Kevin Anderson - Artifact

He rapidly summarized what he had learned: Paul Trujold’s discovery of the artifact’s true power, and the real purpose behind Frikkie’s Daredevil scheme—knowledge that had cost Selene’s father his life.

Keene watched McKendry absorb the information, run it through his logic filters. He knew McKendry’s process, knew his partner would come to the same conclusions he himself had reached.

Finally, in a lowered voice, McKendry said, “If it were anybody else telling me this, I wouldn’t even listen.”

“But it is me, Terris. Damn it, it’s the truth.”

McKendry gestured with the pistol, not in a threatening manner, just as the most obvious means to point. “I think you’d better disassemble those explosives. You won’t be needing them now.”

Keene hesitated, feeling his heart turn to lead in his chest. “I promised Selene,” he said. “With her dying breath she asked me to shut down Oilstar, to get even with them. I can’t ignore that.”

“And I gave my word to protect this platform. It may not be worth what I thought it was, but I won’t let you destroy theValhalla .” He paused. “There’s got to be some other way.”

The two men held their ground, each waiting for the other to speak or offer a suggestion. After a minute, Keene said, “Crap. Maybe I don’t have to blow up theValhalla to be true to my promise.”

A short time later, the two men stood side by side at the edge of the heliport deck, high above the water. McKendry’s on-duty security men had encountered them and waved at their chief. They had not bothered to question the identity of the man wearing Virata’s work overalls. McKendry growled under his breath; Keene snickered at their incompetence.

The smaller man held the odd artifact that had been excavated from deep beneath the sea. He stared at it for the last time.

“I sure wish I understood what this is,” he said. “But I know it’s not worth all the grief it’s caused.” He held it high, dangling it more than a hundred feet over the waters of the Gulf of Paria, and thought of his promise to Selene. Frik Van Alman would be more upset about not regaining the artifact than he would ever have been about losing the oil rig.

He smiled at the thought of his revenge, muttered something under his breath, and let go.

As the artifact droped from his fingers, it reflected the lights of the rig oddly, as if the perspective were wrong. The optical illusion made it appear to hang in the air.

McKendry’s big hand reached out in a flash and grabbed the object before it could fall to the water.

“No. That wouldn’t finish it, Joshua.” Keene glared at his friend, feeling betrayed, but McKendry continued. “Frik would find it. Somehow.”

“That’s ridiculous. He couldn’t know—”

“Anything is possible. He could have a camera on us right at this moment.”

Keene didn’t answer. McKendry grinned. “I’ve reduced you to silence. That’s a change. Listen to me, would you? Getting rid of this would not make Frik stop what he’s doing. You said yourself this thing could make internal combustion engines a distant memory. That would destroy Oilstar, destroy Frikkie.”

“What if he comes after it before then?”

“He won’t,” McKendry said.

“Why not?”

“Because he trusts us to be good soldiers and do as we were told. On New Year’s Eve, you and I will go to Las Vegas and make Frik answer for himself. We’ll see to it that this discovery gets put to good use for the whole world, not just for one greedy son of a bitch.”

Keene sighed and stared out at the water and the nearby coast of Trinidad. The sky was lightening, shifting from indigo to blues and grays and pinks as the first rays of the sun refracted through the gathering clouds. Red sky at morning, he thought. A storm was on the way.

“You always did hate loose ends,” he said, turning to face his friend.

McKendry didn’t so much as crack a smile. “And you always did talk too much.”

39

No matter how hard she tried, Peta was unable to find closure on Arthur’s death. Time, purportedly the ultimate healer, passed, but the void he had left in her life kept growing.

After Carnival and the arrival of a new round of students at the medical school, the only distraction she allowed herself was watching news reports of the American elections on television. She found the debates entertaining. The rumpus in Florida kept her laughing, as had the Monica debacle. While morality on the island was purported to be of great significance to its populace, and in particular to those in government, the truth was that Grenadian politicians made Clinton’s high jinks look like a good day at Sunday school.

The difference was that here the personal lives of government officials were conducted behind closed doors. Talk at the Watering Hole never lacked its dose of rumors, whispers, and gossip, but it was laced with rum, not with legal action.

With New Year’s Eve only ten days away, Peta went to see her travel agent, whose office on the Carenage always seemed to be run with less efficiency than its well-decorated interior might have indicated.

Her travel plan was simple—provided she could get the airline schedule to cooperate: fly to San Juan and connect to New York, if need be via Miami. She had no wish to stay over in New York. All she wanted was time to go to the precinct, collect Arthur’s fragment, and be at Danny’s on Forty-sixth Street at five o’clock on New Year’s Eve. Sentiment drove her to be there on her birthday—their birthday—even though she would be there alone. That and the distant hope that by being there, by keeping their date, she could finally find some degree of closure.

The way she figured it, she could have a car pick her up at Danny’s at seven—in time to get her to the airport for a nine o’clock flight to Vegas. Traffic to the airport would be light on New Year’s Eve. The flight would get her to her destination by eleven, Vegas time.

Having taken care of her business at the travel agency, she went next door and upstairs to the Nutmeg for a peanut punch and a roti. Sitting at a table next to the open area overlooking the fishing boats and ferries, she made a few notes, reminders of the things she had to do before leaving: go to the bank for money; collect the real artifact from Ralphie; call Ray to let him know that she was coming to the meeting via New York and give him her arrival time in Vegas; and call the maitre d’ at Danny’s to tell him to reserve a quiet corner table for her for five o’clock. The restaurant wouldn’t be crowded yet at that hour, and even if it was, George would find a way to get her a table.

She thought about what to take along and decided that one small roll-on suitcase, her medical bag, and a handbag would be more than enough to hold the necessities. It wasn’t as if she were planning to do the town—New York or Las Vegas. Besides, as Arthur had so often told her, she could always buy what she needed at the other end.

She wondered irreverently, without the usual accompanying stab of pain, if the same principle held true for the journeys to heaven and hell. Maybe, she thought, she was beginning to heal after all.

That evening, Peta made the necessary arrangements with her associate and put in a call to Danny’s. George was delighted to hear from her.

“Let me look at the reservation book,” he said. “Yes. Here it is. I thought I hadn’t erased it. Five o’clock. Dinner. Dr. Whyte and—”

He stopped abruptly. She thanked him and quickly hung up. Next, she called Ray in Las Vegas.

“I have a dinner reservation at Danny’s at five o’clock. I called George. He said they hadn’t erased the booking Arthur made before…”

“I was there when he made that reservation,” Ray reminded her, as if she could have forgotten. “You’re not even staying over for one night?” He sounded almost irritated with her.