NOVEMBER 9: BROTHERLY LOVE
DANTÉ’S ELBOWS RESTED on his white marble desk, and his hands held his head. How could this have happened? Every time he turned around, they were stepping deeper and deeper into a head-high pile of dog shit.
He looked up. Magnus sat in front of the desk, relaxing in a chair. He seemed not the least bit bothered by his actions.
“Magnus, how could you have done this?” Danté spoke quietly, firmly. For too long, perhaps, he’d ignored the sad truth: his brother was a bona fide sociopath.
“Relax,” Magnus said. “The problem is solved.”
“Solved? Solved? You killed Erika Hoel!”
“And what would you have done, given her a raise?”
Danté’s face scrunched in frustration. He felt a pain in his chest. He pounded the desk with his fist, just once. The fist stayed there like a dropped gavel.
“Danté, seriously, you need to relax.” Magnus sounded as calm as if this were a budget meeting with the board of directors. That calmness infuriated Danté even more. His own brother, a killer.
“I don’t see the problem,” Magnus said. “Our facility is destroyed, including our equipment, including the cows. I had Farm Girl send an email to the media—the Animal Liberation Front claimed responsibility for the blast. Gosh, they didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but as they said in the email, if you commit atrocities on God’s creatures, don’t blame the ALF if there is collateral damage.”
“Fischer knows that’s all total bullshit.”
“Of course he does,” Magnus said. “But the ALF has grown more aggressive in the past few months, so the story fits. The media buys into it. If they do, so does the G8. Everyone wants to see xenotransplantation shut down, and guess what? Now we’re shut down just like everyone else. So what can Fischer do about it?”
“He’ll look for Rhumkorrf’s project, that’s what.”
“And he won’t find it. Fischer has no idea where Bubbah and the staff have gone. As long as no one on Black Manitou gets stupid and tries to contact the outside world, we’re in the clear. It’s what you wanted, Danté—time for Rhumkorrf to finish the project.”
Danté sat quietly. Magnus hadn’t just made a snap reaction, hadn’t flipped out over his service buddy’s death—he’d thought all of this through. In a way, Danté wished it had been a reaction, a crime of passion. That would have been easier to understand than premeditated murder.
“This isn’t Afghanistan, Magnus. This isn’t combat. You killed a woman, for God’s sake.”
His brother smiled. “Are you going to pretend you don’t know what I am? Pretend you weren’t secretly relieved when Galina conveniently disappeared?”
Danté leaned back as if he’d been slapped. He hadn’t wanted Galina to die, not even for a second. “I had nothing to do with her death. You did that, not me.” He felt his heart hammering in his temples. His skin felt hot.
Magnus rubbed his right forearm. “You told me you wished Galina could just go away. What did you think I was going to do when I heard you say that? Did you think I wouldn’t come through for you?”
Danté looked away. Magnus was wrong. It hadn’t been like that. It hadn’t. Danté had just wanted the project to continue, to benefit all of humanity. Of course he’d wished for Galina to go away, but he’d said as much in front of Magnus. Said it… seen the cold look in his brother’s eyes… and said no more.
“Danté, you know I love you, but let’s be honest, you really don’t have a lot going on in the balls department. You have Dad’s skill at running a company, the fund-raising, the public panache, all of that good stuff. When I watch you do your thing at board meetings or the media, it blows me away. I can’t do those things. But when it comes to the other stuff? The off-camera stuff? You just don’t have Dad’s stones. I do. Together, we make a great team, wouldn’t you say?”
Danté felt that pain in his chest again. Sharper this time. His brother’s eyes, so cold, not a shred of emotion.
“Get out, Magnus. Just get out of my sight.”
Magnus stood and walked out, leaving Danté alone with his stress and his shame.
NOVEMBER 9: THE FAIRY
CLAYTON’S HUMVEE FOLLOWED the same road they’d flown over. No surprise, since it was the only road. Arching trees walled up either side. Brown, half-bare branches dripped from their inch-deep coat of melting snow. Many trees had black-flecked white trunks with peeling, paperlike bark. Pine trees stood out the most, thick and full compared with their anemic hardwood cohorts.
Almost no sign of man… It was achingly beautiful. Unkempt dirt roads branched off from time to time, leading to the small, dilapidated houses Colding had seen on the way in.
They passed by what had to be a road to the old town with the big church. Not far after that, the forest thinned a bit. The road quickly crested at a steep dune spotted with tall grasses. The dune’s downslope led to the island’s small harbor.
Beach smells filtered into the open window, complete with a strong odor of dead fish. Up and down the shore, heavy purplish-gray rock outcroppings led right up to the water, some sliding in at an angle, others standing as small cliffs. Patchy, dry orange lichens covered the top of the rocks, adding texture and depth. In the long spots between the rocks, there was nothing but sand, grass and a few scraggly trees reaching out from twenty-foot-high sloping dunes. Thick logs dotted the beach. Some had gnarled roots still attached, white and stripped free of bark. They looked like the bleached bones of desert animals unable to survive an endless sun.
The road ended at the blackened wooden dock, which ran forty feet into the harbor’s calm waters. A small black metal shed sat near the base of the dock. At the end of the dock, Colding saw Gary’s boat. A thirty-six-foot Sharkcat cruiser with a flying bridge. The perfect boat for deepwater fishing or a dockside party with fifteen of your closest friends. Black and gold script spelled the words DAS OTTO II on the boat’s aft.
Gary hopped out of the Hummer, as did Colding. They both walked down the dock to the boat. This close to him and in the sunlight, Colding saw that Gary’s irises looked dilated. Colding finally placed the smell, the sleepy look, the constant half-smile… the guy was baked.
“Gary, have you been smoking marijuana?”
The man giggled a little, a soundless thing that made his shoulders shiver. “Yeah. I’ve been smoking marijuana, Mister Narkie Narkerson. Why, you want some?”
“No,” Colding said. “Just how stoned are you?”
Gary shrugged. “I don’t know, man… how high does the scale go?”
Goddamit. This was their only support on the mainland?
Gary’s smile faded. “Listen, brah, don’t sweat it. Just because I boof a bit doesn’t mean I can’t handle my business.”
“I’m not a fan of drugs,” Colding said. “Or people who do them.”
Gary rolled his eyes. When he did, Colding seemed to hear his own words through Gary’s ears. When the hell had he started talking like a high school guidance counselor? Still, he had to probe a little, see just how much of a liability Gary Detweiler might be.
“Magnus tells me you can take care of yourself.”
Gary shrugged. “I do what Magnus tells me. That’s why I’m always carrying this stupid thing.” He unzipped his coat and opened it a bit, allowing Colding to peek inside at a handgun—Genada’s preferred weapon, a Beretta 96—nestled in a shoulder holster.