I hear voices-from the present.
I’m standing at the crest. I hear the man with the knife only a step behind me. In front of me, ten steps away, stands Faith. She wears a puffy jacket but still wraps her arms around herself to ward off the chill. Next to her stands a man who looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place him. Then I can.
Looming above them, the monster cross. We’re at its feet, supplicants and sinners.
“Gils Simons,” the man says. He takes two steps forward, extends a hand, as if he might shake.
I look back to Faith. She’s unshackled, evidently not a prisoner. Is she here of her own free will? What is real?
I look out in the distance to the far edge of Mount Davidson. Soft fog, weather’s most passive-aggressive state, blankets what could be a majestic view of downtown and the bay. I close my eyes. I wobble. I picture myself juggling all the lies and half-truths, the ones that I’m being told and the ones I’ve been telling myself. I’ve juggled at the expense of experiencing something real, and static, and true. I cannot juggle anymore. I fall to my knees.
Faith says to the two men: “Would you mind if I handle this?”
50
When her hand touches my shoulder, it releases a memory, her hand on the same shoulder, we’re naked, clawing and releasing. My head remains down, neck exposed, like the night we made love in a beachside motel. Faith has transformed from seductress to executioner.
I’m coming, Isaac.
I hear her crouch next to me. I open my eyes to see her knees, clad in jeans, hit dirt.
“Nothing funny,” one of the men says, voice nearly swallowed by the wind. Head still bowed, I can see the two men’s feet, one wearing worn work boots with frayed shoelaces pulled tight on the tongue and Gils Simons’s brown loafers, tasseled and as out-of-place as he seems to be.
I feel Faith’s eyes on me. She shifts from my side so that she’s facing me, her knees only modestly indenting the hard, wet earth. She reaches for my hands, held limply by my sides. I withdraw them at her touch.
I see one of the work boots step forward.
“Can’t you see how hurt he is?” Faith says. “He’s no threat to you.”
Faith reaches for my hand again and I relent. She cradles my fists in her palms. She says: “They need to make sure that you’ve not given away their secrets.”
I don’t say anything.
“Nathaniel, you need to assure them of that.”
“I’m not comfortable with this.” The voice belongs to Gils Simons, deep and resonant, accustomed to being listened to.
I look up. Faith and the man with the crooked smile have turned to Gils, the French-born right-hand man of Andrew Leviathan. With our attention directed at Gils, I feel Faith slip something into my right hand. It’s cold and blunt, metal, with ridges. It might be a pocketknife. In my fist, I can conceal all but its tip. A weapon?
“Stand up,” Gils says. “This is ridiculous. This is Silicon Valley, not the old West.”
“How do you execute people in Silicon Valley?” I manage to speak. “Shot at dawn by teenagers trained on the Wii?”
“Execute?” Gils sounds surprised or bemused. “We threaten lawsuits, Mr. Idle. We bring lawsuits. We ruin reputations. We guard our trade secrets very carefully. We can even use our influence to have criminal charges brought if it looks like someone has used illegal means to steal our intellectual property. The AG here loves to brag about putting away people who undermine American competitiveness.”
I look at the man with the crooked smile and a knife.
“Lawyer? Is the knife his copy of the Constitution?”
“It’s gratuitous and he’ll put it away. But it’s understandable that Steven wanted it for defensive purposes, Mr. Idle. You’ve shown yourself to be impulsive and dangerous. The way he remembers it, you attacked him in a dark alley, and, at least according to my sources in the police department, are being sought in connection with a fire at a juvenile detention center.”
“Don’t forget how I started global warming and shot JFK.”
“Your zealous efforts to steal our intellectual property and expose our marketing plan have crossed the line well beyond even the most generous description of free press and investigation journalism. Look, Mr. Idle, I don’t understand why you’ve come undone, I just know that it’s a complete and tragic unraveling.”
I wince. He’s right. I’m suffering an acute case of post-traumatic stress disorder. I lost my son and his mother and my vision for the future. I’ve been chasing ghosts. My hold on reality is thin enough that I’m wondering if he’s making sense. Did I invent a conspiracy and pursue it because I’ve, as he said, come undone? But I feel the object that Faith snuck into my hand. It’s a tangible reminder that I face a real threat or, at least, a mysterious and dangerous situation.
“You’ve developed technology that makes kids dumber,” I mumble. “The Juggler. If I expose that, which one of us will the jury convict?”
“He crazy.” It’s the man with the crooked smile.
“You blew up the learning annex.”
Gils steps forward, asserting himself. Until this moment, I’ve been too bewildered, too fatalistic, to bother examining him. Now I notice the nondescript visage of an accounting type, his don’t-notice-me short haircut and outdated windbreaker, frugality and conservatism incarnate, the money guy behind Leviathan’s empire. He hates whatever he’s gotten himself caught up in.
“I don’t want to listen to any more of this nonsense, Mr. Idle. The Juggler, which, by the way, is an embargoed trade name, helps kids navigate the modern world. They can become masters of the cloud. It’s cutting- edge,
“Like which publication I’m going to sell the brain images to-the ones that show the degraded frontal-lobe capacity of test subjects in a juvenile jail. That is a serious problem. Just think of the competition for the. .” I feel Faith’s hand on my arm, squeezing. I’m pressing my luck.
“First of all, the way we read the images, they are inconclusive,” Gils says. “The real-time MRI technology has its limitations and the neuro-chemical blood testing remains primitive. We’d hoped they’d offer proof of the neurological value of our work so that we could responsibly market the benefits. But we will choose our words more carefully in our advertising. We absolutely will not go further in our claims than the research allows, and on that point, Mr. Idle, you may someday get permission to quote me.”
I’m having a lot of trouble following and as much trouble caring. This has been the neurological rhythm the last few minutes; the recognition of my loss of Isaac and Polly anchors me in a pit-complete capitulation to the world and its forces-and then I poke my head up and out, prompted by some primitive impulse.
“The explosion at the annex,” I say.
“Nearly killed my support staff. After all we’ve given to that place. The diesel pump was faulty,” Gils says. “We’ve already expressed our grave concern with the annex. Can you imagine what a lawsuit would do to their already faltering finances? We’re all just so glad no one was hurt.”
“Uh-huh, and Faith kidnapped herself.”
“This is absurd.” Gils is now just dismissive.
“They didn’t,” Faith says. “I went of my own accord.”
I look up at her, bewildered. “Outside the jail? After the explosion? I don’t believe that.”
I look at Gils. “You’re in cahoots with Chinese investors. You test software here, manufacture the Juggler abroad and sell it in the East-China, Japan-then bring it to the U.S.”
“And? That’s some kind of conspiracy?” The executive-turned-investor bends on his haunches. “You really smacked your head. Am I right?”
I don’t respond.
“Faith told us about the subway. You suffered a major concussion. You’re totally out of touch. It’s robbed you
