Buried in the Sky

by Ryan Mullaney

  "Simone Winifred Cassidy."

  "Yes, yes. Simone. You give the word, Mr. Solomon, and she will be dead before she has the chance to see tomorrow's sunrise. Provided, of course, that your space rocks can do what you promised they could."

  Murad stopped to stare out the window, his eyes fixing on one particular spot of construction far below.

  "Do you see that, Mr. Solomon? In the distance."

  "I do."

  "The Jeddah Tower. Designed to eclipse the height of where we stand just now. The new tallest building in the world." Murad snorted in displeasure. "Do you know when it will be complete?"

  "No, I don't."

  Murad turned to Solomon and finished his wine. "Never," he said. "My cousin owns this building, and for as long as he draws breath, none shall best it. That is how we do business, Mr. Solomon. No one else gets to be the best."

  Solomon smiled. "I've chosen wisely."

  Murad let out a belly laugh. "You have no shortage of confidence, I see. Perhaps you can show me what your space rocks can do. Then we can discuss the finer details of our business arrangement."

  Solomon pulled half a dozen pinball-sized stones from his pocket, holding them in his palm for Murad to inspect.

  "Each one of these little meteorite fragments can produce enough energy to power this building for a year," Solomon said. "That is not to speak of the potential for weaponizing that energy."

  Murad lifted one of the small stones between his fingers and held it up to the light. "I am intrigued." He set the fragment back in Solomon's hand. "But I hesitate to think I gave you manpower and equipment to bring me shiny rocks. I need proof, Mr. Solomon."

  "I thought you'd ask." Solomon returned the fragments to his pocket and exchanged them for his cell phone. On the screen, he loaded a video for Murad to view.

  The video showed a drone hovering above an endless body of water. Attached to the drone was an electronic device half the size of the drone itself -- so small, barely perceptible in the screen, the drone hovering like a fly above the vast and open ocean. Suddenly, the drone lowered into the water and disappeared.

  Murad's eyes shifted to Solomon, then back to the video screen.

  A second later, the device the drone was carrying detonated.

  The resulting explosion of water consumed the screen, causing the video to shake violently. The image zoomed out for a wider view, showing a massive ripple effect in the water.

  "Is this a trick?" Murad asked.

  "No trick."

  The water thrust upward continued to rain down in the video. Even after a full minute had passed, the waters did not settle.

  "Murad stared, wide-eyed. "That little thing ... caused that?"

  Solomon nodded slowly, with confidence. "And there's more where that came from. A lot more."

  Murad's grin grew wider and he let out a belly laugh of pure satisfaction. Putting his arm around Solomon's shoulders, he said, “Come with me, cousin. We have plenty to talk about.”

  With a smile of his own, Solomon walked with Murad, knowing one of their topics of discussion would never be the fact that what Solomon had shown the weapons dealer was but a small fraction of the treasure recovered.

  As they strode on, Solomon recalled Murad's own wishes to break the Fallen Star into small pieces and sell them for the cost of the whole thing.

  There was no honor among thieves, Solomon knew. If this man wasn't keen enough to pick up on his own trick being used against him, there was no end to the manpower and firepower Solomon could squeeze out of his new “cousin”.

  “Murad,” Solomon said. “This feels like the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”

  26.

  Fort Hall, Idaho, USA

  After a series of connecting flights, Simone found herself standing outside the Pocatello Regional Airport in southern Idaho.

  The sun hung high in the cloudless blue sky. Simone slipped on her sunglasses and gazed about. Most of the area appeared vast and flat, with a range of mountains standing proud in the distance.

  She noticed the silence of the area. No flights landed or departed as the stood there, listening. No traffic passed by. She didn't even hear a bird. No matter which direction she looked, the horizon seemed unreachable.

  Somehow, Idaho felt even more desolate than the mountains of China, Peru, or Indonesia.

  She'd left with only one bag – a backpack which held several days’ worth of clothes and all the essentials. The rest of her belongings had been packed up and shipped off to an undisclosed location which she would only be made aware of once it was certain the security situation regarding April and what she knew was sorted out.

  Simone wasn't given a time frame. A few days. A month. She didn't know. It could be never, she figured. What she had with her at that moment was all she owned, as far as she was concerned. That was the approach she needed to take. The waiting game was one she couldn't afford to play.

  The lack of luggage made her more mobile than usual, and although her right foot was wrapped in a walking boot until the cracked bones were able to heal, she didn't slow down.

  Simone looked at the address in the notes on her phone – information compiled by her best friend Georgia Gates – and read it to herself.

  It was the most promising address of the bunch that Georgia Gates put together based on the information she had regarding Simone's family history. Simone's maternal grandparents had lived for a time before their passing in Fort Hall, Idaho. After their deaths, the home was signed over to a man named James Smith.

  _____

  With her heart in her throat, Simone raised a fist and – after the briefest hesitation – knocked on James Smith's door.

  She felt her heart rate rising as she waited on the porch of the old ranch-style home with most of the dusty white paint peeling away and the grimy windows shuttered.

  A breeze blew paper trash across the lawn. Simone looked back to watch it flow on the wind until her eyes fell on the overgrown driveway. She wasn't sure if that was what she was looking at, as the grass around it had grown knee-high.

  She turned back to the old screen door and rapped her hand against it once more. Her knuckles came away dusty.

  After waiting for over twenty minutes, Simone was about to step off the warped porch and try again later in the day when an older woman came down the road on a bicycle that must have been as old as the woman riding it.

  The older woman slowed to a stop and nodded at Simone. “You lookin' to buy that property, miss? Reckon you could get it for a steal, seein' as no one's paid it any mind probably since you were just a baby.”

  “Does anyone live here right now?” Simone asked, jerking her thumb over her shoulder toward the door.

  The older woman shook her head. “Like I said, ain't no one been there in ages.”

  “Did a James Smith used to live here?” Simone looked at the address on her phone once again.

  “James Smith?” The older woman gazed up, deep in thought. “Yeah, yeah, it's comin' back to me now. James Smith … He was a tall fella, warn't he? Must be damn close to as old as I am by now, I reckon.”

  With eyes wide, Simone limped off the porch and approached the older woman on the ancient, rusted bicycle. “Yes, James Smith. He knew my parents, a long time ago. Does he still live here, in Idaho? Do you know where I can find him?”

  “Slow down, young lady. I couldn't say if he's even still alive. Haven't spotted him in ages, like I said. Probably twenty years, goin' on thirty.”

  “Do you know of anyone who might know where he would be?”

  The older woman shook her head. “I'm sorry, miss. I wish I could say, but I don't know. Most of my friends are dead, so I keep to myself these days.”

  A crushing sense of defeat fell over Simone like a thunderstorm, darkening the light all around her.

  Without another word, the older woman was pedaling away, getting further and further out of sight.

  Simone sat on the porch to give her foot some res
t. She'd come all the way out to the middle of Idaho to find this James Smith guy, and the thought of leaving empty handed with no more information than she'd arrived with felt like an impossibility to Simone, as if there had to be more she could do. There just had to be.

  For nearly thirty years, this little ranch house had been left to rot, as if James Smith had died. A thought Simone wished not to entertain.

  But it wasn't he who died back then, it was Simone's parents and her sister, Sonja.

  Simone sat up straight. Energy tingled in her fingertips, the energy of possibility. Puzzle pieces were fitting together in her mind now, forming a picture she hadn't been able to see even a few minutes ago. She'd been so focused on getting to this address that she hadn't considered any other places James Smith might have lived.

  Simone stood up, hefted her backpack onto her shoulders, and started walking back in the direction of the airport.

  “Okay, Simone, think,” she said out loud as she walked down the empty road. “Clark said he never heard from James Smith after Sonja died, so he must have gone into hiding, maybe to protect himself in case any more attempts were made. If he was hiding, he wouldn't be at home. After Sonja's funeral, he was gonzo.”

  That much made sense to her. But where would he go?

  Simone walked for forty minutes before realization stopped her dead in the middle of the road.

  “That's right!” Her exclamation echoed. She started moving again, quicker now. James Smith was Native American. So was Simone's maternal grandfather, who grew up in Wind River, Wyoming. Not Fort Hall, Idaho. If James Smith had taken over Simone's grandparents home, where was he living just before doing so?

  He had to have come from Wind River, where the two had first met. And if he was still alive, but not living in Idaho – and it appeared to Simone that he never was – there was only one place she could hope to find him.

  Simone quickened her pace again, the stabbing pain in her foot be damned. Whether James Smith was still alive or not, she could perhaps find someone there who knew him or her grandfather, and point her in the right direction.

  _____

  Wyoming, USA

  The closest Simone could get to Wind River was Jackson Hole, some one hundred and thirty miles away from where she wanted to be.

  Being in the plane and off her feet for a few hours made her foot feel better, but there was no chance she was walking a hundred and thirty miles, even if she was as good as new.

  She had no bicycle, no mode of transportation at all. She couldn't rent a car even if she wanted to without a driver’s license, and even if that option was available, she would consider the only other alternative first – buying a bus ticket.

  Her chest tightened as the bus pulled up, hissing to a stop. The doors folded open and the half-dozen strangers waiting with Simone filed on. One kind young man stepped aside for her to step on board first.

  “After you,” he said, noticing her walking boot.

  Heart pounding, Simone said, “Thanks,” but she didn't move from where she stood.

  Getting in the Jeep that Lincoln had used to rescue her from the tsunami wave had done little to quell her fear of automobiles, and the crash that ensued only served to strengthen that fear.

  “Do you need me to carry something?” the young man asked.

  “No, thank you,” Simone said.

  After a moment of hesitation, Simone shifted the backpack that hung from her shoulders and stepped onto the bus.

  She took the first empty seat she could find, hoping to exit as quickly as possible once they reached Wind River.

  As the other passengers got seated, Simone closed her eyes and prayed the trip would be a quick one.

  The bus started forward, bumping across the uneven road. Each bump made Simone's blood pressure rise, but she kept her eyes shut and her hands clasped tightly around the straps of the backpack that rested in her lap.

  _____

  The bus arrived in Wind River at dusk.

  Simone stepped off the bus and shouldered her backpack. It felt wonderful to stretch her legs. As she looked around, she found a landscape far more desolate than she had expected.

  Poverty seemed to control the area, leaving no corner untouched. Simone had no idea where to begin looking. Everything looked spread out, so much distance between buildings or points of interest that getting around on foot seemed impossible.

  As she turned around, the bus pulled away, lumbering down the long, dark road.

  In the fading dust cloud kicked up by the bus tires, Simone found herself standing alone, watching each of the other bus passengers depart in their own directions.

  “Do you need a ride, miss?” a woman called from where she stood next to her car with the driver's-side door hanging open.

  It took a moment for Simone to realize the woman was speaking to her. “Me? No, I think I'm good.”

  “Are you waiting for a ride?”

  “Um … Not really.”

  The woman waved for Simone to come over to the car. “Hop in. I'll give you a lift. Can't get far out here on foot, especially with your foot in a boot like that.”

  Simone hesitated.

  “Where are you going?” the woman asked.

  “I don't even know,” Simone said. “I'm looking for someone who lives here.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “James Smith,” Simone said with a wince, as if the mere mention of searching for someone with such a common name would cause the woman to recoil.

  “I know a James Smith,” the woman said.

  Simone stepped toward the woman. “You do? For real?”

  “I know someone named James Smith,” the woman said. “I don't know if it's the person you're looking for. Can you describe him?”

  Simone shook her head. “All I know is that he's old now, probably in his seventies. He's a relative of mine.” She added the last part in hopes of convincing the woman to give her as much information as she had.

  “I can give you his address if that would help, but at this time of night, you're more likely to find him at the Hidden Pig.” The woman waved for Simone to get in the car. “Come on, it's on the way.”

  Simone steeled her nerves once again and got into the woman's car.

  On the ride, the woman said, “I'm Ana.”

  “Simone.”

  “You from here?”

  Simone shook her head, hoping her nerves weren't showing too plainly.

  Ana fixed Simone with a curious look. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just nervous,” Simone said. “About the meeting.”

  “Are you his niece?”

  “Yeah,” Simone said to make things easy. “We haven't seen each other in quite a long time.”

  Ana smiled a friendly smile. “I wouldn't worry. He's a nice guy. And once he gets a few drinks in him, he'll talk your ear off.”

  A short time later the Hidden Pig came into view.

  Its name deceiving, the Hidden Pig stood out like a beacon in the wide landscape with its lights and neon beer signs.

  Ana pulled the car up and shifted into Park. “This is it.”

  Simone stared at the bar – more of a weathered shack than anything.

  “Thanks,” she said to Ana and got out. Before closing the door, she asked, “Can I give you something for the lift? I don't have much on me.” Simone began searching her pockets for the few bills she was carrying.

  Ana shook her head adamantly. “Have one on me.”

  “Thank you. Be safe.”

  Once Ana was gone, Simone approached the old saloon and stepped inside.

  27.

  Wind River, Wyoming, USA

  Passing through two sets of doors, Simone came into a wide room plagued by a cigarette haze.

  Southern rock played on the jukebox so faintly, Simone didn't even hear it at first. Not over the numerous loud conversations happening at the bar and across several tables situated about the floor.

  Realizing she was drawing attention
to herself by standing still near the entrance, Simone approached an empty stool at the bar and sat down.

  A bartender that looked as old as the building hobbled over to Simone. He planted his palms on the damp bar and studied her. “Are you looking for a drink?”

  Cutting straight to the chase, Simone said, “I'm looking for James Smith.”

  The bartender leaned backwards ever so slightly. “James Smith you're looking for?”

  “Yes, do you know him?”

  “I most certainly do,” the bartender said. “Left here about thirty minutes ago without paying his tab. That's the second time this week, so if you find him, be sure to let him know his credit isn't quite as good as it used to be.”

  Simone hesitated to consider how many trips to the old Hidden Pig James Smith had made that week in total, considering it was only Wednesday. Instead, she smiled politely and debated her next course of action.

  From the corner of her eye, Simone spotted three young men, perhaps not even of drinking age, eyeing her from the other end of the room.

  “Anything else I can do for you tonight?” the bartender asked.

  Simone turned her attention to the bartender, giving no indication that she noticed the three young men with their eyes fixed in her direction. “Just a glass of water, please.”

  She laid a few dollar bills on the bar as the man behind the counter turned away to fill a glass for her. As she waited, Simone turned her back to the bar, resting against it idly and staring around the room as if taking the place in once again. She kept the three young men in her peripheral vision while still not allowing them to know she was completely aware of their presence.

  “No charge,” the bartender said.

  Simone turned back around to face him. “Thank you.” She took a sip from the glass but left her money on the bar.

  The bartender walked away without taking her cash.

  “Actually,” Simone said before he was gone. “I'm sorry, but it's kind of important that I get to speak with James Smith as soon as I can. Do you happen to know where I can find him? Would be have gone home?”