After Death(79)
Michael says, “A transponder with backup power sources.”
THE NIGHT ISN’T DARK; THE WORLD IS DARK
Active in the aftermath of the storm, crickets and night birds celebrate the freshly washed world.
Walking alongside the deserted highway toward his target residence, Durand Calaphas wonders if the higher reality above this game level will be afflicted with insects. If it’s not home to bugs of any kind, it might also be birdless, as the primary purpose of many birds is to eat insects. Of course some birds dine on fish or, like owls, on rodents. If there are no insects on the level where the designers of the game reside, perhaps rodents also have no place there, which would leave only fish-eating birds. Bats eat insects, so they would have no reason to exist in the world above. Calaphas doesn’t care whether or not there will be bugs, birds, and bats in his next life; he’s just curious. All that matters to him is that there will be people to use and kill, that he will have earned an unqualified license to use and kill them, and that he won’t have to answer to moronic bureaucrats like Julian Grantworth and Katherine Ormond-Wattley.
As he turns into the driveway, no rag of cloud remains to wrap the moon. In that cold radiance, the white roses and calla lilies, plentiful in the front garden, are not lost in gloom like the other plants, but swell out of the darkness on thorny brambles and meaty stalks. They aren’t lovely but ghastly, although he can’t say why.
He is halfway to the house when he becomes aware of an eerie quietude. The crickets and night birds have fallen silent, like they do when something that fills them with dread enters their domain. Alerted by this sudden disturbing hush, Calaphas stands statue-like, listening intently. Whatever threat has muted the night song might be a danger to him. He fears nothing; however, in moments like this, a wise player must be cautious in the game. The light-filled windows on the main level are hazed by sheer curtains, but those at an upstairs room are not. No face or shadow appears at the glass either on the ground floor or above. After a minute passes, when no menace appears out of the broad yard or the garden or from among the trees, he continues to the back of the residence.
Fragmented reflections of the moon ripple across the black water in a large swimming pool. A flagpole stands flagless. White chairs, lounges, and tables furnish a patio. All the windows at the back of the house are dark.
Through the four panes in the upper half of the kitchen door, he can see the green numbers on the digital clocks of the ovens. He tries the lever handle, but it doesn’t move. He slides the thin pick of the lock-release device into the keyway, pulls the trigger three times, tries the handle again, squeezes the trigger a fourth time, and the lock is disengaged. He draws his pistol.
He steps inside, eases the door shut, and stands with his back to it, listening. The refrigerator hums. Warm air sighs through the vanes of a heating vent high in one wall. If the family had a dog, Calaphas would already hear it coming.
Except for the influence of the moon, his eyes became mostly dark-adapted on his way here. He waits until details of the kitchen resolve further out of the gloom. Then he moves cautiously toward an open doorway that is vaguely defined by light issuing from another room farther along the main hall. The hallway itself is not lighted, and a plush runner that carpets the center of the wood floor ensures his silent progress.
The light issues from a book-lined study, a masculine space. Handsome mahogany desk. Button-tufted burgundy-red leather sofa. Seascape paintings with sailing ships.
A fiftysomething man, white-haired, sizable and fit, in pajamas and robe, sits in a leather armchair, slippered feet propped on a footstool, a hardcover book in his hands, reading glasses partway down his prominent nose. He looks up, without apparent surprise, certainly not with alarm, but with interest and calculation. He has the self-possession of a military man who has had to remain calm through times of crisis and chaos.
Stepping into the room, easing the door shut behind him, pistol ready, Calaphas says, “You should have a dog.”
“We did. She was a good old girl, passed a month ago.”
“Bad timing,” says Calaphas.
“She was a golden retriever. She would’ve let me know you were coming, but she still would’ve loved you up if you’d let her.”
“Who else is in the house?”
“Just Colleen, my wife. Whatever this is, it’s nothing to do with her.”
“That’s why I’m keeping my voice low,” Calaphas says. Instinct warns him that this is one of those characters in the game on whom the fate of the player can suddenly take an unexpected turn. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just need some help, information. You have a name?”
“Why ask when you must know it? Vincent.”
“So, Vince, what branch was it—navy?”
“Hard to believe you’d come here without knowing my history. Marine intelligence.”
“This isn’t about your service. Fact is, this isn’t any more about you than it is about Colleen.”
Vincent marks his place in the book with a dust-jacket flap, closes the volume. Rather than put it on the side table, under the lamp, he places it on his lap, still cupped in his right hand. If he has the opportunity, he means to throw it—as feeble a weapon as it is, it’s all that he has—and come out of the chair fast after it. “You’re no common burglar.”