The First Billion

She remembered the sacred sisters' midnight ministrations. The awkward touches under her gown, the cold raw hands, the bony fingers and ragged nails probing her private places, the sour breath smelling of cabbage and wine and whispering for her to stay quiet, that she was doing God's work, and all the while the chafing of their bristly mounds against her leg, punctuated by the staccato, irreligious grunts.

Tatiana swam through the smells, the sensations, the images, pleased they no longer frightened her or moved her in any way. Yes, she agreed, anyone would feel the same as she. But it was not rage they would feel, or anger. They would simply feel nothing.

Killing was easy if you were not alive.

***

Gavallan rose at seven. After a long run on the beach, he showered, then breakfasted on the veranda. The effects of the exercise and the lush surroundings left him feeling restored. Hardly himself, but not the shell who'd crawled into bed the night before. He put in a call to Emerald, explaining he'd be back that night, then left word for Tony or Meg to call him pronto.

At nine sharp, he knocked on the front door of 1133 Somera Road, the residence of Raymond J. Luca. He decided to play it straight from the get-go, explain that he too had learned that something was amiss with Mercury and ask where Luca had gotten his information. But the door never opened. In Gavallan's new world, nothing went as planned.

Returning to his car, he'd spotted a neighbor walking a pair of toy poodles. He was an older man with gray hair, glasses, and a wary eye behind the welcoming smile. Gavallan asked him if he knew Ray Luca, and if so, where Luca worked.

"You a friend of his?" the man asked.

"You might say that. We were at M.I.T. together." Gavallan thanked his stars for Jason Vann's inquisitiveness.

"Another egghead, eh?" The older man chuckled. "Don't know what I'd do without Ray. Helps me with my taxes. Saves me a couple hundred bucks each year. And the kid won't take a dime. It's not right, I tell him."

"That's Ray. He's a sweetheart. Say, I went by his house, but he's not home. Know where he works?"

Gavallan didn't want to come on like the authorities and made sure not to press too hard. Soon enough, the older man, who'd introduced himself as Ralph O'Mara, gave up the information.

"You can find him at Cornerstone. 714 Atlantic. He's a whiz, that boy. All we talk about is the market."

"Got any recommendations?" Gavallan asked before heading to his car.

"No, just one to stay away from."

Gavallan said good-bye before O'Mara could give him the name. He already knew what it was going to be anyway.

***

The Delta Airlines 727 inched forward on the runway. Out the window, Howell Dodson counted seven jets lined up in front of him, waiting to take off. Friday morning gridlock at Ronald Reagan National Airport.

"Rush hour- my, my," he said to DiGenovese. "Who'd have thought it? Least we've left the gate. Won't be but fifteen, twenty minutes till we take off. We'll be on the ground by nine, you'll see. Do some of that New York City driving, you can have us in Delray Beach in an hour's time."

Dodson had decided not to alert the Dade field office to their arrival. Protocol demanded that an assistant deputy director be met by the office's ranking agent. He'd have to explain why he was in the area. That meant going into the flimsy case on Kirov and the even flimsier reason for looking up Mr. Raymond Luca. Breathe one word of premeditated murder and someone would suggest setting up surveillance on Luca's house.

No thank you, said Dodson to himself. He didn't care to waste the Bureau's resources on snipe hunts. DiGenovese's hypothesis about Gavallan's murdering ways left him unconvinced.

"Roy," he said, "I think I'm going to avail myself of the free time to catch up on some rest. Twins never did get to sleep last night. Tell you, it's danged tough being a new father at my advanced age." And tucking a pillow under his head, Dodson settled in for a little shut-eye.

DiGenovese sat in the seat next to him, glowering.

***

Upon landing, Boris and Tatiana rented a car and the two drove the sixty miles north to Delray Beach. The morning was hot and muggy. The sun sat high in a hazy blue sky. The heat made Boris uncomfortable, and Tatiana wondered if it was too much for him. Every two minutes he had to wipe his brow and take a swig of the bottled water. Tatiana, though, was too taken by her new surroundings to notice the heat. From her first step inside the airport, she was mesmerized. Everything was so clean, the floors waxed a brilliant white and free of cigarette butts, gum wrappers, newspapers. Everyone appeared tanned, fit, and prosperous. And so many smiles. Not a worried brow among them.