by J. G. Sandom
“What?” It was so loud, Decker wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. “A what?”
Lulu pointed inside. “Ice cream soda,” she shouted, grabbing Decker by the hand.
They entered the drugstore. It was disquietingly quiet after the strident shrieks of the street. Somewhere, in the background, Decker could just make out Perry Como singing Do You Hear What I Hear? Only a few people milled about the narrow, cramped aisles, picking out objects like sleepwalkers. The store looked like something out of the 1950s. The shelves were decked out with garlands and Christmas stockings.
They took off their masks.
Lulu headed straight for the hair supplies while Decker made his way toward a newspaper stand by the checkout counter. Amid the alien abduction rags, he found his own face on display. In fact, it was plastered about. His and Lulu’s. WANTED, the headlines roared out at him. Have you seen this man...this couple...alleged terrorist attacks. And so on and so forth. He scanned each one in turn until—that face!
Decker picked up the newspaper. The front page featured the woman from Mr. X’s VR world! Her name was Mary-Lou Fleming, and now he understood why she had looked so familiar. She was the woman he’d seen on TV, the one who’d died with her two kids when a train hit her Camaro at that railroad crossing in Mississippi. But what, Decker wondered, had she been doing in Mr. X’s VR world?
Decker brought the newspaper over to Lulu. She was busy reading the labels on a couple of boxes.
“Recognize this woman?” he asked her.
“That’s Mary-Lou Fleming,” she said, barely looking up from the boxes.
“Exactly.” Decker shook the paper in his hand. “I just saw her in Mr. X’s VR world.”
“What?”
“She was in this Southwestern-looking suburb, like something near Phoenix or Albuquerque. I don’t get it. Why was she there? What’s she got to do with Zimmerman and Braun?
Lulu shrugged. “I don’t know. But I have my suspicions. Who else was in there?”
Decker filled her in on what he had seen at the Media Lab. He told her about the blond man in tennis whites and the feeling of dread that had wafted about him. He told her about Emily, about her standing alone in those trees and how she had tried to seduce him. He told her about seeing Lulu naked in that circle of prairie grass, about Becca and the blond man’s threat on her life.
“Naked, huh?” was all Lulu could say. “How did I look? Did I look sexy? Did I look fat? Don’t tell me—I looked fat, didn’t I?”
“You looked fine,” Decker answered, unsure of what else he should say.
“Look, I’m not really sure why Mary-Lou Fleming was in Mr. X’s VR world. I have my suspicions, but...” She held up two boxes of hair dye. “...I’m kind of tied up with more pressing concerns at the moment,” she concluded, pushing closer to him. Someone was trying to pass right behind her.
Decker looked down at her, felt the warmth of her body beside him.
“Red or brown?” she inquired.
“Call me crazy,” said Decker. “But, I’d be curious to see what you look like underneath all that crap. The real Lulu.”
Lulu kept smiling at him but the smile took on the aroma of falseness. It faltered and dwindled away. For a second or two, she seemed truly embarrassed. Frightened, even. Then, without warning, she stood on the tips of her toes and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Be careful what you wish for,” she said. “You may not like what you see.”
He cupped her chin in his hand. “I’ll take my chances,” he said, dragging her off toward the checkout counter.
“Excuse me,” he said to the girl by the cash register. He dropped the hair dye and scissors, plus a few boxes of bandages on the counter. “You wouldn’t happen to have a bathroom here, would you?”
CHAPTER 45
Friday, December 13
They stood at the edge of the Boston Common, looking up through the trees at the Four Season’s Hotel, just through the bushes on Boylston.
“Let’s not take any chances,” said Decker. “We may have cut our hair, changed the color, but that facial recognition software is getting pretty robust these days. Check for cameras as you enter each room and make sure to—”
“Hey, who spotted that cop back on Charles Street? You’re the one who should be paying more attention to my feminine instincts,” she told him. “As my grandmother always says, ‘If I tell you mosquitoes can plow, hitch ’em up.’”
“That’s a Chinese saying? Really? Hitch ’em up?”
Lulu didn’t answer. She crossed the last few yards of the park and headed straight across Boylston.
Decker had a hard time keeping up with her. He bobbed between traffic and followed her up the steps of the hotel into the lobby.
The hotel was jumping. Dozens of patrons milled about, including a pair of young girls, eight or nine, both of whom appeared to be enjoying their birthdays on the same day, and they didn’t seem very happy about it. They were already sharing the season with Jesus.
Lulu and Decker made their way across the imposing lobby, under the huge crystal chandelier, to the front desk.
“Ah, Mister King,” said the young Latin American man behind the counter as soon as he checked Decker’s ID—the one Lulu had chalked for him.
He looked like a matinée idol, thought Decker, the star of a telenovela.
“Happy holidays,” said the clerk. “I’m so happy to finally meet you in person, Mr. King.”
Decker and Lulu took off their hats simultaneously, both looking about them at almost the same moment, searching for cameras.
The man behind the counter stared at Decker’s ID one more time before handing it back to him. “Yes, well. Any luggage?” he asked.
“Coming later,” said Lulu.
Decker glanced over at her. He was still having a hard time getting used to her face. Gone was the EMO hair spiked with purple and pink. Gone the ear-rings and studs. Instead, her hair was cut short and completely black, a lustrous deep burnished black. Almost obsidian. And she had stripped off practically all of the heavy black makeup from her eyes. They looked simple and plain, black on black.
Decker turned back toward the counter and noticed his own reflection in a mirror on the far side of the desk. Lulu looked different—that was true. But he looked positively bizarre.
She had dyed his hair an albino white. Not blond, or honey or sandy, or anything found in nature, thought Decker. No, of course not. More than snow white. Billy Idol white. Rutger Hauer Blade Runner replicant white. And she had cut it close, and spiked it up with some strange glue-like wax.
“If you’d like, I’ll have some refreshments and food sent up to your suite, Mister King.”
“Great.”
The manager handed Decker his room card. And to Lulu, he added, “And here’s one for you too, Miss Lee. Just in case.” He gave her a wink.
“In case of what?” Decker said as they made their way toward the elevators.
“In case you get frisky,” she answered, pushing the button.
Their suite was on the sixth floor at the end of a corridor. Actually, it was more of an apartment than a suite, Decker realized, as they began to wander from one room to the next: a foyer, with a powder room on one side and a pantry on the other; to the left, moving clockwise, a large living room with a baby grand piano, a series of foamy cream- and gold-colored love seats, and a balcony overlooking the Common; then a full dining room; an office or media center (with extra sleeping quarters, just in case); and the master suite, with its imposing king size bed, a gargantuan marble tub in the bathroom with its dramatic view of the city, and that luxurious sitting area.
“I call the shower,” said Lulu, pushing past Decker.
All told, it must have been more than 2,500 square feet, larger than most private homes. By the time Decker had made his way back to the foyer, someone was knocking on the front door.
It turned out to be an energetic young Asian steward with a cart full of food. He made a quick stop
in the pantry and then re-appeared carrying tray after tray into the dining room. There was a bucket of seaweed and ice in which Decker spotted two brilliant red lobsters. There was an entire chafing dish of garlic King Crab legs. There was a tower of oysters, from briny Atlantic Bluepoints and Wellfleets, the steward explained, to nut-flavored Kumamotos and Malpeques, Beausoleils and Miyagis. There was even a tray of various caviars and toast points, from pale gray Beluga to Ossetra, and even an amber thimble of Sterlet the color of sunlight. Off to the side, the steward had already set up a couple of wine buckets. One held a bottle of Bollinger and the other a Nicolas Feuillatte Brut Rosé Palmes d’Or.
“Did Ms. Lee order all this?” Decker asked, overwhelmed by the opulence.
“No, sir,” the steward said with a laugh. “Compliments of the hotel, Mister King. As always.”
“Right, as always,” he said. “Thanks.” He took the check from the steward and added a sizeable tip.
“No, thank you, Mister King. If there’s anything else that you need. Anything.” The young man backed away toward the door. He would not turn his back on Decker. “Please call down and ask for Min-jun. Anytime,” said the steward. He bowed once again, felt for the doorknob behind him, and unctuously scurried away.
“Koreans,” scoffed Lulu as she reappeared in the doorway. She was wearing a white terrycloth robe that appeared far too big for her. “Your turn,” she said, drying her hair with a fluffy white towel.
Decker made his way to the shower and spent the next twenty minutes letting hot water course down his body. Every muscle screamed for relief. He cleaned out his wounds—where the assassin had stabbed him in the arm, where the samaras had slashed open his stomach and back, and all the other countless little lacerations and glass cuts he’d picked up on the way. By the time he had finished, the bottom of the shower flowed pink with blood.
He dried himself off, patched up the deepest cuts with some bandages they had bought in the drug store, and slipped on another terrycloth robe. Then, he returned to the living room. Lulu was nowhere to be seen. “Hello. Hello?” he cried.
“I’m in here.”
Lulu was pouring a glass of champagne in the dining room as he came in. She handed it to him, picked up her own glass and offered a toast. “To the Four Seasons Hotel,” she said. “Lifesavers.”
“To the Four Seasons,” said Decker. He took a large swig of wine. It was absolutely delicious.
“How’s your back? Can I help you put on some bandages?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “What are you, shy? Pull your top down.”
Decker sighed. He dropped the front of his robe, revealing his back to her, well-muscled and wide. There were three horizontal cuts still bleeding after his shower. Lulu went to the bathroom and came back with the bandages. As Decker sat there drinking his wine, she patched up his wounds, wrapping the gauze round his back and his chest, taking note of his six pack. When she was done, she helped him shimmy his robe back over his shoulders.
“Thanks,” he said.
Lulu didn’t reply. She simply re-filled her glass and kept drinking.
Decker got up and helped himself to some food. Lulu soon followed suit. They ate at the end of the table, side by side.
For some time, neither of them spoke. It had been a long, arduous day and each was content to nibble and drink, and to gaze out the windows at the city shimmering below. Besides, the food—the briny oysters and caviar, the juicy crab legs and succulent lobster—had entranced them. It seemed like years since Decker had tasted anything quite so satisfying.
“Tell me about Iowa,” Lulu said out of nowhere.
“What about it?”
“What was it like growing up there, especially with your aunt and her husband?”
Before he knew it, the words tumbled out. Decker found himself telling her about growing up the son of a cop, about his parent’s death in that car crash when they had gone to pick him up after his track meet, about his going to live with his relatives. He told her about joining the FBI soon after graduating from Northwestern, and about his role in the El Aqrab affair when he—and Emily—had tried to stop the mega-tsunami. “Fame isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be,” Decker said with a sigh. “Frankly, a lot of people resent it. They’re jealous, I guess. Others think that they know you just because they’ve glimpsed you a couple of times on TV. Now, no matter what I do, I’ll always be associated with the worst terrorist attack on America since 9/11. Emily too. Not as a brilliant oceanographer, which she was. But as that woman at the heart of the El Aqrab incident.”
Lulu pressed him about Emily’s death. It seemed painfully obvious that Decker felt guilty for sending his wife to Dallas for that TV interview in his stead. “But it wasn’t your fault,” she insisted. “The plane simply malfunctioned.”
“They asked me to go. Me—not her,” he replied. “But I was too busy, too important to be dragged away from my work. I had an important case to attend to.” He ripped open a crab leg. “And for what? Some damned interview? Another talk show appearance so we could sell a few thousand more copies of our book?” He sucked the meat from the crab leg and tossed it aside. “Of course, I was more than happy to spend all the money the book earned us. I had no problem buying a townhouse in Georgetown. That I could do. Just too proud to promote it.” He shook his head.
“It’s funny,” he said. “I remember that morning as if it were yesterday. We’d been arguing all night, and she left angry and headed out to the taxi with Becca, holding her hand. I wanted to run after them. You know. To say, ‘I’m sorry, don’t go. Let’s postpone. Let’s just hang out together this weekend.’ That’s what I should have said. I could have done the interview later but I didn’t. I didn’t tell her any of that. I didn’t even follow her out. I was too fucking proud. If she hadn’t gone, she’d still be alive. It’s my fault she’s dead. It should have been me. I should have been the one on that plane.”
“No you shouldn’t have. If you should have, you would have been. Who are you, God? You don’t get to decide, John. It wasn’t your time. It was her time, Emily’s time. That’s why she’s dead and you’re here beside me whining about it. Not that I mind, particularly. I guess I’d rather you talk it all out than see you drive yourself into some ditch. Especially if I’m still in the car.”
Decker laughed. They talked about his PTSD and how the FBI and, later, the NCTC had insisted he undergo therapy. “Sometimes I don’t recognize myself. It’s like I’ve become someone else. The littlest thing sets me off sometimes. And now,” he admitted, “I keep everyone at arms’ length. Even my daughter.” He shook his head. “I’ve never connected with her,” he confessed. “Not really. I guess I’ve always been afraid to, especially since the accident. I mean, if something were to happen to her. You know, something...I don’t know what I’d do.”
“What if something were to happen to you?” she insisted. “You act as if you’re late for a drink with your maker. Let me ask you a question. Can I?”
“Now you ask for permission!” Decker sat up. “That’s rich. Go ahead, shoot. What else do you want to know?”
“About your Aunt Hanne,” said Lulu.
Decker hesitated. “What about her?”
“What happened? Didn’t she want you to come live with her? Didn’t her husband?”
Decker reached for another oyster. He sucked it down and tossed the shell to the side. After a moment, he said, “Tom was in favor of it. He would be, of course. But Hanne. Well, she wasn’t...How can I put it? She’s not the maternal type.” Then, he changed the subject again. “What I want to know is,” he asked her, “what’s a convicted hacker doing going to MIT at fifteen? Yeah, I looked you up. Did you think I’d team up with someone I hadn’t investigated?”
“Guess not,” she replied, tearing into her lobster.
“I didn’t realize MIT had a prison release program. I hear you hacked into a government network. Did they offer you a deal?�
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“It was jail time or go to school. It wasn’t a very difficult decision.” She ripped off a claw.
“But MIT. That’s a tough school to get into. Why there?”
“It was MIT’s network I hacked into.” She smiled. “You know, I’m beginning to think you’re attracted to bad girls.” Lulu used a nut-cracker to shatter the claw. She plucked out the meat, dipped the end into some melted butter, and then proceeded to suck on the tip.
Decker laughed as she bit the pink flesh.
Without warning Lulu got up from the table. She slid in beside him, leaned over and started to brush his now spiky white hair. “This haircut makes you look like a rock star.”
“It does? How bad are you, Lulu?” he said.
She kissed him gently, then bit his lip. “Don’t ask.”
Decker climbed to his feet. He pushed Lulu back onto the top of the table, clearing away the lobster and oysters with a brush of his arm. He leaned over and kissed her, a passionate kiss, his tongue snaking deep in her mouth.
She moaned as he leaned his body against her.
The top of her robe parted, revealing her tattoo beneath—a complex imbroglio of pink and gold lotus blossoms, green vines and lily pads that wrapped across the top of her breasts and around her right side. The design appeared to extend across her whole back. It was beautiful work, dramatic and sensual, brash yet sublime.
Decker reached down and began fondling her breasts, one after the other. They were much bigger than they appeared under her clothes. Given her frame, he’d expected them to be smaller. But they looked just as they had in the VR world, heavy and full, with thick dark brown nipples. He popped one into his mouth.
Lulu moaned loudly again. She curled her legs up, wrapping them around his hips, drawing him in even closer. “Fuck me,” she said. “Right here. Right now. Please, John.”
Decker looked down at Lulu splayed out on the table, surrounded by what remained of their food. Without even thinking, he stuck a couple of fingers into the tin of Beluga and plucked out a soupçon of caviar. Slowly, languorously, he rubbed the tiny gray eggs onto each of her nipples. Then, he started to suck on them, one after the other.