A SHORT PERSON with tight grey curls, wearing that same green jumpsuit with Fred on the pocket took Vivienne, Johnny and Val to the vault. The vault had been loaded on a plane, flown to the desert and dropped right there. What was built to hold securities had been tortured. It had been set on fire, had bombs blown up inside its steel skin and now Vivienne snapped a pic of its steel hanging in bent filigrees of commerce untended. The guide motioned them to walk inside, past the door hanging off its hinges.
The inner sanctum of the vault was like a darkroom. Vivienne was used to the dark cave, used to her pupils dilating, growing large, her eyes seeking out spots of light in darkness. She could see the slightest line of light along Val’s Roman nose.
At the doorway, Vivienne saw a figure li
