“I don’t know, Hayden. That’s the point. I just cannot shake the feeling that Dad is trying to tell me something that he couldn’t come right out and say. That’s why the silly, contrived video. And the chess diary.”
Hayden leaned back in his chair and looked up at an empty spot far beyond the ceiling. He was very thin; Simon could see the muscles of his arms, like twisted ropes, as he stretched and put his hands behind his head, remembering. “There was a lot that Oliver never shared with anyone, Simon. I don’t suppose he ever told you about those mysterious visits to the Middle East, back when you were a little boy? Or that month-long disappearance into the Canadian wilderness when you were off at boarding school?”
“Wait a moment,” Andrew said. “Are we still talking about Professor Fitzpatrick? The old Professor Fitzpatrick?” He blinked at the thought of his cozy little college teacher going off on an international mission of mystery. “That’s mental.”
A cold current ran through Simon. He had never heard a word about either one. “No,” he said. “He didn’t tell me about them.”
Hayden huffed. “I didn’t think so.”
“But this is different, Hayden. Clearly, he went to a lot of trouble to record this video and get it to me. And if he didn’t keep a chess diary before, then he went to even more trouble now, creating one from scratch…and why? To keep a secret.” He shook his head, feeling a rock-hard, immutable stubbornness rising up inside him. “No. I’m sure, that if there is a code, I’m certain that once it’s cracked, it could lead us right to him. I know he is alive, Hayden, and my gut tells me he may be in danger.”
Hayden didn’t respond. He just leaned forward, handed the diary back to Simon, and stared at the game in front of him, frowning deeply, eyes narrowed.
Simon waited a long moment, hoping for something-anything-from his father’s old friend. Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Hayden…?”
Hayden just kept staring blindly at the game. “That sneaky little bitch,” he said.
Simon blinked. “What?”
“She beat me. The little tart beat me.” He took a scrap of paper from a nearby stack and jotted down a note, shaking his head in disgust.
“And not for the first time, sir, if I may say so,” the robot said as it trundled back into the room, pushing a cart with a full tea service.
“Hayden. Please. This is my father-”
The old man stood up suddenly, almost upsetting the game. “It’s a lie,” he said.
Simon gaped at him. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What?”
Andrew stood as well, looking alarmed. “Hayden. Wait a tick, it’s-”
“A fraud. A clever forgery of that thing, and a lot of not-so-clever CGI.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look at him, Simon! Skin tone, eye contact-and that laugh! That’s not Oliver! It couldn’t be!”
“But-”
“No! I won’t hear it!”
He snatched the black memory card from the chessboard, almost upsetting the pieces. He all but threw it back to Simon. “Take it! I don’t want it here.”
Simon hesitated, shocked at the man’s behavior. Then he stood up and glared over at Hayden, completely confused. He’d never seen Hayden like this. He truly didn’t know how to react.
“I said take it,” Hayden said, and shoved the card toward him. Simon accepted it, his fingers almost numb from shock.
Hayden turned away. He walked past the robot he loved so much and kicked the stool away from the staircase. The path was clear.
“Get out,” he said.
“Hayden. I-”
“Get out. I don’t want to see you again, Simon. Not until you can put this behind you and move on. You understand me? Get going.”
Simon stared at him for a long moment, the memory card still clutched in his hand. The fury on the older man’s face, his belligerent stance, his trembling hand as he gestured toward the staircase that led up and out-it all conveyed a single, tragic message.
Simon gave up. “All right,” he said. He shot a glance at the younger student and wondered for an instant what he must be thinking.
Andrew looked both shame-faced and confused. “Sorry,” he said softly, then looked away.
Never mind, Simon told himself. He turned and walked out of the lab, up the stairs and through the disheveled house without breaking stride. His years of martial arts training had given him superb discipline, and he needed every ounce of it that moment. What he really wanted to do was tear the lab to pieces.
He didn’t. Instead, he didn’t stop moving at all, until he was free of the cottage and halfway across the courtyard.
He couldn’t recall being so bitterly disappointed in years.
The cold wind tugged at his jacket as he stood on the green, head down, shoulders hunched. Simon had no idea what to do next-who to turn to, what to say. He stared blindly at the black memory card still gripped in his fist-his only connection with his lost father-and for the first time he saw the scrap of paper that Hayden had passed to him along with the card.
He stared at it for a moment, his mind whirling. He remembered the scientist had jotted something down right after he’d seen Oliver’s message; Simon had assumed it was something about the chess game-Hayden made it seem as if it was-but then he had passed it to him as if he was passing a secret note, trying to avoid detection. But detection from whom? What? Hidden cameras? Security?
Teah?
She had re-entered the room just moments before Hayden had blown up. She hadn’t seen the message or the book, but Simon had been about to talk about them both when she’d arrived with the tea.
Why had Hayden stopped him? Why the scene?
He opened his fingers and plucked out the crumpled note. He smoothed it out and saw there was, indeed, writing on it-a single word, big and bold, scrawled in Hayden Bartholomew’s inimitable hand:
YES.
OXFORD, ENGLAND
Simon's Apartment
Simon sat in his favorite wingback chair in front of a fragrant and crackling fire and stared at the note Hayden had slipped him. He had been staring at it for half an hour.
YES.
His father’s friend had believed him after all. Something was wrong. And whatever it was, Hayden didn’t dare speak about it-not in that room, not in front of that AI…maybe not at all.
During his time in that chair, looking into that fire, he had thought of many things-many reactions, many explanations, many things to do next. But he kept coming back to one thought-one ridiculous, extraordinary, insane idea that called to him like the relentless, seductive song of a siren.
One idea.
Go get him.
“Simon,” Fae said gently, right at his ear as always. “You need to have something to eat.”
“Not quite yet, Fae,” he said. “Soon, I promise.”
He put the note aside and picked up a pad of paper, smiling briefly at the recent memory of how hard it had been to find such simple tools: a pad, a pencil, a gum eraser. People didn’t need such things anymore. They had virtual keyboards, holograms, airborne AIs and many other gadgets.
No, Simon decided in that moment. Rule number one for this project: nothing on the net, nothing on a hard drive, nothing recorded. Everything face to face, pen to paper, nothing more.
He still didn’t dare to write down his insane idea. It was too big, too fragile. He was afraid if he saw it, the mere words would make him turn away, change his mind, throw the pad in the fire and move on.
But he couldn’t forget the last words that Hayden had spoken to him.
Get going, he had said.
Get going.
Very slowly, thinking with every stroke, Simon wrote down five names on a single sheet of notebook paper:
Max
Jonathan
Hayden
Ryan (?)
Samantha (?)
Simon thought of the hundreds of people he had met in his personal and professional life. There was only one, one he trusted above all others: