The God Patent (9 page)

On a table in the church bookstore, Foster set out copies of his book,
The Cosmology of Creation
. The black man from the audience brought him a cup of coffee and bought a signed copy. The woman asked, “What is it like to discover what He did?”

After the congregation reassembled, as Foster packed up the remaining books, a trio of men approached. One of them, in a solid black suit, pitched in to help with the books. Another in pinstripes, who looked like a businessman, offered Foster an outstretched hand. “What a terrific story, Dr. Reed. As an engineer, a businessman, and a Christian, I had a difficult time restraining my applause until you were finished.”

Foster smiled, not at the introduction or compliment, but at the recognition of why he’d gotten the lecture right today. He accepted the man’s hand and looked him in the eye.

The man put his other arm on Foster’s shoulder as though they were fraternity brothers. “My name is Bill Smythe. I’m with America’s largest engineering contractor. I’m sure you’re familiar with National Engineering Group, NEG, and, like I said, you inspired me.”

Foster didn’t let go of the man’s hand until they made eye contact. Smythe’s eyes were gray, and Foster couldn’t help but think they were empty. Still, Foster knew better than to question moments like these. He let go of the man’s hand and reached down for his briefcase. One of the hinges strained under the pressure of Foster’s notebooks and files. Bill Smythe reached it first, but he didn’t lift it carefully, and that hinge popped. Foster managed to clamp the sides shut before everything fell out. Once his briefcase was under control, he asked Smythe if he’d discussed investing with Blair Keene.

“I talked to Blair last week. We’ve got a team of engineers combing through your book. I’m based here in Washington. Blair suggested I come out today.”

Foster smiled on the man, recognizing that he was a weapon in God’s war, not a soldier. If NEG invested in Creation Energy, nothing could stop them. “A team of engineers? I’d be happy to extend my trip to address any technical questions.”

Smythe said, “There are a few hurdles that Keene and I need to jump, but let me tell you this: we think there is synergy between NEG and Creation Energy that can make America safer, stronger, and more righteous.”

Smythe squeezed Foster’s shoulder and motioned to the man who’d helped with Foster’s briefcase. “This is Steven Jones, the project leader for our Alternative Energy Group. He’ll be your NEG liaison in the development of Creation Energy.”

Foster took the man’s hand. In a navy blue blazer, khaki pants, and a black polo shirt with the NEG logo, Jones looked like an engineer, a company man. Jones gave him a firm handshake.

“Do you have time to get lunch?” Jones said. “I have some questions about the project, the intellectual property, and the development plan.” Foster noticed that the man had a copy of
The Cosmology of Creation
in his other hand. He also noticed that the copy looked fresh from the printer. In the face of all this enthusiasm, the near-commitment of a huge financial backer, Foster would have preferred to see a thoroughly dog-eared copy.

Smythe said, “Of course you have time. Let’s get a nice meal, and you two can talk shop.” He applied enough pressure to Foster’s shoulder to encourage him to step toward the door but not so much that Foster felt coerced.

The first man held the door open. In addition to the black suit, he was wearing a wire in his ear and a pair of sunglasses that were straight from the movie
Men in Black
.

T
rue to his word, Ryan made rent on the third month. He’d scored a six-month contract as a technician at a big fiber-optics company just across the river, FiberSpec Communications. When Ryan handed him the check, Dodge said, “You should be working off the books.” Ryan didn’t understand the reference and didn’t want to start a conversation with Dodge, so he didn’t ask.

He took on any extra work he could find too. He filled in at the Tea Café or Copperfield’s Bookstore when someone called in sick, and he did odd jobs for Dodge. Each month, he paid rent, kept $200 to live on, and sent the rest to Linda—barely a third of his child support payment but hopefully enough to show he was trying.

In those first three months, Ryan still hadn’t seen Katarina’s mother. Other than a few rapidly shut doors, the only sign that she existed at all was the sound of Katarina arguing with her. Ryan was sympathetic, though; it had taken his mother five years to recover from his father’s death. Of course, Ryan had had Grandma and his sisters to fill the gap.

Katarina only had Dodge. Yikes.

When Ryan got home from work, Katarina was usually sitting on that ridiculous red velvet couch watching TV in Dodge’s living room. Ryan would sit at the other end of the couch, and
after a few weeks, the two of them were exchanging wisecracks about the quality of the music videos and skateboard competitions that Katarina watched. It brought Ryan up to speed on pop music, and he learned more about extreme skateboarding than he thought there was to know. That part was scary; Katarina was bound to try those stunts. That the kid had no boundaries made him angry with her mother. He knew what his grandma would say; he could hear her voice. “We mustn’t waste our time on the dead.”

In December, Dodge put a huge plastic Christmas tree topped with a Star of David in the foyer and set gift boxes wrapped in red, green, and blue beneath it. Ryan was surprised that Dodge would bother. Katarina said, “He’s pretending to be a human being. Appropriately, all the gift boxes are empty, like the man’s soul.”

Ryan pointed at one of the boxes. Its reindeer wrapping paper made it stand out. “What about that one?”

Katarina picked it up and looked at the tag: “For Katarina, From Ryan.” She looked at him with mock distrust. “It’s not going to blow up, is it?”

Then she tore it open and found a skating helmet and wrist guards. Ryan could tell by the way she looked at them and then back at him that she appreciated the gesture, but she didn’t say “thank you.” Ryan figured that she didn’t know any better.

Ryan’s favorite odd job was something Dodge had managed to sneak into the rental contract: security guard on weekend nights at Skate-n-Shred. Skate-n-Shred was a turn-of-the-century theater that Dodge had converted to a combination skate park/concert venue catering to Petaluma’s teenage population. Two blocks
down the hill from Nutter House, the building occupied the corner of a busy street a block from the boulevard. Katarina spent most of her waking hours there.

Ryan felt more like Margaret Mead in New Guinea than a security guard. He enjoyed getting to know the kids. Mostly, though, he felt responsible to watch out for Katarina. Skate-n-Shred wasn’t the safest place in town for a twelve-year-old girl with no curfew.

On a cool, dry Friday night, he passed a few kids out front smoking cigarettes, their skateboards leaning against the wall. One wore a “Surf 707” hoodie, another had on a patch-covered denim jacket, and a few sat on a bench strumming guitars. Inside, the walls of the lobby were covered in graffiti of varying levels of artistic promise. Dodge left a box of markers, some acrylic paints, and brushes to encourage his patrons to release their creative angst. To him, it was a device to convince parents and police officers that Skate-n-Shred served a public purpose.

Katarina stood on an old stained couch working on a mural. Her black skirt was decorated with Celtic knots along the hem and a crucifix on the seam in what could have been the same paint she was using. A smiling black dragon, smoke shooting from its nostrils and a few random flames leaking between its fangs, looked like it was jumping out of the wall and over the couch.

Ryan sat on the sofa’s armrest. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Painting death.”

He stared at the painting for a second. The dragon only looked black at a glance. Colors swirled into its skin and the spiny structure of its neck, with shades of purple on its belly. She’d included shadows that made it look three-dimensional. It was a happy-looking dragon.

He said, “Shouldn’t death look more, um, dead?”

“No.” Katarina stepped up on the back of the couch and brushed white paint above the dragon, covering the wall’s olive drab up and onto the ceiling.

On the wall directly across the lobby, a much larger dragon looked back at the little smiling dragon. The small one was vivid and sharp. The larger was dun brown and mottled. “Did you paint that one too?”

“Uh-huh.”

He went across the room and looked closely at the larger dragon. The mottles were from the olive drab of the wall leaking through. Where the little dragon sparkled, its layers of acrylic reflecting the fluorescent light, the big dragon’s flat latex absorbed the light. A few wisps of smoke curled straight up from the big, old-looking shadow of a dragon. “This guy looks pretty beaten down.”

“He’s not
beaten down
,” she snapped. “He’s doing the best that he can.”

“Oh.” Ryan noticed that the little dragon’s eyes, complete with little stars in their irises twinkling like emeralds—the same color as Katarina’s eyes—were aimed directly at the old dragon, but the old dragon was looking up at the ceiling.

“If you were dead, you’d look beaten down too.”

“Sorry, Katarina.” Ryan went back to the couch. “What do I know from art?”

Reaching her brush farther out on the ceiling, she lost her balance and had to step down from the couch. Ryan caught her arm, steadying her. She pushed away. “I don’t need your help.”

Ryan shrugged. “Sorry.” He noticed that, incorporated in the dragon’s breath, there were little symbols and some writing. He pointed at them and said, “What are these things?”

“These
things
are what’s left over after death—would you please leave me alone?”

As he walked from the lobby to the theater, he heard Katarina mumble, “People are so fucking stupid.” That she was such an ornery little wretch amused him. It reminded him of the youngest of his three sisters at that age. Ryan didn’t like her saying
fuck
, though.

Inside the theater, a dozen skate rats flew up and down the ramps while a band called Broken Skeg set up on stage. As he passed, the kids held out their skate-cards. Ryan pretended to scrutinize them but gave most of his attention to whether they had their helmets strapped on and wrist guards tight.

Backstage, Broken Skeg’s junior groupies, two fifteen-year-old girls wearing lots of black lace, flirted with the band’s front man. Make that “front boy”—he was barely sixteen. Sitting in the center of the couch, he had his arm around one of the girls and pulled her close. She whispered in his ear and snuggled against him.

Ryan leaned over to listen. She glared at him. To the front boy, Ryan said, “Go tune a guitar or something.”

The next time Ryan passed through the lobby, he noticed that Katarina had painted the ceiling white with gray puffy edges from one end of the room to the other, connecting the two dragons—there were more of the little symbols and words, like tiny graffiti, embedded in the clouds. He looked around for her, but it was crowded and she was small.

Around eleven o’clock, Ryan wandered through the alley in back. Three teenagers, two older boys and one smaller kid, huddled behind the Dumpster in the shadows of the security lights.