Alex Benedict 07 - Coming Home Read online

  There was nothing else at the summit.

  Alex stared out at the lake far below. “Why did he come up here? Why didn’t he at least bring someone else along?”

  * * *

  Carensa Paterna asked the same question next day on Jennifer in the Morning. “I’m not denying,” she said, “that Casmir had a rough edge. He said what he thought. That hurts sometimes. But think how much better the world would be if we all behaved that way.”

  Jennifer looked skeptical. “Are you sure about that?”

  Carensa smiled. “Well, yeah, I know what you’re saying. But we claim to be all about truth, don’t we? I’d like to be able to believe that when people say nice things, they mean it. Rather than that they have some ulterior motive. That they’re trying to get something. Or they’re just sparing my feelings. And that’s my point about Casmir: You could trust him. He meant what he said. I’ll confess I loved the guy. There were times he hurt my feelings. But I’m really going to miss him, Jen. I hate to think of what his final hours must have been like. Wandering around on that mountain. What was he doing there anyhow? He knew his health was failing, and it just makes me wonder if he felt lost. That maybe he didn’t care anymore.”

  * * *

  The Hillside was an exquisite, lush club on the Riverwalk. They had a human hostess, which is standard in most of the better restaurants, and human waiters, which, of course, is not. They also had a pianist, who was playing the theme from Last Chance when I walked in. Jasmine candles glittered on the tables. Prints in the style of the last century, and dark-stained wooden tables and walls provided a sense of nostalgia. I sat down and ordered a pizza, propped my notebook in front of me, and was reading the newsclips when a familiar voice asked if she could join me. It was JoAnn. “Sure,” I said, folding the notebook. “How are you doing?”

  “Not real well.” She eased into a chair.

  “What’s wrong, JoAnn?”

  She pressed her lips together. Shook her head. “I don’t trust it.”

  “You mean tinkering with the drive?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  She sat quietly for a minute, staring out the window at the Riverwalk. Tourists were strolling past, kids with balloons, people in coaches. “Have you talked to Shara?”

  “Not since the flight.”

  She leaned close to me and lowered her voice. “I’m pretty sure we could make it work, Chase. Odds are extremely good we could stop the Capella right in its tracks. But damn it, I can’t be certain. And I just can’t bring myself to put all those people at risk. Shara wants me to run the experiment again. Her argument is that if we get it right twice, we should be okay.”

  “Are you going to do it?”

  A waiter arrived. “Could you give us a few minutes?” JoAnn asked. “I haven’t really had a chance to look at the menu yet.” Then she turned back to me. “There’s no point in repeating it, Chase. Even if it worked fine, if the timing on a second run was perfect, I still wouldn’t be in a position to guarantee it would work for the Capella.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice shook. “I can’t take that kind of chance. They want me to run a successful experiment, then assure them everything will be okay. Management is scared, Chase. There’s a lot of pressure on them now. The politicians want to get this thing settled. They want the problem to go away. John is the only one who’s resisting.”

  “John Kraus?”

  “Yes. He recognizes there’s a quantum factor in all this, that there’s no way we can be certain. He’s right. But try to explain that to the politicians.”

  I wasn’t sure exactly what to say. My gut-level reaction was that I should simply keep out of it. Which I guess is what I tried to do. “JoAnn, John’s ultimately responsible to make the call. Just do what you can and let him take it from there.”

  “I know. But he’ll want my opinion, and I’m pretty sure that’s what he’ll go with.” She brought up the menu, but she wasn’t really looking at it. “You know, I came here thinking I could make this work. I understood from the beginning there was a slight possibility it could go wrong. But the chance seemed so infinitesimal that I thought we could live with it.”

  “What changed? Did you find out something?”

  “Seeing the families. That’s what changed. Seeing pictures of the passengers.” They’d been all over the news feeds. “It was always five percent. That just seems like a much bigger number now.” She looked in pain. “I don’t want to be responsible for killing these people.”

  The waiter came back. JoAnn was still looking toward the menu, not really reading it. “I’ll have a Camara salad,” she said. It was a specialty of the house, and I suspected it was what she usually ordered.

  “What does Shara think?”

  “She wants to play the odds. Which is fine if it works. But it’s easy for her. I’m not sure she’d be so ready to do it if it were up to her to make the call.”

  I wanted to tell her there’s always a level of uncertainty. In everything. Nothing’s a hundred percent in life. But I kept my mouth shut.

  Her eyes darkened. “The stakes are too high.”

  SEVEN

  Solitude is okay, as long as you have a friend to share it with.

  —Agathe Lawless, Sunset Musings, 9417 C.E.

  Linda Talbott had been a special client because she had also lost someone on the Capella. Her husband, George, had been a talented novelist. He’d written narratives centered on politics and religion, had won some major awards, and had been a rising star in serious fiction when he boarded the cruise liner eleven years earlier. He was from Dellaconda originally, and, Linda had told me, he’d been an admirer of Margaret Weinstein, its president at the beginning of the century. Weinstein had captured his attention by pushing a term-limits bill through an antagonistic legislature. After that, according to the common wisdom, the universe had grown brighter. Government on Dellaconda had become more straightforward, and, significantly, similar bills had been passed or were periodically being introduced throughout the Confederacy. That achievement alone had raised her to the front rank of Dellacondan presidents and should have ended with her becoming chief executive of the Confederacy. It didn’t happen, of course. She shared a characteristic with Kolchevsky: She tended to say what she thought. She’d gotten away with it while rising to the top on Dellaconda, but there was no way she could have disregarded politics the way she did and become the Confederacy’s chief executive.

  Consequently, when Weinstein’s chair became available, I contacted Linda. It would command a steep price, but she had resources. She and her husband had a palatial residence along the coast in Ocean Gate, a kilometer north of Andiquar. And they owned an asteroid home. It was the place, she’d told me, they always retreated to when George was making the final pass through his current novel.

  “I just thought,” I told her as we sat in the Hillside, “you might be interested.”

  “Interested?” She almost squealed. “Oh, yes. How much?”

  “They’re still bidding on it,” I said. “But I can connect you with Alex. Let him know how much you’re willing to go. He’ll take it from there. And get you the best price he can.”

  “I’d love,” she said, “to have it sitting in the middle of our living room when George walks in.”

  “It’s pretty valuable. I’m not sure you’d want to have it where your cats could chew on it.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I wouldn’t put it here. I’d take it out to Momma. By the way, would you and Alex be able to arrange delivery? At my expense, of course.”

  “Of course. You’re going to give it to your mother?”

  “Momma’s our asteroid.”

  “Oh.”

  “I could explain it, but you’d need an hour or so.”

  I laughed. “I’ll tell Alex you’re interested.”

  * * *

  They delivered the chair to us a few days later. We p
ut it in the conference room. I was disappointed by its general appearance. It was in decent condition. But it was mostly black faux leather, and there were some scratches. But it looked comfortable, and maybe that was all that mattered. “What do you think?” Alex asked me.

  “How much is she paying for it?”

  “Three quarters of a million.”

  “That seems like a lot of money for a chair that looks so ordinary.”

  “That’s what pumps up the value, Chase,” he said. “This was where she sat when she changed Confederate politics.” He was obviously pleased with himself. “It’s actually a good buy.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  He made no effort to hide his disappointment at my attitude. “When’s Linda coming?”

  “She said she’d be here this morning.”

  “Okay. I have to go out for a while. If she comes while I’m gone, congratulate her for me. And have her sign the documents. Morris Delivery will pick it up this afternoon, and they tell me they’ll get it to Momma within three days.” He delivered the line without cracking a smile.

  I did a search on Weinstein and looked through pictures and displays. There was an excerpted comment by George, who had said of her in one of his novels that if she had been running Dellaconda two centuries earlier, there would never have been a war with the Mutes. I looked at photos. Here she was giving awards to celebrated literary figures. And treating famous scientists to dinner at the presidential estate. And at Everhold shaking hands with a few Mutes while she tried to keep the peace. And the famous picture of her sitting at a table with a Mute child in the world capital.

  * * *

  Linda showed up while I was still glossing over the history. I took her back to the conference room, showed her the chair, and was relieved at her reaction. “It’s gorgeous,” she said.

  “It is nice, isn’t it?”

  “Chase, he’s going to love having that in the house.” She took a deep breath. “I hope we’re able to get him home.”

  “Me, too.” She stood behind it and pressed her fingertips into it. Then, when she’d had enough, we gave it some distance and sat down at the conference table. “How often do you get to the asteroid?” I asked.

  “We spend about two months a year up there. It’s never been my favorite place. But George likes solitude. At least he does when he’s finishing a project.”

  “Why was he on the Capella?”

  “He was doing research, Chase.”

  “Really? What kind of research?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, but he was writing a novel in which an interstellar with a bunch of politicians on board develops some sort of mechanical problem and sets down on an alien world, where they have to cooperate in order to survive.”

  “So it’s a thriller?”

  “More like a comedy.” She checked the time. “Well, anyhow, I have to go. Tell Alex I said thanks. Do I pay you?”

  “We can do it that way. And I need you to sign some documents.” I led the way back to my office. “May I ask a question?”

  “Certainly, Chase.”

  “Who named it Momma?”

  “I don’t know. Probably the previous owner. Somebody with a dark sense of humor, I guess. It was one of the things that attracted us to it. That, and the fact that it’s an almost perfectly smooth sphere.”

  “I’d be interested in meeting him. George, that is.”

  “He’s an odd guy in a lot of ways. But you’d like him, Chase. He told me once about the secret of life. You know what it is?”

  “I’m not sure what George thinks it is.”

  “It’s having lunch with friends. I think most people never got to see that side of him.” Her voice had gotten shaky.

  There were several hundred residences set up on asteroids. Most have plastene domes, but a few are apparently shielded only by a force field. I wouldn’t be too comfortable with that arrangement. Power goes out, and you have a serious problem.

  I went outside with her and watched while she climbed into the skimmer. “When we have the coming-home party,” she said, “we’d like very much if you and Alex could attend. We’ll be happy to provide transportation, Chase.”

  “Thank you, Linda,” I said. “I’ll let Alex know.”

  “You’ll both be receiving formal invitations.” She waved. “Thanks, Chase.”

  I backed away as she lifted off. She turned north, and I thought how much I would have enjoyed meeting President Weinstein.

  EIGHT

  When love comes down the trail, everything else—wealth, ambition, security, even one’s career—retreats into the shadows.

  —Walford Candles, Marking Time, 1229

  Alex never did get back to the office that day although he left a message. “He expects to be on Jennifer tomorrow,” Jacob said.

  “Anything special going on?” I asked.

  “Yes. He says he knows why Kolchevsky was on the mountain.”

  “Really?”

  “He called Inspector Redfield this morning to offer his theory.”

  “And what is the theory?”

  “I was not included in the conversation.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “No. He would have told me if he wished me to know.”

  Which meant that he was really keeping me out of the loop. Alex does enjoy playing games. I thought about calling him, but that was probably what he wanted me to do. And if I did, he’d find a reason to put me off. He could be an infuriating boss when he wanted to. “Did he have any visitors this morning?”

  “No, Chase. And no calls connected with the matter.”

  I knew he’d been going through Kolchevsky’s history, and obviously he’d found something. I’d read the guy’s bio and some comments by his colleagues. I’d even gone back and watched some of his more current media appearances, but I hadn’t seen anything helpful. Anyhow, it became a busy afternoon, so I put it out of my mind and spent the rest of the day talking with clients about artifacts that had become available.

  I stayed late on the chance he would return and have no choice but to tell me what he knew. But he didn’t show, and, finally, I closed up and went home.

  * * *

  My morning routine is to watch Jennifer while I eat breakfast. Usually, I get downstairs just as the show is starting. That morning, though, I was a half hour early, so I’d finished before she blinked on in my living room, along with two chairs, a table, and the studio background. She was seated in one of the chairs and began by doing her standard opening lines welcoming her viewers to the show. Then she reminded us of the unfortunate death of Casmir Kolchevsky, who had been her frequent guest over many years. She told us she might have a breaking story that would explain what had caused his death. Then she showed several clips of him laughing, lecturing the audience, and playing the morally upright figure who attacked anyone who did not subscribe to his code of behavior. Which consisted largely of taking umbrage with those who had the temerity to pursue and sell artifacts.

  She described the strangeness of his passing. “He was not a mountain climber,” she said. “He did a little bit of that when he was younger, but as far as we can tell, this was the first time he’d gone up a steep slope in more than thirty years.

  “Anyway, he’s been a frequent contributor to this show, and we’ve enjoyed having him on board. I’ll miss him. A lot of us will. Among them is Alex Benedict, the antiquarian who was an occasional target for Kolchevsky. That was probably because Alex was so successful at what he did and because he believed that artifacts rightfully belonged to whoever found them, and not necessarily to the museums.” She looked off to her right. “Alex, do I have that right?”

  Alex strode into the room. “I think that’s a fair summation, Jennifer. And good morning.”

  “Welcome to the show, Alex.”

  “Thanks for having me.” He took a seat at the table. “It’s always a pleasure.”

  “Before we go any further, when I called yesterda
y to ask whether you had a comment on the loss of Casmir, you surprised me.”

  “In what way?”

  “You expressed a degree of sympathy for him that I would not have expected. Despite the fact that—I don’t know any other way to say this—he was on occasion extremely critical of you.”

  Alex smiled. “Well, I suppose you could say that. I don’t think Casmir approved of my line of work. But that’s okay. Some people think accountants commit profane acts. In any case, Jen, I’m sorry we’ve lost him. He expressed his views as he saw them. We didn’t agree on some basic issues. But he was essentially a good man. I think we can let it go at that.”

  “Alex, when I asked you how you’d reacted to the manner of his death, a man with a bad heart walking on a mountain trail, you told me you thought you knew exactly what happened.”

  “Well, that may have been an exaggeration. But I have a theory.” He leaned back in the chair and smiled.

  She waited for him to proceed. But he fell silent, and she rolled her eyes. “Alex,” she said, “you should have gone into show business.”

  He managed to look puzzled. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Let’s let it go. Would you be willing to share that theory with us?”

  “Of course. I’ve been delving through everything I could find on Casmir. As I’m sure you know, there’s a substantial amount of material.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “Some pictures.”

  “You brought them, I hope.”

  “Oh, yes.” The studio scene blinked off and was replaced by a young couple standing on a porch. It took a moment to recognize the guy, but he was Kolchevsky. Probably in his mid-twenties. The woman I didn’t know. She might have been two or three years younger, with dark eyes, amber hair cut short, and attractive features. “The young lady,” said Alex, “is Anna Kushnir. Roughly a year after this picture was taken, they married.” The picture was replaced by another, of the couple on a beach. Then participating in a graduation exercise. And coming out of a church. And another at their wedding.