The Fearsome Particles Part 1

The fearsome particles.

by Trevor Cole.

ONE.

1.

An animal that small, that dextrous, could be anywhere. An animal that silent silent. There was no defining its limits. What troubled Gerald was not the threat of the threat per se, but his sense of helplessness in the face of it.

In his imagination, in those thoughts that lay just beyond his control, the cat he called Rumsfeld was stalking him. It was an absurd idea, but as he stood in his slippers at the foot of the bed, with the new light of April stealing across a floor of cinnamon cabreuva, Gerald could not quite reach the absurdity and smother it. So he was forced, in the sense that addicts are forced by their addictions, or invalids by their infirmities, to picture the cat mincing through the cavities and recesses (what interior design people liked to call "dead s.p.a.ces") of the sprawling turreted house on Breere Crescent. He was obliged to see in his mind's eye its white whiskery face peering around the pants press and shoe trees of his closet, looking more resolute, more purposeful, than a cat's face should be capable of looking. He was compelled to imagine it ludicrous as it might sound to the great majority of people who weren't him and didn't live at 93 Breere planning.

All Gerald Woodlore could do, and so did with conviction, was curse himself for thinking about the cat. Because this was not the time to be getting cat-fixated; this morning there were other things of far greater importance to be addressing, mentally. His son, Kyle, was returning home from a hostile territory with an uncertain injury. His wife, Vicki, was edging toward madness. Work entailed its own many, many challenges. For these reasons there was no force in the world worthier of invocation, in Gerald's view, than the will to ignore the cat's presence in their lives. And if there had been a way to call forth the will, and impose it on his thoughts the way he imposed plastic wrap on a freshly lopped lemon, to keep its spiky lemoniness contained, of course he would have. But Gerald had to acknowledge, unhappily, that he wasn't built to ignore sneaking threats to normalcy, to order, to the way things were supposed to be. He was much too conscious; he was conscious to the point of affliction. And so to him, the black-and-white cat, which a neighbour named Lorie Campeau had brought to the door in a wild panic three weeks before LORIE CAMPEAU: It's my mother. They've taken her to the hospital. She fell. She lives in Vancouver and she fell! So I have to fly there today, and of course I have to take my daughter, Jewels. But we just got her this cat. It's my mother. They've taken her to the hospital. She fell. She lives in Vancouver and she fell! So I have to fly there today, and of course I have to take my daughter, Jewels. But we just got her this cat. Literally just got it Literally just got it. And we can't give it back because Jewels is completely in love. And I don't know what to do. We haven't even named it!

the cat that Vicki had taken in without consultation though he, Gerald, was in the nearby den, listening and perfectly consultable, was a threat. It was a rogue presence. It was their own small, fluffy insurgency.

Gerald had named it Rumsfeld.

It was definitely skulking somewhere, at this moment. Preparing to effect cattish havoc. There was no point in looking over his shoulder. Peeking under furniture. The cat, Rumsfeld, was never seen until it wanted to be seen, until it was too late. Until you were walking through the dining room at midnight, naked, with two gla.s.ses of your wife's selected Youngerton Pinot Noir in your hands and a kalamata olive poised between your back teeth. Then it was there, ready to...trying to...

But see? This was what happened in his head. Reveries of menace. This was surely what rabbits felt like as the talons of eagles dangled overhead, the danger inescapable. This was what field mice felt like, when they scurried. This morning Gerald refused all rabbit rodent a.s.sociations. People were counting on him, a company needed him, his son needed him, his wife...He gripped his face with both hands and pressed until the flesh no longer gave.

What he needed was the distraction of concerted activity. He had already breakfasted, he had already rifled through the paper, looking for the latest references to Kyle's war (he thought of it as that, though some still refused to call it a war; and Kyle was not a soldier and he was no longer there, so it, whatever it was, was no longer his and thinking of it as "Kyle's war" was just another good reason for Gerald to shake his head at himself). Now he needed to get showered and dressed.

He stripped off his robe and flung it over an armchair. The diodes of the clock radio on his side of the bed emitted a calm, blue 8:06, which was the real time. On the small table by his wife's side, near the window, an old-fas.h.i.+oned enamel carriage clock pointed a thin bra.s.s hand at the thirty-first minute, because it was Vicki's recent notion that she was likelier to meet her early obligations if she believed the time to be twenty-five minutes later than it was. She had worked this out, that she could no longer rely on herself to respond to time in a rational, fore-sighted way but needed to fool herself to the tune of nearly half an hour. And the fact that she could rise, breakfast, shower, dress, and avoid looking at his clock avoid looking at his clock so as to enter the day according to a deliberate misconception, and yet could not apply this same resourcefulness to functioning in the actual present, was, frankly, incomprehensible to Gerald, and deeply worrisome, if he allowed himself to think about it. so as to enter the day according to a deliberate misconception, and yet could not apply this same resourcefulness to functioning in the actual present, was, frankly, incomprehensible to Gerald, and deeply worrisome, if he allowed himself to think about it.

Soon enough, after his shower, he was standing wet at their bedroom window, looking out at the signature landscapes and century-old stonework of Breere Crescent, the midtown cloister of tumescent property values they'd called home for just over a decade. He stood there with a warm towel draped over his shoulders, letting trickles of water pool at his feet.

He did this knowingly, for three reasons: first, because the specially sealed cabreuva flooring, which Vicki had chosen two years before to have installed throughout the main and second levels, promised stability and imperviousness, and as a general rule Gerald believed in holding products to account; second, because he remained convinced that at some point in the future the cabreuva, whatever its claims, would let them down on the imperviousness front, and he wanted to be the marshal of that moment of disappointment and not its astounded victim; third, because despite the fact that it no longer seemed to irritate Vicki, as it once had, to see him slapping around their bedroom floor leaving small, foot-shaped lagoons, Gerald still held out hope that he could provoke a bit of the old exasperation, and so rea.s.sure himself that things were not as bad, regarding Vicki, as he feared.

A pale wash of daylight stretched across the foot of the bed to the far wall, where the wedding pictures hung, and outside the window, against a malt vinegar sky, the huge s.h.a.gbark hickory that belonged to the Linders next door took on a majesty that to Gerald seemed unwarranted. Other people, he knew, admired the hickory; the Linders were particularly smitten and often held lawn parties beneath it. But Gerald was aware that the hickory provided food and haven for the squirrels that wanted to ravage his cable and telephone wires, and so he was denied the pleasure other people took for granted. Still, he had to admit, it was impressive. And with Vicki gone to her house a.s.sessment and the day's adversities ahead, Gerald sensed this might be his only moment to enjoy. So he stood there in the glistening nude, letting the water puddle around his feet, trying to admire the Linders' hickory, and dwelling as little as possible on the squirrels.

Kyle was due at the military airport in Trenton in six hours. He was already in the air.

Gerald began towelling off.

The previous July, as Gerald and Vicki were sipping coffee in the breakfast nook, Kyle had come to them and announced that he was going overseas. Canadian troops deployed in dangerous regions apparently needed civilian support services and he was going to do what he could to provide them, as part of something the government called the Canadian Occupational Forces a.s.sistance Program, which sounded to Gerald like welfare for subjugators but evidently wasn't. Kyle was going to be a water treatment technician, meaning he would operate pumps and valves and read meters and gauges and handle chemicals, presumably dangerous, so that soldiers could have clean drinking water. The contract, which he had already signed, was for a year. How he had found out about this program, what had possessed him to apply to it and become legally bound to it without telling anyone, why the combined brain power of the government and the military and this COF-AP COF-AP group thought a nineteen-year-old boy one year into his undergraduate chemistry studies was appropriate for such an a.s.signment, they didn't know, and Kyle, who was six months into a phase of living his life as though no one else had any say in the matter, wasn't inclined to illuminate them. group thought a nineteen-year-old boy one year into his undergraduate chemistry studies was appropriate for such an a.s.signment, they didn't know, and Kyle, who was six months into a phase of living his life as though no one else had any say in the matter, wasn't inclined to illuminate them.

KYLE: (laying the C (laying the COF-AP folder on the breakfast nook table in the s.p.a.ce between Gerald's Fil-Tru mug and Vicki's Wedgwood cup) This is what I'm going to be doing for a year. In Afghanistan. folder on the breakfast nook table in the s.p.a.ce between Gerald's Fil-Tru mug and Vicki's Wedgwood cup) This is what I'm going to be doing for a year. In Afghanistan.

Although Vicki had seemed resigned to the situation, Gerald had done what he could. He had taken steps. Because at the time his belief in himself, as someone who had a hand on everything handle-able and a way to steer clear of everything not, was still pure. And he was certain that this plan was not only lunatic but fully reversible. A boy could make his choice, a mother could accept it as such, but that didn't mean a father should let it happen. Gerald was sure that someone with power, a decision-maker, would agree no child should be allowed, in the twenty-first century, to put himself in harm's way. It wasn't a war zone over there, not officially, but it was hostile. For what other reason were there troops? And so this action of going overseas to live and work in a place where men held guns and mines lay under the sand and the water was not fit to drink, this machine of consequences that chugged to life when Kyle signed a piece of paper, could be shut down, Gerald knew, if only he could locate the switch.

But before he could find and flip that switch, Kyle was on a plane. The machine had taken him. And now he was being returned, three months before the end of his contract, because something had gone wrong.

As he walked to the ensuite to re-hang his towel, Gerald checked the time (8:17, just enough leeway) and stabbed the radio b.u.t.ton with a finger to get the NEW NEW 1020 traffic reports. While he listened through the reliable cycle of 1020 traffic reports. While he listened through the reliable cycle of NEW NEW news and news and NEW NEW sports and sports and NEW NEW weather and weather and NEW NEW traffic that pinwheeled through the hour, he monitored his sense that the cat and its trouble were edging closer. traffic that pinwheeled through the hour, he monitored his sense that the cat and its trouble were edging closer.

That Lorie Campeau had called yesterday from the west coast to tell Vicki she would be another two weeks, that her mother was recovering but needed time, and that Vicki had not told the woman that her cat was ruining their lives, had very nearly cost Gerald his life had very nearly cost Gerald his life, was merely background irritation. More tormenting was his belief that by now he should already have dealt with this problem called an exterminator, or whatever sort of company you could pay to remove unwanted semi-domesticated animals because now Kyle was coming home and who knew what the presence of an all-but-feral cat might contribute to the distress of a young man who was mysteriously damaged? This was what happened when you didn't take care of a problem crisply; another factor entered the picture and made the problem worse. It was a simple equation, A+B=C, in which A and B could be any separately manageable issues but C invariably stood for Catastrophe. He'd based his whole executive career on his grasp of that basic math and now here he was having to relearn it.

Five days ago, someone from COF-AP COF-AP operations, a man named Oberly, had reached Gerald as he was driving home on the 407. All he'd said, after Gerald had pulled over to the side of the highway and turned off the radio, was that Kyle was "unable to complete his contract" after an "off-camp event." When Gerald, being shaken rhythmically by the cars speeding past, asked what kind of event, Oberly had told him that couldn't be "opened up," as if the troubles of his son were a Christmas present Gerald had been angling to get a peek at. operations, a man named Oberly, had reached Gerald as he was driving home on the 407. All he'd said, after Gerald had pulled over to the side of the highway and turned off the radio, was that Kyle was "unable to complete his contract" after an "off-camp event." When Gerald, being shaken rhythmically by the cars speeding past, asked what kind of event, Oberly had told him that couldn't be "opened up," as if the troubles of his son were a Christmas present Gerald had been angling to get a peek at.

OBERLY: I'm afraid I can't open that up, sir. We're only able to discuss what's been approved for release.

What had been approved was the news that something that shouldn't have happened had happened, and that Kyle was coming home, ahead of schedule, and needed a family member to meet him at the Canadian Forces airport in Trenton. What had been approved was the bare rea.s.surance that he was "physically sound." Nothing beyond that, despite Gerald's protests, was allowed out of the box of facts.

In the flattering bio-pink light of the ensuite, Gerald hiked up a bare leg and placed his foot against the edge of the marble countertop. This was the new post-shower ritual, checking his s.h.i.+ns and calves for gouges from his wife's suddenly ragged toenails. For the past few months, the toenails had been a growing component of Gerald's Vicki-related concerns. All the years they'd been married, Vicki had taken inordinate care of her toenails. It was an important professional matter; just about any day of the week, Vicki could count on having to walk barefoot, or in stocking feet, through the pristine home of some wealthy person. There was no telling what media or corporate celebrity might get a glimpse of her pink toes. Consequently they never went more than a day, two at the most, without being sanded, buffed, and lacquered at enormous expense.

But those days were over, apparently. For whatever reason if not madness then certainly some kind of mental malaise, connected to the clock nonsense and the dripping inattention, that could hardly be less timely Vicki now allowed her toenails to descend into anarchy. It was an armed rebellion down there. And who was paying the price? For weeks now Gerald had been waking up in the middle of the night to stabbing pains, and had to spend time every morning surveying the damage and applying liquid bandages to the worst of it with a tiny brush. And whenever he raised the issue of her toenails, or, for that matter, the disturbed cat she had welcomed into the house, Vicki simply stared at him in the way of someone reconsidering her dinner plans. As if the toenails problem, the cat crisis, the discomfort each of these things caused him, deserved only that part of her attention devoted to finding him wanting. Gerald sighed and wondered if this was what twenty-one years of marriage had wrought, that you could now inflict injury on a spouse without care, except to wish that he wouldn't complain.

As he reached with one hand for the liquid bandages bottle, he ran the other up the inside of his thigh and dealt with an itch in the scrotal region. He could imagine himself being happy, having a job that supplied endless opportunities for satisfaction, living in a house where all clocks showed the same time, with a wife who cared enough not to wound him repeatedly, and a son who had not gone to Afghanistan and was now, therefore, more than just "physically sound." He could imagine himself coming home, opening the door, and not checking for surrept.i.tious movement before stepping inside. But that was someone else's life, obviously. It was his once, but it wasn't any more. Which is why it didn't surprise him when he felt another itch at his dangling t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, sent a hand to quell it, and encountered something other than his own fragile self. Why it wasn't shock he felt, but a mixture of horror and sweet vindication, when he looked down and saw between his legs the whitish reality of Rumsfeld, the cat, reaching up with a five-clawed paw.

2.

Vicki still treasured moments like this, when out before her stretched the possibility of perfection, and she could already see it taking shape.

"Is that going to pose any challenges, do you think?" Avis trilled. They were on the second floor of the Lightenham Avenue house, standing at the top of a small mountain of polished stairs, and Avis Nye was slowly circling her manicured finger to indicate a vacant, apparently purposeless area south of the fifth bedroom, about a hundred square feet of iroko wood, gleaming as if it had just been stripped from the west African coast, bound on one side by a wall of closets and on the other by a burnished chestnut railing.

"Not at all," said Vicki, smiling her rea.s.surance, for Avis was a silent agonizer and would soon, if Vicki was not convincing, need to take a series of pills. "We'll make that an 'open den.' I'll use the Turkish prayer rug and the Georges Jacob set. You know, the one with the chairs in cross-hatch blue?"

"The Georges Jacob set, of course." Avis adjusted the rose-petal scarf riding her shoulder and let her fingertips trail over the lapel of her blazer in a way that suggested profound relief. "You haven't used the Georges Jacob in a very long while."

"Not since Roxborough Drive," said Vicki. "I've been waiting for an opportunity."

"It will be wonderful to see it again."

Well, really, thank G.o.d for Avis. When she'd called last week, moments after Gerald had reported the unexpected but happy news that Kyle was coming home, she'd said the builders of 146 Lightenham were nearly finished and would love for her to begin staging on Tuesday. And Vicki had felt a noticeable and somewhat confusing spear of discomfort, just there, under her rib cage. It would have been difficult to name the sensation, but it was almost a feeling of dread, as if the a.s.signment to bring to life the largest home on Lightenham Avenue fifteen rooms on three levels, nearly eleven thousand square feet were anything but a privilege. It had made her wonder, briefly, whether she should accept.

But what she loved about tiny Avis Nye, besides her patrician centredness and the sweet, flutelike music of her voice, was the way she, more than any other luxury realtor, made her feel appreciated. Avis understood and respected the service she offered Avis never said fluffing fluffing, she always said staging staging, she accepted that even very wealthy buyers lacked a certain imagination when it came to looking at a collection of empty rooms, could not picture themselves or their things in a new, unadorned s.p.a.ce, and needed a not-so-subtle nudge in the direction of fantasy and this awareness was certainly a contributor to Avis's status as number one in dollar volume among luxury realtors in the city's central core, to say nothing of Vicki's own success.

Now that she was here in the Lightenham house, Vicki could tell she'd made the right decision. This was where she was meant to be today; here she felt completely sure of things. She gazed around at the cornice mouldings and wall details made of a pressed-fibre material that, having been painted, looked ceramic to the casual eye. Even the best builders engaged in small deceptions to save cost, or time. Vicki knew just how to work with such falsehoods, to aid the effect.

"So what are you planning in terms of price, Avis about six three?"

"Six seven five, I think," said Avis. "There was a quite plain Georgian resale several doors east that sold for six two in March." When Avis said six two six two, her mouth moved exaggeratedly, from a kind of smile into a kind of pucker, as if to suggest the absurdity of such a figure. "The moment I heard that, I decided ours warranted the extra five hundred and fifty thousand. Or it will, once you've applied your particular spell."

Oh, Vicki was feeling so much better! The new Lightenham house was a great big blank French Country canvas, and with her warehouse s.p.a.ce full of collected antiques, draperies and linens, rugs and fixtures, mirrors, prints and porcelains, she was going to create a month-long vision that would be worth every bit of the $50,000 she would charge $35,000 for an extra month if the vendors wished to extend.

"I can always count on you, Victoria," Avis cooed. "Buyers can spin like maple keys in the wind, not knowing what to think, not knowing what to do. But then they come to a house you've done, and they see." She moved to the top of the staircase, which curved slightly and cascaded to the bottom like the gown of a Hamptons bride. "You have a way inside their heads I don't fully understand. It's not just exquisite taste. It's something much more, I don't know, sympathetic." She smiled in the light flooding through the bevelled gla.s.s windows and set out two veined hands in front of her. "You're like a st.u.r.dy marble cornerstone, propping up the wavering spirit."

Avis touched her palms together, seemed content in the moment, then began to descend the stairs in her queenly way, setting one small stocking foot carefully on each glossy tread. "I hope," she said, her voice escaping into the entrance hall's bright-lit air, "those two fortunate men in your life are as appreciative of you as I am."

Vicki caught the railing with a hand and held on as she watched Avis go, following her strawberry blond head as it moved down through s.p.a.ce like an ever so slowly bouncing ball. When the agent got to the bottom, she turned and seemed surprised not to find Vicki immediately behind her. She looked up.

"Is there something else you wanted to see, Victoria?"

The question welled for a moment as Vicki thought, and shook her head.

"Did you want to check some measurements?"

"No."

Avis continued to gaze up at her. Though her face betrayed nothing, was as smooth as a river stone, she was clearly puzzled as to why Vicki was not, like her, headed toward the front door of the house. Vicki was almost as mystified, although it was possibly connected to the sudden return of the discomfort under her ribs, at about the spot where Vicki imagined an important organ should be. It was a very unpleasant feeling. And it made her not want to rush out the door just yet.

She resisted the urge to place a hand on the spot and wondered what to tell Avis. "I think I just need to visit the bathroom," she said, wis.h.i.+ng instantly that she had thought of something else, as the word bathroom bathroom seemed to travel over the unadorned surfaces of the upper and lower floors and grow until it became vibratory and immense. seemed to travel over the unadorned surfaces of the upper and lower floors and grow until it became vibratory and immense.

"Oh," said Avis, a surrept.i.tious hand reaching down for her small black purse on the floor. "Is anything wrong?"

"Avis, it's all right. I'm fine." Vicki smiled as warmly as she could at the top of the stairs, though not warmly enough to prevent Avis from picking up her purse and rooting around for something. "I just need to...use the facilities."

Of course, this was all very strange, and Vicki understood why Avis would be unsettled. Use of a client home's facilities was usually considered an emergency-only matter. And this was not something that could be called an emergency. Although it was not not not an emergency, either. an emergency, either.

"You go," said Avis, pulling a small silver case out of her purse. "I'm just going to get a gla.s.s of water."

The master bedroom's enormous ensuite featured the Carrara marble vanity and tub surround, the intricate basket-weave floor inlays and the Milanese fixtures that Avis, in consultation with Vicki, generally stipulated among the list of appointments that were necessary for her to agree to list a builder's property (luxury builders, or perhaps their architects, were not as attuned as one would naturally a.s.sume to the tastes and needs of the wealthy home buyer; thus their habit of placing compact laundry appliances on the second floor, for the "convenience" of the very people who did not do the laundry, a feature Avis and Vicki were constantly having to purge from their designs). In the comfort of this environment, Vicki sat on the lid of the toilet, smoothed her fine taupe skirt over her knees, and tried to clear her head.

Now, just what was going on here? What was this dreadful feeling? It was a physical sensation, but not entirely physical, so she couldn't quickly put it down to having eaten something off. And anyway she hadn't eaten this morning, she'd been in such a hurry. Sitting on the toilet, Vicki listened to Avis take a call on her cell phone and considered the possibility that the feeling had something to do with Gerald, because he was very agitated about Kyle's homecoming and when Gerald got agitated, nothing and no one in the house could really settle. You wanted to put a blanket over everything, a thick, heavy quilt, and make everything just be calm be calm, but that wasn't possible. Years ago, when this Gerald sort of feeling pervaded the house she grew up in, her mother used to say, "We're all in an upset!" which didn't help, but must at least have given her the satisfaction of being able to label the feeling. It was an upset, and they were in it until they managed to get out.

Was this "an upset"? It seemed like such a paltry term next to the whirligig of Gerald's anxiety. Something serious had happened in Afghanistan, that was obvious, but it was a mystery to Vicki why Gerald needed to get into such a state about it, since it was equally clear, thank goodness, that Kyle hadn't been hurt. "Physically sound," he said they had told him. After all of Gerald's uproar before Kyle left and all her a.s.surances that their son was ready to make such decisions everything seemed to have turned out so well: Kyle was coming home from his adventure, early (delightful surprise), and he was sound sound. If anything, it should have been a cause for celebration. She wished she'd thought of that before; she would have told Gerald.

Vicki sat up straight, tried to take a deep breath, and brought her hand to her stomach. She slipped two fingers between the pearl b.u.t.tons of her blouse and pressed them delicately into the soft tissue under the rib cage, not certain she wanted to find something unusual, but no less troubled when she didn't.

Of course, she considered, it could be that unfortunate cat. What a mistake that was! She should never have agreed to take it in, although that was not something she could ever admit to Gerald, especially since the olive incident. But Lorie Campeau had been in such a panic, and there were so many other things on her mind at the time, the decision about the cat seemed to make itself. She'd just found herself holding out her arms. Really, though, if she had it to do over again, knowing what an annoying little creature it was (and how irrationally Gerald would react to its every move), she would slam the door in Lorie Campeau's face.

But no, it wasn't the cat.

"Victoria, darling," came Avis's whisper from beyond the door. "Are you at all ill?"

Vicki shut her eyes and pressed her lips tight. Avis was not a young woman, and because of her she'd had to once again climb all those stairs. "I'm just freshening up," she called brightly. What she needed to do was simply stand and walk out the door with Avis, into the rest of her day. And yet, just now, it was the last thing she felt up to. "You must be busy, Avis. If you need to go ahead, I'll be fine."

"No, no, it's quite all right. I'll just...have a peek at the western view." Avis's voice, which tended to travel the scale unpredictably, and sometimes seemed designed to keep a two-year-old entranced, offered no indication of the anxiety she was undoubtedly suffering. Vicki, scowling at herself, gave the spot under her ribs a firm press, and sipped a breath.

"I'm almost done."

"Don't rush, don't rush." Avis was still there at the door; she hadn't gone to look at any view.

"I'm so sorry about this."

"Victoria, apologies are hardly necessary. Although, now that I look at my watch, I do see that it's past nine-thirty." All over the place, Avis's voice, like a swallow in the wind. Up, down, up, down. I am not, Vicki said to herself, a child. "And I seem to remember that I have a showing in Forest Hill at ten. For which I have to pick up brochures. Let me just make a call."

She felt herself wanting to sigh. She closed her eyes, took in as much air as she could, and let it out silently. Enough Enough. The feeling wasn't going away, and soon she was going to put Avis in the terrible position of having to postpone a showing. And for that Vicki could never forgive herself.

As she opened the door, she beamed. "I think they got the inlays just right," she said. "And I love that gra.s.sy green."

"Isn't it gorgeous?" agreed Avis. "It makes me think of Burma for some reason."

"I wish we'd done that in ours."

When they had descended the stairs and slipped on their shoes, the two women clipped through the foyer and out the door, into the fair metropolitan spring. "It's going to be a very good season, I think," said Avis, picking her way along the flagstones that twined through the just-seeded grounds. "It's been very good already." She pointed her keys, causing the bronze Jaguar sedan parked in the drive, next to Vicki's purposely unshowy Camry, to blip. Then she turned to Vicki, took her hand, and gently pressed it between both of hers. As the agent looked up into her eyes, Vicki could feel a large key ring digging into the heel of her palm.

"You'll call me if you need anything."

"Of course."

"I'd be very angry if you didn't."

"I'm fine."

Avis squeezed her hand, then released it, and the women were in their cars.

3.

I mostly keep to myself. But nineteen hours, including the stopover in Dubai it was asking a lot. If I could have slept, that would have helped. But sleep wasn't happening. And reading didn't work either. I needed visuals and sound. Otherwise stuff I didn't feel like thinking about started to climb in through the cracks of my brain like those lizards and c.o.c.kroaches you get in your hotel room in Mexico. And I was so stupid, because what I should've done was buy some game thing off somebody at the camp before I left. But I didn't think of it in time. Anyway the batteries would've died pretty soon, and then I would've been in the same situation, stuck on a plane, surrounded by soldiers, with nothing to focus on. So, under the circ.u.mstances, what else could I do? mostly keep to myself. But nineteen hours, including the stopover in Dubai it was asking a lot. If I could have slept, that would have helped. But sleep wasn't happening. And reading didn't work either. I needed visuals and sound. Otherwise stuff I didn't feel like thinking about started to climb in through the cracks of my brain like those lizards and c.o.c.kroaches you get in your hotel room in Mexico. And I was so stupid, because what I should've done was buy some game thing off somebody at the camp before I left. But I didn't think of it in time. Anyway the batteries would've died pretty soon, and then I would've been in the same situation, stuck on a plane, surrounded by soldiers, with nothing to focus on. So, under the circ.u.mstances, what else could I do?

I leaned out of my aisle seat and looked back. "Lieutenant Jayne?" Lieutenant Jayne didn't need batteries. Legg used to call him a windup toy. "Lieutenant?"

He was four rows behind, sitting in his pixilated CADPAT CADPAT camouflage, reading a Stephen King novel (a lot of military guys like Stephen King; I don't know why). He said something to the sergeant next to him, which I couldn't hear because of the drone of the airplane, then he unbuckled himself and stepped into the aisle. camouflage, reading a Stephen King novel (a lot of military guys like Stephen King; I don't know why). He said something to the sergeant next to him, which I couldn't hear because of the drone of the airplane, then he unbuckled himself and stepped into the aisle.

"What's up, Kyle?"

I waited until he was hulking over me he's a big guy, he could've played football gripping the back of the upholstered seat to keep steady. "I'm worried about my tattoo," I said.

"Your tattoo?"

"Yeah. I got it in Dubai, at this place near the airport."

The buzz of the plane seemed to be making his squared-off gla.s.ses slide down the bridge of his nose. He narrowed his eyes at me. "What about it?"

"I'm thinking I mighta caught hep C or something."

Jayne studied me for a second and shoved his gla.s.ses back up with a finger. "Why?" he said. "What's wrong?"