“Your mother wants to make all the decisions even though it’s my lungs we’re talking about,” he snapped.
“Did you talk to her about it?”
“Talk to her? What do you think I am, a miracle worker? She doesn’t want to talk. She wants to give orders.”
“Dad, she’s concerned—”
“I know she is, but she’s not the one wearing tubes and pulling around this tank, and she’s not the one with the nightmares. Nearly six God-damned years later and what do I have to show for it? They got my granddaughter and my son-in-law, sent one of my daughters over the edge, and stole my health. And now your mother wants me to stop fighting for whatever’s left.” Frank Sherman stared out the window, the clenched jaw and stubborn, angry tilt of his head telling Kate everything she needed to know about who was going to prevail.
Kate swallowed hard and let out a breath softly, keeping her exasperation in check. “She doesn’t want you to stop, Dad. She wants you to fight. And win.”
“She wants to move.”
“I don’t blame her. The doctor said that dry air might be better—”
“What the hell are they going to know about this crap in Arizona that they don’t know here? They’d know less, that’s what they’d know.” He pounded the padded arm of the chair with a hand that was still large but soft now, and white, from several years that had had no manual labor in them. “Here’s where it happened. Here’s where they know what there is to know. Twenty-five years with the city, doing an honest day’s work every day, and this is what your mother wants now, to move to God-damned Arizona. Not in my God-damned lifetime.” His words, though not his anger, subsided to a grumble, and with a pat on his shoulder Kate left the room.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked her mother quietly after closing the swinging door between the kitchen and small dining room.
“You were here two minutes. Besides, what’s to tell? He’s turning into a guinea pig next week.” She shrugged and wiped away a tear with the corner of the dish towel in her hands.
“Is this because he doesn’t want to move?”
“I don’t know what it’s because of other than all the junk put into his lungs by those … those animals. As if they haven’t done enough to this country. How much more is my family supposed to pay?”
Kate took a deep breath and reined in her own emotions. “Mom, it happened. Dad helped—”
“He didn’t have to,” she snapped. “He was retired. He could have stayed home. He could have just given blood. Or money. He—”
“Mom,” Kate said sharply, as much to stop the tirade as to release some of her own anger.
The fires had been out for nearly six years, but the rage still burned. After twenty-five years hauling New Yorkers’ trash off their curbs and out to transfer stations, Frank Sherman hadn’t been able to sit on the sidelines and watch as outsiders came in and hauled away the Financial District on the backs of dump trucks. First he’d volunteered and later he’d taken a job working at ground zero. Eighteen months later, his lungs had begun to give out.
Kate took another calming breath. “Mom, he had to like everyone had to. He had to do something. It’s who he is. He wasn’t going to sit by and do nothing then any more than he’s going to move to Arizona now. It’s his city. He didn’t have a choice.”
“He didn’t ask me, Kate. This clinical trial—he didn’t discuss it with me. He just decided to do it. And it might keep him out of a wheelchair, but it might not do a damned thing except raise his hopes.”
“Why is that so bad?” she demanded. “What else does he have to look forward to?”
Her mother’s posture assumed the rigidity of a field marshal’s and her eyes narrowed. “Don’t get snotty with me, Kate. And have some respect. That’s your father you’re talking about.”
Kate let out a harsh breath. “I know. I’m sorry. But why not try this new drug? What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that they don’t really know what this drug will do, if anything. And for the privilege, he gets to deal with going to one of the clinics over at NYU for injections three times a week, and then wait around for two hours after them.”
Kate stared at her mother, incredulous. “That’s it? The commute? That’s what has you so upset?”
Teresa stared back at her. “That’s enough.”
“What? You don’t want to drive him and wait around?”
Her mother hesitated for a long time, too long; then her eyes finally dropped and she turned back to the cucumber she was slicing for the salad. “I’ll have to quit my job.”
Kate frowned. This is getting surreal. “What job?”
Her mother shrugged. “I took a job.”
“Where? Doing what?”
“Teaching at the adult literacy center.”
“Since when? You said you’d never go back to teaching.”
“Since we needed the money. Working with adults is different.”
What the hell? Kate slid into one of the maple chairs at the small kitchen table. “You need the money?” she repeated. “What about—?”
“Your father’s insurance isn’t going to cover everything, and neither will our pensions or Social Security. And he refuses to discuss selling any of the buildings until there’s a real need.”
“If you have to go back to work, there’s a real need, Mom.”
“Not in your father’s opinion,” she snapped.
“So—,” Kate stopped, not sure what she was supposed to say.
“He won’t sell because he says I need something to live on.” Her mother’s whisper was raw, as if it had been scraped out of her throat. “The drugs are free in the trial. But what if he ends up in the control group and doesn’t get anything at all? Then he’s doing nothing but dying.”
Damn it. Kate clenched her teeth, pushing back against the pain constricting her throat. “Mom, he’s already beating the odds. He’s not only still here; he’s still walking and talking while some younger guys died a while ago. He’s a hero in the local support group and he’s constantly online researching things.” Kate stood up and put her arms around her mother’s unyielding shoulders. “You know he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize—” She swallowed hard. “Things.”
Her mother said nothing, just looked straight ahead, through the window to the small raised flower bed that ran along the fence at the back of the property. She handed Kate the cut-glass salad bowl. “Put this out on the table, will you? The dressings are in the fridge.”
CHAPTER 31
Friday, July 20, 9:00 P.M., Old Greenwich, Connecticut
Through the open window above his kitchen sink, Richard watched the last of the day’s sunlight flash on the Sound’s darkening surface. The night sounds were at full volume all around him. The rain from Hurricane Simone, which was inching up the coast of Florida, destroying a lot of beachfront in its wake, would be here by tomorrow afternoon, but tonight the weather was still perfect.
He’d been a weather hound since he was a child, reading everything he could on the subject, making graphs and charts and forecasts from the time he could handle a pencil and a ruler. Turning his passion into his life’s work, he’d studied meteorology in college. His interest had quickly become more scholarly, focusing on the physics and small-scale interactions that drove larger weather systems. He knew weather and how it worked, and he’d spent ten years trying to subvert that, with significant success.
It wasn’t something he was proud of.
He put the last dish in the rack and dried his hands, nudging Finn with the edge of his flip-flop, bringing the massive hound to its feet. “Feel like a swim, buddy?”
The dog pushed past him to get to the screen door, waiting impatiently to be let into the yard. Moving like a ghost through the shadows, he headed toward the small dock with a long, loping trot. Richard followed at a slower pace.
Kate’s paper would certainly attract some attention among the conference attendees. While her sample was small, th
e three storms she discussed were clustered within a three-month time frame, which would intrigue the forecasters who’d missed them. The addition of the other three she intended to talk about would provide another layer of interest. And while her presentation of the data was rational and academic in tone, she offered no explanations, which would delight the bottom-feeders who thrived on conspiracies.
Sitting down on the wooden bench bolted to the end of the dock, Richard threw a tennis ball into the water, smiling at the limber grace of Finn’s white body as the dog stretched in a long, elegant arch above the dark water. The minute he hit the water with a thunderous, ungainly splash, he began scrambling toward the bobbing fluorescence.
Kate’s storms had a signature, or lack of one, that strongly resembled what he and his team had painstakingly devised at the CIA. That signature had been of almost as much interest to the Agency as their results. It was essentially stealth technology, although that term hadn’t been coined at the time.
The equipment had operated from within the belly of a retrofitted C-130 Hercules, a standard military transport that would garner no undue attention from the ground or high-flying aerial reconnaissance operations. One or even a series of seconds-long pulses from the laser would appear to be nothing more than flashes of lightning to observers on the ground who, Carter had pointed out with a laugh, would quickly have other things to worry about. Observation from space hadn’t been of significant concern, either, because in those days satellite reconnaissance had been an infant technology whose use was pretty much limited to the Soviet and U.S. military forces. All of which meant that their ability to escalate storms was part of the American arsenal of rapid-deployment, first-strike weapons suitable for use in covert and guerilla operations.
But Carter had persuaded the Agency that mere escalation wasn’t enough; you couldn’t escalate what wasn’t there, and certain parts of the world didn’t have the reliability of American weather, where highs from the West collided regularly with lows coming up from the Gulf. The winner of the game, he told them, would be the one who could develop an equally rapid, equally undetectable method of creating storms that could then be manipulated. Carter had said they could do it, and they’d done it.
“He couldn’t have continued it,” Richard said, the sound of his voice breaking the stillness of the night and surprising himself.
It was a ridiculous thought. Preposterous.
He picked up the cold, soggy ball Finn had dropped in his lap. Eyes trained on the ball, the dog moved in a backward prance to show his readiness. Richard drew back his arm and threw the ball back into the Sound. Finn followed seconds later, hitting the water before the ball did.
Watching as Finn swam to the rocky shore and clambered onto it, ball in his mouth, Richard decided it was time to get some answers. He walked toward his house, meeting the dripping dog on the pier.
“Come on, boy. Fun’s over. Time to get you dried off.”
A violent shake that flung water in all directions was the dog’s only reply before he raced toward the house.
Two hours later, Richard walked away from his cluttered desk, leaving the computer screen lit and a number of printed-out news articles stacked in a loose pile next to the monitor. Pulling the three-quarters-full bottle of Irish whiskey from its place in the small cabinet above the sink, he poured himself a healthy shot and took it to the porch. The first sip flowed like fire down his throat, scorching the edges of his anger.
Every storm Kate had written about had caused some sort of destruction in the surrounding areas. One town had been pretty much flattened. In all cases, subsequent local news stories had announced that Coriolis Engineering had been awarded contracts to clean up at least part of the damage and restore infrastructure.
The son of a bitch was playing God.
The second sip went down softer and cleared away some of the fog in his head. The evidence was circumstantial and far-fetched. But knowing Carter as he did, Richard couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Maybe it was time to see about a reunion.
Friday, July 20, 11:30 P.M., Greenwich Village,
New York City
This may not be so bad after all. Fucking over Win is going to be a breeze and leave me much more satisfied than actually fucking him ever did.
Elle watched Davis Lee’s smiling mouth moving as he told another story. She was feeling confident about her ability to do this and was even feeling a little warm toward him. Being in his company was easier than she’d anticipated, and he was considerably more entertaining than she’d imagined. Though the Southern gentleman thing had never held much appeal for her, it had thankfully disappeared over the course of the evening along with most of the man’s arrogance, leaving a much more genuine and therefore interesting Davis Lee in its wake. Elle had even loosened up a little herself as the evening had progressed.
They’d moved beyond small talk by the time she’d finished her first martini and beyond shop talk by the time she’d finished her second. The cab ride across town had been punctuated by a lot of laughter. They’d gotten out at Washington Square and walked for a few blocks before stopping at a small bistro where Davis Lee knew the owner. Mild flirting had occurred over dinner, and then they’d laughed about how much trouble they’d get in if they took it any further. And that’s where the conversation had turned back to more general topics.
It was with some surprise when, over a dessert she barely tasted, Elle realized that the thought of sleeping with Davis Lee no longer turned her off. In fact, it might be appealing if it weren’t for Win wanting it to happen. Making Win happy was not what tonight was about. To the contrary, tonight was about making herself happy by making Win look like a fool.
Setting the china coffee cup back on its saucer, she slid the tip of her tongue across her upper lip and, a heartbeat later, met Davis Lee’s eyes. He was so ripe for the plucking.
“Will you level with me, Davis Lee?” Her voice had dropped into the bedroom register, which didn’t seem to startle him.
His amused gaze swept her face before settling on her mouth. “Maybe.”
Good boy. A smug coziness surged inside her like a warm ocean wave and she smiled. “Am I really researching a biography?”
“What else could it be?”
She lifted one shoulder and let it drop. The movement seemed more abrupt than she’d wanted it to be. Her attention shifted as she saw the waiter walk away with their empty wine bottle. How much of that did I have?
“Elle?”
She brought her eyes back to Davis Lee’s craggy face. “It could be a fishing expedition.”
“For what?”
“A past with some smudges that need to be erased.”
He shook his head and finished the last of his coffee. “That would be a ridiculous waste of your time, wouldn’t it? To send you fishing in such a small barrel? Carter knows his own past, as does anyone who’s ever cared to look. Why would I—?”
Davis Lee, I’m no fool. “Let me rephrase that. Maybe it’s reconnaissance,” she said lightly. “A thorough dusting and cleaning in advance of, oh, maybe announcing a candidacy.”
He grinned at her, a second too late. “I think you spent too much time in Washington.”
“Two years in Washington can provide a girl with a very well-rounded education.” She paused. “I liked living there and I liked working there, especially in the White House. It keeps your brain limber. There’s always another angle to things despite what you might think.”
He digested that in silence for a few moments, then smiled. “What does that mean?”
“It means that even after you think you have an issue or a person all figured out, there are still angles you haven’t considered,” she said smugly, and lifted her coffee cup to her lips, setting it back on the saucer when she discovered it was empty.
He didn’t seem to notice. “New York isn’t like that?”
“New York is different.” She rested her elbows on the table and her chin on a palm. “For instance, o
n this project, I think I’m finding things that Carter Thompson never wanted found.
“Am I right?” she asked when Davis Lee didn’t reply.
“About what?”
“That Carter doesn’t want certain things made public, like that foundation of his. Or that early hobby. Or maybe it’s just that you don’t want them to be public.”
He leaned against the back of his chair, idly spinning a cell phone that lay on the table. She wasn’t sure if it was his or hers. He said, “His foundation is a non-profit corporation, which means that between all the state and federal documentation it has to file, there’s a hell of a paper trail. If he wanted it to be private, he wouldn’t have had to go to the trouble of incorporating. He could have just funded other groups anonymously.”
“He couldn’t have directed the research then.”
“He might not be directing any research now. Besides, if you give enough money to an organization, any organization, it’ll behave,” he drawled. “You don’t think a university would have welcomed his money and any agenda he might have?”
“What about the articles? Do you think he wants them made public?”
“They’re cited in library books, Elle. That’s hardly private. In fact, I think the term is ‘publicly available.’” His smile looked forced and his voice was less indulgent.
She sat up straight and picked up her empty coffee cup again. “In name only. They’ve been out of print for so long—”
“Are we done?” His voice held a laziness that was almost believable.
“No.” She dropped her voice to nearly a whisper and reached out her hand, placing her fingertips on the tablecloth a fraction of an inch from his. “Look, Davis Lee, let’s cut to the chase. I know I’m doing this research for you. And given who Carter Thompson is and how he makes his money, this isn’t the sort of information you want to be made public. But I want to know why you want it in the first place.”
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