Dr. Monnet was shaking his head slowly. "No. When I went to check later, they all had changed: the computer backups, the photos, even the structural model."
"I know I sound like a broken record, but that's impossible!" Nadia couldn't believe Dr. Luc Monnet was feeding her this nonsense. Had he snapped?
He smiled but with no trace of humor. "I kept repeating that word too, like a mantra. I must have said it thousands of times since I began working with Loki, but after months I have come to accept the fantastic as fact. What choice do I have? Its properties are predictable and replicable. And I have sat here and watched my photos and models and drawings change before my eyes, felt all memory of the structure I had been looking at only seconds before vanish like smoke."
"But that's—" No. She would not say the word again.
"You don't believe me," he said, and this time she found a trace of humor in the twist of his lips. "Good. I'd worry about you if you did. Were positions reversed, I'd say that you were in dire need of intense therapy and large doses of Thorazine. This is why I waited until today to introduce you to Loki. Today is this sample's twenty-ninth day. When you come in tomorrow morning you will find it all changed, and you will not remember what the original looked like."
Yes, I will, Nadia promised silently. Oh, yes, I will.
"And then your work will begin. I'll give you a fresh sample—perhaps the last fresh sample we will be able to secure—and then you will have twenty-nine days to stabilize it. I'm hoping you will not leave us flat like your predecessor."
"I'm not a quitter."
"I know you aren't. That is why I have high hopes for you."
Not a quitter, no, but she had zero tolerance for looniness. Too much pseudoscience and bad science around as it was, and she would not add to it. A molecule that degraded to a different form was no big deal—but changing all records of its former structure as well? Absurd. Dr. Monnet said this phenomenon is predictable and replicable? She'd see about that. Nadia was going to make copies of the Loki molecule's structure, including a printout to take home with her. Tomorrow morning she'd prove how wrong he was.
"You say it's going to change overnight. Do you know when?"
"I know the exact minute."
"Really? What's the trigger?"
A heartbeat's worth of hesitation. "A celestial event."
Oh, please! "Which one?"
"Can I hold that in reserve as well?" he said, sounding apologetic. "I'm not trying to be coy or overly mysterious, but I feel you will be more accepting of all this tomorrow when you've seen—experienced for yourself—the changes I've described."
It was the way he said it that unsettled her—not with the note of someone anticipating vindication, but with the air of a rational man who had been forced to accept the unacceptable.
"This whole thing doesn't make sense. It borders on… supernatural."
"I know," he sighed. "That is another reason I christened it Loki. Loki was a god, a supernatural being."
10
"I'm so glad I talked you into this," Gia said.
She was dressed in faded jeans and a pink Polo shirt, and had taken the wheel of the Buick. Legally it was Gia's ride. Jack had bought it, maintained it, and paid its monthly garage fee, but it was registered in Gia's name and hers whenever she needed it. Both of them felt more comfortable riding in a car registered to a real person.
"Me too," Jack replied, but not so sure he meant it.
Gia had been working on a painting when he'd stopped by her place. If he'd had any inkling she'd want to drive out to the Hamptons, he never would have mentioned it. But mention he did, and she'd jumped on the idea with such enthusiasm that he couldn't say no.
It'll be all right, he told himself. Just a cruise by Dragovic's place, maybe a walk on the beach to see the ocean side of his property, and then back to the city. No risk, no danger to Gia and Vicky, just a couple and a child taking in the sights.
"I've never been out to the Hamptons," Gia said. "Have you?"
Flecks of pigment still clung to her fingers as they gripped the steering wheel. Vicky sat in the backseat, engrossed in an old Nancy Drew hardcover Jack had found in a used bookstore. A good night's sleep seemed to have been all she'd needed to recover from last night's scare, although Jack wondered how she'd react next time Gia took her to the museum.
"A few times," Jack said. "Just to see what it was like."
They'd cruised the Long Island Expressway most of the way out, then switched to the two-lane Montauk Highway for the drive onto the south fork. They'd passed though West Hampton, Bridgehampton, This-hampton, That-hampton, and lots of fields between. Farm country out here—the potato fields had been plowed and planted; cornstalks stood ankle-high under the late May sun. All the windows were open and the breeze ruffled Gia's short blond hair, lifting and twirling little golden wings.
"South Hampton College," Jack said as they passed the road sign pointing to the right. "Home of the Fighting Quahogs."
"What?" Gia laughed and glanced at him. "It didn't say that! Did it?"
"Of course it did. Would I make up something like that?"
"Yes. Most certainly yes." She hit the brake. "I'm going to turn around and go back to that sign, and if you're lying…"
"OK, OK. I made up the Fighting Quahogs. But if they're not the Fighting Quahogs, they should be, don't you think? That's one tough clam."
"Enough about clams. What about your trips out here? Were you with anyone?"
Jack smiled. Gia was always looking for clues about his pre-Gia love life.
"All by myself. Went all the way to Montauk one time. Put in calls to Paul Simon, Billy Joel, Sting, Paul McCartney, and Kim Bassinger to let them know I was coming—they all live out here, you know."
"I read the papers too."
"Yeah, well, you being from Iowa and all, I wasn't sure you knew. Anyway, they never got back to me. Not a one. Must have been out of town."
"They're busy people. You've got to give them more notice."
"I suppose. But I did stop off to see the Memory Motel—you know, from the Stones song? Walked the dunes. Nothing special except for the size of some of the houses. I guess I'm not much of a beach person."
"I love the beach. Thanks for letting us come along. It's such a beautiful day to get out of the city… especially after last night." She glanced into the backseat where Vicks was still absorbed in her book, then at Jack. "Did you find who you were looking for after you left?"
Jack nodded. "Got his name and address. He's got a broken leg."
"Good. What are you going to do?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Last night I wanted to have him strung up by his thumbs and let the Yankees use him as a tackling dummy."
"Uh, Gia, the Yankees are a baseball team. They don't tackle."
"Whoever then. You know what I mean. I'm saner now. Maybe a broken leg is enough."
"Maybe…" Jack said aloud, mentally adding: for you.
He still intended to pay a visit to Mr. Butler but wasn't going to be able to work him into the schedule today. Tomorrow for sure.
"Want me to take the wheel for a while?" he said, knowing her answer.
Gia preferred to drive rather than be driven by him—all but insisted on it. Which was fine with Jack since Gia's license was the genuine article.
Gia shook her head. "Uh-uh."
"I thought you might want to enjoy the scenery."
"That's all right. I know you think you've got this perfect depth perception, but you drive too close to things. I'm always jumping, thinking you're going to hit something. Besides, this is an easy drive."
"This time tomorrow afternoon will be a completely different story. Bumper-to-bumper for miles and miles."
Jack rested his hand on Gia's thigh, leaned back, and closed his eyes, wishing every day could be like this—not just the weather, but the ambience, the togetherness, the peace.
"Where are we going, Jack?" Gia said.
; "East Hampton."
"No, not this afternoon. I mean, in life. You. Me. Us. Where?"
Jack opened his eyes and studied her profile. What a nice little nose she had. "Is there something wrong with where we are?"
She smiled. "No. But sometimes, especially when it's good like this, I have to wonder how long before something goes wrong."
"Why does something have to go wrong?"
"Well, with you doing what you do, doesn't it seem like just a matter of time before a big load of you-know-what hits the fan?"
"Not necessarily. I'm being more careful, more choosy, sticking with fix-its I can handle from a distance."
"But where does it end? You can't be Repairman Jack forever."
How true.
"I know. This isn't carved in stone, but I'm thinking maybe four or five more years and I'm out. I'll be forty then. That's when the reflexes begin to slow and you start needing reading glasses. Might be a good time for my midlife crisis. You know, look around at my life and say, 'Is this it?' and go off and do something radically different and crazy like, I don't know, becoming an accountant or a stockbroker."
"CPA-man Jack," Gia said. "I can see you coming up with all sorts of unique ways to handle an IRS audit."
Jack didn't laugh. The future wasn't funny. Not having an official identity, being a nonentity to the IRS and all the other federal, state, and local arms of the bureausaurus was fine now, but what happened later if he got tired of the constant hiding and dodging and simply wanted to kick back and join Shmoodom? He hadn't thought of that when he'd erased himself from the societal map. Hadn't figured he'd ever get to that point.
And he still might never. Jack wondered if he could ever reconcile himself to the idea of paying income tax. He expended time—hours and days and weeks out of his life—earning his fees, sometimes at the risk of that life, and at its most basic what was life but a struggle against a ticking clock, doing the most with the time you were allotted. To allow then some government bureau to confiscate the product of his time… it was like handing over chunks of his life. The way he saw it, once you surrendered sovereignty over part of your life, even a tiny part, you've already lost the war. After that it becomes an issue not of whether you have a right to your own life but of how big a chunk of your life you're going to surrender. And no one asks the giver. The decision is made by the takers.
But still… what if the only way to secure a future with Gia and Vicky was to enter their world? He certainly couldn't see them entering his. If he needed to put himself back on the map, how did he do it? He couldn't appear out of nowhere without a damn good explanation of where he'd been all these years.
If it came down to that, he'd figure something out. After all, he still had time…
"Would you be offended if I retired and bought a farm? I mean, you being a vegetarian and all."
"Why would I be offended?"
"Well, I'd want to grow, you know, steaks."
She laughed. He loved that sound. "You can't grow steaks."
"OK, then I'll hunt them—wild filet mignon, free-range T-bones."
"You mean cattle," she said, playing along. "You raise cattle and then you slaughter them and slice up their dead bodies into steaks."
"You mean kill them? What if I get attached to them and can't?"
"Then you've got yourself a bunch of very large pets that go 'moo.'"
Vicky was suddenly hanging over the seat between them, pointing through the windshield as they cruised into another town.
"Look! Another windmill! That's the second one I've seen. Are we in Holland?"
"No," Jack said. "This is still New York. A town called East Hampton. And speaking of which…"
He unfolded a map and figured out where they were.
Immediately he realized he should have checked sooner.
"Hang a U-ie when you can. We overshot our turn. We have to get back to Ocean Avenue and then to Lily Pond Lane."
"Thanks, Chingachgook," Gia said as she got them going the other way. "Lily Pond Lane… wasn't that mentioned in a Dylan song?"
"Believe so."
"I read somewhere that Martha Stewart lives on Lily Pond Lane."
"Hope she fixed us something good for lunch."
As they wound their way south toward the ocean, the homes grew larger and larger, one more imposing than the next, and the walls and privet hedges and fences around them grew taller and taller, all posted with signs listing the security company that guarded the grounds behind them.
"Who owns these?" Gia said.
"The Calvin Kleins and Steven Spielbergs of the world."
"And the Milos Dragovics."
"Yep. Them too. He's supposed to be at the end of Faro Lane—there. Hang a left."
Faro Lane was short and straight; the three-story house at its end blocked any view of the ocean and a good part of the sky. A Mediterranean-style tile roof, but royal blue instead of red, capped light blue stucco walls.
"I think he likes blue," Jack said.
He scanned the perimeter as they passed. A high stucco wall with what looked like broken glass embedded along the top—more aesthetically pleasing than razor wire, he supposed; videocams jutted from the walls of the house, sweeping the grounds. No security service was listed on the wrought-iron gate—Dragovic probably used his own boys as guards—but Jack spotted a German shepherd through the opening.
And then Gia stopped the car.
"Hideous," she said, shaking her head and making a disgusted face as she stared through the windshield. "No other word for it. Of all the colors available, he had to pick those? Whatever look he was going for, he missed."
"No-no!" Jack said. "Don't stop!"
He glanced up, saw a security camera atop the gatepost pointed directly at him, and quickly turned away.
"What's wrong?" Gia said.
"Nothing." Damn! Was that cam used as needed or on continuous feed? Did they have him on tape? "Just keep moving and see if we can find a way to take a walk on the sand."
Should have come alone, he thought. Never guessed she'd stop. But what's done is done. And no point in making too much of it. Who'd be suspicious of an old Buick stopping to take a gander at the big blue house? Probably happens every day.
Gia drove farther west and found a public parking area for Georgica Beach. The three of them kicked off their shoes—Jack surreptitiously removed his ankle holster and jammed the little Semmerling into his pocket—and barefooted it up the dunes. Jack and Gia strolled hand in hand eastward along the higher dry sand while Vicky frolicked along the waterline, playing tag with the waves.
"The water's cold!" she cried.
"Don't get wet," Gia told her.
They trekked up a dune and stopped at its summit to gaze at the blue expanse of Milos Dragovic's twenty-room summer cottage. From this angle Jack could see that it was U-shaped, squatting on the sand like a wary blue crab stretching its claws toward the sea. An oblong free-form pool glistened between the arms, surrounded by a teak deck. A glass-roofed structure that was either a solarium or hothouse huddled in a corner. And all around the grounds men were setting up tables and umbrellas and scrubbing chairs and chaises.
"Looks like someone's having a party," Gia said. "Are you invited?"
"Nope."
"Are you going anyway?"
Jack heard the tension in her voice, turned and saw the worry in her eyes.
"Maybe."
"I wish you wouldn't. He's not a nice man, you know."
"He says he's an honest businessman who's never been convicted of a single crime."
Gia frowned. "I know the rant: everybody picks on him because he's a Serb. But who believes that? What does he do, anyway?"
"Bad stuff, I'm told. I'm not sure of the specifics. I'm waiting for People to do an in-depth cover story."
"What are you keeping from me?"
"Truthfully, I don't know much about him. I don't find flashy hoods interesting reading."
"He was accused of murder."<
br />
"But the charge was dropped."
"Please don't get on the wrong side of this man."
"Trust me, that's the last thing I want to do. But I do want to get a closer look at his house."
They walked down the dune, scattering a flock of resting seagulls along the way.
"It's even uglier close up," Gia said.
Jack was making a mental map of the grounds. If he were going to invite himself in, he'd have to approach from the beach. He studied the wide open pool area, then looked out to sea. An idea began to form as he watched Vicky gathering shells along the waterline.
"Uh-oh," Gia said. "Looks like we're attracting a crowd."
Jack turned. Two very tall, very broad-shouldered beef jerkies in wraparound shades and ill-fitting dark suits were scuffing toward them across the sand. Both had broad, flat faces and bristly military-style haircuts—one brown and one that had probably been brown once but was now a shade of orange-blond. And Jack could tell from the way their sleeves rode in their left armpits that both were armed.
"Keep moving, folks," said the dark-haired one in a deep, thickly accented voice.
"Yeah," said the other, with the same accent. "This is not place for sightseeing."
"Nice house," Jack said, trying what he hoped was a disarming smile. "Who's the owner?"
Turnip-head smirked. "Someone who does not want you standing in his front yard."
Jack shrugged. "OK." He turned and took Gia's elbow. "Let's go, dear, and let these nice men get back to their work."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Gia said, pulling free of his hand.
Her eyes were narrowed and her lips were pulled into a thin line as she stared at the two guards. Jack knew that look and knew it meant trouble. Once she got her back up, she could be a badger.
"Gia—"
"No, wait. This beach is public property. We can stand out here all day if we please, and we might just do that."
Jeez. This was the last thing he wanted. Up till now he'd been just a guy out for a walk with his wife or his girlfriend who had to be shooed along. Now they'd remember him. And worse, they'd remember Gia.
"Just move on, lady," said the dark-haired one.
"No. You move on. This isn't Kosovo, you know."
All the Rage Page 8
