Chapter 38

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David Nimoy hated meetings like this. A bunch of presumptuous network executives and pompous producers sitting around a table discussing how to create "new" news when there was no "new" news.

A week ago, Will and Laura had taken to their heels after the disastrous press conference in upstate New York. In the melee, confusion, and near-riot which had followed, they had managed to slip unseen out of town and vanish onto America's highways. No one knew where they were, but everyone was quite confident that sooner or later, they would most likely show up with the next clue. The two Japanese men, Matsura Mako and Bill Sutsumo, had run into some nasty issues with their passports, and had been sent back to their homeland. End of story.

There was nothing new to report, nothing new to say, but several cable networks were devoting over half their programming hours to Sooner Than Never. And it had to be filled with something.

"What about," drawled Ruthanne Drillman, a voluptuous brunette from Atlanta, "showing rotating video footage of the various clue sites. . .like live satellite scenes from Centralia, Chicago, Beaver Creek--"

"Now who the hell is going to watch that?" Phil Bradley demanded.

"They show stuff like that at the end of CBS Sunday Morning," Bill Rudolph from the New York office volunteered. "The sixty and over crowd really gets off on that shit."

"There's a rumor," Jilian Dobbs volunteered, "there's a rumor on the Internet that Bannerman Castle is where Simon Waterbury and his dead wife got married."

David's stomach flip-flopped. He had known that sooner or later, the public was going to catch on to Simon's modus operandi for choosing the clue sites.

"Well," demanded Phil Bradley, "what about it? What does it matter?"

Jilian pushed her stylish spectacles up the bridge of her nose. "Well, there's a chat room on the Web, and some guy in Indiana or something has apparently been doing all sorts of research into Lily Waterbury, and he thinks that Sooner than Never is a metaphor--a parable, if you will--about Simon's dead wife."

The executives stared at her wordlessly. She cleared her throat and continued.

"Lady Violet, in the novel, is supposedly based on Lily. And this guy in Indiana thinks that all the clue sites are related to Lily Waterbury and her untimely death."

"Supposed death," Bill Rudolph challenged, "they aren't sure if she ever died."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Phil breathed, "all of the clue sites are linked to Lily Waterbury? What about that capsized boat in Chicago? What about the library in L.A.?"

Jilian leaned in to the table. "The clue sites aren't necessarily directly linked to her. . .some of the clues are metaphorical. The clue in Chicago was related to untimely death. The clue in L.A. was a monument to a dead wife. And the clues in Colorado and at Bannerman castle are actually places she had a deep connection to."

"Jesus," Bill Rudolph speculated, " maybe he's trying to solve the mystery of his wife's disappearance with the novel."

"Or confess his guilt in her murder," Ruthanne mused.

They all sat quiet for a moment, thinking.

"Well, God Almighty, this is news!" bawled Phil Bradley, pounding the table. "Who is this guy in Indiana? How does he know so much? Why haven't we done any interviews with him?"

"Somebody should compile a database about Lily Waterbury," Ruthanne posited, "all the places she lived, the people she knew, the vacations she went on--"

David's palms were beginning to sweat. He had known, for some time, that Simon's seemingly erratic clues were not completely without rhyme and reason. While researching a story on the clue at The Pirates of the Carribbean, he had run across an old newspaper clipping of Lily and Simon on the ride shortly after its opening. Then, he had done a little digging into Philip Huffmann, Simon's former right-hand man. When he had spoken to Gertie Huffmann in Centralia, he had become convinced that he was on the right track. And he was sure Will and Laura were, too.

Damn, he thought sadly, there goes my Pulitzer. He had hoped to shock the world with his revelations when the contest was finally over. If only--

"Nimoy," Phil Bradley barked, breaking his reverie, "what the hell are you doing down there? Are you a part of this meeting?"

"Yes, sir," he answered bashfully, pretending to scribble down some notes.

"Well," Phil questioned, "if all these clues are related to Waterbury's dead wife, then where will the next clue be? What was that song at the castle again?"

He was greeted with an unenthusiastic chorus of "The Chimney Sweep Song" from Mary Poppins.

"And the popcorn," he mused, ignoring their serenade. "Chimneys and popcorn. . .chimneys and popcorn. . . "

David was feeling faint. If his colleagues had put togther this much information, it would only be a matter of hours before they or someone else pieced together the location of the next clue. David was sure that he knew where it was.

Should he buy Will and Laura some time?

Was the Pulitzer truly out of his reach?

He took a gamble.

"I think they're going to North Carolina," he announced to the room. "To a place called Chimney Rock State Park. Lily Waterbury did some conservation work there while she was in college."

*****

The offices of Waterbury Publishing were bustling with activity. The entire company was embroiled with final preparations for Simon's annual Halloween-week memorial festivities for his dearly departed (or so it was believed) wife. Caterers flitted from cubicle to cubicle, asking staff members to sample walnut pumpkin mini-quiches and crabmeat puffs; the PR department was struggling with the City to close down Columbus Circle for the giant-puppet show; Carlo Trocchio, Simon's eccentric "event designer," screamed at his underlings and complained that the miles of peach organza he had ordered from Sumatra were "not quite peach enough."

Dog-tired, nervous, and looking even more ill put-together than usual, Nina Kellogg nonetheless took a lively interest in the proceedings. Ordinarily, such a flagrant waste of company funds would have angered her, but her recent findings on the life and death of Lily Waterbury -- and their connection to Sooner Than Never -- had made her keenly sensitive and hyperaware of all the preparations. She was certain that Simon would be providing a few tantalizing tidbits for treasure hunters in the ceremony. How could he not?

She sat slouched in her desk chair, fatigued not only by her busy work schedule, but also by her nightly babysitting of Chad Bismarck, who spent his days with Leia Freitag, Jew hypnotist, in her East Village flat. Their investigation into Chad's shattered memories--and their break-in at Vesper's sickeningly opulent SoHo loft last week--had raised far more questions than answers.

Nina pushed the button on her intercom. "Alyssa," she said tonelessly into it, "please hold all my calls for the next little while. Tell anyone who comes by that I'm in a meeting until 4 o'clock."

Her assistant's piping voice answered her. "Ms. Kellogg, you do know that you have a meeting with the program printer at 3:30? Do you want me to--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, " Nina barked tiredly. "I know all about it. Just tell them that I'm not available until four."

"Yes, ma'am."

The intercom clicked off. Nina turned to face her computer monitor, and opened up her Internet Explorer. She then pulled her Palm Pilot out of her baggy blazer pocket, and drew up the list of names she had copied down in Vesper's laundry room.

She entered the first name: "JUDITH RELEVE."

The computer whirred briefly, before informing her that there were no matches found for her search.

She glanced down at her Palm Pilot and typed in the next name: "CHRISTIAN REDDING."

Again, the endless mine of cyberspace yielded nothing.

Nina sighed and typed in a third name: "SEBASTIAN MOFFAT."

The computer whirred asthmatically for several seconds. Nina's heart rose in expectation. The explorer began loading a file. . .

10%. . .

56%. . .

84%. . .

100%. . .

Nina's doggish face drooped.

The search had revealed nothing.

Nina ground her teeth together painfully. What an idiot she had been! She should have stolen the passports from the mysterious luggage in the laundry room! She should have let Vesper know that her swanky loft had been robbed and violated! She should have ransacked the apartment and torched the place before leaving!

Why hadn't she copied down all the information in the passports?

She had been edgy and unfocused the night of the break-in. The others had ruined everything. Leia Freitag had been rummaging through Vesper's voluminous walk-in closet, squealing as she forced her wide feet into Vesper's slender designer shoes, hoping to make them fit. Chad had skittered about the loft on his knees and knuckles, like an orangutan in a cage, "keeping watch" for Shilah and reminding Nina that he was doing so approximately every thirty seconds.

She should have stolen the passports. But then Vesper would have known for certain that someone had gotten in. And as far as Nina knew, Vesper had said nothing to anyone about a break-in at her home.

Nina stared at the names. Judith Releve. Christian Redding. Sebastian Moffat.

Her brow knit. "Judith Releve" was easy to explain. . .most likely it was a legalized alias that Vesper used when traveling to avoid the press and curiosity seekers. She knew that many celebrities had them.

But "Christian Redding"? "Sebastian Moffat"?

Chad had vaguely raved about Vesper's brother, a man named Philip Huffmann. According to Chad, Philip and Vesper had killed Simon Waterbury's wife. Perhaps "Christian Redding" and "Sebastian Moffat" were aliases for the mysterious Philip Huffmann. Certainly, the grainy photographs in the passports had looked like men who could be Vesper's brother. Perhaps Philip and Vesper were planning to make a break for it. Perhaps Philip Huffmann was hiding out in New York City at this very moment! If he was, then--

The intercom beeped. Alyssa's voice chimed in. "Ms. Kellogg, that woman is on the phone again. That Freitag woman."

Nina closed her Internet explorer reflexively and hastily slid her Palm Pilot back into her pocket. "I thought I told you not to disturb me," she barked, maddened by her jangled nerves.

"She sounds pretty hysterical," Alyssa explained.

"Fine. Fine," Nina snapped. "Put her through."

Nina snatched up the phone as it rang, and as the receiver traveled to her ear, she could hear an extended, clear-pitched, almost musical wail. Leia Freitag was sobbing.

"What's the matter now, Leia?" Nina demanded, absently.

"Ooh," Leia sniffled, "he's been dry-humping the corner of my bed, and then he peed all over my comforter, and then he opened up the window to help get rid of the smell, and my kitty ran out. The kitty ran out! And now he's lost!"

In the background, Chad echoed helpfully, "The kitty ran out. The kitty ran out. The kitty ran out."

Leia resumed her one-note, extended keening.

Nina's nose wrinkled disgustedly. The hypnotist's brassiness and bravura were considerably countered by a ridiculous and puerile fascination with her cat, Victor.

Nina rubbed her eyes. "Leia, I'll help you find the cat when I get home. Put a dish of milk out on the fire escape, and he'll come back."

Leia continued sobbing. Nina heard a sudden crash on the other end of the line, followed by a brief shriek from Chad.

"Leia? Are you alright?"

Leia's voice kicked in, hoarse and ragged from her violent tears. "No, I'm not all right, you bitch! I'm throwing things at him!"

There were several more crashes and thuds.

"Leia? Leia, I'll come home as soon as I can."

"You'd better," Leia shrieked into the phone. "Or I'll go to the cops tonight, and get this freak show out of my life! Do you hear me? I'll come find Simon Waterbury and spill all the beans to him myself! I swear I will!"

Nina's stomach plummeted. "Now, Leia, don't get so upset. I will help you--"

There was one final crash, and one last yelp from Chad, and then the line went dead.

*****

CNN, blaring from a cunningly concealed television in the grape arbor on the wide, sun-drenched terrace of the penthouse, suddenly caught Simon Waterbury's attention as he was clipping autumn roses.

"Industry insiders have told us that Will Gilbert and Laura Dial, the front-runners in Simon Waterbury's Sooner Than Never treasure hunt, are en route to Chimney Rock State Park in western North Carolina. The pair, who disappeared a week ago after revealing a clue in an abandoned castle in Upstate New York, were served with $500 fines and three days jailtime before they making their discovery public and leaving the scene. There are now less than 80 days left until the hunt is called off, with a one billion dollar prize at stake. . ."

Simon's brow furrowed. North Carolina? Why on earth would they be going to North Carolina? Were they really that far off track?

He strode into the penthouse and snatched up a phone. After hitting a quick succession of numbers, a voice answered him.

"Yeah?"

"It's Waterbury."

"Yeah?"

"Where are they?"

"They're right here. In Eldora."

"Eldora? Where's that?"

"Western Iowa. They're staying with her parents again."

"Thank you." He hung up the phone.

Simon smiled. They were heading in the right direction, after all. He stood, scratching his ample belly and looking out pensively at the azure blue October sky.

Things would be getting very interesting, very soon.

Simon began to sing. "There is no place like Nebraska, dear old Nebraska U, where the girls are the fairest, the boys are the squarest--"

He stopped in mid-verse. It was time to give things a nudge. Just a little nudge.

He picked up the phone again and dialed.

"ABC News."

"Yes," he said gruffly, "this is Simon Waterbury. You tell that skinny-legged Barbara Walters that she can have an interview with me . . . next week, live from my home a la Michael Jackson. No holds barred. Any question she likes."

"Sir, let me connect you to the office of--"

"Nonsense. Tell her. Next week. My home. And tell her that it's now or never."

He put down the phone and chuckled.

*****

The amount of time which Will Gilbert had spent in the state of Iowa in the past year was inconceivable to him.

After their accident on Thanksgiving night last year, he and Laura had spent almost two full months in Ma and Pa Dial's cozy prairie homestead. It had seemed to both of them that they would never escape. And now, here they were, back again, and recuperating. Again.

It was a wonder, Will thought, that they hadn't gotten sick before on their numerous treks from pillar to post. But after a week of furtive nighttime driving, days hiding out in the car, lousy food and intense anxiety, their bodies had finally given out.

They had a nasty strain of the fall flu. Under a cloak of darkness, they had finally arrived in Iowa two nights before, Laura searing with fever and Will close to pneumonia. There would be no more searching for Simon's treasure until they both could sit up for more than an hour at a time. Thankfully, Laura's father had cleared out some of the economy-sized sacks of dog food from the garage, and the car was safely hidden away. To the best of their knowledge, the prying press and the vehement public were unaware of their location.

He listened to the sleeping house. All of Ma Dial's dogs--she now had fifty-six--had settled down for the night, and a cool wind coming through the cracked window tentatively stirred the lace curtains of the guest room. Will snuggled under the multiple comforters Mrs. Dial had heaped on top of him. The whirr of a humidifier and the scent of Vap-O-Rub were comfortingly soothing to him.

Following their hasty departure from Bannerman Castle a week ago, Will and Laura had been making their way west towards Nebraska. A brief conversation with Faye and Seamus (a.k.a. "vampyr") had confirmed what Will and Laura already suspected: The popcorn in the Castle chamber was an allusion to Lily's youth on the fertile plains. Faye, in her boundless zest for research and discovery, had uncovered the fact that Lily had been born in the small town of Bayard, Nebraska, near a geological formation known as Chimney Rock. The rock, a landmark familiar to pioneers on the Oregon Trail, was a single spire of stone, towering above the flat land around it.

The bizarre clue in the pit at Bannerman oddly made perfect sense to them. Will was amazed at how easy all of this was becoming. It was still inconceivable to him that after all their trials and tribulations, all their ups and downs and ins and outs, he and Laura just might possibly win the contest.

But there were still so many unanswered questions.

Mike had shown up at Seamus and Faye's top secret "office" in Silicon Valley, declaring that Philip Huffmann's grave in Centralia was empty.

Mr. Hattamari and Mr. Yemeshigi had managed to give Will and Laura absolutely no information on how the Takamoto Company was involved in the hunt.

They hadn't seen or heard from the mysterious Sebastian Moffat in months, leading Will to believe that Sebastian--or Philip--was aware that they knew who he was.

And then there were those bizarre tarot card readings and trance visions he had had about the danger surrounding Laura. Would they ever come to fruition?

Despite the blankets, Will shivered.

He pulled the covers up to his nose, and immediately drifted off to sleep.

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