Infinity Beach - Jack McDevitt [48]
—RANDLE ABRAM, Letters to My Son, 241
In the morning Kim ate breakfast with Cole, thanked him for his hospitality, checked her bag through to Terminal City, and caught the shuttle to Sky Harbor.
Interstellar maintained its operations division in the lower hangars on the Plum Deck, so called because of the color of the walls. Kim showed up at the service desk and asked if she could speak with Walter Gaerhard. She gave her name and sat down to wait. A few minutes later a muscular man with skin the color of black ivory opened the door and looked in. “Dr. Brandywine?” he asked.
“Mr. Gaerhard.”
He smiled and offered his hand. “You wanted to see me?”
“For a few minutes.”
“I’m not buying anything.”
“It’s nothing like that. Can I take you to lunch?”
He was looking closely at her, trying to imagine why she was there. “It’s early, Doctor. But thank you. What can I do for you?”
“How good’s your memory?”
“It’s okay.” He led her into a side office. “Are you from Personnel?”
“No. I’m not connected with the company.”
He offered a chair and took one himself. “So what did you want me to remember?”
“I want to go back twenty-seven years.”
“That’s a few.”
“You did some repairs on the jump engines of a yacht owned by the Tripley Foundation. The Hunter.”
His features hardened. “Don’t remember,” he said. “Twenty-seven years is a long time.”
“Interstellar must keep records. Would it help to consult them?”
“Not that far back.”
“You don’t recall working on the Hunter? At all?”
“No.” He stood up. “How could you expect me to? What’s this about, anyway?”
“I’m doing research on the Tripley Foundation. The Hunter is a key part of that history. It was Kile Tripley’s personal yacht.”
“I just don’t remember anything that long ago.” He was leaning toward the door, anxious to be away. “Anything else?”
“I’m not the police,” she said. “I’m not suggesting any-thing’s wrong.”
“I’m sorry to cut this short but I really have to get to work.” And he literally bolted from the room, leaving her staring after him.
The crash that had killed Kim’s parents was one of those anomalies that isn’t supposed to be possible. People died in accidents: they fell off mountains and sailed into storms and got cramps while swimming, but the transportation systems were very nearly 100 percent safe. Very nearly.
Afterward Kim’s aunt Jessica had taken her in, and among the numerous gifts she received from that fine woman had been an appreciation for mysteries. Although it had taken Markis Kane to introduce her to Veronica King.
On the train home, she dived into The Parkington Horror, one of the earlier adventures of that eccentric private investigator. The detective’s Moor Island home base was filled with artifacts from the early years of settlement. The atmosphere was gothic, the dramas played out in crumbling ruins along the ocean or in upland retreats whose sloping dormers and gray windows reflected the madness of their builders.
But Kim wasn’t able to put the interviews with Tripley and Gaerhard out of her mind. The CEO had convinced her that, if anything out of the way had happened on the last flight, he was unaware of it. And didn’t want to know about it.
Gaerhard, on the other hand, was hiding something. She asked herself what secret he could possibly be guarding? And judging from his reaction, it was a secret that would still get him in trouble, even after all these years. The only thing she could think of was that there had been no mechanical problem with the Hunter, or there had been a different problem from the one claimed. And that he had faked the reports. Which meant he’d been bribed. If so, it suggested the Hunter had returned for reasons other than needing repairs. But what might those reasons have been?
Even if Sheyel was right and there had been a contact, why all the secrecy?
The Seahawk settled into a gentle rocking motion and salt air found its way into the cabin. Occasionally a train hammered past in the opposite direction.
She opened a channel to her office.