He took a deep breath, then another.
The nightmare had been so damned real, just as though he had been back at the controls, as though no time had passed.
After a moment, he stood up and walked to the end of the bed, looking at his wife. The faint illumination from the streetlight showed her eyes were closed and her breathing regular.
With a last glance over his shoulder, he tiptoed out the bedroom door and down the dark stairs to the kitchen, his barefoot steps as soft as he could make them.
Inside the freezer was a box of Popsicles. He took out one and bit off the tip, chewing the lime ice into fragments. The cool air from the open freezer brushed his arm. After several more bites, he pulled the paper back over the uneaten portion and tucked the half-consumed Popsicle behind the ground beef.
Then he edged the freezer door shut and eased his steps back upstairs.
He stopped and peered into Kirsten’s room. The littlest redhead lay there almost in a heap on top of her white bear, red hair spilling across bear and pillow, both illuminated by the night-light next to her bedside table. McDarvid watched her breathe for a while, swallowed, and took the carpeted stairs up to the third floor.
He grinned at the pool of light seeping from under Elizabeth’s door. Opening the door as silently as he could, he crossed the narrow room to the canopied bed, where he eased the book from under her cheek, slipped a marker in it, and set it next to the three others on her desk. He kissed her cheek.
“Mmmm…”
“It’s all right,” he whispered, patting her back. He left the light on.
In the other third-floor room, nearly pitch-dark except for the glow from the streetlight, David lay on his side.
McDarvid patted his shoulder. “Hang tough, old man.”
Back in his own room, he slipped into his side of the queen-sized bed.
Allyson’s breathing was regular, with the faint hint of a snore from her partly open mouth, he supposed.
He took another deep breath as he pulled the covers up, hoping the nightmare didn’t recur too soon.
30
JONNIE WAITED WHILE THE TELEPHONE RANG, hoping McDarvid was home.
“I got a private label 386 for around two thousand. The whole package came to twenty-six.”
“Great. Can you bring it—not yet, Elizabeth. Not yet.”
“What was that?” Jonnie asked.
“I was telling Elizabeth that we don’t have a computer yet.”
“You will shortly. You going to be home?”
“Hell, yes. Allyson’s at a professional seminar this weekend. In Boston. I’m into home repairs, like recementing the banister that David used as a vaulting bar. I’ll be here for a while.”
“I’ll bring a couple of disks with games, too.”
“You’re all heart.”
Jonnie shook his head. He wondered what it was like having children, having to plan every activity for weeks in advance, having to get baby-sitters, or always cleaning or fixing things. Then again, maybe McDarvid had a nanny or an au pair. Jack almost never talked about his family, except for how Elizabeth drove him nuts.
With a quick headshake, Jonnie carried the software case and tool kit to the elevator. On the way down to the garage, he stopped to check the mail. Nothing but bills, not even a Thanksgiving card, not that he would ever have sent one, not unless Hallmark put him on the payroll. He stepped back from his box and turned.
A man wearing a plain gray suit stood on the other side of the lobby. He looked back at Jonnie, meeting his eyes. Jonnie did not frown, but wanted to. With an earplug and slightly shorter hair, the man could have passed for Secret Service. Who else wore gray suits on Saturdays? Except maybe Jack, and, well, Jack was … Jack.
Ignoring the man in the gray suit, Jonnie turned his steps toward the doorway to the garage stairs. The GTO started on the second attempt and didn’t even stall in the loading zone outside CompUtopia, the computer store that occupied the space that had once been a topless bar.
Everything was stacked on the counter, actually waiting. The salesman loaded the box and monitor on a dolly. Jonnie carried the color card, after checking the box to make sure it was the right card.
“The black … car? It runs?”
“Most of the time,” Jonnie admitted as he opened the large trunk.
Thirty minutes later, he was unloading boxes in Jack’s driveway.
McDarvid already had a computer stand waiting. Jonnie nodded. Somehow, that fit, too. The hardware was the easy part, easier than installing the software.
“Thanks again, Jonnie,” McDarvid said as he followed the installation instructions for the spreadsheet program. “Do I really need this?”
“Probably not, but the firm bought it. So use it.” Jonnie glanced around the room. Wide, nearly floor-length windows on the south side, with built-in bookcases on one of the short side walls and on each side of the back-wall doorway. The desk was on the other short wall, under another window. Two books, side by side at eye level and almost within reaching distance of the desk, caught Jonnie’s eye.
“I hope this wasn’t too much trouble.”
Jonnie stepped over to the bookcase. “No trouble at all, especially if we need to free-lance … or set up our own office.”
“Yeah…” McDarvid paused.
“Jack, what are these?”
“What?”
“These look like Russian, Cyrillic characters.”
“Those? Oh … Russian dictionaries.”
“Didn’t know you spoke Russian.”
“I don’t. Had to use them when I did some projects back a while using Russian economic data.” McDarvid entered another set of commands before continuing. “Have any trouble getting this together?”
“No. Except there was this guy in a cheap gray suit. He was hanging around the apartment lobby. I swear he was waiting for me, but then he disappeared.”
McDarvid frowned. “Old guy or a young guy?”
“Looked like a shaggy-haired Secret Service agent. You know what I mean? Like he could have one of those plugs in his ears, and a dinky gold crest on his lapel?” Jonnie pulled another set of disks from his case. “Here’s the rest of what we have to put on your system.”
“Did you ever see the guy before?”
“Nah … just seemed odd.”
McDarvid nodded thoughtfully. “Sometimes we imagine too much.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not. A guy who looked like your man in gray was at Larry’s funeral. Then I saw him again at Woodies—looked like he was following me and the kids. Scared the hell out of me. Haven’t seen him since then.”
“Father? Is this the new computer?”
Jonnie looked at McDarvid. McDarvid looked at his daughter. “Yes, but it’s not ready yet.”
“Will you have the latest version of WordPerfect?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Elizabeth looked at the screen, then picked a book off the shelf to McDarvid’s left. “Would you let me know when the computer is available for my use?”
“Never,” muttered McDarvid.
“You said?” Jonnie grinned.
McDarvid shook his head. “It’s hell when they’re smarter than you are, or think they are.” He paused, rubbing his chin with his thumb. “I still wonder about the guy in gray.”
“So do I. But what can we do about it?”
“Damned if I know—except keep watching. We’ll both end up paranoid.”
“We’ll also be here all night if you don’t keep pushing disks,” reminded Jonnie.
31
OUTSIDE, THE NOVEMBER RAIN PELTED AGAINST THE WINDOW, blurring into the twilight. McDarvid touched the buttons on the telephone.
“You have reached a nonworking federal number.”
He touched three digits.
“Hello.”
“Jack McDarvid for Eric.”
“Would you wait a moment, Mr. McDarvid?”
McDarvid lean
ed back in the chair, glancing at the lights of the building across Nineteenth Street, glittering through the downpour.
“Hello. Jack?”
“None other.”
“We thought you might call after your packages arrived.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Your presentation was largely self-explanatory.”
“How can I talk to someone about the first package?” McDarvid asked.
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because they don’t want to talk to you. Citrus isn’t a problem. It won’t hurt the Israelis that much, and as for the Brazilians…” The silence indicated his opinion of the Brazilians. “Besides, on this one, JAFFE can take care of itself.”
“I never mentioned the client.”
The voice was silent.
“What about the economic impacts?”
“They’re not insurmountable. Not on the first package.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re as brazen as ever, Jack. Good thing you found your calling elsewhere. We do miss your intuition.”
McDarvid smiled wryly. “I appreciate the flattery.”
“We recognize talent.”
“What about the second one?”
“We just got that one yesterday.”
“You knew everything about the first one, apparently before you got it.”
“That was different. Strictly economic and trade-related.”
McDarvid nodded to himself. “I’ll check back later on the second package. There’s more there. You just might consider some follow-up.”
“I’ll look forward to your call. Give us a week. You might be onto something—even if you are a hopeless paranoid.”
“Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean that there’s not someone out to get me.”
“Violence isn’t professional, Jack. It’s also messy. And usually it doesn’t work.”
“People die.”
“And the ideas and structures hum along just the same as before.”
“Yeah. I know. Just like law firms. You’ve told me.”
“But did you listen?” The voice paused. “Talk to you later.”
McDarvid hung up the phone. He wondered why they’d never changed the number or the codes. Probably more than a dozen outsiders knew it by now, if not more. Then again, why bother? All the in calls were screened and traced, which might prove useful.
He shook his head. Why they acted the way they did still remained a mystery to him.
Through the pelting rain that was not quite ice, the lights glittered from across Nineteenth Street.
32
THE PLASTIC COVERS OF THE TWO BOUND POLICY PAPERS flashed in the sunlight from the window behind McDarvid. Two stacks of fifty copies each sat on the credenza. He picked up the thicker policy paper.
“The Metals Initiative—What Price for Illusory Environmental Protection?” Under the title were two black-and-white illustrations. On the left was a satellite slashed in half by an X. On the right was a bar graph illustrating plant closures.
“Looks nice,” McDarvid mused. “We were right to do this one just in black and white. Looks more serious this way.”
“Who’ll pay any attention?” Jonnie Black sat in the single client chair. “You know OSHA and DEP don’t care about price.”
McDarvid smiled softly. “OSHA and DEP don’t make the final decision—not if that decision impacts national security.”
“You really think we can sell the idea that one health and environmental regulation will lead to the fall of the great American democracy?”
“Hell, no. All we’re selling is that one environmental and health regulation—which won’t improve worker health—will destroy U.S. production of all satellite power systems, will probably require the fabrication of critical parts of space lasers in France or Japan, and will require that all military communications and aircraft batteries be produced in third-world countries.
“And if they tighten the lead standard further…”
“Jack, I know all that. I did the financial analysis. We know all that could happen. But does anybody care? Anybody who can do something useful?”
“Who knows? The OSHA analysis is so bad, they don’t even have the right number of affected employees. The subcontractor they hired to do the analysis—Jackass, Incorporated, or whatever they’re called—did a criminally bad job. Half the numbers in their cost model are listed as ‘To Be Determined.’ And that’s in the so-called final report. That’s the point of our papers.” McDarvid shook his head. “Yeah. I know. No one’s going to read the papers unless…”
“Unless what?”
“We do our usual magic show and persuade them to.” McDarvid set the economic paper back on the desk and picked up the health analysis: “The Metals Initiative—No Real Health Benefits?”
The second paper’s cover also showed two black-and-white illustrations, on the left a series of worker figures and on the right a bar graph.
“What’s the first trick in the magic show?” asked Jonnie.
“We distribute the papers and try for congressional and media attention. The space angle might work for Science, Space, and Technology Committee—”
“But will they do anything?”
McDarvid pondered. Would Renni Fowler really look into the issue? Especially if it might impact her boyfriend’s engineering firm? Mike Alroy was one bright engineer. Finally, he looked up. “I don’t know. They haven’t so far, but it’s too good an angle not to try … one way or another.”
“Standard distribution?” asked Jonnie.
“Not quite. First, we have to get copies into both the DEP and OSHA official dockets. Then, this time, we’ll send cover letters and the reports to the heads of the policy offices, noting that the reports have been submitted to the docket.”
“You don’t trust the docket office?”
“I don’t trust anyone. Sometimes, I don’t even trust me.” McDarvid did not look at Jonnie, instead set the paper down. “Besides the Office of Management and Budget and that crew at Energy…”
“I assume you’re targeting Defense.” Jonnie’s face was blank.
“Ohhhh, you can do better than that.” McDarvid grimaced at the pun. “Anyway, you put together the list for DOD, NASA, and the President’s Space Council.”
“What about the black side? They certainly wouldn’t want to depend on offshore supplies for their satellites’ power systems.”
“I might know someone,” McDarvid said slowly. “Whether they would do anything is another question.”
“You can only try.”
“That’s true.” McDarvid looked out into the late afternoon glare, squinted, and stood, letting down the blinds to cut the glare. “I only have to persuade half the agencies in Washington to read them.”
“What about OMB?”
“That’s the easy one. They’ve been looking for a good procedural reason to zap both DEP and OSHA for a long time.” He nodded toward the economic analysis. “This shows they ignored the Executive Order on costs. There’s not one word on the economic impacts there. Not one.”
“So … their numbers are always low. When they even have numbers.”
McDarvid grinned. “The Executive Order is written funny. 12291 says that they have to estimate costs. They can be wrong. And they usually are. Each year they’ve gotten sloppier, but this time it looks like the contractor ran out of money or fell asleep halfway through. So the cost-analysis chapter doesn’t have any costs in it—just formulas for calculating them. OMB can roast them without taking a hit.”
Jonnie grinned back. “How do you know?”
“Because…”
“You already talked to someone?”
McDarvid nodded. Then he looked down at the desk. “That was the easy part.” He glanced back at Jonnie. “Especially compared to the simple things—like having a job next year.”
“That is a problem.”
“So we need to st
art our education efforts.” He paused. “Let’s not forget to send some copies to the environmental groups.”
“Why? Won’t that just get them mad earlier?”
“They’ll just call them industry apologies. Besides, if they yell too much, they’ll upset the science fiction and space supporters in their own membership,” McDarvid speculated. “Send them to the head of each outfit. Cal what’s-his-name with the ecology bunch. Dick over at—”
“I get the picture.” Jonnie shook his head. “You’re the boss.”
“I’m not the boss. Heidlinger is. At least, that’s what he tells us.”
33
AFTER HANDING A HEAVY ENVELOPE TO THE RECEPTIONIST, the messenger pulled out his radio and mumbled something into it, listened for a moment, then left.
The red-haired attorney, stroking his full beard, did not wait until the messenger was even out the door before moving toward the front desk. He cleared his throat as he crossed the room.
“What is it?” he asked the receptionist as he reached for the package.
“It’s for Cal.” She kept the thick nine-by-twelve manila envelope.
The attorney twisted his head to view the label. “Hmmmm … From Ames, Heidlinger, and Partello. They do a lot of environmental work.”
“Stop hanging around as if you want me to open it on the spot, Ray. If it’s legal, you’ll get it, anyway.”
Ray Thomas did not move.
Finally, the receptionist picked up a letter opener and carefully slit the end of the heavy envelope. From the envelope she extracted two plastic-covered bound documents and a letter with two attachments.
Thomas looked over her shoulder as she laid the papers down. The letter was addressed to the Assistant Secretary for Policy, Planning, and Evaluation at the U.S. Department of Environmental Protection. He glanced to the bottom of the page. “J. B. McDarvid, III” was typed below a scrawled signature.
“Do you mind, Ray?”
“Apologies for industry pollution…”
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