Going Grey

by Karen Traviss

  "I know. And I'm there for him. I'm not expecting him to sweep up for me on this."

  "We're sorted, then," she said, using Rob's favourite declaration of a situation under control. "So, once the ranch is sold, Ian vanishes completely."

  "We'll pass it through a few companies to make sure. And a few bank accounts."

  "What if someone gets his social security number, though?"

  "They'd have to know he existed before they could even start digging for that," Mike said. "And they don't."

  Mike wondered how witness protection actually worked in detail. The people going into hiding almost certainly had much more complex, connected lives to erase than Ian did. They had relatives, employers, all kinds of records like footprints in their wake that had to be swept away and replaced with fake histories. Ian had almost nothing. That, at least, worked in his favour now. The only untidy detail was Kinnery. It was too bad that he'd come to the house, but Dad couldn't have known that the crazy story was completely true.

  Ian could be anyone he wanted to be, though, and as long as Kinnery maintained his long silence, nobody would ever know he was here.

  EN ROUTE TO DUNLOP RANCH, ATHEL RIDGE.

  Dru realised she'd missed the unmarked turning to Dunlop Ranch when she passed a sign welcoming her to Athel Ridge.

  A veil of unseasonal chilly drizzle didn't help. She turned the rental car around to retrace her route. Several U-turns later, she found the road and then the ranch's entrance, just a gap in some bushes with no gates, no sign, and an unpaved track leading up a shallow hill. Maybe she had the wrong place.

  She checked the sat map. No, this was it.

  The track curved across sloping pasture and through trees. A house finally emerged through the foliage, and Dru stopped about fifty yards from it to sit with the engine idling. There were no signs of activity. On a wet day, that didn't necessarily mean nobody was home.

  If I can cold-call Kinnery's graduation class, I can knock on that door.

  It was another crossroads choice, one path leading to safe failure, the other accelerating her drift into the unknown and possibly indefensible. She started counting. On five, she'd either switch off the engine and get out of the car, or turn around and go home.

  One.

  Two.

  Three ... four ... five.

  Dru pulled up the hood on her jacket and started the long walk to the front door, purse crushed under her arm for reassurance. She was sure Maggie would see her coming and fling open the door.

  But it remained resolutely closed. She paused in front of the steps and looked up, trying to catch some movement at the windows, but there was nothing. The only sound was a crow rasping car-car-car, car-car-car, in a voice so articulate and human that for a stupid, irrational moment she was ready to believe that the bird was warning someone that a car had arrived. Black shapes flapped out of nearby branches and vanished.

  Okay. Knock.

  Dru rapped a few times, then spotted the doorbell and gave it a three-second press. Perhaps she'd been optimistic to expect to find anyone at home, but there was no way of checking first. Her only option was to wait and watch. She pressed the bell a few more times but there was still no answer. Birds settled in the branches again. It felt as if the crows were gathering to keep an eye on her.

  She rang one more time, then began working her way around the house, first along the porch and then down the side towards the barn. Maybe she'd find someone in there. If Maggie Dunlop was watching her from the house, this might make her come out. Dru made a show of calling like an innocent visitor genuinely looking for the owner.

  "Mrs Dunlop?" Dru pushed the barn door and stuck her head inside. Her voice sounded shaky even to herself. "Mrs Dunlop? Anyone home?"

  The barn smelled of farmyard and musty, decaying things that she couldn't identify. Something rustled in the corner. Calm down. It's just mice. Rats. Dim light from a couple of small windows showed that the place was empty except for piles of timber. Dru crunched around on the straw-scattered floor, feeling stupid, wishing she'd worn more sensible shoes, and wondering what to do next.

  Go into town. Have a coffee and ask at the post office, perhaps. People always help if you ask nicely.

  She turned, still trying to compose a cover story, and walked straight into the barrel of a shotgun.

  "Jesus Christ – "

  Her heart beat so hard that she thought it would tear itself loose. But the gun wasn't aimed at her. It was simply all she could focus on. The thickset, curly-haired white guy who was holding it muzzle down looked at her without curiosity, just distrust. He wore faded blue overalls and looked to be in his fifties, not the age she expected.

  "Can I help you, ma'am?"

  Well, he wasn't the British guy who'd answered the phone. He sounded local. Adrenaline was worse than alcohol for snatching the reins out of Dru's hands. Her mouth took over. Her rational brain was so slow out of the gate that she was into the next furlong of deception by the time it moved. It was like watching a stranger, a genuine out-of-body experience.

  "I'm sorry, are you Ian?" She pushed back her hood and tried to ignore the shotgun. "I'm looking for Maggie Dunlop. Have I got the right address?"

  The man just stared into her face for a few seconds. "Why do you want to see her?"

  Stick to the story. He might be able to check it with someone.

  "My late aunt – she had a college friend, and all I know is that he or she lived in Washington. I don't even have a name, male or female. I got Maggie's name from one of her classmates."

  The man wasn't even looking her over. He just focused on her face as if he could stare the truth out of her. "And what's your name?"

  If Dru got too smartass he might call the police, and she couldn't explain herself without sounding insane, criminal, or both. Now the lies bred. They had to. A fake first name was the easiest way to get tripped up. The only surname that came to mind was her maiden name.

  "I'm Dru. Dru Wilson." She held out her hand. "You're Ian, right? Ian, I just came to tell Maggie that my aunt passed on. I couldn't write or phone. Obviously."

  Dru thought she was doing okay when Ian took her hand and shook it. But then things started to go downhill.

  "That's not my name," he said. "I look after the place."

  Now she was stuck. Did he mean Maggie was away, or that he was an employee? She couldn't ask him to clarify without exposing herself to more questions she probably couldn't answer. And she'd blown her one explanation for being here. She couldn't make up another. She either had to walk away or persist.

  "Well, can I get a message to Maggie?" What do I say? People forget who they knew forty years ago. I can brazen this out. Worst case, it's mistaken identity. "Do I write her, or what?"

  "I can pass on a message." He wasn't giving anything away, not even his name. Maybe he didn't believe her. Maybe he shouldn't have been there himself, or perhaps Maggie had warned him to keep an eye out for nosey strangers. "You want to give me your contact details?"

  This wasn't how it was supposed to pan out. Even pausing to think of a safe number to give him probably made him more suspicious. Dru rummaged in her purse to buy a few seconds' thinking time and wrote the number of her burner on a paper napkin.

  "There." She handed it to him. "I'm going home tomorrow. So if she's available, I'd love to see her."

  The guy looked at the number and nodded. "I'll see." It was definitely Dru's cue to go. "Where are you staying?"

  "Spokane. Thanks for your help." She decided to risk asking about the Seattle number to see what reaction she got. "Actually, I did call a number from my aunt's address book that I thought might be Maggie's. But I got some British guy."

  "I'll pass that on," he said, giving away absolutely nothing. She'd played her last card. "Safe journey."

  Dru got back in the car. He'd probably check her cell number, which wouldn't tell him anything, but Maggie Dunlop would probably call Kinnery now – if Dru had connected the pieces correctly.
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  Damn. What did I say when that Brit answered the call? I didn't mention Maggie. I hadn't even thought up that lie then.

  There was still the post office to try. She stopped in Athel Ridge and plucked up courage over a coffee, watching the rain pepper the diner window for half an hour. The town was a couple of bars, an agricultural supplies store, and a garage. More small stores stretched past the crossroads. Eventually, she couldn't spin the coffee out any longer, and got up to walk to the post office.

  She really did intend to go in. She got to the doors, but the adrenaline ebbed away. This was a small community. If she grilled the USPS staff, the guy at the ranch would probably get to hear. A temporary tactical withdrawal was called for. The trip had been fruitless unless the man believed her and gave Maggie Dunlop the message.

  Dru drove back to Spokane. She'd wait to see what shook out, but meanwhile she'd turn her attention back to Kinnery. Grant was still keeping tabs on him. Sooner or later, Kinnery – a guilty Kinnery, anyway – would slip up. Everyone did.

  She already had, after all.

  NINE

  Here's the thing they never tell you about politics, Micko. There's no such thing as a government. There's a loose gathering of people in the shared business of running a country, but they're just trying to steer their small fiefdom. They're not even steering the same course, or for the same reasons. I don't just mean opposition politics or lobby groups. I'm talking about government departments and agencies too – intra-agency and inter-agency strife. What voters call a government is just a country within a country, in constant civil war with itself.

  Leo Brayne, discussing governance with his son,

  Thanksgiving 1998.

  CHALTON FARM, WESTERHAM FALLS

  AUGUST.

  Beer, birds, BMW.

  Ian stumbled up the slope, sagging under a rucksack packed with six 5lb plates while Rob ran alongside him, yelling and swearing. All he had to do was reach the top of the paddock.

  Beer, birds, BMW.

  His legs were jelly, but he'd get there if it killed him. He felt like it would. And he'd never been happier.

  Phys, as Rob called any kind of fitness training, was now embedded in his routine. Beer, birds, BMW. Those were important, yes, but when he was training, his focus was on making himself more like Rob, not just physically but mentally. Rob could take anything. So could Mike, but Rob had made a religion out of it. Rob had so much confidence that it was almost luminous.

  "Come on, you slack bugger. Get a fucking move on." Rob yelled right in his ear, point blank and painful. "Move, move, move, move, move!"

  Ian almost fell a few times, but momentum kept him upright. He was only yards from his goal. The last obstacle was a frame made from a ladder of logs that he had to run up before jumping from the platform at the top. He launched himself off the first log and almost made the second before slipped and hit one of the verticals as he fell, crashing onto the grass.

  It was no great height, but it shook him. Now he couldn't stand up. His rucksack was too heavy. He struggled like a beetle on its back, unable to make his legs obey. Rob reached down to pull him up.

  Ian batted his hand away, humiliated. "I can do it."

  "Come on. That's what your mates are for."

  Rob helped him roll onto all fours and scramble to his feet. He staggered the last few yards and fell against the fence, gasping for breath and hurting everywhere. He'd done it. That was all that mattered.

  "Get your Bergen off." Rob lifted the weight of the rucksack. "This is what we brain surgeons call blood. Let's have a look."

  Ian took a moment to work out what Rob meant. His right sleeve was wet with blood, ripped to the elbow. It was just part of the general pain of exertion, nothing specific yet. Rob peeled back the sleeve and pulled a worried face.

  "Normally I'd say it's only pain, mate, but you're a bit complicated, medically speaking. Are your tetanus shots up to date?"

  "Kinnery did them when he visited," Ian said. The wound had started to throb but it couldn't be as bad as it looked. "I used to cut myself all the time working on the ranch. It's not serious."

  Rob began walking back to the house. "Come on. Better safe than sorry. Is Kinnery licensed to do doctor stuff, then? Well, if he isn't, it's the least of his problems."

  "I never asked. Look, I'm okay. Really."

  "Let's not push our luck, eh?"

  "But I finished, didn't I?"

  "You did. Good effort, mate."

  Rob took him into the workshop washroom to clean the cut. It was a two-inch rip in the skin, just above the elbow and deep enough to make Ian feel queasy as he watched the blood well out. He didn't dare look away in case Rob thought he was a wimp. Rob had dealt with open abdominal wounds. If he could face that, then Ian had no excuse for being squeamish about a goddamn scratch.

  Mike stuck his head around the open door. He must have seen them heading back. "What's wrong?"

  "He fell off one of the obstacles. Caught himself on a bolt or something." Rob squirted some gel down the line of the cut. "Make yourself useful, Zombie. Hold the skin together while I tape it, will you?"

  "For Chrissakes, Rob. You know we've got to be careful with him."

  Ian tried to keep the peace. "Mike, it's not serious. I used to snag myself on wire fences all the time on the ranch."

  Rob stuck small butterfly sutures along the cut, then covered them with a big strip of waterproof dressing. It was like being mummified a limb at a time.

  "We'll keep an eye on it, and if it doesn't look like it's healing normally, we'll have a rethink, okay?" Rob held up a tube from the first aid kit. He looked like he was going to ram it up Mike's nose. "Antiseptics. Antibiotic gel. My first aid genius. And Ian says he's up to date on his tetanus. Sorted."

  Mike sucked in a breath. "Ian, we've got a personal physician who makes house calls. He's very discreet. There won't be any tests that you don't want."

  "I don't need a doctor," Ian said. "Thanks, but I'm okay."

  "Okay, then take it easy for the rest of the day." Mike made it sound like an order, and judging by the look he shot Rob, it applied to him too. "You'll heal faster. Now go clean up."

  Ian took a shower, holding his taped elbow out of the water as far as he could. Cuts and bruises were minor scrapes compared to his dented pride. Mike and Rob probably took far worse injuries without stopping, and so would he.

  When he checked his face in the mirror, there was no change at all. Adrenaline didn't make him morph every time, then. Okay, it had been worth it. He'd learned something.

  Mike and Rob were having an intense conversation in the kitchen when he went downstairs. It sounded close to an argument, and they stopped talking as soon as he walked in. Ian looked from face to face.

  "Sorry, mate." Rob's arms were folded across his chest. It was hard to tell if his tight-lipped expression was annoyance or embarrassment. "I'm just getting a bollocking from the boss. He does it so I don't miss the good old days."

  Ian couldn't imagine anyone trying to bust Rob's balls, especially not Mike. But the two of them were definitely looking a little tense. Mike carried on as if nothing had happened.

  "How are you feeling now?" he asked.

  "I'm fine. Really."

  "We're going to Porton to pick up something for Rob. Do you want to come? It's time we got you your own laptop."

  That wasn't enough to divert Ian. He needed to clear the air first. "Can I say something?"

  "Anything you like, buddy."

  "Don't blame Rob. I'd do the training even if he wasn't standing over me. I need to know if I could have been good enough."

  Mike nodded a few times, chin lowered. "Sorry. I'm being a soccer mom. I haven't been through the parental learning curve of skinned knees like Rob has."

  "I'm not handicapped, Mike. Just different. I probably heal faster than you older guys."

  Rob chuckled to himself. "There you go, Granddad. You've been told to wind your neck in." He winked at Ian as he wal
ked out, slapping a car key fob against his palm. "See you outside."

  Mike waylaid Ian to check that the dressing was firmly in place. Even Gran hadn't been this anxious about accidents when he was little.

  "I'm fine," Ian repeated.

  Mike did his awkward shrug. "Sorry. Rob's a natural dad and I'm not. He says that kids have to be allowed to take risks. I'll butt out."

  "I'm eighteen." Ian said it to make Mike feel better, but he realised it sounded like he was telling him not to be such a nag. "I used to handle sheep. Rams can get cranky and kill you."

  "I just don't want anything happening to you on my watch. Not after the start you've had in life."

  When Mike and Rob had shown up at the ranch, Ian hadn't known if he was handing himself over to the good guys or his worst nightmare. But Mike had turned out to be the generous, honest, eccentric guy that Rob had said he was. Rob had once taken a chance, just like Ian: he hadn't known that it was worth risking his life for Mike. They were just two strangers who decided to trust each other. Gran had warned Ian what a cruel, selfish, conspiracy-ridden place the outside world was, but she was another honourable stranger who'd taken him in because she felt it was right. Maybe she didn't see that as anything exceptional, any more than Rob thought he'd been a hero for saving Mike. And now Mike and Livvie had taken Ian in without question, just like Gran.

  I haven't had a bad start in life at all. I've been lucky every time. Everyone's gone out of their way to keep me safe. Even Kinnery.

  If there was a message from fate in there, Ian was happy to take it. He sat in the passenger seat of the Mercedes, wishing again that Gran had still been here to see that things were working out for the best after all, and wondered if he'd have the nerve to access the Internet on this promised laptop after all her warnings.

  The mall at Porton was still a confusing assault course of noise and mirrors, but Ian found he was more adept at filtering out the clutter with each visit. He was starting to like the place. Beer, birds, BMW. There were plenty of girls around, but if he didn't learn to control his morphing, then they'd never be anything more than distant visions that he'd never be able to talk to, let alone touch. He had to learn other skills. He was starting to pick those up from Rob.