An Absence of Light

Graver stared at the Seldon documents in front of him. That was it Burtell had not hesitated to commit himself wholeheartedly to a course of action that was a clear abandonment of everything that Graver, at least, had thought he stood for. Burtell was embracing a deception that could not be explained away. If he ever had an inclination to get out of it he had to know that now was the moment to do so and that Graver was his best hope for effecting an extrication. He had to know this, and yet Burtell did not hesitate to step over the line that would separate them for a certainty. For Graver it was a truly painful display of hypocrisy. Graver felt as if Burtell had walked up to him and hit him in the stomach.

“Okay,” Graver said, closing the manila folder. “I’ve got to think about this.” He sat back in his chair and leveled his eyes at Burtell. “You shouldn’t have let yourself get caught empty-handed-I mean completely empty-handed.”

He wanted to say something entirely different, but that, at least, was expected of him. As he sat there staring at the man who was like a younger brother to him he came within a hairsbreadth of dropping all pretense, of stopping the charade. He wanted to take Burtell by the shoulders and shake him and ask him for God’s sake what was he doing; how could he do what he was doing; what in the hell was happening to him.

Burtell was nodding at him, his eyes cast awkwardly to the side as he pretended to swallow the reprimand. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I screwed it up.”

Graver was suddenly assaulted with a confusion of emotions. He was furious at Burtell’s performance, standing in front of him dressed immaculately in lies, wearing them so well he was fluid and articulate and-if it had not been for Paula’s and Neuman’s discoveries-believable. He was furious that Burtell had played the altar boy for more than two years while at the same time he had operated some kind of shell game that Graver didn’t even yet understand. He was disgusted with himself for having let it happen. He was frightened that the dimensions of this game were still unknown. He was baffled and maybe even a little rattled that he didn’t yet know how to deal with it. And he was stung to the quick by the betrayal.

“I’ll get back to you,” he managed to say dismissively, hoping that his face was not giving away the turmoil he was feeling. Burtell nodded and for an instant Graver thought he hesitated. But he could no longer allow himself to trust anything he saw in Burtell’s behavior. It was as if Dean Burtell had died right there in front of him.

Burtell bent down and picked up his files from his chair and headed for the door. But then he stopped and turned. He looked at Graver and then advanced a few steps to Graver’s desk.

“Uh, Marcus. Did you… remember that I was scheduled for vacation?”

Graver looked at him blankly. “Sorry,” he said. “I’d forgotten about it.”

“Do you have any objections to me going ahead with it now? Under the circumstances… I… frankly, I could use it.”

Graver shook his head. “No, of course not. I can’t see any reason for you to hang around now.” He pushed aside the paperwork on his desk and looked at the calendar. “That’s two weeks. Starting tomorrow,” he said.

Burtell nodded. “Thanks, I appreciate it.” He seemed to hesitate again, then turned abruptly and walked out of the office.

Graver slumped back in his chair and stared at the closed door. “Jesus Christ,” he said.

Chapter 22

Graver opened his desk drawer and got his car keys. He needed to talk to Paula and Neuman, but he also had to do something else, and he had to do it now. After locking his desk, the files, and the safe, he walked out of the office and told Lara that he had to leave for several hours, and it probably would be after lunch before he would be back.

She looked at him, and as their eyes met he could tell instantly by her expression that she saw something on his face that caught her attention. He turned and walked out of the office without telling her where he could be reached. It was something he never did. He felt her eyes on him until he was out the door.

Four or five blocks away from the office, he pulled into a self-service station to fill the car with gasoline. He set the nozzle on its slowest automatic setting and made a brief telephone call from a pay phone outside the station. After the call he gave the attendant fifteen dollars and got back to the nozzle just in time to catch the fifteen clocking around on the pump dials. He checked his watch.

It took him longer than he had thought it would to get to Arnette’s. She lived in one of Houston’s older neighborhoods where the ethnic diversity was reflected in almost exactly the same proportions as the city’s demographic pie charts. It was a mixture that pleased Arnette Kepner just fine.