Kathleen Goonan - Crescent City Rhapsody

Traffic was heavy for midnight. At least Zeb thought so, though he hadn’t been to the D.C. area for about three years. The city must be filling up for the summit, and people weren’t flying if they could help it. Zeb wouldn’t have minded flying. He knew that nothing would happen again until the dates he had dropped off at Sally’s on the way up, with the admonition not to let anyone she knew fly at those times. The first day was three weeks away, but he didn’t know what might happen to him by then.

Ten miles of no vacancy signs prompted Zeb to turn abruptly into the Captain’s Nest, a motel with a green blinking anchor, an artifact from long ago when Route 50 was a major corridor to Delaware beaches. He jumped from the cab into the shock of cold; traffic swished past on the wet road.

“Last room,” said the elderly clerk, sliding a heavy brass key across the worn Formica counter.

Zeb opened #10 and left a copy of his tape beneath the pillow, the tape he had made on the way to Thanksgiving dinner in Roanoke, when he understood it all. He hadn’t had time to reconstruct his reasoning yet. He had another copy in his pocket, had left yet another in an iron box buried on the slope above his cabin. The printouts were still underneath his truck seat.

In another fifteen minutes, he was on a quiet subdivision street. Most of the houses had turned off their holiday lights for the night.

Craig’s wife sent him a Christmas card every year. He had known her in college as Craig’s girlfriend, a quiet girl with long brown hair and heavy glasses, a math major. They had two children, one in college now. He had never met the kids. He had seen Craig fairly often since college at meetings, but had never been to this house.

He turned right onto Swan Lake Drive. He had ascertained that Craig’s house was three houses from the corner on the right. He looked around to see if there were an untoward number of cars parked nearby, but it didn’t look like it. He wondered whether to park farther away and walk and decided that might be a good idea. He thought again that he should have rented a car. Surely whoever had ransacked his house knew what kind of vehicle he had. For all he knew, a satellite had him under surveillance right now.

And, he reflected, he’d even taken his medicine.

He parked down the street. He sat in his truck for a minute after he killed the engine. It was cold; his unreliable truck thermometer showed twenty-one degrees. He hadn’t called ahead. He realized that he had only the vaguest of ideas of what he hoped to accomplish here. A confrontation with Craig? Or maybe he would find that his old friend had suffered the same kind of indignities as he had.

Somehow he thought not.

The good homeowners had duly cleared their walks, but he walked gingerly because of ice. He saw no one. He stepped onto Craig’s small porch and rang the doorbell.

A dog barked inside. He wondered how his dogs were doing at Sally’s and rang again, holding the buzzer down. “Go away,” a voice whispered at his elbow. He started. An intercom.

“I can’t,” he said. “It’s Zeb. I need to talk to Craig.”

“Craig’s not here.” Clara’s voice.

“Where is he? Is he all right?”

There was silence again for a while. He buzzed again. The dog barked.

“Craig really isn’t here,” she said, sounding irritated.

“Look. I’m sorry I woke you up. I’ve just kind of stopped by for a holiday visit.”

“Right.”

He was sure she knew something. “Please. It’s really cold out here.”

He heard a snort. The chain rattled; she ordered the dog away from the door. She opened the door and yanked him inside by the arm. She shut and chained the door swiftly.

She turned, frowning. “I thought you lived without heat.” Her hair was much shorter now and blond. She was not wearing glasses, and her blue eyes were much sharper than he remembered. She was wearing slacks, a turtleneck sweater, and heavy socks. “You look rather distinguished, despite the mountain man getup.”

“Thanks, I think,” said Zeb. “You look great. You were awake, I guess.”

The dog growled. “Quiet, Zeit.”

“Zeit?” Zeb frowned down at him. Zeit was a Doberman. Zeb had never cared for the breed.

“Spare me the jokes,” Clara said. “It was my son’s idea. He was studying German at the time. Come in and sit down.”

Zeb followed Clara two steps down into a den that faced the backyard; a fire burned low in a stone fireplace. Zeit followed at his heels. Clara gestured toward an antique table that served as a bar. “Help yourself. The Dalwhinnie is excellent. That’s what I’m drinking.”

Zeb took a lot of water and a drop of whisky. He and Clara sat facing one another on deep leather chairs. Zeit’s eyes as he assumed an alert pose before the fire did not leave Zeb’s face. “So where is Craig?” asked Zeb.

“I don’t know,” said Clara. She leaned her head back against the cushion and stared straight ahead. “I often don’t.”

“Do you have a clue?”

“No. He just vanished two days ago. I know that he’s safe, but that’s all. He has very high security clearance.” A resentful undertone entered her voice. “For all I know, they took him to one of those holes in the mountains. You know, those places where his family isn’t allowed to go. Sometimes, Zeb, I—ah, what’s the use?” Now she just sounded disgusted. “I don’t know if I’m mad at him or at the government. It’s had the same effect, I guess.” She got up and poured herself another inch of whisky. Zeb noticed that despite her clear speech she swayed alarmingly as she turned from the table, steadied herself, and walked very carefully back to her chair.

“You don’t seem surprised that I’m here.”

She sighed. “Look, Zeb. You may be in danger. Craig expected that you might come and he told me to tell you that—if you insisted. You seemed insistent. Believe me, you’re lucky to get that much. He’s told me nothing else.”

“Not that my house was broken into and data stolen? Data that only he knew about?”

“Since he didn’t break into your house,” said Clara with a hint of anger in her voice, looking at him directly, “it seems clear that someone else knew as well. When was that?”

So she didn’t know. “Thanksgiving.”

“Oh. What was the data about?”

“Want to guess?” Zeb asked in a sarcastic tone.

Clara narrowed her eyes. Her mouth tightened. Zeit growled at him, raising his lips so that sharp teeth showed.

“Just joking,” said Zeb with a faint smile. “I have collies. They’re much better-natured. Look…” He hurried on when her grim expression did not soften. “I’m not sure how much you know about this, so maybe it’s better not to tell you more. Endanger you.”

She laughed briefly, and the dog put his head down on his paws. “Don’t worry about that . I’m just trying to piece things together for myself. I’m sure it has some sort of bearing on what happened the other night. ‘The Incident,’ as they’re calling it in The Washington Post . Craig just went around muttering, ‘Out of the blue’ while he threw things in a suitcase. A car came and picked him up. That’s all I know. Except that he told me to tell you to lie low. Those were his words. Lie low. So whatever you know, you’re right, Zeb. It’s dangerous. For you anyway.”

“And for you if I’m here,” he said, eyeing the dog and rising as slowly as a tai chi practitioner. Zeit sprang to his feet, and Zeb felt lucky the dog didn’t go for his throat.

“You have a place to stay?”

“I’ll be fine. Mind if I leave by the back door?” Clara knelt by the sliding glass door, pulling the curtain over her head, and threw an iron bar on the rug. She stood and slid the door open. “You’re… better?” she asked hesitantly, looking up at him. She remembered, of course, his dramatic breakdown.