Infinity Beach (20 page)

Anyone except Emily. Emily on the return flight.

But outward bound, she always left the imprint. Kim looked at the first conversation on the return flight:

“Can’t really expect to hit it right away,”
said Markis.
“We have to be patient.”

“We’ve
been
patient.”

“I know.”

Emily sat silently for several minutes. Then unbuckled.
“Gotta go.”

Kane nodded as she rose.

Kim stopped the picture.

No imprint.

“Tell me what I’m thinking, Solly. You’re good at that.”

He scratched his head. “I’d say that on the return flight we’re looking at a
virtual
Emily.”

“So the logs are faked.”

Solly took a deep breath. “Yeah, I’d say so. But a missing crease in a seat isn’t compelling. Maybe the light wasn’t right.”

“How hard would it be to do this? To falsify a ship’s log?”

“It wouldn’t be easy. You have to get all the visuals right. You also have to make sure the data streams reflect the story you’re telling. When the
Hunter
makes a jump, the instruments have to show that.”

“Could you do it?”

“Fabricate a log?” His teeth glittered in the lamplight. “Yes. I think I could manage it. Given some time and the cooperation of my colleagues.”

“So why would they use a virtual Emily?”

“Because the real one wouldn’t cooperate.”

“—Or wasn’t functioning.” They stared at each other.

“It could be,” said Solly. “Look, no fraudulent log can stand up to a serious investigation. So, if you’re right, we should be able to show it convincingly. Everything on the visual record has to be consistent. The lighting is always
about
the same, but it changes as people move around in it. You’d have to match that up. There are too many details and there’s just no way to get them all absolutely right.”

She turned away from the screen and looked out at the city. “Kane?”

“Oh yes. It would
have
to be Kane. Have to be somebody intricately familiar with the ship.”

“Which brings us to the bottom line:
What
happened to Emily?”

“Let’s go slow, Kim. Let’s have the lab do an analysis and make sure you’re right.”

She nodded, sat down at the phone, and brought up the directory. She was looking for the Customs Service office at Sky Harbor. When she found it, she called through.

A uniformed officer appeared onscreen. “Greenway Customs.”

“Hello,” Kim said. “My name’s Brandywine. May I ask a hypothetical question?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Arriving passengers,” she said. “If anyone is supposed to be on a ship, but isn’t, you’d know, right?”

“Yes, ma’am. They have to pass physically through customs.”

“How about crew members?”

“They do too.”

“You have a manifest, then, and you check everyone against the manifest. And if someone doesn’t get off—”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I misunderstood you. If a person doesn’t get off, we don’t really care. We’re only concerned with people seeking entry onto Greenway.”

She decided to try another tack. “Does Customs keep a record of persons debarking from arriving vessels?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you interview everyone?”

“Not in person. Customs declarations are usually taken electronically.”

“If I were on the manifest, and I submitted a declaration, but I did not get off, would you know?”

“No, ma’am. We would not.”

Kim thanked him and disconnected. “I’m beginning to understand why Emily never got to her hotel.” She poured herself a drink but only stared at it. “She never got off the
Hunter
, did she?”

“We don’t know that.”

“Solly, what’s the penalty for falsifying logs?”

“It can be criminal, depending on circumstances. The very least penalty would be disbarment. Logs are sacred.”

“So it’s not something you’d do without a very good reason.”

“You got it.”

“All right, let me ask another question. If you created a bogus set of logs, what would you do with the originals?”

Solly’s brow wrinkled while he thought about it. “It would depend,” he said. “If I’d murdered somebody and thrown her out the air lock, then I’d certainly lose the originals. But if somebody
else
had done something, if my only participation in whatever this is about was as, say, part of a cover-up, then I’d
keep
the original logs in case I eventually needed to prove I didn’t do the murder.”

“That’s exactly the way I see it. Solly, who can we get to do an analysis of this thing? Somebody discreet?”

“I have a friend,” he said.

“In Seabright?”

“Yes.”

“Take it to him tomorrow, will you? Swear him to secrecy, but see if you can get confirmation. How long do you think it’ll take?”

“Hard to say. Depends how busy he is. How much we’re willing to pay.”

“Okay. Make it worth his while. Call me when you get a result.”

“What are
you
going to do?”

“Hang around here for a bit. See what else I can find out.” She opened a line to the desk and canceled her reservation on the morning train.

“Of course I remember you.” Jorge Gould smiled pleasantly and held out a hand while she watched him try frantically to recall her name. “You’re the sister of Markis Kane’s model.” He waved an index finger at her as if to say who could forget?

“Kim Brandywine,” she said. “I wanted you to know how pleased I was with the Kane you sold me.”

“Oh yes. Yes, that was quite a good buy, Ms. Brandywine. You did well for yourself.” He came out from behind the counter and glanced around at the stock. “Were you interested in looking at more of his work?”

“Perhaps another time,” she said. “There
are
one or two others that I’d like to add to my collection.”

“No need to wait.” He rubbed his hands together. “We have a very liberal payment plan. Which ones did you want to see?”

“Yes,” she said, ignoring the question, “Kane does marvelous work.”

“He does indeed. Did I tell you I knew him personally?”

“You mentioned that.”

“So what can I show you?”

“Jorge, I don’t plan to make a purchase today. I don’t like to pile up debt. Buy outright, I say. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Well—”

“I’m sure you do.” She mentioned
Autumn
and
Night Passage
, and implied that she would shortly be in the market for both. “Marvelous compositions,” she said. “He’s a genius.”

“Sometimes it takes time before the world recognizes this level of talent.”

He insisted on showing her more of Kane’s work.
Candlelight
depicted a couple having dinner on the observation deck of an interstellar. A candle glitters beside a bottle of wine, thick violet drapes cover the wall, and a waiter stands over them with a tray. The couple are handsome and absorbed in each other. Above, through a sheer overhead, the orange and red ring of a recent supernova casts an eerie light across the scene.

In
Passage
, a survey ship is silhouetted against a pulsar, caught in the moment that the star’s beam sweeps past.

“These would be excellent additions to any collection,” Gould said.

She agreed. “How marvelous it must be to have known him.”

“Yes. He and I were quite good friends, as a matter of fact.”

“I envy you.” She delivered a smile of pure innocence. “What sort of home did he have? I think when I was here before you said he lived in Severin?”

Gould offered her a chair and they both sat down. “Yes,” he said. “That’s right. That’s where he lived. My wife also lived there at the time.” He repeated the details while Kim listened patiently. Finally he asked whether she knew he was a war hero.

“I know,” said Kim. “Tell me about the villa.”

Gould recalled that the living room had been coldly formal; that Kane had lived in his den, had entertained his friends there. “Sometimes,” Gould said, “people he’d served with, in the fleet, came to town.” He shook his head. “Kane and his friends knew how to party.”

“It’s beautiful country,” said Kim. “He must have had a lovely view.”

“He had a deck on the side of the house where you could sit in the evenings and watch the sun go down behind the mountains—”

They continued in that manner for several minutes until Kim felt ready to ask the one serious question she’d brought with her. “Did I hear you say there was a secret room?”

“Secret room?”

“Yes. When I was here before, you told me that during his last couple of years there, he sealed off part of the house. Wouldn’t let anybody see it.”

“Oh yes. I’d forgot. That was the den. After the Mount Hope business, he stopped using it for guests and switched to the living room.”

“Why do you think he did that? Was he restoring it, maybe?”

“No, I don’t think so.” He made a face, signifying he was thinking hard. “You could see Mount Hope from the den. Maybe he didn’t want to look at it anymore. Or maybe he’d just developed an eccentricity. Artists are like that.”

“I suppose,” she said. “He wouldn’t let
anybody
in there?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“I wonder if it might have been that he’d begun to work there? To paint?”
Or whether he’d hidden something he didn’t want anyone to get near. Like the
Hunter
logs?

“I doubt it. He had a workroom toward the front of the house.”

“Where was the den?”

“At the rear.”

“You never saw it again after he sealed it off?”

“No. Never did.” He looked at her and at the two Kane’s. “Now, why don’t we arrange for you to take one of these little beauties home?”

Kim had to pay the Rent-All Emporium for both the wet suit, which had been torn, and for the mask and converter, which were still in the river. They asked no questions, but snickered at her when she told them she wanted to rent a
rubber boat and another wetsuit. It would require, they explained, a substantially heavier deposit.

An hour later, in her rented flyer, she lifted off the Gateway pad into a cold gray afternoon and once more turned south. For a few minutes she ran above a train, but it quickly distanced her and lost itself in the craggy countryside.

She had not told Solly what she intended to do because he would have insisted on coming. That would have been comforting, but she was anxious to have the results on the
Hunter
logs. And she felt a compunction to confront her fears about the local demon. After her experience in the river, she told herself, she feared nothing that walked.

She looked up the train on the schedule. The Overland. Hauling dry goods, electronics, lumber, and machinery from Sorrentino to the coast. She liked trains. Always had. She’d have preferred at the moment to be aboard one.

She’d circled the location of Kane’s villa on her map of the village. It had been on the north side, in an area now in deep water.

She traced bearings from the Kane home to the dam, to the city hall (which was in fifteen meters of water, but whose tower still rose proudly out of the lake), and to a onetime flyer maintenance facility atop a low hill that had become an island when the dam came down.

The river looked cold in the somber light. She glided out over the lake and, minutes later, descended on Cabry’s Beach.

The flyer came to rest with one of its treads in the water. She watched the edge of the forest while changing into her wet suit. The tree branches swayed gently in the wind coming off the water. No blue jay fluttered through that sky; no deer came down to the shoreline to drink.

She opened the hatch and eased down onto the sand. It crackled underfoot. The wind was cold. She turned up the heat in her suit and tugged a woolen hat down over her ears. The sky was heavy and overcast.

She pulled the boat out of the back seat, hit the inflater, mounted the motor, and dragged it into the water. It had a
transparent bottom. She tossed in a paddle, her flippers, and the converter. And her packet of pictures of Severin Village circa 573. She added forty meters of line, marked at two-meter intervals, and used a rock to make an anchor.

She strapped a lamp and an imager to her wrist, and looped a belt around her waist. She attached a utility pouch to it, and put in a compass and a laser cutter. Satisfied that she had everything, she launched the boat and started its waterjet engine.

The surface was choppy. Although she had a remote, she sat in the rear, steering by hand, headed out into the lake.

She moved onto the bearing with the dam and followed it until the city hall and the flyer repair facility lined up. Then she killed the engine and looked down through the bottom of the boat. The water was clear and she could see a bench. Nearby lay an abandoned flyer. Beyond the flyer she could make out a group of poles. A children’s swing set. The swings swayed gently as she passed overhead.

The boat rose and fell.

She saw a house, but it was not Kane’s, not the right shape. Her pictures indicated it was probably his neighbor on the south, a physician who’d performed well during the disaster.

She continued straight on until she saw what she was looking for: an arched pavilion, a stone wall, a Thunderbird house.

That was it. It had angled wings and courtyards and a long central spine. The roof, with its crests and ridgelines, was unmistakable.

Kim dropped her makeshift anchor over the side and watched the line play out to fourteen meters.
Deep.
She secured it to the gunwale, pulled on her gear, and slipped into the water. She immediately felt safer, as though she were no longer exposed.

She turned toward the bottom and rode down on her jets.

Gray light filtered through the surface. The water grew cool and then warm again as she passed through alternating
currents. An eel glided past. She switched on her lamp and a few fish quickly retreated. The boat was a dark shape above.

She leveled off in front of the second floor, eye-to-eye with an oculus window. The interior was thick with silt. But she could see a bed, a dresser, a couple of chairs. A fish glided out of a venting pipe, turned toward the lamp, and then disappeared out of the room.

She descended to the front door. It had no power, no knob, no easy way to open it. She passed by, moved along the front of the building, found a gaping window, and swam in.

Her lamp picked out a couch, a fireplace, and a flatscreen in the down position on one wall. This, she thought, had been the formal living room Gould had described.

Amazing. Kane had apparently not bothered to move his furniture when he left, had simply given in to the rising water.

She passed into the central hallway. A staircase rose on one side, assorted chairs and tables were tumbled about, and a couple of beams lay in the debris.

Kim pushed across to the opposite wing. She had to struggle to get the door open. Inside, she looked into what seemed to be Kane’s work area. A wooden table was turned over, its legs sticking up like those of a dead animal. Several rolls of what might once have been canvasses were scattered in the silt. Artists’ brushes lay everywhere, and pieces of an easel.

She could make out sketches, or parts of sketches, on the walls. Women’s faces, mostly. Framed by trees, lanterns, a vestibule. But always the woman was prominent.

They were incomplete, as though he were trying out ideas. The expressions were inevitably wistful, melancholy, mournful. No life of the party here. The hairstyles were different, the hair itself sometimes cut short, sometimes shoulder length, inevitably in the fashions of the 570s. But it struck her, as she passed along the wall, examining the figures in the glow of the lamp, that each was an aspect of
Emily.

Or herself.

Kim’s scalp prickled.

She drew the imager out of her utility pouch and began taking pictures. She tried to record everything.

She had come hoping to find the original
Hunter
logs. The possibility suddenly seemed remote, but the table had a drawer, so she opened it. It contained only a couple of rags.

There was a door at the far end of the room, leading to an enclosed porch, beyond which lay a washroom. She went through the door, and saw plastic containers and flowerpots on the porch floor. She found a medicine cabinet in the washroom and opened it. One of the containers still had air trapped inside. The container floated out and rose to the ceiling.

She went back the way she’d come, through the formal living room and on into the far wing.

She opened drawers, broke into cabinets when hinges wouldn’t work. She searched everywhere, and then went upstairs and prowled through bedrooms and washrooms. A broken pot or two remained in the kitchen cabinets. She was shocked to find several of Kane’s trophies in the mud, including the Conciliar Medal of Valor, the highest award the Republic had to give. It seemed odd that no one had been here before her and claimed the treasure.

Tora should have it.
She wiped it off and put it in her pouch.

She felt movement in the water.

And sensed that she was not alone.

She listened, heard nothing, and surveyed the room for another way out. She’d have no choice but to go through the window if she had to, risking the glass shards still jutting out from the frame. She turned abruptly, as if to catch someone watching her. But the room was empty save for shadows drifting around the walls.

Dumb.

It was not at all hard to imagine that the spirit of Markis Kane lingered about the place. Had she been in sunlight, she’d have smiled at the notion and dismissed it with con
tempt. But down here—
There must be a part of us,
she thought,
that’s wired to accept the paranormal. Science and the experience of a lifetime don’t count for much when the lights go out.

She returned to the hallway, swept it with her lamp, and started toward the rear of the house, stopping to examine a cabinet and a small desk. She’d acquired an escort of fish, long, rainbow-colored creatures that moved with her but darted back whenever she turned toward them. She was pleased to have their company.

Another bedroom opened off left. Here the furniture was still more or less in place. Clothing, or possibly bedding—it was impossible to know—lay in gray piles on the floor.

She continued down the corridor to the last doorway, which was on the right hand side of the corridor.

The sanctum sanctorum.

Its door was closed.

She pushed on it, gently at first, and then with as much force as she could muster. It did not budge. She took out the laser and cut a hole big enough to pass through.

Within, she saw a desk, a credenza, some cabinets and tables. And a chair.

She passed inside.

There was a closet across the room. Drapes covered the wall on her right. Two of the other walls had large windows.
This
window, she thought, looked north toward Eagle Point. The one on her left opened onto Mount Hope. She visualized Kane seated in here, watching the sun drop behind that scarred peak. What had he been thinking?

She rifled everything, breaking into cabinets, opening drawers, trying not to spill their contents, as if that mattered, searching the closet, which contained more clothes and several unopened packages of sketch paper. When she’d finished she drifted back into the center of the room, allowing her lamp to point where it would.