Prologue

by Greg Ahlgren

  “Oh don’t start,” she said, lighting up.

  “Smoke away,” Paul said. “Your lungs aren’t my concern any more.”

  Amanda smiled. “Nice to know you still care.”

  Rather than answer Paul smiled. The ironic thing, he told himself as he stood there looking at her for the first time in 28 years was that he was surprised at how much he was caring. Oh, he had thought about her all right-every time he and Valerie had fought and he had told himself that this time he would not apologize under any circumstance, for instance. He had been able to roughly follow her career from a distance through the occasional Gorenect-mail from an old classmate with a casual reference. But until he again gazed at her shoulder length brown hair framing that thin pushed face with high eyebrows over bright eyes, he had forgotten how much he still cared.

  Paul mellowed. “I always told you smoking was bad for you. You just never listened to me.”

  “I know,” she said puffing out through the corner of her lips. “And I paid the price.”

  “Price?” Paul asked, confused.

  “Cancer,” she answered matter-of-factly. “Breast cancer and ovarian cancer. Double whammy. Survivor.”

  Paul caught himself before his eyes instinctively moved downward. As if reading his thoughts Amanda spoke. “Right one. Everyone asks.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How’d you do?” he asked uncomfortably.

  Amanda shrugged. “Surgery, and chemo. That was six years ago though.”

  Paul nodded. “What was the, ah…surgery?”

  “For the breast? They removed it,” she said simply. “But don’t worry,” she added with a nervous laugh, “they built me another.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, realizing how lame he sounded. In all the years of fantasizing a meeting with Amanda Hutch he never thought that the conversation would go like this. He seemed to be trapped in the topic. Twenty-eight years and within seconds of meeting her again he was discussing her surgery.

  “You already apologized,” Amanda said. “Don’t. And don’t worry; no one knows what to say or how to react.”

  She reached over and stamped out her cigarette. “Look, it was all six years ago. I’m officially known as a survivor. I’m also open about it. Maybe too open. I speak to other women on a regular basis who are facing what I faced. Kaffee klatch stuff.”

  She laughed again. To Paul it sounded forced.

  “But you’re still smoking, I see. How can you?”

  Amanda shrugged again. “Hey, they say the cancer wasn’t caused by the smoking. Who knows? But anyway, I’ve cut back tremendously. I actually kicked it for over five years. I just took it up again recently.”

  Paul was desperate to change the subject. “I heard you got married too?” he asked.

  “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  “How is he?”

  “Good, I hear. We divorced.”

  “I’m sorry,” Paul stammered.

  “Married twice, actually. Yeah, well, you know me. Married to my career. Smart men stayed away.”

  Paul didn’t answer.

  “I did get the world’s greatest little boy out of it, though, with Will, my first husband.” She turned and fumbled through her pocketbook before pulling a picture from her wallet that she showed Paul. “Jeffrey. He’ll be fifteen next week.”

  “Looks like you. Cute kid,” Paul said studying the photo. “Does he live with you?”

  “No, his father’s remarried and living in Braintree, actually. It’s a good home for Jeffrey, and it’s a stable life, as opposed to traipsing around with a university vagabond. I’ve taught in Leningrad, Leipzig, Prague and Chapel Hill. It’s no life for a kid.”

  “You see him, of course.”

  “I do. He stays with me for much of the summer, and sees his father and step-mom on weekends. Will picks Jeffrey up for the weekend, and by the time he brings him back he’s got a list of things I’m doing wrong.” Amanda sighed. “I know I should ignore it, but sometimes it gets to me.”

  “Does Jeffrey enjoy living with his father?”

  “Oh, are you kidding? They go camping, sailing, Will took him off-roading in New Hampshire last week. Jeffrey loves it. I will say that for Will, he’s an awfully good dad.”

  “Jeffrey’s lucky,” Paul said.

  “Yes,” Amanda said. “I guess he is. His stepmother’s quite nice, too.”

  “You were married twice?” Paul asked.

  Amanda opened her pocketbook and pulled out her purse. She again studied the photograph of the smiling red-haired boy before stuffing it back inside.

  “You know, one of those European marriages that sound great sitting around a bistro someplace,” she said as she slammed the purse back inside her bag.

  “You came to MIT because Jeffrey’s in Braintree?”

  “Partly,” Amanda said looking up. “Also, I heard you were here,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him.

  Momentarily nonplused, Paul started to speak and then stopped.

  Amanda laughed and looked away. “I’m no home wrecker,” she said. “I think we can be friends, Paul.” She looked back at him. “I’d really like that.”

  “So would I,” Paul said. He looked around, saw no one, took a piece of paper out of his pocket and showed it to Amanda. “I’ll trust your thinking is the same as it used to be. I hear it is. Do you know where this is?”

  “1416 Sou –”

  Paul moved quickly and clamped his hand over her mouth. Amanda’s eyes flared up for a second, then she blinked and nodded in understanding. Paul took his hand away.

  Amanda studied the address and the rough directions Paul had written. “I can find it.”

  “Great. It’s our bowling league, and if you’d like to join a team we’re a man short. Say, seven-thirty Thursday night?”

  Amanda shrugged. “I’ll bring my bowling shoes. Well, have to get to class. I’m teaching summer school.” She stood up and took Paul’s outstretched hand. She seemed to hold it an extra moment. “Is this the sort of team I want to join?” she asked.

  Paul nodded. “I think so. We may be playing for the championship soon, and we need you.”

  Amanda shook her head. “Seven-thirty,” she said.

  Chapter 8

  Tuesday, July 14, 2026

  “Were you followed?”

  Lewis Ginter stepped inside the front door of the Beacon Street brick Victorian in Newton and collapsed his black umbrella. Rainwater ran off the fabric and dripped onto the hardwood floor. Lorrie Maddox stepped around him and glanced nervously up and down the street before closing the wooden door.

  He contemplated not answering but every crease of Lorrie’s face seemed to betray real fear.

  “No, of course not. I parked two blocks up on that back street and doubled past the house twice. There’s no one on the street.”

  Lorrie hesitated as if considering whether to believe him. Finally, she nodded slowly.

  “Everyone’s downstairs,” she said and turned toward the rear of the house. Lewis followed her through the foyer to the kitchen and past the granite topped island.

  “Beautiful house,” he said.

  Without looking back she nodded. From the rear of the house he saw a blue light flickering from the solarium and heard the voices of the Red Sox announcers.

  “Not raining in Ohio, I see,” he offered and then added, “What’s the score?”

  “Six nothing, Cleveland,” she answered without looking back.

  As he passed the entryway to the solarium he saw Lorrie’s husband hunched forward staring at the screen. Lewis followed Lorrie down the cellar stairs. At the bottom he ducked under a protruding beam. He stepped onto a squishy carpet and instinctively lifted each foot. No use. Through a casement window he could see water cascading off the back roof and pooling in the window well.

  In front of the window six faces turned as one to look at him as he entered.

  “They still sell sump pumps, you know,” he offered. No one smiled.
Lewis recognized four of them. A tall, longhaired guy dressed in denim was unknown to him. To that person’s right stood a blonde woman who Lewis estimated to be about 35, no, a bit younger, and who looked vaguely familiar.

  Lorrie turned to face Lewis. “It’s only a problem when it rains,” she said simply.

  “And my tires only get flat on the bottom,” he retorted. “But that’s no reason not to do something.” Lewis could see the strain on her face. Next to her stood Carlos Gonzalez from the Boston Herald and behind him a man Lewis knew only as Jimmy. To Jimmy’s left was Shauna Duffy, a schoolteacher, and another fellow Lewis knew to be a Somerville ophthalmologist. Eckleburg, Thomas J. Eckleburg, Lewis remembered, and behind them stood the jean clad guy and the blonde.

  Lewis resisted the urge to look inside the fridge against the side wall for a beer and instead got right to the point.

  “So, what’s the rush? You know having this large a group isn’t safe.”

  A few exchanged nervous glances.

  It was Lorrie who spoke first. “We’re worried.”

  Lewis snorted. “Who isn’t, now-a-days?”

  She shook her head. “No, more than that. There’ve been more pick-ups.” She glanced back at the group. “Disappearances.”

  “Yeah, I heard. Pomeroy got nabbed in town here.”

  The blonde woman flinched at Lewis’ words. The eye doctor shuddered.

  “It was on the radio,” he assured them. “The name is already out in public so I’m only reporting what the radio announced.”

  “It’s not just Arthur,” Lorrie said quickly. “He got arrested here in town and they actually announced his name. But there’ve been others. There’s still that missing campus police officer over at MIT. She just disappeared.”

  “That’s not unheard of,” Lewis said evenly. “Vodkaville has picked up others in the past and shipped them off to Guantanamo, or even worse, Tucson.”

  Dr. Eckleburg cleared his throat. “But it’s who. We just found out that about two weeks ago Collinson disappeared. No trace, nothing.”

  Now it was Lewis’ turn to look blank. “Collinson?”

  “Ralph Collinson,” Shauna Duffy answered. “He ran the Patriot Coffee Shop out on 2A. He’s a good friend of your deVere’s.”

  At the mention of his friend’s name Lewis flinched. Mentioning names of those not present was taboo, especially when there were strangers about. But Lewis noted that no one reacted to the name. They know. They all know.

  Lewis turned back to Lorrie. “Have you scanned the room?” he asked.

  “It’s safe,” she said. “You can trust everyone here.”

  Lewis moved to the interior wall and found a spot on an overstuffed sofa. As he sat down he could still feel his feet squish beneath him. He leaned back.

  “So, what’s going on?” he asked, stretching his arms to the back of the couch. “I don’t know this fellow you mentioned as having disappeared. But the fellow you mentioned as his friend never comes to any meetings and isn’t involved with anyone here.”

  It was the ophthalmologist again. “Collinson was a good friend of deVere’s. DeVere would stop in on the way home and they’d talk. He mentioned deVere several times and made no secret of his true feelings to deVere. Now he’s disappeared.”

  “So?” Lewis asked, trying to mask a rising anger.

  “So,” Dr. Eckleburg answered, “what do we really know about Paul deVere?”

  Lewis resisted the urge to spring across the room and throttle the doctor. He remained reclined in the sofa, feigning disinterest. He looked casually at the doctor and then let his gaze drift to each of the others. But all he saw was steely resolve.

  “I don’t know what you’re implying, Doctor. I’ve known…this fellow you mention, for a number of years. He didn’t turn in the coffee shop guy if that’s what you’re implying. And besides, why would he, what was the coffee shop guy into?”

  The doctor flushed and was about to answer when Lorrie stepped in front of him. “Lewis, that’s not what we’re saying. It’s just that, just that…” She hesitated and glanced back before continuing. “It’s just that, don’t you see? Arthur gets arrested here in town. He’s from Portland and was working on an op up there. Ralph was involved at this end. Arthur had talked about it in front of you at a meeting in April. And you are connected with deVere. And deVere knows Ralph and then Ralph and Arthur both disappear. And that campus security officer. Her car was found in a lot near deVere’s office.”

  “Guilt by association. Seems obvious to me. Why don’t you just go and kill Paul deVere?” Lewis asked sarcastically.

  “Lewis, it’s not just that,” Shauna answered impatiently. “It’s just that we’re all worried. We’ve been pouring a lot of money into this thing you’re doing with deVere and we don’t even know him. We’ve been taking your word on it. But now someone close to him has disappeared, someone who was working with someone you knew about, and everyone is starting to wonder about all this money we’ve given you. We delivered a lot of money that could have gone down South.” She turned to the woman behind her. “How much, Lorrie?”

  “So far over 500,000 Noams,” Lorrie answered quietly.

  Shauna turned back. “Half a million North American dollars is a lot of money, Lewis. We don’t even have a clue what this weapon will do, or whether it will even work.”

  Lewis ran his hand over his chin. He took a deep breath and paused as he studied the seven intent faces. He was tempted to try an arrogant response but rejected the idea.

  “DeVere is O.K.,” he began quietly. “The Intervention Project is O.K. You’ve gotta’ trust me on this.”

  Lorrie Maddox shook her head slowly. “We can’t, Lewis. Half a million is a lot. A lot of risk by a lot of people went into getting that money. We haven’t been able to raise that kind of money easily and God knows it could have gone elsewhere. That botched assassination plan on Commissar Bush in Houston probably would have worked if they had a better detonator. And the Alamosas want to try again.”

  Lewis snorted. “That was a stupid plan anyway. Knock off a civil administrator. Should have gotten her grandfather 40 years ago is who they should have killed. Kill her and her brat will just take over.”

  “We can’t go on like this,” Lorrie continued, ignoring the criticism. “We need to know where the money is going. Not all of us, of course, but it can’t be just you and this deVere fellow. What happens if something happens to you? Not just caught but what if you get killed in an accident or something? We have no idea what you’re up to and we have no other connection with deVere.”

  Lorrie shook her head. “It was O.K. when it was 70 or 80 thousand. But now it’s like the Big Dig. We have to at least see where the money’s going.”

  “What you really want to know is if we’re embezzling your money,” Lewis answered hotly. “You don’t think we’re inept. You’re afraid we’re squishers siphoning off dough from the Descendants of Liberty. Or else crooks scamming you.”

  “Lewis, calm down!” It was the doctor again. “No one thinks you’re crooked. We don’t know your friend, or where the money’s going. We have no idea if this super weapon you guys are building will ever work. We don’t know how much more it’ll cost. We don’t even know what it’s supposed to do. We’ve given you this money because of you. No one else could have gotten half a mill on trust.”

  The doctor’s voice trailed off and silence filled the room. The rain continued to pound against the basement window. Behind the group Lewis could see the window well filling even more. In the distance he thought he heard a thunderclap. Across from him the faces did not flinch. He was out of room, and almost out of time, and he knew it.

  “OK,” he said, exhaling. “So, what do you want to do? We can’t have too many people know. And there’s no way we can get a group into the school where we have this thing. There’s little audio surveillance there but there are cameras everywhere and some are frequently monitored. Some are on tape delay but any group going
in is going to-”

  “One person,” Dr. Eckleburg said evenly.

  “Huh?”

  “One person. We just want one person to see if deVere is wasting our money. One person to report back to us.”

  “It’s kind of a technical weapon-” Lewis began.

  “Pamela,” Lorrie said simply. She glanced back at the blonde woman and instinctively Lewis followed her gaze.