it was a link to her, and whoever had made the gift was someone who
admired my mother and respected me if only because I was her son.
This is what I wanted to believe: that there were, indeed, those
involved in this seemingly impenetrable conspiracy who did not see MY
mother as a villain and who felt friendly toward me, even if they did
not revere me, as Roosevelt insisted. I wanted to believe that there
were good guys in this, not merely bad, because when I learned what my
mother had done to destroy the world as we know it, I preferred to
receive that information from people who were convinced, at least, that
her intentions had been good.
I didn’t want to learn the truth from people who looked at me, saw my
mother, and bitterly spat out that curse and accusation: You!
“Is anyone here?” I asked.
My question spiraled in both directions along the walls of the egg room
and returned to me as two separate echoes, one to each ear.
Orson chuffed inquiringly. This soft sound lingered along the I curved
planes of the chamber, like a breeze whispering across water.
Neither of us received an answer.
“I’m not out for vengeance,” I declared. “That’s behind me.”
Nothing.
“I don’t even intend to go to outside authorities anymore. It’s too
late to undo whatever’s been done. I accept that.”
The echo of my voice gradually faded. As it sometimes did, the egg
room filled with an uncanny silence that felt as dense as water.
I waited a minute before breaking that silence again: “I don’t want
Moonlight Bay wiped from the map-and me and my friends with it-for no
good reason. All I want now is to understand.”
No one cared to enlighten me.
Well, coming here had been a long shot anyway.
I wasn’t disappointed. I have rarely allowed myself to feel
disappointment about anything. The lesson of my life is patience.
Above these man-made cavems, dawn was rapidly approaching, and I
couldn’t spare more time for Fort Wyvern. I had one more essential
stop to make before retreating to Sasha’s house to wait out the reign
of the murderous sun.
Orson and I crossed the dazzling floor, in which the flashlight beam
was refracted along glimmering golden whorls like galaxies of stars
underfoot.
Beyond the entry portal, in the drab concrete vault that might have
once been an airlock, we found my father’s suitcase. The one that I
had put down in the hospital garage before hiding under the hearse,
that had been gone when I’d come out of the cold-holding room.
It had not, of course, been here when we had passed through five
minutes ago.
I stepped around the suitcase, into the room beyond the vault, and
swept that space with the light. No one was there.
Orson waited diligently at the suitcase, and I returned to his side.
When I lifted the bag, it was so light that I thought it must be
empty.
Then I heard something tumble softly inside.
As I was releasing the latches, my heart clutched at the thought that I
might find another pair of eyeballs the bag. To counter this hideous
image, I conjured Sasha’s lovely face in my mind, which started my
heart beating again.
When I opened the lid, the suitcase appeared to contain only air.
Dad’s clothes, toiletries, paperback books, and other effects were
gone.
Then I saw the photograph in one corner of the bag. It was the
snapshot of my mother that I had promised would be cremated with my
father’s body.
I held the picture under the flashlight. She was lovely. And such
fierce intelligence shone from her eyes.
In her face, I saw certain aspects of my own countenance that made me
understand why Sasha could, after all, look favorably on me. My mother
was smiling in this picture, and her smile was so like mine.
Orson seemed to want to look at the photograph, so I turned it toward
him. For long seconds his gaze traveled the image. His thin whine,
when he looked away from her face, was the essence of sadness.
We are brothers, Orson and I. I am the fruit of Wisteria’s heart and