Any Minute Now (39 page)

“You don't have to say anything,” St. Vincent snapped. “Recall you don't have an opinion.”

Silence on the line. St. Vincent didn't care. The pain in his shoulder was nothing compared to the roiling in his heart. From the moment that shit-for-brains White had told him Lindstrom had been killed an icy fist had gripped his intestines, causing an existential pain indescribable to anyone else. There were three things in life he despised above all others: losing, being wrong, and Preach. Of course, White was aware of his fear of Preach, which was why St. Vincent was sure he had reveled in their conversation. He might pretend to be the neutral bulwark in the Alchemists, but in the matter of Mobius and Preach, St. Vincent knew precisely where White stood. He did not relish the thought of he and White being adversaries, but shit happened, didn't it? He'd have to adjust to the changed landscape, figure out a way around White—or through him.

“Sir?”

Dickerson's voice in his ear was like a woodpecker attached to the side of his head. “Who?” he said. “Who initiated the jacket on me?”

“Someone named Orrin Jameson.”

St. Vincent took up a dog, bit into it, and chewed. “Who is he?” he said around the food.

“A drone, so far as our contact knows. Odd thing, that. According to our contact Jameson is about the last person to initiate an unofficial jacket on anyone.”

St. Vincent washed the dog down with a large swig of Coke. “Someone must have given him orders.”

“It would seem so.”

“Who, Dickerson?” St. Vincent took another bite of dog, but he'd bit off more than he could chew, and he almost choked. He coughed, let his anger at himself shift to his assistant. “For fuck's sake, don't drag this out.”

“Our contact swears it's no one within the AG's office.”

“Well, that makes no sense. The AG's people are immune to outside influence. Unless…”

“Unless what, boss?”

“What do we know about Orrin Jameson, other than he's a drone in the AG's office?”

“Hold on a minute.”

There was a pause. St. Vincent pondered taking another painkiller, then decided against it. He took another bite of the chili dog, savoring the river of flavors.

“Okay, here we go,” Dickerson said. “Well, sorry, boss, there's not much. This guy's something of a boy scout. In fact, he
was
a Boy Scout.” Dickerson chuckled, but when he heard no answering sound at the other end of the line he sobered up. “Guy's divorced some time now. I mean, that's it. He's so squeaky clean it's downright disgusting.”

And yet there must be something. St. Vincent closed his eyes. What was he missing? “Who was he married to?” It was a shot in the dark, but he had nowhere else to go. Plus, it paid to be thorough.

“A woman by the name of Bridget. Bridget Regan.”

St. Vincent's eyes popped open. “Spell Regan.”

“R-e-g-a-n. Why?”

“Bridget have a sister, by any chance?”

“As a matter of fact, she does.”

“Her name Julie?”

“Jesus, boss,” Dickerson said, “sometimes you just amaze the shit out of me.”

 

44

Home, Charlie thought, as she sat in the Alchemists' jet, thirty-five thousand feet above the ocean. What does home really mean to me? Fire and ice, and everything nasty. Betrayal, rage, death. And blood everywhere, a skating rink of blood.

Charlie looked over to where Whitman sat across the aisle from her. His eyes were closed, his head against the seat rest. She got up and moved next to him.

“Charlie,” he said softly without opening his eyes.

“What will happen when we land?”

“That's up to the Alchemists.”

“You mean you'll let them get the upper hand?”

His eyes opened, his head turned, and his eyes engaged with hers. “What do you think?”

“Mysterious as ever.”

“It's what you love most about me, isn't it?”

She barked a soft laugh, then grew silent for some time.

At length, he said, “That night.”

“What night?”

“The night you struck me. The night of the severing.”

“Is that how you think of it—a severing?”

“I do now.”

“Whit, when I hit you … It was pure instinct.”

“That's what made it so terrible.”

She watched him out of the corner of her eye, as if she were unsure whether to face him fully. “Everything we did then was driven by instinct.”

“We were children—at least with each other.”

She took her time digesting this idea. “We didn't know any better.” Now she turned to him. “Do we now?”

“I think you know the answer to that question.”

“It would be refreshing to hear you say it.”

A small silence settled over them, like a blanket.

*   *   *

After a time, she stirred. She might have shrugged or the tiny movement might have been something else altogether. Either way, she drew infinitesimally closer to him. “I'm tired, Whit,” she said quietly. “I'm tired of hiding, of running. Most especially, I'm tired of … The hate I've held on to has curdled my heart.”

He searched her face. “It was as if you were afraid to let go, afraid you'd lose the hatred.”

“That's because…” she swallowed hard. “Because, you know, I think it came to define me. Because after I was … without you, it's all I had left of you and me.”

He reached out. “I'm sorry … about everything.” His hand covered hers. “Especially roping you into Red Rover.”

Her dark laugh was infused with infinite sadness. “Red Rover's been the least of it.” She looked down at their hands, one atop the other. “Whit, there's something I want … something I need to tell you. It's about what happened to me a long time ago.”

“You don't have to, Charlie.”

“Don't,” she said. “Don't keep protecting me. Just let me talk.”

Afterward, she counted the silence in heartbeats rather than seconds. She had not told the story of her Time Out Of Mind since she had confessed it to the Elf Lord. That was years ago, when she was right out of juvie prison and the wounds were still raw and bleeding. But now she went a step further.

“I learned to fight in juvie,” she said now, almost in a whisper. “‘Fight or die' was the watch-phrase in that place. It was supposed to be humane in there because we were, you know, kids, but actually it was a hellhole. The population was divided into tribes. That's SOP in prison, but the two most powerful leaders were sworn enemies. They would've torn each other apart if the guards had let them, but that wouldn't have been any fun. So we had endless running battles, full-scale guerrilla warfare.”

“And you were caught up in it.”

Charlie looked him full in the face. “I was one of the two leaders.” Reacting to his look, she produced a wan smile. “I told you it was ‘fight or die.' I was rageful beyond words. Looking back, I suppose I wanted to kill myself as much as I wanted to kill everyone around me.”

“What happened?” Whitman said.

“Time passed. I grew up.”

“And the power struggle?”

“Power in prison is like sand running through your fingers. It's as fleeting as fame—in other words, useless. That's the second lesson I learned inside.”

Whitman considered a moment. “I wish you had told me sooner.”

“Why?”

“I could have—”

“You couldn't have done anything, Whit, believe me. And the last thing I needed was your pity.”

“I wouldn't have pitied you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don't pity you now, Charlie. I just know you better.”

A shadow of a smile passed across her lips. “A good deal better now than I know you.”

He regarded her levelly. “Are you sure you want to go down that road?”

Slipping her hand from under his, she took his arm, turned it so the tattoo of the dragon was visible. “The dragon,” she said. “What's in its mouth?”

“It's the alchemical sigil for sulfur.”

“Why is it in the dragon's mouth?”

“That,” he said, “is a long story.”

She glanced at her watch. “We still have over seven hours flying time. Is that long enough?”

*   *   *

“I think I have what you want,” Orrin said, his face flushed with triumph as he came through the apartment door.

Julie looked up from the chopping board where she was dicing tomatoes and mincing cilantro. She had gone food shopping, needing to ground herself in some form of normalcy before she lost her mind. Making a meal was the best way for her to feel as if she was in control of her life. The tomato stains on her blouse were testament to her immersion in the activity.

“That's great news.” She wiped her hands on a paper towel and picked up the file he laid down on the kitchen counter. Opening the folder, she scanned the pages inside. “You didn't have any trouble finding this information?”

“Some.” He grinned. “But nothing I couldn't handle.”

She glanced up. “No one knows about your digging around?”

“No one at all.” He took off his jacket, loosened his tie. “Don't worry. I was careful with every search I made. I left no ISP fingerprints. The AG's office has its ways.”

“So does NSA,” she said.

“And I'm aware of all of NSA's ungodly methods. That's how I make my living, remember?”

She put the file down for the moment. “Make yourself a drink. I'm going to change my shirt.”

She went into Orrin's bedroom closet, where she had tossed the shopping bags of clothes she had bought earlier in the day. She pulled out a cap-sleeve shirt and started to pull it on. As she did so, one of her arms brushed against a line of his shirts and trousers all hung up neatly, arrayed like soldiers. That's when she saw the niche behind his clothes. Pushing them aside, she found herself looking at a line of homemade DVDs in clear plastic cases. She slipped one out. “HEIDI” she read, along with a date. Her heart rate abruptly elevated, she checked out others. Each one was labeled with a female name and a date. At least half of them predated Orrin's divorce from Bridget. A sickness rose in her gorge.

She took one of the DVDs from its case, slipped it into the DVD player. Turning on the TV, she navigated to the correct input. Thirty seconds of watching Orrin thrashing around naked with “NOREEN” was enough to assure her that she had been dead wrong to take Orrin's side in the divorce. The intense sibling rivalry she and Bridget had endured all their lives had blinded her to the truth. How could she have been so wrong about Orrin? The shmoo had turned into a weasel right before her eyes.

“Julie?”

She started at the sound of his voice, rose quickly from the edge of the bed, extracted the DVD, slid it back into its case, and replaced it in the closet. She switched the input back to TV seconds before Orrin came into the bedroom, a stemmed glass of red wine in one hand.

“What were you doing in here so long?”

“Just checking the news for, you know…”

“You've got to stop obsessing over the incident.”

That's what Orrin had taken to calling Sydny's murder. It so trivialized her death it made Julie want to slap him. And now that she knew who and what he really was, she had far more incentive to.

Instead, she smiled at him, switched off the TV. “You're right,” she said. “Of course you're right.” She almost retched, pecking him on the cheek as she passed him.

He was right behind her as she went down the hallway and into the living room, where a man was standing, legs slightly spread, muscles tense as a pulled bow-string. He was dressed in black, unshaven, with the coarse features of a thug.

“Who the hell are you?” Orrin said. He seemed rooted to a spot behind and just to the left of Julie. “How did you get in here?” He turned on Julie. “Did you forget to lock the door?”

“You came home after me, Orrin.” Julie did not take her eyes off the intruder. There could only be one reason he was here. But how on earth had Luther St. Vincent found out about Orrin's electronic investigation? “
I'm aware of all of NSA's ungodly methods
,” he had said. Clearly not.

Orrin had his hands up. “I don't know what you want, but take anything. Just leave us in peace.”

The intruder went over to the kitchen countertop, briefly paged through the file on Luther St. Vincent.

“Oh, god.” Now Orrin got it. His gaze was fixed on the file, which, Julie now realized, he never should have taken out of the office. It would mean his job, his career. He'd be finished in the public sector—doubtless the private one, as well.

But Julie was looking where she should be looking—in the intruder's eyes—and she saw the twitching of his face when it should have been still, the rolling of his eyes when they should have been focused on either the file or on Orrin. She moved just before he did, and was on him as he drew his weapon, a snub-nose Glock revolver. He pushed her roughly aside, against the kitchen counter, but she came back at him as he leveled his gun at Orrin, who turned and ran down the hallway. The intruder grabbed her throat, squeezing with unholy strength.

Julie gasped, brought her knee up hard into his groin, then, as he grunted, pitching his torso slightly forward in reflex, she clawed at his face. This caused an astonishing chain of events that happened so quickly they seemed to occur all at once. The intruder let her go, dropped his revolver, and fell to his knees. Now his facial muscles seemed to be spasming wildly, his eyes opened so wide they showed the whites all around. He began to claw at his face, just as she had done, but more deeply. His nails dug beneath the skin, ripping into the fascia and muscle beneath. His eyes found hers; they seemed to cry out to her for help or for solace, she could not tell which.