At least it didn’t look like they’d messed with the house. Not even a window broken, probably because the perp feared an alarm. Tyrion greeted him at the door, purring happily at his companion’s return. Tony considered calling the police, but he hadn’t eaten, and he still had to pick the dog up from the kennel. By the time he’d tossed a frozen pizza in the oven and finished this standard widower’s meal, it was nearly nine thirty and he was exhausted. He was supposed to go into the city the next day to see Holly and Dean, and the thought of dealing with the authorities for a vandal who would never be caught tired him further. He decided to leave the dog in the kennel for another day and deal with the cops after he got back from the city.
He fell into sleep so cavernous it felt less like rest than an excision of memory.
The next morning, he overslept and found himself slamming coffee and toast while the news vexed him: Food prices had risen for the ninth straight month, the effects of the Great Eastern Flood continuing in the grain markets. Love was combating the climate crisis by creating the White House Office of Climate Security, to be headed by obvious fascist-apparatchik-in-waiting Admiral Michael Dahms. “Sustainability is lethality,” Dahms said in his first presser. Desperate Democrats tried to explain away Love’s behavior by pointing to his reparations commission or all the women he’d appointed to his cabinet, including Sarah Caperno, the first female secretary of defense.
“You’re lucky your species doesn’t have to care about this shit,” he told Tyrion, who appeared to agree.
He was mucking with his phone to order a driverless, when he looked out the window and saw a black SUV parked in front of his house, two women with guns on their hips walking up his driveway. He met them at the door.
“Dr. Pietrus?” The woman was young, dark red hair cut into an androgynous James Dean coiff, hands resting in the pockets of her pantsuit. The other was dressed similarly but with a butch sensibility. She was eating a croissant, pinching it so that most of her fingers avoided the buttery pastry. She wore a velutinous suit, shimmering in the early-morning heat, and looked like she brushed her short black hair with an eggbeater.
“Yes? Hi. I’m him.” Outside, he was immediately sweating from the heat.
“Hi, I’m Patricia Wallflower with DHS.” She flipped open an ID and flipped it closed just as fast. “We were wondering if we could have a moment of your time?” She held out her hand, which Tony shook.
“I was on my way to the city,” he said. He and Dean had once argued about what “hackles” were before he proved the kid wrong with the internet. Tony’s were now at attention.
Wallflower nodded to his busted car. “In that?”
“I was going to deal with that later.”
“Any security camera on the property? We could take a look.”
“No. What brings you out here, Agent?”
“We’ve collected some chatter. Threats against you, Dr. Pietrus.”
“Chatter.”
“Looks like it’s more than just chatter,” said the other agent, polishing off her croissant and staring at the mess of his car and driveway.
“Well, this isn’t my first rodeo.”
“With what?”
“Threats. I’ve dealt with the FBI before.”
“I see,” she said, propping her hands on her hips. She moseyed closer to the shattered window and peered inside.
He was about to ask how they’d gotten word of this (maybe one of his neighbors wasn’t so useless), when Agent Croissant suggested, “We have an office in Bridgeport. You could come down. Talk this through?”
“I’m supposed to meet my daughter in the city at noon.”
“It’s on the way,” she said. Her suit had enormous and growing pit stains. “Shouldn’t take long.”
“It was almost for sure some idiot Yale kid who went down a Renaissance Media rabbit hole. Like I said, I was getting death threats when you two were still breast-feeding.”
“We don’t typically get on a plane to warn folks in person,” said Wallflower. He thought of his interaction with the G-man Chen all those years ago. Law enforcement carried itself as if you were just a distraction from some larger project.
“And you can drop me at the train station in Bridgeport?”
“Wherever you’d like,” Agent Croissant assured him.
On the drive he asked for specifics on the potential threat to his safety, because of course he was thinking of his daughters, particularly Holly walking in and out of the Fierce Blue Fire offices in midtown Manhattan every day.
“No, I’m sure they’re perfectly safe. If you want, we can always run someone out to check on them, but it’s really best if we get to the office before we get into all this,” said Wallflower. So they sat in silence on the drive to Bridgeport, while he jittered, and listened to the radio play the hits from decades ago. He recognized Selena Gomez from Holly’s adolescence. He still had a soft spot for teen girl porridge, and it had even been his suggestion they ask the pop star if she’d join the Concert for the Climate. He listened to the music and tried to tell himself this was all not as unusual as it felt.
The DHS building was an unassuming beige box in an office park with a smattering of cars in an oversize lot and the agency’s logo on the security booth. They led him through a body scanner, and in the process, he had to turn over his phone. He wished he’d texted Holly to tell her he’d be running late. The women led him to a bright conference room with a healthy-looking houseplant in the corner.
“Mother-in-law’s tongue,” said Agent Croissant. “Cleans the air of toxins. I appreciate any and all sprucing up of federal office parks.”
Tony didn’t care. People and their small talk.
“Have a seat,” said Agent Wallflower. Croissant sat to his right, while Wallflower lowered herself into the chair across from him. “Can we get you anything? Water? Coffee? I think we have doughnuts today.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? There are bagels too.”
“No, but thank you. As I was trying to say,” he began. “I don’t have much for you. I got back from visiting family in Florida last night and my car was like that. So, if this is more than a grab-ass vandal, I’d appreciate you sharing with me what you know.”
“We’re interested in a name,” said Wallflower. “Do you know a man by the name of Clay Alvin Ro?”
Tony’s stomach suddenly felt queasy. “No. I don’t think so.”
“You sure? He’s been in the news lately. Could you think a bit more?”
“I did. I don’t know him.”
Wallflower took a tablet from her breast pocket, nothing more than a thin pane of glass, and tapped up a mug shot: a twentysomething granola kid with messy black hair and a seashell necklace.
“You don’t know him?” she pressed.
“Okay, so he’s the bomber they caught, I guess?”
“That’s right. Arrested in April. Does this jog your memory a bit more?” She swiped and a new picture came up. It was Tony with his arm around the shoulder of the same kid. Clay Ro.
“Not really.” He could see they were in an auditorium, slices of other people milling behind him. He was much younger in the picture, and if he’d been giving a talk, it would have been pre–Davos cancellation. He was guessing 2017 or ’18 by the looks of the hair still left on his head. “I’ve lectured a lot over the years. Believe it or not, young people used to want the occasional picture with a celebrity.”
“You’ve never spoken with Clay Ro? Never coordinated with him, never made plans with him?”
“What? No.” Tony’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten enough, and he was sweating despite the AC. “No offense, ladies, but I have plans today. So if we could get to the point here?”