Flagstone steps curved through a grove of pine trees to the front door. Burke avoided them, and went around to the back, where another door opened onto the kitchen. He felt like a burglar, and worried that the snare drum in his chest would give him away. He tried the door, and it opened easily. They’re in bed, he decided. Which didn’t make sense, unless Burke was wrong about the solstice, or unless Wilson had changed his mind.
He stood in the kitchen with the phony cell phone in his hand, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the absence of stars. In the silence, he imagined the faint sound of music, as if there were a radio, way off in the woods. Then he moved quietly through the house, room by room, praying that Wilson didn’t have a dog. Would a stun gun even work on a dog? Was fur a conductor?
Wilson’s bedroom – number five, by Burke’s count – was at the far end of the house. The bed was unmade, and a flowered bridal tiara rested, wilting, on a vanity crowded with little bottles of perfume. Beside the tiara was a photograph in a silver frame. Burke studied it in the moonlight.
It was a picture of Wilson in a tuxedo, with his arm around a blonde in a wedding dress. They were standing together in a gazebo, surrounded by flower arrangements, and Burke saw that she was wearing the tiara he’d found. Outsized gold and silver bows decorated the posts on either side, and a wall of candles burned in front of a stained-glass window. Burke couldn’t tell if they were inside, posing on a kind of movie set, or if they were outdoors. But the affection they felt for each other was unmistakable. They were radiant. Beaming.
And somewhere else.
Burke sagged against the window frame. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He’d come all this way, and there was no one home.
He let himself out, and began to walk back the way he’d come. It was over now. Except… there was that music again, and the sound of laughter. It was a woman’s laugh, he thought, but… where was it coming from? He turned in his tracks, this way and that, but it was gone now, muted by a breeze through the pines.
Then he saw it – a smudge of light in the treetops. A tall structure with crisscrossed timbers. It looked to be about half a mile away. It was a tower with a room at the top. Like Wardenclyffe.
On the horizon, the mountains were silhouetted against a pink seam that was just beginning to form. Burke turned toward the tower, and continued walking, certain that Wilson was there with his weapon and his woman.
As a bird began to sing, he picked up his pace, thinking, Not good, not good. He hurried on, but he was so tired that his progress was slow. Every once in a while he had to stop, hands on hips, his breath coming in ragged heaves. He was at a high altitude and he wasn’t used to it.
And then he was there, at the base of the tower. He waited a minute until his breath came easier, listening to the muffled voices and music above his head.
Then he took to the winding staircase, and began to climb. He was doing his best to be quiet, but the steps were metal and he might as well have been banging a drum.
“Jack?!” It was a woman’s voice, and there was alarm in it.
Burke paused, and activated the stun gun. Then he resumed climbing, faster now, heading for the little cabin atop the superstructure. Access was through a hole in the floor above his head, a kind of trapdoor that was open. In the darkness on the stairs, it seemed to Burke that he was climbing toward the sun.
The music was gone now.
Two more flights of steps. He paused again to catch his breath, and stared at the door in the floor. The only way to enter the cab at the top was headfirst. If Wilson had a baseball bat, he could swing for the fences, and that would be the end of it.
Burke weighed his options. He could go up. Or he could go down. He went up, taking the stairs two at a time, arriving finally at the top – out of breath, and with a submachine gun staring him in the face.
The woman in the photograph was at Wilson’s side, her mouth open, eyes wide with alarm. Behind Wilson, Burke could see what he guessed was the weapon. It looked like a telescope, mounted on a turret. It was aimed at the heavens, through what appeared to be an open skylight. A retractable roof, of sorts.
“Who the fuck are you?” Wilson asked. “Get in here.” He gestured with the gun.
Burke came through the trapdoor, moving slowly. Irina backed away.
He was halfway through when Wilson said, “Hold it.”
Burke froze.
“What’s that?” Wilson asked, and stepped on his hand.
“Cell phone,” Burke said.
Wilson reached down and took it away. Tossed it onto a chair in the corner. Beckoned Burke to come all the way into the cab. “Who were you calling?”
Burke thought fast. “Police. They’re on their way.”
Wilson nodded. “They’ll never get here,” he said. Suddenly, he frowned. “You’re the guy from Ireland.” He laughed, incredulously. “What are you doing here?”
Burke opened his mouth, but gave up. What was the point?
Wilson just shook his head. “Irina,” he said, “please sit down. Enjoy your wine.” He gestured to a pair of Adirondack chairs that flanked a small table. On the table were a candelabra, two champagne flutes, and a bucket of ice. A telephone sat on the floor.
The woman was in a panic, Burke saw. Her eyes flew between the two men. “Is all right?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Yeah,” Wilson said with a laugh. “It’s fine. This is Mr. Aherne-”
“Burke. Actually, it’s-”
“Mr. Burke,” Wilson said with an apologetic nod. He turned toward Irina. “Mr. Burke’s a long way from home.”
“Like me,” she said, with a nervous smile.
“No,” Wilson said. “Not like you. You are home. This is your home, sweetheart.”
She blushed. “But why he is-?”
Wilson cut her off with a gesture. “I’m afraid we don’t have a third glass,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting guests. It’s kind of an old-fashioned celebration. Stay up till dawn. Greet the solstice. That kind of thing.”
Burke glanced around. He took in the candelabra, the only source of illumination in the cabin. It occurred to him that Wilson might have fired the transmitter already. It was almost light outside, and out here, how would you know if the world had ended? The landscape lights had been on, but… were they still on? “Did you pull the trigger?”
“Not yet,” Wilson told him.
“Trigger?” This from Irina.
He’s going to kill me, Burke thought. But not in front of his bride.
“Is that it?” Burke asked, gesturing at the transmitter.
Wilson nodded. “You seem to know a lot. How’d you find us?”
“Ukrainebrides,” Burke replied.
Irina brightened. “You know Madame Puletskaya?”
“Yeah,” Burke said. “We’re old friends.”
Wilson glanced outside. “I think it’s time,” he said. “Why don’t you sit over there?” He gestured toward the chair where he’d thrown the “cell phone.”
Burke went over to it, and sat down.
“Do me a favor,” Wilson said.
“What’s that?”
“Just stay off the phone.” With a look of warning to Burke, he laid his gun down on a table next to the transmitter, and began to attach a cable to a laptop on the floor.
Burke watched Wilson go about his business, and thought about the people he’d seen on television, their faces deranged by loss. Loss was something Burke understood, just as he understood what the people in the courthouse must have felt when the temperature began to soar inside their skin. Burke knew what it was like to be badly burned. It was a terrible way to die. A bullet would be better.