If Barbara Christman was carrying a burden that she longed to put down, the solution to the mystery of Flight 353 might be close at hand.
Joe wanted to know the whole truth, needed to know, but dreaded knowing. The peace of indifference would forever be beyond his reach if he learned that men, not fate, had been responsible for taking his family from him. The journey toward this particular truth was not an ascension toward a glorious light but a descent into darkness, chaos, the maelstrom.
He’d brought the printouts of four articles about Teknologik, which he had gotten from Randy Colway’s computer at the Post. The business-section prose was so dry, however—and his attention span so short after only three and a half hours of sleep—that he wasn’t able to concentrate.
He dozed fitfully across the Mojave Desert and the Rockies: two hours and fifteen minutes of half-formed dreams lit by oil lamps and the glow of digital clocks, in which understanding seemed about to wash over him but from which he woke still thirsty for answers.
In Denver, the humidity was unusually high and the sky overcast. To the west, the mountains lay buried under slow avalanches of early-morning fog.
In addition to his driver’s license, he had to use a credit card as ID to obtain a rental car. He put down a cash deposit, however, trying to avoid the actual use of the card, which might leave a trail of plastic for anyone who was tracking him.
Though no one on the plane or in the terminal had seemed to be especially interested in him, Joe parked the car at a shopping centre not far from the airport and searched it inside and out, under the hood and in the trunk, for a transponder like the one that he had found on his Honda the previous day. The rental Ford was clean.
From the shopping centre, he wove a tangled course along surface streets, checking his rear-view mirror for a tail. Convinced that he was not being followed, he finally picked up Interstate 25 and drove south.
Mile by mile, Joe pushed the Ford harder, eventually ignoring the speed limit, because he became increasingly convinced that if he didn’t get to Barbara Christman’s house in time, he would find her dead by her own hand. Eviscerated. Immolated. Or with the back of her head blown out.
2
In Colorado Springs, Joe found Barbara Christman’s address in the telephone book. She lived in a diminutive jewel-box Victorian, Queen Anne style, exuberantly decorated with elaborate millwork.
When she came to the door in answer to the bell, she spoke before Joe had a chance to identify himself. “Even sooner than I expected you.”
“Are you Barbara Christman?”
“Let’s not do this here.”
“I’m not sure you know who I—”
“Yes, I know. But not here.”
“Where?”
“Is that your car at the curb?” she asked.
“The rental Ford.”
“Park it in the next block. Two blocks. Wait there, and I’ll pick you up.”
She closed the door.
Joe stood on the porch a moment longer, considering whether he should ring the bell again. Then he decided that she wasn’t likely to be planning to run out on him.
Two blocks south of Christman’s house, he parked beside a grade-school playground. The swings, seesaws, and jungle gyms were unused on this Sunday morning. Otherwise, he would have parked elsewhere, to be safe from the silvery laughter of children.
He got out of the car and looked north. There was no sign of the woman yet.
Joe consulted his wristwatch. Ten minutes till ten o’clock, Pacific Time, an hour later here.
In eight hours, he would have to be back in Westwood to meet Demi—and Rose.
Along the sleepy street came a cat’s paw of warm wind searching the boughs of the pine trees for hidden birds. It rustled the leaves on the branches of a nearby group of paper birches with trunks as luminous white as choirboys’ surplices.
Under a sky grey-white with lowering mist to the west and drear with gun-metal thunderheads to the east, the day seemed to carry a heavy freight of dire portents. The flesh prickled on the nape of Joe’s neck, and he began to feel as exposed as a red bull’s-eye target on a shooting range.