Parts of the Whole Page 8

  ~~~~~~

  “We got him back to his family,” I tell Dinah after I finish brushing my teeth. “They were some rich tourists. You might have heard of them.” I say the name as best I can, and she lights up in recognition.

  “They're some of Asia's biggest real estate moguls!” She seems impressed.

  I shrug as I climb into bed with my wife, and I know I will always be thankful for her. “They're really nice people, actually. We're invited down to their spread in Florida if we like.”

  Dinah smiles and leans over to kiss me on the cheek. I accept the kiss, then turn over to turn off the light. Darkness falls in the bedroom, like the darkness in the warehouse, where men in rags scream and yell and kill and destroy for sheer happiness. Dinah is laying on my chest, and she feels the shudder go through me. “How bad was it, baby?” she asks. I couldn't fool her if I wanted to.

  “It was bad,” I admit.

  “It's over now,” she says, her breath warm on my bare chest, her arm draped over me. “It's over and you're safe.”

  Not Tom, I think but don't say. He has to do this every day. I don't know how he does it, or if being able to withstand such things is part of what he is. I do know that he is my friend, and that's all that really matters. I relax a bit more.

  “Okay, honey,” I say, closing my eyes and feeling her cuddle closer. “Sleep tight.”

  I feel her chuckle against my skin, then sit up a bit with a start as my phone buzzes. “Damn it, it's late!” she complains as I reach over.

  The phone shows a text message from Tom, stating he could use a hand in Hampton finding someone or other. I'm trying to read the name, but all I can really see are the words “No rush. Tomorrow I need to find...”. Good. I will be able to sleep tonight, knowing that tomorrow is just another day at the office.

  (back)

  By Its Cover

  “No, I specifically said the other blue for the bathroom.”

  Avaline Statford had been on the phone for at least the past hour. I had heard she was the best; so far I had seen very little to back up her fearsome reputation. Of the last twenty minutes, she had been discussing at least thirty-three shades of blue, with color samples being sent to her other cellular phone. At first she had shown me the colors, which all looked the same to me. However, she stopped after I shrugged her away for the second time. Perhaps she would have taken things more seriously if she had known why I was there.

  “No, I said that blue...” she said, her voice barely rising even with the noise of the jet engines. “Yes, that one, Tommy. Now if you'll please send another picture of that?”

  This was the head of a black-ops organization, one so secret it was only known as The Agency? It was insulting to think that she was some kind of legend when all I saw was a ridiculous old woman. She had her son sending pictures of a paint swatch while on a mission for the government. How could anyone take her seriously? It was no wonder I had been sent. She was totally incompetent; she had to have something on someone to have lasted as long as she had. It was the only possible explanation as she rejected another swatch.

  She had been talking on a government-issued satellite phone for three hours, communicating with her son, which made me feel sorry for him. Anyone having to deal with her inanities this long would have been driven mad. Before that, she had been having heated conversations with a plumber, two electricians and a warehouse worker looking for some kind of fixture for a bathtub. We had been in the air for over four hours and she had not slowed down this obsession with a bathroom.

  Someone wanted her out of the way; it had something to do with budget cuts. I didn't care. I knew I'd need some kind of vacation after this job. I had been given the mission to make her a casualty by whatever means necessary, and I had been paid an obscene amount of money to make it happen.

  Of course, after all this nattering about matte versus satin finishes, I would have done the job for free.

  “Oh dear, that just won't do at all,” she sighed. “I'll call you back in a few minutes, Tommy. I have to work now.” I couldn't understand why she'd stop with her idiocy right then, which was when the dropmaster came into the compartment.

  I thought nothing of it as the dropmaster briefed us on what we were supposed to be doing. I knew the mission front and back, having been in on the planning. Drop into a South American jungle, grab some intelligence, cause a distraction by destruction, extract from a point five kilometers distant. I could do it by myself, and had often enough. Looking at her, I felt only contempt. I was easily fifteen years her junior, and obviously in much better shape. I couldn't figure out why she had insisted on coming along on this particular mission, but it only made my job that much simpler. She was in overall charge of the mission, but I would make sure only one of us came back. I'm sure her son would probably be relieved.

  The light stayed red as the dropmaster maneuvered us to the hatch, and would go green the moment we we over the dropzone, which gave me a few extra moments to study this example of bureaucrat who thought she was an operative. Utterly unprofessional, she had her weapons hanging from her by lanyards rather than strapped to her body as was standard protocol. Her head was bare, her hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, while I wore my helmet, protecting my skull from injury like any sane smart operative. The streaks of grey were all too evident with her, and I was smugly sure that I'd be waiting on her to catch up after tiring herself out with looking for her weapons that were ripped off in the jump and fell to earth. The only thing she did halfway decently was her face painting, and even that was almost haphazard in its application. I towered over her by nearly a foot, and my sense of superiority deepened. This slight woman was what my employer feared? This wispy relic?

  I listened to the pre-drop brief with only half an ear as I did one last equipment check. My Sig-Sauer silenced pistol was in its holster, the hammer down and the securing strap keeping it right were it was supposed to stay on my hip. The MP-5 submachinegun was likewise strapped to my chest, with extra magazines for both weapons in the cargo pockets of my pants. A radio was in an arm pocket, along with an extra set of batteries. In two of my other pockets were three pounds of Semtex explosive and detonators, in separate pockets, obviously. The parachute had been packed by me, so I knew it had been done properly.

  For the mission, I was called Eagle, as usual, while she had assigned herself the codename Spirit. An idiotic codename. She could have called herself Duchess for all I cared; she was not going to make it back alive. While the self-proclaimed Spirit submitted to an equipment check by the dropmaster, I stood apart from it. Perhaps she needed some kind of reassurance that everything would work, as she had no confidence in her own abilities and gear. I knew mine was perfect, and I was anxious to be off. Five million wouldn't spend itself.

  With a pull on the egress handle, the hatch opened, revealing the blackest night sky I had ever seen. We were far from civilization, which suited me fine. I had toppled governments before in broad daylight; intelligence gathering, property damage and a bullet in the head for some daffy old bitch would be simplicity. Wind whipped through the fuselage of the jet, sending her uncovered hair moving and probably destroying her hearing for the moment. Granted, I couldn't hear as well, but at least my head was protected.

  The light went from red to green, and with a nod, she jumped into the dark. It was so sudden I was shocked and nearly stumbled as I made my way through the hatch. I paused only half a second before throwing myself into the sky, arcing my body as I had been taught back in Ranger school. Somewhere below me were my targets, and neither of them knew they were targets, which was just the way I liked it.

  I angled myself towards the earth, wanting to get a bit of extra speed so I would ground before she did. If I could handle her before the mission started, I wouldn't have to concern myself that she would get in the way. I had a perfect operating record, and I wasn't about to let this dried up has-been relic ruin it for me. The wind whipped at my face, my eyes squinted even with the
goggles, as the altimeter on my wrist dimly counted down the distance to the ground. I couldn't see her, but as the ground was nothing but an inky blackness below me, I knew she would be invisible to me even if she had deployed her chute. It was of no concern; she would be dead before the night was out.

  Flattening my body, I spread my arms out, slowing down slightly while trying to find a good place to land. It was difficult in the dark, but I would have plenty of time to pick a spot. At the proper time and appropriate altitude, I pulled the chute. There was a sound of nylon cord flying out of my pack, and I was jerked vertically. I floated downward, watching carefully for anything that would be cause for alarm. Seeing nothing, I made a perfect landing in a small clearing.

  As I pulled my chute to me so I could bury it and begin the three-kilometer run to the camp, I mused that the old woman had gotten lucky. Of course, maybe I had been fortunate and she had forgotten to open her parachute and splatter on the ground. It would have saved me so much trouble.

  With the black fabric stashed under a tree's roots, there was little else to do except begin the trek to the camp. I had my sidearm out and cocked, in case I met anyone on the way there. There were no friendlies in this jungle, and that worked just fine for me.

  The pace I set for myself wasn't too hurried, but I didn't dawdle, either. The trees were alive with animals, which helped to mask the sound of my passage. There was no moon that night, so I was nearly invisible as I made my way through the foliage. I was a shadow, silent and deadly, as I kept my steps as light as possible. There was absolutely no way I would be detected, especially by the backwoods drug dealers that liked to call this hellhole home.

  Several minutes of running brought me within sight of the objective. I holstered the pistol and brought out a monocular to better scope out the area. The brush covered me as I barely breathed, looking carefully through the eyepiece for anyone or anything that might give me an idea of what I was up against. Thankfully, that idiot had apparently died of her own stupidity, and she wouldn't get in my way. There were four guards that I could see, walking in predictable patterns, their cigarettes winking in the dark. Complete amateurs.

  The entire camp wasn't more than two hundred meters square, with a large fifty-meter by thirty-five-meter building in the center. That was the processing plant for the cocaine, according to the satellite shots. The small building that radiated a chugging sound was the generator, and it was vaguely connected to the processing building. A couple of bunkhouses were in the perimeter, and like the rest of the structures, they were simple corrugated steel constructions, the slanted roofs made of the same material. There were halogen lights on each of the eight buildings, and I knew which one was where the ammunition was kept. That would be my target for distraction; the drug factory wasn't good enough for destruction.

  The guards were carrying AK-74s, which didn't worry me. The weapons were worthless after a certain range, and I was well outside it. Two stopped to talk to each other, trading jokes I could hear even from my spot a hundred meters away. Total and pure amateur night with these idiots. Were I in the mood, I could have double-tapped them both just by the noise they made.

  I turned my gaze to the target of the mission: the only hut that had a radio mast stuck to the top. It was little more than a closet, but I knew there had to be enough information in there I could back to the analysts to make them happy. Of course, they would soil themselves if they were ever in the field, and were worse than useless in the long run. They never took a stand, always using the words “possible” and “probable”. So afraid of making mistakes and being called out for being wrong. Idiots.

  The monocular caught some movement to my right, and I swung in that direction. The two guards who had been talking were looking in my direction, or near to it. Impossible that they saw me, so I ignored them and took a moment to zoom in on the radio shack. This would be too easy.

  Of course, that's what I thought until I felt the tiny pins in the right side of my neck and the fifty-thousand volts rushing through my body. Every nerve was on fire, and I couldn't do anything, even scream. I dropped the monocular into the undergrowth and fell to my left side, unable to even curl up because of the voltage running through me.

  The pain was fire through me, even after the taser stopped. I pulled in a breath to try and get my bearings and was rewarded with another jolt. I couldn't stop myself from crying out; it was too intense. As I lay there, unable to move or even to think clearly, I saw a shape stand above me, black boots and digital camouflage breaking up the outline of the figure. When it knelt, I could see the face covered in paint, but the teeth were white as he smiled. He said something in Spanish, which I couldn't understand through my shocked state. As he knelt, I felt someone else take my hands and feet and tie them expertly, which meant not one but at least two of these backwoods fools had sneaked up on me. Of course, who was the most foolish? If I had had a real partner instead of that old dried-up bitch, I wouldn't have been in the mess I was in.

  That all stopped mattering after the figure in front of me raised the butt of his weapon and brought it down, bringing darkness with it.

  I woke up to two men in camouflage uniforms arguing in front of me, while my body screamed in pain. My shirt was off, as were my pants, and I felt cold steel underneath me. My wrists and ankles were secured with wire, blood dripping from where the metal had dug into my flesh. There were tears running down my cheeks, and I had no idea how long I had been there and even less of an idea why I was crying. They couldn't have broken me; I had never broken, even in training. Of course, I had never been caught before, but that was beside the point.

  The men arguing seemed to be gesturing wildly, pointing at the only door in the room, and as my eyes focused, I saw that there where two other men in the room, guarding that door and armed with assault rifles. There were no windows, just a couple of tables with various pieces of metal that might have been tools for extracting teeth or bullets or just causing torture. I noticed an old cassette recorder, and it was still taping.

  I finally started being able to hear what the men were saying, and what I heard wasn't encouraging. One wanted to send someone out to check for other commandos, the other said there couldn't be any others as the heat-sensing cameras would have seen someone else out there. He pointed at me, saying there was only one stupid gringo out there, and I was it. Not even a ghost could get in undetected, he laughed.

  Then what was that I heard out there? the first asked.

  Probably the generator backfiring, the second said dismissively. I'll even go out and show you, then we can kill this spy.

  The first wasn't fully convinced, but seemed to go along with it. I knew I was going to die, all because I had been stuck with that old woman. That stupid damned old woman! It was all her fault!

  As my two captors made for the door, there was a splintering crash as it swung open, smashing into the guard to my left. His weapon fired out of reflex, the bullets blasting holes in the ceiling. The second guard was turning to look at the cause for the wood and steel door slamming open and got both barrels of a shotgun erasing the top of his skull.

  The roar from the shotgun in the enclosed hut pounded my ears. I pulled against the wires holding my wrists, wondering how a rescue team had been deployed so quickly. I couldn't have been gone long enough for a search-and-rescue mission to be planned, let alone launched. However, I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I would get paid either way.

  That's when I saw her.

  The woman calling herself Spirit was covered in some kind of muck from head to toe, her hair matted with still-wet mud. Branches and leaves fell from her clothing as she tossed the empty weapon to one of my captors. As the one on the left caught it, she drew her pistol and shot both men in the head, the bullets going right between the eyes from what I could see. The one who held the empty shotgun stood just long enough for her to pull it out of his hands before he fell.

  She holstered her gun and began
searching my two dead captors. There was some movement from the door as the only other guard left alive in that little hut began to stir. He pushed the door away from him, and I watched as she pulled a knife and flung it casually, without looking, into his throat.

  She found what she was looking for and began to release me from the rack. “Nice to see you again, dear. Now would you get some clothes on so we can leave? That's a good boy.” Spirit retrieved the knife and cleaned off the blood before putting the blade into its sheath.

  My throat didn't work for a moment as I worked to get circulation back into my hands. “You're alive?”

  My left leg came free after a moment, then she began work on the right one. “Yes, I am, and a good thing, too. There are another twenty of these punks coming in a few minutes, so we have to move quickly.”

  There I was, being rescued by the woman I was supposed to kill. With her head down, I could bring a fist down into the back of her neck. Even in my weakened state, I could cause enough damage to her so I could follow up with a killing blow. It would be so easy.

  “Dear, I know you're debating, but I would at least wait until I had gotten you out to safety before trying it.” She looked up and smiled, and I saw the knife in her hand. It had somehow come out of its sheath and was a whisker away from my crotch. “I'd also recommend you make sure you're ready for the consequences. Are we clear?” I nodded dumbly. “Good. Now that you're free, go ahead and at least get some pants on. Five klicks is a long way in the dark, and even longer naked.” Spirit stepped away and picked up two of the rifles, a few magazines and a belt of grenades.

  I was stunned as I stripped one of the bodies of their clothes. She knew? How did she know? The pants were ill-fitting, but serviceable, and the boots at least covered my feet. I would worry about blisters later. I put on the camouflage shirt, buttoning it while my mind raced. If she knew, then why did she come back? Why would she save someone who was planning on killing her? It made no sense. Was she planning on killing me herself? What was she going to do?

  She answered my question by tossing me one of the assault rifles. “I'm not going to kill you, dear, unless you try to kill me.” Spirit loaded a fresh magazine and checked the bolt on the rifle. “Let's go. I found what we were supposed to get.” Without another word, she sprinted out of the hut. I hurried to follow.

  She heard the truck engine before I did, and gave me a very disapproving look. I felt like a child as she shook her head. “I told you to hurry, now we have to deal with these idiots.” She took cover behind one of the many fallen logs that surrounded the perimeter of the camp, and I dove with her. Bullets followed us, gouging out holes in the wood. I checked my weapon, the AK a bit unfamiliar to me as I jammed it the first time I tried to pull back the cocking mechanism. “Take a deep breath and relax, dear. We'll be just fine.” I did as she said and unjammed my weapon. “Now, three three-shot bursts, sixty meters, ten-and-two-and-ten. On my mark.” She exhaled heavily and raised just enough out of cover with her own rifle. I followed suit, over the top of the log and fired as she told me, three bullets to my ten o'clock, then three more to my two o'clock, then back again, sighting out to sixty meters. There were cries downrange, and at least two targets went down. A tremendous volley of fire answered ours, the bullets smacking deeply into our cover, chipping it away bit by bit.

  I was about to ask her what we were going to do, as we had to be outnumbered ten to one at the minimum, when she took the rifle out of my hands and said, “Be a sweetie and hold this. Thank you!”

  It was her satellite phone.

  “Are you serious?” I was completely blown away. Why did I need to hold her phone?

  She raised up and fired single shots from the AK, the casings landing on me. There were at least twenty shell casings that spat out of that gun, and she came back down into cover. The return fire was still substantial, but not as much as it was.

  “Oh, I think that made them mad.” The phone rang with a standard tone. She looked crossly at the buzzing phone in my hands and snatched it up. “Yes?” A few more bursts came our way. She shoved the empty AK into my hand and motioned for a reload while she gripped up the one she had taken from me. “No, I said blue, and I mean blue. My son gave you the exact shade to use, and you will use it.” I inserted the magazine and pulled back the cocking lever. “Listen, I'm in the middle of some very intense negotiations,” she said as she raised up and fired the AK one-handed in several bursts, “and I really have no time to deal with this.” Another pair of bursts, another cry from downrange. “Now, you can either do exactly what I say, or I can come in person and negotiate.” She burned the rest of the magazine, probably to keep the enemies from trying to rush us. “Your choice.” When she dropped the empty AK, I handed her the full one. She nodded and mouthed her thanks as she fired again. “I'm so glad we can come to an understanding.”

  I was putting another magazine in as she spoke more with someone who had to be her tile-man. She never missed a beat as she cradled the phone to her shoulder and began to fire in short bursts. It was amazing. She was amazing.

  And then she handed me a small box with a blinking red button.

  “What?” I asked.

  She squeezed off two more bursts. To the phone, she said, “I know you weren't trying to be a bother, sweetie. Just make sure they're the right color blue, and everything will be just fine.” To me, she said “Going fully automatic. I start firing, count three and blow it.” I nodded. Back to the phone. “Just a moment, please.”

  She dropped the phone to the ground and began to fire. I looked out over the log, counted to three and hit the detonator. She hadn't led me wrong so far, and from the results, she had been quite busy.

  There was a string of huge explosions, first from the processing building, blowing the walls off and probably a few tens of millions of product into smoke, with the wooden supports and tables becoming so much flaming shrapnel. A gout of flame went in all directions, setting five men on fire and sending the rest tumbling.

  Then the other explosives she set went off in the armory. One thing about these drug makers, they had excellent weaponry, and it showed from the amount of ordnance that shattered the steel walls, the metal destroying everything and everyone within fifty meters. There was another firestorm, consuming anything and anyone that was left with no rancor, and no mercy. The both of us took cover as a mass of metal, bodies and fire went right over our heads. There were two more explosions, these most likely the trucks they had used to drive to the camp.

  We let the conflagration die down before surveying the damage. There was nothing left: no building, no vehicle, there was nothing that still stood. As we stood there, I heard her say into her phone, “Perhaps you didn't hear me. I said the fittings have to be chrome.” She listened some more, and I just sat on the log. “No, not brass. Chrome. It will look terrible with brass!” To me, she said, “I already had the extraction point moved, dear boy. It shouldn't be long.”

  I nodded. “Yes, ma'am.” I hesitated for a moment, then added, “Actually, Mrs. Statford, brass is supposed to look better with the blue you were looking at earlier.”

  Aveline Statford raised an eyebrow and said with a smile, “Well, well, Mr. Renton,” she said. “How would you like a job?”

  (back)

  Service With A Cold Smile

  It had been quite a long time since I had seen something as elegant as this.

  The target had gotten the message, that much was clear. She sat with a disregard I would find appetizing in other circumstances, but the stopping of her thoughts was not my goal that day. I had been hired by a very special client, and all I had been retained for was backup. It was not my preferred method of making a living, and beneath the master of assassins for the east coast of the United States, but ce le guerre.

  I studied my target with practiced care, my years of training and experience of reading and knowing targets better than they knew themselves. Usually when I got involved, it was a contract
that needed to be completed immediately. This had been my longest assignment yet, what with it lasting over a month. I had been on long waits before, but since my ascension it had been many years. My apprentices were usually given these assignments, the better to prepare them for the trials ahead, or to teach patience to those who needed it. An object lesson, so to speak.

  This time, however, was special, as was my client.

  The restaurant had been empty for forty-eight minutes, typical of the lull between the lunch and dinner rush, as it was called. I watched carefully, but the only one still there was the mannish-looking woman, blond hair cut in a bob that framed too sharp a face; pale skin that did not know the sun as well as it should; powerful legs, well-formed arms, broad shoulders. The clothes were something I expected to find in a consignment shop for women athletes. The shorts were too short, too tight. The shirt was loose and covered another, smaller, tighter shirt underneath. There was a small pack at the small of her back, which I knew carried a small pistol with two magazines of ammunition. It also contained a badge, which meant nothing to me. The weapon concerned me, as all firearms concerned me. In the hands of those who respected them, I did not worry about them. In the hands of fools such as my target, my concern was only allayed by the fact there were no other people in the restaurant who might be injured.

  I checked the clock. Two-thirty. The doors opened.

  She walked in, proud and without any kind of pretense. With no preamble, she sat at the table my target occupied. Even if I hadn't known my target, I could tell there was history between these two. The target, Samantha, her name was, had taken a very haughty sneering attitude the moment the other woman walked in. It was an old trick to establish dominance, and might have worked on nearly any woman and most men.

  The woman who walked in was not just any woman. She was un petit fille, smaller than me, and smaller than the target. Long dark black hair pulled back in a ponytail, tawny skin tastefully hidden by a simple polo shirt, slacks and fashionable but sensible shoes. Only one who paid attention to detail would see the slight limp in her right leg, and that was only because I knew what to look for. It was a reminder of her brush with death in the form of a maniac just a scant two months prior. That she was still breathing was a miracle in and of itself; that maniac had not planned on someone willing to take a beating to give her the chance to claim her revenge for being kidnapped. It was an impressive moment, or so I was told. Then, Detective Susana Magdalena Iglesias y Marquez was an impressive woman.

  Samantha greeted Susana with a raucous yell, calling her “Screaming Susy”. Completely appalling, and utterly classless. Of course, I had come to expect this from my target.

  I approached, my clothes carefully lived in for the past month, a bath three days past, the clean short hair I had carefully cultivated over several years gone these last four weeks in a mass of what some would call dreadlocks but I called merde. I reeked to myself, which was no surprise as I prefer a neutral scent, yet I was careful to remain not so disgusting to others, so as to not draw unneeded attention.

  In other words, I was just part of the scenery.

  What made things so easy was I had to say nothing. Though I could completely neutralize the accent of my home at a whim, I preferred to keep silent. I had no reason to speak in any case, as my target and the woman who walked in were already deeply in conversation. I could hear everything they said, even as Susana tried to keep her voice down. Being an assassin has its perks, non?

  “I really wish you wouldn't call me that.” Susana was keeping her voice down, even though the restaurant was empty. “It makes me feel dirty.” The shame in her voice was evident; She did not want to be here, but was doing what she thought was necessary. Admirable, but foolhardy. “I just want to know what happened that night.”

  As I placed the glasses of water within convenient reach, my hand lingered over Samantha's a bit, When I moved back to the kitchen to listen to the results, I pressed a button. I was sure I would not be disappointed by what I would see.

  “What, you're worried about your dickless boyfriend finding out you're talking to me?” Such a charming young lady. “It's not like he hasn't seen us together already.” Samantha took a long drink of her water, half the glass emptied. She leered at Susana, running her fingers along Susana's leg.

  “That's not nice,” Susana demurred, and I could tell from her voice she was uncomfortable. “You don't have to call him names.”

  “Come on, Susy,” Samantha said. “He walks in on us, freaks, and leaves just like a little bitch.” Her tone was one of dismissal. “He didn't even fight for you. Just turned and left you there. Tommy-boy acted like he had as much balls as I do.”

  Susana was hesitant in answering. “I know, but he didn't know what to do. He wasn't expecting to find you and me,” and the next part was very quiet, “together.”

  “The way he treated you, baby, he deserved what he got. Should have expected it earlier.” Samantha was very much someone to whom I wanted very bad things to happen very quickly. Her tone was very condescending, and her attitude was one that grated on my very being. “Besides, you didn't seem to be complaining too much. You didn't run after him when he left.”

  “I wasn't wearing any clothes!”

  “Oh how well I saw that,” my target leered. “I'm the one who took them off you.”

  Susana was mortified, as well she should have been. Had I any less control, I could have snapped Samantha's neck in less time it took to think. However, I had my instructions per the contract, and I had to follow them. I hoped it was worth it.

  “You took them off me? I don't remember that.”

  Samantha laughed, long and loud. “Hell, you were trashed that night. Three shots of tequila and you were anybody's.” Another laugh, so annoying that it was almost causing me to break my cover. Non, I would not give that filth the satisfaction. “Anybody's,” she repeated. “So I figured I'd take a turn with you, show you how a woman should be treated.”

  “I don't remember anything,” Susana said, her voice filled with uncertainty. “It's so hazy, like a dream.”

  “A dream for us both, sweetheart. Never had a Mexican before. You definitely set the bar high.”

  Susana drew back, then leaned forward. I was careful not to stare, nor even let myself be seen. “Really? You think so?”

  “I know so,” Samantha confirmed. “Best I had in a long time.” Mon dieu, I thought grade school boys were bad. “You musta not been getting serviced by the Dickless Detective that much. That much screamin... Thought your head was gonna explode.”

  I could not see Susana's face, hidden as it was by angles and her position, but I knew she could not have enjoyed such words. That Susana did not remove the head from this pute was either a testament to her willpower, or some other thing that dwelt within her. Regardless of what stayed her hand, I still wanted this over. The pute was near the end of my benevolence.

  “So why'd you call me here, Susy? I got things I gotta do, places I gotta go. You went back to that fucking eunuch, so what the fuck did you 'need' to talk to me for?”

  “We've been on the outs for a month now,” Susana said, with a sadness that ached my heart. My French romantic nature felt for her.

  “I heard about that. Dumb sonofabitch.”

  “He won't let it go that we did what we did. I thought we were okay after last year but,” and here her tears started, “he just wouldn't let me live it down.”

  Samantha sat back, and I could hear what others would not: satisfaction. “Well, ain't that some shit? So what should I care?”

  Susana rubbed her lips in a nervous gesture, and seemed to come to a decision. With a hesitant start, then with growing boldness she reached over and kissed Samantha fully and deeply. It was a good kiss, from what I saw, and I saw the effect it had as Samantha's hands went around Susana's waist and pulled her closer. It felt wrong to me, but I kept where I was, not letting myself be seen or even felt. People are more sensitive to be
ing watched than they think, and I kept myself very unfocused on either of them, instead putting my attention on the glass.

  The half-empty water glass.

  When they broke the embrace, both were flushed, and Samantha was breathing heavily while Susana was calm and collected. “Does that answer why you should care?”

  “Holy shit,” Samantha breathed. “Hell yeah, I care!”

  “So what happened that night? If I'm going to choose you over him, I want no secrets between us, comprende?”

  “For more of what you got, sure.” Samantha's speech was slightly slurred, but she did not seem to notice. She took another long sip of the water and put it down a bit rougher than I expected she normally would. “Well, you and that dumbass were having your trouble and I saw you at the bar.”

  Susana sat back in her chair, just out of reach. “You saw me?”

  “Yeah, you were waiting for him and he was running late. You told me that yourself.” Samantha made a feeble grasp for Susana and missed. “Anyway, he was late and you were lookin good. I figured I might as well take a chance on you.”

  “Even though you know I don't swing that way?”

  “Yeah, I always like a challenge, Susy. You should know that about me by now. Ain't a bitch I can't have!” Marie, Mere de Dieu, this would be interesting. “Even you, ya high and mighty spic twat!”

  As I said: charming.

  “Now is that any way to talk to me?” Susana cooed. “After all the sweet time we had together?” Susana ran the nails of her right hand down the pute's leg, gaining what could possibly have been a purr. “You should be nice and tell me what happened that night.”

  “Shit, it was easy,” Samantha said, her voice drunk on desire, among other things. “You were drinking some sissy bullshit. That Dos Equis crap, maybe. You were bitching and moaning like a little girl pining over some swinging private dick like out of the movies. Fucking pathetic.” The smirk Samantha had was something that, had any of my apprentices worn it would have gotten a solid clout to the head and any other punishment I could conjure. “So I went and got you another beer, since he hadn't made it there yet. Ashhole taking hish sweet time, keeping you waiting. I got you a beer.”

  “And then?” The two words had no tone, no inflection. Coming from Susana, they were like ice, but colder.

  A sly look came over my target's face. “Maybe I dropped a little something in it, something to loosen you up.” She laughed, then coughed, then laughed again. “It worked.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? No reason Shtatford should have all the fun with you, right?” She coughed again and took another sip of water, this one not so deep. “'Sides, I wanted you, and I get what I want, and you wanted me, you just didn't know it yet. I thought I'd give you a little bit of a push.”

  Susana's hands clenched into fists. “What kind of 'push'? Roofies? Ecstasy?”

  “A little bit of something I swiped from the evidence locker,” Samantha said casually. “It's amazing what they keep in there.” She tried leaning forward but could barely move. “I can take what I want because I have the key.”

  “How'd you get the key?” Susana asked.

  “That numb dickbag Smitty,” the pute chuckled. “Never noticed it missing for a couple of hours. He wouldn't have missed anything when I left him with his pants around his ankles. Gave him the best thirty seconds of his life.” A true lady, and she was a policewoman. I was sure the streets were safe when she was around. “I had the copy made and the passcode done before he woke up.”

  “That explains where you got the 'push',” Susana said, and she relaxed her hands. That was, to me, more telling of her anger than anything else. “What happened after the beer?”

  Samantha finally managed to sit up and lean on the table with her left arm. “Shit,” she slurred. “You slammed three shots of Patron, and a few vodka tonics. I told you not to mix your booze, but of course you wouldn't listen to the resident dyke, would you?” There was real hatred in the voice, and I would have been concerned had it not been for the flaccid nature of her muscles. The near-paralysis was temporary, but would not be outlasted by the loosening of the inhibitions. “No, you just kept drinking, even when your phone went off, you fuckin beaner.”

  Ignoring the slur, Susana asked, “Who called me, Samantha?”

  “Your limp boyfriend, honey, and he was all 'Oh, is Susy there? Tell her I'm on my way there!' so I decided it was now or never.” Samantha's face screwed up into a mixture of hate and defiance. “No fuckin way you were going to refuse me this time!”

  “And then?”

  “I told him you were on your way home after you hit the station, and it would be around midnight when you got home.” She was rambling, the special drink giving Samantha the 'gift of gab', as some Americans would call it. “He thanked me, the dumb fuck.”

  “You got me home.”

  “Yup.”

  “You took my clothes off.”

  “You know it,” and before Susana could say anything else, Samantha shouted, “and I fucked you from hell to breakfast and seven ways from Sunday, you stupid bitch! You were screamin and hollerin and I thought you was gonna lose your fuckin head! Damn, you can work it!”

  Susana was quiet; whether she was stunned by the outburst or she merely needed a moment to control herself. “So you drugged me and screwed me against my will.” The ten words fell like stones into clear calm water.

  They, and their severity, went unnoticed by the nearly-incoherent woman. “Naw, I didn't rape you, baby! I just gave you what you really needed.” I wondered how many times she had used that line, even after hearing it from the men she purported to hate. “Made sure that fucker saw you getting done like a fucking boss when he walked in. All that screaming you were doin, he came in with his gun out. Trying to be some big hero. What a crock of shit.”

  Susana stood up, and I knew this was her moment of full realization. She had all the pieces of that night, and it painted a picture that she feared, but knew must be true. “You set this all up. Why?”

  “I ain't used to being turned down, and not by some goody two-shoes Affirmative Action spic beaner bitch who thinks her shit don't stink.” Samantha seemed to be moving better. Not exactly good timing. “You think you're such hot shit, but you went down just like all the others. I worked too fucking hard to get where I am, greased too many palms, sucked too much dick, kissed too much ass, to let some wetback slut walk in and take it all from me.”

  “I wasn't taking anything from you!” Susana roared, finally tired of the game. “You tried to fuck up my life, you puta!” Susana's fists clenched again, her rage at last boiling over. “That man loves me, even after finding me in bed with you, and you did it just because you thought I was taking something from you? That makes no sense!”

  “Neither does you getting promoted so goddamn fast!” Samantha shot back. “I had to take you down a peg or three, and put you in your place.” The target stood up shakily, but not too shakily. “I been runnin that fuckin precinct for years my way, and you samba in and fuck it all up! I had everything!”

  “Y ahora te jodistes pendeja hija de puta!” And now you fucked yourself, stupid daughter of a bitch, my mind translated. Susana tossed the small recorder onto the table that had been hidden underneath where I left it. “You tried to destroy my life, just for fun. Now it's my turn. What's on this tape is going to fucking bury you, and there ain't shit you can do about it.” Susana was magnificent.

  Unfortunately, it was that moment when the drug's paralytic effects wore off completely, giving Samantha access to her faculties and her limbs. It also gave her the ability to reach behind her to grab her weapon. This would not do.

  Not at all.

  In three steps, I slipped behind her. My stiletto had already been slipped from its sheath behind my back and in two quick slices, the bag carrying her gun fell into my waiting free hand. I tossed the pack to Susana and, with a maneuver I had learned years before from Pere Sato, I flipped he
r heels over head a full turn and a quarter, and she landed flat on her back. Her breath left her in an explosive exhale, and she began to cough heavily, trying to get air back into her lungs. I straddled her chest and held my eversharp blade to her throat, my eyes catching hers.

  When the coughing tapered off, I smiled a cold smile, merely a twisting of my lips. “Excuse moi, madamemoiselle,” I said, always remembering my manners. “You very nearly made the last mistake of your life. Be thankful I was here to stop you. Now, if I hear anything of you being anywhere except in a prison cell, or I hear you giving this woman or anyone even remotely related to her any kind of grief, directly or indirectly, the very last thing that you will see will be this blade,” I indicated my stiletto, “removing your appendages one by one before, in a final act of mercy you could never show, I will stop your thoughts.” I was very careful to let her feel the cold of the steel against her throat. Though I would have happily slit her from ear to ear, the contract was not to kill her. It was to end her life.

  The subtlety was not lost upon me.

  “Speak not a word, pute. My patience with you is at an end. Only nod if you understand.” My target nodded, tears streaming from her eyes. Whether they were of anger, sadness, or embarrassment, I did not care. “Never let me know you exist again.”

  I walked out of the restaurant, tossing aside the ratty shirt, the dirty apron, the paper hat atop my soon-to-be-cleaned hair. The character of Lucas Castle, the nearly-mute dishwasher fell away like smoke in a whirlwind. As Luc, the leader of the assassins for the east coast of the United States, I slipped into my car and drove away, pushing away the memories of what I was, and anxiously anticipating a shower.

  “You were perfect,” my employer said with happiness.

  “Any less would be, how you say, unprofessional.” Inwardly, I was very pleased; praise was always welcome from an employer, even one as unconventional as this one.

  “You speak English better than I do, Luc. You know exactly how to say it.” An envelope was offered, and I held up my hand.

  “Non. I cannot accept this. It was a gift to a good friend.”

  My guest paused a moment, then put the envelope away and turned to leave. “If you say so. Thank you.”

  “It is I who should thank you.” That brought my guest to a halt. “You have brought back happiness to him, Susana. Merci.”

  “I have a lot to make up for.” She smiled and said, “I was---”

  “Never here, and he will never know, I swear on the honor of my guild. Bon?”

  “Oui.”

  I made a face. “Stick to Spanish, sil vous plait. Your accent is not that good.”

  Susana laughed, and I could see why Thomas loved her. It could have been no one else but her. “Okay, Luc. Thanks again for helping me serve up a little revenge.”

  “The pleasure, as always, is mine.”

  (back)

  Sidebar Interlude

  I love my brother. I really do.

  It's the only reason I'm not killing him right now.

  “Yes, I understand that Mr. Statford was present at the fire. That doesn't mean he had anything to do with starting it.” I listened to the man on the other end of the phone for about three minutes as he meandered through four different versions of what happened at the warehouse before I jumped in. “Do you have any real proof? Anything at all besides the ramblings of three accused murderers who were,” I checked the notes, “stoned to the gills on a hallucinogen?” Another ten seconds of stammering. “That's what I thought. You try bringing any of that to court, and I'll have your license on my wall and you in jail for wasting the court's time and impersonating a lawyer and possibly a human being. Are we clear?” I hung up, not waiting for the answer. Forty-seven minutes was enough with that slime.

  It had already been a long day in my office, and that was the third call about my private detective brother in the last two hours. Though I was glad he kept me on retainer, I wondered if he knew just how much trouble I kept him out of. I had always thought it was the other way around, but he was family, and he never really did anything technically illegal, and it really was fun sometimes ripping apart some big time corporate attorney with a few well-placed precedents.

  Leaning back in my chair, I closed my eyes, letting the oak-paneled walls, the desk that sometimes was clear of work but was usually elbow-deep, the certificates of appreciation and my degrees from college and law school with my maiden name, Jennifer Statford, just disappear so I could relax for just one moment.

  The peace was shattered within seconds as the phone rang. My eyes snapped open, and I let it ring, taking in a picture of my kids I kept near the phone so I wouldn't eviscerate the poor idiot who was calling me right off the bat. The picture was a shot from our picnic last fall, just after Tommy and Susy got back together. My daughter was the oldest and had inherited my husband's lighter-brown hair while getting my dark eyes and somehow mixing our smiles into something that got more adorable every time I saw her. She was wearing the shirt Tommy had gotten for her, proclaiming her a self-rescuing princess. Hanna was my daughter, but she was her uncle's niece through and through.

  Screw it. I have voice mail. I could call them back.

  My heart as always ached when I saw little Jacob. He was three in the picture, and he was still very small. His hair was darker, but his eyes were light, and he had the same smile as his sister. So very small, but full of life as Hanna posed with him, his arm around her neck. The necklaces they wore mirrored each other.

  Fourth ring coming up, then off to somewhere I didn't have to listen to it for awhile.

  The pregnancy hadn't been easy, and he had been premature by almost eight weeks. I remembered how tiny he was, how frail, when I saw him in the nursery. He didn't cry. He couldn't cry because his lungs weren't developed enough. The doctors had given him one chance in two million that he'd survive, and I only got that information after I had threatened to sue them into bankruptcy.

  The phone stopped ringing.

  Jacob had been in an intensive care unit for nearly three weeks, not getting worse but not getting better, either. My mother had been with me the entire time, and my husband Arthur Gage had spent days looking for some other doctors who might give us a bit more help to save my baby. They couldn't even tell us what was wrong, what was causing him to just not grow stronger as he got older. All they could do is tell me if he didn't get better soon, his body wouldn't be able to sustain itself as it grew. My baby boy would die, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  Hanna and Jacob, such a pair of jokers. Where one was, the other wasn't far behind. Hanna was fiercely protective of Jacob, as any big sister should be to her baby brother. His piping voice was always laughing as Hanna would joke with him, and she was always careful to include him in playtime. She kept him safe and he kept her smiling with his own laughter. They were so much my heart, and I didn't know what I would do without them, and I never wanted to know.

  At the end of the third week, the doctors had said there was nothing else they could do, and that my Jacob was going to die. They were blunt with me because I had begged them not to give me false hope, and my husband, being a trial lawyer himself, had badgered the doctors for treatments, experimental or otherwise. They had nothing, and knew nothing, and my baby was going to die.

  Looking at him in the picture and remembering him hooked up to the respirator that was helping him breathe, it was almost like two different children. I had hated seeing him like that, and knowing I couldn't do anything to help him. So helpless and defenseless, I broke down and cried the day I was told that he had less than a week to live. I cried for hours, trying to figure out just what I had done that was so bad that I couldn't have two beautiful children, and why one had to die before his life was even fairly begun. I was glued to the window as the nurses changed his diapers and his linens and everything else, and I cried because that was my job. That was my baby, and I couldn't touch him.

  The phone rang aga
in. Four rings, then voicemail. I wasn't ready yet for another round of idiocy.

  My eyes closed again and I remembered Tommy coming to me, his own eyes red from tears. I almost snapped at him that this wasn't his child, but that was just anger and he had been watching Hanna while we were in the hospital. He took me to one side and asked me if I could watch Hanna for a couple of days. When I asked him why, he became guarded and told me someone named Larry had an idea, and it would be dangerous. He told me it was better I didn't know exactly what he was doing, but if he was right, it could help save Jacob.

  I didn't even think about it. I said yes.

  The picture of Hanna and Jacob was one of those high-definition glossy ones, where every detail jumps out at you, every twinkle of the eye, every emotion of the face, every wrinkle on a t-shirt, every grass stain on jeans. Their smiles were so full of life, and the camera had caught them both in mid-laugh, Jacob holding half a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, Hanna with a salami and cheese sandwich. She was half again as big as her brother, and the way she doted on him, even at the age of five, showed how full of love she was.

  Tommy just disappeared for two days. I heard nothing from him, and his voicemail filled up the first day. I was getting worried; as if I needed more to worry about, my brother had gone missing trying to help my son. I was going to lose them both, and I hadn't even thought about going with him. I couldn't stand the idea of not being there for Jacob, just in case.

  For Mother's Day, Hanna and Jacob had made me a card. It stood in pride of place on my desk, and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever been given. “To the best Mommy in the whole wide world,” it said in sparkles and glue and stickers and stars. “We love you.” That's the word that always brings the tears close: “we”. I almost didn't have a “we”.

  Tommy showed up and he looked terrible. The coat he wore was torn in several places, and looked to have actually been on fire. There was a scratch down his left cheek, and it looked like he was shaping up for a black right eye. He moved with a limp, and his pants had dried blood on them. The small velvet pouch in his hand trembled a bit as he made his way to me. I hadn't moved from the window since I had woken up fourteen hours prior. Arthur was with me, and had been holding me while we watched the machine no longer breathe for Jacob as it was removed. We both had cried until we thought there could be no more tears, and then we cried some more.

  And here was my brother, looking like someone had run him through a meat grinder, and he was smiling.

  “Let me go in there,” he said. “I can fix this.”

  Arthur stood first and just said no. Jacob was already delicate and there was still a chance he could pull through, he said. If Tommy went in there, it would make things worse. Arthur was trying to be reasonable, but there was nothing in his words that were any more than knowing he was losing his son. Tommy just stood there, favoring one leg but not saying a word as Arthur put together one of the best arguments for going into our son's room. He had argued before the Supreme Court before and won; this would be no contest. My brother wasn't a Supreme Court justice. He was just some gumshoe who talked to himself and got caught up in messes I would always get him out of.

  I stood also, and was about to echo Arthur's words when I saw Tommy's eyes.

  His eyes were like both Jacob's and Hanna's eyes. Expressive and full of life. There was something else, though: confidence. Tommy knew what he was doing, and he knew this would work. I had seen looks like that before, usually on Arthur as he was getting ready for closing arguments, and always on me when I was dealing with some slimy corporate scum who gave attorneys a bad name. It was the look of someone who, even if you said no, would do it anyway, because they were not just right, but Right.

  When Tommy smiled a crooked smile at me, I couldn't say no. I put my hand on Arthur's arm to get his attention. When he looked at me, I smiled and nodded. Arthur started to say something, then stopped talking and acknowledged defeat. Tommy put his hand on Arthur's shoulder and pulled him close in a hug, which brought me close as well. I heard Tommy whisper something to Arthur, who nodded sharply several times. To me, my brother said, “Keep the nurses off me until I finish, and we'll get Jacob good as new. Cool?” He could have asked me to capture the sun and moon for a chance to save my boy, I would have done it.

  The nurses tried stopping him as soon as he walked in, hissing that he was filthy, that he needed to be dressed properly, that he couldn't bring anything in with him. Tommy didn't say a word as he pushed right past the two duty nurses, the velvet pouch jingling in his hand. He said something to one of them to the effect that if some ancient demon stabbing him couldn't stop him, she didn't have a prayer. When her partner put her hand on his shoulder to stop him, Tommy spun out of her grasp. “Touch me again, lady, and they'll be picking your teeth up off the floor. That's my nephew.” I had never heard him so serious, and I knew he meant it. Arthur took her to one side, his hands on her upper arms. I did my part by echoing my brother's sentiments to the other one. The nurse outweighed me by twenty pounds, but I was a mother, and there was no way I was going to screw up the one chance Jacob had.

  Tommy got to the little bed they had for Jacob and stopped. He looked like he was listening to something. “You're sure?” he asked no one. “Latin?” He pulled the pouch open and pulled out a small necklace with a charm on it. It looked something like an eye. It couldn't have been bigger than a bottlecap, but it looked made of gold and had the smallest pearl I had ever seen in the center of it. “Shouldn't it be Egyptian?” Tommy said as he set the pouch down on a tray and opened Jacob's incubator. “Gods, Larry, if this is wrong...”

  He reached in gently, to the hew and cry of the nurses. They were trying to get to the nearest call button to bring in a doctor, security, or both. I wasn't about to let anyone mess this up, so I took a nearby bedpan and smashed it down onto the call button. It shattered into a hundred plastic pieces, the cable now dangling uselessly. The implied meaning was very clear. “Larry,” I said, and I could feel the tears starting again. “Please save my son.”

  My brother looked at me, then looked to his left. “You heard the lady. Let's do it.” With a gentleness I had never seen before in my brother, he placed the necklace around Jacob's neck. I didn't know how he did it, but it was a perfect fit. From where I stood, my weapon in hand, I saw the winking of gold against my son's pale skin. Tommy pulled another necklace from the pouch, identical to the first one except it had a ruby no bigger than the tip of my little finger in place of the pearl. He held it above Jacob, who was starting to cough.

  “Rock and roll,” Tommy whispered. Then he spoke in a deep melodic chant, and I watched a warm golden light flow from the ruby to the pearl and back again.

  “Horus, salutem dare ad hoc puer.

  Tuum oculus vigilate super eum.

  Protegam vestra nota mali.

  Exaudi cordis placitum,

  Hoc pueri vita

  Ut semper amor.”

  He said the chant again, the volume rising on each word until he was shouting it. Wind started to blow, sending papers flying into the air, different pieces of medical equipment falling to the floor and cracked and shattered. It was like a tornado as the nurses were thrown into us and we were all four driven back against and away from the crib.

  It was completely still around my brother and my son. Tommy held his left hand up to the roof while dangling the ruby amulet over Jacob. His head was thrown back as he screamed the words again, tears pouring down his face. Whether from pain or something else, he was crying, but his voice was strong, even above the wind shrieking, and he finished the chant. On the last word, there was a huge flash of light from the ruby and a clap of thunder. Tommy flew back off his feet into the viewing window, cracking it into a spiderweb of glass. He crumpled to the floor in a heap.

  The wind gone, I ran to my brother, trying to see if he was okay, or even breathing. Arthur came with me, the nurses behind us. I knelt down beside my brother, afraid to touch
him since he now had a head wound that was bleeding. He looked like he was breathing, and the blood flowed into his shirt collar. His right hand still held the necklace; somehow he had kept hold of it after being thrown ten feet.

  I touched his face, trying to get a response. There was none. I said his name, barely a whisper the first time, then again louder. Nothing. My brother had tried to save my son, and now he was probably dying in front of me and all I could do was kneel down next to him and do nothing to help.

  That was when I heard a small cry from behind me. I turned around, as did Arthur. It came from Jacob's crib.

  Jacob raised his small hands, so thin, so fragile, and he started to cry, long and loud. I stumbled and fumbled and ran ten feet that seemed like ten miles. The crib was wide open and I gripped the side, looking down on my baby.

  He had kicked his blanket away, his legs moving in time with his cries, and they were healthy cries. So very loud and healthy. His little arms waved, and he looked so mad with his face crying. I cried right along with Jacob, and gently touched his hand. He gripped my finger with surprising strength and I let him shake my hand as he caught up on his crying.

  Arthur put his arm around me and we watched our son give a belated but welcome introduction of himself to the world.

  The nurses were beside themselves, completely flabbergasted. One of them checked Jacob's vital signs while the other left to bring a doctor. I heard a grunting from my brother, and the nurse's eyes went wide. She put down the thermometer and went to Tommy, grabbing up a bandage. He pushed past her and said to me, “Is he okay?” When I nodded, Tommy began weeping. “Cool,” he smiled through the tears. “Give this to Hanna,” he said, handing me the necklace with the ruby. “Don't let them take that necklace off him.” I asked him what these necklaces were, he answered, “The Eyes of Horus, a gift from someone who owed me big time.” Tommy pointed at the ruby, “This is the sun,” then pointed at the pearl, “and that's the moon. They'll protect them.” He breathed in deeply, then exhaled, saying five final words with a beatific smile.

  “He's going to be fine.”

  And then he passed out.

  Over three years later, and Jacob had gotten so much better. He was walking and running like kids his age, and though still smaller than the norm, he was strong. Jacob was my bouncing baby boy, and I never let anyone take the Eye of Horus off. Hanna loved the necklace, especially when I told her who gave it to her. She never took it off, even when swimming. The necklaces never interfered with anything, and always seemed the perfect length to not get in the way.

  The doctors didn't know what to say or do other than beg me not to sue them for giving up on my son and removing the respirator. I offered that I wouldn't if they forgave any damages that might have happened in that room. They accepted without question.

  Tommy was treated and released the same day, the cut on his head stitched, the three stab wounds disinfected and closed, and the bruised ribs bandaged. He refused to stay any more than he had to, but he at least allowed Susy to drive him home after getting dosed with Demerol. Tommy always was hard-headed.

  My cell phone rang, and I saw my brother's name. I answered it, a bit softer than I probably would have had I not been reminiscing. “Jennifer Gage, attorney-at-law and saver of your ass.”

  Tommy laughed. “Ah, Counselor, I tried calling your office phone. You must have just gotten off the phone with Morris Haverman.”

  “Yeah, I did. Tell me the truth: Did you set that warehouse on fire?”

  “Would you believe they had already set the fire, and I happened to accidentally kick a plastic can of gas into it?”

  A smile tweaked my lips. “No.”

  “Oh. Well, how about on purpose?”

  “That I can believe.” I laughed in spite of myself.

  “Hey, they were shooting at me,” he said. “Said I was some great destroyer. Stoned off mescaline, they were.” I could hear him shrug and completely forget that he had helped destroy a million dollars of merchandise in a warehouse. “So how are my favorite niece and nephew?”

  I love my brother.

  (back)

  Shadows of Doubt

  Oh, Thomas.

  I often wonder if you know how long I have seen this world, and how much of it I have seen, and how much of what I would tell you that you would believe. So many years, so many lifetimes, so many triumphs and tragedies. So many questions.

  I have seen them all.

  I do not remember what I was before, if I was anything before. Did I really have a body? Was my hair always so luxuriously blond? I do not know, nor do I care. My earliest memory is of a single question. Anything before that is nothing, a blank that I know will never be filled. All I had was that one question pounding into my form as I sprang from nothingness, and it is a simple question, but one that I did not understand. Not at first.

  I wondered how many before me had answered that question wrongly.

  The first Keeper. Even after sixty centuries, I still remember the first mortal to wear the mantle. He was brave, and true, though not the deepest thinker. I did my best to help him fulfill his destiny, at least when he would listen to me. Perhaps his destiny was to help me be a better guide? With thousands of years on which to look back, I find it both exciting and frightening that I have not thought of such a thing before. It shows that, even with my age, I still have much to learn.

  As do you.

  I never told you of the first Keeper, and how lost his life in battle against a terrible foe. He fought bravely, but he truly never had a chance. A pity, I assure you. As the life left him, he held out a hand to me, and I reached to grab it. We touched, for the first time in however many seasons we had known one other, and I knew he was not long for the world. He beat the one he faced, but died regardless. It is only across this gulf of years that I do not weep, for even spirits may shed tears of sadness.

  As I will one day soon.

  The second Keeper was much more interesting, and I, still a newborn spirit, not knowing any better, accompanied a young man in exile. A wanderer, marked by a wrathful deity, a murderer. The mantle goes where it will, and it went to this man. I learned much from him, possibly the wrong things, as it turned out, but I watched him closely. He made me realize the difference between good people doing evil things out of necessity, and that all actions, no matter the aim, have consequences. Rarely would such results show immediately, but there are always results, for good or ill.

  I never wanted anything to happen. Nothing like this.

  After the wanderer founded his city and cast off the mantle, I was attached to one Keeper after another, watching them go by like snowflakes in a storm. Sometime during that millennium, I barely cared about those I was assigned, for I knew each would fall in likely a horrific way. Some retired the mantle, proving to themselves one thing or another; I cared not, as they were like guttering tapers in a whirlwind. Others threw themselves into their work, trying to be more than mortal, trying to compete with the gods who kept bickering like children, trying to keep them from tearing reality apart for no better reason than sheer ennui, all to make sure that this tiny corner of the universe would still be around the next day.

  Does that sound familiar, Thomas?

  Life after life. Place after place. Civilization after civilization. It all became the same. Whether it was the lyrical songs of those original settlers of the Fertile Crescent or the enigmatic Dreamwalkers of the island continent of Australia, for those thousand years it was all the same. There was nothing in that time that I can honestly remember in particular other than I was a spirit who wanted to die, because I had nothing left for which to live. That I could not die only added to my torment, which made me care less and less. A life of lifelessness, very much what the children of the time would call “emo”.

  I needed something to bring me back.

  She was my first woman Keeper. It was in what is now Egypt, and she was glorious. There could be no other word to describe her. Th
e first Queen of the Nile, an inspiration to her descendant Cleopatra, Hatshepsut was the greatest queen, wise, brave, canny and beautiful. Gods, she was beautiful, Thomas, as if the gods had formed her from the stuff of Creation. Spirits can fall in love; I am proof. She said that Amun-Ra had called her pharaoh, and she was right. We met on the last weeks of her reign, her nephew set to take the throne.

  You always were a romantic, Thomas; that is why you would appreciate this.

  She asked me if the gods had sent me. I said yes. She asked if I had a purpose for her. Again, I said yes. When she asked if she would likely die in service to her gods, I could not help but stifle a sob and say yes. She was so open to me, Thomas; her heart was on her sleeve. This woman who, to stifle her critics because of her gender, wore a beard and dressed as a king, told me she was willing to die for the greater glory of the gods. Such naivete in royalty, even in those ancient times when the Pyramid of Khufu had stayed strong in the face of eleven centuries of wind and sand and sun.

  What would you do with those ebony eyes looking at you, through you, and ask if they're doing the right thing? What could you do?

  I told her I would protect her as I could, but she was not serving the gods. She would, in fact, serve humanity, protect it from those who wished it harm. She actually smiled then, and I would have gladly given my soul to have her smile be only for me. When she said that such had always been her way, my heart soared. This was someone who actually understood what it meant to be the Keeper of the Conclave: to serve humanity, no matter the cost, in the face of incredible odds. Not because she had to serve, but because she wanted to serve. My interest in life, humanity, the world around me returned, and I was only too glad to serve her. We made our plans and disappeared after her nephew became pharaoh.

  She was one of the few who died in her bed. A blessing for her.

  Was I in love with her? Yes, and I believe I still am. Three thousand years is a long time to love someone, Thomas. I held her as she breathed her last, her frail form bowed but never beaten by age. Her body was light, lighter even that I am. When she passed from the mortal coil, I felt her pass through me. It was light, it was life, it was happiness, something I had missed for so long. Even as she died, even as her soul would cross into the realm of Anubis to whatever reward awaited her, she served one final time by imparting what she truly felt for the world to me. She showed me heart and soul above anything I had ever seen in the strongest men, and it was beautiful. She was beautiful.

  Life is beautiful.

  As time went on, Thomas, I kept that love in mind, in heart, in soul. I kept my charges safer, I cared more, I felt more. When a young Aztec became the Keeper, I led him through the lands to a place he would not be turned into a sacrifice, at least not for the priests. A Centurion from Rome, believing me to be an avatar of Mercury, traveling the world to protect it from itself. He never suspected I directed him away from Britannia to save not just his life, but a young boy from certain death at the hands of a dark cult. It was all so that boy would become the ancestor of an explorer.

  Indeed, everything connects into one flow, one pattern, and we are the weaver and the woven.

  A few centuries later, more exploits. It was with a very good bearded playwright that I could finally get some of the stories out of times past. Even with his penchant for anachronism, he got the point across quite well. His words would outlive him, I knew, and his thoughts would always be considered the greatest to grace the page and the stage. Centuries would be spent trying to decipher who gave him the words, the inspiration, and no one would guess it was a spirit gifted to him.

  I wonder if he would have written had he known what I was meant to do. What I was commanded to do.

  Thoughts of the times gone fill me more and more as the years go on. So many different lives, so many shadows of doubt in my soul. I never forget the love I was shown, but I know now I cannot be sure if my queen meant to do that, or if she was commanded to do that. We who are called free spirits are rarely one and never both. Perhaps she served others without knowing it, perhaps not. I know all whom I serve, most gladly. Others, however, I serve because I must.

  A puppet who sees the strings is still a puppet, and he may never cut the strings, lest he become a broken toy, and a broken toy is always thrown away and replaced.

  Even now, so many thousands of years later, I see the path that started with a single question. I see how it twists and turns and carries and ferries those in my care to their inevitable ends. I see where this question has forced me into places I do not want my soul to go, yet I continued anyway. I would not cut the strings, so I could give myself the illusion that I was fighting from within, that I was going to change things, that this time the end would not be because of me, just as it always had been.

  Each time, I would be wrong. Over and over I would be wrong.

  The Keeper before you was a good man. He was brave like all the others, wise like most of the others, strong like some of the others. Unlike all the others, however, he asked me one question, one I should have expected to be asked, the law of averages being what it is. With that one answer, he discovered that which I had had hidden from all, even my Queen. She never knew why I had been attached to her; even I did not know, not then. Not until he had asked me one little thing. It was not the same as that first question; had it been that, I would likely have been rendered to ethereal nothingness.

  He asked me why I was there, and I could not lie, so I answered him fully and truthfully.

  That Keeper shot himself, Thomas. He did not blame me for it, but he said he could not stand to live his life if it were not his. He smiled at me as he put the gun in his mouth just after telling me he did not blame me. I pondered telling him that what he was doing was preordained, that he was nothing more than a placeholder, a stepping stone on a six-thousand-year trail.

  To you, Thomas.

  You will never read these words, Thomas, but if you did, I believe you would understand them. You would know it was not my choice for what happened to you, to what will happen to you. You might possibly even believe me if I told you I had no control over these events.

  That first question still haunts me. Who do I serve?

  You will not forgive me; I know that fully well. When your rage and anger and hatred blot out all reason, I expect that you will not accept anything I have to say. That is not for now, though, Thomas, and I am glad we still have this time together. Before I forget to do so, allow me this one chance.

  I am sorry, Thomas, for what must be done to you, and I am sorry for my part in it.

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