The Season of Risks

When I was awake the next morning, Dr. Cho brought me my breakfast tray. She seemed a little stiff and formal, as if things had changed among us. She said my father was in the Moore Suite, presenting his closing argument to COVE. And Roche would make his final statement at noon, she said.



Neither of us mentioned my mother.



Dr. Cho gave me my pills and tonic, cleaned the incision in my chest, changed the dressing, and watched me finish a bowl of oatmeal with strawberries strewn across it. Then she rose to shut the window. Light rain had begun to fall outside. My father might have called it another soft old day.



"When can I leave this room?" I asked her. Beautiful though it was, I felt I knew it much too well.



"Maybe this weekend," she said. "The wound is healing well. You're definitely getting stronger."



"Are you staying on in Ireland?" It felt odd, asking her, but I had to.



"No." She sounded disappointed, somehow. "I'll book my flight back to the States once we know the council's decision. Maybe as soon as tomorrow."



"Do you love my father?" I hadn't planned on saying it, but out it came.



Her dark eyes, full of emotions I didn't recognize, met mine. "I think everyone who meets Raphael falls a little in love with him." Then she stood up. "You know I have a partner back in Savannah."



When the doctor had gone, I eased myself out of bed and walked around the room. My only exercise during the past five days had been walking to and from the bathroom. Dr. Cho had promised that tomorrow she and I might stroll the hotel corridor together.



But I was fed up with being treated as an invalid and tired of spending long days mostly alone. My father had brought me books, but I felt too anxious to read them. If Bennett were here, we could have played Crazy Eights. If Sloan were around, we could have tried to put more of the puzzle together. Or if Grace were with me, I could have found some comfort simply in the sound of her purring.



I looked down at the shapeless cotton nightdress Dr. Cho had put on me. It fastened with snaps. I tore them apart and threw the gown on the rug. The white dressing on my chest reminded me that I should be cautious, but caution wouldn't help us get a judgment against Roche.



Slowly I pulled on a cashmere skirt and sweater, wishing I still had a metamaterials suit. I doubted that my father would present me with one ever again.



My feet slid into my shoes. I brushed my hair and washed my face, and picked up my raincoat and purse to carry before leaving the room. My mother might have failed to convince Malcolm to help us, but I had a plan.



In the elevator going down, I felt the first wave of vertigo. Two more came over me before it reached the lobby. Feeling weak and stupid, I didn't even get out, but stood there as the car began to fill again.



I'd planned to take a taxi to Sandycove, track down Malcolm, and make him an offer: in exchange for his testimony before COVE, I would agree to take part in his medical research. Any risks involved would be worth it if we could discredit Roche's testimony, put him out of business, restore the family's reputation. If you're likely going to live forever, the honor of your family name means a great deal.



But I couldn't risk leaving the hotel. I didn't feel strong enough. So I rode the elevator as it ascended again, and when it stopped I got out.



I'd been too dizzy to pay attention to the floor when the lift stopped, but now I recognized it. Ahead loomed the tall ivory doors of the Moore Suite. And, in the otherwise deserted corridor, there was my mother, sitting on a bench against the wall.



The shock on her face quickly turned to anger. "What are you doing out of bed?"



I sat next to her and leaned back against the wallpaper.



She placed her hand on my forehead. "I'm taking you back upstairs as soon as you catch your breath."



Finally the door opened. Dr. Cho stood there, looking poised. She had no makeup on. My father stepped out next, his face drained, as if he'd used every ounce of his energy. Nonetheless, he seemed astonished to see Mae.



Then Dr. Cho noticed me. "What are you doing out of bed?"



My father closed the door and looked from my mother to me.



"I got bored staying in the room," I said.



"Well, at least you didn't leave the hotel," Dr. Cho said.



My mother, sleek in her black suit, said, "Why can't hotels make doors that lock only from the outside?"



They wanted to take me upstairs at once, but I convinced them I needed a few minutes to regain my strength. I said to my father, "Please. Tell us what happened."



"I think it went rather well," he said, his voice emotionless.



"You were fantastic." Dr. Cho sounded elated. Then she spoke directly to Mae: "I've never heard such an eloquent speech. You should be so proud of your husband."



"Oh," my mother said. "I am. Very proud of my husband."



The Moore Suite's doors both opened, and COVE members streamed out. Anook Sharma came over and shook my father's hand. "A wonderful presentation. You reminded us what COVE truly stands for. I think you may have changed some minds in there."



Truckler came out of the suite, walking fast, talking to no one. When he saw us, he scowled and kept walking. My father must have made one powerful speech, I thought.



"My, what a face on that fellow," Mae said.



Sharma turned to my mother. "I do not believe I've had the pleasure."



"Anook, forgive me," my father said. "This is Sara Stevenson. My wife."



My parents exchanged a long look. Dr. Cho walked away.



More councilors came over. A Colonist patted my father's back, and three other COVE members shook his hand. Mae stood by his side and smiled. Someone commented, "What a lovely family you have."



And we stayed lovely, the rest of that day.



Because I meekly stayed in bed that afternoon, I was invited to join my parents for dinner downstairs that night. Dr. Cho had declined to join us; she said she had to pack, since she planned to leave the next afternoon. COVE's ruling was expected by noon.



We sat at a corner table in the oyster bar. My mother wore a pale yellow dress and an emerald necklace I'd never seen before. It glimmered in the candlelight. "It belonged to my grandmother," she told me. "And one day it will belong to you. I've decided that when I turn sixty in mortal years, I'll give away all my jewels."



"And what will you wear then?" my father asked her.



"A silver chain, perhaps. Nothing ornate. Older women need to dress their age."



This made no sense at all to me, or to my father-his eyes had a baffled look-but we knew better than to challenge her. Sara logic made its own rules.



After we'd ordered, I said to my father, "I want to hear your speech."



But he declined to repeat it and claimed he didn't remember much of what he'd said. Knowing the quality of his memory, I doubted that. He was being modest, as usual.



"I didn't prepare any speech," he said. "My comments came spontaneously. I simply reminded them of the facts we'd been able to verify and of the specious nature of Roche's arguments. Ari, your comment about the Mexican president proved prescient. He was assassinated about three hours ago."



"The poor man!" Mae said.



"We can't prove that Roche was behind it, of course. But this morning I quoted what you'd heard him say about making an assassin. I'm sure he had to respond to questions about that when he testified."



I was about to ask if he'd heard anything about the testimony, but Anook Sharma had entered the restaurant and, after spending a few seconds scanning the room, headed directly for our table. He looked perplexed, and my heart sank. Don't come over here, I thought. Let us have one night together without worries.



Sharma said hello. "Have you heard the news?"



Our faces showed we hadn't.



"About Godfried Roche," he said. "He's dead."



Afterward, when I tried to remember how I'd felt when I heard that news, I couldn't precisely recollect the feelings. They were a jumble of surprise, apprehension, and-yes, I'll admit it, relief, even guilty pleasure, that he wouldn't be able to harm anyone further.



"Someone attached a bomb to the starter of his car," Sharma said. "He was with two of his wives, on their way here, when it happened."



So Roche never had to answer COVE's final questions. I wondered how that would affect our case. Then it sank in: we had no case. Its subject was gone.



"Do they have any idea who did it?" As usual, my father's voice and words betrayed no emotional reaction.



"The gardai are investigating. Apparently there are surveillance cameras in the area where the car was parked, so they're reviewing the tapes." Sharma moved from foot to foot, as if he felt nervous.



"Won't you join us?" Mae said. "This news is so disturbing."



He said he was on his way to a dinner meeting with other councilors. "I wanted to tell you about Roche. After all you've gone through, I thought you should know." He turned to me. "Are you feeling better, Ariella?"



"Much," I said. In truth, I didn't know what I was feeling.



After Sharma left, I asked, "Is it wrong to feel no remorse about someone's death?"



My father looked across the table, to see if my mother wanted to answer. When she remained quiet, he said, "That's a wrong question to my mind, Ari. Only you can determine whether what you feel or don't feel is right."



I sighed.



"But I can tell you how I feel about it. Roche was no friend to you, or to me. I disapprove wholeheartedly of everything he did. And I can't say I'll miss him. It's likely the world will be better without his presence.



"That said, I wish he hadn't been killed." My father stopped talking as the server delivered plates of oysters on ice. When she'd left again, he continued. "No one deserves to be murdered. Whoever placed that bomb acted immorally."



"What will happen to his wife?" Mae asked. "I mean, the one who survived."



My father said he had no idea.



I excused myself to go to the bathroom. As I walked toward it, I wondered which Elizabeth had survived and why she'd been left behind. What would happen to the twenty-thousand-square-foot house, and how would she use the three wings? If the widow was Elizabeth I, she might run the place as an inn or rent it out for parties, I thought. If she was Elizabeth II, she might set up a think tank there or decide to sell the building and invest the proceeds. And if Elizabeth III had survived-here my imagination failed me. I supposed she might open a massage parlor.



As I returned to the table, I saw something I wasn't meant to see: my mother's hand stretched across the table to touch my father's fingertips. She quickly withdrew her hand when she saw me.



What next? Then I realized: today was the summer solstice. Tonight was Midsummer Night. When the sun stands still, enigmatic events are certain to happen. Sometimes the whole world turns upside down.



Late the next morning, COVE telepathed a notice to all vampires: it had launched an investigation into the death of Dr. Godfried Roche. Anyone with useful information was advised to come forward. Meantime, operations had ceased at the Center for Integrative Neurosciences.



CIN might be gone, I thought. But Elizabeth would go on.



My father let me know about the notice as he was leaving for a business lunch with Sharma. Today was our last day in Dublin, he said. We'd drive back to Kerry tomorrow. My mother planned to spend the day shopping, and he assumed I'd be joining her.



"Have a nice lunch," I said.



A few minutes later, Mae knocked on my door. But I told her to go shopping without me.



"I want to write in my journal." I showed her the green-bound notebook I'd bought at the National Gallery gift shop.



And that wasn't a lie, because I took the journal with me later when I left the hotel. I had someone to see before we left town.



A taxi took me to Hennessey's Hotel in Sandycove. The owner said, "Ah, you look like the other cousin," when I asked if Malcolm was in.



When he came down the stairs, he acted as if he'd been expecting me. "Have you lunched?" he asked. "Then let's go to the pub down the road."



Outside, he took a monogrammed silver case from his pocket, opened it, and removed a cigarette. "Forgive me," he said, and then he lit it.



I'd never seen a vampire smoke. Even though vampire lungs can repair themselves, we associate smoke with fire-the single greatest threat to our existence.



"It's an affectation more than a habit," he said. "A small flirt with the devil."



Malcolm kept up amiable chat as we walked down the beach to the pub. "What a treat," he said. "For years I thought I had no close relations, and now, this rash of cousins. And Montero cousins, no less."



His blond hair, a little long on top, and the loose stride of his walk reminded me of a schoolboy's. Hard to believe he was the same man who'd collaborated with Roche to bring Kathleen back from the dead.



We sat at a low, round wooden table in the lounge area of a village pub. Malcolm ordered sandwiches and ale-not a customary vampire drink, to my knowledge. "You must try one," he said. "Deamhan's Red Ale is a relative newcomer, but in the last few years it's grown enormously popular."



The barman poured out two pints of ale, which glinted deep red in their faceted glasses. I was going to ask what produced the color. Then I took a sip and recognized the familiar tang of artificial blood.



"It's on tap in most of the Dublin pubs now." Malcolm set down his glass. "Might take a while to reach your neck of the woods down south."



"You know where we live?"



"Somewhere in Kerry. Your mother told me." Malcolm smiled. "I don't know the address, of course. She must have forgotten to send me a Christmas card."



I wasn't sure how I felt about his style of humor. It certainly never made me laugh out loud.



"Will you answer some questions?" I asked him.



"Of course. I wouldn't have come out with you otherwise. But first, do try a sandwich. They do an excellent shrimp salad here."



So we ate the sandwiches, served on thick whole-grain bread, and salt-and-vinegar crisps. We sipped the ale. With anyone else, it would have been a very good lunch. With Malcolm, it wasn't a bad one. I'd begun to feel more at ease with the man who'd saved my life more than once. But my father had been right-I'd never be able to trust him.



"Did you kill Roche?"



"Of course not." He dropped a bread crust onto his plate. "I'd be insulted if anyone else asked me that. I make an exception for you, since, after all, I was responsible for the death of Kathleen.



"But I've tried to atone for that. I brought her back. You should have seen her when she was you, Ari. I met her one night in Manhattan. She truly enjoyed being you. Did she tell you about that last night?"



So he knew about Kathleen's visit. "You made her visit me?"



"I thought it might be useful. Just as when I sent the cat to bring you back."



My head began to swim, and it wasn't from drinking ale. "Wait a minute. I'd like to go back to Roche, if you don't mind. Do you know who did kill him?"



"I might." He took a swallow of ale.



I waited, but he picked up another sandwich. "Malcolm," I said. "Who might it be?"



Instead of answering, he went to speak to the publican, who turned and lifted a newspaper from under the bar. Malcolm came back with the paper and spread it before me. Under the headline BOMB SUSPECT SOUGHT BY GARDAI was an indistinct photo, probably taken from the surveillance camera.



"Recognize her?" He took a bite of sandwich.



The grainy print showed a dark-haired woman caught in profile as she walked away from a car. Even though its quality was poor, I could recognize that sharp-featured face. "Isn't it Tamryn?"



He swallowed. "Might be."



"Why did she do it?"



"Oh, she had a number of reasons. But the chief one should be obvious: Roche ruined things for her precious Cameron. That woman wanted to see Neil Cameron elected president more than anything else on earth."



"How did she know Roche was involved?"



He smiled. "I own up to that one. I let her know about the COVE inquiry. She flew over last week to check things out. Our friend Tamryn is quite knowledgeable about explosive devices, you know. She told me she used one to set a fairly large fire on your old campus."



"Why would she tell you that?"



"She's proud of it. She wanted to establish her credentials." He lifted his sandwich again. "My, you ask a lot of questions."



I'd lost my appetite. "Establish credentials why?"



"Why? So that we'd trust her to take out Roche. Isn't that what we've been talking about for the past fifteen minutes? We-and I know you're going to ask who we are, so let me just say some concerned Nebulists-were fed up with Roche's posturings. He wasn't a very good scientist, and he was a perfect model of indiscretion. For every useful thing he did, he made ten glaring mistakes, and he didn't much care if others knew about them because he believed he was incapable of making a mistake.



"In addition to all that, he had remarkably poor taste. Those Betsies." He turned back to his lunch.



"To you, killing him was okay?"



"Not okay." He finished chewing. "Necessary."



"And so you used Tamryn." I took a sip of Deamhan's Ale, which was much better than I'd expected, and tried to think it all through. "What will happen to her?"



"Nothing. The photo's not good, and she's a thousand miles away from here by now. And I hardly used her-I made her aware of an opportunity to do something she wanted to do. The same sort of favor I did for your friend Kathleen."



I shivered. "Some favor." Then I found myself saying, "How did you bring her back?"



"Oh, are you interested in necromancy?"



All at once his face changed. His eyes sank deeper, his nose grew longer, his mouth set in a stern line. The bend of his neck and the slope of his shoulders conjured a much older man.



The transformation frightened me, but I couldn't look away.



"I learned how to converse with the dead in Africa." His voice, deep and guttural, belonged to someone else. "The rituals date to antiquity. Homer knew them."



And to my mind came an image of Odysseus pouring blood into a pit to summon hungry ghosts.



"The ceremonies are more beautiful than you are able to imagine now." His eyes blinked very slowly. "But I could show you. I could teach you."



With all my heart, I felt, I wanted to learn.



The barman saved me by shouting, "How's them sandwiches?"



The spell was shattered. I saw rage flare in Malcolm's eyes, but a second later it disappeared.



He leaned toward me, himself again, bent his neck so that our eyes met on the same level. His were cool and gray. "It could all have been very different. If only you had come to me." His voice had resumed its normal pitch. "I would have made you older, as I promised to, back in Savannah. You could have had everything you wanted."



I shook my head hard, reminded myself why I'd come. "You let them turn me into a zombie."



"Not so." His eyes seemed grey, transparent at that moment. "I didn't know you'd been sedated, or even that you'd been to see Roche, until after the fact, when he called me in to handle the S factor. Why did you go near a quack like that? You fell right into their hands."



"Wait." I tried to think it through. "You didn't know? You didn't plan the whole thing?"



"Ari, I've told you what I did. Once I found out what had happened to you, I agreed to animate the model, bring back Kathleen. By then it was clear that Cameron wouldn't do in the White House, and using a simbo to take him out of the race seemed a pragmatic solution to that problem.



"But I didn't write the script. Cameron had a number of enemies among the Nebulists and Colonists, you know, including some wealthy Colonist ranchers in South Texas who were afraid he would shut them down. Any one of them could have hired Roche to do the job. But why did you go to him?"



"On the advice of a friend's doctor." I wondered who Sloan's doctor had been. "Who may or may not have known who I was."



He pushed his hair back from his face. "You know, you're not stupid, by any means. Most of your questions are good ones. I'm glad you survived. One day, I predict, you and I will work together."



I said I doubted that.



He shrugged. "As you like."



Then it was time to ask the big question. "Do you know what caused the plane crash?"



"No," he said. "Not for certain."



"Could it have been a bomb planted by Tamryn?"



"I don't know. She didn't mention it. I didn't ask. I'll admit, the idea has crossed my mind." He finished his pint of ale. "You drink so slowly," he said, and beckoned to the barman for another. "Now I have a question for you. Why is it so important that you find out the answers? After all, you can't bring back the dead." Then he laughed, as if he'd made the best quip of the day.



Two hundred thirty lives were lost. And Malcolm finds it funny.



He heard my thought. "You're forgetting what we decided about acceptable risks." He pushed back his chair. "Now, do you remember what I asked you back in Savannah? About helping us with the hybrid physiological profile?"



I stood up. "You must be joking."



I dropped ten euros on the table and walked out of the pub.