A jagged bolt of lightning crashed down, striking the mast of one of the ships in the boatyard. In the next instant there was a burst of light by the car, a blast of furious heat that knocked him to the ground. Dazed, he tried to get up.
He was thinking that his car had exploded, but it hadn't; the car was intact, the door blackened. Then he saw that his trousers were on fire. He stared stupidly at his own legs, not moving. He heard the rumble of thunder and realized thathe had been struck by lightning.
My God, he thought. I was hit by lightning. He sat up and slapped at his trousers, trying to put out the fire. It wasn't working, and his legs were beginning to feel pain. He had a fire extinguisher inside the office.
Staggering to his feet, he moved unsteadily to his office. He was unlocking the door, his fingers fumbling, when there was another explosion. He felt a sharp pain in his ears, reached up, touched blood. He looked at his bloody fingertips, fell over, and died.
CENTURY CITY
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 2
12:34 P. M.
Under normal circumstances, Peter Evans spoke to George Morton every day. Sometimes twice a day. So after a week went by without hearing from him, Evans called his house. He spoke to Sarah.
"I have no idea what is going on," she said. "Two days ago he was in North Dakota. North Dakota! The day before that he was in Chicago. I think he might be in Wyoming today. He's made noises about going to Boulder, Colorado, but I don't know."
"What's in Boulder?" Evans said.
"I haven't a clue. Too early for snow."
"Has he got a new girlfriend?" Sometimes Morton disappeared when he was involved with a new woman.
"Not that I know," Sarah said.
"What's he doing?"
"I have no idea. It sounds like he has a shopping list."
"A shopping list?"
"Well," she said, "sort of. He wanted me to buy some kind of special GPS unit. You know, for locating position? Then he wanted some special video camera using CCD or CCF or something. Had to be rush-ordered from Hong Kong. And yesterday he told me to buy a new Ferrari from a guy in Monterey, and have it shipped to San Francisco."
"Another Ferrari?"
"I know," she said. "How many Ferraris can one man use? And this one doesn't seem up to his usual standards. From the e-mail pictures it looks kind of beat up."
"Maybe he's going to have it restored."
"If he was, he'd send it to Reno. That's where his car restorer is."
He detected a note of concern in her voice. "Is everything okay, Sarah?"
"Between you and me, I don't know," she said. "The Ferrari he bought is a 1972 365 GTS Daytona Spyder."
"So?"
"He already has one, Peter. It's like he doesn't know. And he sounds weird when you talk to him."
"Weird in what way?"
"Just...weird. Not his usual self at all."
"Who's traveling with him?"
"As far as I know, nobody."
Evans frowned. That was very odd. Morton hated being alone. Evans's immediate inclination was to disbelieve it.
"What about that guy Kenner and his Nepali friend?"
"Last I heard, they were going to Vancouver, and on to Japan. So they're not with him."
"Uh huh."
"When I hear from him, I'll let him know you called."
Evans hung up, feeling dissatisfied. On an impulse, he dialed Morton's cell phone. But he got the voice mail. "This is George. At the beep." And the quick beep.
"George, this is Peter Evans. Just checking in, to see if there's anything you need. Call me at the office if I can help."
He hung up, and stared out the window. Then he dialed again.
"Center for Risk Analysis."
"Professor Kenner's office, please."
In a moment he got the secretary. "This is Peter Evans, I'm looking for Professor Kenner."
"Oh yes, Mr. Evans. Dr. Kenner said you might call."
"He did?"
"Yes. Are you trying to reach Dr. Kenner?"
"Yes, I am."
"He's in Tokyo at the moment. Would you like his cell phone?"
"Please."
She gave him the number, and he wrote it down on his yellow pad. He was about to call when his assistant, Heather, came in to say that something at lunch had disagreed with her, and she was going home for the afternoon.
"Feel better," he said, sighing.
With her gone, he was obliged to answer his own phone, and the next call was from Margo Lane, George's mistress, asking where the hell George was. Evans was on the phone with her for the better part of half an hour.
And then Nicholas Drake walked into his office.
"I am very concerned," Drake said. He stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the office building opposite.
"About what?"
"This Kenner person that George is spending so much time with."
"I don't know that they're spending time together."
"Of course they are. You don't seriously believe George isalone, do you?"
Evans said nothing.
"George is never alone. We both know that. Peter, I don't like this situation at all. Not at all. George is a good man--I don't have to tell you that--but he is susceptible to influence. Including the wrong influence."
"You think a professor at MIT is the wrong influence?"
"I've looked into Professor Kenner," Drake said, "and there are a few mysteries about him."