The City of Mirrors
Page 33
“That was smart, with the brackets,” Foto continued. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
“You might have. I just got there first.”
“That kid is fucking lucky, is all I have to say. And look at you, not even rattled.”
It was true: he’d felt invincible, his mind perfectly focused, his thoughts clear as ice. In fact, there was no lip at the edge of the roof; the surface was perfectly smooth. I make you see the game the way I need you to.
Foto capped the flask and got to his feet. “So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Actually, I think that’s it for me,” Peter said.
Foto stared at him, then gave a quiet chuckle. “Anybody else, I’d figure they were worried about getting killed. You’d probably like it if somebody fell every day so you could catch them. What will you do instead?”
“Somebody’s offered me a job. I thought I wasn’t interested, but maybe I am.”
The man nodded evenly. “Whatever it is, it’s got to be more interesting than this. It’s true what they say about you.” They shook hands. “Good luck to you, Jaxon.”
Peter watched him go, then walked to the capitol. As he entered Sanchez’s office, she glanced up from her papers.
“Mr. Jaxon. That was fast. I thought I was going to have to work a little harder.”
“Two conditions. Actually, three.”
“The first is your son, of course. I’ve given you my word. What else?”
“I want direct access to you. No middlemen.”
“What about Chase? The man’s my chief of staff.”
“Just you.”
She thought only a moment. “If that’s what it takes. What’s the third?”
“Don’t make me wear a necktie.”
—
The sun had just set when Michael knocked on the door of Greer’s cabin. There was no light inside, no sound. Well, I’ve walked too long to wait out here, he thought. I’m sure Lucius won’t mind.
He put his bag on the floor and lit the lamp. He looked around. Greer’s pictures: How many were there? Fifty? A hundred? He stepped closer. Yes, his memory had not betrayed him. Some were hasty sketches; others had obviously required hours of focused labor. Michael selected one of the paintings, untacked it from the wall, and laid it on the table: a mountainous island, bathed in green, seen from the bow of a ship, which was just visible at the bottom edge. The sky above and behind the island was a deep twilight blue; at its center, at forty-five degrees to the horizon, was a constellation of five stars.
The door flew open. Greer stood at the threshold, pointing a rifle at Michael’s head.
“Flyers, put that down,” Michael said.
Greer lowered the gun. “It’s not loaded anyway.”
“Good to know.” Michael tapped the paper with his finger. “Remember when I said you should tell me about these?”
Greer nodded.
“Now would be the time.”
—
The constellation was the Southern Cross—the most distinctive feature of the night sky south of the equator.
Michael showed Greer the newspaper, which the man read without reaction, as if its contents came as no surprise to him; he described the Bergensfjord and the bodies he’d found; he read the captain’s letter aloud, the first time he had done this. It felt very different to speak the words, as if he were not overhearing a conversation but enacting it. For the first time, he glimpsed what the man had intended by writing a letter that could never be sent; it imparted a kind of permanence to the words and the emotions they contained. Not a letter but an epitaph.
Michael saved the data from the Bergensfjord’s navigational computer for last. The ship’s destination had been a region of the South Pacific roughly halfway between northern New Zealand and the Cook Islands; Michael used the atlas to show Greer. When the ship’s engines had failed, they had been fifteen hundred miles north-northeast of their goal, traveling in the equatorial currents.
“So how did it end up in Galveston?” Greer asked.
“It shouldn’t have. It should have sunk, just like the captain said.”
“Yet it didn’t.”
Michael frowned. “It’s possible the currents could have pushed it here. I don’t really know much about it. I’ll tell you one thing it means. There’s no barrier and never was.”
Lucius looked at the newspaper again. He pointed midway down the page. “This here, about the virus having an avian source—”
“Birds.”
“I’m familiar with the word, Michael. Does it mean the virus could still be out there?”
“If they’re carriers, it might be. Sounds like the people in charge never figured it out, though.”
“ ‘In rare instances,’ ” Greer read aloud, “ ‘victims of the illness have exhibited the transformative effects of the North American strain, including a marked increase in aggressiveness, but whether any of these individuals have survived past the thirty-six-hour threshold is not known.’ ”
“That got my attention, too.”
“Are they talking about virals?”
“If so, they’re a different strain.”
“Meaning they could still be alive. Killing the Twelve wouldn’t have affected them.”
Michael didn’t say anything.
“Good God.”
“You might have. I just got there first.”
“That kid is fucking lucky, is all I have to say. And look at you, not even rattled.”
It was true: he’d felt invincible, his mind perfectly focused, his thoughts clear as ice. In fact, there was no lip at the edge of the roof; the surface was perfectly smooth. I make you see the game the way I need you to.
Foto capped the flask and got to his feet. “So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Actually, I think that’s it for me,” Peter said.
Foto stared at him, then gave a quiet chuckle. “Anybody else, I’d figure they were worried about getting killed. You’d probably like it if somebody fell every day so you could catch them. What will you do instead?”
“Somebody’s offered me a job. I thought I wasn’t interested, but maybe I am.”
The man nodded evenly. “Whatever it is, it’s got to be more interesting than this. It’s true what they say about you.” They shook hands. “Good luck to you, Jaxon.”
Peter watched him go, then walked to the capitol. As he entered Sanchez’s office, she glanced up from her papers.
“Mr. Jaxon. That was fast. I thought I was going to have to work a little harder.”
“Two conditions. Actually, three.”
“The first is your son, of course. I’ve given you my word. What else?”
“I want direct access to you. No middlemen.”
“What about Chase? The man’s my chief of staff.”
“Just you.”
She thought only a moment. “If that’s what it takes. What’s the third?”
“Don’t make me wear a necktie.”
—
The sun had just set when Michael knocked on the door of Greer’s cabin. There was no light inside, no sound. Well, I’ve walked too long to wait out here, he thought. I’m sure Lucius won’t mind.
He put his bag on the floor and lit the lamp. He looked around. Greer’s pictures: How many were there? Fifty? A hundred? He stepped closer. Yes, his memory had not betrayed him. Some were hasty sketches; others had obviously required hours of focused labor. Michael selected one of the paintings, untacked it from the wall, and laid it on the table: a mountainous island, bathed in green, seen from the bow of a ship, which was just visible at the bottom edge. The sky above and behind the island was a deep twilight blue; at its center, at forty-five degrees to the horizon, was a constellation of five stars.
The door flew open. Greer stood at the threshold, pointing a rifle at Michael’s head.
“Flyers, put that down,” Michael said.
Greer lowered the gun. “It’s not loaded anyway.”
“Good to know.” Michael tapped the paper with his finger. “Remember when I said you should tell me about these?”
Greer nodded.
“Now would be the time.”
—
The constellation was the Southern Cross—the most distinctive feature of the night sky south of the equator.
Michael showed Greer the newspaper, which the man read without reaction, as if its contents came as no surprise to him; he described the Bergensfjord and the bodies he’d found; he read the captain’s letter aloud, the first time he had done this. It felt very different to speak the words, as if he were not overhearing a conversation but enacting it. For the first time, he glimpsed what the man had intended by writing a letter that could never be sent; it imparted a kind of permanence to the words and the emotions they contained. Not a letter but an epitaph.
Michael saved the data from the Bergensfjord’s navigational computer for last. The ship’s destination had been a region of the South Pacific roughly halfway between northern New Zealand and the Cook Islands; Michael used the atlas to show Greer. When the ship’s engines had failed, they had been fifteen hundred miles north-northeast of their goal, traveling in the equatorial currents.
“So how did it end up in Galveston?” Greer asked.
“It shouldn’t have. It should have sunk, just like the captain said.”
“Yet it didn’t.”
Michael frowned. “It’s possible the currents could have pushed it here. I don’t really know much about it. I’ll tell you one thing it means. There’s no barrier and never was.”
Lucius looked at the newspaper again. He pointed midway down the page. “This here, about the virus having an avian source—”
“Birds.”
“I’m familiar with the word, Michael. Does it mean the virus could still be out there?”
“If they’re carriers, it might be. Sounds like the people in charge never figured it out, though.”
“ ‘In rare instances,’ ” Greer read aloud, “ ‘victims of the illness have exhibited the transformative effects of the North American strain, including a marked increase in aggressiveness, but whether any of these individuals have survived past the thirty-six-hour threshold is not known.’ ”
“That got my attention, too.”
“Are they talking about virals?”
“If so, they’re a different strain.”
“Meaning they could still be alive. Killing the Twelve wouldn’t have affected them.”
Michael didn’t say anything.
“Good God.”
