Infinity Beach - Jack McDevitt [82]
13
I don’t believe the truth will ever be known, and I have a great contempt for history.
—GEORGE G. MEADE, 1871 C.E.
History is bunk.
—Ascribed to Henry Ford, 1915 C.E.
It was close at both ends.
When Air Rescue finally got to Solly they found him pinned against a gate in the powerhouse penstock. He had been in the water almost four hours.
He was not happy.
Nevertheless he and Kim were both on the scene next morning when police brought up a mummified corpse. It was wrapped in a plastic sheath.
The salvage operation was directed by a tall, dark-skinned, dark-haired official who introduced himself as Inspector Chepanga. “Tell me about it,” he said.
He wore a black pullover sweater with a rolled collar. His beard was trimmed to a point, and he studied Kim with a world-weary attitude, suggesting that he fished corpses out of the Severin with depressing regularity. In that age of general prosperity and respect for law, the numbers might actually have run to once every few years.
“It’s Yoshi Amara,” Kim said. Solly was trying to signal her to be quiet, but she could see no point in that. She had no reason to protect Tripley or to hinder any investigation that might take place.
“How do you know? How did you know she was here?”
Kim explained about the shoe and the gold, and how they had conducted the search.
Chepanga listened, nodding occasionally, frowning frequently. At last he looked over at Solly, as if he at least should have known better. “You two are damned lucky to be alive,” he growled, suggesting he’d have been just as happy if Kim hadn’t created a problem for him.
The body had been weighed down with rocks. There wasn’t much left except teeth and bones. And a bracelet and a necklace.
“Tripley’s place?” asked Chepanga.
“Yes.”
He stared out over the river. “The trail’s a long time cold.”
Solly and Kim celebrated their escape from the Severin by treating themselves to lunch in the most expensive restaurant they could find. They toasted each other’s courage and good fortune, and Kim sat back to relish the moment. She assured him that he had behaved heroically, even if the rescue hadn’t gone as planned. She was genuinely touched by this new evidence of his willingness to put himself on the line for her. He seized the first opportunity to grumble about her foolhardiness and she admitted she’d been less than prudent. But there was much that was charming in his insistence that next time he’d appreciate it if she’d try listening to him for a change. She smiled and squeezed his hand and insisted on refilling his drink from the decanter. Solly looked at her as severely as he could manage. He was, in his own way, the most charming person she knew. Well, maybe not quite as charming as Mike Plymouth. But Solly was unique.
Toward the end of the meal, one of Chepanga’s assistants called to confirm it was Yoshi Amara.
Afterward they returned to the hotel, and she tried to reach Sheyel. The reception wasn’t good, trouble on the lines somewhere, and her old teacher’s image, when it finally appeared, lacked definition. It was fuzzy around the edges, particularly up around his shoulders, and occasionally he faded to near-transparency. Add his gloomy demeanor, and the result was spectral.
“I’m sorry,” Kim said, the words inadequate as always even though the victim had been dead almost three decades.
“Murdered?” he asked.
“The police are looking into it. But, yes, I’d say that’s a safe assumption.” Kim had given few details, had in fact few to give.
“In a river,” he said.
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know how else to respond.
“Thank you, Kim. I appreciate what you’ve done.” He looked empty. She realized that until that moment he’d never really given up hope.
“What will you do now?”
“Wait for the results of the investigation.”
“I don’t want to sound discouraging, Sheyel, but with the principals dead, I doubt there’ll be much of an investigation.”
The picture cleared up. “Surely they’d want to establish the truth about this,” he said.
“Maybe. I have my doubts.”
“I see.” The image faded again,