Robyn's Egg (29 page)

Moyer said, “I’ll leave it to you to pay your partner.”

“Here’s your copy of the death certificate, Mr. Winfield.”

Moyer examined the page. Printed near the bottom was the projected future value of his father’s life, the probability of his recovery, and the projected cost of the procedures to save him. Below that in red, the negative sum that was in essence a death sentence. His father had been reduced to an equation and found wanting. Commercially Unviable. In the upper corner under the heading CAUSE OF DEATH, ACCIDENTAL was marked. Payment Due = 0.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Winfield,” the technician said as he left. And Moyer was more alone than he’d ever been.

Moyer stuffed the mesh caps down his shirt before climbing aboard the elevator of the Capital Arms. It had been a quiet ride to Freedom Circle, the cars nearly empty. Moyer spotted security agents stationed prominently at the terminal and again in the Circle. At first he wondered if Robyn had perhaps called in a warning. He glanced at them out of the corner of his eye for a reaction. Maybe he was being overly paranoid.

Most of his visits to the Circle were when it was crowded. Perhaps the security presence was the same and only more evident now because the Circle was almost vacant. He tried to detect interest from them. There was none. Instead of being alert as he had always assumed, they seemed dormant, as if napping on their feet.

The Capital Arms was an old limestone building constructed centuries before. A keystone above the entrance was etched with 1949, the year of construction. Old halide wall sconces lit the lobby. Moyer swiped Robyn’s badge across the reader next to the door. The lock snapped open. Hawthorne’s name was not on the register, nor on the mail boxes, though there was a mailbox for 1501.

Old two dimensional photos in shades of sepia decorated the walls. They depicted tall cranes and men engaged in the construction of the building, walking girders, carrying hods, laying stone. The Capital Arms was built at a time when buildings were erected story on top of story placing men and equipment in danger high above the ground. Construction methods had changed. It was safer and less expensive now. Buildings were now built from the bottom. Each floor completed on the ground, the building then raised one story with hydraulics while another completed floor was slid in place underneath.

He boarded the elevator and pressed 15. The elevator didn’t budge. The stainless steel control panel had a slot at the base. He inserted Robyn’s card and pushed again. The button lit and mirror-like doors closed.

On the top floor, the elevator opened to a foyer of marble and walnut with deep green, wool carpet runners. The air was redolent with tung oil and pine cleaner. A single raised panel door with brass fittings stood across from the elevator, the only door on the fifteenth floor. Moyer surmised the Judge occupied the entire top of the building.

He paused at the threshold, concentrating on the space beyond, hoping his clairvoyance would reveal if the Judge was home. The apartment felt still and empty. He swiped Robyn’s key card through the lock.

Inside, dim blue light glowing from a large saltwater aquarium inset in the wall did little to cut through the darkness. Iridescent fish glided between coral heads alternately seeking shelter and food. Neon from nightclubs in the Circle filtered through a bank of windows weakly illuminating the ceiling red.

Moyer found switches and flipped on the lights. The room was massive; plastered ceilings, wood paneled walls, built-in bookcases solidly stacked with books. There was a plethora of places to hide a bomb. Just the one room would take hours to search. It was daunting. Maybe Robyn was right and he never would find where she hid it.

He closed his eyes and thought of her, hoping to find some essence of his wife in the room and perhaps a clue. He sensed no trace of her. But he knew Robyn. She wouldn’t hide the bomb in the first room. It would be deeper inside the apartment to buy time.

Moyer groped the wall in the next room and found the light switch. A mahogany table with six chairs anchored the middle of the room. A single plate of half eaten food rested beside an open book of case law. An old cherry hutch sat against one wall. He checked behind stacks of china, through drawers of formal silver, and ran his hands along the top of the hutch where he couldn’t see. He searched beneath the table and chairs. Nothing.

Light from the dining room spilled into a kitchen. He found the switch easily. As the light came on, something cold press against Moyer’s neck.

“Move and I’ll blow your head off,” a hoarse voice snarled.

Moyer glanced over and saw a small, old man with a sculpted piece of metal trembling in his hand. “You must be Judge Hawthorne.”

“Chief Justice Hawthorne,” he corrected. “Who sent you?” The old man groped Moyer’s shoulders with his free hand and worked downward.

“I’m unarmed.”

“I suppose you want me to take your word on that. What are you doing here? You’re not a thief, or else you are a very bad one. You passed up several thousand credits in silver.”

Moyer heard a double click. “What’s that?”

“That is the sound of your life slipping away. This is a very old weapon called a pistol. It fires metal pellets at extremely high velocity. The mechanisms are very old and it might misfire at the slightest twitch. Hell, it might go off on its own. And do you know what? Under the law, with you in my home uninvited, it wouldn’t even be a crime. So start answering my questions, son.”

“My name is Moyer Winfield. Nobody sent me. I’m here on my own.”

“How did you get in and what do you want?”

“I used my wife’s keycard. Her name is Robyn and she’s your housekeeper.”

Hawthorne’s eyes pinched down to slits. “I don’t know her.”

“You probably wouldn’t. She works days when you’re out.”

“And about the other, Mr. Winfield, why are you here?”

Moyer lowered his head. “I’m trying to find a bomb she planted here today.”

The metal pressed deeper into Moyer’s flesh. “Sit down over there,” Hawthorne ordered.

Moyer sat at the dining table, his back facing the windows. Hawthorne chose a seat on the opposite side.

“I’ve been a lawyer and a judge for over ninety-five years. Do you know what that makes me, Mr. Winfield?”

“No, sir.”

“It makes me very good at spotting a liar.” Hawthorne pointed the pistol at Moyer’s chest. His hand began to quiver. He rested the grip on the table for support and it stilled.

Chapter 28

R
obyn was right. Hawthorne was easily the oldest man Moyer had ever seen, even older than Viktor Perko. His skin hung loose on his body, crinkled, and thin. Sparse white hair provided little cover over a pinto scalp. His eyes were the pale blue of aquamarine, bright and fiery, and seemed to belong to a much younger man. Contrary to Robyn’s description, Moyer sensed Hawthorne was anything but close to death. Hawthorne’s eyes bored in on his.

“Why would your wife plant a bomb here?”

“Because Viktor Perko threatened to flush our baby if she didn’t,” Moyer said.

Hawthorne’s mouth rose at the corners slightly, “Ah the truth. I guess Viktor has finally tired of waiting. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll outlive him.” Hawthorne’s eyes grew keen. “So Mr. Winfield, what’s your story? Why are you here trying to undo your wife’s handiwork? Don’t you love your wife, or is it that you don’t share your wife’s desire for children?”

“It’s not that,” he said. Hawthorne’s hand began to quake again, the gun barrel twitched between Moyer’s chest and face. Moyer leaned away. “The prospect of motherhood is making her desperate. She thinks this is her only chance. This isn’t like her, I swear. She’s a good person. She doesn’t understand that what’s at stake is bigger than having a baby, bigger than us, and bigger than you.”

“Bigger? How so?”

“Shouldn’t we be searching instead of talking?”

“I have the gun, so I say we talk. What’s this bigger picture you mentioned?”

“Perko had me taint the bomb with DNA from the leader of Begat.”

“Why would you care about that?”

“I met the man. He seemed reasonable. All he’s trying to do is tell people about an alternative to Hogan-Perko, a natural way to have children.”

Hawthorne’s eyes gleamed. “Nobody told him clones are sterile?”

“He says we’re not, that Global Brands is actually run by Hogan Perko, and they put something in food that causes sterility.”

“And you believed him. He must be a very persuasive man.”

Moyer nodded. “He showed me a woman with a child in her belly.”

Hawthorne’s posture perked. “I see. Proof of a pregnancy could very well threaten the Hogan-Perko empire. That would make this man very dangerous indeed.” Hawthorne uncocked the pistol and set it down.

“You know the word?”

“Pregnancy? Of course. It’s the natural development of a baby within the mother, or as you put it, a child in the belly,” Hawthorne said. “Didn’t you ever have a cat or a dog as a pet?”

“No, but I understand the concept. Why can’t I find that word on the net? All I get back is an error message.”

“Perhaps it died out,” Hawthorne said. “Or, if you believe the man from Begat, maybe Viktor Perko struck it from vocabulary to kill the concept and tighten his grip on the market.” Hawthorne checked the clock. “When is your bomb supposed to go off?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Is that what Perko told you?”

“Yes. We only have a few hours to find it,” Moyer said.

“Do you know where she put it?”

“No. All she told me was I’d never find it.”

“Viktor Perko wouldn’t tell the truth to his own mother. If he said the bomb would go off on Wednesday, he would be assured you would plant it by Tuesday afternoon before I arrived home.” Hawthorne stood. “It will go off tonight, before you’d have a chance to reconsider. We’ve got to go. I need to change into clothes.”

Hawthorne disappeared down the hallway. His pistol rested on the table. Moyer lifted it, surprised at its weight. He held it in his hand as Hawthorne had. His index finger fell naturally to the trigger. The metal lever was springy. The harder he pressed, the further the lever at the back moved. They were somehow linked. The spring clicked. The trigger pressure released. The hammer snapped forward. A blast pounded his ears. The gun twisted in his hand. Blue smoke filled the room. A chunk of wood tore from the hutch and exposed a patch of white surrounding a circular hole.

The Judge clamped a hand down on Moyer’s wrist, the other on the pistol. “My mistake,” Hawthorne said. He took the pistol from Moyer. “This is a very dangerous device.” He stuffed the pistol into his jacket pocket and fixed his eyes on the damaged bureau. “Damn, that was a family heirloom.” He patted Moyer firmly on the back. “No harm, I guess, considering it’ll be kindling soon enough. Let’s get going.” Hawthorne pulled a small box from the bureau drawer and a hat from a rack near the door.

A net browser registered an explosion in Robyn’s consciousness. She went online. Images of security agents racing across Freedom Circle flooded her mind. Above them, jets of flame spouted from windows on the top floor of the Capital Arms. The bomb wasn’t to detonate until tomorrow; that’s what Viktor Perko told Moyer. Perko had lied. Was Moyer dead? Had she killed him? Had that been part of Perko’s plan; detonate the bomb early and destroy the only other person who knew the truth?

A second explosion blew flames through the roof. Agents cleared residents from the building, but no calls were made for fire suppression squads. Was it an oversight, or had an order been given to let the building burn? Robyn watched for Moyer in the crowd. She didn’t see him. She tried contacting him on the net. He wasn’t there. Maybe he was unconscious.

There was too much input from too many sources, too much going on to be sure. Had he been evacuated and she missed it? It was possible. But inwardly, she knew he was dead. She had hidden the bomb too well. There was no chance he’d have found it. He was still inside searching when it went off. Moyer was dead and it was her fault. Her stomach seized and she rushed for the bathroom. Pink chunks splattered on white powder in the toilet bowl.

A special report flashed over the net while she cleaned vomit off the floor.
Chief Justice John Hawthorne is dead
.
Early evidence points to a Begat bombing, though the reason remains unclear
. The announcement ended with no mention of other casualties. In the background, sirens blared and flashing lights approached. Officials were far from tallying the extent of the mayhem.

The Judge was dead. Robyn would have her baby, a baby raised without a father.

Chapter 29

Wednesday, 4 July

I
n Freedom Circle, all was quiet. The clock tower above the tube station chimed twelve bells, the start of a new day — Independence Day. Hawthorne grabbed Moyer by the elbow. “Slow down,” he warned. “Get your nerves under control and try to act normal.”

Security agents stood their posts, dormant. As Moyer and Hawthorne approached the terminal for the tube, a flash lit the Circle. Moyer looked back and saw the top of the Capital Arms engulfed in orange flame and smoke. A wave of pressure hit him a moment later, echoes of it rumbled off surrounding buildings. Security agents sprang to life and rushed across the Circle like ants converging on a hapless insect.

“Put this on.” Moyer said, handing Hawthorne a gold mesh cap.

“What is this?”

“Put it on your head,” he said while donning his and covering it with a woolen cap. “It stops the net signal.”

Hawthorne shoved the cap back at Moyer. “I don’t need it. And it looks ridiculous on you. It’s summer. You are going to draw more attention wearing it, than not. You should take it off.”

Moyer clutched his head and doubled over in pain.

“What’s the matter?” Hawthorne asked.

“I think someone I know just died,” Moyer said.