The Chronoliths (15 page)

All of this amateur espionage bullshit left an e-trail as wide as the Missouri, of course. But while Morris Torrance could surely make a few connections and hunt me down, he couldn’t do it fast enough to keep me in Baltimore. I was two hundred miles west by nightfall, driving into a warm June evening with the windows open, popping antacids to calm the churning in my stomach.

There was a big ration camp where the highway crossed the Ohio, maybe a thousand threadbare canvas tents flapping in the spring breeze, dozens of barrel fires burning fitfully. Most of these people would have been refugees from the Louisiana bottomlands, unemployed refinery and petrochemical workers, farmers flooded out of their property. The consolidating clay of the Atchafalaya Basin had at last begun to draw the Mississippi River out of its own silted birdfoot deltas, despite the best efforts of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. More than a million families had been displaced by this spring’s floods, not to mention the chaos that resulted from collapsed bridges and navigational locks and mud-choked roads.

Men lined the breakdown lane begging rides in both directions. Hitchhiking had been illegal here for fifty years and rides were scarce. But these men (almost all men) had ceased caring. They stood stiff as scarecrows, blinking into the glare of the headlights.

I hoped Kait had found a safe place to sleep tonight.

When I reached the outskirts of Minneapolis I registered at a motel. The desk clerk, an ancient turtle of a man, opened his eyes wide when I took cash out of my wallet. “I’ll have to go to the bank with that,” he said. So I added fifty dollars for his trouble and he was kind enough not to process my ID. The room he gave me was a cubicle containing a bed and a courtesy terminal and a window that overlooked the parking lot.

I desperately needed sleep, but before that I needed to talk to Janice.

It was Whit who answered the phone. “Scott,” he said, cordially but not happily. He looked like he needed some sleep himself. “I assume you’re calling about Kaitlin. I’m sorry to say there’s been no further information. The police seem to think she’s still in the city, so we’re cautiously optimistic. Obviously, we’re doing all we can.”

“Thank you, Whit, but I need to talk to Janice right now.”

“It’s late. I hate to disturb her.”

“I’ll be quick.”

“Well,” Whit said, and wandered away from the terminal. Janice showed up a few moments later, wearing her nightgown but obviously wide awake.

“Scotty,” she said. “I tried to call you but there was nobody home.”

“That’s all right. I’m in town. Can we get together tomorrow and talk this over?”

“You’re in town? You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“I think I did. Janice? Can you make an hour for me? I can drop by the house, or—”

“No,” she said, “I’ll meet you. Where are you staying?”

“I’d as soon not meet here. What about that little steak house on Dukane, you know the one?”

“I think it’s still in business.”

“Meet you at noon?”

“Make it one.”

“Try to get some sleep,” I said.

“You, too.” She hesitated. “It’s been four days no Scotty. Four nights. I think about her all the time.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” I said.

There’s a difference between seeing someone in a phone window and seeing the same person in the flesh. I had phoned Janice half a dozen times in the last couple of months. But I almost failed to recognize her when she walked through the door of the steak house.

What had changed her, I think, was the combination of prosperity and dread.

Whit had done well despite the economic downturn. Janice wore a visibly expensive blue tweed suit and day jacket, but she wore it as if she had reached into her closet and yanked it off the hanger—collar bent, pockets unbuttoned. Her eyes were red, the skin under them swollen and gray.

We hugged cordially but neutrally and she took the chair opposite mine.

“No news,” she said. She fingered her handbag, where her phone undoubtedly was. “The police said they would call if anything turned up.”

She ordered a salad she didn’t touch and a Margarita she drank too eagerly. It might have been nice to talk about something else, but we both knew why we were there. I said, “I’m going to have to walk you through this whole thing one more time. Can you deal with that?”

“Yes,” she said, “I think I can, but Scott, you have to tell me what you intend to do.”

“What I intend to do?”

“About—all this. Because it’s in the hands of the police now, and you could create a problem if you get too involved.”

“I’m her father. I think I have a right to know.”

“To know, yes, certainly. But not to interfere.”

“I’m not planning to interfere.”

She offered a wan smile. “Why do I find that less than convincing?”

I began a question, but Janice said, “No, wait a minute. I want you to have this.”

She took a manila envelope from her handbag and passed it to me. I opened it and found a recent photograph of Kaitlin. Janice had printed it on slick stock; the image was crisp and defined.

Kait, at sixteen, was tall for her age and undeniably pretty. Fate had spared her the curse of adolescent acne and, judging by the poise in her expression, adolescent awkwardness as well. She looked somber but healthy.

For a moment I didn’t recognize what was unusual about the picture. Then I thought: Her hair. Kait had tied back her long dirty-blond hair in a braid, showing off her ears.

Both of them.

“That’s what you gave her, Scott. I wanted to thank you for that.”

The inner-ear prosthesis was of course invisible, but the cosmetic work was flawless. As it should be. The ear wasn’t false; genetically, it was hers, grown from Kaitlin’s own stem cells. There were no scars except for a faded suture line. But she had been self-conscious for years after the operation.

“When the bandages came off it was all still pink, you know, but perfect. Just like a new rose.”

I had been there for the surgery but not for the unveiling. That had happened during the crisis provoked by the Damascus arrival, and I’d been with Sue.

Janice went on, “I told her she was beautiful, right there in the hospital in front of the doctor and the nurses. She cocked her head, as if she wasn’t sure where my voice was coming from. It takes time to, you know, adjust. You know what she said to me?”

“What?”

A single tear tracked down Janice’s cheek. “She said, ‘You don’t have to shout.’”

The trouble started, Janice said, when Kaitlin failed to come home from a youth group meeting.

“What kind of youth group?”

“It’s just a—well—” Janice faltered.

“There’s no point doing this if we’re not honest,” I said.

“It’s a youth division of this organization Whit belongs to. You have to understand, Scott. It’s not a pro-Kuin thing. It’s just people who want to talk about alternatives to armed conflict.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “Janice—Whit is a
Copperhead
?”

Lately the newspapers had revived the Civil War term “Copperhead” as a blanket insult for the various Kuinist movements. Janice lowered her eyes and said, “We don’t use that term,” by which I gathered she meant Whit didn’t like it. “I’m not into politics. You know that. Even Whit, he only got involved because some of the people in upper management were joining. Preparing for a war we probably won’t even have to fight, that’s just not good economic sense, Whit says.”

This was a standard Copperhead argument, and it was disturbing to hear it from Janice’s lips. Not that it didn’t contain a mote of truth. But beating under it was the Kuinist disdain for democratic process, the notion that Kuin might bring order to a planet divided along too many economic, religious, and ecological fracture lines.

I had followed the rise of the Copperhead movement on the web—inevitably, since Sue considered it significant and Morris considered it a potential threat. What I had seen, I disliked.

“And he dragged Kaitlin into this?”

“Kait wanted to go. At first he took her to the grownup meetings, but then she got interested in the youth arm.”

“So you let her join—just like that?”

She looked at me pleadingly. “Honestly, Scotty, I didn’t see anything wrong with it. They weren’t making pipe bombs, for God’s sake. It was just a social thing. I mean, they played baseball. They put on plays.
Teenagers
, Scott. She was making all these new friends—she had real friends for the first time in her life. What was I supposed to do, lock her in the house?”

“I’m not here to judge.”

“Right.”

“Just tell me what happened.”

She sighed. “Well, I guess there were some radicals in the membership. It’s hard to get away from it, you know. The young people are especially vulnerable. It’s in the news, the net. She used to talk about it sometimes, about—” She lowered her voice. “About Kuin, and how you shouldn’t condemn what you don’t understand, that kind of thing. She was more serious about it than I imagined.”

“She went to a meeting and didn’t come back.”

“No, nor did ten others, most of them older than Kait. Apparently they had been talking for weeks about the idea of a pilgrimage, what they call a haj.”

I closed my eyes.

“But the police say they’re probably still in town,” Janice hurried on, “probably squatting in an empty building with a bunch of other would-be radicals, talking big and shoplifting food. I hope that’s true, but it’s… bad enough.”

“Have you looked for her yourself?”

“The police said not to.”

“How about Whit?”

“Whit says we should cooperate with the police. And that goes for you, too, Scott.”

“Can you give me the name of somebody on the police force I can talk to?”

She took out her address book, copied a name and phone address onto a paper napkin, but she did it grudgingly, giving me long sour looks.

I said, “Also the name of this Copperhead club Whit belongs to.”

At that she balked. “I don’t want you making trouble.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Bullshit. You come to town with all this, this
moral outrage
—”

“My daughter’s missing. That’s why I’m here. What part of that are you afraid of?”

She paused.

Then she said, “Kait’s been away less than a week. She could come home tomorrow. I have to believe that. I have to believe the police are doing all they can. But I can see that look in your eyes. And I hate it.”

“What look?”

“Like you’re getting ready to grieve.”

“Janice—”

She slapped the table with her open hand. “
No
. Scott. I’m sorry. I’m grateful for all you’ve done for Kait. I know how hard you tried. But I can’t tell you what organizations Whit belongs to. That’s his private life. We discussed all this with the police and that’s it, for now, anyway. So don’t look at me with those, those fucking
funeral eyes
.”

I was hurt, but I didn’t blame Janice, even when she stood up and stalked out into the sun-bleached street. I knew how she felt. Kaitlin was in danger, and Janice was asking herself what she could have done better, how she had dropped the ball, how things had gone so bad so fast.

I had been asking myself those same questions for ten years now. But it was a new experience for Janice.

After lunch I drove to Clarion Pharmaceuticals, a big industrial compound out where the suburbs met the wheat fields, and told the gate guard I wanted to see Mr. Delahunt. The guard stuck a card under the left front wiper and reminded me to pick up a visitor’s pass at the main entrance. But Clarion’s security was lax. I parked and walked through an open door near the loading bays and took an elevator up to what the directory said was Whit’s office.

And walked past his secretary as if I belonged there, into a warren of doorless rooms where men and women in crisp suits held phone conferences, until I found Whitman Delahunt himself draining filtered spring water from a cooler in the narrow hall. His eyes went wide when he saw me.

Whit was as impeccable as ever. A little grayer at the temples and wider at the waist, but he carried it well. He had even been smiling faintly to himself, though the smile vanished when he spotted me. He threw his paper cup into the trash. “Scott,” he said. “Jesus. You could have called.”

“I thought we should talk in person.”

“We should, and I don’t want to seem callous, I know what you’re going through, but this isn’t a good time for me.”

“I’d rather not wait.”

“Scott, be reasonable. Maybe tonight—”

“I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. My daughter has been God-knows-where for five days. Sleeping in the streets for all I know. So I’m sorry, Whit, if it interferes with your work and all, but we really do need to have a talk.”

He hesitated, then puffed himself up. “I would hate to have to call Security.”

“While you’re thinking it over, tell me about that Copperhead club you joined.”

His eyes widened. “Watch what you say.”

“Or we could discuss this in private.”

“Fuck, Scotty! All
right
. Jesus! Follow me.”

He took me to the executive cafeteria. The steam tables were empty, the food service finished for the day. The room was deserted. We sat at a lacquered wooden table like civilized people.

Whit loosened his tie. “Janice told me this might happen. That you’d come into town and complicate everything. You really should talk to the police, Scott, because I sure as hell intend to let them know what you’re up to.”

“You mentioned the Copperhead club.”

“No,
you
mentioned it, and will you please stop using that obscene word? It’s no such thing. It’s a
citizen’s committee
, for Christ’s sake. Yes, we talk about disarmament from time to time, but we talk about civil defense, too. We’re just average, churchgoing people. Don’t judge us by the fringe element you read about in the papers.”

“What should I call it, then?”

“We’re—” He had the grace to look embarrassed. “We’re the Twin Cities Peace with Honor Committee. You have to understand, there’s a lot at stake here. The kids have a point, Scott—the military buildup is distorting the economy, and there’s no evidence at all that guns and bombs are useful against Kuin, assuming he constitutes a threat to the United States, which is far from proven. We’re challenging the widespread belief that—”