by Glenn Cooper
At least until February 9.
When Nancy arrived he was sitting upright with his hair combed and teeth brushed. He instinctively grinned with the same sheepish smile he always sported every time he’d messed up with her.
She just stood there at the foot of his bed, crying.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said.
She looked so small and thin. She’s lost weight, he thought. Poor kid. The things I put her through.
When she was younger, stress had made her put on weight. The opposite was true now. In the early years of their marriage, he’d dropped little remarks which had sent her into mental tailspins, then a diet. But when she reached her midthirties and seriously started climbing the FBI org chart something shifted. Maybe it was the pressure of management jobs or the burden of being married to the likes of him or her excessive early-morning gym routines, but her body had turned lean and firm. He wasn’t complaining.
Almost two decades separated them. She was still a fairly young woman; he was entering his self-admitted crotchety years. He considered himself all too predictable, but to his mind, she was as changeable as the prevailing winds. Some days she came off as tougher than nails, demanding, and hugely self-assured; other days she seemed diminutive, needy, and doubt-ridden. Some days, she complained to him bitterly about being up in Washington essentially leading the life of a single parent and making him feel like a selfish rat for not joining her. Other days, she said she’d had it with the bureaucracy in DC and just wanted to pack it in and move to Florida.
Now this.
“I didn’t . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Come here,” he said.
The bed rail was down. She leaned over and kissed him, wetting his cheek with her tears. He took his free arm, the one that didn’t have an IV stuck in it, and enveloped her. He tried to squeeze but he was as weak as a kitten.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She straightened herself. “Sorry for what?”
“For being a pain in the ass.”
“Since when did you start apologizing for that?”
“I guess it’s a new thing.”
“It won’t last. Jesus, Will, we thought we were losing you.”
“I’m BTH, remember?”
“You know what I mean. Like Mark Shackleton.”
Mark Shackleton, he of postcard fame, who’d operated with a sense of impunity because he’d known he was BTH. Shot in the head by Area 51 agents fifteen years ago, he was still alive, a vegetable in a coma.
“I put you through a lot. I’m glad I didn’t pull a Shackleton. I saw Doctor Stick-up-her-ass this morning. She said I got some new treatment.”
“Dr. Rosenberg. Unless a woman’s a bimbo, you think she’s officious.”
He smiled. “See, we’re arguing again. Just like old times.”
“I missed you.”
He nodded and asked in rapid fire, “How’ve you been holding up? Where’ve you been staying? Where’s Phillip?”
“I’ve been trying to hold things together as best I could, especially for Phillip. He’s back at school, staying at Andy’s house. Andy’s parents have been great. I’ve been in a hotel near the hospital.”
“On leave.”
“That was the plan, but it got derailed. We got busy. I’ve been coordinating things from down here, using the Miami office. I called Phillip this morning to tell him the news. He’s arriving this afternoon, with Laura and Greg.”
“Is Laura okay?”
“She’s been down here a couple of times. She’s been worried sick.”
“And Nick?”
“He’s fine too. He’s away at school.” Nancy set her jaw, a look he knew all too well.
“What?” he asked.
“I don’t want to bring up any unpleasantness at a time like this, but before Phillip arrives I wanted you to know he’s had a confusing time of it.”
Will waited for more.
“It’s the circumstances of your heart attack. The paramedics found you with a couple of young women inside Ben Patterson’s boat.”
He frantically searched his memory, came up blank and assumed the worst. “Christ. I’m . . .”
“Please don’t apologize to me, Will. I’m not looking for that. I just want you to be sensitive to Phillip’s feelings. He’s been struggling with a lot of emotions.”
Will teared up and summoned her for another hug. “I swear to you, Nancy, for as long as we have on this earth, I’m going to be a better man.”
They bought him a small cake with a single battery-operated candle—real ones were verboten in the oxygen-rich intensive care unit.
The nurses dolled Will up in his own, now loosely fitting clothes, and wheeled him in a lounge chair so he could receive visitors more comfortably. He remained attached to intravenous lines and monitors and required oxygen prongs in his nostrils but to the surprise of everyone who had borne witness to his coma, he looked very much himself.
Though his voice was hoarse, his lips were cracked and coated in Vaseline and his complexion was sallow, his eyes retained their old sparkle, and the corners of his mouth sported his trademark self-deprecatory crinkle.
The powers that be limited the visit to twenty minutes. Nancy, Greg, and Laura hovered over him in an awkward homecoming while Phillip lurked at the doorway.
Laura had never outgrown her free-spirited youth. She was still a postmillennial flower child who dressed in long cotton frocks, her flowing hair streaked with gray. She was a novelist with a steady following of like-minded women who took to her stories of quirky love, abandonment, and randomness. It hadn’t hurt her career that she was Will Piper’s daughter; some of her fans combed through her books as if they were sacred texts looking for hidden truths about 2027, a subject she had long embraced.
Her son Nick was an only child, a few months older than Phillip. It had always been a source of family tension that Will’s son and grandson were the same age. Laura had made no secret of her opinion that Nick had drawn the short straw and had been deprived of the unfettered attention of his grandfather. Nevertheless, Will genuinely liked the kid, always had, and on Nick’s infrequent visits to Florida, found him a better fishing buddy than his son. But ever since he went off to boarding school in New Hampshire, they rarely saw each other.
His son-in-law, Greg Davis, was his usual saturnine self and during the visit, the two men exchanged a single obligatory bear hug and few words. The animus was largely one-sided—Will didn’t particularly love the guy but he certainly never disliked him. If Greg was good enough for his daughter, he was good enough for him.
The difficulties lay with Greg’s chronic disappointment and his belief that his career might have blossomed if Will had only been more helpful.
Will had always rejected the notion out of hand. When Greg was a junior staff reporter at The Washington Post back in 2011, hadn’t he handed the kid the scoop of the century? Hadn’t Greg become instantly famous as the journalist who first reported the existence of the Library of Vectis and Area 51? Hadn’t he landed a Pulitzer Prize? Was it Will’s fault that Greg’s plans to write the book of books about the Library got shot down by a Supreme Court ruling that compelled the Post to cease and desist and return Will’s pirated copy of the US database to the government? Was it his fault that Greg was forced to adhere to the government’s nondisclosure agreement? Was it Will’s fault that publishers fell all over themselves to get their mitts on his book about the Doomsday case?
Greg had left the Post after the Supreme Court verdict and ridden his journalistic notoriety for a while with jobs at the New York Times, then a succession of magazines and entrepreneurial publishing ventures, none of which had amounted to much. His latest project was a portfolio of NetZines aimed at immigrant communities living in America, and he and Laura lived in Brooklyn now, supported disproportionally by her novels.
Will found the cake too challenging to swallow and just ate the icing. “Best thing I ever tasted,” he said.
“Did they tell you how long they were keeping you in, Dad?” Laura asked.
“No, but the doctor said that when the MyoStem takes as well as it has for me, the recovery is fast. I’d leave today if it were up to me.”
“It’s not up to you,” Nancy said sternly.
He changed the subject. “Been able to write?” he asked his daughter.
“I’ve been a little distracted.”
“How about you, Greg. How’s your business getting on?”
Greg had carried his angular body and sharp-featured face into middle age, but his curly mass of hair had wilted away. The dome of his head was now bony and geographic. The question seemed to animate him. “We’ve been busy, crazy busy, because of Nancy’s thing. Extra editions, you name it.”
Nancy looked at Greg sharply.
“What thing?” Will asked.
“Nothing,” she said, shooting Greg a dirty look. “I’ll tell you later. It’s nothing we need to talk about right now.”
Ordinarily, Will wouldn’t let a comment like that go—he’d dog it until he had an answer, but he was too weak and foggy to pursue it. He let the bone drop from his teeth.
He called his son over. The boy took a few paces into the room. “I hear you’re staying with Andy.”
Phillip nodded.
“How’s that working out? Getting any work done, or are the two of you just farting around?”
“It’s okay,” the boy answered sullenly.
Will sniffed back some tears. “I’m sorry I put you through all of this.”
“It’s okay. Can I go downstairs so I can use my NetPen?”
“Don’t you want to tell your father about your award?” Nancy asked.
“No,” the kid said, slipping away. “You tell him.”
“Phillip?” Will called after him, but he was gone. “What award?”
“His school had all the kids write about what February 9, 2027 means to them. All the essays were entered in a national contest. Phillip won first prize.”
“You’re kidding!”
“It’s online, Dad. It’s everywhere,” Laura said.
“I even reprinted it in my NetZine,” Greg added.
Nancy had a copy in her purse. “I’ll leave it on the bedside table,” she said. “Read it when we leave. You’re in it.”
“Am I?” Will said, unable to prevent a soft, shuddering run of sobs.
Chapter 4
Nancy was gushing. “You look so much better!”
Will was on a regular hospital floor, disconnected from all but a small IV port in his hand.
“I’m feeling better,” he said.
She’d found him walking the halls in sweatpants and polo shirt, doing a circuit of the ward. Every so often he would stop, check his pulse, grunt, and carry on.
“Breathing okay?” she asked.
He was. He was also pain-free except for his bruised, needle-punctured arms.
They made their way to his room, where he claimed the chair, she, the bed.
“They’re doing an exercise test tomorrow,” he said. “If it’s good, they’re sending me home.”
She nodded enthusiastically, then repeated the word with emphasis. “Home.”
He knew what she meant.
“I hate it in Virginia. You know how I feel.”
“I can’t leave you on your own.”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
“Will, don’t you think that your . . .” She looked like she couldn’t bear saying heart attack. “. . . your problem changes things?”
“I agree,” he said. “I do think it changes things. I think you should retire. This was our tipping point. I want you and Phillip with me. Down here. Phillip can go to school in Panama City. Or not go to school at all as far as I’m concerned.”
She closed her eyes in a show of anger and frustration. He expected her to come out fighting, but when she reopened them, it was apparent she’d reined herself in. She spoke evenly with supreme control. “We agreed not to let the Horizon change the way we live. Whatever happens, we’ll be together as a family next February 9, and we’ll be laughing or crying together, maybe a little of both. Until then, Phillip needs to stay in school, I need to keep working, and you need to keep fishing.”
It wasn’t what he wanted to hear but it wasn’t surprising. Nancy was tough. That’s what he liked about her even when it worked against him. “Then at least spend a month in Florida until I’m all better. Then we can go back to Plan A.”
“I can’t.”
He lost his cool. “Why the hell not? Is it the ‘thing’ that Greg said you were busy with? Tell me how this ‘thing’ is more important than me.”
She sighed. “It’s not more important than you. It’s a new case. A big one. I’m up to my keister in it.”
“Christ, Nance, you’re so high on the totem pole, all you need to do is take names and bust asses these days.”
“You’d think. I almost feel like a field agent on this one.”
He saw the anxiety in her face. It was paradoxically calming. “You want to tell me what it is?”
“Postcards,” she said. “We’ve got more postcards.”
What little pink there was in his cheeks blanched out. “You’re not serious!”
“I’m completely serious.”
“Where? How many? Who’s got the capability or the motive? Why the hell now?”
She motioned for him to slow down and emphatically told him she’d only talk about it if he promised he wouldn’t work himself into a state. He reached for a water bottle and agreed.
“To be honest, I thought you’d have seen it on TV or the Net the last couple of days or heard about it from someone in the hospital. I’m glad it’s coming from me.”
“You know I hate the news, and why would anyone have told me?”
“Because you’re Will Piper?”
He saw her point.
“It started two weeks ago. Five postcards, all postmarked on the same day. It’s the same pattern as seventeen years ago, a printed name and address on the front with no return address. On the back there’s a hand-drawn picture of a coffin and a date. And like before, each recipient dies on the date.”
“Only five?”
“It’s fifteen now.”
“Nevada postmarks?”
“New York City.”
“Let me guess. Different causes of death, different MOs, maybe not even homicides at all,” Will said automatically.
“Right.”
“And no linkers or patterns.”
“It’s a little different from 2009. All the recipients are Chinese.”
“What?” he said in amazement.
“The first ten lived mostly in Chinatown in New York. The five newest ones are in San Francisco.”
“Who’s working it?”
“New York, San Francisco. We’ve got good people assigned. Problem is, it’s got my name all over it because of past history. The Director called me in on the first day and told he was cutting through six layers and putting me directly in charge. I’m briefing him personally morning and night. He wanted me in New York, but because of your illness he let me work it from Miami.”
“Other than the curiosity factor which, believe me, I’m not discounting, why the hysteria? It’s obvious it’s a Shackleton-type situation. Some jackass from Area 51 is leaking names again.”
“It’s because of the China angle. The Chinese government and their Ministry of State Security is all over it. Even though the postcard victims are mostly American citizens the Chinese government is highly agitated. They also think it’s coming from Area 51. They think it’s an act of provocation. China’s the second largest economy in the world. We’re declining, they’re closing fast. They’re convinced we’re screwing with them, playing psych-out games. They’ve let it be known through diplomatic channels that unless we find the leaker they’re not going to roll ove
r our debt payments. They call a few hundred billion in notes, and bad things are going to happen here.”
Will signaled he wanted to switch places, to lie down. He sprawled out and said, “It’s so damned juvenile. The world may end in a year, and we’re playing these stupid games right to the last day.”
She nodded wearily. “What can I say? It’s official US policy to maintain the status quo.”
“While NASA and every astronomer in the world keeps looking for the big one with our name on it,” he said. His eyes drooped.
She sat beside him and stroked his hair. “You look tired, honey.”
“I’ll do it,” he said.
“Do what?”
“I’ll go back to Virginia with you. Until I’m better. Okay?”
“I love you,” she said.
His lip quivered ever so slightly. “Right back at you.”
“And I forgive you.”
He had a mental shot of Meagan in her little bikini and wished he could remember how much forgiveness he needed.
Roger Kenney rode Elevator One six floors up to ground level and left the chilled air of the Truman Building for the sandy heat of the Nevada desert. It was only a short walk to Rear Admiral Duncan Sage’s office in the Admin Building but he sweated out the armpits of his fatigues by the time he was back in air-conditioning.
Admiral Sage kept him waiting, which was nothing new. Kenney always suspected the waiting game was a display of theater and power on Sage’s part, a brittle show of dominance. It wasn’t as if the base commander at Area 51 was the busiest officer in the US military these past several years. He wasn’t the only landlocked admiral in the US Navy, but he was certainly the only one stuck on an ancient dry lake bed in the desolate Nevada desert. It was only an accident of history that put the base under naval jurisdiction back when it was established in 1947, and Sage was the last in the line of ducks out of water.
Kenney thoroughly and unreservedly hated Sage’s guts. He considered him to be a pompous and insecure son of a bitch whom he wouldn’t trust to shine his shoes in civilian life. To his confidants in the ranks of the watchers, the roster of majors who reported directly to him, Kenney seditiously referred to Sage as the banana slug after the creature so territorial and guarded that it bites off its own penis inside the female to prevent others from depositing sperm. He couldn’t recall how he knew about the mating habits of banana slugs, but it was the typical kind of factoid he was always picking up and tossing around to the amusement of the men he commanded.