Joe Haldeman - The Coming

He got up and dressed, running through the changes in his mind. He went back to the great room and snapped on the Roland, but then saw that the phone was blinking. The call hadn’t come in while he was napping, thank goodness; he would have lost his train of thought. It had come while he had the earplugs in, getting blown by a ghost. Probably a middle-aged man by now, like Rabin.

He keyed in the bass viol and adjusted the second violin. He couldn’t get quite the percussion he wanted, so he left it off and wrote a note over the staff. He’d call Billy Kaye this evening and have him send something over; he stocked a cube of foreign percussion effects. After he was satisfied that he’d written everything down, he went to the phone.

Two calls. The first was a man he didn’t recognize. Row upon row of paper books behind him, matched leather bindings identifying them as Florida statutes. A rich lawyer, couldn’t be good news.

It was worse than he could have imagined. He smiled politely and nodded. “Professor Bell, I have a client who has something of value to you: silence. About you and a certain policeman. We will be having lunch at the rear table at Alice’s Tea Room at noon today. Noon. If you’re not there, we’ll go to the police.

“You’ve met my client, Guilliame Capra.” That slimeball Willy Joe. “Surprisingly, he has many friends on the police force.”

The man disappeared. Norman played it back and it didn’t improve. He erased it and sat back to think, but nothing came. Nothing but rising panic.

He went to the kitchen and got a wineglass, then opened the wine cabinet and closed it again. Instead, he poured an inch of brandy. He sat at the breakfast table and took one sip. Then he poured it out and rinsed the glass. No answer there.

What a lovely world this was.

Maybe they were only going to threaten to expose him to Rory. Big surprise. It would take some playacting, but they could simulate an outraged wife and penitant husband.

But no. Not in this day and age. They would threaten his career and Rory’s, too.

Could Qabil be behind it? No; he’d lose even more than them. His fellow officers would not be amused.

He’d talk to Rory after work. First find out what the blackmailer wanted. He realized he couldn’t say within a million dollars either way, how much money they had. Better find out before lunch. He checked his watch; two hours.

He went to call the bank and remembered the second message. It was Rory, asking him to call. He punched index-1.

Her personal line rang and she punched it. Norman returning her call.

“Company tonight, sweetheart. You remember the Slidells, from Yale?”

He nodded and rubbed his chin. “Vegetarians?”

“You’re amazing. He’s vegan, I think, Lamar. At least he wears an equals sign on a necklace, Church of Reason.”

“Okay.” He seemed distracted. “I was going downtown for lunch. Market’s not open; I’ll see what Publix has.”

“No eggs or cheese?”

“Heavens, no. I wouldn’t enslave our fellow creatures.” He didn’t smile.

“There’s something wrong?”

“Bad morning. Talk about it later.”

“We can talk now. There’s no one here.”

“No… no, I have to check some stuff out…”

“I mean, I’ll have the Slidells with me when I come home.”

“It’s okay. Later.” The screen went blank.

She almost called him right back. Something was really bothering him. But the other phone rang, her public line.

“¿Buenos?” She’d seen the woman before, but couldn’t place her.

“Good morning, Dr. Bell. June Clearwater, mayor’s office.” Of course, the mayor had heard about the anniversary broadcast and wanted some “input.” He wanted to be sure that Rory would mention Gainesville, she assumed. He came on-line.

“Mr. Southeby. ‘Input’?”

He showed a professional number of teeth. “Rory. I just heard about your shooting schedule and wanted—”

“Hold it. You know my schedule and I don’t?”

“The camera crew was just here,” he said, a little defensive. “They were headed for you next.”

“That’s wonderful. They were supposed to call.” On cue, the call-waiting icon strobed in the corner of the screen. “That’s probably them. Talk to you later, Cameron.” She punched control-#, to record.

It was Chancellor Barrett, his face all grim furrows. “Rory. Do you remember a young man named Ybor Lopez?”

“As in Ybor City? Sounds vaguely familiar.”

“He used to work in Deedee’s office.”

“Used to… is he the one who got arrested last month?”

“That’s right; data crime. He was nosing through your files, among others. He hasn’t been in touch with you, then, since his arrest?”

“Not that I recall. He might have tried—I probably have five or ten people call this number for every one that gets through. I could have someone check the log.”

“That would be fine… um… the police might be bothering you about this; they just called me. Lopez died in jail this morning, under suspicious circumstances.”

“Oh, that’s a pity. For a computer crime?”

“I don’t know any details. Just thought I’d give you some advance warning.”

“Thanks.” All we need is a bunch of cops rubbing shoulders with the reporters. “I’ll let you know if anything happens. Buenos días.”

“Buenos.” She broke the connection. Busy woman, that cube thing coming up tonight.

There was a maddening lack of information here. Before calling Deedee, he did a quick mental review of what had happened a month before:

He’d come back from that damned meeting, having asked Deedee to use Lopez to snoop on Aurora Bell. He was straightening up before lunch and a bright red flag came up on his screen: a security compromise warning. It said that Ybor Lopez was grinding away at the encryptation of personnel files. So he didn’t have as much jaquismo as Deedee had given him credit for.

Although he would have preferred to let Ybor toil away undisturbed, the cat was out of the bag, whatever that actually meant. So he called in a warrant request and said he’d meet the arresting officer down at the physics building.

Then the screwup with the stunning dart. He’d managed to pocket the ejected data crystal. The sergeant saw but shrugged it off.

There was nothing much on the crystal but universes of data about Deedee and Bell. For some reason, Lopez had been pursuing details about a garage door Bell had bought. If they’d come in a few minutes later, there might have been something interesting there. Lopez hadn’t gone off in that odd direction for no reason.

He tried to visualize the Bells’ garage door. Nothing unusual.

Barrett put his anachronistic glasses down and rubbed his eyes. Had he indirectly murdered this young man by asking Deedee to check up on Bell? He’d only talked to Deedee about it once, right after the arrest. Lopez hadn’t had a chance to tell her anything.

His personal line chimed and he swatted the button. It was Deedee, her eyes red and streaming with tears.

“My God, Mal. What have we done?”

“The police talked to you, too?”

“No—it’s on the goddamned news. Somebody murdered him.”

“What? The cop said—”

“Drug overdose; that’s what the news said. But you can’t overdose on a DD like José y María, and people who are on it don’t take other drugs. They don’t work…”