“That’s the one,” she answered with a laugh. “Anyway, we were about half an hour into the dive when E.J. tried to kiss me. I pulled away and something happened to the ship. To this day, I don’t know what it was. We lost power. I thought it was some kind of trick or something, a kind of ruse to scare me. E.J. was always pulling shit like that. Anyway, I guess I kind of lost it. Haven’t set foot in a DSV since. Give me the heebie-jeebies now.”
“Was it on purpose?”
She shook her head. “Now, I don’t think so. But at the time… It would have been just like her.”
“Her?”
“E.J.’s a woman.”
“Oh,” said Decker. He looked away. “I didn’t know.” He took another sip of his drink.
Swenson laughed. It was completely unrestrained and genuine. It liberated her. “Don’t misunderstand me, Agent Decker. I’m not gay or anything. It was just one of those things.”
“What things?”
“Oh, I don’t know. When you get as much male attention as I do, it was probably inevitable that I should run in the other direction at some point in my life. Am I embarrassing you?”
“No, not at all.”
“Then why are you blushing? I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. I must be drunk.”
“Already?” Decker stood up. He strolled over to the table and picked up the bottle of Dalwinnie. Then he walked back to Swenson and poured her another drink. “Just to be sure,” he added with a grin.
“Have you no honor, Cryptanalyst Forensic Examiner Decker?”
“You’ve had a tough day.”
“Oh, I see. It’s a pity drink.”
Decker poured himself another scotch and sat back on the sofa. He put the bottle on the floor beside his feet. “Are you always this combative?” he replied.
Swenson kicked her shoes off. She pulled her feet up on the sofa next to his. “Am I being combative?” She laughed and moved a little closer. She wiggled her toes. “I thought I was flirting.” She took the glass of scotch from Decker’s hand, and rested it on the floor. Then she leaned forward, bringing her face close, only inches away, until she could feel his breath on her lips.
“Kiss me, Agent Decker.” His eyes were gray, dotted with blue and green.
Decker glanced away. He reached down for his glass and placed it inbetween them. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he said.
“Why not? What’s the matter, don’t you like me? Perhaps I’m not your type. What is your type, anyway?”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s just… ” He hesitated. “It’s just that I’m working on this case, and you’re a part of it. It wouldn’t be, you know — professional.” Decker stood up and walked over to the CD player on his trunk. He pressed a button and the air was suddenly filled with saxophone, piano, drums and double bass.
Swenson recognized the tune. It was one hundred percent Charles Mingus, from the album Mingus Ah Um, but she couldn’t recall the name of the track. Goodbye something.
Decker turned and, for a moment, the way the lamplight caught his face, the way it seemed to wrap around one side, to glaze his skin, he could have been some kind of Idiacanthidae, with photophores along the angle of his chin, equipped with bioluminescence.
“Why did you join the FBI?” she asked him. “I told you my tawdry tale. Ever kill anyone?”
Decker looked away. “As a matter of fact, I have. Just a few weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry! I was only kidding.”
“Were you? It’s okay. Really. I was picking at your wounds. Besides, I’ve never really talked about it. Not even with that shrink the Bureau assigned me. Maybe it’s time.” He offered up a smile. “It’s not that common, you know. I mean, not like in the movies. Believe it or not, most agents don’t even discharge their weapons during their careers, at least not in the field. My dad was a cop for fifteen years and he never fired his gun.” He shrugged. “I was called out to translate some telephone transmissions at a farmhouse in New Liberty, not far from where I grew up. That’s where it all began.”
He told her the story about McNally and the White Apocalypse. When it was over, Swenson took him by the hand and, this time, he didn’t pull away. Then she reached out and ran a finger tenderly along the white scar on his brow. “Is that how you got this?”
“No, that was a traffic accident. When I was a boy.”
“What happened?”
“Drunk driver. I don’t remember much. Lost my memory.” He paused. “Lost both my parents too.”
“I’m so sorry, John,” she said. “Who raised you, then?”
“My mother’s sister and her husband. They took me in.”
“How horrible. I know what it’s like to lose a parent, but not both parents. At least you were brought up by someone who cared, not in some orphanage or something.”
Decker laughed. “You have no idea.”
For a long time she just stared at him. Then she reached down and took another sip of her drink. “Didn’t you get along with your aunt and uncle?”
“Well enough,” he said. “I like my uncle. Tom is a decent man.”
“And your aunt?”
“My mother’s sister wasn’t too thrilled to suddenly have a child to raise. She never really liked children. At least, not like a mother should. She and Tom didn’t have any of their own, and—”
“What does that mean? ‘Not like a mother should.’”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“What happened, John?”
“I said, I’d rather not talk about it.”
Swenson got up from the sofa. She wandered off and stared at the books in the bookcase. He was hiding something. That much was clear. But what it was, she had no idea. Something dark. Something best left alone.
After a moment, Swenson turned, took another sip from her drink and said, “Is that why you became a code breaker?”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s no logic to a car accident. No motive. No hidden pattern or agenda. No truth, even. It’s just… random.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve spent your whole life solving puzzles, John, breaking codes. But some things — they can never be explained. They’re inherently illogical, unsolvable.”
“Like the randomness of a traffic accident?”
“Yeah,” she said sadly. “Or love.” She sat back on the sofa. She put her glass back on the floor, leaned forward and tried to kiss him.
Decker pulled away. He got up stiffly from the sofa. He looked down at his glass, then back at her and said, “Emily?”
“Yes?”
He struggled, trying to locate the right words. They seemed to float just out of reach.
“Just say it, John. What is it?”
“Would it be possible to cause a mega-tsunami?”
For a moment she hesitated. The question seemed to spin up out of nowhere. “That isn’t what I thought you were going to say.”
“Well, is it?”
“What do you mean, cause it? You mean set one off intentionally?”
He nodded. “You know. Like that volcano in the Canary Islands. The Cumbre Vieja.”
“As long as it’s quiescent, the volcano isn’t dangerous.” She paused. “But to cause a volcano to erupt?” She shook her head. “You’d need a hell of a lot of dynamite. Maybe with an atom bomb or something. James has some pretty crazy theories about vulcan stimulation. I guess it’s possible.” She laughed. “Luckily the Canary Islands aren’t a nuclear power. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” he answered. “Never mind.” He smiled a feeble smile. He looked down at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he said, and downed his scotch. “I guess I’ll sleep out here.”
Decker lay on his old coach in the living room, reading the book Professor Hassan had given him that evening. He was particularly intrigued by a section on light and water. According to the book, the careful control of light in Islamic architecture had a mystical symbolism. Light was a symbol of divine unity. It also had two decorative functions. It modified other decorative elements, and it originated patterns. There was a subtle use of glossy floor and wall surfaces in Islamic architecture designed to catch light and throw it back over the facets of diamond-shaped ceilings which, in turn, reflected it again. Muqarnas — stalactite or honeycomb ornamentation, or vaulting made up of small concave segments — trapped light, refracted it. Ribbed domes appeared to rotate according to the time of day.