“But we have the solution to the oil problem,” said a younger member of the council, a man named Bruce. Despite the cloistered settlement of the clan, influences from the Out-World colored everything from entertainment to names and technological developments—hence his untraditional moniker. “Why do we not simply bring it to the world leaders and share it with them? Then we do not have to take such measures.”
“If it were that simple, Bruce, that would have already occurred. Three decades ago. I attempted to bring a solution to the Out-World, and not only were they disinclined to listen to my suggestion, they found the concept of crystal energy as a replacement for electricity laughable. A grievous mistake on their part, and one that has become our strength.”
Once again, he scanned the room, making certain that he had the attention of the entire group. Even Hedron was attentive; and Stegnora, though she knew all of his stories and more, was watching with rapt attention.
“Thirty-some years ago, I returned here to the Skaladeskas, and vowed to lead our people in Gaia’s name, ignoring the closed-mindedness of the Out-World. As you know, we have done so until now. And now, Gaia has called us to act in her name. She has named this the ideal time. And we will not fail her. She has been angered, and she is not helpless.
“In her name, it is our duty to destroy that which is bent on destroying her.”
-19-
July 8, 2007
Point Abbeye, Upper Peninsula of Michigan
“The explosive detonated here.” Gabe pointed to a concave black hole in what had been the kitchen of Victor Alexander’s house. “Could be a professional grade, or a simple fertilizer bomb. We won’t know that for a few days. I’m guessing it was a plastic bomb.”
The remains of the simple log cabin smoldered around them. The last breaths of wispy smoke spiraled into the air, still managing to annoy Marina’s nose. Grit from ash and soot irritated her face and darkened the coppery fur of Boris’s neck hair. Water-logged cushions of Dad’s once cranberry and gold sofa littered the ground, along with the charred remains of his books. Some were nearly whole and untouched; others no more than piles of fragile, curling ashes.
Marina half expected to find a few blackened bottles of Stoli amid the ruins.
The firefighters had just rolled back down the narrow drive, their job finished, and she, Gabe, and Bergstrom had been picking through the smoldering logs, crumbled walls, and charred furnishings.
Dammit.
Things were just getting worse.
She was getting in deeper and deeper and she was finding it harder to blame the CIA.
Her father yes; the CIA, not so much.
Bergstrom had had a point when he said if it weren’t for the CIA she wouldn’t have had a clue what was going on.
She’d probably be dead or kidnapped by now.
And aside of the physical danger, this whole situation made her want to break out in a cold sweat. Because now she had to let all those buried emotions bubble to the surface.
It was so much easier to ignore them.
The problem was, she couldn’t ignore it. Dad was involved in something serious—and had somehow involved her, the dutiful daughter, who couldn’t walk away knowing he could be in danger. Where had she learned this dedication, this devotion? Certainly not from him!
Going home, or even going to Myanmar, wouldn’t solve anything. It wasn’t going to keep her safe, keep her away from the shootings and the car chases and the break-ins and the explosions.
Going home and ignoring all of this was likely to get her killed.
What if helping the CIA meant she lost her only chance to see the Lam Pao Archive?
That was not a thought that bore contemplation now. She focused on the real question: how was she going get out of this mess?
Forget doing her duty, giving only the bare minimum. She was going to have to jump in as deeply as Gabe MacNeil and Colin Bergstrom if she was going to climb back out.
And if that jeopardized the Lam Pao Archive validation, she would have to live with it. As she had with all of the other ways Dad had impacted her life.
She picked her way through the rubble to where Bergstrom and MacNeil crouched in the ruins. They wore gloves to protect their hands from smoldering embers and clinging ash. MacNeil appeared to be rummaging through a blackened file cabinet. The open drawer sported an awkward vent, as if it had been pried open. It probably had, if the metal rod lying in the rubble next to it was any indication. Bergstrom looked up from his handful of half-burned papers.
She spoke without preamble. “I’m going to delay my trip to Myanmar and do whatever I can to find Dad and stop whatever’s going on here.”
“Welcome aboard.” Bergstrom nodded once, but there was a satisfied gleam in his eye.
“I don’t think I’m going to be much help wandering through the mess here, but I’ll give it a shot,” she added.
“Right. Thanks.” Bergstrom continued to flip through charred papers that looked like nothing more than old phone bills and Sears credit card statements. “Why don’t you wander over there and see if anything strikes you as being out of place.”
She took the hint and turned to walk toward what had been the back of the house, the side facing the bluffs of Lake Superior. If she focused and worked hard, they’d find Dad all the more quickly, and she’d be back to life as she knew it.
A large, black, molten mass caught her attention and she stumbled over a charred two-by-four as she made her way toward it. It looked like a melted tub of sorts … on a cedar-planked dais.
In fact, it looked like a hot tub.
Weird. Dad hated hot tubs. He said the chlorine was a terrible pollutant and awful for the body. Marina, too, eschewed chlorine-laden pools and tubs in favor of clean lakes, natural hot springs, and tubs scented with essential oils instead of stinging chemicals. It made her shudder to think of how those unnatural compounds affected the skin, eyes, and nose.
A hot tub.
She clambered gingerly to the other side of the tub, which had melted in the heat and now looked like some oversized plastic black ashtray from the ‘70s. As she touched the shiny plastic in one of the indentations that would hold a giant cigarette, she suddenly knew where to look.
And exactly why her father had a hot tub in his house.
“Colin! Gabe!” she called as she began to scrabble through the rubble near the ground around the cedar stage. The door was there, easy to find now that the tub had melted and become deformed.
It was a door, a cellar door, not unlike the one Dorothy’s Auntie Em ducked into when the tornado was bearing down upon them. Hidden under the base, the door flipped up to reveal a ladder than dropped into nothingness.
“I’m thinking there might be some clues down here that weren’t burned to a crisp,” Marina said, gesturing to the hole as Gabe jogged up, leaving the slower Bergstrom scrambling through the rubble behind him.
“Well screw me blind.” He pulled a flashlight from the clip at his waist and beamed it into the darkness.
Excitement and apprehension pumped through her veins. “You can follow me down,” Marina told him, moving purposely past him to step onto the first rung.
“Wait. You don’t know what’s down there.”
“I’m going.” Marina gently but firmly pulled away and descended into the darkness.
He swore, but kept the light trained so she could see where she was going while he clanged down the metal rungs. Gabe wedged the flash under his arm and slipped his Smith & Wesson from its holster.
But when he got to the bottom, he slipped his gun back into its place before Marina noticed. She’d found a light, and with the flip of a switch, fluorescent bulbs hummed white noise, then sputtered on.
It was a small room, blinding with its white-painted concrete block walls and floor. No more than ten by ten feet. And rigged with more communication equipment than an air traffic control tower: two computers with flat-panel monitors, a satellite radio, a printer, a sat phone, and another radio. Plus some other equipment that Gabe didn’t recognize. Boxes that looked like electronic components, and a six-foot machine that looked like a massive metal detector. Wires and boxes with buttons and lights.
Marina had already begun to move through the room, touching the computers, turning them on, resting her hands on every item as if to prove to herself that they were real. Gabe figured she must be in some kind of shock, finding out that her father had a secret life.
At least, he assumed that was the reason for the blank expression on her face.
Marina didn’t speak; she pulled open drawers and flipped through files. Gabe should have sat down at one of the machines to see if there was anything helpful, but he watched her instead.
Marina had paused at a drawer. She sank onto a nearby chair and pulled what looked like a loosely-bound book from its depths. Gabe stepped closer to look over her shoulder.
It was an odd book—if you could call it a book; it was more like plastic pages tied together. About six by six inches, the pages had a dull, plastic sheen to them. But it wasn’t until Marina opened the book that he realized that it wasn’t going to be found in just any library.
The pages had writing on them; writing he didn’t recognize and couldn’t translate. Skaladeska language. It had to be. And the pages looked like the homemade paper arts-and-crafts types made using paper pulp and twine and fibers, but they were shiny, and looked laminated. Translucent. They looked like a textured shower curtain liner with writing on it.
He reached over Marina’s shoulder to touch the book. The ridges of swirling texture, like heavy linen, felt smooth and cool. It was dull cream color, definitely looking homemade … thick but translucent.
“Can you read it?” Gabe asked, watching the way she stared down at the page.
“It’s in Skaladeska.”
“Can you read it?”
She hesitated, closed the book. “Maybe. It might come back to me.” Then she pointed across the room. “I bet there’s another passageway over there.”
Gabe saw nothing but a blank wall. He looked back at her, but she’d risen, tucking the book under her arm, and moved toward the wall.