The Last Day

FIFTY-SEVEN

Natasha poured herself a glass of wine from the bottle they'd purchased on the way home from the cemetery. She opened Leslie's laptop on the counter and waited for it to power up. She heard the TV come on and a few familiar bars of music flowing from the den.

“It's about the virus,” Ward yelled from the den. “Breaking news!”

She rushed into the room to stand beside her husband while the newscaster explained that the child- porn virus was planted on the computers at RGI by a saboteur. The announcer said the FBI and the Charlotte police department would be holding a joint press conference the next morning, but that RGI had been cleared of all accusations.

“All right!” Ward hollered, hugging Natasha. “That's it. Damnation be gone.”

For ten minutes Natasha read her e-mails. About half of them were from people that were furious because her computer sent the virus to theirs. She was careful not to open any e-mails with attachments since the virus was still out there, and probably in some of those e-mails.

The other half of the e-mails were from people saying they knew Ward didn't have anything to do with the virus. It was warming to read those. She had e-mails from her parents, and other members of her family in Washington and Oregon, expressing their support. Her mother asked for Natasha to call them as soon as she could because her phone stayed busy. There were several “call me's” in the stack. All of her partners (except for Dan Wheat) had e-mailed saying they hoped she'd let them know if they could help in any way. They were all time- dated before Ward had been cleared.

And even though she and Ward hadn't discussed it since Barney's birth, they could have another child, and she hoped Ward would be up for that, because she most certainly was. No child could ever replace Barney, but they had plenty of love to give a new child, or children. She smiled at the thought of another McCarty

Gizmo. The odd word kept rattling around in Natasha's mind, because she was sure she'd heard it before under circumstances related to her practice, even though she couldn't zero in on an image her memory could replay. Maybe, because the word was a source of anxiety she was imagining it meant more to her than that. The nearly hieroglyphic decoration was obsessively executed and had to have taken untold long hours of concentrated effort to accomplish. The five letters had been as uniform as letters chiseled into a tombstone by a stonemason.

She looked down at the legal pad, where she had written the word out and doodled circles and stars around it, trying to trigger something solid.

She had the feeling that if she could just remember, she'd know something crucial.

She was about to turn off the computer when she had an idea. She went to Google and typed in the word “Gizmo.” There were eleven million, eight hundred thousand and seventeen hits. She shook her head slowly as she pondered the mountain of hay that might contain the needle she was searching for.

She typed “Gizmo” and “Charlotte NC.” There were ten thousand and seventy- one hits. When she added the word “Obituaries,” there were fewer than three thousand, still an unmanageable number. The first one was: survivors are her father, Richard M. Morrison, Sr., of Harrisburg, NC; her aunt, Glenda Eudy, and husband, Clint, of Greensboro; and her cat, Gizmo.

Natasha smiled strangely. Why, she wondered, had she added the word obituaries? That seemed odd. The second one was:

Oct. 14, 2003, at the Community Medical Center in Scranton after being suddenly stricken. rlene loved her babies: her dogs, Cody, Cindy, and Gizmo.

It seemed to be a popular name people gave their pets. Perhaps, she mused, having a pet named Gizmo could be hazardous to your health.

She had a thought. Since it was her memory, she added NorthEast Medical Center, Concord, and there were only five. She had read through two entries, when she saw something in the third that made her blood run cold.