Zero-G (29 page)

“He's inside that building, isn't he?” These were the first words Pistacchia had uttered since arriving at the spaceport.

“Yes. He is very near.”

“And soon his family will be here.” The old man coughed. The last year and a half had been torture for him. Stress and grief had exacted their toll on his body, but his mind remained sharp and determined.

“I can almost feel his presence, Anthony. At long last, Anthony . . . at long, long last . . .”

“It looks different from down here,” Gary said. “Of course it was getting dark then.” He sat in the rear seat, directly behind the driver, and peered out the passenger window at the strangely formed Joshua trees, scrub oak, and tableaus of brown weeds and dirt.

Myra smiled at her son's enthusiasm.

“What do you mean from down here?” Benjamin asked.

“You remember, Grandpa. Dad brought me here last fall. Mr. Roos gave me an autographed game. He gave one to Penny too. He even hired me to review one of his new products.”

“He gave each of us a game to review,” Penny corrected. “You have a selective memory.”

Myra suppressed a smile. Penny was in that awkward stage between child and woman. It always sounded a little strange to hear her trying to speak as an adult. “No bickering in the car, you guys. Come to think of it, no bickering anywhere.”

“Anyway . . .” Gary stretched the word and seasoned it with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “As I was saying, Grandpa, Dad and I flew out here on Mr. Roos's private jet. It was really cool.”

Penny grunted. “You're just trying to rub it in that I didn't get to go.”

“No, I'm not. You're just jealous.”

“Jealous of you? No way. Nothing to be jealous about.”

Myra stepped in. “All right, that's enough squabbling. I doubt Mr. Quain wants to hear you two yammering.”

“Not much bothers me, ma'am. Had a brother and sister myself, and we did our fair share of quarreling.”

“Do you have children of your own, Mr. Quain?” Myra decided she could keep the children from arguing if she dominated the conversation.

The driver shook his head but kept his eyes forward. “No, ma'am. Afraid I never married.”

Gary turned his attention from the scrolling scenery and looked at the driver's head. “Is that because of your ear?”

“Gary!” Myra was stunned beyond embarrassment. “You know better than that.”

“What a moron.” Myra heard satisfaction in Penny's voice.

“Shut up!”

Myra was about to speak again when a low grumble came from the front seat. Benjamin had just cleared his throat in a very authoritative way. Both children fell silent.

“I'm sorry.” Benjamin cut his eyes to where Gary sat. “Normally he's a
smart
child.”

“No problem, sir. There's nothing wrong with a boy his age being honest.” He turned his head slightly as if turning toward Gary. “No, I don't think my ear scared away any women . . . a few crows maybe, but not women. I travel a lot. Most wives like to put roots down, and I've never been able to do that.”

“What happened to your ear?” Somehow, Myra knew Gary would ask the question. She gave him an icy stare.

238 “Your father asked me the same question this morning.”

Gary gave his mother an “I told you so” look.

“I did a little boxing while in the Navy — took too many shots to the side of the head. It's called a cauliflower ear. Boxers sometimes get it when the ear is damaged in a fight.”

“Wow, I've never met a real-life boxer before.” Gary sat steeped in awe. “We don't watch boxing at home. I don't think anyone in the family likes it.” Gary paused. No offense, mister.”

“No problem, son. I don't watch boxing on television either. I gave up on the sport after my last bout. That was a lot of years ago.”

Myra studied her boy for moment, fearful of what he might ask next. But instead of firing another question, Gary looked out the window and seemed puzzled. He turned in his seat to look behind him, then out the window on the side of the car. Myra tilted her head, then asked, “Something wrong, Gary?”

“I think we were supposed to turn back there.” He jerked a hitchhiker's thumb over his shoulder. “I saw a line of cars going down one of the roads. I remember seeing that road from the air. I think.”

“Things look different on the ground than they do from the air,” Penny snapped.

“How would you know?”

Benjamin echoed Gary's concerns. “How about it, sir? Did we miss the turnoff?”

Myra looked at the driver and noticed he was gazing at her through the rearview mirror. He smiled.

“Yes and no. Gary is right about that being the main road in, but we're taking the alternate route. I noticed on the way out to pick you up that the road was clogged with traffic. I'm afraid that if we take the main road, we might be late for the launch. If we're not there in time for that, there will be a line of people wanting my head, not the least of which will be Commander Tucker.”

Benjamin didn't seem convinced. “Won't we be traveling farther?”

The driver nodded. “Farther in distance; less in time.”

Myra felt disquieted. She tried to shake it off. Everything the driver said made sense, and he gave no indication of being dangerous or untrustworthy. After all, he'd delivered Tuck to the spaceport earlier that day. Hadn't he?

Five minutes later, they turned north on a dirt road. To Myra, it seemed as though they were driving on the Moon. Gangly Joshua trees stood with their limbs lifted like the raised arms of some monster from a 1950s horror movie. Potholes marred the dirt road and washboard-like ridges ran across its width, making the car shudder as the driver pushed the big vehicle down the path. He sped up and twice the car fishtailed slightly.

“I apologize for the road,” the driver said. “Fortunately we won't be on it very long.”

“You could slow down some.” Benjamin spoke the words aloud to overcome the noise from a vibrating car.

“Actually, driving slower makes the ride worse. The key is finding just the right speed.”

No matter how hard she tried, Myra could see no buildings, no other cars, no signs indicating that they were on a road to anywhere. Her disquiet grew into fear.

A short distance ahead, an object appeared. At first Myra thought it was a house, but its rectangular structure lacked a roof, porch, a yard, or anything to identify it as a habitat. As they approached, she recognized it — a metal shipping container, the kind seen riding on the backs of freight trains, or coursing across the ocean on large container ships. She wondered what such an object would be doing in the middle of the desert. She also wondered why the dirt road led straight to it.

The vehicle slowed as the driver neared the container. It was large, white, and heavily weathered. Its protective paint coat had long ago given up its grip on the metal sides. Splotches and veins of blood-red rust replaced much of the paint.

“What are you — ?” Benjamin never finished the question.

The car ground to a stop. A cloud of dust rose like a mist, and before it could settle, the driver threw open his door, reached beneath his coat pocket, and removed a handgun.

“Get out.” There was no anger in the words, no ferocity, but also no room for interpretation. It was clear to Myra that he meant business, and if his tone hadn't been enough to convince her, then the gun he held in a steady hand would have done the trick.

“What do you think you're doing?” Benjamin leaned over to peer through the driver's open door. “You can't treat us this way.”

“It appears that I can. I'm willing to say this one more time. Get out of the car. Now!”

No one moved.

The driver's face hardened. “To show you what a sport I am, gramps, I'll let you choose which child I shoot in the leg.”

“Okay, okay, you win. Just keep your pants on.” Benjamin looked over his shoulder and Myra could see the fear in his eyes. “We'd better do as he says.” Benjamin slowly opened his door and exited.

“This way.” Myra wanted to keep the car between the gunman and her children.

Once outside, she pushed her children behind her, interposing her body between them and the muzzle of the handgun. She knew it offered no protection, but her motherly instincts did not rely on logic. Even a one in a million chance was a chance. Her mind tumbled. What should she do? What did the man want? Was her husband safe? Between all the questions flowing like water around stones was an endless string of prayers.

“All of you to the container. Go, now,
now
.”

Myra led Gary and Penny to Benjamin, and the four of them moved to the front doors of the container. Like Myra, Benjamin insisted on standing between the family and the gunman. Myra knew him when he was still on the fire department, a man unflappable then, and she could see he remained unflappable even now. She wished she had his courage.

“Open it.”

Myra looked at the large container. It stood a couple of feet taller than she and was wide enough to hold a car. They stood at one end, and she could see doors —doors that reminded her of those on the back of a big rig's trailer. She took one handle and forced it up to free the latch, then did the same with the other. Fearing what she might find inside, she pulled the doors open slowly. The banshee squeal of its rusted hinges ran through Myra like electricity.

The container was empty. Almost empty. It took a moment for Myra to realize what she was seeing. Four small glass jars, spaced several feet apart and running the length of the container, hung from wires attached to the metal ceiling.

“Everyone in. Don't touch the vials.”

“What are you planning?” Benjamin's words sounded more like a demand than a question.

“You watch too much television, pops. You are not going to get an explanation. Just get in.”

“What do we do, Mom?” Penny's eyes were moist, but so far, she had refused to cry.

“I think we'd better do as he says, sweetheart.” Myra was the first to step into the container. Gary and Penny followed, but Benjamin refused to move.

“What's the matter with you, old man?”

“I'm just trying to decide if you're the kind of man that would really kill four innocent people.”

Quain shrugged. “I've done it before, and I'm willing to do it again.”

“Do you mind telling me why?” Benjamin stood his ground.

“Yes, I do mind.” A churning silence filled the space between them.

“Just so you know, I don't have much fear of dying. I've been ready to die for many years. The other side holds more good stuff for me than this side.”

Quain shook his head as if he were dealing with a child. “I'll bet you have no desire to watch your family die. Now get in the container before I pop one of them.”

Although Myra stood behind Benjamin, she could tell that a hurricane of emotion swirled within him. She doubted that there was a man alive that could intimidate her father-in-law, even at his advanced age. “Perhaps you should do as he says, Dad.”

“Please, Grandpa. Please. Don't make him shoot you.” The tears Penny had been holding back flowed unabated.

Myra watched as Tuck's father turned and stared at his granddaughter. For the first time, she saw tears in his eyes. He hesitated for a moment, then turned his back on the man with the gun and joined them in the container.

“Smart move.” Quain went to the back of the car and popped the trunk, never taking his eyes off Myra and the others for more than a second. A few moments later, Myra saw that he held another object in his free hand. She had to gaze at it for a few long seconds before she realized what she was seeing: a small, handheld video camera. He raised the camera and Myra could see him make adjustments with one hand. “Everyone say . . . ‘Daddy!' ”

No one said anything.

In a single blurred motion, Quain raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot rolled along the empty desert, the roar of it punctuated by the loud metal twang where the bullet hit the door. The children screamed. Myra tried to shield them with her body, and in turn, Benjamin tried to cover all three, wrapping them in his arms.

“I said . . . everyone say, ‘
Daddy
!' ”

Myra turned her face to the gunman and saw behind the camera the briefest of smiles.

New prayers sprung to her mind.

TWENTY-EIGHT

T
here was a slight jolt as the tow vehicle began a slow progression from the hangar to the runway. The combined craft of
Condor
and
Legacy
gracefully submitted to the tow. A small set of mirrors situated just above Tuck's head allowed him an unhindered view of the passengers in the rear. Lance had escorted each to their assigned seat and strapped them in with a five-point harness. Clothed as they were in their customized LES suits, they looked like an experienced, well-rehearsed crew. He knew better.