The Quiet Pools

through the wildness, became a quieter communion. He threaded his way between the gray-white trunks almost as a ghost.

Where did they take you, Father?

He had no thought of searching for the grave, no hope that even a forensic expert would find it. Dryke had undoubtedly been too thorough for that. Christopher’s sense of futility was such that he had not even called the police. What could they do with no body, no witness, no evidence?

Even Lila had been silenced, as Christopher had learned when he finally tore himself away from the window.

“Lila? Do you know where they put my father’s body?”

“Would the speaker please identify himself?”

“This is Christopher. Christopher McCutcheon.”

“Thank you, Christopher. To use verbal command mode, I will need a sample of your normal speech. Would you please talk to me about your day?”

Vainly hoping that some part of Lila’s customization had been missed by Dryke’s wormers, Christopher had invented for Lila a more pleasant morning than he had lived.

“Thank you. I have a sufficient sample now. Will you be the primary user of this AIP?”

“No,” he said. “The primary user is my father.”

“Thank you,” Lila said, and then stole even that faint hope away. “What is your father’s name?”

No, involving the police was pointless or worse. What did he need them to do? He already knew enough of what had happened, exactly who had done it, perhaps even a piece of why. But his testimony was valueless. He knew nothing firsthand. It was only a story.

A wild story. What would a thoughtful prosecutor make of such a tale from a distraught young man whose life had been disintegrating around him? If that prosecutor talked to Meyfarth—and, of course, he would—he might quite reasonably decide that the most likely suspect was Christopher himself.

The best he could hope for was that they would believe him enough to declare his father missing. But what was the value in that? Only his father’s attorneys and accountants would care, and nothing seemed less important at the moment than matters of business and family finance.

Justice? Punishment? Revenge? Words of primal myth and melodrama, the classic passions of the wronged, and yet they, too, seemed not to matter much to Christopher. Perhaps it was too soon, the shock too fresh, the loss too new. He had not even cried.

Or perhaps the passions and tears both were knotted in the confusion of unsettled issues. He had been cheated of his own confrontation with William McCutcheon, robbed of a reckoning over the lies which lay between them. Lies which now appeared to be only the lesser part of the deception his father had worked.

A fat drop of water falling from above hit the back of Christopher’s neck and made a cold trail under his collar to the vicinity of his shoulder blades. Christopher shivered, suddenly realized that he was hunchbacked against the chill, the jacket nearly soaked through. He turned back, guessing at the direction. When he crossed paths with old Johnson Road a few minutes later, he allowed it to lead him back the long, easy way.

The truth was that he did not understand well enough who his father had been—whether William McCutcheon had, in fact, been murdered, or had fallen in what amounted to a duel. Christopher did not know if it was right to love and mourn him, or to hate and curse him. He still did not know how to feel.

“Hello, Christopher,” Lila said as Christopher entered.

The house was barely warmer than the woods, and Christopher hastened to close the windows. “Hello, Lila.”

“I am glad to see you again, Christopher. Can you tell me if something has happened to Mr. McCutcheon?”

That froze Christopher in midstep. “Mr. McCutcheon?”

“William McCutcheon, your father. The owner of this house.”

Christopher took several uncertain steps toward the office. “What’s going on here, Lila? When I left, you were as dumb as a toaster.”

“While you were gone, I appear to have received a message from Mr. McCutcheon,” said Lila.

His breath caught. “What? Is he alive?”

“I don’t know, Christopher.”

“What other possibility is there?”

“The message may have been composed earlier and stored until after a trigger event or a specified time. It’s even possible that I sent the message to myself.”

Sliding into the chair at the comsole, Christopher said, “Let me see it.”

“I’m sorry. I do not have a copy of it. I would not be able to show it to you if I did.”

“Damn it, who’s in charge here? Do I have primary user status or not?”

“You have visitor status, Christopher. Mr. McCutcheon is the primary user.”

Which meant that the initialization Christopher had completed before leaving the house had been erased and replaced. “Then tell me what you do know. What the message was and where it came from.”

“I only know that several of my directories are restored, and the time stamp on my command files is only a few minutes old. That’s what I would expect to find if I had received a self-executing command file.”

“Do you remember Mikhail Dryke being here?”

“No.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Yes, Christopher. If he was here, that is a reason for concern.”

“What are you doing now besides talking to me?”

“My first instruction is to try to locate Mr. McCutcheon.”

Christopher frowned. “What if you can’t find him?”

“I have contingent instructions. Do you know where Mr. McCutcheon is?”

“My father is dead.” It was easier than it should have been to say.

“His death has not been recorded, and his skylink address is still active and pointed here. How do you know that he’s dead?”

“Because you told me, two hours ago. And Dryke confirmed it. What else did my father tell you to do?”

“I’m sorry, Christopher. I am not allowed to tell you.”

Christopher felt a quick flash of impatience. “Look, Lila, Dryke already knows, unless the message came in by parachute—I can’t imagine that they’re not still monitoring this house. What good does it do for him to know and me to be in the dark? And if you’re going to be carrying on with Homeworld business, I want to know.”

“I’m aware of the monitoring, Christopher. I’ve been instructed not to place you at risk.”

“Maybe I want to be put at risk,” Christopher said, the thought springing new into his mind as he spoke it. “Maybe I’m going to want to draw Dryke back here. Lila, was my father Jeremiah?”

“Yes, Christopher. Your father used that name.”

“Why that name?”

“I don’t know the significance. But your father’s grandfather was named William Jeremiah McCutcheon.”

“I never knew that,” Christopher said. “I never knew him. The face and voice—that was you?”

“I coordinated the simulations.”

Christopher was silent for a long moment. “What if I said I wanted to take over my father’s work? All of it.”

“A successor has already been selected.”

The words stung, even though his offer had been more an arguing point than any serious intention. “Selected by who? You?”

“Mr. McCutcheon made the selection.”

Not good enough. Still not good enough to earn his respect. Was that the real message of the secrets? He had spent his whole life trying to be the best. I never would have guessed how little being good at what I do would matter—

“Lila, why didn’t my father tell me what he was doing?”