according to Erin—he didn’t get anything beyond some drinks and a dance or two.
Erin had had no real notion of what to do with the information, but Justin did. Justin had a friend who had a friend who was a serious hacker, and for just five hundred dollars of Erin’s money, Justin gained access to Martin Darby’s computer and learned the secrets of the Anomalous Space Objects.
Justin stood now gazing thoughtfully at the field, tilting his head, making slight adjusting motions with his hands, imagining a murder scene. Playing the part, pretending to actually think he should have killed the two because he knew full well it would turn Erin on. Erin had never known a person who could say I wonder if I should have killed them and mean it. It was viscerally exciting to her. It made her heart run mad, and sent chills of fear tingling up her spine.
Yes, Justin knew Erin O’Day and how to play her. And he remained faithful to her because while there were plenty of beautiful women in the art world, and fewer who were both beautiful and rich, he had only met one who was also excited by the darkness Justin knew lay at his core.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” Erin said. She was irritable, not being a fan of cramped, chilly tractor cabins. “Our names are on flights from New York to Des Moines. We’ve left a trail.”
“Speaking of trails,” Justin said, “you wrote down their license plate number?”
Erin opened her phone, swiped a few times and held up a dark photo of an Illinois plate, fuzzy from a distance but readable.
Justin stirred restlessly, stamping his feet to warm himself while still self-consciously gazing at the dark cornfield. “I was just picturing how it would look, you know, when the sun came up, when they were found: blood splatters all over the cornstalks. I’d arrange the bodies so that . . .” He paused to consider, eyes narrow, hand drawing shapes in the air. “I’d make them strip naked first, just leave on one or two random bits—a sock, a scarf, something enigmatic that made it appear to be a clue, then bang, bang—” He mimed firing a handgun.
“No one would ever be able to make sense of it, but there’d be fifty conspiracy theories online in a week,” Erin said. Then adopting a more mature tone, she added, “But that’s not why we’re here.”
“Anywhere I am, I’m there for art,” Justin said, smirking to take the edge off his pomposity, and inwardly rolling his eyes at his own BS. “Come on, let’s see if they left us anything. Can you go get me the black light from my bag?”
“In these shoes?”
With a sigh Justin fetched the bag, unzipped it, pointed his phone light into the bag and withdrew a battery-powered wand that shone black light (more purple than black) in the hole he’d widened.
“Hah! Here’s a chip right here.” He held up a thin, sharp-edged fragment no more than an inch and a half long and a quarter of an inch thick.
“Is that enough?”
“Who knows?” Justin asked. “I guess we’ll find out. If it isn’t, we’ll track the license plates.”
“What do we do with it? Crush it and snort it?”
“In the PBA they were just exposed to the radiation. But I think that’s the slow and inefficient way,” Justin said. He frowned. “The bigger question is, where is the team of scientists who were supposed to be here? I was expecting helicopters and big trucks. So, who were those two, how did they get here, what did they take away, and what do they intend to do with it?”
“That’s four questions.”
Justin checked an app. “There’s an early flight to La Guardia, tomorrow morning. We can make it, easy.”
“Or we can make it right here,” Erin said with a leer.
“What, here?” he asked, faux innocent.
“I thought we were clear on who’s the boss . . .”
Justin grinned up at her and said, “Yes, ma’am.”
He was not in the mood, not really, much more interested in the Anomalous Space Object than the Predictable Female Object, but her desire for him, and his ability to feed that desire, were a vital parts of moving large chunks of money from her hands to his.
And there were worse ways to pass the time in an Iowa cornfield.
Afterward, they walked back to the rental car concealed off the main road in a little stand of trees. They drove to Des Moines, stopped at a Walmart en route, and checked into the DoubleTree hotel near the airport. Justin set up the mortar and pestle he’d purchased at the Walmart and ground the rock fragment to a powder.
Then he dumped it out onto the nightstand and used a credit card to form the powder into a line about six inches long.
“Want some?” he asked, holding out a straw he’d pocketed from the bar downstairs.
Erin considered, eyeing the gray line dubiously. But Justin knew she’d refuse. Erin liked others to take risks for her amusement; she didn’t take many risks with herself.
“That’s all for you, baby.”
Justin shrugged and snorted half the line. The rest he scooped up with the credit card and stirred into his vodka and orange juice.
“Feel anything?” Erin asked.
“It stings, that’s for sure.” He sneezed and wiped his nose, then drank the laced beverage in one long swig. “Well, I guess we’ll see. It may not work. You know, it only worked for some of the kids in Perdido Beach. There may be a genetic factor or something. And then there’s the question of the dome.”
“It’ll work for you,” Erin said with quiet complacency. Of course Justin knew she was pandering to him, flattering him. But he also knew she was conflicted, had been all along, wanting to hold onto Justin’s talent, wanting to maintain at least some control over him, enjoying the dangerous rush of his company, and even (probably) enjoying his love-making. But at the same time she was fascinated by the idea of her young prodigy acquiring powers. She wanted to see that, to be part of that.
The artist unbound.
At which point, Justin suspected, he might no longer need her money. Or her. The possibilities were endless.
They had a bare three hours of sleep before their respective phone alarms rang. They showered together with predictable results and took the shuttle to the airport. They caught the ten a.m. Delta flight and settled wearily into first-class seats, reclined their chairs and picked unenthusiastically at an early lunch of swordfish with crayfish garnish, before falling asleep.
Justin slept like only a nineteen-year-old can—deeply, totally, effortlessly, waking only in time to hear the captain on the intercom warning of strong crosswinds at La Guardia that, “might make for a bit of a bumpy landing, folks.”
As if on cue, the plane bucked, rising on a gust then falling too fast with the sickening sensation of a roller coaster hurtling down from the first big drop. Then just a few thousand yards from the runway, wheels already down, there came a powerful gust that shoved the plane sideways, knocking Justin’s head forward.
A startled cry that some might interpret as fear came from Justin’s lips, which he then twisted into an ironic smile in hopes that his nervousness would seem to be a joke.
It wasn’t a joke. The next swerve was positively terrifying, wild enough to cause the drinks cart to break free and slam into a bulkhead. A flight attendant seated in the rear-facing jump seat grabbed it and pinioned it with her feet.
Justin had no special fear of flying, but he had a very healthy fear of death, and a deep dislike bordering on phobia about being out of control. Adrenaline flooded his arteries. His muscles tensed. He gripped the armrests as if twisting the leather would let him steer the plane.
And then . . .
Suddenly Justin’s roomy first-class seat