Page 108 of The Chain

Oliver yelps as the water hits him.

“This is funny, isn’t it?” Tom says.

Tom keeps the shower on for two minutes and then finally turns it off.

Oliver is bawling his guts out. Tom shakes his head, puts his arm around Anthony, and leads him downstairs.

Oliver is sprawled in a corner of the shower, still sobbing. Margaret climbs into the shower next to him and takes his hand. Oliver is ashamed of his tears and everything that’s happened.

“Go away,” he says.

But he doesn’t mean it and Margaret knows he doesn’t mean it.

His sobs turn to whimpers. The day lengthens. The sun sets right down Orange Avenue, silhouetting the planes landing at Long Beach Airport.

“It’s OK,” Margaret says, holding her twin brother’s trembling hand. “We’ll get them.”

53

The three of them are in a private room at the back of the Four Provinces pub in Cambridge.

Rachel and Pete are sitting opposite the big man. There’s a festive air in the pub but not in here. Three pints of Guinness and three double Scotches in front of them, which should keep them from being bothered by waitresses for a while. Rachel takes her baseball cap off and sets it next to her pint. She looks at Pete, but he merely shrugs. He isn’t sure how this is supposed to commence either.

Rachel checks her watch. It’s 2:15 now. Kylie is going over to Stuart’s after school, and Stuart’s mom will be picking them up. Stuart’s mom is a tough-as-nails attorney and completely dependable. Stuart’s father is ex-army; he works from home and is still in the Massachusetts National Guard. Outside of Marty, Stuart’s mom and dad are just about the only people Rachel trusts to keep Kylie safe. But still, time is marching on. Rachel wants to get back before dark. “One of us is going to have to go first,” she says.

The big, shambling, sad-eyed man nods. “You’re right. I contacted you,” he says. “First things first. Security. No blogs, no e-mails, no paper trail, and when we meet, you make damn sure you’re not being followed. Get off the T at random stops,French Connection–style. Do it again and again and again until youknowyou’re not being tailed.”

“Sure,” Rachel says absently.

The man’s expression darkens. “No, nosure. Sureis not good enough. You need to be certain. Your life depends on this. You took a hell of a risk meeting me at the airport. And coming here? How do you know I didn’t lure you here so I could kill you both and slip out the back?”

“I wasn’t armed at the airport, but I am now,” Pete says, patting his jacket pocket.

“No, no, no! You’re missing the point!”

“What is the point?” Rachel asks gently.

“The point is you have to be vigilant. The last few weeks…well, I don’t know. There was a break-in in the math department. They ransacked half a dozen offices, not just mine. But that could have been cover. Even though I’ve been discreet, I’ve been making waves. Ripples in the pond. Maybe I’ve stirred things up. Maybe I’m being researched. Targeted. I don’t know. And more important, you don’t know. You don’t know me from Adam.”

Rachel nods. A few weeks ago she would have thought this kind of talk was crazy paranoia. Not now.

The man sighs deeply and takes a battered notebook out of his raincoat pocket.

“This is my third journal on The Chain,” he says. “My real name is Erik Lonnrott. I work there,” he says, pointing behind himself with his thumb.

“The kitchen?” Pete asks.

“MIT. I’m a mathematician. Coming to Cambridge was the worst thing that ever happened to me and my family.”

“What did happen?” Rachel asks.

Erik takes a large swig from the Guinness. “I’ll begin at the beginning. I was born in Moscow, but my parents moved to America when I was thirteen. I grew up mostly in Texas. I went to Texas A and M. I got my PhD in mathematics there and I met my wife, Carolyn, there. She was a painter. Huge, beautiful canvases, mostly with religious subjects. We had a daughter, Anna, when I was doing my postdoc in topology at Stanford. Those were the good days.”

“And then you came here,” Rachel says.

“We moved to Cambridge in 2004. I was offered an associate professorship with tenure. Who turns down something like that at MIT? All was good until 2010, when…” He chokes up and his voice dies away. He takes another drink and pulls himself together. “My wife was bicycling home from her studio in Newton and was hit by an SUV. She was killed immediately.”

“I’m sorry,” Rachel says.