Chapter 10: Maria

She's the first thing I think of when I wake up, and she's the first thing I see. She smiles at me from the photograph on the bedside table, illuminated by the dim, synthetic glow of the clock face. She wears a white dress.

I switch on the light and get out of bed. I have to do it right away. Otherwise, I'll just lie here thinking bad, bad thoughts. And on a planet where night lasts for days, you can't wait for the sun to come up. I have a hangover. Bought a bottle on the way home and drank the whole thing after I got back here last night. I was supposed to be quitting, but the stuff at Harland's was too good. It's always too good and never good enough, and all over again, I can't get enough of what I don't want.

Since moving into this two-room hovel nearly a decade ago, I've hardly changed a thing. Same flesh-colored walls. Same uniform carpeting. No decorations. The few additions I have added are a weightlifting bench and a comprehensive electronic workdesk. I go to the fridge in the corner and retrieve my breakfast: raw eggs and stimulant pills washed down with a couple glasses of water. Then on to the weightlifting bench. Not one of those fancy antigrav/ultragrav variable-resistance models. No, I prefer the old-fashioned kind. With big, damn heavy weights. Made of metal. Tech bothers me sometimes, And besides, there's something savagely divine about the act of man moving steel.

The jingle of metal weights kissing one another to each repetition is music to my ears. My chest burns with sweet agony as blood pumps into the muscles. The white-noise chorus of rainfall against my solitary window intensifies. I recall the words of Rutherford Harland. How he hates the rain. Most people do. I don't mind it. The only thing better is thunder.

An hour later, thunder shows up. It tolls like the strike of a gong. Sweat coats my ugly, hairless head. I put up the last rep of my last set and place the bar on the rack. For a moment, I sit on the bench, listening to the storm, breathing deeply, feeling my body pulse with every heartbeat. No man of my age should have to work so hard. But this is the life I have chosen. Devoted to a cause. When the day comes for me to fulfill my destiny, maybe I'll fail, but it won't be because I'm too weak, too slow, or too out of breath. All this will be worth it. All the lonely nights, all the bad thoughts, all the hard work. All good, and damn worth it.

An image flashes across my mind's eye: Maria's body, the way I found it. The knife...

I lie back down on the bench, grab the bar with my big hands and push it off the rack. I can do more. I can go harder.

Fifteen minutes later, sweat is running into my eyes. The vein in my forehead pulses with blood flow. My breath hisses through clenched teeth at the apex of every press. It feels like I'm killing myself.

With a last grunt of effort, I put up the final, final rep, and I lie there, panting like a dog. My shirt is stretched tight. I can see the bulge of veins through the fabric.

After my heartbeat slows back down to resting rate, I return to the kitchen to down a heavy-duty, genetics-based muscle growth supplement. It rushes through my bloodstream, fueling my cells like coal to a hungry furnace. I grab my datapad from the bedside table and dial Harland's number.

"Hello?" says a posh voice.

"That you, Hennessy?" I say, mopping my head with a towel.

"It is."

"Jack Tarelli here. I know it's early, but I was hoping to have a word with your boss."

"Mr. Harland is in his study and has asked not to be disturbed. May I relay a message?"

"It's a bit private. Just let him know I called, will you?"

"I believe Mrs. Reed would like to speak with you, sir."

"Mrs. Reed? I don't want to talk to her."

A pause.

"She insists, sir."

"I bet she does."

"Here she is, sir."

I start to protest, but it's too late.

"Mr. Tarelli," says Yvonne Reed. "What a pleasant surprise."

"You ever leave the house, Mrs. Reed?"

"Is that why you called?"

"Maybe. Now be a good girl and run and fetch Daddy, won't you?"

"My father is a very busy man. I'm afraid you don't understand how lucky you were to meet with him once. If you think he's going to drop everything for drinks whenever you have the inclination, you're in for a disappointment. His time is precious."

"You, on the other hand, seem to have more of it than you know what to do with."

"He is grieving over the loss of his son," says Yvonne. "And your visit seemed to upset him even more. I don't know what you said to put him in such a state, but frankly, I wouldn't mind if you just left him alone and never called again."

"Does Daddy Dearest know you screen his calls like this?"

"Only when I think such disturbances might affect his health."

"Oh, that's all right, Yvie. You seem disturbed enough for the both of you. I wonder-just why does it bother you so much not knowing what your father and I talked about last night? You think if you keep me on the phone talking nonsense long enough I'll let something slip?"

A short pause.

"I don't presume to understand all of my father's business," she says. "I only care about his well-being. If this interruption is essential, I can transfer you to his office."

"Thank you," I say.

She hangs up.

When I call back, to my surprise, Harland answers personally.

"Hello, Jack," he says.

"Mr. Harland. I apologize for calling you up like this, but before I get any deeper into all this, I was wondering if you might clear something up for me."

"Oh. I will if I can."

"Do you have any idea what your son was doing in that abandoned factory?"

Harland goes quiet. I wait, patiently, like a good fisherman does. I want to know-without so many words-whether or not Rutherford is aware of those property purchases, the disappearing act of the title transfers, and/or his son's possible involvement in the patch of real estate where he was found dead.

After a few moments of dead air, Harland makes a thoughtful sort of noise in his throat. "Pardon me," he says. "Sometimes, it's hard just to think. I feel like my mind has gone dull, like an old blade. It's like a disability. The sharp, old luster is gone forever, and I know it... You ask me what he was doing there. It implies that you believe he was there of his own volition."

"Just covering my bases. Keeping an open mind. Otherwise, you run the risk of seeing mirages in the desert, so to speak."

"A true professional. I'm afraid nothing comes to mind. If I'd suspected Nathan was doing anything that would put him in danger, I'd have kept a sharper eye... What a strange and terrible thing to talk about him in the past tense like this. It isn't right. The blessing of living to old age is also its greatest curse: defying the natural order of things."

Harland clears his throat. I can't tell if he's grumbling in frustration or holding back tears or both.

"Check your bank account, Jack. Your fee has been deposited."

"Pardon me, sir, but you already paid me yesterday. Remember?"

"I remember," Harland snaps. "And now I'm paying you again."

I quickly scan through my datapad, accessing my account, and my jaw drops.

"This... This must be a mistake, Mr. Harland. It's double what we agreed on."

"It is. But it's no mistake."

"I see. Pay double what's expected, expect double the results? Something like that?"

Harland makes a funny, humming sort of noise. "Such a relief to work with someone of intelligence for a change."

"I'll let you go, Mr. Harland."

"All the best to you, Jack. Keep your wits about you."

"Same."