“It’s a tablet, Audree.” He showed her.
“What’s it worth?”
“We’re not sure yet. Probably nothing.”
“But maybe a lot?”
“Maybe.”
“And somebody dropped it into the river?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“Call it bad judgment. Can we rent you for a day?”
“Where, precisely, did they drop it?”
“East of the Trafalgar Bridge. They say it’s somewhere between one and four klicks.”
“Okay. We’ll take a look. It’ll be a couple of days before we can get to it, though.”
“Good. And, Audree?”
“Yes, Alex.”
“Don’t put a lot of effort into it. If it doesn’t show up on the first effort, let it go.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure I believe the story.”
“Okay. I’ll do what I can. By the way, Alex—”
“Yes, Audree?”
“We’re doing Moving Target this weekend.”
“You’re in it?”
“I’m the target.”
“I’m not surprised. Can you set a night aside for me?”
FOUR
A father can make no more serious error than striving to make his son like himself.
—Timothy Zhin-Po, Night Thoughts
Five minutes after we got back to the country house, Jacob announced he had news: “Alex, I’ve located Basil.” Tuttle’s son.
“Can you put me through to him, Jacob?”
“Negative. He does not have a link.”
“No code? Nothing at all?”
“Nothing.”
“Where does he live?”
“Portsboro. Near Lake Vanderbolt.”
“All right. We’ll be home shortly. Thanks, Jacob.”
“No residential address is listed for him, either.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Ground mail goes to the distribution center. I guess he picks it up there.”
Alex made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Fortunately, Portsboro’s not far. You want to come?”
I looked out at the windblown hills below. “Sure,” I said. “This time of year, I love the north country. All that snow—”
Basil had gone in a different direction from his father. He’d started medical school but never completed his studies. The few who’d written about Sunset Tuttle had little to say about Basil. He’d been married briefly. No known children. Had worked at several jobs before simply walking away to embrace a life of leisure, financed in part by state security, and probably more so by his father.
After Sunset died, Basil had dropped out of sight. At the time, he would have been in his late twenties.
We let Audree know where we could be reached and took the Moonlight Line north in the morning. Alex has always had a child’s fascination for trains. He can sit for hours, staring out the window at the passing scenery. Headed north, though, the train passes through farming country. Experts had for centuries been predicting the end of farms, as they had of trains. But both lived on. It appears now there will always be a market for foods produced the old-fashioned way, just as there will be for the sheer practicality and economy of the train. And I’ll confess that there’s something reassuring in the knowledge they’ll probably always be with us.
In time, the farms gave way to open forest. We climbed mountains, crossed rivers, navigated gorges, and rolled through tunnels. At Carpathia, we had to change trains. We wandered through the gift shop for an hour while snow began to fall. Alex picked up a tee shirt for Audree. It had a picture of the train on it with the logo ALL THE WAY. “I’m not sure I can see her wearing it,” I said.
He smiled. “It’s all a matter of timing.”
Then we were on our way again, riding the Silver Star, winding through mountains that rose ever higher. By early evening we arrived in Packwood. There we rented a skimmer and crossed a hundred kilometers over snow-packed forest to Portsboro, population eleven hundred.
We landed in a parking area on the edge of town, got into our jackets, and climbed out. The cold air felt solid. Like a wall. I turned up the heat in my jacket, and we trudged through the snow, crossed a street, turned a corner, and went into Will’s Café. It was midafternoon, and the place was empty except for three women at one table and a chess game at another. We ordered sandwiches and hot chocolate and asked the waiter, then one of the customers, and finally the owner where Basil Tuttle lived. Nobody seemed to know. They knew he lived in the town, but nobody had any idea where he could be found. “Comes in once in a while,” the owner said. “But that’s all I’ve got.”
One of the women waved in the general direction of the western horizon and said he “lives out there somewhere.” We left Will’s, went down to the next corner, and tried Mary’s Bar & Grill.
This time we found someone. Her name was Betty Ann Jones. “I know him,” she said, while the other three people at her table shook their heads disapprovingly. She laughed and raised a hand to reassure them. “Basil likes to be left alone. Are you bill collectors or police or something? Why do you want to see him?”
“We’re working on a history project,” Alex said. “We’re writing a book about his father. You know who his father was?”
“Sunset Tuttle?” She couldn’t resist a smirk.
“Right. Anyhow, we’d like to interview Basil. Is there a way we could get in touch with him?”
“What’s your name?” she asked. She was probably well into her second century, but she’d kept herself in good shape. Dark skin, shoulder-length brown hair, intelligent eyes. The kind of woman you might expect to find running the gambling table.
“My name’s Alex Benedict.”
“Okay.” She nodded, as if she had a running familiarity with the world’s historians.
“Do you know where he lives?” Alex asked.
“Of course. Everybody does.”
“Could you direct us?”
“It’s complicated. Do you have transportation?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, you’ll have to head northwest. Over the Nyka Ridge. Keep going straight until you get to the Ogamee—”
“The what?”
“The river.” She stopped and shook her head. Looked out through the windows. It was getting dark. “Do you know him at all?”
“Not really.”
“All right. How can I say this? He’s not the world’s most sociable guy. But he’s okay. You said you have transportation, right?”
“Yes. If you could help us, we’d be grateful.”
She got more interested. Alex showed her some money.
“We’d bring you right back,” I said. “As soon as we’re finished. It shouldn’t take long.”
She thought about it. Looked at the money. “Okay.” She got to her feet. “I keep this even if he won’t let us in, right?”
“Okay.”
“Good enough. Let me get my coat.”
It was one of those hard, cold days, not a cloud in the sky, the sun bright, the temperature down well below zero. We lifted off, and Betty Ann steered me toward the highest mountain in the area. Below, not much was moving. Not even the river, which was frozen. “That’s the Ogamee,” she said. “It’s Kasikan for death.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “That’s fairly melodramatic.” The Kasikans had lived in the area for more than a thousand years and still formed a substantial fraction of the local population. They’d had the north country to themselves for a long time and developed their own language and culture. Where they’d actually originated remains a matter of debate. “Why is it the river of death?” I asked.