“It sounds like you’re trying to piss me off.” His nostrils flared. “Listen up and listen good. You’re going to accept the award and watch the president’s televised speech. Then you’re going to read the notecards our speechwriters prepared for you. Afterward, you and I will pose for pictures and you’re going to smile like I’m the best goddamned friend you’ve ever had. And you know why?”
“Because you’re such a fun guy?”
“Because of the cameras. You’re a national hero now, Cy. Millions of people know what you did. They’ll be tuning in to see you tonight. If you screw around, you’ll only be hurting yourself.”
Without another word, he turned around. Back straight and soles clicking like the world’s worst soldier, he marched off stage and vanished behind one of the side curtains.
“How can you talk to that prick?” The words were spoken as if yelled through a mouthful of gravel.
I glanced to the opposite side of the stage and saw the shadowy silhouette of Dutch Graham step out from behind the burgundy curtains. “I talk to you, don’t I?”
“Touché.” He chuckled. “You know, I can remember a time when me spouting off like that would’ve embarrassed the hell out of you.”
“Oh, don’t worry. You’ve found all new ways to embarrass me.”
He put his hands on his hips. Leaned back and belched to the high heavens. Then he started toward me, weaving his way across the polished wood floorboards. Despite his erratic pattern, his steps were remarkably normal, so normal you’d never know he was moving with the assistance of a mechanical left leg.
Graham was a living legend at the Explorers Society, albeit the sort of legend the Society’s leadership would’ve preferred to forget. Kind of like an accomplished kooky uncle you like to brag about to your friends, but who you pray they never meet.
And why did the leadership feel that way? Well, he was the last of a dying breed of explorers. Scientific protocols? Rigorous methodology? Meticulous analysis of the smallest details? Who needed that? Certainly not Graham, who’d spent his youth exploring the darkest corners of the world, driven primarily by a thirst for adventure. And indeed, he’d had his fair share of excitement over the years. His mechanical left leg was proof of that.
So was the patch over his right eye.
He halted a few feet short of me. He wore a colorful Hawaiian shirt, tattered jeans, and heavily-scuffed dark brown boots. To say he was underdressed was putting it mildly.
“Nice threads,” I remarked. “You do know this is a black tie affair, right?”
“Come on. How long have you known me?”
He didn’t have to elaborate. Graham didn’t like putting on airs. The British Queen could’ve come a knockin’ and he still would’ve answered the door in his underwear.
Not that I was Mr. Stylish. Normally, my idea of formal attire was a clean shirt and wool sport coat matched with my best pair of cargo pants. The ones without holes or scuff marks. But for this particular evening, I’d gone all-out. My ensemble consisted of a stylish double-breasted tuxedo with matching patent leather shoes. Rented from one of Fifth Avenue’s premiere men’s clothing shops, it somehow managed to fit me perfectly yet feel utterly uncomfortable at the same time. But hell, at least it kept Donovan off my back.
Graham took a step closer and my nose wrinkled. He reeked of alcohol. Coupled with the other clues — the slight weave of his footsteps, his wily grin — and I knew he was tipsy. Fortunately, that was the extent of it. Graham was capable of reaching levels of drunkenness few mortals could ever hope to achieve. Those of us in the know had a special name for it.
Dutch-Drunk.
Dutch Graham was a remorseless boozer. And a womanizer. And a gambler. And a bunch of other — ers too. His more uptight colleagues, disgusted by his lifestyle, had long ago taken to calling him El Diablo. However, the nickname, which had been intended as an insult, backfired on them. Namely, because Graham was tickled pink about it.
When he wasn’t sinning, he split his time between CryoCare, a small business in the rapidly growing field of cryonics, and Salvage Force, my archaeological salvage company. On top of that, he was a relentless tinkerer, capable of fixing and repurposing broken-down machines as well as creating all-new technologies out of spare parts.
“That’s some interesting cologne you’ve got there.” I took a whiff. “Let me guess. Hamron’s Horror?”
“What else?”
Ahh, Hamron’s Horror, the real breakfast of champions. The very thought of that copper-colored, smoky scotch sent my taste buds into a frenzy.
Graham stared at me with that one eye of his, peering into my soul as only he could. Then he shrugged. “I’m going to get another drink before this nonsense begins. Maybe two. No, make that three. Or four. Want anything?”
I did. But Donovan’s words about being a role model rung in my ears. “Maybe later.”
As he weaved away, I twisted back to the front curtains, alone with my swirling thoughts. In terms of respectability, I’d come full circle. I’d started my career as a historical archaeologist, specializing in urban environments. But a tragic accident at my first dig had sent my life veering off-course. I’d abandoned my career and taken on the life of a treasure hunter, crisscrossing the globe in search of ancient artifacts. In the process, I got kicked out of the Explorers Society and became a pariah among my former colleagues.
But even then, the seeds of my redemption were beginning to sprout. The rigors of treasure hunting turned me into a salvage expert. And over time, I began to offer up my expertise to archaeological digs. Not ordinary digs, mind you, but extreme ones. Digs that were threatened by immediate dangers, such as war or natural disasters. With Beverly and Dutch at my side, I threw myself into those digs, fighting to save every last artifact and its surrounding context.
Now, I was back at the Explorers Society, new membership in hand. The whole world knew my name thanks to the Columbus Project scandal. It was everything a guy could want.
But all I wanted was a drink.
The dull buzz of the restless audience wafted into my ears and I took another look through the curtains. The auditorium was packed, as it always was for the annual Explorers Society Awards Night. But one reserved seat, right in the front row, remained empty.
Beads of sweat bubbled up on my forehead. My armpits felt damp beneath my tuxedo. The auditorium’s air conditioning was on Antarctica-mode, but it was more than outmatched by the broiling summer heat.
As I stared out at the audience, still searching for Beverly, I thought back to my childhood. About the many days and nights I’d spent at the Explorers Society, delving into its hidden corners and dreaming of exotic adventures.
My mom, an esteemed member, had encouraged my interest. Fake award or not, she would’ve been proud of me today. As for Dad, well, I wasn’t sure how he would’ve felt about it.
My gaze shifted to a large clock mounted on the back wall. The hands ticked by at high speed. They’d already passed 8:00 p.m. and were well on there way to 8:15.
My left coat pocket vibrated. Reaching inside, I extracted my satphone. Saw Beverly’s name flashing on the screen.
I clicked it and a text message appeared. Let’s play a game, I read softly.
A wicked smile spread across my lips as my fingers danced across the virtual keyboard. Does it involve a deck of cards and us taking our clothes off?
A small image appeared. I clicked it and a grainy video of Beverly Ginger opened up on the screen. Her eyes, bloodshot and dry, were pried open. Her jaw was gagged with thick rope. A large welt, black and purplish, marred her temple.
The camera zoomed out and I saw her body, stripped down to her undergarments. She sat slumped in a metal folding chair, her arms and legs encased in chains. It was difficult to see details in the grainy video. But I caught glimpses of enormous bruises on her legs and deep cuts on her torso.