Days of Atonement

by Walter Jon Williams

“And all the new religions claim to be scientific. And they wouldn’t know science if it bit them. But science has become religion, at least for the masses— they don’t know the difference between science and magic. UFOs and the moon rockets are like the same thing to them.” He shrugged again. “I’m interested, anyway. I’ll probably take a look at the place on my way out of town.”

  Loren rose from his chair. “Thanks very much.”

  “I hope I could be of some help.”

  Loren and Cipriano blinked in the bright sun as they stepped out of the motel. “At least he talked to us,” Loren said.

  Cipriano’s voice was disgusted. “Only because he didn’t know a fucking thing, jefe.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dielh’s flown off to Washington. I don’t know if I wanna believe that was coincidence.”

  Loren shook his head. “Maybe he was just reporting the fact that Jernigan got involved in something that resulted in a dead body. I still think it was his family that started this— wife, kids, somebody.”

  “Yeah. But Patience knows something he’s not telling us.”

  “That’s my impression.”

  “So what are we gonna do?”

  The neon Indian waved its tomahawk back and forth. Sword and arm of the Lord, Loren thought. He walked to the car and got in the passenger seat.

  “Let’s give Jernigan his car back,” he said.

  *

  Jernigan stood on his driveway and stared at his BMW. He wore blue jeans, sandals, and a T-shirt with an MIT logo, and his expression suggested he strongly wished he or the car were elsewhere. The floor and driver’s seat were still covered with dried blood, the shattered back window had crashed into the back seat on the drive to Vista Linda, and the bullet scars on the car’s flank were even more obvious in daylight.

  “I thought you’d clean it up,” Jernigan said. His eyes blinked nonstop behind thick lenses.

  “That’s not our job,” Loren said. “Maybe your insurance will cover it.”

  The battered auto stood in violent contrast to Vista Linda and its coddled ambience. Immaculate green lawns, difficult and very expensive to maintain in New Mexico, lay like sheets of green velvet before ranch-style tract homes. The hard local water, brought up from the ground at great cost, hissed gently, forming rainbows, as it sprayed over the smooth green. Lawn mowers, the signature tune of suburbia, buzzed quietly in the background.

  It didn’t look much like the Southwest. More like a piece of Pennsylvania sliced out of its bedrock and transported to the high desert by one of Millennium 2000’s flying saucers.

  Jernigan’s lawn was half green grass, half crushed lava rock that matched the color of the blood in his car, with a neat curved border of white brick separating the two. Sitting in the middle of the lava rock, as in a Japanese garden, was a stunted piñón.

  There were child-sized footprints in the lava rock where kids had run across it rather than use the sidewalk. Pebbles were scattered up and down the driveway. Loren hadn’t seen the children as yet.

  “Can we talk to you, Mr. Jernigan?” Loren said. “We’ve got a few things to clear up.”

  “I guess so.” Jernigan was still staring at his car, teeth nipping at his upper lip.

  “Shall we go inside?”

  “Oh.” Scratching his beard. “Yeah.”

  Loren and Cipriano followed Jernigan into his house. A boy of maybe twelve, graying white sneakers propped up on a hassock, sat in the living room. He was wearing a video helmet on his head and had gloves on. The gloves were dancing in the air, manipulating objects in the artificial reality of whatever game he was playing. His head was bobbing in the odd, syncopated way of some blind people. “This is Werner,” Jernigan said.

  Loren looked at the kid, smiled, and nodded. “Hi,” he said.

  Werner’s head kept bobbing in its odd disconnected way. “Hi,” he said.

  “My other son is Max,” Jernigan said vaguely. Loren looked left and right. Max did not seem to be present.

  “I have a daughter Werner’s age,” Loren said. Neither Jernigan nor Werner acknowledged this.

  Loren felt impatience building under his belt. Jernigan’s disconnected communications habits were going to drive him right over some certifiable edge in another minute or two.

  Loren looked at Cipriano, then, more meaningfully, at Werner. Cipriano nodded and walked to stand next to Werner, pretending an interest in the equipment.

  Loren followed Jernigan down the back hall into a study. It was spacious, lined with books and bound magazines. Science, Loren read, Nature, Science News, Physical Review Letters. A computer, black with gold baroque designs, sat atop a Victorian walnut desk. Above the computer hung a framed black-and-white photo of Albert Einstein on a bicycle. A large whiteboard stood on delicate polycarbon struts, its surface covered with red and blue felt-tip hieroglyphics. At least half of it seemed to be in another alphabet. Greek? Loren wondered. Russian? Inside a red circle, underlined several times, he saw a thing like a blue triangle followed by a cap E—okay, he thought, Delta E. And this was followed by another blue delta followed by a lowercase t, and then a sign that Loren remembered from high school as being less than or equal to, and then a thing like a lowercase h with a slash through it. Delta E times Delta t is less than or equal to— to whatever the slash h meant.

  Jernigan sat in a black leather swivel chair and blinked up at him. Loren closed the door behind him, hitched his gun around behind, and started the disk recorder. He went through his usual preface, then looked at Jernigan.

  “I spoke to Dr. Singh,” he said. “He confirmed your story, but he added a few things you didn’t mention.”

  Jernigan looked at him.

  “He said you’d originally scheduled a second run for yesterday, and that it was called off. Why was that?”

  Jernigan was silent for a long time. Loren was about to repeat the question at the top of his lungs when the man finally answered.

  “Joe— Dr. Dielh— that was his decision.”

  “Why’d he make it?”

  “He— got called— away.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “He—” Jernigan hesitated, then started over. “Dr. Dielh got called to Washington on some classified business, so he canceled the run.”

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “When yesterday?” It felt good to raise his voice. He leaned forward over Jernigan, arms on his hips, glaring down into the thick spectacles.

  “Morning?” Jernigan peered up inquiringly. “Ten o’clock?”

  “You asking or telling?”

  Jernigan leaned back, his face closing like a door. “I don’t remember.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It seemed simpler that way.”

  “Why’d he get called to Washington?”

  Ask the questions, Loren thought. Ask fast. Patience isn’t here to protect him and you can bust him wide open.

  “I don’t know,” Jernigan said.

  “Something to do with the run?”

  “Something classified.”

  “Why was the run called off?” Repeat. Repeat until the answers were different.

  “I told you.”

  “What happened at the first run?”

  Silence.

  Loren felt his blood bubbling like Perrier. Patience wasn’t here to protect the man and Loren was going to rip him apart.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” A mumble.

  Loren beat on the arm of Jernigan’s chair with one big fist. “What happened to the Delta E?”

  No answer. Loren looked at the blackboard, saw the symbol circled and underlined.

  “What happened to Delta t?” he demanded.

  There was a flash of something in Jernigan’s expression, something that Loren triumphantly read as terror, not fear but utter terror, clear as spring water and as horribly fundamental and real as a razor drawn scraping along a ner
ve; and then the door opened and a tall, plump woman entered, her expression as fixed and ferocious as the neon Indian at the Geronimo. Behind her was Cipriano, his face carefully expressionless.

  “What are you doing to my husband?” The voice was shrill.

  Loren swung on her. “Trying to find out why somebody died,” he said.

  “Get out of here!”

  “You must be Mrs. Jernigan. I’m Loren Hawn. I’m chief of police at—”

  “Get out, you bastard!” She swung toward her husband. “What were you thinking about?” she demanded. “The other goon was interrogating Werner!”

  An uncertain alarm worked its way onto Jernigan’s features. He looked as if he were about to say something.

  “Can we calm down here a minute?” Loren said.

  “Out. Or I’ll call the police.”

  Loren gave her a moment to think about what she’d just said. “A man was murdered last night,” he said.

  “We don’t know anything about it!”

  “I thought maybe you could identify the body.”

  “I don’t know him! Get out.”

  Try to get a foot in the door, Loren thought. “How do you know you don’t know him?” he said.

  That stopped her for a moment. Loren tried to pry the door open a little farther.

  “I mean, you haven’t seen the body, right? So how do you know that you don’t know who he is?”

  She turned to her husband. “Will you tell them to leave?” she demanded.

  Jernigan rose. “Time to go,” he said.

  “Fine. Fine, I’ll leave.” Loren bought another few seconds while Sondra Jernigan and Cipriano danced around each other in the doorway.

  “I should point out something,” Loren said to Sondra. “I’m going to go on working this case till I get a killer, okay? Now, I don’t think your husband shot anybody . . .”

  The two in the doorway finished their promenade and Loren followed them down the hall. The parade moved past the computer game and the oblivious adolescent in the living room.

  “But there’s such a thing as accessory after the fact,” Loren went on, “and I think Mr. Jernigan knows more than he’s letting on. If I find the killer without his help, I’ll try and see that your husband is prosecuted, and that will mean time inside. And Mr. Jernigan—” He stepped into the front hall, then swung toward the physicist. “You are not the type to survive long in the slams, okay? A bunch of real crude guys are gonna enlarge your sphincter by about fifteen inches just to watch the expression on your face when they do it.”

  Jernigan stared at him with what appeared to be a mixture of disgust and horror. “Get out,” he said.

  “Mrs. Jernigan,” turning to her, “I strongly advise that you find yourself and your husband a lawyer. Then tell him exactly what happened the night the man died and follow his advice very precisely, okay?”

  She spoke from bloodless lips. “Get out of my house, you crude fucker.”

  “I’m just giving you the best advice I can.”

  “Out.”

  “The man talked, you know.”

  He said my name.

  “Out.”

  Loren stepped out into the bright suburban sun, blood singing in his ears.

  Maybe Mrs. Jernigan had been listening. If she had any sense, she’d follow his advice.

  Two children, one dark, one blond, had the driver’s door of the BMW open and were examining the interior. Both were about ten.

  “Max!” Mrs. Jernigan shrilled. “Get in here!”

  “I’m just looking at the—”

  “Max!”

  Max’s dark eyes got big. He ran into the house. His straw-haired friend seemed undecided about whether to follow.

  Loren closed the door of the BMW. “Let his mother talk to him for a while,” he told the boy.

  “Okay.”

  “Ever seen a car with bullet holes in it before?”

  The boy reached out to touch one of the bullet scars. He was wearing a Cybercops T-shirt. “It’s real frigid,” he said admiringly.

  Loren smiled down at him. “Want to see our police car?”

  The blond kid grinned. “Sure.”

  Loren and Cipriano followed the Cybercops shirt down the driveway. “What’s your name?” Loren asked.

  “Richard.”

  “You live around here?”

  “Down the street.” A vague wave of an arm.

  Loren opened the driver’s door. “Go ahead,” he said. “Get in.”

  Richard slid into the black imitation-leather seat and peered out above the wheel. “Frigid,” he said again.

  “You good friends with Max?” Loren said.

  A shrug. “I guess.” He looked at the shotgun propped between the two front seats. “Can I look at the rifle?” he said.

  “It’s a shotgun. Hang on a sec.” Loren reached over the boy and took the shotgun out of its rack. He propped the gun on one hip and worked the pump until he emptied the magazine into his hand. Richard’s eyes shone at the businesslike clack-clack sound. Loren handed the shotgun butt-first to the kid and stuffed twelve-gauge rounds into his jacket pocket.

  “Cool,” said Richard. Frigidity forgotten.

  “You get along okay with Max’s dad and mom?” Loren asked.

  “We get along okay. My mom and his mom go to church together ’cause our dads aren’t interested. They’re both in the choir.” Richard raised the shotgun to his shoulder level and took aim at a mailbox across the street. The gun was heavy and the barrel wavered.

  “Bam,” said Richard. He tried to work the pump but his arm was too short, so he dropped the gun to his lap and slammed the action back and forth. He liked the sound so he did it again. Then he looked up at Loren. “You ever shoot anybody with this?” he said.

  “I never shot anybody at all,” said Loren.

  “Oh.”

  “It’s never a good thing to shoot someone,” Loren said. “Someone got shot in Mr. Jernigan’s car and it wasn’t a thing you wanted to have to see.”

  Richard frowned down at the gun. The Cybercops weren’t reluctant at all to shoot people. Loren tried to regain his interest.

  “Let me show you the radio,” Loren said. “Cipriano, you wanna do a radio check?”

  Cipriano got in the passenger seat and demonstrated the radio. Richard’s interest returned.

  “The Cybercops have these implanted in their mastoids,” he said.

  Loren didn’t know what a mastoid was, and he suspected Richard didn’t, either. Loren took John Doe’s picture out of his pocket.

  “This is the guy who got killed. You ever seen him?”

  Richard looked at the dead face. “Don’t think so,” he said. “This guy’s dead, right?”

  “The picture was taken after he died, yes.”

  Richard studied the picture with intense interest. “This is the guy who stole the car, right?” he said.

  “Maybe. We don’t know. You’ve never seen him hanging around?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We got some helmets and armor in the trunk. You want to see it?”

  Richard’s face lit up. “Yeah!”

  Loren led the boy around the car and opened the trunk. “Were you around here last night when the car was stolen?”

  “Naw. Max and Werner and their mom went to the movies.”

  Loren took out one of the vests and draped it on the boy. His blond head grinned up from the mass of black armor.

  “Did you see anything unusual happen? Anything at all?”

  Richard shrugged. “Nothing. I saw Tim come back from work, that’s all.”

  “Tim? Timothy Jernigan?”

  Richard busied himself buckling on the armor. “Yeah. Him and Sondra like everybody to call them by their first names.”

  Some of those, Loren thought, not quite knowing what he meant by it.

  “You saw him drive home from work?” Loren said.

  “He got dropped off.”

  Loren
looked at the boy for a long moment. Something weighty and implacable was moving in his brain, rolling like a flywheel. Sprinklers and mowers hummed in the background.

  “Who dropped him off?” Loren asked.

  “One of those jeeps. The ones that the security guys drive around in.”

  Loren looked up triumphantly into Cipriano’s bleak eyes. Lie number one, he thought. The cover story is starting to come apart.

  Cipriano didn’t look happy at this turn of events.

  “You sure about that?” Loren said.

  “Yeah. You can’t miss old Tim, you know. Not as tall as he is and the way he moves.” There was condescension in his tone. “Can I put the helmet on?”

  “Sure.” The blue helmet came down over the boy’s eyes. He pushed the helmet back and peered out. “Wish I had my shades,” he said. “I got mirrorshades just like the Cybercops.”

  “Did you see who was in the jeep?” Loren asked.

  Richard’s head shook back and forth in a no. The heavy helmet atop the head barely moved at all.

  Loren asked a few more questions, but they didn’t help. He put the gear away and Richard ran off to tell his friends about the police stuff he got to play with.

  “I don’t like it, jefe,” Cipriano said.

  “It’s going to be hard relying on a ten-year-old as a witness,” Loren said. Triumph bubbled through him like champagne.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “We gotta get confirmation.” Loren looked up and down the street. “We’re gonna interview every person in this neighborhood. Every single one.”

  “And if we’re lucky we can nail William Patience and his whole security force as accessories after the fact? Jesus, jefe.”

  “We nail whoever we nail.”

  “And guess who’s watching.” Cipriano gave a deadpan look down the street. A chocolate-brown jeep had just come around the corner and pulled over to the curb.

  “Who gives a shit?” Loren said. He slammed the trunk down. “Let’s find our witnesses.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “24/24,” Loren said. “Let’s get humping.”

  He hitched his gun forward, then picked the house across the street and headed for it.

  It was great, he thought, the way things were breaking.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Pay me.”