Whatever Lola Wants (37 page)

The fast sell paralleled by an exclusivity shuffle. “And what if I buy and want to resell?”

“At any time. To anyone on the approved waiting list.”

“If nobody's on the list?”

His smile grew. “There will be.” And spread. “But if not, Intraterra buys you out at fair market price, determined by the sale of a previous unit of equivalent size and condition.”

Carney conceded the fairness of this. He pointed to the empty space. “What's this?”

Ongoing smile. “I'll come to that. First let me show you, here.” Boce pointed to the maquette and pressed a button. Half a dozen huge and maybe eighty smaller transparent domes descended, enclosing the maquette. “Summerclime, the perfect country environment. Note the museum here, and the concert hall. Above it all, the permanent domes. Never get wet in a rain storm, virtually no vermin. Mr. Cochan is committed to an insect-free environment, hmm? We guarantee a ninety-nine percent reduction of pest life here, as compared to the external world.”

“What's bugging him?”

Boce chortled. “We're speaking in utopian terms, Mr. Carney. No ants at the picnic.”

Carney let his glance scan it all: low condos, open spaces, broad streets. “Population?”

“In total, we now project twenty-three thousand.” Boce pressed another button and the maquette began to turn. A hundred eighty degrees around, Summerclime gone, and a model unit appeared, a two-story apartment, three bedrooms, small garden. “Nice, hmm?”

Carney said, “Very.” In truth, an elegant little home.

“Thank you.” Boce slid the wall closed. “Well, you asked about this space. A landscaped, cedar-encased parking lot, three cars to a detachment. Travel within Terramac City is by electric mini-trains with rubber wheels and, once you're close to home, rolling ramps you step on to. Local carts for deliveries. Every half hour from the parking lot, snack-bar- and electronics-equipped Terramac buses, armchairs only, take you to Burlington or Montreal airports. Terramac vans bring tradespeople in with all due speed. And once inside, no cars to pollute the air.”

Sick building syndrome multiplied to city-size? Carney didn't ask.

“Our surveys show the average Terramac citizen, hard-wired to the office, would work at home 3.4 days a week. They'll rarely leave here for longer than three workdays, depending on the distance they have to fly. Far less commuting, all told. Parents spend more time with or near their children, so Terramac strengthens the family. We're engaging master teachers for the schools. And young Quebec women as nannies. You have children, hmm?”

“No.”

“A shame. Our playgrounds are fully supervised. Under eighteen, one isn't allowed in the bars, or the nightclubs. The young do have access to clubs where no alcohol is served. We obey Vermont laws but we're a liberal community.”

“I see.” Time to shift to reality. “Last night I felt a large blast. It came from here?”

“Quite possibly.” For a moment Boce said nothing more, then nodded. “In Terramac we honor natural forms. Many are imperfect and have to be modified.”

“It was an immense explosion, Mr. Boce.”

“We're dealing with a substantial territory, hmm?” Boce's beam dazzled. “Even granite can be shaped to the needs of Terramac City.”

I'll bet, thought Carney. But he's not moving on the blast. “Well, I'm interested.” What more to learn from Boce? “I think my aunt will be too. But I want to meet John Cochan.”

“He'd enjoy that. You could meet him at the Richmond office first, then come out here.”

Carney said he'd check with Bobbie. “Thanks.” He opened the door. “I'm going to drive around Terramac City, get a sense of the place.”

“The site isn't open, it's a hard-hat area. You've seen the maquette, the prospectus—”

“I always keep a hard-hat in the trunk. Anyway I'll stay in the car. I'll call about the appointment. Looking forward to meeting John Cochan.” Out of the trailer, to his car, trunk open, hard-hat on, a wave to Boce, and driving along a narrow roadway. To be a minirail line?

Curved angles, three- and four-story condos, blank blocks, the stream's culvert. The only building that didn't match was a four-story place without windows but with a two-story gate, closed. Site for a museum? Concert hall? Half a dozen more blocks. On to the western edge of the site. Nothing but shattered rock. Pulverized. He worked his way to the northern, then the southern peripheries. More evidence of blasting. But nothing here worthy of what he felt last night.

He drove away from Terramac. By the covered bridge he stopped, walked to the stream, a real one, pulled off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants, squished through a muddy bank, sat on a rock and soaked his feet. He watched as a mosquito landed on his arm, searched out a tender spot, stuck her dagger in. Her saliva diluted a drop of blood. She syphoned the solvent away. Her body bloated ruddy. Mot suddenly appeared, gliding a shiver down Carney's back: Watch your front, rear, sides, said Mot. The mosquito tripped through Carney's forearm hair, stumbled, her wings flapped. She was too full to fly.
Culex pipiens
, he thought, and squished it flat.

•

The image of the overdrunk mosquito delighted Lola. When she left she was in the best of moods. But not when she came back. Her lips crossed her face as a straight line, and her eyes had gone too dark for the day. “What?” I asked.

“Edsel and Helen and Dante,” she said.

“What about them?”

“They've officially warned me.”

“About coming here?”

“Of course.” She glowered in the direction of the Near Nimbus.

“But you've been so careful.”

“Damn right! Barely a quarter of my time.”

“Didn't you say—”

“Of course. Still complaining.” She shook her head hard. “Yeaghghgh!!” She shook her fist toward them. She collapsed onto the cloud-fluff. “What's happening in the down below?”

•

5.

In the late afternoon Carney
spent a couple of hours at Richmond's library, reading back issues of
The
Patriot
. By the time the place closed he'd gained insight into local views of Terramac City. The newspaper, a supporter of the project, took what he'd learned was Cochan's own line: change in Merrimac County was inevitable but such change could be directed by those it would most affect. Letters offered other opinions. None from Theresa Magnussen.

Back at the Grange for supper, he parked between the van and a Ford sedan. From inside the house, Theresa's voice: “Bastard! Keep off this property!”

The object of abuse, now a few steps from Carney, was a narrow-chested tall man wearing a suit, yellow shirt, and skinny tie. He tapped a manila envelope against his left palm.

Milton's voice: “For heaven sake, Theresa! He's only acting on his orders.”

“Not on my porch! Get that poodle-puke outta here!” Her voice remained disembodied. The gray man hid the envelope behind his back. His body swayed as in a breeze.

Then Milton's large form filled the doorway. “You better go to your car. She's gone to get—” He saw Carney. “Sorry, Carney. Jed's just leaving. Come on in.”

“It don't make no difference, Milton.” Rich Vermont accent. “Not me, somebody else.”

A squeal of brakes. “Get off the porch!” A shotgun barrel poked at the screen.

Jed nodded, found the handrail. Watching the doorway, he stepped backward down the ramp, turned, headed for the Ford, got in. And sat there.

Milton screwed the shotgun out of his wife's hands. “He'll get bored.”

“Just doing his job,” Theresa repeated. “Another of civilization's lesser bastards.”

From inside Carney glanced out the window. The sedan stood still. “What's that about?”

“Oh, Cochan,” Theresa muttered. “Another threat or offer.” She shouted at the sedan, “Keep that thing out of this house!” She glanced out the window. “Some bird-shot over his roof, that'd get him moving.” She flicked her wheelchair motor on. “Where'd you put my shotgun?”

“Never mind.” Milton, his voice soft. “He'll leave soon.” He clicked the chair's motor off.

Carney glanced over to the Ford. “Who is he?”

“Works for Henry Nottingham.” Milton's head shook, weariness in his eyes. “Henry's our Sheriff here, got an investigation agency on the side. Jed's his man and Cochan uses the agency.”

Theresa said to Carney, “Henry used to be a good man.” She slumped back in her chair. “Cochan keeps on harassing us. He'll kill me.” She frowned. “Unless I kill him first.”

“Enough, Tessa. She enjoyed the stroll through the garden yesterday, Carney. She likes talking with you.” Milton smiled. “Feasie and Ti-Jean said to tell you so long, come back any time. They're spending the night at his mother's place, she's feeling poorly.”

“Sorry I missed them.”

“Take Theresa around again, till dinner's ready. Do her good.”

“Don't treat me like a little old woman.”

Carney said, “If you promise not to explode I'll tell you about my visit to Terramac City.”

Milton said, “Carney—”

“I will be very calm, and so will Theresa. Right?”

Theresa scowled. “Let's go for a ride.”

Out to the orchard. Carney told her what he'd seen—the minirail tracks, the domes, the condos. The outlying sites with evidence of recent blasting. “The explosions happen regularly?”

“The little ones, sometimes once a day, usually at night. Sometimes a few days of peace. The big ones, there've been four-five of them over the last month or so.”

“Look, I think you're right, I think the blasting is deep underground.”

From her stare at him he couldn't tell, was this wonderful news, or terrible news. She only said, “Okay,” and thought, and muttered, “Yeah.”

“But it's impossible to tell where, or why. Nor explain why he's trying to buy you out.”

“Look.” Theresa stopped the chair. She pointed.

The Ford was driving away. Milton walked from it, a manila envelope in hand.

“He wouldn't!” She pushed the lever to high and rolled fast as running toward the car.

“Theresa!”

She was shouting: “And so do thund'rous legions cry, embracing hope upon the fields of danger, the ancient gods rejoice—” The whine of her motor drowned the rest of her words.

Carney sprinted across the grass after her. Milton saw them coming, grabbed at the chair as it swept by, set himself against the built-up thrust. It turned sharp, flung Theresa forward. He grabbed her too. He shoved the bar to Stop, pushed her to sitting upright, held her tight.

Carney caught up. He felt strangely winded.

Theresa's white forehead, puffy cheeks, sweat—

•

Lola breathed, “No!”

•

“Theresa?”

“Please—?” Theresa reached her hand over.

Carney took it, a heavy thing.

“Carney help—us—?”

6.

John Cochan waited for the
dust particles to settle. Trembles of awe twitched at his guts, the exalted joy of discovery. He stood framed in the seven-foot opening in the rock, and stared.

Yak said, “A true stalactitic chamber, Handyman.”

As if Johnnie didn't know. Four-hundred-watt beams probed the dim space. In the distances spread a cavern blessed with soaring arches and smooth dripping walls. From the arches, massive and medium and tiny stalactites hung like icicles in dripping reds, greens, purples, some already joined to their basal stalagmites, some still growing into each other with the drippings of millennia. Cone-shaped stalagmites stood in clumps, the beams playing brilliant chaos onto their glistening stone. Johnnie felt the calcareous water seeping from hundreds of pores, thousands, cool water dripping. He saw and heard the water, its plunks and burbles, and smelled rock so rich with carbonate of lime he all but tasted it. Here was an infinity more than living space, commercial space, entertainment space. Here was magic. A fairyland!

Yak said, “Our own little Carlsbad Cavern.”

“Not so little,” said Johnnie.

“If we redirected some of the water, we could grow our own stalactitic forms.”

Why Johnnie loved Yak: these surges of energy, the hope, the vision.

“And, see, it's fantastic! The ground where the stalagmites rise; it's like slate it's that flat. No calcium in the lower rock. What we thought, it's true, it's two separate formations. It's clear here: they never got together. A strata of nothing. We were absolutely right.”

“You were right, Yak. You figured it.”

“We, Johnnie. Both of us.”

Johnnie felt a great contentment. He had located Benjie's ultimate resting place. “Okay.” He closed his eyes, his mind reached, further— No, nothing.

“I see the near part as slides and water-chutes, moulded from the same rock. Where it's imperfect Harry can figure a way to blend cement to get the rock texture, make it look like nature herself formed the whole playland for us. Incredible, huh?”

Johnnie smiled. Like a kid, Yakahama. “Incredible.” And so much to do now, out of business and love. Figure where precisely to place Benjie, to let him rest eternally. Damned trip next week. “We'll get to planning soon's I get back.”

“Back?”

“From Lexington. First National's had to refinance their Guadalajara loan, now the bastards want a full half point more. You know how it is.”

“Yeah.” Yak shrugged off disappointment. He preferred his life here, in the field it was better every time. If he could protect Johnnie from the handshaking, the lunches, the reports— But John Cochan's strength lay in the power he brought to this personal interchange, the huge authority he took from it. With his amiability he made such moments his own, the finesse leading to Intraterra's extraordinary growth. Though here too lay the soft edge of their projects, areas Yak didn't want to understand, and felt uneasy with. The hallucinatory edges, he'd once joked.