December, 2015
Edinburgh, Scotland
Caine stood at the top of Arthur’s Seat looking past the dark green and yellow of the blooming gorse of Holyrood Park into Edinburgh below. The sharp tang of salt air mingled with the oily trace of car exhaust. He frowned at the smog layering the city with a thick haze.
It took only sixty years to change from that idyllic summer morning to this dreary winter day. More change was coming now and he loved it. He looked skyward as if he could somehow see limned against the dark blue of the Scottish highland sky the old Celtic gods—Llyr, god of the sea, and Math, god of wisdom. Do you remember me brothers? He thought also of Dwyn, god of mischief, lord of change.
The dark buzz of his phone shook Caine. The sudden appearance of smart phones reminded him of the marvelous changes happening in the world and even greater ones on the way. Caine was suddenly exhilarated. How wonderful! So much change in so few years. New ways coming, nearer and nearer.
He pulled himself from his musing and glanced at the number, recognizing it. He let his face ripple into the familiar features the caller would remember. Then pressing connect, he let the caller’s face appear on the screen. He said, “So did you grab the opportunity I handed you?”
Startled by the question, it took Conklin a moment to answer. “Yes, you were right.”
“I take it you were able to regain control of your family ranch?”
“And the oil shale rights below.”
“Yes.”
“You’re a rich man now.”
Caine heard the hesitation in Conklin’s sudden breath. Then the man was saying, “They’re saying Ketterman was murdered.”
“I would call it bad fortune. But bad fortune for someone is good fortune for another. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Caine’s all but admitting he killed the man, Conklin thought. “Can we meet?”
“How about next Thursday 2 o’clock in Austin? I believe the gay bar three blocks off the capital would be a fine place. . . .You know the one?”
“Yes.”
“Bring that fellow Hiram Beecher with you. Until then.”
Caine slipped the phone back into his pocket. Another piece of the change.
Looking out upon the gorse, its flowers turning from yellow to golden as the sun rose higher in the sky, he smiled, reveling in the knowledge of change whipping across the world.