Glimmering

John gave a short laugh. “Well, you’re getting it. But Peggy said she thinks she can get a doctor to come by tomorrow, someone with the church—”

“I’m fine. I told you, I’m just tired—”

John stared at him measuringly. “Well, I hope so. God forbid you got something from that guy at the airport—”

“You don’t get petra virus that way. Look—”

“Forget it.” John turned to go. “But if you want to talk to someone—well, you don’t have to talk to me. There’s Peggy, or Robert. And the minister’s coming by tonight. Just keep it in mind, okay?”

Trip forced a smile. “Okay.” When John left he burrowed deeper into his bed, his legs and chest and groin matted with dead lilacs.

By the weekend, a few airports were open, accommodating those passengers (and airline crews) willing to risk traveling. Jerry and the other band members were impatient to leave. Even Trip was ready. But John Drinkwater refused.

“You guys crazy? It’s going to be a madhouse at Logan, might as well wait a few days until things ease up. We’re just going home, so relax, okay? Pretend you’re on retreat.”

“More like freaking house arrest,” Jerry muttered, and for once Trip nodded in agreement.

The next morning Trip got a phone call. On his private number; it woke him, and he had to dig through mounds of sheets until he found his phone.

“Yeah?” he said guardedly.

“Trip, Nellie Candry—”

A flash of panic: she knew! The girl had told her—

“—how you kids doing up there?” Her cheerful voice sounded impossibly small and far away, a ladybug’s voice.

“Uh—we’re fine. I mean, the same as everyone, I guess.” He moved around the room in hopes of improving the reception. “How’d you find me?”

“Remember? You gave me the number. At the hotel that night—”

“I mean how’d you find me here. We haven’t been able to talk to anyone—”

Her laughter tinkled from the phone. “Sweetie! I’m GFI—we talk to Elvis! We never shut down! But listen—you’re in Cambridge, right? By MIT?”

“Uh, yeah,” Trip said warily. “I think.”

“Well, I need you to go there. I’ve set something up for you—they have a studio, they’re like the only people who’ve managed to stay up all week. Did Ray Venuto get in touch with you?”

“Who?”

“Our contracts lawyer. He was supposed to fax you—”

“No. I mean, it’s a mess up here. Hardly anyone’s been able to call in or out.”

Pause. Then, “Well, okay, that’s okay. I still think we can swing this. We’ve got Legal behind us, in case there’s any question. But probably you shouldn’t talk this up yet, ’cause it’s just gonna be you. I mean they don’t want the rest of the band, not this time. Capisce? I want you to go to MIT, Trip: just you. The studio’s at the Atkinson Center, I have no idea where that is, but I’m sure somebody can get you there—”

Trip stared bewildered out the window. “What? When?”

“This afternoon.”

“But I don’t understand. I mean, I can’t do a recording without a band. Plus there’s no power up here, not for stuff like that—”

“Believe me, sweetie, the world could end and MIT would not lose power. They siphon off the grid: as long as someone’s got power, somewhere, they’re okay. And it’s not a video. It’s an IT studio. Since you haven’t actually signed the contracts yet we’ll call it an independent demo, just in case anyone gives us a hard time later—”

Trip shook his head, a little desperately. “But—”

“But they won’t! I promise you they won’t.” Nellie’s voice faded into static. Relief flooded him, but after a moment she was back, her tone lower now, conspiratorial.

“Listen, Trip—the truth is I ran into Leonard Thrope the other day, down at Hellgate. I told him you were signing on, and he got real excited, I mean I haven’t seen him so psyched about something for a while. I told him I wanted you to do an IT and he told me about the studio at MIT; he’s friends with some guy there and he wants to shoot you, Trip! An icon and some stills, I mean, can you believe it? Leonard fucking Thrope!”

Trip bit his thumb. “Who’s Leonard Thrope?”

“What, they keep you guys under a news blackout?” Nellie laughed. “Actually, Leonard Thrope is probably not your basic Xian poster boy. He’s a very, very famous photographer—he founded the mori school, you’ve heard of that, right?”

Trip grimaced. “That guy who makes movies of dead people?”

“Mors Ultima. Yeah, that was Leonard. But he does other stuff, too, fashion shoots, a lot of stuff for private patrons. He’s on Radium all the time, you must have seen his stuff—”

“Look, Nellie—I don’t know, this guy is kind of weird, isn’t he? I mean, maybe this isn’t the sort of thing I should be doing, ’cause like I know for a fact that Peter Paul Joseph would have a heart attack if he—”