Zero-G (19 page)

“What are you two doing?” The light silhouetted the one who opened the door but by shape and voice, Ganzi knew it had to be Mrs. Tucker.

“Who?” he heard Tucker say.

“Us?” the boy replied with artificial innocence.

“We weren't doing anything,” Tucker said.

“Just walking up to the door,” the boy added. “Yeah, that's it. Just walking up to the door.”

“Yeah. What he said.”

The woman stepped out, bent over the boy, and kissed him on the forehead. He wasted no time wiping it away. He then shot past her toward the door. “Hey, Penny, Penny, look at . . .” Ganzi couldn't hear the rest.

The two stood staring at each other for a moment, then Tuck crossed the few feet that separated them and took her in his arms. He kissed her once, then again in an embrace that lasted several seconds.

“Oh, yuck. Get a room.” The new voice came from another silhouetted figure in the door, smaller than the first woman, but definitely female. She stepped onto the porch. Tuck pulled her in and kissed her on top of the head. The young girl reached both arms around her father's neck and gave him a hug.

“And there goes the luckiest man in the world,” Ganzi whispered.

“I feel the need for pizza,” Tucker said.

“I'm starving. I didn't think you'd ever get home, and Mom wouldn't let me eat.”

“Then you can choose the pizza joint. Now let's see if we can peel Gary's fingers from the video game.”

“I can hit him with a rock if you want,” Penny said.

“Did he tell you about the little job he scored for you?”

“No.”

“Then you may want to hold off on the rock.”

They stepped through the door and the wash of light disappeared.

Ganzi lowered the mike and reached for his cell phone. “He's home. They're going out for pizza.” He listened. “Will do.”

For what must have been the one-millionth time in his life, Ganzi felt dirty.

A few minutes later, Tuck led his family to the BMW and drove away.

Ganzi waited ten minutes before exiting his car, moving to the trunk, and removing a brown baseball cap with the words
Skyline Plumbing
embroidered on it. He lifted a tool case, closed the trunk, and walked to the front door. Once inside the small alcove that protected the porch from the weather, he paused and took a quick look over his shoulder. Certain that no eyes were watching, he drew a small plastic case from his pocket and removed a set of tools from the locksmith's kit. Ninety seconds later, Ganzi crossed the threshold into the Tucker home.

He closed the door behind him.

Tuck and Myra lay in bed, six inches of cold, silent space between them. Myra had pulled the sheets, blanket, and comforter to her chin as if the fabric could shield her from harm. Tuck had interlaced his fingers behind his head, his elbows sticking out like wings. Above them, the brighter stars of the night sky peered through a large skylight as if watching the drama between the two humans unfold. When they first moved into the house, Myra had taken over the decorating. Every room had her mark on it. Tuck made no complaints and had only three demands: he would choose the size of the television; he would get a part of the garage for a small workshop; and a skylight would be installed over the bed so he could gaze into the night before falling asleep. Myra agreed without hesitation. Now the night sky mocked them.

“I meant for this to be a fun evening.” Tuck's words were as soft as the pillow upon which he rested.

“You should have spoken to me first. You shouldn't have sprung it on me like that.”

“I didn't spring it on you. I just brought the family into the loop, that's all.”

Myra kept her gaze fixed to the scene above. A falling star slipped into view and disappeared a half second later. Normally, such a sight drew a gasp of wonder. Myra let it pass without comment. “You sure you didn't tell us as a group to control my reaction?”

“Oh, come on. When have I ever been able to control you? I'm not that manipulative, and you know it.”

She sighed and then sniffed. Something she did whenever tears were about to emerge. “I know, I just . . .” She paused. “When will it end?”

“My fascination with space flight? Never. My ability to continue flying . . . I don't know. Flying is as much a part of me as . . .”

“Me?”

He paused, took a deep breath, and then rolled to his side to face her. “You know me, Myra, flying defines me; it is what I was born to do. That includes space.”

“I know. I knew that about you when I married you. I just can't get over what happened. It haunts me.” A tear ran down her cheek.

“It haunts me too, every day, sometimes every hour. Maybe that's why I have to take this job. I have to fly one more time.”

“You have nothing to prove.”

He pursed his lips. “Yes, I do. I can't explain it. I doubt anyone else would understand, but I do have something to prove.” He sat up and crossed his legs in front of him. He would have held her hand if it weren't sheltered under several layers of bedding. “I lost my crew, Myra. I lost every one of them. Dead as dead can be. I went up in a spaceship and flew home a hearse.”

“No one blames you.”

“A lot of people blame me. They walk the halls of NASA. Sure, they smile, they shake my hand, they make small talk, but I see it in their eyes. They're looking at the only astronaut to lose his crew.”

“Other astronauts have died.”

“I know that. I can name every one of them, but I returned alive and well. Had I died up there, then people, my peers, would honor my memory, but as the lone survivor they question my decision making, my strength, and my resolve in an emergency.”

“No, they don't. People flock to hear you speak. The newspapers still call you the heroic astronaut.” Another tear, then another formed a rivulet on her cheek. In the dim moonlight that filtered into the room, Tuck could see a damp spot on the pillow, just below her ear, and his heart began to break.

“I don't work with them. I don't work with the press. Their lives have never been dependent on any decision I make. What the world thinks doesn't matter.”

“Does what I think matter?”

He hesitated, then whispered, “Yes. More than anything.”

She pushed herself up and crossed her legs to match him. She touched his bare knee and the feel of it ran through body and soul. His heart stuttered; his lungs hung on a single breath.

Her words floated just above a whisper. “Each day I ask why. Why did you live and the others die? Why you and not one of them? I thank God a hundred times a day that you're still here with the kids and me. I thank Him repeatedly that I can still touch you, still smell your aftershave, and still pick up your stinky socks from the floor. Every time you laugh, I feel like I won the world's biggest jackpot. Then the guilt returns. I think about Vinny and Jess and the others. I think about their families — fractured, torn to pieces by the world's worst coincidence, and I love you even more. Guilt and relief, guilt and joy, guilt and thankfulness, and this thought keeps coming back to me: no one can be that lucky twice.”

Her words scooped the life from him, but he formed a reply. “I don't know why my dad rushed into burning buildings, except he loved his work, and it was his duty. I know I have to fly at least one more time to prove to myself that I didn't leave something in space, that I didn't leave my courage there — that my crew didn't die for nothing, but for the innate dream that possesses someone like me. I don't know why God let me live, but He did. Still, I can't hide from life; I can't hide from me.”

Heavy silence swirled in the room. Myra lowered her head. Tuck touched her face. “Tell me not to do it and I won't.”

She shook her head. “Telling you not to fly is like telling a whale to leave the ocean. I'll support you in this with all my heart and soul.”

“Thank you.”

She lowered herself to the bed and Tuck did the same. He took her in his arms and waited for her to fall asleep.

She did.

Two hours later. .

A weary Ganzi picked up his cell phone and placed it to his ear — an ear previously covered with one end of a set of headphones.

“I have something interesting,” he said.

NINETEEN

D
iane Melville walked through the wide lobby of MedSys ignoring the comings and goings of employees. Her head hung as if weighted by the heavy thoughts that churned in her skull. Too many days had passed without any meaningful word from Alderman. When the security expert last left her office, he had assured her that he was closing in on the deadly former employee. So why hadn't she heard anything?

So much had gone so wrong. Despite her desire, her
duty
, to protect the multi-billion-dollar company, a constant churning sea crashed at the bulwark of conscience. She reminded herself that children with cancer benefited from the designer drugs MedSys made, that diabetics led better lives, that heart patients recovered from surgery faster, and all because MedSys was the leader in synthetic drugs.

She took long strides to the executive elevator at the end of the lobby and inserted her passkey into the slot to the right side, then waited for the elevator cab to arrive. Sure, she should have told the authorities. At the very least, she should have called the local police once she realized what had happened, but she hadn't. They would bring in the FBI, and since the crime occurred against NASA, a government agency, Homeland Security would have been crawling all over the corporation, through its bookwork and peering into the private lives of all the employees, including her. As paranoid as the government had become, they might even classify her and every other exec as terrorists ruining lives and destroying careers for a lifetime. The business would never recover.

The brass-clad doors parted and she stepped inside. She punched the button for the top floor with enough force to make the knuckles in her finger throb.
Easy,
girl. Don't take it out on the elevator.
The doors closed and Diane felt entombed.

At first, she had wanted to notify the authorities, but Burt Linear had convinced her otherwise, and she so wanted to be convinced. Now too much water had passed under the bridge, or over the dam, or whatever the cliché said. Bottom line, it was too late to go to the cops. But concealing what had really killed the astronauts one year ago made her an accessory to the crime. She and Burt would be arrested, MedSys would shake and then be crushed under the weight of scandal, several hundred employees would be out of work, as would subcontractor businesses that depended on MedSys for their existence. People who depended on designer meds would go wanting.
What a mess. What a disgusting
mess.

The elevator eased to a stop and a moment later opened its doors. She took a deep breath and tried to sculpt her face into a mask of confidence and normalcy. She had become good at donning the disguise.

It was the fear of prison that bothered her most. Last night, she dreamed she had awakened in a dim, dank, dreary cell in a federal penitentiary. Diane had a cousin whose son did a short stretch in a federal prison. He had complained that the thing that bothered him the most was the noise. Apparently, such places were never quiet. Such an environment would drive her mad.

“Good morning, Dr. Melville.” The greeting came from her twenty-four-year-old assistant, Liz.

Diane started for her office located behind Liz's space. “Any messages?”

“Mr. Linear has been by and would like you to call him when you can. Last night's mail is on your desk.”

“I don't suppose Mr. Alderman called while I was out.”

“No, ma'am.”

Diane entered her office. She kept the lighting low and the furnishings dark. Contemporary art hung on the walls, as did her degree from Stanford and her medical license. The latter represented a different era in her life. Medical practice never suited her but research did — and so did business. Twenty years after med school, she was the CEO of the most innovative pharmaceutical firm in the country. At least for the moment.