Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Night
Waverly twisted and jerked and did everything she could to get away from the grip that had her ankle. That did nothing but send her over the edge headfirst into the cold black waves.
Water filled her eyes and ears and nose.
She couldn’t breathe.
Panic gripped her body and made it jerk.
Her head stayed under.
Her lungs burned.
She wanted one thing and one thing only, to breathe.
Seconds, that’s all she had left.
Suddenly an arm came around her from behind. She tried to twist around and climb up the person but couldn’t break loose.
Her head came above water.
Air.
Air.
Air.
She sucked it in so fast that water came with it and sent her into a coughing fit. She got a second breath, a clean one this time. Then she was over by the finger, the solid finger, and held on for dear life.
“Boost yourself up.”
It was a man’s voice.
Bristol’s.
She tried.
“I can’t!”
“Yes you can, do it.”
She pulled again with all her strength. This time Bristol pushed from behind. Her chest got up onto the wood then she pulled herself until her whole body was safe. Face down, she breathed. Nothing had ever felt so good. Splashing sounds came from behind her. Bristol was muscling his way out of the water. Then he was out, standing over her, dripping even colder water onto her already freezing body.
He tapped a toe into her ribs.
“Get up.”
The finger rocked-someone was running down it towards them. Waverly looked in that direction and saw the black silhouette of Su-Moon charging. The woman flung her body in the air over Waverly, hitting Bristol and sending him into the water.
She pulled Waverly to her feet.
“Come on.”
That was last night.
Now it was Tuesday morning and she opened the copper designer door of The Bristol Group and stepped into the frantic offices as if nothing happened. Last night had been dark and her face had been down. It was doubtful Bristol got a good enough look at her to recognize her in a different environment.
She’d find out soon enough.
Most of last night had been for naught. The only thing of interest in Bristol’s boat was an architecture file relating to some kind of terminal and docking layout for a ferry company on the Hong Kong side of Victoria Harbour. Even that wasn’t of much interest, being noteworthy only in the fact that it was at Bristol’s house rather than at the office, and was three years old.
Why would he have a three year old architecture file at home in the bottom drawer of his dresser?
Sean Waterfield spotted her and headed over.
“You look nice,” he said.
She lowered her voice.
“What do you know anything about a Hong Kong project?”
“You mean an architecture project, here at the firm?”
Right.
That.
He scratched his head.
“No.”
“It was three or four years ago.”
Three or four years ago.
He reached back.
“Wow, I hadn’t thought about that in years,” he said. “It wasn’t a project. It was something we bid on. It never materialized. Another firm got the bid.”
“Who.”
“I can’t remember. Why?”
A man’s face appeared.
“Are you the temp?”
Yes.
She was.
“I need you to make a donut run. Please and thank you.” He handed her money. “Two dozen assorted.”
Ten minutes later, picking out two-dozen from behind a glass display at Rudy amp; Summer’s World Famous Donuts, she had a nagging thought that she might not be able to take Bristol down if he turned out to be the dropper.
How could she do that to someone who snatched her out of the water?