Dante's Equation Part 10

"Kobinski disappeared, Mother. In a flash of light. There wereeyewitnesses ."

It was out of his mouth and there was no taking it back. His mother stilled, going motionless in her chair, her elegant legs closed and canted to one side like Nancy Reagan.

"Why don't you tell me about the young women you're seeing? Anyone I would know?" she asked brightly.

As a redirect it was excruciatingly lame. Mother hadn't asked him about girls for years because that was much too, oh,involved . It would invite details about his life she didn't really give a c.r.a.p about. So Denton knew he had gotten to her. He felt a low, sick thrill.

"See, I'm doing this series of articles on disappearances. I didn't tell you that, did I? I should really interviewyou , Mother. After all, you were involved in a disappearance case yourself once, weren't you?"

She tsked and picked up her teacup.

"Though you weren't exactly an eyewitness."

She didn't answer and suddenly the conversation wasn't just a jab at her anymore. It had been so long since they'd talked about it. Heck . . . no . . . they hadnever talked about it. And suddenly Denton wanted very badly to talk. Heneeded to. The neediness, when it overcame him like this, was like an aching hollow in his stomach, a void that felt like it would grow and grow and grow until it swallowed him whole if he didn't find a way to feed it.

"What happened back then, Mother? I mean with the police and everything. I don't know much about that part."

"For G.o.d's sake! I hope you're not going to drag family laundry into your sordid little magazine." "I remember taking a lie detector test. I remember the wires and everything. But I don't really know how it turned out. What happened, Mother?"

She pressed her lips tight, staring over his shoulder. "Please. I won't write aboutus ; I swear. I just . . . need to know, for myself." "I wouldhope you wouldn't be so dim." "Ipromise . Please. Tell me about the lie detector test." "There's nothing to tell! You were only eight years old. What did they expect?" Denton stared at her numbly. His heart turned over in his chest, a burning, squiggling lump. "What . .

. it showed . . ." "It was inconclusive. That's what the detective said. You appeared to be very upset." "Iappeared to be upset?"Mother didn't answer. Denton's skin felt clammy. His mouth tasted unbearably of rancid tea and sour milk. "What about specific questions? I remember they asked me very specific questions like 'Did you push Molly in the river?' What-" "Denton!" Mother stood up. "It's water under the bridge. Leave it." She rang the bell. Carter came in on his cat burglar feet. "Yes, ma'am?"

"You may clear."

Carter picked up the tray, waiting, stooped, for Denton to put his own cup on it. He did so, his hand shaking. He couldn't look Carter in the eye.

His mother was fixing her hair in front of the mirror over the fireplace as Carter left. Denton struggled to pull it together. He knew how to approach her, d.a.m.n it. At least, he knew hownot to approach her. She wouldn't respond to badgering; he had to get a grip. And in a minute she'd be gone and this would be all he'd have to remember of this day, this bad feeling. But hecouldn't drop it. The pain inside him was too great. He went to her.

"No wonder you always thought I did it." He huffed, tried to make it sound like it didn't matter. "If that's what the test said. Do you know that right after it happened you and Father went to Europe and didn't come home for ayear ?"

She kept her eyes on the mirror. "Those are two completely separate things, Denton. My G.o.d. Anyway, we put it behind us a long time ago." Her voice was blank, final. She produced lipstick out of a small black pouch from her pocket, reapplied what didn't need reapplying. "Accidents happen. You were very young."

It wasn't an accident!he shouted in his head.Molly vanished in a bright light! I did not push her in the river, even accidentally. I did not see her fall in on her own. We weren't even near the river when it happened. Do you want me to take a lie detector test again?

Only he didn't say any of that. His mother finally looked at him, a rare sternness in her features.

"What do you want from me? Have I ever punished you for this? Is there something I've failed to give you? You have a trust fund which is more than adequate. I've offered to pay for any education you care to pursue. It's over, forgotten."

But it wasn't over and it had never been forgotten. How could he explain that she, and his father before he'd died, had never looked at him the same after that day? That there was a remoteness down deep in their eyes that said that, while he was still their son, they believed him capable of pushing a little girl in a river or even just seeing her fall in and then lying himself blue in the face about it to escape punishment and that such a person was really not a nice person, not cute and fluffy at all.

"I didn't do it," Denton whispered, blinking back tears.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Mother spoke with exasperation, then composed herself, smoothing her features to her polished, pleasant look. "Imust go. But do think about Switzerland for Christmas. And next time, give me at least two weeks' notice, won't you, dear?"

She air-kissed him and called for Carter to bring around the car.

When a child is conceived, a million sperm compete for one egg. What mysterious process is it that closes the gates once one sperm has achieved penetration? This same process insures that only one sentient species arises on a planet. I have heard rabbis question the theory of evolution asking, if apes are our relatives, why did they never get the spark of consciousness that is a soul? It is this: as evolution burgeons, a million species are competing, progressing faster and faster to achieve that spark. And once one species has achieved the gift of consciousness, the gates are shut to the others forever.

The mysteries of the universe can be found in eggsh.e.l.ls, if we know how to look.

-Yosef Kobinski,The Book of Torment, 1943

5.1. Calder Farris

JULY KNOXVILLE, TENNESSEE.

Calder was parked down the street from the house. He checked his watch again: 10:15. On cue, an expensive-looking black van appeared in his rearview mirror. The van glided smoothly to a stop and shut off its lights.

The street was residential, an upper-cla.s.s neighborhood littered with Southern Colonials. Other than a few stray lights in windows, the inhabitants were already asleep. Farris got out of his car and into the van.

"Lieutenant Farris," the largest of the three men saluted him. "Nice to work with you again."

"Lieutenant Hinkle."

Hinkle was a slab of meat who looked like he ought to speak like Lennie inOf Mice and Men , so his rich, formal voice was always incongruous. Hinkle and his companions were dressed, like Farris, in black civilian clothes.

"These are Sergeants Troy and Owen," Hinkle made the introductions.

The men saluted him and Calder made a preemptory return. They looked fine: both Caucasian, buzz cuts, square jaws, eyes that showed nothing. Hinkle was dependable that way.

Hinkle motioned for Troy and Owen to get out, and Calder slid into the abandoned driver's seat. His face was lit by the fluorescent streetlights outside. Hinkle looked away, his expression uneasy. f.u.c.king Hinkle. Evenhe couldn't look Calder in the eye. For a moment, Calder had a tightening sensation that threatened an oncoming rage. Hinkle spoke.

"So what's the story?"

"B and E, doc.u.ment recovery." Calder's words were tight and hard. "It's an old man, a professor, widower, lives alone. I've met with him several times. He refused to cooperate." Calder looked at the house down the street, his temper cooling slowly. "I followed him home from the university at about fifteen hundred. He hasn't left, but the lights never came on."

"Maybe he's napping."

"Maybe. There's a study at the back of the house. Clean out his files, hard drive, everything. If he is home, tell him his work is being confiscated. Don't tell him who you are-he'll know. Give him a few bruises if he tries to stop you, but go easy; he's an old man. On your way out, advise him to reconsider his options."

Hinkle absorbed his orders, not looking into Calder's eyes. He watched Hinkle's meaty face and wished again that he hadn't had to bring him in. Information was better when willingly conferred. But there were people in this world determined to make life difficult, people who refused to do their patriotic duty.

Calder could have strong-armed the subject himself, but that would make it difficult to go back in later and play good cop, and Calder wanted very much to be the one to whom the old man capitulated. Hence Hinkle.

"Questions?" Calder asked.

"What's the subject's name? Or is that cla.s.sified?"

"It's Ansel, Dr. Henry Ansel."

Calder waited in the van. While he waited he couldn't stop thinking about Mark Avery. His ex-partner had been very interested in Dr. Ansel. Avery's funeral had been last week. Calder managed to be out of town.

He'd been in Oklahoma and had spent three hours at a shooting range that day, the hours Mark was buried. That night he hadn't slept at all. He'd had nightmares about his father, first time in years. Avery's death had stirred all of that up again. Calder was not a happy camper.

He and his father . . . s.h.i.t, they were mortal enemies even when Calder was small. It took Calder a while to figure it out is all. His mother, so he was told, was a wh.o.r.e who ran away, leaving him in his father's care. They lived on Army bases where his father hired the least appropriate people he could find to take care of Calder during the day-from a schizophrenic German lady, to a chain-smoking teenage pothead, to a woman who could barely get out of a chair.

When Capt. John Farris II came home at night he would wring every last detail of his son's misbehavior from the caretaker du jour and mete out Calder's punishment like an appetizer before supper. He had a strict and precise set of rules. A cussword got three strikes with the belt; a broken dish, four; talking back, five. s.e.xual misconduct, such as touching himself, however briefly, brought down the almighty wrath of G.o.d. And always, always, the f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.hes who watched him during the day would chat up every single thing he'd done, even after Calder told them he'd be beaten for it.Even when they knew.

No. That wasn't a hundred percent true. The pothead wouldn't tell. She didn't rat him out. But after a couple of weeks John Farris got wise and replaced her with a woman with loose lips. There wereplenty of those. It was in the breed.

When Calder got a bit older he found he had a talent for dishing it out as well as taking it. h.e.l.l, he was a prodigy at intimidating other kids, even ones larger than himself. It gave him a sense of power and triumph when they cringed and sobbed and ran away, a sense of control whenhe hit andthey cowered.

Didn't solve his problem with his old man, though. When Calder was seventeen he bought a derelict car with money he'd earned at a fast-food place.His own f.u.c.king money. John Farris hated that car, hated that Calder could get into it and escape anytime he G.o.dd.a.m.n well pleased. So when Calder got a speeding ticket, it was a no-brainer that John Farris was going to make it an issue and take the car away.

That night, that argument, was lividly burned into Calder's memory, every corrosive word. Calder wasn't going to let his father take the keys, would have died before he'd allowed it-just lain down in front of a steamroller if that had been the only alternative. So when his father had taken off his belt something inside Calder snapped.

He'd almost beaten his father to death that night. And then he ran-never saw the old man again. Years later, Capt. John Farris II had died and there had been one less p.r.i.c.k in the world. End of story. Except for some reason Mark Avery's death had made those memories come rising to the top like a bloated corpse in a lake. f.u.c.k if he knew why. Calder had gotten over his old manyears ago.

And as soon as he discovered the Next Big Thing and got promoted to major, he would have bested John Farris II at the only thing he ever cared about-the military-and exorcised the j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. completely.

There was a knock on the window-it was Troy. Calder rolled it down an inch.

"Lieutenant Farris, you'd better come inside."

Inside the house, the sergeant motioned toward the stairs. Calder took them two at a time. He found Hinkle in the master bedroom, standing over a figure on the bed. It was Ansel-a very dead Ansel.

"Suicide." Hinkle held up a prescription bottle. "No label. Not sure what it was."

Calder put his hands on his hips. The feel of the gun holstered beneath his jacket gave him a sense of command he badly needed at the moment. "How long ago?"

Hinkle had gloves on and he tried turning Ansel's head-it was stiff with rigor mortis. He picked up an arm, which was stiff, but not very. "Anywhere from two to six hours."

Calder had seen him alive at three. "G.o.dd.a.m.nit!"

It was as much emotional expression as he would permit himself. He took a few deep breaths. "Get everything out of the study. We'll go over to the university tonight. His office-"

Hinkle was looking at him with a tight-lipped expression. The words died in Calder's throat. He ran downstairs. He knew where the study was. He'd been inside it once, before Ansel learned he was military and threw him out. He burst into it now to find Troy standing with a black plastic sack, looking around uncertainly. Owen was bent over the fireplace.

The file cabinets stood open and empty. Ansel's desk was clear. In the fireplace was a smoldering log-and alotof ashes.

The demon towered up inside Calder like a roaring savage. For a moment he was in danger of losing it. He wanted to punch the wall, the door, something. But the Army had taught him discipline and Owen and Troy were watching.

"Bag the ashes," Calder ordered, with a voice like curdled milk. He turned on his heel and left the room.

In the foyer he paced from wall to wall, driven by strangled fury, trying to get clear enough to think. He breathed deeply, counted to ten, counted a dozen more.

They would go over to the university, but if Ansel had gone to this much trouble over his home files, he'd probably already trashed his office. Calder had been too slow or too lenient. He had missed the signals that his target was going south. He should have . . .

f.u.c.k that. He had to focus on what he could salvage.

Mark Avery's file had been full of Henry Ansel. There were clippings of the old man's obscure articles and lecture notes as well as Avery's own thoughts on the possible uses of Ansel's ideas. Calder had begun to see what had interested his ex-partner. He'd gotten a hard-on for it himself.

But when he'd approached Ansel, the man had been vague-purposefullyvague. It wasn't the hedging of a clueless geek who was full of s.h.i.t (Calder had plenty of experience with that type). No, it was the hedging of a liberal geek who was scared of what Big Bad Mr. Government might do with what he knew. If Calder had needed confirmation of that, it lay up there in the bedroom. But the fact that he'd been right about Ansel, that he did, indeed, have something he thought was dangerous enough to die for, was of little comfort to Calder Farris and none to the US of A.

Salvage? How? What? The professor's brain would not reveal its secrets under the knife. And there was no one besides Ansel whocould talk. There were no children, his wife had been dead for years, and Ansel had worked alone. He had worked alone for a very long time.

5.2. Jill Talcott

SEATTLE.

THE ONE PULSE, 50 PERCENT POWER.

Jill Talcott checked her E-mail and pulled some overhead slides from a filing cabinet. She'd hoped to spend the entire summer in the lab she and Nate had set up in the bas.e.m.e.nt of Smith Hall. But she'd been playing her cards so close to her chest that d.i.c.k Chalmers, thinking she had nothing better to do, had given her not one, but two summer sessions, the worm. Meanwhile, Nate had gotten a job as a waiter on Capitol Hill working the dinner rush and could spend all morning and afternoon in the lab while she lectured to sleepy window-watching students. Double worm.

She was contemplating her revenge, which, as usual, had to do with her imminent success and glory, when a knock startled her. The slides spilled onto the floor. Red trajectory arcs and blue equations suggested themselves over dirty linoleum. The knock came again.

"d.a.m.n it, come in!" Jill bent to the scattered sheaves.

She was not in the mood to see anyone this morning, but of all the people she was not in the mood to see, Chuck Grover topped the list. He shut the door deliberately behind him and looked at her with a calculated challenge in his eye. "I wanted to chat, Jill." He loped over to Nate's chair, swung it closer to her desk, and sat in it backward.

"I have a cla.s.s in ten minutes, Chuck. But if you can make it quick . . ." She plopped the slides on her desk and began to shuffle through them to avoid looking at him.

Grover's appearance was even more horrifyingly Californian than usual, thanks to the July weather. His open sandals displayed h.o.a.ry feet, and a baggy pair of shorts provided even more unwelcomed information as he sat, legs spread. The neck of Nate's office chair was uncharitably thin, and Jill, who had not seen that portion of the male anatomy by choice for some years, was not happy to be subjected to it now, at ten in the morning in this claustrophobic office.

"I wanted to touch base about our agreement."

"What agreement is that, Chuck?" Her small fingers tapped at the salvaged file.

"The agreement we made when you came crawling to me six months ago for time on Quey, time I did not by any means have to give you."

He kept his tone light, but Jill was shocked at his blatant choice of words. Apparently, he was through pretending theirs was a civil relationship. She answered equally lightly.

"Believe me, I haven't forgotten that day. Nor will I."

"Good. Then perhaps you'll take a few minutes to bring your partner up-to-date."

Chuck leaned forward in the chair, folding his arms over the top. Despite the Coppertone pose, his eyes were angry. It was true Jill had brushed him off in the hallways more than once in the past months. But she wondered when, exactly, Grover had decided she had something worth bothering over.

"Certainly!" she said brightly. "I was fortunate enough to get data on a carbon atom from the accelerator at CERN. . . ." She told him, in more detail than he obviously wanted to know, how they had set up the original experiment. It was all true, as far as it went.

Grover's eyes narrowed, not trusting her sudden forthcomingness.

"So we crunched through it all using Quey-which was really remarkably fast-you must be congratulated."