Locked In

instructions about not removing their heavy outerwear while concealed there. That hadn’t been his fault, but the massacre in the jungle, where he’d been forced against his will to turn his gun on his own passengers… Maybe if he’d been smarter, more receptive to the signals he was getting that day-

Old recriminations. No use dwelling on them.

In the years since then he’d married a good woman, Julie Spaulding, who was devoted to environmental causes. He’d become devoted, too, still sat on the board of the foundation she’d funded in her will. But when Julie died of multiple sclerosis, as they’d both known would eventually happen, he’d turned to radical environmentalism, taking out his anger at her loss in violent protests and demonstrations. Spent more time in jail than your average boy from the high desert country.

That had changed when he met Shar. Well, not totally: he’d been arrested the next March in Siskiyou County for disorderly conduct during an anti-logging demonstration. Fortunately, the charges were dropped.

But still he’d changed… Her love had changed him. He’d been sure of it. He was sure of it still.

So what had he been thinking, contacting a killer like Weathers?

Not thinking: indulging in blind rage. Find the shooter, send Weathers to deliver him, then take his time killing him. Make it slow and painful. Make sure the bastard knew exactly what he had coming to him-and why.

And what would that make him?

Hy stared into the mist receding over the sea, trying to avoid the question. But he couldn’t do it. The answers were too clear-cut.

Killing the shooter would make him no better than Weathers. It would mean that he was unchanged after all, the same man he’d always been, the side of him he’d always hated.

No. He wasn’t like Weathers, couldn’t let himself act as Weathers did.

If he did, it would be a betrayal of his love for McCone.

There had to be some other way to channel all this rage.

RAE KELLEHER

Alternative Resources had its offices in a six-story smoky-glass building off the 280 freeway in Cupertino. Another not-particularly-attractive monument to the new microchip technology that had sprung from the young and brilliant minds that now populated what had once been an area of orange groves. A quiet revolution had been born here and through booms and busts the world had forever been changed. In 1939, Stanford classmates Bill Hewlett and Dave Packard couldn’t have imagined what their tinkering in a Palo Alto garage would lead to.

There was one slot left in the visitors’ parking area. Rae squeezed her little BMW into it between two oversize gas-guzzling vehicles. Security was surprisingly lax in the building: the guard at the desk motioned her through without really looking at her credentials. She rode the elevator to the fourth floor and was directed by a receptionist to Cheryl Fitzgerald’s office.

Fitzgerald was a plain-faced woman, her skin a doughy white. She wore her graying hair long and parted down the middle; heavy black-framed glasses magnified keen brown eyes. She took time to read Rae’s card, then set it on her desk and leaned forward.

“You should have made an appointment, Ms. Kelleher.”

“I would have, but I was pressed for time. I’m-”

“I know who you are, who you’re married to, the titles of the books you’ve written, and who you’re working for. How is Ms. McCone?”

“Fully cognizant, although she can’t move or speak. They call it locked-in syndrome.”

“I’ve read about that. But I hope in her case, the mind triumphs over the body. Are you trying to find out who attacked her?”

“In a way. I’m interested in the Pro Terra Party.”

Fitzgerald’s face remained impassive, but she removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Buying time, Rae thought.

“What on earth would the party have to do with Ms. McCone’s shooting?”

“Most likely nothing. It’s only one line in the overall investigation.”

Such an explanation wouldn’t have satisfied Rae, but Fitzgerald accepted it. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

“Why did Don Beckman leave the party?”

“He and I were… involved. Pro Terra was our child. But then he decided he wanted a child of our own; I couldn’t bring one into the world-not this world.”

“So he left the party, and you…?”

“Carried on. Until the leadership was co-opted by elements that were at odds with our original philosophy. At that point, I had to resign.”

“Who were these elements?”

She hesitated. “I haven’t talked about this since I left the party. I was determined to put it behind me and simply lead a useful life. And if I tell you what I know and it becomes public, I’ll be up against some very powerful forces. Dangerous people.”

“What you tell me will remain confidential.” Unless the police made her give it up-but Fitzgerald didn’t have to know that.

Fitzgerald glanced at her watch. “It’s too long a story, and I have an appointment in five minutes. Why don’t you meet me at eleven? There’s a coffee shop on the ground floor of the building-the Real Bean. We’ll talk then.”

Rae waited at a table in the Real Bean, a cooling cup of cappuccino in front of her. Every now and then she’d take a sip, which only reminded her how much she hated designer coffees. Why had she ordered it? Maybe it went with the territory.

All around her casually dressed workers were sipping exotic brews and nibbling on muffins, carrot cake, or sandwiches with an inordinate amount of alfalfa sprouts protruding from them. Many worked on laptops, others read newspapers. Although it was a small shop, none of the patrons acknowledged the others and it seemed to Rae they even avoided eye contact with the counterpersons. Another sign of twenty-first-century isolationism.

Rae watched the clock behind the counter. Eleven-thirteen. Eleven-twenty-two. Eleven-forty. Fitzgerald had been held up at the office… she hoped.

Eleven-fifty.

Noon.

Twelve-oh-seven.

No, Rae had been stood up. She left the cafe, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and asked the receptionist if Ms. Fitzgerald was still in.

“I’m sorry, she isn’t.”

“When did she leave?”

“At about a quarter to eleven. She said she’d be gone the rest of the day, on urgent personal business. Would you like to make an appointment for tomorrow?”

“No, thank you.”

Rae turned away, went to push the elevator button.

Urgent personal business? Was Fitzgerald covering her ass with the “powerful forces” and “dangerous people”?

SHARON McCONE

Last night I dreamed I was flying. It felt so real-the freedom, the soaring, the thrilling turbulence. But then I woke to dull light and immobility, and Hy was gone from the armchair. And I remembered his