Impact (2 page)

Abbey peered into the eyepiece and the galaxy sprang into view, a glowing maelstrom of five hundred billion stars. She felt her throat constricting with the thought of the immensity of it, and her own smallness.

“Lemme see,” said Jackie, sweeping back her long, unruly hair.

Abbey stepped back and silently offered her the eyepiece. Jackie fitted her eye to it. “How far away is it?”

“Two and a quarter million light-years.”

Jackie stared for a while in silence, then stood up. “Think there’s life out there?”

“Of course.”

Abbey adjusted the telescope, zooming out, increasing its field of view, until most of Orion’s sword was visible. Andromeda had shrunk into a little fuzz-ball. She pressed the cable release and heard the faint click as the shutter opened. It would be a twenty-minute time exposure.

A faint breeze came from the ocean, clanking the rigging of a fishing boat, and all the boats in the harbor swung in unison. It felt like the first breath of a storm, despite the dead calm. An invisible loon called from the water and was answered by another one, far away.

“Time for another doobie.” Jackie began rolling a joint, licked it, and put it in her mouth. A click and flare of the lighter illuminated her face, her pale, freckled skin, green Irish eyes, and black hair.

Abbey saw the sudden light before she saw the thing itself. It came from behind the church, the harbor instantly as bright as day; it streaked across the sky in utter silence, like a ghost, and then an immense sonic boom shook the pier, followed by a blast-furnace roar as the thing blazed over the ocean at incredible speed, disappearing behind Louds Island. There was a final flash of light followed by a cannonade of thunder, rolling away over the ocean distances into silence.

Behind her, up in the town, dogs began barking hysterically.

“What the
fuck
?” Jackie said.

Abbey could see the whole town coming out of their houses and gathering in the streets. “Get rid of the pot,” she hissed.

The road up the hill was filling with people, jabbering away, voices raised in excitement and alarm. They began moving down toward the piers, flashlights flickering, arms pointing skyward. This was the biggest thing that had happened in Round Pond, Maine, since a stray cannonball went through the roof of the Congregational Church in the War of 1812.

Suddenly Abbey remembered her telescope. The shutter was open and still taking a picture. With a trembling hand she found the shutter release and clicked it off. A moment later the image popped up on the telescope’s small LCD screen.

“Oh my God.” The thing had streaked through the center of the image, a brilliant slash of white among a scattering of stars.

“It ruined your picture,” said Jackie, peering over her shoulder.

“Are you kidding? It
made
the picture!”

2

The next morning, Abbey shoved through the door of the Cupboard Café with a stack of newspapers under her arm. The cheerful log-cabin diner with its checkered curtains and marble tables was almost empty, but she found Jackie sitting in her usual place in the corner, drinking coffee. A damp morning fog pressed against the windowpanes.

She hustled over and slapped
The New York Times
down on the table, exposing the front-page article below the fold.

Meteor Lights up Maine Coast

Portland, Maine—At 9:44 p.m. a large meteor streaked across the skies of Maine, creating one of the most brilliant meteor displays seen over New England in decades. Witnesses from as far as Boston and Nova Scotia reported seeing the spectacular fireball. Residents of Midcoast Maine heard sonic booms.

Data from a meteoroid tracking system at the University of Maine, Orono, indicated that the meteor was several times brighter than the full moon and may have weighed as much as fifty tons when it entered the Earth’s atmosphere. The single track reported by witnesses suggests the meteorite was of the iron-nickel type, as those are the least likely to break up in flight, rather than the more common stony-iron or chondritic type. Its speed, tracking scientists estimated, was 48 kilometers per second or about 100,000 miles per hour—thirty times faster than a typical rifle bullet.

Dr. Stephen Chickering, professor of planetary geology at Boston University, said: “This isn’t a typical fireball. It’s the brightest and biggest meteor seen on the East Coast in decades. The trajectory took it out to sea, where it landed in the ocean.”

He also explained that its journey through the atmosphere would have vaporized most of its mass. The final object that struck the ocean, he said, probably weighed less than a hundred pounds.

Abbey broke off and grinned at Jackie. “You read that?
It landed in the ocean
. That’s what all the papers are saying.” She settled back and crossed her arms, enjoying Jackie’s wondering look.

“Okay,” said Jackie, “I can see you’ve got something on your mind.”

Abbey lowered her voice. “
We’re going to be rich
.”

Jackie rolled her eyes theatrically. “I’ve heard that before.”

“This time I’m not kidding.” Abbey looked around. She slid a piece of paper out of her pocket and unfolded it on the table.

“What’s that?”

“It’s the data printout of GoMOOS Weather Buoy 44032, between 4:40 and 5:40 GMT. That’s the instrument buoy out beyond Weber Sunken Ledge.”

Jackie stared at it, crunching her freckled brow. “I know it.”

“Look at the wave heights. Dead calm. No change.”

“So?”

“A hundred-pound meteorite slams into the ocean at a hundred thousand miles an hour and doesn’t make waves?”

Jackie shrugged. “So if it didn’t land in the ocean, where did it land?”

Abbey leaned forward, clasped her hands, her voice dropping to a hiss, her face flushing with triumph. “On an
island
.”

“So?”

“So, we borrow my father’s boat, search those islands, and get that meteorite.”

“Borrow? You mean steal. Your father would never let you
borrow
his boat.”

“Borrow, steal, expropriate, whatever.”

Jackie’s face darkened. “Please, not another wild-goose chase. Remember when we went looking for Dixie Bull’s treasure? And how we got in trouble digging in the Indian mounds?”

“We were just kids then.”

“There are dozens of islands out there in Muscongus Bay, tens of thousands of acres to cover. You’d never search them all.”

“We don’t have to. Because I’ve got
this
.” She pulled out the photograph of the meteor and laid it on top of a chart of Muscongus Bay. “With the photo, you can extrapolate a line to the horizon and then draw a second line from that point to where the photo was taken. The meteorite must have landed somewhere along that second line.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Abbey pushed the chart toward her. “There’s the line.” Her finger stabbed a line she had penciled across the chart. “Look. It intersects just
five
islands.”

The waitress approached with two enormous pecan sticky buns. Abbey quickly covered up the chart and photograph and sat back with a smile. “Hey, thanks.”

When the waitress had gone, Abbey uncovered the chart. “That’s it. The meteorite is on one of these islands.” Her finger thumped on each one in turn as she named it: “Louds, Marsh, Ripp, Egg Rock, and Shark. We could search them in less than a week.”

“When? Now?”

“We have to wait til the end of May, when my father’ll be out of town.”

Jackie crossed her arms. “What the hell we gonna do with a meteorite?”

“Sell it.”

Jackie stared. “It’s worth something?”

“Quarter million, half a million. That’s all.”

“You’re shitting me.”

Abbey shook her head. “I checked prices on eBay, talked to a meteorite dealer.”

Jackie leaned back, a grin slowly spreading over her freckled face. “I’m in.”

3

MAY

Dolores Muñoz climbed the stone steps to the professor’s bungalow in Glendale, California, and rested a moment on the porch, her large bosom heaving, before inserting the key. The scrape of the key sounding in the lock, she knew, would trigger an explosion of yapping as Stamp, the professor’s Jack Russell terrier, went berserk at her arrival. As soon as she opened the door the ball of fur would shoot out like a bullet, barking furiously, whirling about the tiny lawn as if to clear it of wild beasts and criminals. And then he would make his rounds, lifting his little leg on each sad bush and dead flower. Finally, his duty done, he would rush over, lie down in front of her, and roll on his back, paws folded, tongue hanging out, ready for his morning scratch.

Dolores Muñoz loved that dog.

With a faint smile of anticipation she inserted the key in the lock, giving it a little rattle and waiting for the eruption of excitement.

Nothing.

She paused, listening, and then turned the key, expecting joyful barking at any moment. Still it did not come. Puzzled, she stepped into a small entryway. The first thing she noticed was that the side-table drawer was open, envelopes scattered on the floor.

“Professor?” she called out, her voice hollow, and then, “Stamp?”

No answer. Lately the professor had been a later and later riser. He was one of those types who drank a lot of wine with dinner and snifters of brandy afterward and it had been getting worse, especially after he stopped going to work. And then there were the women. Dolores was no prude and she wouldn’t have minded if it was the same girl. But it never was, and sometimes they were ten, twenty years younger than he was. Still, the professor was a fine, fit man in the prime of life who spoke excellent Spanish to her using the Usted form, which she appreciated.

“Stamp?”

Maybe they had gone out for a walk. She moved into the front hall and peered toward the living room, suddenly drawing in her breath. Papers and books were scattered over the floor, a lamp was overturned, and the far set of bookshelves had been swept free, the books lying in jumbled heaps below.

“Professor!”

The full horror of it sank in. The professor’s car was in the driveway and he must be at home—why didn’t he answer? And where was Stamp? Almost without thinking, her plump hand fumbled the cell phone out of her green housedress to dial 911. She stared at the keypad, unable to press in the numbers. Was this really the kind of thing she should get involved in? They would come and take down her name and address and check her out and the next thing she knew, she would be deported to El Salvador. Even if she called anonymously from her cell, they would still track her down as a witness to . . . she refused to complete the thought.

A feeling of terror and uncertainty seized her. The professor could be upstairs, robbed, beaten, injured, maybe dying. And Stamp, what did they do to Stamp?

Panic took hold. She stared about wildly, breathing heavily, her large bosom heaving. She felt tears spring into her eyes. She had to do something, she had to call the police, she couldn’t just walk out—what was she thinking? He might be hurt, dying. She had to at least look around, see if he needed help, try to figure out what to do.

Moving toward the living room, she saw something on the floor, like a crumpled pillow. Unbearable dread in her heart, she took a step forward, then another, placing her feet with infinite care on the soft carpet, and gave a low moan. It was Stamp, lying on the Persian rug with his back to her. He could have been sleeping, with his little pink tongue lolling out, except that his eyes were wide open and clouded over and there was a dark stain on the rug underneath him.

“
Ohhh ooohh
,” she said, the involuntary sound coming out of her open mouth. Beyond the little dog lay the professor, on his knees, kneeling almost as if praying, almost as if he were still alive, oddly balanced so it looked like he should topple over, except that his head was hanging to one side, halfway off, like a broken doll’s head, and a coil of wire wrapped around two dowels of wood dangled from the half-severed neck. Blood had sprayed like a hose over the walls and ceiling.

Dolores Muñoz screamed, and screamed again, knowing vaguely that deportation lay in those screams but somehow unable to stop and no longer caring.

4

Wyman Ford entered the elegant confines of the Seventeenth Street office of Stanton Lockwood III, science advisor to the president of the United States. He remembered the room from his previous assignment: the power wall, the pictures of the wife and towheaded children, the Important Washington Power Broker antique furnishings.

Lockwood came around the desk, silver haired, his blue eyes crinkling, footfalls hushed on the Sultanabad carpet. He grasped Ford’s hand in a politician’s shake. “Nice to see you again, Wyman.” He reminded Ford of Peter Graves, the white-haired man who played the leader of the Mission Impossible force on the old television series.

“Good to see you, too, Stan,” Ford said.

“We’ll be more comfortable over here,” he said, gesturing toward a brace of leather wing chairs flanking a Louis XIV coffee table. As Ford settled in, Lockwood seated himself opposite, giving the knife-edge in his gabardine slacks a little tug. “What’s it been, a year?”

“More or less.”

“Coffee? Pellegrino?”

“Coffee, thanks.”

Lockwood signaled his secretary and leaned back in the chair. The old trilobite worry stone appeared in his hand and Ford watched him roll it about pensively between thumb and forefinger. He bestowed a professional Washington smile on Ford. “Any interesting cases lately?”

“A few.”

“Time for a new one?”

“If it’s anything like the last one, no thanks.”

“Trust me, you’ll like this assignment.” He nodded to a small metal box on the table. “They call them ‘honeys.’ You heard of them?”