The Upwelling, page 18
Only a few hours? Yes, of course it was. It seemed like days ago.
Samuel invited him to another community dinner they were holding tomorrow night, and he accepted. The food was good, and the company pleasant, and he didn’t have any other offers, so why not?
After they said their good-byes, he looked around for Nicolette. He wandered around the emptying hall but didn’t see her. Where could she have gone?
Disappointed, he headed for his car. As he started the engine, he jumped when he heard her voice behind him.
“Can I come back with you?”
He turned and saw no one, then spotted her on the floor behind the front passenger seat.
He laughed. “You scared me! What are you doing down there?”
“Being discreet. Well, can I?”
“Come back where?” Did she want to escape the community?
“To the B and B.”
“What for?”
“To spend the night, silly.”
“Where’s Wayne?”
“Staying with Daphne. Would you rather not?”
A genuine attraction or another inducement to stay? He thought about that for a second, and only for a second, and decided he didn’t care.
“Oh, I’d very much rather.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
Chan coasted to the entrance where the guard raised the gate and waved them past from the doorway of his shelter.
And as soon Chan was through, it hit him again. Or left him rather. Good-bye peace and tranquility, hello doom and gloom. This was what they expected their tairongo to do every day: step outside the boundary and “take the temperature of the cosmos,” as Samuel had put it. Well, he could do that. No biggie, as long as he could return to the serenity inside.
So what was the temperature today? Same as ever: cold indifference with a soupçon of maliciousness.
He shook it off. He had an attractive and willing woman crouched behind him. That was what he should be concentrating on.
At Cliff House he helped her from the back seat and escorted her inside and up to his bedroom where she kissed him immediately and they began undressing each other with frantic haste. It had been a long time for him and he sensed it might have been even longer for her.
FRIDAY
1
They slept in and, after a bout of morning sex—much less frantic than last night’s—Chan and Nicolette lay in an exhausted tangle of limbs. Though Chan had had his fair share of sexual encounters during college and after, he’d never encountered a woman as enthusiastic and uninhibited as Nicolette. She had small firm breasts which were perfect for her slight build. And she liked to be on top where she could control the pace, which was fine with Chan.
“That was nice,” she said, snuggling closer against him.
“Nice? That was super. And not the way I expected last night to end, or today to begin.”
“Well, I’ll have you know that I began planning this as soon as I knew you were coming to dinner.”
“And you assumed I’d just go along?”
“First, you returned—that means you’re interested in us. Two, you returned alone; if you had a partner, you’d have brought her along for a look. And three…” She gave him a sly grin. “I’ve caught you looking at me, checking me out. My only assumption was that you liked what you were seeing, even if it was an old bag.”
He laughed and hugged her close. “You’re a riot. And come on, we’re not that far apart in age and I very much liked what I was seeing. Plus, I find you charming and smart and I love your accent, so what’s not to like?”
“I wanted to have you before Daphne started making her moves.”
“Daphne? Doesn’t she have a husband?”
“Yes, but he’s away a lot. Lots of horny women up there, Chan. As tairongo you can have your pick.”
He nuzzled her neck. “But I like you.”
“I’m not greedy. I’m willing to share.”
“Share? That’s very, um, liberated.”
“As you should have guessed by now, we’re not too conventional in our attitudes.”
Was Ian’s remark about orgies up on the mountain more than just a fantasy?
Suddenly she levered up in bed and sniffed the air. “Is that bacon? Yes! Someone’s cooking bacon.”
“That would be our innkeeper, Ian.”
“Let’s go. I’m famished.”
Chan had to admit he’d worked up a fair appetite himself, so they gathered their scattered clothing and got dressed. He led her down to the first floor and the kitchen.
“Good morning!” Ian said from around the corner. “Not an early riser, are you, mate. I thought the smell of Canadian bacon on the grill might entice you down.”
“I brought a guest for breakfast, Ian. Is that okay?”
“No problem. I was expecting that.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. We guessed either you’re a terribly restless sleeper of you had company.” He stepped out for a look. “And you are?”
“This is Nicolette,” Chan said.
Ian gave a little bow. “Nice to meet you, pet.”
“The pleasure is all mine.”
“Oh, zee mademoiselle eez Fronch?” he said in a terrible accent. “Ah would shake hands wiz you but zay air tres greasy at zee moment. Zee Hollandaise eez done and Ah weel start poaching zee oeufs now. Have a seat in zee salon de petit déjeuner and Erica will bring zee café and zee juice.”
As they seated themselves in the sunny room, Nicolette said, “I don’t sound like that, do I?”
Chan laughed. “Please, God, no.”
The coffee was delicious and the eggs benedict superb. They ate while Ian—sans the faux accent, thankfully—hovered over them, babbling about how they’d never had anyone from the mountain at the inn before and peppering Nicolette with questions until she said she had to get back home to her son.
“I don’t want Daphne to have to make him lunch too.”
Chan had been hoping for another tumble under the covers before returning her, but that was not to be.
As they left, Nicolette called Daphne to let her know she was coming, then resumed her place crouched behind Chan’s front seat. Henry was on duty at the gate. He saw Chan coming and waved him through with a smile.
Chan couldn’t suppress an “Aaaaah,” as he passed the boundary.
“What was that about?” Nicolette said from the rear.
“It feels good to be back here.”
“You can really tell the difference between out there and in here?”
“Oh, absolutely. Out there it’s like a cold, drafty bedroom on a January night with no blanket on the bed. Passing that gate is like slipping into a heated bed under a thick down comforter.”
“Well, then, you’ve got to stay.”
“I think you might be right.”
And if staying meant more nights like last night, well…
The playground was deserted when they passed, and no one was around the fort when he parked.
“Where is everybody?” he said.
“Morning classes are over and the kids are back home for lunch. Let’s head down to Daphne’s to pick up Wayne. Come on and see how we live.”
She exited the car and they walked together across the open area.
“Do you really think we’re fooling anyone?”
“Not a soul.”
“Then why—?”
“The ducking and hiding? I prefer not to be blatant in front of the children. That’s why we’re not holding hands.”
“I get it. No PDAs. Can we do this again? Hope-hope-hope.”
“So, you like old-lady sex?”
They’d already addressed that, so he played along.
“Absolutely. I guess that makes you a cougar.”
“You’d better believe it. You’re back for dinner, so how about a replay tonight?”
He’d been hoping for that. He really liked this woman.
“You are on.”
She knocked on the door of one of the cottages and a grinning Daphne answered.
“Wow. You two look…”
“Sated?” Nicolette said.
Nodding, “Yeah, that’ll do. Come on in. I’d show you around but the place is a mess. This was art class morning. I’ll get Wayne.”
“She teaches art and art history,” Nicolette said as Daphne exited, calling for Wayne.
Chan took in the carpeted living room, done up with nondescript furniture that might well have come from Ikea. The fold-out couch was still folded out with rumpled sheets and a blanket on the mattress. All in all, he might have been in any living room in Anywhere, USA, except for the strange abstract paintings on the walls. He stepped up to the nearest for a closer look. It seemed to depict a wide open plain of bright orange, but smooth like a floor, with strange, asymmetrical shapes popping up at odd intervals and equally strange shapes floating through the dark gray sky.
“Who’s the artist?” he said when Daphne returned with Wayne in tow.
“Lexie.”
“Your daughter? They’re extraordinary. How old is she?”
“Seven.” She called toward the rear of the bungalow. “Lexie! Someone wants to meet you.”
Chan experienced an immediate surge of anxiety at the sight of the little red-haired girl who ran through the doorway and up to her mother, but he had no idea why. Like the other kids on the mountain, she seemed a little off. He’d seen her before, but where? He didn’t recognize her from the girls’ table last night. Was she familiar because that wild red hair made her look like Orphan Annie?
“Hello, Lexie. I don’t remember seeing you at dinner last night.”
“I saw you,” she said.
Okay, maybe he had seen her and it had registered only subconsciously. That would explain the recognition.
“I love your paintings. Where do you get the ideas for them?”
“I paint what I see,” she said with a matter-off-fact shrug.
I paint what I see? What a strange answer.
“I don’t understand.”
Another shrug—this time conveying a that’s-your-problem attitude. She seemed a lot older than seven.
“Which is your favorite?”
“The one I’m doing now.”
Daphne laughed. “She always says that. Well, go get it and show us.” As she ran off, Daphne said, “She uses acrylic so it’s dry by now.”
Lexie returned with her latest and held it up for viewing. Chan started to take in the art but his attention was drawn to the mottled pink birthmark on the child’s left middle and ring fingers where she held the board.
And then he realized why she looked so familiar: Lexie was the spitting image of Pam Sirman.
2
Somewhere around midday, two nondescript packages had arrived at Cliff House by messenger from New York. One held a small vial of liquid, bubble-wrapped to such a degree that it appeared insulated from any injury short of exposure to the Hadron collider. The second contained a thumb drive with an encrypted file. Ian had the key and ran the file through the decryption process. He now had it on the screen, with Erica leaning over his shoulder to read it along with him.
The file contained instructions on how to use the contents of the vial. Its unsigned author was terribly long-winded and appeared to be congenitally unable to get to the point.
“My eyes are glazing over,” Ian said, leaning back. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”
He knew Erica had a knack for cutting through the fat and getting to the meat with these things.
“I think so,” she said, straightening. “What it boils down to is that he’s sent a cocktail of hallucinogens, a witch’s brew that will break down any blockades that have been set up within Liao and let the repressed memories resurface. He says he sent three ounces, but one-third that amount has proved quite sufficient in the past. It’s colorless, odorless, and has a mild, fruity flavor. Coffee or any cocktail made with fruit juice or fruity liquor or even red vermouth will mask it nicely. It causes drowsiness and the subject is out within half an hour.”
“Brilliant! The question is… well, you’ve met the fellow, Erica. Do you think he’d trust us if we offered it to him as a cure for—what did he call it?”
“‘Event-specific dissociative amnesia,’ if I recall correctly.”
“Yes. That. Or do we sneak it into a drink?”
“Wait now. You’re getting ahead—”
“Either way, we need to get it into him tonight. After that, I simply have to convince him that I am the person, or at least one of the people, with whom he should share these newly recovered memories.”
She slapped him on the shoulder. “Would you bloody stop yammering and listen! It’s not so easy. That’s what all the blather is about in the instructions. The hallucinogens will put him into a delirious state where he relives the missing hours—hour by hour.”
That didn’t sound good. What had Liao told him…?
“Bloody hell! He said he lost ten hours! Does that mean it will take him ten hours to get it all back?”
“Unless I’m reading this wrong, and I’m not.”
No, Erica didn’t read things wrong.
“That means we need a ten-hour window to get this done.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s the bad news.”
“There’s good news?”
She pointed to the screen. “Well, according to this, he’ll be muttering the whole way through. We can set up a recorder and that should give us a fair idea of what happened during those ten hours whether he decides to confide in you or not.”
“Okay, then, it’s plain we can’t be up front with him about this, so we’ll have to resort to slipping him a spiked drink.”
“I don’t think it will take much coaxing to get an after-dinner bevvy into him. And then we start a recorder going.”
“Or even better…we can be there at his bedside—me with the recorder and you with your trusty steno pad—to catch it all on the fly, as if were. That way we won’t have to lose another ten hours listening to the recording. You still remember your stenographer skills, don’t you, pet?”
“There’s no call for them these days, so I’m no doubt rusty, but it’s like riding a bike: not something you forget.”
“Then we’ll get this into him ASAP.” He held up the red-stoppered test tube of clear fluid which, for all appearances, might be plain tap water. “Tonight, if at all possible.”
3
Chan was pretty sure he’d done an adequate job of hiding his shock at Daphne’s. He’d made a show of admiring the painting, all the while trying to get a better look at the child’s fingers. Not that he needed it. That one glimpse, added to Lexie’s resemblance to Pam, had been plenty.
When he and Nicolette and Wayne left Daphne’s, Nicolette led him down to her place to show him what it was like while she made Wayne lunch. He made it as far as the front door and realized he couldn’t put off calling Danni a moment longer. She had to know about this.
“Oh, wait a minute,” he’d said. “I just remembered I have some business to tie up with my former job before the weekend. I need to go back to get some papers from my bag, so I’ll have to take a raincheck on the tour. But I’ll see you tonight, right?”
“Oh, so right,” she said with a smile.
He’d rushed back to the highway and started toward Cliff House when he remembered that Ian had big ears. He needed absolute privacy for the call he was about to make. So he drove along Route 23 and pulled into the parking area alongside the general store. His phone showed him a strong signal, but he hesitated.
Was it possible, really possible that he’d found Pam’s kidnapped baby? Yeah, it was. Philip Sirman had told Pam he’d been raised in Alberta, NY, so was it such a terrible stretch that his child should be found in Alberta?
What Chan found a more difficult stretch was believing that Philip had been involved in the abduction of his own child. He’d never met him, but how could he do that to Pam? What kind of man could do that to his wife? He found the cold, calculating cruelty involved completely alien. He couldn’t imagine inflicting that level of pain on another person.
The question now: How would Danni react? Would she reject the possibility out of hand? Maybe if he laid it out for her piecemeal…
He punched in her number and prayed she wasn’t on one of her team’s hazmat-suited excursions into the AC ruins—the kind where she’d said they weren’t allowed to take their phones.
Thank God, she answered. He rushed through the greetings and niceties, and then, of course, she asked him how things were going up here.
“That’s what I’m calling about. I met a little girl today who is the spitting image of Pamela Sirman.”
“What? You didn’t tell me you’d be up there looking for her child. Are you? Because if you are, it’s a proven fact you can develop a tendency to see what you want to see.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but do you happen to remember when Pam’s newborn was abducted?”
“Seven years ago, I believe. I can check—”
“No, it was seven. I remember her telling me. This little girl just happens to be seven.”
“Like I told you—”
“Pam also told me her child had a birthmark called a ‘port-wine stain’ on the left middle and ring fingers. I saw that hand just moments ago: No doubt about it, this seven-year-old, red-haired girl has a port-wine stain on the left middle and ring fingers, just as Pam described it.”
Silence. Chan let it ride to allow this bombshell to sink in. Finally, she spoke.
“You never told me about this birthmark.”
“I saw no reason to because I never thought the information would matter. The chances against my coming across her missing little girl up here were astronomical.”
“And yet…”
“Yeah. I hear you. But just to set the record straight, I didn’t come up here looking for little Julie. I came up here looking to get my memory back. But I found Julie instead.”
“She was a newborn when she went missing. You can’t be sure—no one can be sure without DNA.”
