virus. It was warming to read those. She had e-mails from her parents, and other members of her family in Washington and Oregon, expressing their support. Her mother asked for Natasha to call them as soon as she could because her phone stayed busy. There were several “call me's” in the stack. All of her partners (except for Dan Wheat) had e-mailed saying they hoped she'd let them know if they could help in any way. They were all time- dated before Ward had been cleared.
And even though she and Ward hadn't discussed it since Barney's birth, they could have another child, and she hoped Ward would be up for that, because she most certainly was. No child could ever replace Barney, but they had plenty of love to give a new child, or children. She smiled at the thought of another McCarty
Gizmo. The odd word kept rattling around in Natasha's mind, because she was sure she'd heard it before under circumstances related to her practice, even though she couldn't zero in on an image her memory could replay. Maybe, because the word was a source of anxiety she was imagining it meant more to her than that. The nearly hieroglyphic decoration was obsessively executed and had to have taken untold long hours of concentrated effort to accomplish. The five letters had been as uniform as letters chiseled into a tombstone by a stonemason.
She looked down at the legal pad, where she had written the word out and doodled circles and stars around it, trying to trigger something solid.
She had the feeling that if she could just remember, she'd know something crucial.
She was about to turn off the computer when she had an idea. She went to Google and typed in the word “Gizmo.” There were eleven million, eight hundred thousand and seventeen hits. She shook her head slowly as she pondered the mountain of hay that might contain the needle she was searching for.
She typed “Gizmo” and “Charlotte NC.” There were ten thousand and seventy- one hits. When she added the word “Obituaries,” there were fewer than three thousand, still an unmanageable number. The first one was: survivors are her father, Richard M. Morrison, Sr., of Harrisburg, NC; her aunt, Glenda Eudy, and husband, Clint, of Greensboro; and her cat, Gizmo.
Natasha smiled strangely. Why, she wondered, had she added the word obituaries? That seemed odd. The second one was:
Oct. 14, 2003, at the Community Medical Center in Scranton after being suddenly stricken. rlene loved her babies: her dogs, Cody, Cindy, and Gizmo.
It seemed to be a popular name people gave their pets. Perhaps, she mused, having a pet named Gizmo could be hazardous to your health.
She had a thought. Since it was her memory, she added NorthEast Medical Center, Concord, and there were only five. She had read through two entries, when she saw something in the third that made her blood run cold.
FIFTY-EIGHT
When Gene Duncan called, Ward was watching the news as a commentator said that the RGI virus was designed by a thirty- yearold Charlotte resident named Bert Marmaduke. The newscaster said that suspect Marmaduke had been murdered the evening before his body was found, but gave no cause of death, and made no mention of Trey Dibble's connection to the event. Ward was wondering if the media people refrained from mentioning Trey because Flash's advertising dollars kept the regional TV stations solvent. He figured it was just a matter of time.
Presently Trey's death was reported, as accidental. There were interviews with several NASCAR- involved individuals, whose comments were probably less than honest, each saying something on the order of what a unique individual Trey Dibble had been. Flash Dibble was reported to be in seclusion, and his assistant said that he and his wife wanted to thank everyone who had offered their prayers and consolation.
“You seen the news?” Gene asked.
“I have.”
“Flash called me,” Gene said. “He asked me to pass on his deep sorrow for his son's actions. He told me to tell you that he didn't have any idea about any of it. He still wants RGI and said he'd like to keep it just the way it is. He also mentioned that he might be open to a partnership involvement.”
“Jesus, Gene, he's still able to think about business?”
“What can I say?”
“Call him back. Tell him to work with you and get the deal drawn up for my signature. Tell him I'll stay through a reasonable transaction period, but maybe Unk would be open to something more permanent with him.”
“Did you just say what I thought you said?”
“Yes. The sooner the better. You can figure out how to spend your commission now. But the video game is not part of the sale.”
“I don't know why that would ever come up. He doesn't know about it.”
That was something Ward was no longer sure of. It was possible that his uncle had told Flash about the game, and that was why he wanted RGI so badly. It didn't matter, because if Flash backed out, Ward would continue to run RGI as he had before, and he'd keep Unk in place and pay Flash the six hundred thousand his uncle owed him. Ward wanted everybody happy because, for the first time in a year, he was.
Gene continued, “Oh, yeah, and the most amazing thing of all. Are you sitting down?”
“Yes, I am. Would you get to it?”
“Tom Wiggins told me to tell you there's no charge for his services.”
“That's very generous, but I want to pay him for his time.”
“He thought you'd say that. He said you could send a check for twelve hundred to his favorite charity.”
“The children's oncology center. Tell him it's as good as in their account.”
“I will. Okay, buddy. I'll call Flash and I'll get on the deal as soon as I hang up.”
“So, why are you still talking to me?” Ward clicked off the phone and tapped it on the back of the couch.
He looked up to see Natasha standing in the doorway. “That was Gene. He…”
Ward stopped because he knew Natasha wasn't hearing a word he said. She was staring at him, a look of horror on her face.
“What?” Ward asked. “Natasha?” He jumped up and ran across the room, taking her by the shoulders.
“Gizmo. I know who he is.”
“Who? How do you know him?”
“I killed him.”
FIFTY-NINE
It was dark when Alice lucked out and found a parking spot very close to a towering green painted metal sculpture resembling blades of grass. She wondered if it was designed to make people see what it felt like to be insects. It seemed to her that lots of things in society were designed to make people feel less significant than they were.
Alice walked toward three young men smoking cigarettes near the entrance. She straightened as she approached, and measured them for attractiveness. Two of the boys were sort of fat, and all three were wearing baggy shorts and T-shirts with smart- ass messages printed on them. There was one guy who was taller, and skinny-just her type-and she made eye contact with him. He looked over at her and his eyes lit up, so she slowed.
“Hey, good looking!” he said, smiling. “Where you been all my life?”
Alice stopped and smiled widely, keeping her lips together so her braces didn't show. And she waved.
“Looking for you,” a high- pitched voice re plied from behind her.
Alice turned to see three girls closing from behind, and, as they passed Alice, the boys straightened and posed like models in anticipation.
