Viking (14 page)

Geire frowned. “You look into charters for cargo since the crew got there?”

“I’ve got someone running that down right now. And we’re watching their headquarters
round the clock.”

“Hah! You won’t get much that way. Security’s tight as a bell around that
place.”

“Actually, we did notice something strange a couple hours ago. Only one scientist
from the Erisa Beta II team left at shift end. And there was a flurry of outbound
calls.”

“Where to?”

“We hadn’t been monitoring outbound traffic very carefully on the channels they
used, and they encrypted and shotgunned everything, so we’re still checking. One was to
a catering service. A couple we’ve traced to home numbers of scientists who didn’t
leave when they were supposed to.”

Geire swore under his breath. “They’re sequestering.”

Oristano looked blank for a moment. Then her eyebrows knit together. “So they’re
shifting into high gear.”

“Obviously. Their security leak is gone. Time to get down to business. And they’re
not letting any information in or out for the duration.”

Oristano cleared her throat. “It makes sense. Though I think the timing must be just
a rotten coincidence. You can’t really stage a stampede on cue. And they lost at least
three or four, not just the one.”

Geire glowered piercingly. “Either way, we’re out of the picture and it’s our own
fault.” His tone made it clear that it was not, in fact, “our” fault, but Oristano’s,
and that he was none too pleased about it. “Start scrambling on those outbound calls.
Put a tail on the guy that left. I want to know why he’s so special. And do some
thinking about what a sequestered team of scientists would need. Maybe next time they
call the caterers or run a laundry pick-up, we can get someone in long enough to do
something useful. I want to know what they’re up to and I want an answer yesterday. And
I don’t want any more mistakes.”

“I already ordered the tail an hour ago, and the catering service will be easy.
Cryptography is working overtime. You’ll get results.”

“Yes,” Geire agreed with a tight-lipped non-smile. “I will.”

The screen went blank.

Oristano stared at it for half a minute while her mind uneasily replayed the
conversation. She hoped that Geire didn’t spend too much time and energy wondering how
MEEGO had gotten wind of the investigation—from that sort of speculation to an
indictment with her name on it was all too plausible a progression if the bureau really
started digging.

She’d known all along that it was dangerous to lean on Bezovnik. But really, what
choice did she have? He’d been so ripe for a fleecing, so pathetically eager to
preserve a decorous front for the company, that it practically demanded a little
independent money-making. Her prolonged yawn curved into an avaricious smile. Shadowy
finance had become as much a passion as the power play it bankrolled.

That raised the ugly specter of Bruce’s audit again.
The dimwit! If he was going
to get creative, he could at least take the trouble to do it right.
The last thing
she needed was to waste her time babysitting some half-baked manipulation of banking
records.

She considered returning the call from her accountant friend. Between
self-congratulatory platitudes and husky innuendo, he’d managed to convey the idea that
Bruce’s shenanigans were still salvageable. When did she want to get together? Chuckle,
chuckle.

Oh, bravo! I’m surrounded by comedians.

When the chatter of the twins and the chirp of birds refused to go away, Julie sat
up. She lifted the covers slowly, blinked, rotated away from the dreary light leaking
through her curtains, and slid her socks onto the polished oak.

She didn’t want to start this day.

She really didn’t want to live the next few hours at all.

Lean forward. Straighten the knees. Shrug on a sweater over the inadequate tee
shirt, tame wild hair with an old baseball cap that smelled of grass clippings and
Rafa’s aftershave. She walked down the hall to the bathroom and splashed water in her
face and stood at the top of the stairs, listening to Kyrie and Lauren burble excitedly
about the calves in the barn.

She descended to the kitchen and surveyed the country breakfast that her parents had
left partly eaten on the table. The room smelled of sausage and French toast and syrup.
Her mom would be outside by now, probably fussing with the flower beds. Dad was no
doubt in the barn, doling out straw and silage.

The girls looked up and smiled a greeting, their mouths full.

“Hmm” and “uh huh” were enough to get past the girl’s attempts at conversation.
Julie speared a sausage onto her plate and stared glumly. For a moment the sight of it,
lying brown and shriveled, all alone on the white porcelain, raised such visions of
vapid mundanity that she had an urge to burst into laughter.
Rafa’s dead. Have a
sausage.

Instead, she added some hash browns and toast and eggs, then dribbled syrup over the
whole plate. Behind her, the door banged shut and her mother began to hum cheerfully as
she ran water to rinse things for the dishwasher.

“Hi,” Julie managed. She doubted she could sustain a normal tone of voice for longer
than one syllable.

Lauren pushed back from the table, wiping half-heartedly at the milk mustache
dripping from her upper lip. “Hey, Grandma, want to come see Shiner?”

“Who’s Shiner?”

“Our calf,” Lauren responded, as she skipped toward the door. “She’s got a big black
patch over one eye. Grandpa says that a black eye is called a shiner.”

Lydia laughed. “I’ll come out later. Have fun.”

Another bang of the door was the only response, and in a moment Kyrie hopped down
and clattered after her sister with a wave. Julie was still staring woodenly at her
plate.

“Dolly dug up all my pansies and violets. Some days I could just strangle that
dog!”

Julie said nothing.

Lydia lifted silverware and stacked syrupy plates atop one another while the silence
stretched out. After a trip to the sink, she tried again.

“Your father says he’ll give up on that tractor if it’s not working by lunch time.
Maybe you could recruit him to go to the zoo with you.”

Julie closed her eyes and let the silence stretch out.

“I found your stack of paperwork on the counter. Looks like you’re all done. Want me
to send it off for you?”

“Don’t bother,” Julie murmured grimly as she pushed her plate away and stood up.
“It’s all irrelevant now.”

* * *

Hours later, Julie awoke with a truly exceptional headache—a relentless pummeling
that radiated outward from her forehead and temples to embrace her entire skull, and
throbbed in protest with the slightest movement. She made one attempt to sit up, moaned
weakly, and sank back to her pillow.

After a minute the late afternoon sunlight streaming through gauzy curtains was too
much, and she stirred just enough to pull the quilt over her eyebrows. She became
conscious of the uncomfortable crinkle of denim around her knees and the pinch of a
belt at her waist. Why had she tumbled into bed in her jeans?

She wiggled her toes.

No shoes. But socks. She never slept in her socks.

How had she known it was afternoon instead of morning?

Gingerly she rolled onto her side and bunched the pillow, careful to keep the lip of
the covers between her eyes and the window. There was a disturbing dampness at her
cheek that brought everything back.

She’d cried herself to sleep.

Rafa was dead.

She remembered climbing out of the vid harness, stumbling up the stairs in the
pre-dawn hours, the acrid smell of dust and the thunder of thousands of trampling feet
still echoing in her brain, her heart racing from the sprint across the grassland;
remembered falling into a nightmare slumber, then arising exhausted and miserable and
numb, and shuffling down to breakfast with her mind still awhirl.

And she remembered returning to bed again.

How would she tell the twins? What would they say? How much had Daddy faded into a
merciful intangible in their young memories since the night of the arrest?

Zoo. She’d been planning a trip to Milwaukee. A glance at the clock told her it was
hopelessly late for that. She groaned. If the fitful nap had accomplished nothing else,
it had at least spared her the trouble of maintaining a façade of normalcy—but the
girls would be disappointed and no doubt full of reproach.

The phone buzzed softly on the nightstand by her ear.

Julie lay still and willed the device to leave her alone.

It did not comply.

Finally Julie groaned, opened puffy, reddened eyes, and squinted at the screen. Not
that it mattered; no matter what the topic, she wasn’t about to accept a
connection.

Mike Satler, the readout said. Who was he? She had a hazy recollection of contacting
a real estate agent, seemingly an eternity ago. But that couldn’t be it; according to
the phone this guy was calling from Houston.

Well, he could leave a message.

She’d watch it later.

* * *

Julie sat there all afternoon, lost in memories, paralyzed by her own emotions.
Vaguely she was aware of Dolly barking, doors banging shut, chatter around the dinner
table. What had her mother done about Lauren and Kyrie? Had they made the trip to the
zoo without her?

The sun went down, the house grew dark, and still she did not move. Sounds of
brushing teeth and bedtime rituals came and went, but no knock sounded on her door. The
old grandfather clock in the hall tolled the hours.

Finally, long past midnight, some of the tension left her neck and shoulders, and
she shook her head slightly. Her back was stiff and her legs were going to sleep. For
the time being her eyes were dry. Time to get up and change the subject in this dreary
non-dream she’d begun almost twenty-four hours earlier.

Restlessly she rotated to prop her chin on the mattress edge at the foot of the bed.
The photo albums she’d found—when? It seemed like an eternity ago—were still there.

Feeling defiant, she hauled one book out and flipped it open, her free hand reaching
out to power up the reading lamp. If she was going to be a widow, she might as well get
used to it. She couldn’t run from Rafa’s shadow forever.

There he was, smiling and handsome with frosting stuck to his chin. A youthful
version of herself stood at his side, cake in her hand and eyes full of mischief.

Julie turned the page.

Hands were touching tenderly—a close-up of the ring exchange.

The blur to the image had nothing to do with photographic technique. Julie blinked
and shook her head impatiently. Now she remembered this book. It wasn’t the
professionally-compiled album that had cost them so much and occupied a place on the
coffee table for years. These shots were all from her sister’s ancient 35 mm analog
camera. Sandra and Rafa had collaborated on it as a Valentine’s Day present soon after
the wedding.

Sandra the shutterbug.

Julie had kept it in her hope chest until a couple years ago, when the girls got it
out in a fit of naughtiness and dribbled milk on half the pages. The memory of the
indignant tongue-lashing that ensued brought a blush of embarrassment to her cheeks.
Hopefully the girls wouldn’t remember that one when they got older.

Julie had mailed it back to Sandra with a plea for repair. And obviously Sandra had
never gotten around to digging up old negatives. Somehow the book had wended its way up
into the realm of forgotten what-not in her parents’ attic.

Turning another page, a vid disk fell into her hands. The label said “Familia” in
Rafa’s handwriting. Frowning speculatively, she popped it in the terminal on the end
table.

It was mostly empty, except for some pictures of Rafa’s mother at the beach, looking
younger and happier than Julie had ever seen her before. And there was a small, unnamed
file that looked like a key for an electronic safety deposit box.

That was odd.

They had such a box with their bank account. It held copies of vital documents,
mortgage papers, birth certificates.

But this file was dated before their marriage. So it must open something
different.

What?

She pulled up the file properties and pursed her lips. The issuer ID on the key was
a big acronym that she’d never heard of before. Almost without thinking, she activated
a virtual clerk, described her interest in the key and its origin, and sent it off into
cyberspace to investigate.

As soon as the screen cleared, she felt silly for her curiosity. What was she doing,
dabbling in dusty remnants of a life that was irrevocably gone? It didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered.

Her anguish returned full force.

Mechanically she pushed away the book, walked to the bathroom, undressed, and
started a shower. The heat of steaming jets dispelled the lingering tautness around
forehead and jaw and cleared some of the haziness and self-pity from her mind. Panic
and the shock of defeat were not reactions she could afford to sustain. Perhaps grief
was natural, but it didn’t give license to withdraw from her daughters or wish the
world away.

Julie donned new jeans and a baggy, well-worn sweatshirt, then swabbed at the mirror
with a towel. As she pulled the brush through tangled copper hair, her eyes sought the
dripping mirror and ran unbidden over backwards letters that said
UCLA Cross
Country
. She put the brush down. Her fingers softly traced the words as she
recalled the
Orosco
stretching out of sight between her shoulder blades.

This is how haunting really works
, she thought.
No frightening phantom
at the top of the stairs
—just a hundred reminders woven so deeply and
naturally into the fabric of a life that they remain part and parcel even when the
threads are cut and the weaver is gone.