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Authors: R. Scott Bakker
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beer in an effort to track him down. Ha-ha, Neil is fucking Nora. Ha-ha, Neil is murdering innocents. Ha-ha-ha …
Agent Logan's look told him that she understood this, if not explicitly, then at the level of obscure bodily cues. Suddenly he felt close to this stranger, even though he didn't know the first thing about her.
Go slow, Goodbook. It's been a long day.
Something about her had stirred that anxious, adolescent tickle—that almost desperate desire to be liked. It seemed he could hear Neil laughing in the background.
'Have you an arm like God?'
Samantha's eyes flashed as she took another drink. 'You really need to work with me on this, professor.'
Thomas shook his head, his thoughts immersed in a fog of competing demands and confusions. Too much was happening too fast. 'Like I said, I'm not a neurologist. I'll tell you anything you want to know, but otherwise, I'm just a frumpy academic.'
'Professor—'
'Tom. Call me Tom.'
'Tom, then. Look, with everything going on…' She hesitated. 'Did you know that since the North Atlantic Drift collapsed, the number of eco-terrorist attacks against American targets has tripled?'
By coincidence, Thomas had glanced at the television over the bar as she said this: CNN images of the freak blizzard in northern France. A blizzard before September. Of course everyone was blaming America and her former love affair with SUVs.
'The Bureau's resources,' Samantha continued, 'were already stretched to breaking point by the anti-terrorism campaign. And now the Chiropractor is loose in the city—worse even than the Son of Sam. How many agents do you think Washington has assigned to hunt down Neil Cassidy?'
'I have no idea.'
'Eighteen, most of them part time. There's only the three of us—Shelley, Danny, and myself—here in New York City, along with some loaners from the NYPD. Everyone else is working on the Chiropractor case. We need your help, Tom. Honestly.'
So there it was, her motive for this friendly beer. She wanted him to profile his best friend, provide a framework they could use to explain, and perhaps even anticipate, his moves. Thomas studied her face, this time trying to look past the hum of her beauty. She looked all of twenty-five, but something about her demeanor said she was at least thirty.
'Look, Agent Logan, I—'
'What about vengeance, professor?' she asked sharply. 'What about nailing the man who nailed your wife?'
There it was. She had taken the shortcut.
He should have been offended but… He seemed to have no room for more fury.
'The Argument,' he said, his eyes drawn once again to the TV.
She scowled and shook her head. 'I don't understand.'
Images of snow plows were replaced by that of rioters in frozen Paris streets. Howling Gallic faces, collars up, their fear and anger condensed in their exhalations. The more pessimistic climatologists had been right: global warming had tipped the climatic equilibrium, flooding the oceans with fresh water from the ice-caps, and the North Atlantic Drift, which had warmed Europe from Lisbon to Moscow—or what was left of Moscow—had simply disappeared. Given its latitude, Europe was slowly turning into a version of the Canadian Arctic.
What have we done?
'Yoo hoo, professor?'
Thomas cleared his throat, drew a sweaty hand across his cheek and jaw. 'On that BD you guys showed me this morning. When the girl asked him what he was doing, the voice—Neil, I suppose—said he was making an argument.'
'Yeah, so?'
'Well, I think I know what that argument is. I think I know Neil's motive.'
'You gotta understand: Neil and I were close in college. Real close.'
'No offense, but I have to ask: were you lovers?'
Thomas smiled. 'He punched me in the asshole once while playing "drunk WWE", but that's pretty much as romantic as it got.'
Samantha laughed. 'I've had worse dates. Trust me.'
'We weren't lovers,' he said, 'but only because the physical attraction wasn't there. We were like brothers, twin brothers, who
Agent Logan's look told him that she understood this, if not explicitly, then at the level of obscure bodily cues. Suddenly he felt close to this stranger, even though he didn't know the first thing about her.
Go slow, Goodbook. It's been a long day.
Something about her had stirred that anxious, adolescent tickle—that almost desperate desire to be liked. It seemed he could hear Neil laughing in the background.
'Have you an arm like God?'
Samantha's eyes flashed as she took another drink. 'You really need to work with me on this, professor.'
Thomas shook his head, his thoughts immersed in a fog of competing demands and confusions. Too much was happening too fast. 'Like I said, I'm not a neurologist. I'll tell you anything you want to know, but otherwise, I'm just a frumpy academic.'
'Professor—'
'Tom. Call me Tom.'
'Tom, then. Look, with everything going on…' She hesitated. 'Did you know that since the North Atlantic Drift collapsed, the number of eco-terrorist attacks against American targets has tripled?'
By coincidence, Thomas had glanced at the television over the bar as she said this: CNN images of the freak blizzard in northern France. A blizzard before September. Of course everyone was blaming America and her former love affair with SUVs.
'The Bureau's resources,' Samantha continued, 'were already stretched to breaking point by the anti-terrorism campaign. And now the Chiropractor is loose in the city—worse even than the Son of Sam. How many agents do you think Washington has assigned to hunt down Neil Cassidy?'
'I have no idea.'
'Eighteen, most of them part time. There's only the three of us—Shelley, Danny, and myself—here in New York City, along with some loaners from the NYPD. Everyone else is working on the Chiropractor case. We need your help, Tom. Honestly.'
So there it was, her motive for this friendly beer. She wanted him to profile his best friend, provide a framework they could use to explain, and perhaps even anticipate, his moves. Thomas studied her face, this time trying to look past the hum of her beauty. She looked all of twenty-five, but something about her demeanor said she was at least thirty.
'Look, Agent Logan, I—'
'What about vengeance, professor?' she asked sharply. 'What about nailing the man who nailed your wife?'
There it was. She had taken the shortcut.
He should have been offended but… He seemed to have no room for more fury.
'The Argument,' he said, his eyes drawn once again to the TV.
She scowled and shook her head. 'I don't understand.'
Images of snow plows were replaced by that of rioters in frozen Paris streets. Howling Gallic faces, collars up, their fear and anger condensed in their exhalations. The more pessimistic climatologists had been right: global warming had tipped the climatic equilibrium, flooding the oceans with fresh water from the ice-caps, and the North Atlantic Drift, which had warmed Europe from Lisbon to Moscow—or what was left of Moscow—had simply disappeared. Given its latitude, Europe was slowly turning into a version of the Canadian Arctic.
What have we done?
'Yoo hoo, professor?'
Thomas cleared his throat, drew a sweaty hand across his cheek and jaw. 'On that BD you guys showed me this morning. When the girl asked him what he was doing, the voice—Neil, I suppose—said he was making an argument.'
'Yeah, so?'
'Well, I think I know what that argument is. I think I know Neil's motive.'
'You gotta understand: Neil and I were close in college. Real close.'
'No offense, but I have to ask: were you lovers?'
Thomas smiled. 'He punched me in the asshole once while playing "drunk WWE", but that's pretty much as romantic as it got.'
Samantha laughed. 'I've had worse dates. Trust me.'
'We weren't lovers,' he said, 'but only because the physical attraction wasn't there. We were like brothers, twin brothers, who
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