“Do you have an investment broker?”
“I have some mutual funds and a retirement plan through the university, but I don’t remember who the guy is that the university hires to work with us.”
“But you don’t have any private business of that sort independent of the university?”
“No.”
“Do you have any private-key or ensure-anon bank accounts?”
“Are you kidding? If I had that kind of money I wouldn’t be working fifty hours a week as a cross country coach.”
“Have you ever cheated on your wife?”
“No, as a matter of fact. Have you?” Rafa’s tone was heavily laced with sarcasm, and in her dream Julie stirred restlessly. Had her husband told the truth about anything that night?
“We’re here to ask questions, Mr. Orosco. We didn’t mean to offend you. But we have to know what the facts are.”
“Well, would you mind explaining how on earth my marriage is related to your investigation?”
“Where were you Thursday afternoon and evening?”
“At a cross country meet.”
“What time did the meet finish?”
“Around 6 p.m.”
“You left then?”
“Well, no. After the meet I went on a cool-down run with the team, like I usually do. Then I went to talk with our exercise physiologist about one of the runners who seems to get shin splints all the time. And after that I had to grade some papers and wade through a bunch of computer work to post mid-term progress reports. I probably didn’t leave till around 9:30.”
And on and on the questions went. What other faculty members had been working late in their offices that evening? Had he ever visited such and such an address? Did he often travel? Where did the team go on their cool-down run? Where did he meet with the exercise physiologist? Which member of the team had shin splints? What time did he get home? Did he stop anywhere on the way?
It was a tense one-sided conversation that became more surreal with every passing minute. The agents never explained who the victim was, what exactly had happened in the crime, or, more importantly for Julie, why on earth they seemed to connect Rafa with the affair. Their questions shifted from topic to topic without warning.
“Have you ever been convicted of a felony?” Tearle asked.
“No.”
“Mind if we scan your fingerprints?”
“No. Go ahead.”
Julie heard a short sequence of beeps as the forensic computer recorded the patterns on his fingertips and uplinked with a central database.
“They’re a matter of public record for all university employees.” Rafa said. One of the men grunted, probably reading the information on his computer screen.
“Do you own a gun?” Agent Gregory wanted to know.
“Yes.”
“Plasma or traditional?”
“Traditional.”
“What kind?”
“A 9 mm Beretta.”
“Where’d you buy it?”
Rafa’s answer came after a protracted pause. “It was a gift from a friend.”
“Who?”
Rafa did not respond. He’d had that gun for as long as Julie could remember, though he never used it or took it out of the safe. It had some kind of sentimental value that she didn’t understand. She glanced at her watch and realized with annoyance that if she didn’t act quickly the kitchen would be filled with smoke from burning cookies. Sliding out from under the quilt, she padded stocking-footed across the thick carpet and down the stairs. As she walked into the kitchen both Rafa and the FBI agents glanced up. The hardness in her husband’s eyes was vivid and unmistakable.
“I’m just getting the cookies out,” she said apologetically.
The detectives swiveled back to face Rafa.
“I think that question is not relevant,” Rafa finally said.
The officers eyed him thoughtfully.
“Are you acquainted with Samantha Oberling?” Tearle asked. He was studying Rafa’s face intently.
Rafa’s eyes didn’t move much, but he pursed his lips as if considering. Then he appeared to change his mind about something. He leaned forward and smiled thinly.
“Sorry, your question quota is all used up. Good luck in your investigation.” And without another word he rose from the couch and went upstairs.
The two agents looked at one another wordlessly. Tearle stood as if to follow Rafa, but Gregory motioned him back. He glanced at Julie, who had finished taking cookies off the pan and was wishing she could go to Rafa. Oh, how she longed to run after him in her dream. She wept, ached for it. But instead she watched him walk away.
“Mrs. Orosco, can we talk to you now?”
Julie nodded and went in to the couch. The spot she chose was still warm from Rafa’s body. It was the only part of the dream that Julie liked—that cozy imprint she had nestled into so instinctively.
Now the younger agent was far friendlier. Thank you for talking to us, Julie. Investigating a murder is a terrible business, Julie. We’re sorry we upset your husband, Julie. Please apologize for us. He used her first name like an old friend, and it seemed phony and awkward to her. But she smiled politely.
Agent Gregory gave her a copy of the Miranda form that Rafa had signed earlier. Just a formality, he explained. At this early stage they didn’t know enough to rule out anyone as a suspect, so they needed to remind everyone they interviewed that answering their questions was not a requirement unless or until they were served a subpoena, and even then the full protection of the fifth amendment was in force. And so on. Would she sign saying that she understood these rights and that any statements she made were completely voluntary?
She would.
The questions began. How long had she been married? Did Rafa often work late? Did she have any reason to believe that her husband was involved in anything illegal? Did she know the victim? Had she ever heard Rafa mention her name? What did she know about the gun Rafa had described? Did Rafa use any drugs? What was the state of their finances? Did Rafa have any drinking buddies? How often did he come home late from work? Did Rafa know how to use a gun? How well? What time did Rafa get home last night? Did he say where he’d been?
As she answered the questions Julie became increasingly angry and hostile. They thought Rafa was neck-deep in some sort of shady business dealing and had stalked this Oberling person, whoever she was, then killed her in cold blood! She kept her tone neutral and her manner casual as long as possible, but when they got onto the topic of marital fidelity again, she couldn’t resist a heartfelt rebuke. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she dreamed it.
“Look, officers, you may think your questions are critical to this investigation, but I can tell you you’re totally wasting your time. Everything you’ve asked is based on the premise that my husband is a sinister man who might attack someone to cover his tracks. But he’s not like that at all. He’s a great husband and father. And he has no hidden life of crime to cover up. He doesn’t have any secret income. He’s not addicted to anything. He doesn’t even have any vices except a fondness for red meat and hot showers. I suppose you get the indignant wife speech all the time, but tonight it’s the gospel truth.”
Agent Tearle’s expression didn’t change, but Gregory smiled in a sad sort of way and leaned back in his chair.
“To tell you the truth, Mrs. Orosco, we do hear that sort of statement occasionally. And let me tell you, nobody hopes it’s true more than I do. Don’t blame us if we seem a little cynical, though. In our line of work we constantly get slapped in the face by the nastier side of human nature. After a while we start thinking that’s the way most people are.”
“Rafa is not most people,” Julie heard herself saying.
* * *
The quilt and sheets were a tangled nest at her feet when Julie sat up with a start. For a moment she peered at the shadowy confines of the room, her mind permeated by the dream, unthinkingly extending a hand to the empty portion of the bed besid
e her. She hadn’t yet relearned the habit of sleeping in the center.
Awareness flooded back, and she let out her breath with a sigh. She felt hollow inside. Empty. A perfect echo chamber for the final, forlorn statement in her dream. Rafa is not most people. She had said it with confidence, almost without thinking. Now her mind replayed it over and over, like a fragment of some half-forgotten song that couldn’t be abandoned until the rest of the lyrics were spoken.
How did the verse end?
Slowly she brushed fingertips across her cheek, interrupting the salty trickle that was tickling the corner of her mouth and dripping onto her pajamas. She cleared her throat and reached for slippers.
Hugging herself for warmth, she padded down the hall and looked in on the twins. Kyrie was snoring softly on an old four-poster bed, streaks of cornstalk gold arrayed in a static-induced halo around her face. She had the utterly peaceful look that only children can achieve. Nearer the door, Lauren had burrowed under her blankets until only her nose and eyebrows were visible. A smile flickered softly across Julie’s moody features. It gentled her lips, relaxed the tension in her jaw, but shied away from the damp circles under her eyes. Automatically she bent over Lauren and caressed her cheek.
“Te quiero, Palomita,” she whispered quietly. I love you, little dove. It was Rafa’s pet name—the first name their daughter had ever answered to.
The pain returned to Julie’s expression.
7
Pre-dawn darkness still enveloped the module as Rafa rolled out of his bunk and staggered down the hall to the bathroom. The mental and emotional strain of the previous few hours, even more than the nerve-wracking and prolonged journey, had produced a fogging exhaustion. Sleep had been fitful and all too brief. But he had to have a few minutes of privacy before the day began in earnest.
He had forgotten about the inverted plumbing. The sink still had a rubber cover and hand holes for zero gravity; though upside down, it was usable. The shower had a flexible head that could be swiveled to a reasonably useful angle, even if it jetted from between the feet. But the toilet was another story—straps or not, he couldn’t conceive of a way to satisfy the call of nature without serious logistical problems. The room stank of urine; obviously some inventive soul had attempted a solution. Maybe he’d make a trip down to the rent in the hold.
He knelt in front of the mirror and began to shave, thrusting his jaw and tilting his chin to see the stubble more clearly. Feeling the buzz of the razor heads evoked thoughts of Julie. He’d always hated this chore and had often skipped it in his single days. But Julie preferred him clean-shaven; she said he looked much better that way. So he’d obliged.
Now, halfway through the job, Rafa pulled the razor away from his face again. Why bother? Nothing he did mattered to Julie anymore; why should it matter to him? He hurled the device across the room angrily, pounded his fist on the wall, and sank into a fetal crouch.
Minutes passed with only a faint gurgle from the sink.
Eventually he mastered the emotions and stood up again, blinking and wiping his eyes. He peeled quickly, turned on the shower, and stood shivering as cold water jetted onto his thighs and chest. Couldn’t a nuclear reactor even heat a few liters? It took him thirty seconds to understand that the tap handles were reversed, and by then his lips were blue.
Slapping his arms, he killed the water and hopped out to the bare floor. Several centimeters of water had accumulated in the stall, and he realized with chagrin that there was no drain in the former ceiling to let it dissipate. There were no towels either. The walls of the shower stall contained a dozen or so nozzles for hot jetted air, but he’d have to step back in to use them. Besides, the blow dryers were loud, and he didn’t want to antagonize his crewmates by waking them up any earlier than MEEGO demanded.
Instead, Rafa pulled boxers and a tee-shirt over his wet skin, then struggled awkwardly with a zippered jumpsuit. Prison uniform all over again. He glanced at the clock on his wrist display. He felt more alert now, but the weariness lurked unconquered in the background. Could he say a quick prayer without falling asleep? He paused uncertainly, listening to the rasping, throaty breathing from Fazio in the nearest bunk down the hall.
He felt sorry for the man, sorry for all of them really. Rafa feared another blowup when the bodybuilder woke from the tracheotomy. The harsh brutality on the crew was a reflection of their own expectations and experiences more than anything else. They’d come to the mission expecting viciousness and prepared to dish it out. Now they were trapped in an environment of their own choosing. It was a bitter way to live and die—worse than prison in some ways.
Which was why he needed the spiritual discipline of prayer. It was his one whisper of compassion, his link to sanity in a wilderness of cruelty. It kept a tiny spark of hope alive, helped him stay human, even if it did nothing else. He dropped to his knees and bowed his head.
Dear Lord, thank you for keeping me alive.
He paused, wrestling with his faith. He’d been raised with a powerful conviction of God’s goodness. He still believed, in a way. But he’d suffered so much shock and grief in the last few months that his gratitude had withered away. Maybe, probably, he should be acknowledging other blessings—but he just didn’t see them right now. And like he’d read once, he could not pray a lie.
Yet he would not pray an accusation, either. Embittered communion was a surrender to the blame that had destroyed his life already. He would not travel that road.
I still don’t understand why this has happened to me.
Again he paused, struggling for words. He twisted the wedding ring that circled his finger.
Te ruego que cuides a Julie y a mis hijitas.
His shoulders heaved.
Help them not to hate me. Help them to be happy. And let us all be safe today. Let us survive.
Rafa waited for more words to come, but they didn’t. He had never been adept at communication. In fact, that had been a genuine friction with Julie. The ability to identify and name his feelings simply wasn’t a skill he had learned from a father steeped in latin machismo. Finally Rafa closed his prayer, rubbed the moisture from his eyes with the palms of his hands, and swayed wearily to his feet, deliberately focusing thoughts on the day ahead.
Was it still raining? He turned away from the crew quarters and climbed the roundabout path that led back to the equipment hold. Although he was uneasy about the weird floating monster he’d encountered, he was curious enough—and uncomfortable enough from a brimming bladder—to risk a quick peek outside.
A flux of cool, moist air filled Rafa’s lungs as he rounded the corner and stepped through the tortured metal of the hatchway they’d battled a few hours before. The lights were out. Water dripped from obscure shadows, creating unnaturally loud echoes in the chamber. Starlight streamed through the rent in the hull that had admitted all the mud and moisture; it spilled across the puddles on the metallic deck plates and created stark, angular silhouettes where it struck the motionless machinery.
He breathed deeply, sampling the scents of the alien atmosphere. Ozone, tinged with the hints of greenery and flowers. Smelled like a park or a garden after a storm on Earth. Smelled alive. Splashing through the ankle-deep pools of water in the corner, he approached the gaping tear in the hull to look outside.
The rain had stopped. Overhead, clouds were beginning to disperse, leaving behind patches of indigo studded with stars. Rafa had never seen so many stars, even far out at sea. This planet was in a dense local cluster; the night sky sparkled and shimmered with diamond dust in a hundred hues. A few degrees above the horizon hung a point of blue fire, easily outshining the rest of the night sky.
That would be Erisa Alpha, Rafa was sure—the whitish giant around which their own smaller, orange sun orbited. More empty space separated them from the distant jewel than separated Pluto from Sol, yet Rafa saw that it cast shadows across the night landscape.
The arresting beauty of the far-off sun was complemented by Erisa Beta
II’s rings, which knifed in an incandescent arc from horizon to horizon. They’d mentioned the rings in their training, but a casual footnote scarcely did them justice.
Most planetary rings developed from matter that failed to coalesce as the main mass of a planet came together under the tug of gravity. Typically such rings circled the equator, rotating in the same direction as the surface that had once been nearly contiguous. These rings, on the other hand, had formed far out of the equatorial plane, when a wandering moonlet strayed within the planet’s Roche limit and was torn apart by unbalanced tidal forces. The unusual orientation meant that from the surface the rings appeared to rise and set, morphing continually in curvature and width as the view for the observer changed from oblique to edge-on and back again.
Rafa had a breathtaking three-quarters view. Backlit by a sun just below the horizon, the rings glowed in graduated pastel bands of lavender, yellow, rust, and copper green. For several minutes he stood silently in the darkness, oblivious to the morning chill and the distant sounds of the wakening crew.
* * *
Back in the commons, the floor was littered with ration wrappers and spittle. Whemper and the kid with the nose ring were bantering lewd remarks for the benefit of the women. When Rafa told them to knock it off Whemper snarled. “Wishing you had a piece of the action, preacher man? You ain’t so holy just because you go out and pray for the rest of us.”
There was a general snicker.
Rafa sank onto a discarded crate and closed his eyes. “I wasn’t praying for you,” he muttered in disgust.
“Good! I don’t need some holier-than-thou hypocrite pleading my case!”
Rafa opened his eyes and leaned forward again, becoming genuinely annoyed. “What is your problem, Whemper? Can’t you control that verbal diarrhea?”
Whemper opened his mouth to make a sarcastic comeback, but broke into a spasm of coughing instead. When he was finally done he added another rosy circle of spittle to the floor and staggered over to the enclosure where Rafa had slept.
Viking Page 5
