Burning Bright

by Nick Petrie

  She was pretty sure who’d killed her mother now. Maybe not who’d driven the car, but she knew who’d given the order.

  But June wasn’t done yet. She had something hard to do.

  She put her hand on her dad’s shoulder. “Can you help me with something else?”

  His eyes pierced her with their keen, unearthly blue, and his creased face cracked open in that beatific smile. “Anything for you, Hazel.”

  Jesus, her heart was breaking twice. But there was no time for that.

  “I need you to help me kill my friend.”

  57

  PETER

  Pristine white cloths covered the rugged picnic tables set in a line in the orchard clearing. Under the carefully pruned trees just beginning to bud, the tables were set with an assortment of old enameled tin plates, tin cups, plastic wineglasses, and mismatched silverware on cloth napkins in pale blues and greens. There were mason jars with wildflowers artfully arranged, votive candles in windproof holders, and old-style kerosene lanterns in the center of each table, not yet lit but fueled and ready.

  Night came fast in the mountains, and it was nearly dusk already.

  Cleanup from the killings had taken some time, and everyone was starving.

  There was a buffet set up on a long folding table, one leg shimmed with a folded napkin to keep it from wobbling. Two big pans of cabrito, roasted goat meat in red sauce, stood beside giant bowls of potato salad, green beans, and a large green salad. Four pies stood to the side with napkins laid over their tops to discourage insects. Peter’s mom did the napkin thing, too.

  The flatbed was parked on the two-track, with a man in a seersucker suit lying prone on the splintered wooden bed, thoroughly trussed and covered with a greasy canvas tarp.

  Peter sat on a folding chair, his wrists caught in shiny metal cuffs. Wilkes sat across from him, as an added security measure. Peter faced the rocky outcrop, which was maybe fifty meters away. He thought he’d seen movement up there but wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to get caught staring.

  He was about to place a very large bet.

  He counted sixteen of Sally’s men, either in line loading their plates, digging a beer or soft drink out of the big coolers on the flatbed, or seating themselves at the tables. They were talking and joking, true believers in a way that Peter had once been, and could never be again.

  Oliver, the smooth-faced young man, was silent. He’d taken a place at the end of the last table.

  June and her father sat at the other end, having walked down from the black barns as the food was being laid out. They weren’t eating. The Yeti had his notebook open, reading and making notes in the fading light. He raised his eyebrows slightly to June, and she’d nodded. Then she saw Peter’s handcuffs. Her eyes went wide and she opened her mouth to speak, but Peter made a small patting motion with his hands. Stay cool. Wait and see.

  Sally was next to Peter, her computer tablet on the table beside her. She still checked it every few minutes, but it hadn’t made any chiming noises since they’d left the outcrop. Peter was cautiously optimistic.

  Sally had set the tables herself, fussing over the wildflower centerpieces, lighting the candles, and checking the cloth wicks in the kerosene lanterns. She’d changed into clean khaki pants and a crisp shirt so white it almost glowed in the evening light. But Peter saw that the cracked skin of her hands, though pink from scrubbing, still held traces of greenhouse dirt. Her grubby barn jacket was folded neatly over the back of her chair.

  Now she stood up with her wineglass in her hand. “I just wanted to take a second to thank everyone for their contribution today,” she said. “We are tasked with protecting our nation’s interests. Sometimes that work can be ugly, but it is no less necessary. Thank you all. Let’s eat.”

  There was an odd silence as she sat back down and forked a bite of red cabrito into her mouth.

  She had made up a plate for Peter, too, and poured a beer from an unlabeled bottle into his tin cup. His soft plastic fork would never serve as a weapon. Eating with his hands cuffed was awkward but possible. Peter hadn’t had any food since breakfast, and he was hungry despite himself. He had trained himself overseas to eat when possible. You never knew when your next meal might be.

  The food was delicious. For a few minutes, the only talk was someone asking if anyone wanted more potato salad or another beer.

  Finally Sally pushed away her empty plate, checked her tablet screen briefly, then picked up her wineglass again. “I don’t think I mentioned,” she said to Peter, “everything you’re eating comes from the valley. That’s one of Sasha’s passions, sustainability. Even the beer is home-brewed from our own wheat. You can thank Wilkes for that.”

  “Quite an operation,” said Peter.

  Sally nodded her head, acknowledging the compliment. “We’re like a research park,” she said, “although the rules are a bit more rigorous. Nondisclosure agreements and all that. But a significantly higher level of security.” She smiled. “The penalties for violating your nondisclosure are quite strict.”

  “But you killed eleven people today, or maybe twelve, I don’t know about Chip. Are you outside the law? What about congressional oversight?”

  She smiled. “Our ties to Uncle Sam are mostly theoretical. My superior cares only about results. If we don’t make headlines, we do what we please. Besides, I control all communications with the outside, so who’s going to know?”

  “And your funding doesn’t actually come from the government,” said Peter. “Which gives you more independence. You’ve been running off private money for years.”

  She looked at him. “You’re smarter than you look,” she said. “Yes, we’re a public-private partnership with an emphasis on the private. I report to an intelligence officer stationed in Silicon Valley, and he’s pretty hands-off. After all, we pay his salary, too.”

  She was enjoying herself, Peter could tell. She probably didn’t get to tell this story often.

  Peter glanced at Oliver. He was eating his salad.

  “What about the other researchers, the ones you had to ship out of here so they didn’t see all the killing. What’s in it for them?”

  Sally sipped her wine. The light was fading. “The chance to do cutting-edge work, with limited oversight. Our grants are generous. Classified patents provide downstream revenue for both our group and our researchers. We’re actually quite profitable. We have twenty times more qualified applicants than we can accept. Our security team is well paid, too. Everyone is here of their own free will.”

  “Except Sasha,” said Peter.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Especially Sasha.”

  At the sound of Sally speaking his name, the Yeti looked up from his notebook with the startled look of a child told to stop reading at dinner. Sally blew him a kiss. The Yeti smiled at her, then went back to his notebook.

  “He’s not a prisoner,” said Sally. “He got back on that floatplane yesterday, didn’t he?”

  “Wait,” said June. It was the first time she’d spoken at the table. “What was he doing on that plane?”

  “He was bait,” said Peter gently.

  Sally smiled kindly at June. “I needed you to come home, Junebug. Making your dad appear to be involved seemed like the best way to accomplish that. I was in the back of the plane the whole time. I told him it was a chance to confront the man who had threatened his daughter, which was quite true. It was the only way I could get him on that plane. He really doesn’t like to leave the valley.” She finished her wine and set down the glass. “But in case that wasn’t enough of a pull for you, I added a push. I had another man in play. He burned your house down. And it worked. Because here you are.”

  June’s face darkened. Peter made the patting motion again.

  Sally stood up and began to walk around the tables, lighting the kerosene lanterns as she talked.

  �
�You need to understand your dad’s situation. His mental state was delicate even before his wife and daughter abandoned him. His work was all he had left. It consumed him. He was incapable of coping alone. So I stepped in.” She lit a few more lanterns hanging from tree branches. “You can see how much better he is, despite his challenges. He’s a brilliant man, you know. He’s got decades of future technological advancements floating around in his head. He’s a vital asset to this nation.”

  “What about my mom?” said June. “The goons who tried to kidnap me?”

  “I’m very sorry about that,” Sally said, sitting back down beside Peter, her white shirt glowing brightly in the lantern light. “One of our subcontractors seriously overstepped.” She nodded at the form under the tarp. “It’s not his first time, I’m afraid. We’ll terminate our agreement after a suitable debriefing.”

  “But you’re the one who wanted the algorithm,” said Peter.

  “Yes,” said Sally. “We still do. Very badly.”

  “So the orders were yours.”

  “Yes,” said Sally. “We can’t always play by the rules. But neither do our enemies.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “The Chinese, the Russians, the Islamists. Not to mention every wacko with an Internet connection.” She looked down the table at June. “It’s time to get serious here. I want that algorithm. So who am I talking to, Junebug? You? Or your watchdog here, all chained up?”

  “You’re talking to me,” said June. “He doesn’t know anything. He’s just hired protection.”

  “June, I’m sorry.” Peter cupped his cuffed hands around his mouth. “Hey, Lewis,” he called loudly, his voice carrying well. The fifty meters to the outcrop wasn’t too far. “If I raise my hands, shoot the woman in the white shirt. Then start on everyone else. Now show them we’re serious.”

  A lantern hanging from a tree branch exploded, scattering glass. The still-glowing mantle fell, igniting the fuel in a broad splash of blue flame on the undergrowth. The crack of the shot followed an instant later. Then another tree-hung lantern shattered in place, the sound of the shot arriving as fuel began to burn merrily from the broken top of the still-hanging ruin.

  Sally froze in her chair. June’s eyes were wide. The Yeti looked up from his notebook, suddenly interested in the present moment. Sally’s men dropped to the ground and began to scramble for their weapons in the wild and flickering light.

  “Stop.”

  It was Oliver, the smooth-faced young man, with a pistol in his hand. His voice was clear and strong and full of command. Sally’s men froze in place.

  Maybe, thought Peter, Oliver wasn’t as young as he looked.

  The lantern fuel burned crazily. Shadows leaped in the trees. Oliver looked down the table at Peter. “Who else do you have out there?”

  “Friends,” said Peter. “Well-armed, trained, motivated friends.”

  Oliver, with exaggerated slowness, set his weapon on the table and leaned back in his chair. Despite his unlined face, there was definitely something older about him now. He looked tired.

  “Ms. Sanchez,” he said. “Consider this moment your letter of resignation.”

  The flaring light of the fires illuminated her face, making it grotesque. The orchard shadows seemed deeper, darker. Weeds burned slowly with a soft crackle.

  “Who the fuck are you to say that to me?” she demanded. “Wilkes, it’s one man with a fucking rifle. It’s almost dark. Get your asses out there.”

  Wilkes wouldn’t look at her. He shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Shepard,” she shrieked. “Shepard, I need you.” Her voice echoed off the high granite ridges. It became a shriek. “Kill them all.”

  Nothing happened.

  Oliver’s smooth face was expressionless. In a voice just slightly louder than normal, he said, “Mr. Shepard. This is Oliver Bent, your commanding officer. Game’s over. Please come in now.”

  Outside the light, a shadow resolved into a silhouette, which became a man, barely there. The flickering glow of the broken lanterns revealed him in jagged flashes. Peter saw an empty shoulder holster worn over a black commando sweater, and the mild face of a minor bureaucrat. Had Peter seen him before? He couldn’t say.

  Shepard looked at Peter, then at Oliver. He didn’t speak.

  Maybe he was still looking at Peter out of the corner of his eye.

  “Fuck,” said Sally. “You too, Shepard? What is this?”

  Oliver spoke softly. “Last assignment, Mr. Shepard.”

  Shepard extended his arm, something black and angular in his fist.

  There was a brief spit of fire and Sally Sanchez rocked back in her chair.

  June covered her mouth with her hand, her face pale. Her dad put his arm around her, his mouth grim, his notebook forgotten on the table before him.

  Peter turned to look at Sally and saw a neat red hole in the direct center of her forehead. He leaned over to see the back of her head, a ragged mess. Her shirt back and the barn coat slung over her chair were sodden with blood, soaked and spreading.

  He slipped the small gray automatic from her coat pocket and held it in his lap.

  Then he looked for Shepard and found him leaning against the flatbed, his pistol back in his shoulder holster. Watching Peter.

  “Mr. Wilkes and company,” said Oliver. “Thank you for today. I am taking command of this facility until further notice. You are to put out these fires and remove the body of Ms. Sanchez. After that, your time is your own until ten hundred tomorrow at the dining hall. If you have any concerns about today’s events, please note that I hold myself entirely responsible for any irregularities that may have occurred.”

  Wilkes and his men looked at each other for a moment, then slung their weapons. One man took the heavy canvas tarp off Chip Dawes, now awake and wide-eyed, and beat out the fires with it. Two more men laid out Sally’s body with a crisp white tablecloth for a shroud, then wrapped her in the still-smoking tarp and laid it on the back of the flatbed beside Chip, still silent and trussed like a chicken.

  It didn’t take long. June sobbed softly, shoulders heaving. Her dad had both arms around her.

  When Wilkes and his men had left, Oliver called out into the night. “There’s plenty of food, gentlemen. If anyone is hungry, they’re welcome to come to supper.”

  Peter made a bet with himself, whether Manny and his guys would appear.

  He won the bet. Nobody showed.

  But the darkness of the orchard became somehow indefinably less crowded, and he knew Manny and his guys were headed home.

  Oliver unlocked Peter’s cuffs, then held out his hand. “My name is Oliver Bent.”

  Peter shook hands with the man despite himself. “Peter Ash.”

  “Your country needs your help.”

  Peter looked at him. “You have got to be shitting me.”

  The shadows shifted again and Lewis coalesced from the trees, the big Remington over one shoulder. He looked at Shepard, nodded politely, leaned the rifle against the buffet table, found a clean plate, and began to load it with food. He had a black automatic pistol tucked into the back of his pants.

  Oliver said, “I know who you are, Mr. Ash.” He angled his head at Lewis. “Your friend, too. For all her faults, Ms. Sanchez was right about one thing. The world is a dangerous place.”

  “I’ve done my time for my country,” said Peter.

  “Your official file is impressive,” said Oliver. “Your unofficial file, too. And now I’ve seen you at work. We could use you here, you and Ms. Cassidy both.” He nodded at June. “You are both uniquely suited to help run this place. You’d be good at it. Maybe it would be good for you, too.”

  “You want me to take over this cowboy operation? You used Sally to do your dirty work.”

  “Don’t mistake me for any kind of Boy Scout,” Oliver said softly, the planes of his
face standing out in the candlelight. “I’m every bit as ruthless as Ms. Sanchez. She was my employee, albeit several steps down the chain of command. Her task was to maintain research operations here, and keep Mr. Kolodny happy and productive. She was not authorized to be quite so, shall we say, entrepreneurial. If Ms. Sanchez had contacted me on learning of the algorithm, things would have proceeded very differently. Hazel Cassidy, and many others, would still be alive.”

  June had wiped her face with her sleeves and was listening closely. “What would Sally have done with it?”

  “I believe she planned to use the algorithm for her own profit. She and her former supervisor had already paid themselves a great deal from the proceeds of this little research venture, including a substantial amount of Mr. Kolodny’s remaining funds. In short, her primary interest was her own. When this became clear to me, I began to take steps.”

  “What about her partner?” asked Peter.

  “He’s no longer with us.” Oliver glanced at Shepard. “He took his own life, I believe. Asphyxiated on the exhaust fumes of his antique Mercedes several days ago. Racked by guilt from his crimes.”

  “I’m sure that was it,” said Peter.

  “Let me be frank with you,” said Oliver. “This work is necessary. The world is not getting simpler, it’s getting more complex. We once worried about nation-states, and we still do. But now a small group of people can do a great deal of damage. Destabilize the financial markets, for example. Or overturn decades of electronic security with a single self-learning algorithm.”

  Peter looked at Sally’s corpse on the flatbed, rolled up in the tarp. Chip beside her in his seersucker suit, eyes wide, a dirty cloth tied around his mouth.

  “What about June? What about the algorithm?”

  “An excellent question,” said Oliver. “Ms. Cassidy, is the algorithm still in your possession?”

  “It never was,” she said. “It was growing on its own, spreading deeper and deeper into the Internet.”

  “You say that like it’s alive.”