A weathered placard next to the sign provided pictures and text about the California grey whale, which Finney knew sharp eyes could sometimes spot several miles offshore from vantage points such as this during the whale’s winter migration from Alaska to Mexico. Beyond the railing were several more feet of hard dirt, followed by cliff edge and empty space. Finney could now hear the roar of powerful waves smashing against the base of the cliffs, hundreds of feet below.
Finney knew these cliffs thrust some four hundred feet skyward from the eastern edge of the beach below in sheer, crumbling towers of unsteady sandstone. In some places, as here, the Pacific licked the base of the cliffs with regularity at high tide; in others, there were wider expanses of beach that offered up safe, dry spots of sand for beachgoers who wished to remain high and dry.
“Big waves,” Sebastian remarked. “That storm off the coast is moving in faster than they thought. Supposed to be a big one. Heaviest rainfall in years, they’re saying. Supposed to set all kinds of records with the storm surge. Flood and mudslide warnings. El Nino. Extreme weather. Global warming.”
Finney watched as Sebastian ducked under the railing and stepped to the edge of the cliff. He peeked over the side, then squatted with the grace of a cat dropping to its haunches, inspecting the ground a foot away from the cliff’s edge, probing in the dirt with his fingers.
Finney glanced around, but nobody in the park seemed to notice. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re doing out there?”
Sebastian stood up and brushed the dirt off his jeans. He had an odd smile on his face.
“Keeping my options open,” he said. He reached his right hand up and touched the middle of his chest, as if he was clutching at something underneath his shirt. He did that often, at least several times a day, ever since Finney had first met him. It was an inexplicable habit. “Apparently, just like you, Mr. Finney.”
He came back toward Finney, moving with deliberation, measuring out each of his steps, as if counting paces. He ducked back under the railing.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sebastian placed his elbows on the railing and stared out over the ocean, toward the dark clouds gathering on the horizon. “The countdown. In Wu’s sister’s head. That’s how long she’s got left to live, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it counting down to?”
“A conformational change in the nanoparticles. The batteries will release their remaining stored charge all at once, causing them to scatter at high velocity.”
Sebastian’s expression didn’t change. “A bomb.”
“Of sorts. Yes. Of sufficient power to induce a cerebral hemorrhage. She’ll be dead in minutes.”
Sebastian grunted. “Painful, I would imagine. Those particles. Like shrapnel.”
“Yes.” Excruciating. I’m counting on it. “An autopsy, should it be performed, would later suggest a spontaneously ruptured blood vessel, consistent with a congenital malformation.”
Sebastian nodded. “A natural cause to explain everything. I assume Wu’s device is similarly rigged? If you opted to … activate it?”
“It is.”
“In Wu’s case, it’d also explain the bizarre behavior leading up to her death. Cover our tracks.”
“Yes.”
“And if Wu were to have an MRI in the ER before it went off—”
“—it can be altered.”
“Why a countdown? Why not just detonate it now?”
“I’m not ready to. The countdown is a fail-safe. In case something happens, to either of us, the bomb will still go off early tomorrow morning.”
“But why? Why the bomb?”
Finney said nothing. He watched as Sebastian took two steps back away from the railing, in front of the whale sign, and kicked at the dirt. He turned and stared at a tree, a lone, gnarled Torrey pine, about thirty feet away, and then kicked the spot in the dirt again.
“Okay. Then, why not tell me, boss? Why keep me in the dark?”
Finney had suspected Sebastian was going to be peeved about this. He didn’t understand why, though. Wasn’t Sebastian always talking about careful planning? About not limiting options? About having alternatives? Finney’s plan adhered to those principles. This man—an employee—was questioning his methods.
“I didn’t think you needed to know.”
“Well, that’s where I would disagree with you, boss. That kind of information is helpful to me.”
“Well,” Finney said. “Perhaps we can agree to disagree on that point, then.” Sebastian had bent over and was pushing at the dirt. “What are you doing?”
“Options.” He stood up and, for the first time since Finney had joined him in the park, met his eye. “Look. I didn’t sign up for this, boss. We had an arrangement. All of these months, we’ve been working toward two specific goals: destroy Wu professionally and ensure the success of the auto-surgeon. We’ve accomplished both.” He gazed at the Torrey pine. “The plan I agreed to didn’t involve killing the sister. I did what you asked: implanted the nanoparticles in Wu and her sister and pumped Wu full of extra drugs and booze. Left her naked on the OR table. You’ve achieved your objective: disgraced Wu and boosted the profile of the auto-surgeon. Why kill the sister? The nanoparticles are untraceable, and if Wu ever tries to tell her story, no one will believe her. I mean … damn, boss. She’ll never practice medicine again. She’ll probably be facing criminal charges. Maybe even jail time.”
“Are you losing sight of our purpose, Sebastian?”