Peter dreamed he was reclining on a bed of lush grass along the bank of a shady stream. It was daytime, but he could see the stars, the Milky Way climbing through the bright sky. On the far bank grew a venerable aspen tree, its smooth white bark scarred with glyphs and signs. From the burbling water leaped enormous trout, their jeweled bodies flashing as they nipped at the tree's branches.
In its shade stood three people: Saul Gordon, Demi, his granddaughter, and a regal woman wearing a sky-blue robe â the Virgin Mary, or maybe Saul's wife or daughter. Demi busied herself catching trout out of the air with a net attached to a long wooden pole, while Saul and woman next to him remained still, their faces downcast.
Peter sat up, raised his hand and called out. Only Saul looked up. A scowl was on his face, and he seemed to be chewing something tough and unsavory. He opened his mouth, and out poured a gibbering tirade of guttural sounds. The Virgin Mary wrung her soft hands, raised her pale face and began to ululate. The ululation became the bleating of a sheep, then the ringing of a phone.
Now the stream swelled its banks to become a river, wide and placid. The phone rang again, and Peter put it to his ear. Seh-mee-nah . . . see-nah-pees. He tried to speak, but his lips were stuck with pasty saliva. Seh-mee-nah . . . see-nah-pees! Enraged, Peter hurled the phone as far into the river as he could. It made a pathetic splash and a few measly rings. But the rings began to spread, growing now to heaving waves. Soon, the river seethed from bank to bank. Peter turned to run, but his feet were stuck in sand, gravel, white quartz. And the more he struggled, the deeper he sank, until his body was encased in stone, crushed by an overwhelming sense of peace and calm.
He awoke to the clatter of Anna Jankowsky's bathroom fan from down the hall. He lay on the living room couch, sweating under a blanket. Throwing it off, he sat up and took a deep breath. His chest still ached, but his lungs had cleared.
The fan rattled to a stop, and Anna emerged from the hallway wearing a bathrobe and dabbing at her damp hair with a towel.
"You should get what's-his-name to fix that fan," said Peter.
"His name's Corbett, and I'll fix it myself. Besides, I can always open the Boy Hatch if I need to blow off some steam."
Peter chuckled.
She stopped mid dab, head cocked, hair dangling. "How are you? You seemed kind of out of it when I left."
He rubbed his face. "I don't know. Still numb, I guess. Like I said, it was so different with my mom. I was there. I saw her go. And we had a funeral. But this. It just seems so unreal, so . . . unfinished. They won't even release his ashes." Peter did not want to talk about the woman's earring he had found in his father's pickup truck.
Anna plopped down next to him, towel in her lap, the scent of her coconut conditioner wafting over.
"Did you figure out what your dad was trying to say on the phone? Do you even know what language that was?"
Peter shook his head. "He might not have been trying to say anything. He might have just been delirious."
"What do you mean?"
"I got a call from Dr. Hoffman while you were out."
"And?"
Peter hesitated. "You can't tell anyone about this, not even your boyfriend."
"Corbett's the last person I'd tell."
Peter wondered just how close they really were. "Okay. So, it turns out you were right about my dad's cigarettes. The filters were laced with a toxin, something called ricin."
"Oh my god." She covered her mouth with her hand.
"So you know what that is."
She let her hand fall. "Yeah. We learned about ricin in first year med school. It's like one of the deadliest toxins known to man. Just a few micrograms are enough to kill."
Peter nodded "Now I know why I was so sick the last couple days. When I found my dad's cigarettes in the truck, I sniffed them, you know, just for memory's sake. I must have inhaled some of that stuff."
"Peter, you could have died!"
"I know, I know."
Anna clutched her towel. "Who would want to hurt your dad? Why?"
"That's just it. I have no idea." He looked around. "Where's your iPad? I couldn't find it anywhere."
She smiled, slipped her hand behind Peter's back, and pulled it out from between the cushions. "You were sleeping on it."
Together, they searched for the term "ricin" and swiped through hundreds of hits. A news article caught Peter's eye. Dayex Industries had just won FDA approval to use ricin in a new cancer therapy. The drug worked like a molecular smart bomb, delivering tiny packages of the toxin directly to tumor cells.
Anna's damp hair brushed against Peter's cheek. "Did they have anything like that when your mom was sick?"
He did not answer. His eyes were locked onto the thumbnail image of Jason Dayan, founder and CEO of Dayex Industries. Peter had seen the man before, in a framed photo hanging on the wall in Saul Gordon's living room. The two men were old friends. Saul's granddaughter, Demi, would be attending college on a Dayex scholarship. It was Jason Dayan who had provided the solar panels and hydrogen fuels cells that powered Saul and Demi's mountain home. And it was Jason Dayan who financed Demi's father's tribe in its legal battle over the Burns Ice Man, the preserved remains of an ancient human discovered by college students in 1992.
"What's wrong?" said Anna.
"I don't know." There had to be a connection. Now more than ever, Peter regretted never asking his father why he had visited Saul Gordon all those years ago.
Peter's phone began to ring with that awful bleating sound, just like in his dream. The call was from an unrecognized number. He tapped the screen and put the phone to his ear. "Hello?"
"Hello. This is Nechama Davila. We met yesterday at the cemetery."
"What do you want?" He reached back and fished her business card out of his jacket pocket.
Israel Antiquities Authority, Robberies Prevention Unit
"I just found out what happened to your father. I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but I have information you must hear."
Anna mouthed a question: "Who is it?"
Peter handed Anna Davila's card. "I'm listening."
"I have reason to believe your father was murdered."
"What makes you think that?" Dr. Hoffman's findings were confidential. They had not been released to the public.
"Not over the phone. Meet me, now. A public space of your choosing."
"What is this, some kind of game?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Why should I talk to you? Why shouldn't I go straight to the police and hand them your business card?"
"I urge you not to do that. Please, meet with me. If afterwards you feel you must go to the police, then do so."
"Fine. Meet me on the University of Washington campus, Red Square. There's a sculpture there called the Broken Obelisk." It was the most public place Peter knew.
"One hour then?"
"One hour."
__________________
Author's note:
Thank you for reading Chapter 9!
All comments welcome!
-Frode
Image: aspen trees by a stream.
Take from https://i.pinimg.com/736x/98/19/51/9819514e32588d9c8eba0386de9dbcc5--autumn-leaves-autumn-fall.jpg