Gant had been impressed with the technology but shown no inclination to spend time hooked into the machine. As much as Neeley had been willing to learn everything and anything from Gant, he had not been so inclined with her. Besides, as he'd put it, he trusted her to do those things that she knew how to do. Neeley had done work like this before, moving money and managing deals for Jean-Philippe in the gray world beyond national boundaries.
Neeley shook away those memories and settled to the work. For the next several hours Neeley immersed herself in the world of electronic banking and legalese.
When she was done, Gant's half of the money was ready to be dispersed to the various accounts that she held for him under different names once she deposited it. The people who depended on Gant would continue to get their monthly stipends: his mother, his ex-wife and the son that Neeley had seen but never met.
Gant had so removed himself that beyond the checks, there was little connection between Gant and the people he left in his past. Neeley knew it had been his only fear at the end other than leaving her alone. That he was shirking a responsibility. As though his death were his fault.
Late one night, half-asleep since the pain injections she was giving him were getting larger and larger, Gant had talked about his son with her, more than he had ever talked about it in all the years she'd known him. She had listened, then told him she would continue his financial responsibilities for the boy — now a young man — and that she would covertly look in on him every once in a while as she and Gant had done over the years. He had said nothing further, but before she fell asleep with his thin, tortured body pulled close to her, she felt a single tear slide onto her breast.
The fire had died down and Neeley knew it was time to go. She packed her few things, and then went through the cabin one last time. Gant's personal effects she had burned in the fireplace right after he died. It was what he had wanted.
His professional equipment was a different matter. That was his legacy to her. The rifle she had used, night vision goggles and the other gear that had been so useful in the Bronx were just part of it. A dozen weapon's cases were lined up near the wall and Neeley carried them out, carefully tying them down in the bed of the pickup. A footlocker and two duffel bags full of more gear she also hauled out and lashed down. She covered the whole thing with a tarp, and then locked the door to the camper shell.
Neeley closed the door of the cabin that had been her home for so many years and knew she'd never return. She surveyed the familiar landscape and felt the sharp catch in her throat as her sight lingered on the patch of raw earth. She had sanitized the cabin, thereby obliterating all traces of her life with Gant.
Whoever came looking, and she knew from what Gant had told her that someone would come, would find nothing. Neeley piled her bags in the passenger seat and climbed in. She slowly made her way down the cutbacks on the hill, her thoughts on what she knew, and, more importantly, wondering what she didn’t know.
Shivering from more than the cold, Neeley turned to the southeast, toward Boston where she would deposit Gant's half of the money. And from there — the small weight of the locker key pressed against her chest.
Hannah Masterson opened the door and walked to the mailbox, a routine she had done for years. She returned clutching a wad of envelopes and newspapers. A quick check turned up no new postcards or letters from John. There were several bills, objects she would have carried to John’s desk but now felt heavy in her hands.
She paused on the stoop to the large Tudor house and looked around, as if seeing the neighborhood for the first time. There wasn't a home in the Cedar Creek subdivision that was under half-a-million dollars and the lawns were all taken care of by professional services. She knew the people who inhabited each house on her street but she wouldn't consider any of them friends.
She had done the Cedar Creek social routine simply because it was what she was supposed to do as John's wife. She had made no special effort to cultivate friends after moving onto the street over three years ago. Now there was no one she could turn to, no shoulder to rest her head on and cry.
Hannah swung the front door open and walked inside. She headed directly for the kitchen, throwing the mail on the counter and pulling the bottle out of the dry bar. She poured herself an ample amount of alcohol then slumped down in her favorite chair, facing the large front windows.
She was surrounded by books. Thousands of them. John had always joked that if a nuclear blast went off anywhere, they were more than adequately protected from the nuclear fallout by the interior wall of books in the house. They had been Hannah’s refuge over the years from a different kind of fallout from the world outside. John had supported her in building the walls of paper, constantly bringing home new books for her to read. They brought scant comfort now, though, as trouble had penetrated into the household.
Hannah thought about John. She had been nineteen when she met him in college. A sophomore, she had felt worldly and wise, especially since they met in an Elizabethan Literature class, her turf, not his. John had been a major in graduate engineering; she an undergrad comparative literature major. He had immediately attracted her when he spoke of how important a classical education was for everyone. He was older than most of the other students, in his mid-twenties and he never really spoke about how he'd spent the years before school, only telling her he'd been in the military. The mystery had deepened her attraction.
In John she had sensed a man who not only knew the concrete facts of how to live his life, but also was aware of the abstract ideas that would make life worth living. She had fallen for him quickly, especially since he projected such strong emotion toward her and wanted her so badly. She had never felt so needed.
Hannah laughed out loud, the sound echoing through the empty house. Needed. What a word. Her shock from the meeting with Howard was fading and anger was seeping through the cracks. She drained the glass and hurled it against the wall of the house that was no longer hers. "You son-of-a-bitch!" she screamed.
CHAPTER 4
Neeley was parked outside the Greyhound Station in Hartford, Connecticut. She looked at the thin manila envelope she had retrieved from the locker. She peeled away the tape and slid the contents onto her lap, wedging them up against the steering wheel. On top, there were two photos, a man and a woman. The man was a typical businessman in his gray suit. A little soft looking with a red blush to his cheeks. A drinker, Neeley thought. The woman was more interesting, sharp looking with blond hair and dark eyes. Neeley stared at the photos for a few moments, committing the details to memory.
There was a third item in the envelope. A piece of notebook paper with Gant's handwriting scribbled across it.
DEAREST
THERE ARE THREE THINGS YOU MUST KNOW IN ORDER TO MAINTAIN THE DEAD TIME: WHO, WHAT AND WHY OF SOMETHING THAT HAPPENED YEARS AGO, JUST BEFORE I MET YOU.
THE MAN IN THE PHOTO, JOHN MASTERSON, KNOWS THE WHAT. FIND HIM. HE IS IN ST. LOUIS WORKING FOR TYRO TECHNOLOGIES. THE OTHER PERSON IS HIS WIFE, HANNAH.
WHO AND WHY WILL COME OUT IF YOU FOLLOW THE RIGHT PATH.
BE CAREFUL. I’VE DONE MY BEST. I’M SORRY.
GANT
Neeley read the note once more. For all the years they’d been together, there was still so much she didn’t know. There were no tears staring at Gant’s writing. She’d spent them on the mountain. She put the note and the photo on the passenger seat and then weighed them down with the pistol Gant had given her on her birthday two years ago.