Point of Impact

bodyguards. Absolutely minimal risks in sales, delivery, taking on new customers. Never more stuff in the house than necessary. Nobody knew what he did except for three people: Tad and the old couple who drove the RV. Tad would never give him up, and Ma and Pa Yeehaw were lifetime criminals who would go down with guns blasting before they let themselves be taken. If not, he’d have them bailed out and gone before the feds knew what they had.

Not perfect, no ironclad guarantees, but he had been very careful. Until he got sucked into the glitz of Zeigler’s movie-star circles. Even then, Drayne had stood in the back on the Zee-ster’s coattails, and what the hell, it had been fun, watching every door open in front of them, women falling all over themselves to get close to them, and the reflected feeling of celebrity.

It had never occurred to him that Zeigler would be the target of a raid. Feds just didn’t kick in famous millionaires’ doors; it just wasn’t done.

Well, it was now. And while they were probably okay, going to ground and turning invisible until all the heat died down was the way to play it. No reason to push things. He was ahead of the game. The feds were plodders, but they were like the tortoise: While the hare was taking a nap, they might creep up on him and bite him on the ass. Drayne wasn’t going to give them that chance, no sir, thank you very fucking much.

A month or two in Hawaii in the fall? You could do a lot worse. And worse was not the way to go.

Soon as Tad got things taken care of, they were gonna hop on one of those big honkin’ jumbo jets and zip on out to the islands. By the time they got back, all this other stuff would be old news.

Old news.

17

Washington, D.C.

Toni was going stir-crazy, she had cabin fever big time, and she had to get out of the house before she went totally bonkers. Yes, the doctor had told her to stay home and confine herself to light activity. Because, the doctor had said, if there were any more problems with cramping or bleeding, and she wanted this baby, she was going to wind up spending the rest of the pregnancy in bed, so best she not cause things to get to that state by being overactive.

Toni’s mother had, of course, agreed entirely with the doctor’s assessment. Sure, she hadn’t slacked off any when her babies were growing, Mama said, but that was different. She was healthy as a horse, and besides, all that fighting stuff Toni did was probably upsetting the baby anyhow.

Toni didn’t really have any place she wanted or needed to go, and she would window-shop in the mall if nothing else, as long as she didn’t have to sit here alone in the place while Alex was off at work for one more day.

She missed work more than she’d expected, and it wasn’t the same doing little piddly consulting things on the net. There was no interaction with real people, no matter how good the virtual scenarios were. Yes, the state- of-the-art ScentWare ultrasonic olfactory generators gave some pretty authentic smells. The latest-generation haptic program from SensAble Technologies allowed you to feel pressure and touch, and of course, everybody’s visuals were getting better every day, but the differences between the best VR stimware and reality were like light-years compared to millimeters; there was a long, long way to go.

On a whim, Toni called Joanna Winthrop.

“Hey, Toni! How’s the pregnancy going?”

“Awful. I feel like a bloated cow.”

Joanna laughed. “I hear that, and I sympathize completely. No matter how many times Julio told me I was beautiful, I knew I could stand next to the hippos at the zoo and nobody could tell us apart.”

“Alex doesn’t understand. I know I’m whining, I can’t stop myself, and as soon as I start, he runs and hides in the garage. That old car he’s working on is going to be the most overbuilt classic in all creation. I think he’s leaving early and coming home late from work just to stay out of my way.”

“Bet on it.”

Toni sighed. “So how is your baby?”

“The demon child from Hell?”

“What?”

Joanna laughed. “He’s great. That’s just what we call him when we can’t figure out why he’s crying.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“Not really. But every once in a while, none of the usual things work. He’s not hungry, he’s not wet, he doesn’t need to burp, he doesn’t seem tired, he’s too little to be cutting teeth. So far, the little battery-powered swing mostly does the trick, and if that fails, we put him in the car seat and take him for a ride in the car, and that pretty much calms him down. Or Julio takes him for a long walk. By the third or fourth mile, Julio says, he’s usually okay.”

“Jesus,” Toni said. “What have I done?”

Joanna laughed again, louder. “I’m kidding, sweetie. He’s a terrific kid, worth every penny. How are you doing, really?”

Toni explained about her scrimshaw, and about how she was feeling cooped up.

“Why don’t you come on over and visit us? The baby is asleep, he’ll be out for another couple hours, and I’d love to see you again. I’ve missed the crew at work.”

“Me, too,” Toni said. “You’re sure it’s okay?”

“Of course I’m sure. I’m a new mama and you’re gonna be in a few months. If we can’t help each other, who will?”

Toni felt as if her load had been lightened immeasurably.

“Thanks, Joanna. I’m on my way.”

* * *

Bobby’s “work” phone jangled as he was looking for his suitcase in the garage. He frowned. Only a few people had the number, which was supposedly a direct line to his “office.”

He went to the kitchen and touched the com’s caller ID button.

Nothing; whoever was calling was blocked. Probably a wrong number. He tapped the speaker button.

“Polymers, Drayne,” he said.

“Hello, Robert.”

Jesus Christ! “Dad?”

“How are you?” his father said. He sounded old.

“Me? I’m fine. How, uh, are you? Everything okay?”

“I am well.”

“How’s the dog?”

“He’s fine.”

There was a long pause.

“What, uh, what’s up, Dad?”

“I have some bad news, I’m afraid. You remember your aunt Edwina’s son, Carlton?”

Aunt Edwina’s son. He couldn’t have just said, “Your cousin”?

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, he was in a boating accident yesterday. He passed away in the hospital this morning.”

“Creepy’s dead?” Jesus.

“I asked you not to call him that, Robert.”

Drayne shook his head. His father would remember that. Still worried about the name, even though the man was dead.

Carlton Post had been called Creepy as long as Drayne could remember. He was three years younger than Drayne, and whenever his folks had come to visit — Edwina was his old man’s younger sister by five years or so — they’d brought their four kids along. Creepy was the only boy, and Drayne had usually been stuck watching him.