Riah thought back to when she was that girl’s age, to the days when her father first started tying her to the bed and having his way with her. What if she’d loved him and then he had died? How would that’ve felt? Or what if she’d hated him instead? Would she have celebrated?
But he had not died.
Instead he was living in a decrepit farmhouse in the middle of Louisiana. Riah’s little sister, Katie, was still alive too, was on her third marriage, rented a squalid little apartment in San Diego, had three kids, and hadn’t spoken with her since their mother’s funeral.
Their mother had fallen down the basement stairs six months ago and broken her neck when her head hit the concrete floor.
The coroner labeled her death “accidental.” Riah’s father had been home at the time, and Riah thought that it was at least as likely that after decades of physically abusing his wife, he’d pushed her down the stairs or smashed her head in and then shoved her body down the steps to make it look like an accident, but there was no way to prove his involvement one way or the other.
But regardless of the circumstances regarding her mother’s death, Riah knew that her father was a guilty man, guilty for what he had done to his daughter.
Or daughters.
She had her suspicions, but never could get Katie to tell her if their father had done the same things to her.
Riah knew that someday she would visit him and discuss the fact that he had not treated his children in an honorable manner, discuss it in a way that he would understand.
She was confident she could come up with something unforgettable.
But now, tonight, she went to bed thinking about Malik’s daughter, about watching that fourteen-year-old girl’s father explode.
Tomorrow morning she would be meeting with the twins to find out what role her research had played in that man’s death, in that fourteen-year-old girl’s loss.
And, presumably, based on what Darren had said to her in the conference room, what her role might be in killing even more fathers just like him.
Heading East
The drive to Portland goes surprisingly quickly, and Xavier, Charlene, and I find the Gulfstream 550 waiting for us on the tarmac.
The pilot, a fortyish woman with golden retriever eyes and an enigmatic pair of pigtails, introduces herself as Captain Amy Fontaine. The copilot is a quiet, slightly overweight man named Jason Sherill.
Our flight attendant, a young Indian gentleman who speaks with only a faint Indian accent, tells us he is Amil and is at our service.
We shake hands, give them our names, and take our seats in the jet’s cabin.
Though the price tag for this flight isn’t cheap, I’ve used this company before, and as I look around the jet, I’m reminded that I’m getting my money’s worth. The cabin is ultra high-end, elegant — swiveling, reclining captain’s chair seats, four flat-screen televisions, not to mention the individual monitors for each seat. A couch sits at the back of the plane near the galley and restroom.
Xavier stows a duffle bag full of his toys. He winks at me. “You never know what tricks you’re going to need up your sleeve.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I have a few things here I’ve been working on.”
“What are those?”
“Oh, well, you see, that’s a surprise, Petunia.”
I stare at him.
“Charlene filled me in.”
“Great.”
As Captain Fontaine pulls the plane onto the runway, Amil informally gives us the required preflight information — apart from the senseless instructions about powering down your phones and electronic devices. “If it were even remotely possible that your electronic devices could affect the navigation of an airplane during takeoff or landing, do you really think the FAA would allow you to bring the items on board?” He almost slips into a stand-up routine. “Can you imagine a jet crashing and they find out that the cause was someone forgetting to turn off his noise-canceling headphones? My friends, you could run a cell phone kiosk next to the cockpit and have an MRI machine stationed in the back of this cabin, and it wouldn’t affect the navigation of a plane one bit.”
I liked Amil already.
We take off, and as we break through the clouds, I see the final glimpse of sunlight fading along the edge of the sky. I can’t help but think of all that has happened since the sun went down yesterday evening: the fight in the chamber, the test this morning, escaping the fire, seeing Abina’s body, watching Glenn Banner die at my feet.
It feels like a lifetime has passed since the last sunset.
Like a dream.
But it’s real.
The pain and death and questions, all real.
My thoughts float back to my nightmare last night about seeing my wife and sons drown. How I felt. How helpless. How terrified.
Needless to say, I’m not too excited about going to sleep now, on the plane.
In the waking world, when you’re haunted by the past or troubled by the present or nervous about the future, you can distract yourself — go for a run, watch a movie, check your email — but when you’re asleep and you’re facing something terrifying, you can’t turn away, can’t even close your eyes and pretend it’s not happening.
In a sense, I guess, we’re powerless to escape our dreams. We’re forced to live them out, forced to watch whatever our haunted past wants to throw in front of us. Even though we may know it’s not real.
Cyrus made his decision.
He slipped quietly to the garage, careful not to wake his faithful, innocent, and rather oblivious wife.
The more he’d thought about it, the more he’d realized it would be best not to wait until morning to deal with the situation with Tanbyrn.
He backed the Jag out of the driveway, pulled onto the silent, deserted street.
Over the last nine months, Cyrus had explored every avenue available to him for clearing the way for his research concerning the release of the new telomere cap. During that time he’d considered the broad-reaching implications of Dr. Tanbyrn’s research on quantum entanglement and its connection to human relationships, its connection both in positive ways and in negative ones.
Cyrus was a man of science, but if there was one thing quantum physics was teaching us, it was this: there is not always a scientific explanation for what happens in the world. Logic evaporates when you reach the subatomic level. Reality is much more malleable than it seems.
He wasn’t sure he believed in Mambo Atabei’s practices, but he had seen some things in her ceremonies that he couldn’t reasonably explain. Based on Tanbyrn’s research, there were scientific reasons, matters of quantum entanglement, that might have been able to explain some of the effects, but that seemed to Cyrus to be a bit of a stretch.
Admittedly, he was somewhat embarrassed by his forays into this field, but when tens of billions of dollars were at stake, it was worth a little unorthodox dabbling.
He had a relatively good relationship with the Haitian woman, and he speculated that she might just be able to help if he gave her a big enough donation.
Guiding the Jag down the street, he aimed it toward South Philly. Toward the high priestess’s house.
After we level off, Amil offers us caviar hors d’oeuvres and wine in tall, fluted glasses.
Xavier takes out his button camera and puts it on. When he sees me looking at him curiously, he explains, “We were supposed to be filming a documentary. You never know what kind of footage we’re going to need. We may end up with a film yet. Don’t worry, I’ll be unobtrusive.” Then he asks Amil if he has any cheese, crescenza if possible, and Amil looks at him blankly.