Zero-G (22 page)

“Is there something wrong with your meal, sir?” The waitress was stout and well into her fifties.

“What?”

“Your meal. You've hardly touched it.”

The man looked down. “No, nothing is wrong with the food. I'm just not as hungry as I first thought. Please bring me the bill.”

“Do you want a container for the food? The rooms all have microwaves. You can reheat it if you get hungry later.”

“No, thank you. Just the bill.” He fixed his gaze on the two men who left the restaurant.

“The rooms have refrigerators — ”

“I'm not staying in the hotel. Please bring me the bill.”

“Easy, honey. I'm just trying to do you a favor.” She huffed and left.

Anthony Verducci didn't wait for the ticket. He rose, withdrew a twenty from his billfold, and dropped it on the table.

He slipped from the restaurant and into the cold desert night. He walked to a van parked in the lot and entered the back.

“Anything?” he asked.

“No,” Ganzi replied. “I've kept my eye on everyone coming and going. The family is still in the suite, and Tucker's old man is in the suite next door.”

“Anything on the mike?”

“Not a thing. I can't get much from inside. I even tried the laser microphone, the one that reads the vibrations of the window, but I still don't get much. So far, all I can tell is that the kids and mom are watching some kind of movie. Sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. Just be vigilant.”

“You know my PI license isn't much good in California.”

“That only matters if we're caught. It's worse for me. I'm a foreign national. Imagine what your Homeland Security can make of a nonresident alien with surveillance equipment. Have you heard from your Houston people?”

“Yup. They're bored stiff. Nothing happening in the neighborhood. The Tucker house is tighter than a drum.”

“Okay. You're going to be on your own for a while.”

Ganzi gave a puzzled look. “Why? Where you going?”

“To the airport. I'm picking someone up.”

“Who?”

“My employer. The man who is paying your salary and for all this equipment. His plane lands in about two hours.”

“Close to midnight. The red-eye, eh?”

“It's a long flight from Italy.”

TWENTY-ONE

G
inny Lin plunked her thin frame in a luxurious leather chair in the media room. Mounted to the wall opposite her hung a large flat-screen television. Although she hadn't turned the television on, she could still see the pretty oval face of a starlet who had yet to see thirty years of age. It was her image reflected on the screen: cropped blonde hair with expertly added highlights, large almond eyes, and a long graceful neck.

“It's not too late, kiddo.” Ginny didn't bother turning. She knew her manager's voice all too well.

“Not too late for what, Denny?” She pulled a cigarette from the pack of Virginia Slims she held and inserted the filtered end into her mouth. She fumbled with a gold-plated lighter.

Denny Loft stepped to his charge, snatched the cigarette from Ginny's mouth, and crushed it in his hand. “No smoking in the house. That was part of the agreement.”

“What are they going to do, sue me?” She forced her eyes away from him. She found him painfully handsome with his ice-blue eyes, smooth jaw, and sensual mouth. She would have made a play for him long ago if he weren't the same age as her father.

“Look, kid, we're lucky to have this place. The doctor who owns the mansion agreed to rent it to us for the week but made it clear that smoking was a no-no. Besides, smoking ages you prematurely.”

“That's why studios have makeup artists.” She extracted another cigarette and started the routine again. This time Denny not only took the cigarette but snatched the pack away as well.

“If you prefer,” he said, “we can book a room in one of the local hotels, but last time I checked there wasn't a hotel in the high desert that would suit you. Or we can drive out to the launch site. Roos and his buddies have set up some short-term housing for the passengers.”

“I'm not staying in a white-trash trailer park.”

“They're custom-made modular buildings designed for his guests, Ginny. It hardly constitutes a trailer park. I checked them out myself.”

She narrowed her eyes, determined not to let logic and reason spoil a good pity party. “I can't believe people live out here. It's the ugliest place on the planet.”

Denny frowned. “Some people find it beautiful.”

“They're wrong.” She crossed her arms like a disappointed child.

Denny sat in one of the leather chairs facing the large-screen television. He had to turn to face Ginny. “I repeat: it's not too late.”

“And
I
repeat: Not too late for what?”

“To back out of this deal. We can get in the car and I can have you back in LA in two hours.”

“I'm not backing out. I paid over two hundred thousand dollars for this; I'm not going to walk away from it.”

“I know that's a lot of money, but maybe we can get some or all of it back. I'll make up an excuse. You've come down with a cold. They won't let you fly with a head cold. You can express your supreme disappointment. We can then let the attorneys fight it out over the money.”

“I'm going into space tomorrow, Denny. I said I would and I will. Besides, you know what it will do for my career.” She paused and played with the lighter. “I'm looking forward to it.”

Denny laughed. “Look, kid, you're beautiful, talented, and my favorite client, but you are a lousy liar. I can see the fear. In fact, I can smell it. Look at you —you're fumbling with a cigarette lighter. You stopped smoking two years ago and here you are, ready to get into a fist fight with me for a single smoke.”

“I'm nervous, not afraid. There's a difference.” She turned her face from him.

“All I'm saying is you can still back out. Only you and I will know the real reason.”

“My knowing is enough. I've never backed away from anything.”

“Backing out now is not quitting; it's an exercise in logic. All it would mean is that you have come to your senses.”

“I think you're worried for my safety.”

“Of course I am.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “This is dangerous work.”

“Maybe you're worried about losing my fee.”

“There are other actresses and actors who want my time, Ginny. I wouldn't even notice the blip in my income.”

“So you wouldn't mind if I fired you.” Her jaw clenched.

“We've been over this. You can't fire me, Ginny. I'm part of your contract. You owe the studio another picture, and they hired me to help manage your career and to keep an eye on you.”

“Did they tell you to talk me out of this?”

“Yes, but I'd try even if they didn't.”

He leaned back in the seat. Ginny could see Denny's reflected image on the television screen. “Really?”

“Absolutely, kid. You're not just a client to me.”

“Sometimes it feels that way.” She turned to him. He didn't return the gaze.

“Yeah? Well, emotions are great little liars. Life goes better when one spends more time thinking than feeling.”

Ginny laughed. “And I thought I was a cynic.”

“Cynicism has served me well.”

Ginny longed for her own bed with its well-used pillows and the smells of her own house. She stood.

“Where are you going?”

“I'm going to bed. Tomorrow is a big day. Besides, you're boring me to tears.”

“I can't change your mind?” He stood.

A wry smile crossed her lips. “About what?” She stepped closer to him. “Are you saying you don't want me to go to bed right now?”

“About not taking that stupid flight tomorrow. Don't be coy.”

The smile dissolved like sugar in boiling water. “I'll be anything I choose to be.” She marched from the room.

“Ginny. Don't go away like this. Don't leave angry.”

She raised a dismissive hand and strode to her bedroom for the night. She had made her feelings known. What she kept secret was the fact that she agreed with everything Denny said. She wished she could hop in the car and drive to LA. She knew she wouldn't.

She knew she couldn't.

The clock read 12:30. Tuck was now officially in launch day and he had yet to fall asleep. Not unusual. He seldom slept well the night before launch. Apprehension, an overactive mind, a relentless rehashing of launch protocols, and two or three hundred other things conspired to keep sleep at bay. Now there was another factor involved: Myra was in bed with him. Before Shuttle launches, Tuck would be in Florida sequestered with the rest of the crew. Not here. Tonight he lay on his side, his wife spooned next to him pretending to sleep and doing a better job of acting than he.

Several times, he considered starting a conversation but feared where it would go. He already knew of her deep anxiety. To hear it in discussion would make things worse.
Anxiety is contagious — you get it from
your family.
His own apprehension had grown several orders of magnitude just being around his father, kids, and Myra. He didn't resent their presence. In fact, he loved having them along, but everything about them reminded Tuck how worried they were. It was a difficult thing for a man to learn that he could not protect those he loved from the torture of anxiety and fear. It was worse knowing he was the cause of those eroding emotions.

He took a slow, deep inhalation and let it out in measured breath. Myra wiggled closer and held on tighter. He rolled onto his back and extended his arm in a familiar exercise. Myra snuggled close to his chest and let his arm enfold her.

Streetlights pressed illumination through a thin opening in the drapes, forcing a slice of yellowish light across the ceiling — the only thing in the room Tuck could focus on. From the nearby freeway came the sounds of big rigs and cars plying the asphalt river of the I-15.

His mind drifted to the room next to theirs where Penny and Gary slept. They had been putting on a brave front, something that became more difficult to do as the launch day drew near. Today, Penny had been almost mute and Gary couldn't stop talking. Tuck's father occupied the room to the south. He had remained stoic throughout the three days they had been here. Tuck knew that attitude well and attributed it to a firefighter's discipline. Seeing death often and facing it every workday made such men immune to the emotions that cripple others.

As he thought of his father, he thought of their conversation. The old man had pulled no punches, and each comment had stung like a boxer's jab. In the dark room, the words came back. Tuck had never wanted God to slip from his daily life, had never made a decision not to believe, but his action proved that such had become the case, if not by choice, then by default.

Have I written You off, God? Have I wandered away?

No spiritual voice sounded in his ear, and Tuck had expected none. He had never heard the voice of God and didn't expect to in this life. That, however, had never affected his belief. There was much he had never seen but still knew to be true.

Images, unwanted and disturbing, played on his imagination. He could hear Jess's slurred speech, hear the stress in the voices of Mission Control, hear his own nonsensical response. He could also hear himself praying for Jess to live and then watching her die. The anger he felt toward God but had kept under wraps bubbled to the top.

How could it happen, and why wouldn't the pain of it go away?

How can I not blame You, God? They were all good
people and You let them die — and You've made me live
with it. I can't help but wonder what You have planned
for this trip.

He tried to keep the emotion hot. If he were truly angry with God, then why not be honest about it, honest in a way he could not be with his father?

He replayed the tragic images again, hoping to stoke the coals. He had a right to be angry, and if he was going to be awake all night, then he might as well use the time to clear the air between him and the Divine. But the anger never came.

Still, he told God of his hurt and his fear and his regret and his animosity in a way he had never before allowed himself. He wondered if it was wise to be so frank with God, especially before chauffeuring the first set of civilian passengers into space. His father's words rose to the surface:
“Do you think God doesn't
already know what's on your mind?”
Tuck had never been much for formal theology, but he knew what omniscient meant — God knows everything, including a man's thoughts. What was that verse? From the book of Hebrews: “Nothing in all creation is hidden from God's sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account.”

For well over a year, Tuck had borne the burden of Atlas: supporting a planet-sized load of guilt on his shoulders. He had been successful in pretending it wasn't there, but he could no more hide the weight from his family than the hunchback of Notre Dame could conceal his disfigurement.