by John Case
This time his head was driven into something hard. A flashbulb went off behind his eyes, and a bright red seam arced through his vision. The hand on his arm was torn away, and then he was in the water, dazzled, tumbling, hurt.
Something was happening inside his head. The noises were all wrong – distant, fizzy, carbonated, wrong.
For an instant he felt the ground beneath him, and just as quickly it was gone. Instinctively his feet began to bicycle in the water. Which was cold. Freezing. And slicing into the rip in his wet suit like a knife made of ice. He could feel the warmth seeping away from him, and knew that he had less than a minute, and then he’d be dead, smashed against the rocks, drowned or core-froze. The thought pulled a gasp from his chest. His eyes flew open and, through the salt burn, he saw a ring of orange flames, shooting this way and that in quick, exuberant zips.
We are the sultans . . .
A wall of sparkling black rocks loomed out of nowhere as the cold took him by the chest and squeezed, tearing the air from his lungs. For a second he felt something under his feet and, with surging heart, he took a step, and then another. Suddenly, the water fell away from his chest – dropping to his waist, his knees, his ankles. There was a clatter of stones at his feet as a million pebbles rushed toward the sea on a tide of phosphorus and foam. For a moment he was rooted to the spot, and turning around, looked up in dread to see the Wave, like a dark house falling toward him out of the sky.
36
‘MOMMY – I THINK he’s awake!’
‘Are you sure this time?’ A woman’s voice, a little distracted but still sweetly indulgent.
‘Uh-huh. You want to know why?’
‘No.’
‘Be-cause . . . heyyy! You said no-o.’ A chuckle. ‘You do want to know why, Mommy!’
‘You’re right, I do.’
‘Because his eyes are closed but underneath they moved. Really fast, like they jumped.’
Lassiter could feel faint puffs of air against his cheek. The sweet smell of a child’s breath. Brandon? And then the woman’s voice: ‘Just because he moved, that doesn’t mean he’s awake. It’s a reflex. He probably heard me drop that pan, even in his sleep, and it startled him.’
‘What’s a “re-fless”?’
‘Re-flex.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s when your body reacts all by itself. Say . . . if I poked my finger toward your eye – really fast. Even if you didn’t want to, your eyes would squeeze shut.’
‘Except I know you won’t really poke me, so I could keep my eyes open.’
‘No, that’s what a reflex is – you can’t help it. When something’s coming toward your eye, your eyes slam shut so they won’t get hurt.’
‘You try that – poking my eye.’ A little laugh. ‘Only not really really.’
‘Let me finish the dishes first.’
‘Okay.’ The child began to hum a sweet little tune.
From his strange, removed space, Lassiter was beginning to remember something: music, a wave, drowning. . . . His eyes fluttered open and a blurry little face, not a foot from his own, jerked back, startled.
‘Aaaaaa! He opened his eyes!’ The child chuckled, happy and scared. ‘Mommy! He woke up!’
‘Oh, Jesse,’ the voice said, moving closer. ‘You stare at him so long, you want him to wake up so much –’
‘Nuh-uhhhh. He looked at me. Really.’
The light hurt his eyes, and Lassiter closed them again, but this time he couldn’t slide back into that cool dead space.
And then the woman’s voice was floating down from the air over Lassiter’s head. ‘Jess-ee – he’s still asleep.’
‘I thought . . . maybe it was just a reefless.’
‘Oh, you,’ she said indulgently. ‘How did you get so smart?’ Then she must have tickled him, or swung him around, because the child giggled, a deep, rolling, belly laugh of pure delight.
‘Do that again!’
Lassiter was thinking: double-four-time . . . double-four-time. What was double-four-time? And then, core-froze. And maybe I’m dead. His eyes snapped open.
The woman was holding the boy under his arms, swinging him in a circle, head back, hair flying. Once, twice: the whirl began to slow as the woman pulled the boy toward her and then settled him on his feet. The child swayed, giggled, and waited for the room to stop moving. Then his eyes met Lassiter’s and a look of great solemnity came over his face.
‘Look,’ he said.
The mother turned to where the boy was pointing and stared.
‘I told you,’ the boy said.
The woman’s carefree expression faded into a cautious one. ‘You were right, Jesse,’ she said carefully. ‘He is awake.’
‘We saved you,’ Jesse said, his huge brown eyes fixed on Lassiter. ‘You even stopped breathing until Mommy put her breath into you. I had to count – it was very impor-tant – and then you spitted up water.’ An apologetic look. ‘We cut your diver suit off, and we can’t ever fix it. How –’
He heard the woman say, ‘Shhhh.’
Little fingers touched his forehead and stroked it. ‘You’ll be all right,’ the boy said.
Lassiter heard his own breath, ragged and loud.
‘You’ve been unconscious,’ the woman said. ‘For two days.’
Lassiter groaned.
‘It took a long time to get you up here, up from the beach –’
‘You were cold,’ Jesse said. ‘You were blue. We saved you.’
There was another sound in the room, and Lassiter frowned as he tried to place it. Finally, it came to him. Rain on the roof. The wind moaning. Lassiter opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
The woman said, ‘Jesse, get a glass of water.’
‘All right,’ the boy said cheerfully. Lassiter heard him march off, heard the scrape of a stool.
When the boy returned, the woman lifted Lassiter’s head to the glass, while the boy held it. He managed a few sips, and then fell back, exhausted. ‘There was another man,’ Lassiter said. What was his name?
The woman frowned, and shook her head, slowly. ‘We only found you.’
Roger. His name was Roger.
We are the sultans . . .
Suddenly, it all came back to him in a rush that made his body jerk. Kathy. Brandon. Bepi. The priest. So many dead. ‘Callista,’ he said.
The woman gasped, and her eyes hardened. Reaching for Jesse, she pulled the boy back from the bed. For a long moment there was only the storm. When she finally spoke, there was no tenderness in her voice, none at all. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.
When he woke for the second time, it was night. The cabin glowed with the buttery light from a pair of kerosene lanterns, hanging from the wall. As he looked around, he saw that he was in a large, pine-paneled room, post and beam, open to the rafters. A mammoth fieldstone fireplace took up most of the far wall, maybe twenty feet away. Inside the fireplace, flames danced behind the glass doors of a wood stove. He didn’t see the woman or the boy, but he heard a voice, a low murmur, somewhere behind him.
I have to get up, he thought, and, leaning on his elbow, swung his feet from the bed. Pushing himself into a sitting position, a tremor of weakness ran through him, followed by a wave of nausea. The room pulsed hot and cold as he took a deep breath, and stood, swaying like a drunk in a breeze that wasn’t there. Then his eyes rolled up, the room fell away, and he crashed to the floor, pole-axed.
‘Are you crazy?’ she asked, pivoting his legs up onto the bed again. He sank back down. ‘You were unconscious for two days.’
‘Is my face messed up?’
‘No . . .’ She stopped, tossed her brown hair, surprised by the question. ‘What kind of a question is that?’
‘It’s not what I meant,’ he said. ‘I meant . . .’ She was more beautiful than he’d remembered. Even in the flickering light he could see the difference. The waif was gone. She was older now, stronger and more womanly. ‘I meant . . . do you recognize me?�
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‘No,’ she said, more wary than curious. ‘Who are you?’
‘You came to the funeral,’ he said, ‘in Virginia. My sister’s funeral. Her son’s funeral.’
She stared.
‘Kathy Lassiter,’ he said, ‘and Brandon.’
Her brow wrinkled, and something moved in her eyes.
‘It was November. You wore a hat with a veil. And your hair was blond.’
He could see the recognition in her eyes, although she tried to hide it. He could tell what she was thinking. She was thinking, He’s here for a reason. And that isn’t good.
‘You met her in Italy – at the clinic.’
‘What?’ She stepped from the bedside and, nervously, pushed back the hair from her face.
‘This isn’t about Callista Bates. I was looking for a name in the ledger –’
‘What “ledger”?’
‘At the pensione Aquila. I was looking for “Marie Williams.” And I found out . . . she was you.’
She returned to the bed and sat down beside him, just out of reach. ‘I don’t understand . . . why did you go to the clinic?’
It took him an hour to tell her the story, and twice his voice gave out, and she brought him water. The kerosene lamps sputtered into smoke, their fuel exhausted, and she replaced them with others. From time to time she got up to feed the wood stove, and when he was done, she said: ‘I don’t get it.’
‘What?’ Lassiter asked.
‘Any of it. Why would anyone do that?’
Lassiter shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But there were eighteen women and eighteen children – and you’re the only ones left.’
She threaded her fingers into her hair and pushed it up on top of her head. She looked so vulnerable, he wished he could take her into his arms and comfort her. But of course he couldn’t do that at all. Finally, she said, ‘How do I know you’re not lying?’
‘Because you remember me. You know you do.’
She let her hair fall down and walked away from the bed. A moment later he heard the door of the wood stove creak, and the thump of a log thrown on the fire. Then the door creaked shut and he watched her shadow as it slid across the ceiling, huge in the weak light of the lanterns. Finally, she dropped into a rocking chair and tapped her foot. Nervously.
‘You could check,’ he said. ‘Call the pensione. Talk to Nigel, talk to Hugh. Or you could call Jimmy Riordan in Virginia – he’s with the Fairfax police. Or you could call –’
‘The phone doesn’t work,’ she said. ‘And, anyway, Jesse and I are safe here. I feel safe. No one’s going to find us here.’
‘Why not? I did.’
She glared at him, and changed the subject. ‘The storm’s winding down,’ she said. ‘The Coast Guard will be out, looking for you in the morning. They’ll take you back to the mainland, and you can forget about us. I mean – it’s horrible about your sister and the others and – I mean, thank you, I appreciate your concern – but . . . Jesse and I, we’ll be fine.’
He sighed. There wasn’t anything else that he could do. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘if you won’t let me help you, maybe you can help me.’
She looked puzzled. ‘How?’
‘I started on this because I couldn’t understand why someone would kill Kathy – and I still don’t. But maybe . . . if I could ask you a couple of things . . .’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know, but . . . why did you go to the Baresi Clinic? I mean, why there, rather than somewhere else?’
Callista – Marie – shrugged. ‘The same reason Kathy did,’ she said. ‘I researched it. The clinic had a good track record. Baresi was well respected. And it was one of the first clinics to offer the procedure I was interested in. The only thing against it was that it was in a foreign country, but even that was an advantage. I got to go back to Italy.’
‘Back?’
‘I lived there when I was a kid. Near Genoa.’
‘You grew up in Italy?’
She shook her head. ‘Three years was all. My aunt got sick or I would have graduated from high school in Arenzano.’
‘But –’
‘My uncle worked construction,’ she said. ‘I guess he was pretty good, because we lived all over the place. Pakistan, Saudi – here in the States, too. I spent the third grade in Tulsa, five through seven in Wilmington, Delaware, then Tacoma – I didn’t even go to school in Tacoma. And then . . . eight through nine in Houston. Italy was after that. And actually . . . I lived there longer than anywhere else.’
‘The woman in the store said your parents died when you were little.’
‘My aunt and uncle took me in. I don’t think they wanted to, really – but she was actually the only blood relative I had.’
‘And their name was Williams?’
She nodded. ‘Aunt Alicia and Uncle Bill.’
‘Did they adopt you? I mean . . . legally?’
The question made her bristle. ‘What’s that got to do with your sister?’
‘It has to do with you. Because if they adopted you, there’s a paper trail. Somewhere. In one courthouse or another.’
‘They wanted my name to be the same as theirs. I remember Aunt Alicia saying it would be less confusing if we all had the same last name. Otherwise, it took too long to go through Customs.’ She shook her head and laughed. ‘So they adopted me because it was more efficient that way, not because they loved me, not because it would make us a family. Because it was less hassle.’ She paused, and laughed again. ‘No wonder I was such a mess.’
‘They actually put it that way.’
She pressed her lips together. ‘Umm-hmmm.’ She sighed. ‘I shouldn’t complain. They were both in their fifties, and they were taking on someone in kindergarten. They treated me well enough.’
‘Why do you say you were a mess?’
‘I was a ratty little thing – and really, really shy. My parents were killed, and right before that, my brother died. Moving around was hard, and Aunt Alicia and Uncle Bill – they pretty much ignored me most of the time. So I became . . . I don’t know. Withdrawn. And except in Saudi, I didn’t even go to English-speaking schools. Most of the time, I found that the best thing was to be un-noticeable. So I got pretty good at that.’
Lassiter gave her a skeptical look. ‘I should think you’d have been pretty noticeable, even as a kid.’
‘No. It’s true. I was a real ugly duckling. My ears stuck out, my nose was too big, my eyes, my mouth – everything was too big. Even my knees. And my feet were massive. It was like I was a puppy or something.’
Lassiter laughed.
‘My aunt used to look at me,’ she said, ‘and shake her head, and say “Maybe she’ll grow into it” – but she sounded doubtful, and you could tell she didn’t think I would.’ She laughed, and just as suddenly, she frowned. Then she sat up straight and gave him a wary look. ‘This can’t possibly help you. I think it’s time –’
‘I just thought maybe there was something different about Dr. Baresi’s clinic . . . I don’t know.’
‘Well, he didn’t let you pick. That was one thing. And I guess most people thought it was a minus, but not me. I thought it was a plus.’
‘What do you mean “pick”? Pick what?’
‘Sperm donors. Egg donors.’
‘You can pick?’
She nodded. ‘Most places. I went to a clinic in Minneapolis – just to see what the deal was. And, of course, they “counseled me” about the procedure, all the steps you go through. They asked questions like – are you married? Will your husband’s sperm be used to fertilize the egg? No? Well, look through these – and they handed me a three-ring notebook with blurbs about the donors! I couldn’t believe it.’ Her voice segued into the smarmy pitch of a game-show voice hyping a prize. ‘Donor 123 is an aerospace engineer with an athletic build, 1500 SATs, and perfect pitch. Donor 159 is six feet six inches tall and weighs in at . . .’ She shuddered and let out a restrained fake scream. ‘I mean: ahhhhhhhh.�
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He laughed. ‘A little too master-race for you?’
‘Just a little. But there wasn’t any of that at the Baresi Clinic. They wouldn’t tell you anything about the donors. Nothing at all. Which was fine with me. I didn’t want to know.’ Once again her voice turned into someone else’s – this time, a low growl with an Italian accent. ‘Mah-ree-uh! Carissima! It will be una sorpresa piccola!’
‘What’s that?’
‘“A little surprise.” Except, to me, he spoke Italian.’ She smiled at the thought. ‘I liked him very much.’
She seemed more relaxed now, so he tried again. ‘I know you don’t want to hear this,’ he said, ‘but it really isn’t safe to stay here.’
Tired of the argument, she rolled her eyes and looked away.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘these people have a lot of money – and not just money. Contacts, too. People in the FBI. If I can find you –’
‘How did you find me?’
‘Gunther.’
She looked puzzled for a moment, and then: ‘You mean, my car?’
‘Basically . . . yeah.’
‘I don’t call it Gunther anymore.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘I know, but –’
‘Let me ask you something: How did you do it, anyway?’
‘Do what?’
‘Create a new identity. Because you didn’t do such a bad job . . . I mean, for an amateur.’
‘Thanks . . . I guess. Anyway, I just bought a how-to book. From this place in Colorado? They have all kinds of strange books: How to blow things up, how to forage for food, how to build your own mortar? I think they’re kind of big with the militia types.’
‘And you just followed the directions?’
‘Yeah. Something like that. They told you how to go to a cemetery to get a name off a baby’s gravestone. But I already had a name, a name I hadn’t used for twenty-five years – so I didn’t have to do that. I even had the birth certificate. And, by then, I was already pregnant, so I was kind of in a hurry.’