchor emblazoned on the vest pocket, and wandered out among the tourists.

Virginia Island was home to about four hundred houses. Hotels and lodges, shops, and souvenir stores lined the shore walk. There was a convention center, a stable, a pier that provided all kinds of entertainment, a petting zoo for kids, and an aquarium. And, of course, the beaches.

I looked for somebody who didn't appear to be a tourist and settled on an elderly couple sitting at a table under a tree. I bought a sandwich and some chocolate cookies and sat down on a nearby bench. It was easy enough to catch the woman's eye and begin a conversation. Within a few minutes, I had joined them and was commenting on how beautiful the area was, while we all munched on the cookies. They'd been on Virginia Island for the better part of seventy years and couldn't imagine living anywhere else. But when I commented that this had been the home of Christopher Robin, they looked at each other and shrugged. “If you say so,” the woman said.

A little farther on, a guy in shorts was working on his boat. “The island can be a wild place this time of year,” he told me. “Parties every night. Kids running loose. Don't know where their parents are. I wouldn't let mine just wander around.” His name was Wes Corvin. He was well past the century mark, all smiles, with an appearance of absolute contentment. It was obvious his plans in life didn't extend far beyond floating around on the ocean.

When my opportunity came, I commented that it was fascinating to be here, that I'd done a paper in school on Christopher Robin, and there I was on Virginia Island.

“I remember seeing him when I first moved here,” Corvin said. “He used to walk around up by the cove. He'd be up there in the evenings, sometimes with his wife, sometimes alone. I can remember that he'd just be standing there, leaning over the rail, staring out to sea. I never really talked to him. Maybe said hello or something. He didn't seem to pay much attention to what was going on around him. Every time I saw him, he was looking at the ocean, or the sky, or something far away. You know what I mean?”

“But you knew who he was?”

“Hell, I still don't know who he was. I knew he was supposed to be a famous scientist. But that's all.”

In Ruby's Walk-In, I drank lemon soda with two women, one tall and distant, one heavyset and almost painfully good-natured. They shook their heads sadly while telling me that Robin had been cheating on Elizabeth, that she'd found out, and that when he'd arrived home that night, she'd been waiting for him. “Everybody here knows what really happened,” the tall one said. “They just don't like to talk about it.”

“You're saying she murdered him?”

“I'm not sure how she managed it. Since there was no witness, I can't really say.”

“But you think she killed him and dropped him into the ocean.”

“Yes. She might have had a gun. She might have simply told him there was something strange happening in the sky and got him to walk out to the overhang. Maybe she had an accomplice, somebody to help her drag the body out. She had a lot of money, so she could have paid somebody.”

“They never found the body,” said her affable friend. She seemed proud of the fact.

That evening, I took a taxi out to the house they'd owned, which rested on a summit overlooking the sea. It was completely alone at the southern tip of the island. No other property, no other house, was even visible.

A
FOR SALE
image blinked on as I approached, and a code that would allow a prospective buyer to contact the agent.

It looked more imposing than it had in the photos. It was not as large as most of the island homes, but it had a quiet ambience: single-story, small windows with dark green shutters, a sloping roof and a chimney. Until then, it was the only chimney I'd seen on the island. The property was shaded by tolivar trees, and protected on three sides by a hedge that needed cutting.

I strolled around the perimeter of the property, went out onto the top of the bluff, and spent several minutes looking down at the sea. It was a three-story drop into the water, where an incoming tide washed over a few rocks.