Silver Linings

definitely not on his way to anywhere. “You told me yesterday you'd verified that there's a new presence on the political scene on Purgatory. I wanted to see if you'd come up with a name or some background yet.”
    Johnson sighed, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Nothing yet. I told you I'd call. Scout's honor, Mr. Abbott. I know this is important to you.”
    “Real important.”
    “I get the picture. Look, all I can tell you at this time is that the situation has changed slightly on Purgatory, but no one really knows how yet. Nor does anyone seem to care. I've given you everything I've been able to dig out of two or three fairly good intelligence data bases. There just isn't much available. Mostly because the situation on that dipshit little island is not of great interest to anyone.”
    “Except me.”
    “Yes. You.” Johnson picked up a pen and tapped it impatiently on the desk. “I'll call when I get something.”
    “Any time. Night or day.” Hugh got to his feet.
    “Right. Night or day,” Johnson agreed wearily.
    Hugh paused at the door. “You actually went into two or three government data bases? Intelligence data bases? Just like that?”
    “Just like that. It's my job, Mr. Abbott.”
    Hugh nodded, impressed. “You know, I could have used you in the old days. You and that computer of yours would have been worth your weight in gold.”
    “Really? What sort of work did you do in the old days?”
    “Nothing very important. Call me. Soon.”
    Johnson called at five-thirty that afternoon, just as Hugh was getting ready to walk out the door of his office. The two secretaries had already left, so Hugh reached for the phone himself when it rang.
    “Mr. Abbott? This is Johnson down in Systems. I think I may have a little more information for you. Some of it's just coming in now, and there may be more later. It's not much, but it could be something.”
    “I'll be right down.” Hugh hung up and dialed Mattie's gallery. She answered on the third ring. “It's me, babe. Listen, I'm going to be a little late getting home. There's some info on Purgatory coming in on one of the computers downstairs.”
    “All right. How late will you be?” she asked, sounding distracted. He heard voices in the background and realized she was probably with clients.
    “Don't know. Be there when I get there.”
    “Be careful on the way home,” she said automatically. “It'll be dark. First Avenue can be rough in the evenings.”
    Hugh allowed himself to wallow briefly in the luxury of having someone worry about him. “Sure, babe. I'll be careful. See you later.” He tossed the phone back into its cradle and headed for the elevators.

    Mattie could feel the walls closing in.
    “Knees up high and kick . And kick . And kick .”
    The heavy throb of rock music combined with the thundering herd of aerobic dancers to make the wooden gym floor shudder. Mattie kicked out as hard as she could, skipped, turned, and joined the herd as it pounded to the far end of the room.
    Her grandmother the ballerina would be turning over in her grave. Mattie sent up a silent apology as she always did during aerobics class and then kicked out even more wildly, skipped, turned, and thundered back down to the other end of the room. Technique and grace were not big factors in this kind of thing. Grandmother had always been a fanatic about technique and grace. Mattie could still hear her lecturing the little girl at the barre during that period when Mattie had determined to follow in grandmother's footsteps.
    What a mistake that had been. Another wrong direction.
    Electric guitars screaming in her ears, Mattie whipped around in a frenzied movement. She had her heart rate up good and high now. The sweat was dampening the thin, supple fabric of her leotard.
    The decision to go to the after-work aerobics class at her health club had been an impulse that had struck right after Hugh had announced he would be late getting back to the apartment. Mattie had missed her regular noon-hour class, and she always did some form of aerobics three or four days a week. She could practically feel the stress levels sink after thirty or forty minutes of strenuous dancing.
    “Grapevine!” the instructor yelled out over the pounding music. “And kick…two, three, four, and grapevine, two…three…four…”
    Mattie kicked vigorously, aware that she had a great deal of stress to work off. The tension was building daily. The sense of