Dan Simmons - Darwin's Blade

Dar made a face.

“You go on,” said Syd. “I’m going to settle in—as you say—and just enjoy this perfect little place for a while before I come down.”

Dar took some matches. “I’ll light the snow lanterns so the path will be illuminated.”

Syd just smiled.

She came down the trail to the cabin about an hour later. She had changed out of her professional-looking suit into jeans, a flannel shirt, and cross-trainer sneakers. Her ninemillimeter pistol was holstered to her belt.

It was full dark now and a mountain chill had set in. Dar had started a small fire in the huge fireplace and his old reel-to-reel tape player was playing classical music—he had not thought about the selection, merely flipped on the player as he usually did when alone in the cabin—but the music was an assortment of lovely pieces—the Adagietto fourth movement from Mahler’s Fifth Symphony, the second movement from Brahms’s Second Piano Concerto, the second movement from Beethoven’s Seventh, the third and fourth movements from Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony, Kyoko Takezawa playing Mendelssohn’s andante movement from the Concerto for Violin and Orchestra, op. 64, Kyrie Eleisons from both Beethoven’s Mass in Solemnis and Mozart’s Requiem, some Mitsuko Uchida and Horowitz piano solos (including Dar’s favorite, the Scriabin Etude in C sharp minor, op. 2, no. 1 from the extraordinary Horowitz in Moscow album), Ying Huang singing opera arias with the London Symphony Orchestra, and lighter pieces with Heinz Holliger on oboe with orchestra.

At the last second, Dar was afraid that the chief investigator would think that he was trying to set a romantic mood, but he saw at once from her expression that she simply liked the music.

“Mozart,” she said, listening to the amazing voices in the Requiem . She nodded and came over to join him by the fire, sitting in the other leather club chair across from his.

“Would you like some hot tea?” Dar had said. “Green, mint, Grey’s breakfast, regular Lipton’s…”

Syd’s gaze had moved to the antique “hoosier” by the kitchen counter. “Is that a bottle of Macallan?” she said.

“It is indeed,” said Dar. “Pure single-malt.”

“It’s almost full,” she said.

“I don’t like to drink alone.”

“I’d love a whiskey,” she said.

Dar went over to the counter, retrieved two crystal whiskey glasses from the cupboard, and poured.

“Ice?” he said.

“In good single-malt?” said the chief investigator. “You go near an ice cube and I’ll draw down on you.”

Dar nodded. The glasses of amber liquid glowed as he came back close to the fire. They savored the Scotch in silence for several comfortable minutes.

Dar was shocked to realize that he was taking great pleasure in this woman’s company and that there was a slight but growing physical tension—awareness might be a better word—between the two of them. It shocked Dar, who had always known he was different from most men. The sight of a nude woman could arouse him, did arouse him still in his dreams. But beyond mere physical arousal, Dar linked true, deep desire with specificity. Even before he had met his wife, Barbara, he had never understood desiring a person not known, not understood, not… central.

And then he had loved Barbara . He had desired Barbara . It was Barbara’s face and voice and red hair and small breasts and pink nipples and red pubic hair and pale, white skin that became and remained the source of his love, attention, and desire. In the past decade since her death, he had seemed to move further and further away from finding or being able to feel such specific desire toward any other person. But now Dar Minor found himself sipping Scotch and looking at Chief Investigator Sydney Olson as she sat comfortably in the club chair, the red Indian blanket behind her head and the firelight soft on her. He noticed the weight of her breasts against the fabric of her shirt, and the brilliance of her eyes above the sparkling crystal of the Scotch glass, and…

“…reminds me of?” Syd was saying.

Dar shook his head—literally—to clear it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”

Syd looked around the glowing room. Small halogen spots illuminated bookcases and works of art. The firelight was reflected in the many windowpanes. A single swing lamp put a circle of light on Dar’s worktable at the far end of the long room.

“I said, do you know what all this reminds me of?”

“No,” Dar said softly. Still feeling the tides of the sexual and emotional tension between them, he had the overwhelming feeling that Syd was about to make a personal comment that would bring them a step closer, would change both of their lives forever, whether he wanted it to or not. “What does all this remind you of?”

“It reminds me of one of those stupid action movies where a cop is put in charge of guarding the life of some witness, so they head far off to the woods, far from any backup. They set up camp in a house full of huge picture windows, to make it easy for a sniper,” said Syd. “And then the cop is totally surprised when someone takes a shot at them. Did you ever see Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard ?”

“No,” said Dar.

Syd shook her head. “It was silly. The script was originally written for Steve McQueen and Diana Ross…that might have been better. At least McQueen seemed to be thinking when he was on screen.”

Dar swallowed some Scotch and said nothing.

She paused for a second; she seemed far away. Then she shrugged. “Do you keep any weapons in the cabin?”

“You mean firearms?”

“Yes.”

“No,” said Dar, stating the literal truth, but lying just the same.

“I take it from your earlier comments that you frown on handguns.”

“I think they’re the bane and shame of America,” said Dar. “Our worst sin since slavery.”

Syd nodded. “But you aren’t offended with me keeping my weapon handy?”

“You’re an officer of the law,” said Dar. “You’re required to.”

Syd nodded again. “But you have no shotguns, hunting rifles?”

Dar shook his head. “Not in the cabin. I have some old weapons stored away.”

“You know what the best home-defense weapon is?” asked Syd. She took a drink of whiskey and held the glass in both hands.

“A pit bull?” ventured Dar.

“Nope. A pump-action shotgun. Doesn’t matter what gauge.”

“I guess it wouldn’t require much target practice to hit someone with a shotgun,” agreed Dar.

“More than that,” said Syd. “The sound of a pump shotgun being racked in a dark house is absolutely unmistakable. You’d be amazed the deterrent effect it can have on burglars and ne’er-do-wells.”

“Ne’er-do-wells,” repeated Dar, savoring the word. “Well, if the sound of the shotgun being racked is the important thing, one wouldn’t have to have shells for it, would one?”

Syd said nothing, but her expression showed her opinion of keeping weapons around with no ammunition.

“Actually,” said Dar, “all I’d need would be a tape recording of a shotgun being racked, wouldn’t I?”

Syd set her glass down and wandered over to Dar’s main worktable. There were few loose papers there but several paperweights—a small piston head, a small carnivore’s skull, a Disneyland paperweight with Goofy in a snowstorm, and a single, green shotgun shell.

Syd lifted the shell. “Four-ten gauge. Significance?”

Dar shrugged. “I used to have a Savage .410 over-and-under,” he said quietly. “A gift from my father right before he died. It was an antique. I left it behind in storage in Colorado.”