Craig Kreident #1: Virtual Destruction (23 page)

Diana opened the repository on the second try and started pawing through his files.
 
Most of the folders were stamped SECRET/RD, NOFORN, or NO CONTRACTOR.
 
Scarlet lines encircled the pages; dates, document numbers, and classifying authorities were rubber-stamped on the front.

She skipped past the technical reports.
 
Lab overviews, stockpile numbers, and design criteria were all grouped together, but nowhere did she find any of the memos they had exchanged, the love letters from early in their relationship, sealed away in tighter security than any safe deposit box.
 
Except for now.

By the time Diana reached the bottom drawer, she was sweating—a deep, oily perspiration that seeped from her armpits, born from fear of not finding the dozens of documents that would incriminate her.
 
Her knees and feet ached from the awkward position bending over the packed files, sifting through page after page.

She considered going through the pile of classified documents again, but she knew she had not missed anything.
 
Hal’s repository was not so extensive, and it only dealt with his latest interests.

Which obviously didn’t include her.

She looked up, startled at a sudden noise.
 
Had she really heard anything, or was it just nerves?

The FBI had already been called in to do a preliminary investigation on Hal’s death.
 
What if somebody had already been through this place, taken away the folders that didn’t belong?
 
What if, even now, the phone was ringing at her home in Arlington.
 
Fred would roll over, answer it, and innocently tell them that she had gone to Livermore several days ago, before Hal Michaelson’s death?

She struggled to her feet and nudged the heavy drawer shut with her leg.
 
Her breath came in quick, laborious gasps.
 
She ran a hand through her gray-flecked blond hair.
 
What did he do with those damned memos
?
 
He could have shredded them, of course, but that wasn’t like him.

At the time it had been a cute game Hal and Diana had played—passing classified love letters through the system, absolutely sure that no one else in the world would be able to intercept them.

She’d kept her own copies of the letters in her personal repository back in the DOE Headquarters building—but now she knew that was a huge mistake.
 
She had to get back home and destroy them.
 
Now.
 
Right away.

She tried going through the files in his desk drawer, but still she found nothing.
 
She turned off Hal’s workstation, pushed the chair back to where she had found it, and flicked off the lights.

She felt sick to her stomach as she fought through the yellow construction tape back out of his office.
 
Her fingers shook as she clumsily pushed the construction tape back against the door frame in a reasonable semblance of what it had looked like.

If the FBI had found the letters already, how long would it be before she was subpoenaed?

She stumbled through the obstacle course back toward the CAIN booth.
 
Her elbow hit a stack of papers that hissed to the floor.
 
Diana held a hand to her face and fought back a panicked outcry.
 
She knelt and gathered up the papers, stacking them roughly on the table.
 
Nobody could tell the difference with all this mess.
 
Patting the top to ensure it was stable, she used her outstretched hands as a guide in the dimness until she reached the exit.

She didn’t look behind her as she trotted to her car.
 
No one would remember that she had come here—with 8,000 people working on the Livermore site, the night guard couldn’t possibly know she wasn’t a regular employee, so long as she had the right badge. . . .

The drive back to the Sheraton seemed to take forever.
 
She had to pack up and leave for D.C. first thing in the morning.
 
No one but Fred even knew she had come out to Livermore.
 
Her DOE staff knew how to reach her through the skypage, and they had left her alone.
 
As far as they were concerned, she was visiting the San Francisco DOE office; and if she filed no travel voucher, no one would suspect.

Reaching the Sheraton and kicking off her shoes in the room, she called TWA to make her reservation for the next flight departing for the east coast.
 
She couldn’t stay here any longer.
 
She was through with Livermore forever.

CHAPTER 23

Thursday

Livermore, California

The bathwater pounded into the tub, but Stevie didn’t seem to enjoy it as much as he usually did.
 
Duane Hopkins tried singing one of the boy’s favorite songs, “You Are My Sunshine,” to no effect.

Stevie coughed, and kept coughing.
 
He wore a strangely perplexed expression on his face, as if wondering why his lungs insisted on filling up with liquid that he couldn’t spit out.
 
The cough made a hollow, rumbling sound, a wetness deep in the boy’s chest that Duane didn’t like a bit.
 
He had given Stevie the children’s cough syrup he’d bought down at the drugstore, but it didn’t seem to be helping.

Seeing the angry red of Stevie’s skin, Duane adjusted the temperature of the water, hoping it wasn’t too hot.
 
The boy made quiet, wordless noises.
 
Duane reached over the rim of the tub to pull Stevie closer, hugging the boy tightly against his chest and soaking his blue-checked flannel shirt.
 
The boy’s muscles were hard and rigid like cables.

“I’m here, Stevie.
 
I’ll try to make it all better.”

The boy cooed, a soft and trusting sound that communicated more to Duane than words ever could.
 
He shut off the running water and let the tub drain out as Stevie splashed and rocked.
 
Duane picked up the boy and held him dripping.

Duane wasn’t a large or a strong man, but his son was so light that he could pick up him up with ease.
 
Stevie’s malfunctioning muscles drew his arms and legs up into a fetal position like a newly hatched bird.
 
Duane rubbed him down with one of the old bath towels—something he and Rhonda had gotten as wedding presents fifteen years ago.

“Here Stevie, we’ve got to give you some more cough syrup,” Duane said and went to the mirrored cabinet, taking out the cherry-flavored elixir.
 
He had bought the one with the most ingredients listed on the side, which he decided must be the strongest medicine.
 
Duane poured a dollop into an old teaspoon and held it to Stevie’s mouth but the boy’s jaws remained clenched and his eyes darted back and forth.

“Come on now,” he said and pulled down on the boy’s chin, pressing the tip of the spoon into Stevie’s mouth.
 
He finally forced the jaws open, spilling some of the cough syrup down the boy’s cheeks but getting most of it into his mouth.
 
Stevie smacked his lips.
 
Duane wiped his son’s face with a wash cloth and then picked him up, tugged his pajamas on, and put him to bed.

Stevie coughed again in his bed.
 
Duane, concerned enough now to call somebody, went into the kitchen and plucked the thumb-worn card from under a refrigerator magnet.
 
For years now the volunteers at the Coalition for Family Values were always helpful as Duane had settled into the routine of how to care for a boy who had cerebral palsy.

“Just call us anytime you need help, hon,” one of the women had said.
 
Duane didn’t like to take advantage of their hospitality often, but now he picked up the phone and dialed the local office.

“This is Duane Hopkins,” he said.
 
“My boy Stevie has cerebral palsy.
 
You’ve—“

The thin, whispering voice of the woman on the phone said, “Well hello, Mr. Hopkins!
 
I’ve talked to you before.”

“Uh, yes,” he said, then opened and closed his mouth, trying to decide what he wanted to say.
 
“Stevie, my boy, has a cough.
 
It seems pretty bad, and I’m worried.”

“Yes,” the woman on the line said and made a
tsk
ing noise.
 
“There’s a lot of colds going around right now.
 
Have you taken him to see a doctor?”

Duane hesitated.
 
“No—the medical center is closed.”

“If it’s serious, you should really take him to the emergency room.”

Duane twisted his face.
 
He hated going out at night, it was just too dangerous.
 
He looked over to Stevie’s room.
 
The coughing didn’t seem to be
that
bad.
 
“No . . . no, I don’t think it’s that serious.”

“Mr. Hopkins, listen to me.
 
Do you need someone to come over and take you to the hospital?
 
We can help.”

Duane shook his head.
 
“Please, no.
 
We’re all right.”

The voice at the other end of the line was silent.
 
Then, “Mr. Hopkins, please take your son in to see a doctor tomorrow.
 
I’ll put your name on our board here, and we’ll all pray for you.
 
We’re thinking of you.
 
We know you must have many trying times with a challenged child.”

“Uh, yes,” Duane said.
 
“Thank you.”

“Would you like us to bring a casserole over tomorrow?
 
We can see that you have a good hot meal.”

“That would be nice,” Duane said.
 
“Thanks.”

A ringing noise sounded muffled on the other end of the phone. “That’s the other line, Mr. Hopkins.
 
I’ve got to go.
 
You take Stevie in to the doctor.
 
We’ll be praying for you and see you tomorrow around five-thirty, okay?
 
But get to the doctor first!
 
Bye bye.”

Duane hung up and listened to the quiet noises inside his house, the heavy coughing of Stevie down the hall.
 
He went in to the living room to turn on the television.
 
By now it was time for the ten o’clock news, and he liked to watch the weather report, though he never went anywhere and rarely even set foot outside when he didn’t have to.

The main story taken from National News was about the sudden and unexpected death of Dr. Hal Michaelson.
 
Duane sat back in shock.
 
Though he had never met the man in charge of the International Verification Initiative, he had felt connected with the person responsible for all the new work that would come to Livermore, and the Virtual Reality simulations that had meant so much to Stevie.
 
Now what would happen with Duane’s own job?
 
He bit his lower lip.

The Virtual Reality people had nosed around in the Plutonium Facility, setting up some kind of demonstration, forcing them to work overtime to clean up the entire Radioactive Materials Area.
 
Taking advantage of the building being “sanitized,” the Coalition for Family Values had even set up a tour for some of the other kids, the healthy ones, to walk through the “super high-security” Plutonium Facility.

 
But now with Michaelson dead, Duane was concerned that all the new work would go away.
 
The Livermore Lab would experience cutbacks again, layoffs.
 
And Duane couldn’t afford to be laid off.
 
Right now he couldn’t even spare the time to take a day off and bring Stevie to the doctor.

Duane sat on the loveseat with his chin in his hands, watching and frowning, letting the confused thoughts wash over him.
 
His deep feelings were triggered by resentment because Stevie had been sick all his life and no news story had ever noticed
him
.
 
He had never had a healthy normal day as a typical little boy, but that caught the attention of no reporter.
 
It just wasn’t fair.

But Dr. Michaelson’s heart attack made the national news with many minutes devoted to his life, his background, his accomplishments at the Laser Implosion Fusion Facility, his work leading the disarmament and on-site inspection team in Russia.
 
The reporter ended on a gloomy note, questioning whether Michaelson’s crowning achievement, the IVI, could survive his sudden death.

Stevie, on the other hand, had never had his name in the paper.
 
The boy could die and vanish without a trace, never appearing on the news, his name finally listed in an obituary notice in the paper.

Duane thought of his own work in the Plutonium Facility, how Ronald and his friends always picked on him.
 
Long ago another bully had exposed him to the radiation which Duane
knew
was the source of Stevie’s problems.