by J. G. Sandom
No sooner were they seated than an anorexic waitress with thinning bleached blond hair trailing the scent of cigarettes appeared out of nowhere and told them they had to order real food if they wanted to stay in the booth.
“Sure,” Lulu said. “We’ll stay. Bring over some menus. You’re okay with that, right, Tony?”
“As long as they’ve got a good steak,” Decker answered. “I feel like red meat tonight. You got a good steak, sweetheart? Plus, a nice iceberg wedge. With plenty of blue cheese?”
“Best in town.”
When the waitress had gone, Lulu said, “Funny. Didn’t take you for a red meater. You look more like a chicken breast and occasional fish kind of guy.”
“Usually I am. But, sometimes, I just get a craving. You know.”
“Guess you can’t always judge an e-Book by its jpeg,” she said.
Decker laughed. “What’s behind your jpeg, Sarah Lee? Since we’re stuck here together. What’s your story? Where were you born? Where’d you grow up?”
“Born in China,” she said. “In Shanghai. My father was a government statistician and, later, a college professor. But he fell out of favor with the Party after doing too candid a census of earthquake victims and releasing it to the academic world, and our family was forced to flee China for Hong Kong when I was twelve.”
Later, Lulu continued, they moved to Boston, where her father set up a barely successful green grocery business, selling mostly ethnic vegetables to Chinese restaurants...and working as a bookie on the side.
“Like me, my Dad was facile with numbers.” Three years later, due to excellent grades—not to mention a generous scholarship—Lulu entered MIT at fifteen.
“Your folks must be proud of you,” Decker said.
“My Dad died two years ago. But my Mom’s still alive,” Lulu said. “She lives out in Lexington now. She’s...I guess she’s proud of me. Kind of old school. She’s squicked by my piercings and tats, though.”
“Squicked?”
“Grossed out. Disgusted. You know.”
Though still haunted by Emily’s death, Decker found himself strangely attracted to Lulu. But it wasn’t romantic or sexual, he told himself. He just wanted to let go of the pain in his heart, to feel human again. And, for some reason, he felt comfortable in her presence. Despite her odd combination of beauty and self-mutilation. Despite her tininess and that mysterious cast to her eyes.
“How about you?” she said, changing the subject. “Where were you raised? How’d you end up at the NCTC?”
“Born in Davenport, Iowa. The Quad Cities,” said Decker. “My Dad was a cop, my Mom a librarian. But they died in a car accident when I was fifteen, and I was raised by my aunt and her husband Tom in nearby Bettendorf. Went to Northwestern, where I majored in mathematics; minored in languages. After college and a two-year stint on the Bettendorf Police Force, I applied to the FBI and became a Cryptanalyst Forensic Examiner. Spent my first eighteen months with the Racketeering Records Analysis Unit in D.C., before being transferred to Chicago. Eventually joined the Joint Terrorism Task Force in New York.”
“That’s where you were based during the El Aqrab incident?”
Decker nodded. He waited for the normal questions about his role in preventing a mega-tsunami from destroying the Eastern Seaboard but they never came. Instead, Lulu asked him, “What was it like being raised by your aunt and uncle in Iowa? I mean...you know. Losing your parents and all. Being orphaned like that?”
“They did what they could,” Decker answered. “Where the hell is that steak?” He searched the room for their waitress.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, when Lulu continued to stare at him, waiting, he said, “My uncle and I are still close. That’s why I called him when I needed someone to look after Becca.” He stared back at Lulu. “What about you? You never did tell me your story about getting frostbite. What was it like escaping from the People’s Republic of China?”
His words had their desired effect and Decker felt surprisingly shamed by his tactics. They both had their secrets. There were things he remembered that he would have given practically anything to forget. But no matter how buried, they lingered. Something had happened to Lulu during her childhood escape to Hong Kong, something she didn’t want to remember. It was always a source of great wonder to Decker that the things which were essentially formless cast the longest shadows.
“One night,” she said quietly, “I got separated from my parents in the north Wuyi range near Nanping, in Fujian. We were en route south from Shanghai, traveling through the mountains rather than on the more popular coastal roads. I...I was forced to sleep outside and it snowed, which is pretty rare there. Anyway, when I woke up, my fingers were frozen. Almost lost them. To this day,” she said, waving her hand, “they get cold really easily. Get all numb and start throbbing.” She smiled but there was a glimmer of pain in her eyes. “How come you became a codebreaker?” she asked him.
Decker gave his normal reply, how he liked the order it lent to seemingly random objects or events. “I guess I enjoy solving puzzles,” he said. “You know. Seeing patterns. Profiling based on disparate data. I guess my brain is a good relevance-making machine.”
“You mean it helps you stay in control” she replied. “A safe distance away.”
“Perhaps.” She sounds just like Emily, Decker thought. That’s what his wife used to say.
“Excuse me a second,” said Lulu. She slipped out of the booth. “Be right back.” She made her way toward the bathroom.
Their food came soon thereafter and, after waiting another five minutes or so for her to return, Decker finally got up to see where Lulu had gone. He rounded the bar and spotted her talking on her cellphone by the corridor leading to the kitchen. She didn’t see him and he headed back to their table immediately, without even fetching her. She reappeared moments later.
Decker dug into his Delmonico steak as Lulu picked at her salmon. For a few minutes neither of them said anything, comfortable as they were simply enjoying their food, savoring each mouthful at the end of a long, grueling day.
Then, without warning, he said, “Who were you talking to on your phone by the kitchen?”
“Checking on something,” she answered, without hesitation.
“On what?”
She took another bite of her fish. “You know that cyborg device on the assassin’s arm?”
“What about it?”
“It was made of a UV-curable photopolymer.”
“And?” Decker asked. “So what?”
“I just thought that was interesting,” she replied. “I was hoping to get a fix on the manufacturer, hoping it might lead us back to whoever was behind the assassin.”
“And.”
“No luck.”
For the rest of the meal, they said very little. It was well past nine when they decided to head back to Jamaica.
There was an awkward moment when Lulu went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. The door was cracked open a little and although he tried not to look, he found himself checking her out as she took off her clothes. First, her sweater and slacks. Next, her blouse and her bra. Although she was facing the mirror and he couldn’t see very much through the crack between the frame and the door, he finally caught sight of Lulu’s tattoo, or at least a small part of it, for it seemed to extend down half of her front and across her entire back, from the nape of her neck to her buttocks. The design appeared to be floral, a series of pink and gold lotus blossoms, lily pads, and a tangle of brilliant green vines. Then, the door suddenly closed.
When she returned, she was wearing an extra-large T-shirt for some New Orleans oyster company.
Decker went to wash up next, brushing his teeth with his new toothbrush, which felt wonderful. When he was finished, he slipped back into the bedroom wearing nothing but his T-shirt and underwear.
Lulu didn’t even look up. She was too busy plugging her phone into her...boot!
“What the hell are you doing?
” Decker asked.
“Charging my iPhone.”
“With your shoe?”
“I’ve got reverse electrowetting Doc Martins,” she said, leaning over. “You know. They build up a kinetic charge during the day as I use them. That way, I always have a source of power to charge my iPhone or my Alienware laptop. If I still had it, that is. Which I don’t.” She scowled over her shoulder at him. Then she suddenly screamed and leapt up on the bed.
“What? What is it?”
“Spider,” she said, pointing down at the floor.
Decker came around the four-poster bed and saw what she was pointing at. Sure enough, it was a relatively small common house spider. He picked up her other boot. “Honestly, you’re almost as bad as my wife was,” he said, slamming the boot on the floor. When he picked it up, all that remained was a wet spot. “She hated spiders and crickets and cockroaches.”
Lulu shuddered under the covers.
Decker laughed. He went around to the other side of the bed by the bathroom and slipped in beside her. “I hope your Doc Martins don’t snore.”
Lulu rolled over and turned out the light.
It took Decker almost forty minutes to fall asleep. He spent the first fifteen just listening to Lulu breathing. She seemed to fall asleep right away, without any trouble, despite the incident with the spider. Decker, on the other hand, hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in what seemed like years. When he did finally fall off, he dreamt about El Aqrab.
He saw himself as his prisoner once again, tied to a ticking nuclear bomb, in the belly of that active volcano on La Palma. He saw Emily as they shared a picnic together in a field of pink tulips. No, they were gold. Then, he sensed someone else enter the scene. A man. A stranger. He was too far away to see clearly. Decker reached down to lift Emily to her feet but she slipped from his grasp. Their fingers just separated and she began to slide down an endless abyss, like Eurydice vanishing back to the Underworld. He tried desperately but couldn’t quite reach her.
Next, he was running as fast as he could. He was being chased by the stranger. He ran and he ran through the fields, faster and faster, until his heart felt like it would leap from his breast, and yet he never seemed to gain any ground. It was as if he were running in place. His chest was on fire. Finally, after what seemed like eternity, he ascended to the top of a hill. He stopped and stared down at the valley below him. It was filled with hundreds...no, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of figures approaching, lumbering toward him like zombies.
Decker awoke in a puddle of sweat. Lulu was lying right next to him, oblivious, still sleeping. In the amber streetlight which streamed in through the window, she looked like a young girl as she slept, despite her eyebrow and nose studs and dyed hair. Or, maybe, because of them. She looked, oddly, at peace.
Decker slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her, and crept quietly to the bathroom. He locked the door, leaned both hands on the sink, and glanced at the mirror.
He looked terrible. His face was puffy and raw. And then, without warning, he began to weep uncontrollably.
At first, it was only a tear or two. But it just wouldn’t stop. No matter how hard he tried to control it, he just couldn’t put a stop to his chest-heaving sobs, the uncontrollable shaking.
Decker found himself down on the floor, his arms wrapped around the toilet. It was so cold, so blessedly cold, it made his flushed face feel cooler. He cried and he cried in this manner for five minutes straight...until he saw Emily standing behind him.
“Look at you,” she said, shaking her head. “Pull your together, John. You have things to do.”
Decker released himself from the toilet bowl. He sat up on the floor, turned completely around. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that—”
“I don’t want to hear it. You’ve always got some damned excuse or another, don’t you? Listen to me, John. Are you listening to me?”
“I’m listening.”
“This is important. H2O2 was involved with Anonymous.”
“What?” Decker asked. “Who?”
Just then came a knock on the door. It was Lulu.
“Hey,” Lulu said. “Hey, are you okay? Can I get you something? John? John, answer me. Please open the door.”
Decker grabbed the rim of the sink and hauled himself to his feet. He dried his eyes with a hand towel. “Just a minute,” he said, examining his face in the mirror. He looked like absolute shit. Then he took a deep breath and opened the door.
Lulu was standing just outside, her arms crossed, trying to look nonchalant. “Are you alright?” she repeated. “I thought I heard voices. You look...Are you sure you’re okay?”
Decker slipped past her and went back to the bed. “Don’t worry,” he said, as he summoned a smile. He sat down and swung his feet up, covering himself up with the comforter. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
CHAPTER 30
Friday, December 13
I ran through the streets, through backyards and cul-de-sacs, past garages and porches, down side yards, under clotheslines, over fences and flowerbeds, chased on by my relentless assailant.
Police sirens wailed in the distance. I could hear them caterwauling even now over the dull thump of my heart.
I ran around the side of a two-car garage, ducked down for a moment between an air conditioning unit and a stand of silverberry bushes. My heart pounded as I tried to harness my breath. In vain. In vain. It was growing darker by the second, I could see that. The sun was plunging toward the earth, unassailably falling, melting like a blister of butter on the distant horizon.
The sirens kept wailing.
I wrapped myself up in my arms. I tried to make a present of myself. I held my sides, I rocked and I rocked, back and forth, and I wept. I covered my hands, cracked and covered in blood. Murderer hands, they bore the blood I’d discharged in small ovoid droplets—some almost perfectly round—as I shot my wife twice in the chest.
Bang, bang!
I remembered.
I cupped my hands in my stomach, folded them over as if they were birds.
What makes me who I am? What is the shape and flavor of my being? Is Man the sum of his collective organs, a bag of blood, a stand of bones?
Is that it?
Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore, I am. I feel. I dream, I yearn for some authentic fiction, distilled down to the essence of its being.
Who is the scribbler, who the scribbled? I write the story that is you. All of this. “It’s for you, John,” I said aloud. “Just so you know how it started. Who I am. The man I thought I could be.”
There was a noise to my left and I flung myself to the dirt. But it proved to be nothing. It wasn’t the blond man. The man with the white sweater and shorts. My shadow. No matter where I run, no matter how far, the blond man is always behind me.
I rolled back to my spot behind the silverberry bushes. I got up on my knees and stole a quick peek through the shrubbery. The noise had just been another air conditioning unit starting up across the way. I held my breath. I closed my eyes and pressed my palms against my temples. Three, two, one, and I was in...
I work for the cyber division of a large multinational military, oil and construction concern called Premise, an ADS company. I integrate and analyze data streams from disparate digital sources, IC data and private industry datamarts too. Everything, John. You know what I’m talking about. I stitch it together.
They said it was in the name of national security. That’s what they told us. We thought we were defending our country. Scenario planning. Play-acting for peace. But it wasn’t that simple. I found out. I stumbled upon it this morning. I finally uncovered the proof I was looking for when this text window popped up on my screen. Just like that. It was him. The Chairman of Premise. The founder himself.
“What are you doing?” he IMd me. “You don’t have clearance to access these files.”
I made some pathetic excuse, that I’d trespassed by accident, and he seemed to believe me
. I think he was genuinely surprised that anyone even knew they existed.
The data we were stitching together. It wasn’t to identify terrorists, John. We were making...He had us creating...And she knew. She was spying for him the whole time.
I came home early today. I came home to be sure. And when I was certain, I took out my gun and I shot her, two times, in the chest. The woman I thought was my wife.
My hands. My hands, they were shaking, they trembled, splattered with blood. Her blood.
I curled them up into fists. I curled them up and I punched the air conditioning unit beside me. I kept punching the metal until my knuckles were bloody and raw.
I feel. I can feel!
Then, I stopped.
Someone was coming.
I could see a figure enter the yard from the other side of the property. The stranger’s face was hard to discern through the shrubbery. Without waiting to get a better look, I took off round the air conditioning unit, past the silverberry bushes, ran as fast as I possibly could.
But the stranger ran faster. Soon, he was gaining on me. He was right on my heels.
When I just couldn’t take it any longer, in frustration, I turned and I faced my pursuer. But as I swiveled about, as I stopped, stood my ground, it turned out not to be the blond man with the white sweater and shorts.
Instead, it was a dark, Middle Eastern-looking young man. Quite small, really. In his twenties.
“My name is Ibrahim,” he said, out of breath. His eyes were hawk-like, relentless. He sported a scraggly black beard. “Ibrahim Barzani. If you want to live, follow me.”
CHAPTER 31
Friday, December 13
The next morning, Decker and Lulu woke up—face to face—and Decker turned over immediately, cupping one hand over himself to avoid any contact between Lulu and his throbbing erection.
Later, during breakfast in the B&B dining room, they chatted about going back to D.C. Decker was anxious to check on his daughter. Now that they’d talked with the local police chief, both he and Lulu were convinced Zimmerman had died accidentally. This trip north had been a complete waste of time, Decker said. He had but one choice now, grim as it was, and that was to turn himself in.
