“She was close to Sunset,” said Holverson. “Probably lovers. I doubt he’d have kept a secret from her. Especially something like what we’re talking about here.”
Jacob broke in: “You have a call, Alex.”
“Who is it?”
“Leslie Cloud.”
“Tell her I’m not here. That you can’t reach me.”
“As you wish. And you have another call. Two more, in fact.”
“Same response for everybody.”
“Alex,” I said, “you’re going to have to respond.”
“I know.”
My own link began vibrating. “Who’s Leslie Cloud?” I asked.
“Columnist for Archeology Today.”
“You can’t really just—” I shrugged and opened my link. It was Carmen.
“Chase,” she said, “I know you don’t like to be disturbed, but we have three calls. All from media representatives. No, make it four.”
“Tell them I’m not presently available.”
“Very good, Chase.”
“Find out who they are. I’ll get back to them.”
NINETEEN
Truth comes in two formats: insights, and collisions with reality.
—Tulisofala, Mountain Passes (Translated by Leisha Tanner)
We were left with no alternative but to issue a statement. The same message went to every media outlet: We were looking into the provenance of a tablet that had turned up on property once owned by Sunset Tuttle. We knew nothing about aliens and had no idea where those stories were coming from. At the moment, the statement concluded, we have no theory regarding its origin. In all probability, we will ultimately discover that the statements made on The Peter McCovey Show this evening were exaggerated. Rainbow Enterprises is interested primarily because the tablet might be a genuine artifact.
Rachel issued a general denial, although it was difficult to know precisely what she was denying, whether it was the discovery of aliens, or her romantic relationship with Tuttle. One journalist managed to get to her. She remained noncommittal, other than admitting she was considering legal action against both McCovey and Alex.
“Why?” the reporter asked.
“Intrusion into my private life.”
The statement did nothing except stir things up. So we went to a press conference. Six journalists attended physically, and an additional six hundred or so linked in. Alex led off with another statement, even less informative than the first.
Then he took questions. Was it true that we were looking for aliens? Did we have any concerns that we might lead these aliens back to the Confederacy? What precautions were being taken?
When were we going out to continue the search?
“Where precisely do you think they are?” asked the Financial Times.
“I’ve said repeatedly, we are not looking for aliens.”
“Where is this tablet we keep hearing about?” That came from the Narimoto Courier.
“We don’t know.”
In a follow-up: “Is this by any chance a public-relations ploy?”
The day after the press conference, I had dinner with Shara Michaels. Shara was a longtime friend, and a physicist who’d helped us in the past. We went to Bennie’s Far and Away, which was her favorite restaurant. And, although I tried to have Rainbow pick up the tab—she’d never charged for her services—she refused. “Let me buy for you for a change,” she said.
Afterward, we did a tour of the nightspots. We enjoyed ourselves, and probably drank a bit too much. I know that, toward the end of the evening, we found ourselves, with three or four other women, dancing on tables while everybody clapped, then someone yelled my name, and I realized I’d been recognized, so we stopped and hustled out into the street. After that, we maintained a more appropriate demeanor.
An hour or so later, we were sitting in the Karanova, trading one-liners with a couple of guys, when somebody came up behind me and stopped. I’d heard him approach, and I knew he was standing there. A peculiar look came over Shara’s face. Then one of the guys—his name was Charlie—looked up past me and frowned.
A vaguely familiar voice said, “Bitch.”
At first I thought it was somebody talking to Shara. When I turned, I found myself looking at Doug Bannister. He stood there, angry eyes screwed into me, jaws clamped tight.
I stayed where I was. Charlie got out of his chair. He was big, and he dwarfed Doug.
“Enjoying yourself, bitch?” Doug hissed.
“Hey.” Charlie took a step forward. “Back off, pal.”
Doug ignored him. “You run around with that rich son-of-a-bitch troublemaker of yours, ruining people’s lives.” He reached down, picked up my drink, and threw it in my face.
Charlie decked him. Doug went down hard, and I tried to get between them. Charlie glared down at him and said something about breaking his neck. But Doug had eyes only for me: “Kolpath,” he told me, “I hope you choke.” Then he got up, wiping blood from his jaw, and while I restrained Charlie, he walked slowly away.
The entire place had gone quiet. “It’s over,” Charlie said. “Everybody relax.”
Shara stared at me. “Who was that?” she said. “What was that all about?”
“Charlie,” I said, “thanks.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad I was here. What the hell’s his problem?”
“It’s business-related,” I said.
Next day, we got a call from Korminov. Alex took it in my office while I was going through the files. The onetime World’s End CEO was not happy. “Alex,” he said, “whatever this crazy business with the tablet is about, I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop. You’re stirring up rumors that reflect on Rachel Bannister. She’s a good woman. She doesn’t deserve this.”
Alex sat down at my desk. “Walter,” he said, “I haven’t accused anybody of anything. I’m simply trying to ascertain the provenance—”
Korminov exploded. “Look, you’re doing a lot of damage. Think how Rachel must feel, having all this dug up about Tuttle. An hour ago I heard accusations on The Morning Show that she was after his money.”
“Has she complained to you?” Alex asked.
“No. Does she have to? Alex, I expected more from you. Man with your reputation—”
“Walter, all I’m trying to do is determine what’s on that tablet.”
“Well, I suggest you leave it alone. I can’t believe you’d do all this just so you can satisfy your curiosity about a piece of rock. Alex, you’re a better man that that.”
“Walter, I think you’re becoming overwrought.”
“I don’t get overwrought, Alex.” He was in a plush leather chair, in front of a set of curtains. “Please think how your actions are affecting others.”
“Does that include you, Walter?”
“Yes, in fact it does. I’ve had a few calls from the media asking whether there’s a connection with World’s End. I don’t want to get dragged into this. Please just use your head and make it go away.”
Robin and I went out that evening. We were celebrating his birthday, but he saw right away that my mind was elsewhere. When he asked what was wrong, I made the mistake of telling him about the encounter with Doug Bannister the previous evening, and he told me he wished he’d been there. “If I see him—” I immediately regretted saying anything. In fact, I knew when I first started mouthing off about it that it was a mistake to tell him, but you know how it is. Once you get started on these things, you pick up momentum, and there’s no easy way to stop.
Anyhow, I told him he was to keep out of it, that things were already bad enough, and that, anyhow, I could take care of myself.
“That’s not the point,” he said.
“Really? What is?”
He started going on about his responsibility to protect me, until I made it clear that wasn’t the point. Then he said okay and laughed, and it was over.
I knew Robin would be a good guy to have around if I ever really needed help, but the last thing I
wanted was something that would make relations with the Bannisters even worse. I don’t know. Maybe I had a premonition.
TWENTY
There are times when the only response to the misfortunes and calamities cast upon us is to end our existence in this tumultuous world, to draw the blinds, turn off the lights, and retire forever from the comedy.
—Tulisofala, Mountain Passes (Translated by Leisha Tanner)
That night, two days after the press conference, Carmen woke me shortly before dawn. “Call from Alex,” she said.
I rolled over and looked at the clock. “At this hour?”
“Do you want me to tell him—?”
“Carmen, did he say what it’s about?”
“No, Chase.”
“Put him through.” She knew without my saying anything to keep it audio only. I heard the click that indicated the channel had opened. “Alex,” I said, “you okay?”
“It’s Rachel.” His voice was flat. “Thought you’d want to hear it from me before you see it on the morning news shows.”
I froze. “Hear what?”
“She’s up on the Trafalgar Bridge. Half over the rail. I’m on my way there now. Maybe I can talk her off the damned thing.”
The Trafalgar is located twenty kilometers northwest, where the Melony enters the mountains. At that point, the river splashes down into a long canyon. The bridge, designed for both pedestrians and ground traffic, crosses the canyon. If you’ve ever been on it, you know how high it is. Probably three hundred meters to the river. If Rachel jumped from that, she wasn’t going to swim real well after she hit the water. “You think she means it?” I asked.
“Probably.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’ve just left the house.”
“Okay. I’m on my way.”
“I doubt there’s anything you can do, Chase.”
I got dressed and hustled outside, climbed into the skimmer, and took off. I was barely in the air when I heard the first media reports. They hadn’t identified her yet, simply talking about a woman threatening to jump from the bridge. I put the images on-screen. She was on the south side of the bridge, outside the guardrail. She had only a few inches of walkway to stand on. There wasn’t much light, and I couldn’t get a good enough look even to be sure it was her.
Below her, the river looked desperately far away. Melony Road was visible, of course. It runs along the south bank, but at that hour there were no moving lights.
A police officer had straddled the rail and was talking with her from a few meters away. He was nodding, holding up his arms. You don’t want to do this. Every time he leaned forward, tried to move closer to her, she pushed out over that awful chasm. I couldn’t hear either of them, but it was enough to stop him. Once, she let go with a hand and seemed about to fall, but she grabbed the rail again and clung to it. The woman was obviously terrified. Don’t do anything sudden, I thought at the cop. Wait her out, she’ll come down on her own.
Police had blocked off the approaches. Skimmers were circling; ground vehicles were pulling off the road to watch. Police were trying to reroute the traffic north to the Capital Bridge. As I got closer, a voice broke in: “Emergency situation in progress. Please leave the area.”
A police skimmer moved in close and repeated the message. Official vehicles were scattered across the bridge. They got closer with the imagers, and I could see it was Rachel. “I know the woman,” I said. “I might be able to help.”
“Are you the sister?” the voice asked.
I didn’t know anything about a sister. “No. I’m an acquaintance.”
“Name, please?”
“Chase Kolpath.”
They hesitated. Then: “You’re not on the list. Sorry.”
Trafalgar was a resort area with a population of about eight thousand. I couldn’t find a decent place to park, and I finally landed in a field outside town. I climbed out, walked onto Melony Road, and saw the clutter of people and vehicles ahead. It was our fault. Damn it, I’d warned Alex.
It was cold, and I wished I’d stopped to get a jacket.
At the bridge, people and vehicles were piled up in front of a police barricade. I pushed through the crowd and got to the front just in time to watch a taxi descend onto the bridge. Police and medical people were scattered across the span. A cruiser was drifting down out of the early dawn. I couldn’t get anyone’s attention, so I ducked under the cable. Somebody yelled, and suddenly I was confronting an officer. “Back off, lady,” he said.
“I know her,” I said. “Maybe—”
“Please get back, ma’am.”
“I know her. I might be able to—”
He held up a hand. Made a face as if he were trying to identify me. “You know who? The jumper?”
“Yes. If you’d let me talk to her—”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I really can’t do that.”
He started away. “Okay,” I said, “can we try something else?”
His shoulders tightened, but he stopped and turned. “What?”
“Contact Inspector Redfield. Ask him if it’s okay to let me through.”
He scowled. It had been a long night. “Wait one, please.” He walked over and talked to another officer. The conversation went back and forth while I tried to see what was happening with Rachel. But there were too many people on the bridge, and I couldn’t see her. Then the second officer came over. He wore three stripes on his sleeve. “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Chase Kolpath.”
“And you want us to check with Inspector Redfield?”
“Please.”
“Wait one.” He retreated a few paces and started talking into his link. I couldn’t hear the conversation. Gulls flew past. More people arrived. Another media team descended on the scene. Then he came back and handed me the link. “Talk to him,” he said.
I took it. “Fenn?”
“Chase, what are you doing out there?” He sounded as if he thought it wasn’t a good idea.
“I’d like to try talking her out of jumping.”
“I’ve just gone over this with Alex. If you go near her, that might be all she needs to send her over the side.”
“Is Alex coming?”
“Not anymore. He agreed it’s too dangerous.”
“Fenn, I might be able to stop this.”
“Or you might make things worse.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Chase, I’m not sure it’s entirely in your hands.”
I stood there, holding the link, looking at the cop.
“All right,” he said finally. “Let me talk to the officer.”
I ducked under the lines and hurried out onto the bridge, threading my way between the vehicles and the police. Ada and Doug had arrived and were talking with Rachel, gesturing, pleading with her while she hung outside the railing and shook her head.
No.
Doug saw me, screwed up his face in outrage, and held up a hand. Keep away.
Rachel was flushed. And terrified. She peered down into that awful chasm, gripping the waist-high rail so tightly, I wasn’t sure it would be possible for her to let go. She pulled her eyes from the river and looked back at her nephew and his wife. She was fighting off tears. Skimmers circled overhead.
Then those eyes found me. Her face hardened.
Doug started in my direction. Get out. Go away.
Rachel said something to him. He stared at her, and she went on talking. Ada put an arm around his shoulders, spoke to Rachel, and tugged at him. Tried to get him away.
I waited. Doug’s eyes blazed with hatred. His wife continued talking to him, continued pulling until, to my surprise, he gave in, and they both retreated a few steps.
Rachel seemed to be waiting for me. Her face was a mixture of fear, resignation, anger. “Don’t do it,” I said. “Whatever this is about, it’s not worth your life.”
“How would you know?”
I went a few steps closer, almost close enough t
o try to grab her. And, incredibly, she smiled. “Why do you work for him, Chase? You’re not like him.”
“Rachel, please. Come back inside, so we can talk.”
“We can talk.”
“Look, I’m sorry this happened. We never intended any harm.”
“I know.” Her voice steadied. “It’s not your fault. Not anybody’s fault, really. Except mine. You were just doing what you do.”
“That’s exactly right. And if we realized—”
“Shut up a minute. I don’t want any empty promises. It’s probably too late anyhow.”
“Why? What’s—”
“I asked you to shut up.” She took a deep breath. “It’s not your fault,” she said again. “It was inevitable that it would come out. I just wanted you to know. So you don’t blame yourself.”
“Don’t do this, Rachel.”
“If you want to do something for me—”
“Yes. Anything. If you’ll get away from there.”
“I’d like you to back away from this business.”
“Okay.”
“Forget the tablet. Will you do that?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t suppose you can get your idiot boss to do it?”
“I think he will.”
“You don’t believe that yourself. But try. Please.”
“I will.”
“Thank you.” She looked over at Doug and Ada, standing just out of earshot. And she said good-bye.
When I saw what she was about to do, I lunged for her, caught her wrist as she let go. We fought each other and screamed at each other. Then she twisted free.
Ada and Doug and the cops and I don’t know who else all converged on us as she slipped away. Rachel’s eyes brushed mine, pleading for help. Then she was gone.
We all stood looking down. I never heard the splash when she hit.
TWENTY-ONE
Guilt is never a reasoned response. It is rather a piece of programing that may or may not have justification. And it is probably most damaging to the innocent.
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