The Oracle Year(36)

If it gets out that Will’s the Oracle . . . then . . . everyone would sue him. And then they’d sue me, the minute they figured out I’m involved, and how much money we made from all this. And then maybe some D.A. somewhere would try to prosecute us for breaking some law or other. Every penny we have would be gone, just from trying to stay ahead of it.

Assuming some fanatic doesn’t just shoot all three of us in the head. Or . . . all four of us.

Hamza reached up and gently removed his wife’s hand from his face. He kissed Miko’s palm, and smiled at her.

“I just don’t like it when Will goes off the reservation,” he said. “You’re right about the weight of all this. He’s too deep in his own head. He doesn’t think about the consequences of what he does.”

“I don’t know,” Miko said. “He just posted predictions that will save hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. I think he’s only thinking about consequences.”

Hamza nodded.

“Yeah. But there’s you, and the kid. The stakes are high, you know?”

Miko did her face-twisting shrug maneuver again.

“Of course. That makes sense. Hey, here’s a question: Have you told Will that?”

Hamza rubbed his hand down the side of his face, then shook his head.

“No. It would be an awkward conversation, because in order to get him to really understand why I get so worried about this stuff, I might have to tell him that I brought you into all this.”

Miko raised an eyebrow.

“So each of you is just building up lists of things you’re not talking to each other about. Seems like a sound strategy.”

Hamza looked at Miko for a little while. He lifted his cell, thumbed it on, and dialed.

“You’re right,” he said. “Let’s just hope the asshole picks up this time.”





Chapter 14




Will tapped his phone, sending Hamza to voice mail.

He lifted his head to let the sunlight wash over his face, enjoying the complete lack of winter. The air held a pungent, thick smell. Sea salt for sure, and something else. Life. Will took a few deep breaths and leaned back against the side of his rental car.

The Gulf of Mexico wasn’t crystal clear, but compared to any of the waters around New York City, it was like something out of a surfing movie. Will had pulled over when he was about halfway along the causeway from Fort Myers to the outlying islands off the Florida coast. The mile-long series of bridges dipped down periodically to tiny islands, just sandy scraps of land, really, and Will had chosen one when the view became too overwhelming not to stop. He had no idea how people could live in a place like this, with jobs, obligations. He’d just stare out at the ocean all day long.

As if to prove his point, a school of dolphins curled up through the surface a few hundred yards offshore, and Will gave silent thanks that he hadn’t seen that while he’d been driving—chances are he’d have gone right through a guardrail and into the Gulf.

He stretched, folding to touch his toes, then knelt on the sand and bent at the waist, touching his forehead to the ground and reaching as far as he could with his hands. He felt his spine elongate and sighed with pleasure, the exhalation making a little crater in the sand. The move was a holdover from a yoga flirtation. He wished he had kept up with it—yoga hadn’t stayed in his life much longer than the girl he had taken it up for.

Will stood up. Better. His muscles still felt tight, and there was an ache between his shoulder blades, but there was only so much a minute or two of stretching could do. He’d been sitting in a car for five hours as he cruised through central Florida, across the state from Orlando. Direct flights to Fort Myers did exist, but he’d wanted the drive.

Will walked back to his car, leaned in, and reached across to the passenger seat, fishing around inside his shoulder bag. He came back out of the car holding the creased black notebook that had rarely been more than a few feet from him since the Oracle dream.

Some of the small islands along the causeway were equipped with public picnic tables and barbecues—this was one. A few small, ash-filled grills set on dark, corroded metal poles sat nestled in the sand not far away. Will walked to the nearest one, pulling a Zippo lighter from his pocket.

Will placed the notebook on the grate. He centered it, looking at it for a moment, watching as the breeze from the sea rifled through the pages, as if it were just as interested as the rest of the world in what was inside.

The Zippo produced a slight rasping noise, a spark, and ultimately, a little bit of fire. Will held out the lighter to the notebook and lit it at each corner, holding the flame steady until the paper caught.

It burned well, the flames flickering about six inches above the cover of the notebook, black smoke curling lazily up into the air. In just a few minutes, the predictions were reduced to a blackened strip of spiral wire and a layered pile of ash in the bottom of the grill. Will found a stick nearby and poked through the remains, looking for anything readable. Dark flakes drifted up and were caught on the breeze, floating toward the sea. Nothing. Not a single word left—except in his head, where the predictions blazed as strongly as ever.

Will inhaled deeply—smoke and sea. He realized that it was the first free, easy, lung-filling breath he’d had since the Oracle dream.

He returned to his car, pulled back onto the causeway, and continued west along the bridge toward its end point, a place called Sanibel Island. He paid a surprisingly pricey toll—he supposed maintaining bridges across the ocean didn’t come cheap—and rolled on to real land.