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.
“Is that a problem?”
“I suppose not,” Ray said. “You’re cutting it awfully close. I just hope there are no flight delays.”
“If there are, you can wait to start the meeting.”
“New Year’s Eve waits for no man.”
“Fine. I’m not a man anyway, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Ray chuckled. “One more thing. The Strip is closed on New Year’s Eve. It’ll be shut down by the time you get here. I’ll have one of my limos picks you up. The driver will know how to circumvent the barriers. Better yet, I’ll arrange for a helicopter out of McCarran and a pilot. Easy enough to land on my helipad and that’ll take care of any time crunch.”
“Great idea,” Peta said, “But you should recall that I won’t need a pilot. Just have your driver there to get me to the chopper and make sure all of the authorizations have been cleared.”
For the sake of comfort rather than status, Peta had made reservations in first class; for the sake of a show of authority once she got to the police station, she wore a suit—or more accurately, Liz Claiborne wool crepe separates she’d picked up at Saks during her last visit to Manhattan. The black calf-length wrap skirt and fitted fingertip-length black jacket were very New York. A white crew-neck cashmere sweater, opaque black tights, and a pair of black leather knee-high boots completed the look. Hair up in a bun; the real fragment, back in its bezel and hidden beneath her sweater in case some turn of fate brought Frik to the airport; this year’s white gold button earrings; and she was good to go. Normally, she would have carried a coat, but since she was only going to be there for a matter of hours, and her jacket would do fine for Vegas, she simply threw a shawl and a pair of warm gloves into her suitcase.