“Checking. No information.”
“Did my father love me?”
“No information.”
“Where’s my father’s body?”
“No information.”
“Who is Jeremiah?”
“I can’t answer that, Christopher.”
“How did my mother die?”
“No information.”
With a wild swipe of his arm, Christopher sent the neatly stacked books cascading onto the carpeted floor. “Then you’re not much goddamn use to me, are you, Lila?” he said, coming to his feet. “Between what you can’t tell me and what you won’t tell me, not much goddamned use at all.”
The decision was made in that moment, but the arrangements took more than a week to complete, with another week’s waiting tacked on after that. The delay gave Christopher a chance to measure his motives and consider his choice. No better options presented themselves, even if some doubts did.
He used the time well. Not knowing when he might be back, he revisited his favorite spots in the Northwest —postcard-beautiful Boiler Bay, where basalt cliffs and chaotic Pacific waves created a dramatic tapestry; Bridal Veil Falls, one of the hidden treasures of the Gorge, which he had discovered in the company of an adolescent love; the winding climb up to the high lodge on fog-wrapped, snow-cloaked Mount Rainier.
While he was in the house, there were issues to research, logistical and technical problems to resolve, and still a few doors to knock on. He allowed Lila to present what she could gather about Sharron from public sources; he called his mother’s brother and father and tried to break through the wall of resentment; he took several of the Portables to a hack shop in Seattle to be cracked and copied.
None of his efforts yielded more than a few drams of insight, but, oddly, every failure only made what he was about to do seem more right and reasonable.
There were also financial matters to settle. A final Allied paycheck appeared in his account, as Dryke had said it would. Christopher transferred the full amount to the Kenning House account, as much an attempt to preserve his place there as a reaction against the source of the funds. And paying for his ticket and poundage on the Horizon shuttle from Los Angeles proved a challenge. His credit lines had shrunk when his resignation was posted, forcing him to juggle advances and accounts to cover the fare.
Paying for his seat was only slightly harder than booking it; the shuttles were inexplicably full in what should have been the post-holiday lull. The alternate route, through Technica, was no better. He even checked flights from Hawaii and Florida. Except for premium fares, which Christopher could not afford, every North American commercial shuttle was sold out through the end of January. He ended up booking for February 6, almost a month away, though he also bought a place on the six-hour standby list.
The extra expense proved worthwhile. In midmonth, just as the waiting was starting to wear on him, the notification call came through. There had been a cancellation for the 10 p.m. flight to Horizon—could he be there?
“I’ll be there.”
He had rehearsed the ritual often enough in his head that he was able to move quickly. In but a few minutes, his bag was packed with his clothes and the very few objects he wanted from the house. He loaded the bag in the Avanti, which he then moved safely away from the house. Disabling the alarms and extinguishers took a little longer, but he had already scouted the systems and acquired the necessary tools.
By that time, Lila’s curiosity had been aroused. But the next step was to shut off all power to the house, which squelched her questions. Only then did he bring out the two ten-liter tins of accelerant. Changing into some of his father’s clothes, he splashed every room, with special attention to the spaces he had occupied. He wanted it to burn hot and fast, leaving only ashes and enough mystery to prompt an investigation.
There were risks, but the only risk-free course was surrender. If his father’s body wasn’t found, if the investigation focused on arson rather than William McCutcheon’s disappearance, if Allied and Mikhail Dryke chose to silence Christopher rather than intervene—if, if, if. There were a hundred things that could go wrong. But he could not leave his life or his father’s death in limbo. There was something he had to prove—to the homunculus of William McCutcheon that lived inside his head, to Mikhail Dryke, and to himself.
Only when it was time to strike the spark did he hesitate. Standing on the front step before the open door, back in his own clothes and holding the lighter and the bundle of chemical-spattered clothing in his hands, he found his heart racing, his lungs aching as though he had just run up the ridge road from the gate.
The revelation of two weeks ago was slipping away. He had to make himself say it out loud to break the paralysis that had seized him.
“I don’t ever want to come back here.”
Flame touched cloth, which flared happily into life. Christopher quickly tossed the bundle through the doorway, turning his back and retreating across the lawn. As he climbed into the Avanti, he stole a peek back, and was rewarded by a flickering orange glow playing behind the first-story windows of the far dome.
Christopher circled the house at treetop level until the second-story windows exploded outward in billows of gray smoke and gouts of yellow-red fire. Then he turned away, banking toward Portland, refusing to look back. He kept the Avanti on the deck to keep its movements off the air traffic monitors, settling into the I-26 surface traffic as he approached Banks. It was hard to hold his speed down when what he wanted to do was run.
The last detail was the Avanti, which he knew he could not keep. He left it at the curb on Killingsworth Street, four klicks from the city’s transplex, with the passenger door unlocked and the travel log’s memory wiped. The flyer was baggage at this point, and he did not care if it was stolen, stripped or impounded.
Keeping his pace brisk and his thoughts disciplined, Christopher hiked to the transplex and the tube station. He was invigorated by the freedom that came with action, by the peace that came with purpose. The police might soon be searching for him, Dryke could soon be hunting him, but he did not care. In a few short hours he would be beyond their reach, for Horizon was not his final destination. This journey would not end until he reached Deryn’s arms and Sanctuary.
CHAPTER 29
—UGA—
Prainha had become a prison for Mikhail Dryke.
In the moment he fired the first bullet into Jeremiah’s body, he had understood that Sasaki would not approve. He had recognized that, by passing on the opportunity to simply collect Jeremiah, he was crossing a significant line. He had known that the decision would look different in Prainha than it had in the underground room.
And though Sasaki had said not one word in reproach, her actions argued loudly enough that Dryke had been right. It began with Sasaki’s explicit order that Christopher McCutcheon be left free and alive. She had never interfered with Dryke in that way before, and he read the message clearly:
“We can’t kill all our enemies, Mikhail. I do not consider the son a risk,” she had said. “Separate him from us and leave him there.” She neither invited nor accepted Dryke’s counsel on the decision.
Another clue: In the two weeks since the event, no official announcement of Jeremiah’s death had been made, even within the Project. The committee and senior security staff knew, and the Houston center was rife with apparently unsquelchable rumors. Marshall had offered token congratulations; Matt Reid had gratefully welcomed the news. But that was the extent of it.
Even more telling, it seemed as though he was being insulated from the real work of his own department.
