Submerged by Alton Gansky

this.”
Perry picked up the notebook in the plastic bag. The bag opened,
and he removed a three-ring binder, the kind kids took to school.
Inside was narrow-rule-lined paper. It had aged yellow but was
still in good shape. Perry assumed he could thank the plastic bag
for that.
    “I’ve got nothing here but pictures of you on
a pony, Little League pictures, and birthday parties. There are a
few of people I don’t know. Aunts and uncles maybe. What about
you?”
    “There’s not much here—just a few pages of
names, numbers, and some pencil drawings. I’m not sure what to make
of it. None of the names have last names, just first and an
initial.”
    “Sounds like your dad wanted the secret kept
a secret,” Jack said.
    “Why would he send me looking for this? He
was coherent. I wondered if the medication was affecting his mind,
but I had the impression he knew exactly what he was saying but was
too weak to say it all.”
    “What about the names? Do any of the names he
gave you match what’s on the list?”
    “This list is cryptic, but it does have first
names.” Perry scanned down the column of names. Soon he found Monte
G—CE; Cynthia W—BE; and Victor Z—EE.
    “What are the initials?”
    “Don’t know. Dad abbreviates everything.”
    “CE could be civil engineering,” Jack
suggested.
    “Possible. If that is true, then EE could be
electrical engineering.”
    “Is your dad’s name there?”
    “Good question.” Perry searched the list
again. “Sure enough, Henry S—SE. In his case, SE could stand for
structural engineer. But what is BE? Let’s go into Dad’s office. I
have some computer work to do.” Perry carried the notebook as he
and Jack crossed the spacious house. Henry Sachs’s home office was
wide and paneled in dark wood. A table served as a desk. On it was
a computer and several rolls of plans. At the right edge of the
table was a phone and answering machine. A red light blinked with
demanding regularity. Perry decided to retrieve the message. It was
one more thing he could do for his mother. He pressed the Play
button. An elderly-sounding voice wafted up from the speaker.
    “Henry? Henry, it’s Cynthia Wagner. We need
to talk. It’s—it’s about Monte. He’s dead. It’s horrible. Call me.
Please call.” She gave a number.
    Perry picked up the phone and began to
dial.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter5
     
     
    Her hips hurt, but they had been hurting since she was in her early fifties. Now,
at seventy, she had learned to ignore the pain. Arthritis plundered
her movement and comfort, but she had grown accustomed to morning
aches and the extra time necessary to rise from a chair. Seventy
was a good number, she thought. Seventy years was long life—longer
than she could have expected if fate had placed her in a
third-world country but not as long as she knew the human body was
designed to live. Aging always baffled her, and often she wished
she had focused her training in that area instead of
bioengineering. What was, however, was, and it was far too late to
change things now.
    She had much to be thankful for. She had
planned her retirement well and had no money problems. She wasn’t
rich, but she didn’t need to be. Money was a means to food,
housing, and books and magazines. Very little else was needed.
    The garden stretched before her. Zinnias,
calendulas, celosia, and other flowers splashed color along the
stretch of dirt that ran in front of her home. Other flowering
plants made their homes in terra-cotta pots and wood planters.
    There were other things growing in front of
her San Diego home: weeds, and weeds left unattended were weeds
that thrived. Not in my garden, she
thought. From her garage, she pulled a tool with a sharp, flat tip
and a wide pad of foam rubber. She returned to the strip of
flowers, dropped the foam rubber, and lowered herself to her knees.
Her back complained, her hips grumbled, and her wrists groused. She
ignored them all.
    As she dug the weeding