Peter dreamed he reclined on lush grass along the bank of a shady stream. Although it was daytime, he could see the Milky Way. On the far side of the stream grew a venerable aspen tree, its smooth white bark scarred with strange glyphs and signs. Enormous trout leaped from the stream high into the air, nipping at its branches.

In the shade of the tree stood three people, Delbert Mackai and his granddaughter, Demi, and a tall, regal woman wearing a sky-blue robe—the Virgin Mary, Delbert's deceased wife. Demi was catching trout out of the air with a net attached to a long wooden pole. Peter raised his hand and called out to them, but only Delbert looked up, scowling. He seemed to be chewing something tough and unpleasant, and when he opened his mouth, out poured a gibbering tirade of guttural sounds. The Virgin Mary wrung her hands and began to ululate. The ululation became the bleating of a sheep, the bleating of a sheep the plaintive ring of a phone.

Now the stream swelled to a river, wide and placid. The phone rang again, and Peter put it to his ear. Seh-mee-nah . . . see-nah-pees. He tried to speak, but his lips were stuck together with thick saliva. Seh-mee-nah . . . see-nah-pees! Enraged, Peter hurled the phone as far into the river as he could. It made a pathetic splash, a few measly rings. But the rings spread, growing into heaving waves. Soon, the river seethed from bank to bank. Peter turned to run, but his feet were stuck in sand, gravel, white quartz. The more he struggled, the deeper he sank until he was completely encased in stone, crushed by an undeniable calm, an overwhelming peace.

He awoke to the clatter of Anna Jankowsky's bathroom fan coming from down the hall. He lay on the living room couch, sweating under a blanket. Throwing it off, he sat up and took a deep breath. His chest still ached, but his lungs had cleared.

The fan rattled to a stop, and Anna emerged from the hallway in a bathrobe, dabbing at her hair with a towel.

"You should get what's-his-name to fix that fan," said Peter.

"His name's Corbett, and I'll fix it myself. Besides, I can always open the Boy Hatch if I need to blow off steam."

Peter smiled.

She suddenly stopped dabbing her hair. "How are you? You seemed kind of out of it when I left."

He rubbed his face. "I don't know. Still numb, I guess. Like I said, it was so different with my mom. I was there. I saw her go. And we had a funeral. But this. It just seems so unreal, so . . . unfinished. They won't even release his ashes." He did not want to talk about the woman's earring he had found in his father's pickup truck.

Anna plopped down next to him, towel in her lap, the scent of coconut wafting over.

"Did you figure out what your dad was trying to say on the phone? Do you even know what language that was?"

Peter shook his head. "He might not have been trying to say anything. He might have been delirious."

"What do you mean?"

"I got a call from Dr. Hoffman while you were out."

"And?"

"You can't tell anyone about this, not even your boyfriend."

"Corbett's the last person I'd tell."

"OK," said Peter, wondering just how close Anna and Corbett really were. "So it turns out you were right about my dad's cigarettes. The filters were laced with a toxin, something called ricin."

"Oh my god." She covered her mouth with her hand.

"So you know what that is."

She let her hand fall. "Yeah. We learned about ricin in first year med school. It's like one of the deadliest toxins known to man. Just a few micrograms are enough to kill."

Peter nodded "Now I know why I was so sick the last couple days. When I found my dad's cigarettes in his truck, I sniffed them, you know, just for memory's sake. I must have inhaled some of the toxin."

"You could have died!"

"I know, I know."

Anna gripped the towel. "But who would want to hurt your dad?

"That's just it. I have no idea." He looked around. "Where's your iPad? I couldn't find it anywhere."

She smiled, slipped her hand behind Peter's back, and pulled it out from between the cushions. "You were sleeping on it, dummy."

They searched for the term "ricin" and swiped through hundreds of hits. A news article caught Peter's eye. Numex Industries was seeking FDA approval to use ricin in a new cancer drug. The drug worked like a molecular smart bomb, delivering tiny packages of the toxin directly to tumor cells.

Anna's damp hair brushed against Peter's cheek. "Did they have anything like that when your mom was sick?"

He did not answer. His eyes were locked onto the thumbnail image of Jason Numec, founder and CEO of Numex Industries. Peter had seen this man before in a framed photo hanging on the wall in Delbert Mackai's living room. According to Delbert, Jason Numec was the wealthy benefactor who financed the tribe's legal fight over the Burns Ice Man. It was Numec who furnished Delbert's home with solar panels and wind turbines. And it was Numec who was going to pay for young Demi's college education.

"What's wrong?" said Anna.

"I don't know." But there had to be a connection. Now more than ever Peter regretted never asking his father why he had visited Delbert Mackai all those years ago.

Peter's phone began to ring with that awful bleating noise, just like in his dream. He snatched it up and tapped the button, barely glancing at the caller ID. "Hello?"

"Hello. This is Nechama Davila. We met yesterday at the cemetery."

"What do you want?" He reached back and fished her business card out of his jacket pocket.

Israel Antiquities Authority, Robberies Prevention Unit

"I just found out what happened to your father," she continued. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I have information you must hear."

Anna mouthed a question: "Who is it?"

Peter handed her Davila's card. "I'm listening," he said into the phone.

"I have reason to believe your father was murdered."

"What makes you say that?" Dr. Hoffman's findings were confidential. They had not been released to the public.

"Not over the phone. Meet me, now. A public space. Your choice."

"What is this, some kind of game?"

"No."

"Why should I even talk to you? Why shouldn't I go straight to the police and hand them your card?"

"I urge you not to do that. Please, meet with me. If afterward you feel you need to go to the police, I won't stop you."

"Fine." Peter knew a place. "Meet me on the University of Washington campus, Red Square. There's a sculpture there called the Broken Obelisk."

"One hour?"

"One hour."

__________________

Image: aspen trees by a stream.

Take from https://i.pinimg.com/736x/98/19/51/9819514e32588d9c8eba0386de9dbcc5--autumn-leaves-autumn-fall.jpg