He had finished his proof, twenty-three pages of closely reasoned math and physics condensed down from two hundred pages.
He got up and wandered around his room, looking at the books, picking up the loose papers on the floor, leaving his notebook displayed on the center of his desk like a black square-cut diamond.
Now what? Ask some colleagues to read it before daring to submit it to a journal? He really should.
He had wanted Silke to read and appreciate it. Now he wasn’t sure what he wanted from it.
“El?” his father called up from the foot of the stairs. “Dinner.”
“Two minutes,” he answered.
The Net was open to one of the XYC bank-account sites inside Bank of America. XYC was cheating with several other Cayman accounts, which Elliott had recently also accessed, but there was still plenty in the B of A checking account he was looking at.
He transferred $1,739,197 to his proxy account. Always a reasonable amount.
Always a prime number.
But that would be theft. He transferred the money back. Aw, I’m only playin’ witcha, he thought.
For fun, he punched in the primary URL for Russia’s military accounts. The Russians, too, were being bad boys. For now, he was just enjoying himself, educating himself on how the world really runs.
You know, El, the fame and immortality thing can wait a while, he thought, beginning a conversation with himself. You’re only twenty-three, you can always publish in ten years. Meantime…
“El?”
… you have changed. Learned a lot.
He twisted back and forth in the chair, thinking.
The money thing wasn’t important either, not really.
But the revenge thing-the revenge thing was important. XYC should have stopped Flint. There would never be another Silke on this earth, and not only were people dead, but he, Elliott Wakefield, would never love another woman.
He thought for another moment, then went to his E-mail server and typed in messages to Professor Braun and to Branson, the lawyer.
To the professor, he wrote:
Forming new company using unbreakable encryption formula. Would like to have you on board. Interested? Will double your fee.
To Branson, he wrote:
Are you available to serve as my counsel on a start-up here in Seattle? My encryption formula is unbreakable. I’ll need some patent work.
He thought, I’ll ask Nina to handle some of the lawsuits. He sent the E-mails and leaned back. Did he want to cannibalize anybody else from XYC? Patty Hightower?
No. Leave the phonies. Keep the competent hard-asses and hit XYC where it would hurt. They thought he was a naive fool. They would find out what it means to take on a mathematician.
Numbers, quanta; they’re shifty. Yesterday’s off-ramp is today’s cinder-block wall. Sometimes the cosmos does seem to dissolve and re-form with certain subtle differences. He should know. It had happened to him. He had hardened, grown up.
“El!”
“Coming.” He shut down and walked downstairs. Pop couldn’t get to the second floor anymore, so his research could remain private, if he wanted. As for the NSA searchers, they could come back, but they would never find out how he accessed his sites and he’d just slip the notebook under Pop’s behind again. Nobody would pull Pop out of his wheelchair to search.
His father shook the old snow dome of Santa in his sleigh and placed it in the middle of the kitchen table. White flakes landed on Santa’s shoulders, then drifted down to the ground. “Merry Christmas Eve,” he said, holding his glass of wine high, admiring the candlelight glowing through the red.
“I have news,” Elliott said.
“Oh?”
“It’s finished. You know what I mean?”
His father’s glass stopped and hovered in the air.
“I can’t find an error.”
“You really finished?” his father asked. “All that work came to something, eh? All that concentration.” His voice quivered slightly.
“It took a long time. I doubted myself, Pop. I told everyone I could, but I didn’t believe it.”
“I always said, you’re a bright one.”
“Merry Christmas, Pop.” They clinked glasses and drank. His father had grilled steaks. Elliott poured on the A1 sauce.
“I read a good article in the International Journal of American Linguistics today,” his father said. “I might write up a little note on it and submit it.”
“I’ll input it for you,” Elliott said. He took a big bite, savoring the flavors. Nobody could grill a steak like Pop.
Outside the cabin windows, last whispers of the old year’s snow murmured around the trees of the Tahoe basin. Inside, the Christmas tree cast its blurred colors across the shadowy ceiling. Presents lay under the tree. Unable to keep his eyes open, Bob had gone to bed after midnight, just after Christmas Day arrived. Hitchcock lay at Nina’s feet on the couch, paws crossed, eyes fluttering as he dreamed.
Sitting in the armchair nearest the fire, Kurt relaxed, wearing the same sweater and jeans he had worn when she picked him and Bob up at the airport. His boots were propped by the front door, his suitcases and backpack next to them. They had all eaten out and talked about the trip and the Hanna case. Then, when Kurt and Nina were alone, they had shared their histories, really talked.
Now a silence dropped between them. Nina could hear the big fir bending in the dark front yard, the heat turning on, the wood spitting and crackling in the grate. She got up and went over to Kurt, sitting down at his feet, her back to him, watching the fire. She stretched.
“Tired?” he asked.
“Only a little. Kurt?”
“Mm-hmm?”
She leaned back, touching his leg. “Come to bed with me.”
He stroked her hair.
“It’s been so long,” she said.
“You are something.”
“I’m glad you still think so.” She turned to face him and took his hand. “It’s late. Bob will be up early.”
“It’s Christmas, and you offer gifts to your old lover.”
“Not so old,” she teased. “You’re in your thirties, last I looked.” She put her fingers between his and enjoyed the softness of his large and long-fingered, artistic hands. “You’re so warm.”
“And you’re so inviting.”
A moment passed.
“Yet you sit there,” she said, slightly peeved.
He had been looking at her hand, reacting to its movements between his fingers, but he fixed his eyes on hers and she could read what she saw in them as easily as she could read the casinos’ neon billboards down on Lake Tahoe Boulevard, through blizzards, rain, whiteouts. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. In his unguarded eyes she saw the same need, caring, and lust she was feeling.
“Come upstairs with me,” she said.
“I can’t do that.”
She took her hand back. She wanted to couple mindlessly with him, and this interruption in what should be a flowing thing bothered her. “Why not?”
“I’m not them.”
“Who?”
“The others.”
She knew who he meant. So what about them?
“All of them. Men you’re no longer with. Jack. Collier. Paul. Others I don’t know about.”
Nina looked back through the years, at the flaming and burning out in between. She considered Mick. Had she really loved Jack? She had caused the divorce as much as he had. Would her love for Collier have lasted? They had never gone beyond the first glory of romance.
And Paul-pain lacerated her-had she known all along that he was wrong for her? Strung him along?
“You don’t trust yourself with men.”
“You ought to know why.” The heat of her reaction surprised her.
Kurt said slowly, looking down, “I disappeared from your life when we were in love. That disrupted both our lives. But Nina, I had no choice. You know that. I suffered, too.”