Pyramid Lake (44 page)

With a sinking feeling, I remembered the way I had stared at her, a few seconds ago, in the throes of my panic.

With her skill at interpreting microexpressions… what had Cassie read on my face?

I swallowed. Cautiously, I glanced up.

Cassie’s face was in the middle of a slow collapse. She laid a shaking hand on top of Amy’s and gave it a squeeze, then patted twice and let go. Her countenance pinched in on itself and crumbled. Dropping her napkin onto her plate, she stood up and brushed past me, hissing a shuddery “You
asshole
!” in my ear.

“Don’t leave, Cassie,” Amy called after her. “Please.”

Pressing the back of her wrist against her nose and mouth, Cassie stumbled out of the restaurant, her heels clicking against the floor tiles.

Hugging my daughter close, too unhappy to say anything, I stared after her. There was nothing I could say that would repair the damage I had done. I couldn’t have hurt Cassie more if I tried.

Sirens sounded outside on the Strip. I felt a moment of raw fear for Cassie—
had something happened to her?
Then I relaxed as the sirens receded toward the distant walkway. I had forgotten all about Spiderman.

“Mademoiselle did not finish her steak,” the waiter said. “What would you like me to do with it, sir?”

“If vulgar language offends you,
mon ami,
” I said, “then you probably don’t want to know.”

F
rom our front-row seats, Amy and I watched the Cirque du Soleil acrobats soar above our heads in a dazzling rainbow of sleek water-themed costumes. Swinging and leaping from bar to bar, they flitted like hummingbirds through the airy steel structure that hung above the million-gallon aquatic stage. The sheer scale and extravagance of “
O
” dwarfed the other Cirque du Soleil show I had taken Amy to, in Reno, two years ago—the one she had enjoyed so much when she was five.

This time, we could see every nuance of expression on the performers’ faces. Over the soaring orchestral music, we could hear the solid thump of feet on the floorboards. We were so close to the action, it felt as if we were up on the stage, too. Ordinarily, it was impossible to get such great seats—or any seats at all—on the same day as the performance. But I had figured they always kept a few prime spots vacant for VIPs and the performers’ friends and relatives.

Right now I couldn’t recall which performer was officially supposed to be Amy’s Russian uncle. But whoever he was, our seats were the best in the house.

Letting go of the bars, the acrobats leaped into space one by one, somersaulting through the air, to plunge into the brightly lit water right in front of us. Their splashes sent up sprays of water so close, the droplets sprinkled our arms.

I looked at my daughter, hoping to see her smile.

She didn’t.

I figured it had something to do with the empty seat on her other side.

She glanced at me and reached for my hand, her expression worried. “Go call again,” she whispered.

“I just did, five minutes ago,” I breathed. “You’re missing the show, Amy.”

I had tried Cassie seven or eight times so far and left voice mails and texts. But I had run out of different ways to say
“I’m sorry.”
And Cassie still hadn’t called me back.

“Is Cassie your girlfriend?” Amy whispered.

I frowned. “Why would you think so?”

“Because whenever she thinks no one sees her, she looks at you the same way Mom used to.”

A lump constricted my Adam’s apple. “How is that?”

“Like she’s mad at you, and sad at the same time, but doesn’t really know what to say.”

Leaning back in her chair, my daughter crossed her arms and returned her gaze to the stage. She didn’t look like she was enjoying herself at all.

Holding the phone against my knee, I tried Cassie again. No answer. She was probably on a plane by now, headed back to Pyramid Lake.

The show felt as if it was never going to end.

• • •

When we got back to our suite I was relieved to find Cassie in her room. She lay on her back, on top of the bedcovers, with her head toward the foot of the bed and her long legs stretching up the wall, her bare feet resting above the headboard. Tilting her chin, she glanced at me upside-down, an unhappy expression on her face. Then she returned to contemplating the ceiling.

“Pathetic, I know,” she said. “I’m trying to be mature about this.”

I looked at the nightstand, where four of the tiny mini-bottles from the bar sat open. Seeing that three were empty, I tensed.

“Oh, shut up,” Cassie said. “
Those
particular genes, I got from my father’s side. And besides, what you’re thinking is a stupid racist stereotype anyway.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We do have five bathrooms.”

Her voice was a dull monotone. “Go put your daughter to sleep, Trevor. You don’t deserve her. Then come back in here and talk to me. Try and be my friend.”

I nodded and left to tuck Amy in.

When I got back Cassie hadn’t moved. Gravity had slid her dress farther up her hips, revealing even more of her smooth legs. Glimpsing the stark white triangle of underwear between her thighs, I looked away—I had no right to gawk. Besides, there was nothing seductive about Cassie’s demeanor or body language right now. She was simply too upset to notice. Or care.

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “I don’t forgive you.”

I sat on the foot of the bed and lay back, putting my head next to hers, and stared at the ceiling with her. Studying the recessed panels and crown molding overhead, I could feel exhaustion starting to fog my brain.

“Amy was upset,” I said. “She was worried about you.”

“She’s a dear,” Cassie said right next to my ear, affection creeping into her voice. “Whatever your ex is doing to raise Amy, she’s doing right.”

I felt the dull, familiar ache in my chest that never really went away. “Jen’s a wonderful mother,” I said. “She’s had to make a lot of sacrifices. I know it’s hard on her.”

“Do you know what your daughter told me at the restaurant, when you stepped out to take your ex’s call?”

I shook my head, and the motion set Cassie’s earrings jingling.

“Amy said she was glad to see her dad had a friend who’s so nice. She said she could tell that you liked me a lot, Trevor. But she also said I shouldn’t get confused.”

Cassie gave a resigned sort of chuckle. “Your daughter told me it was okay for us to be friends. But I couldn’t be your girlfriend, because you couldn’t
have
a girlfriend—not even a nice one. It made her mom too upset.”

The ache in my chest sharpened. I turned my head away.

“So, while you were off breaking that creepo’s arm—no, don’t insult my intelligence; it made the six o’clock news—while you were busy doing
that
, your dear, gentle little girl was asking me to please not be a homewrecker. But she was so sweet about it.” Cassie’s voice hitched. “She tried so hard not to hurt my feelings, but she could see I felt terrible anyway, so she gave me a hug. That’s why I’m here getting drunk right now.”

Cassie scooted back a little and used her foot to push away the little bottles on the nightstand, making them clink.

“Especially after the way you treated me five minutes later, as though I was abducting her. Look, I get it that you have serious trust issues, so I’m trying not to take it personally, but I’m still hurt.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Serves me right for getting involved with a married man.”

“See how Amy manipulated you?” I said. “You were never a homewrecker—you
didn’t
get involved with a married man.”

“Yes, I did,” she said. “Deep down where it really counts, Trevor, you’re the most married guy I’ve ever met.”

“But still, don’t you think Amy was being…?”

“Manipulative?” Cassie laughed. “That’s
you
. Not her. She’s just a sweet little girl trying to cope with the unfair hand she’s been dealt.”

I cleared my throat. “At the pool, you didn’t see—”

“I
did
see,” Cassie said. “What she did, why she did it—everything. Again, you’re not giving me enough credit. But you can’t blame Amy for what happened. It’s not her fault.”

Even though I knew that my daughter was safe, asleep in the other room, I felt an overpowering urge to go check on her, to reassure myself she was all right. I was touched that Cassie understood her so well and liked her. But most people weren’t as smart as Cassie.

To them, Amy was just a psychopath—a monster.

“I
know
it’s not her fault,” I said. “She can’t help the way she is. Frankenstein is trying to come up with a solution, but he doesn’t seem to be making much progress.”

“Technology can’t solve
all
the world’s problems,” Cassie said. “Just be her father, Trevor. That’s what she needs most from you.”

She raised an arm into my field of view, with her pinky extended, pointing at the ceiling. “And be my friend. That’s what
I
need most from you. Try to trust me a little.”

Knowing she was right, I reached up too and linked my little finger through hers. “Friends.”

She didn’t let go. “Then stop hiding things from me, like my uncle does. Like Gray does. Maybe, together, the two of us can figure out what’s really going on, before someone else gets killed.”

I came to a decision. Feeling as if a tremendous weight had been lifted off me, I squeezed her pinky in mine.

“Tomorrow, Cassie, I promise I’ll tell you everything. It’s a big mess. But first I have to show you something, with Frankenstein—something that’s going to make all this work out great in the end.”

“Cryptic,” she said. “But it feels like progress. I’ll take it. Now, you better leave, because I’m drunk and emotionally vulnerable right now, and if you stay any longer, I’m afraid I might end up doing something that would upset your ex-wife and disappoint your daughter.”

T
he next morning, after our flight back to the Reno-Tahoe airport, I watched Amy disappear through the smoked-glass doors of the security checkpoint, once again accompanied by a flight attendant for the short trip back to her mother in California. As I stood waving to her, it took some effort to keep my breathing slow and even and to keep the smile on my face from breaking. My daughter turned at the threshold and waved back, her own expression troubled, and the hole in my heart tore a little wider.

Then she was gone.

“You’ll see her soon, Trevor.” Cassie laid a hand on my arm. “Let me buy you breakfast.”

Staring at the closed security doors, knowing I wouldn’t breathe easy again until Jen texted me that Amy had arrived safely, I shook my head. “Not hungry.”

“Well, I am,” Cassie said. “So while I eat, you can talk. You did say ‘tomorrow.’ Well, it’s tomorrow now.”

“I’ll tell you everything once we get to the lab.”

“No. Right now. I’m holding you to your promise.” Without waiting for a response, she walked away from me. Passing a bronze statue of a skier at the entrance of a small airport eatery called the Mountain Diner, she turned and beckoned.

I followed her inside.

We sat down. Cassie ordered some waffles with bacon, and I ordered an egg-white omelet, no cheese. The waitress left. I met Cassie’s serious gaze and tried to decide where to begin.

“If you’re really my friend, Trevor,” she said, “then stop treating me like a child. What are Grayson Linebaugh and my uncle lying to me about, and why are people dying because of it?”

Taking a deep breath, I said, “Do you know what ‘extraordinary rendition’ means?”

Cassie got very quiet all of a sudden. I could almost see the neuronal synapses firing, sending a cascading avalanche of electrochemical signals through her brain as she processed those two words and connected the dots. Her eyes widened.

She got it. But I wanted to make sure.

“‘Extraordinary rendition,’” I said, “is
politician-speak
for the covert apprehension of enemy combatants and their extralegal transport to a clandestine location within the territory of another sovereign nation—outside U.S. legal and judicial oversight—where they can be detained indefinitely and subjected to more rigorous forms of interrogation than custody on United States soil would allow.”

“And the Pyramid Lake reservation…” Cassie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re
dreaming…
!”

“After Nine-eleven, we quit fucking around and took off the gloves,” I said. “We’re fighting a war on terror, and for our kids’ and grandkids’ sake, we can’t afford to lose. But where
do
we stash the people we suspect of being terrorists, after we grab ’em? Where
do
we keep them, out of sight so we can do whatever we want to them?”

“You got this wrong somehow,” she said. Shaking her head hard, she leaned back from the table. “There’s no way. You got this
wrong
.”

“Remember,” I said, “nowadays, it’s not just al-Qaeda and foreign terrorists we have to worry about. Homeland Security has to deal with domestic and homegrown threats, too.
American
terrorists—where do we put
them
, Cassie? Shipping
them
off to a Guantánamo Bay won’t work. It’s too public.”

“Oh my God, just
stop
.” Cassie held up a hand.

“And how do we ‘extract’ the information we need, once we’ve got them? Torture is so medieval, so low-tech. So
unreliable
. Especially since DARPA’s already solved the interrogation problem for us, using technology.”

She pushed her upheld palm at me to shut me up. “I need to think for a minute.” Eyes narrowing, she stared at me, her dark, liquid gaze skittering across the muscle groups of my face. “I can see that you
do
believe what you’re saying right now, Trevor. So, before I freak out
completely
, where’s your proof?”

She ticked off points on her fingers. “Sure, we saw some kind of ultrasecure building hidden inside the warehouse, but it was so small it could be anything, really. Is Ronald Bennett why you think this is going on—a Homeland Security deputy director who shows up here for no obvious reason? Or is it the fact that someone’s been secretly using Frankenstein whenever you’re not around? Because if that’s all you’ve got, it’s a hell of a leap—”