Edge of Dawn (3 page)

A pungent scent yanked him back to consciousness. Someone had broken an ammonia cap under his nose. He tried to retreat from the harsh stink, gasped in pain, and stopped moving. Weber's arms were around him, hugging him close, his head cradled on the older man's chest.

“Sorry,
jumbe,
but you must close the opening before this one's”—Wangai gestured at the black goop—“father or husband comes looking for her.”

Richard wondered why Wangai thought the Old One had been female. And did Old Ones actually have genders? Richard realized he was drifting. He gathered his wandering thoughts and nodded. “Weber,” he croaked as Wangai helped him to stand. “Are you okay?”

Weber climbed to his feet and clasped Richard's outstretched hand between his. “Few nicks, bites, and bruises. I'll live. I'm more worried about you. Let's get this done,” he said over Richard's head to Wangai.

With Wangai supporting him on one side, and Weber, arm around his waist, supporting him on the other, they got him into the building. Richard drew the sword, placed the point of the blade at the base of the tear, and wove the blade back and forth as if stitching. The rent in reality closed. Outside the gunfire died away, and he heard the confused murmuring and cries of misery.

“Do you think Uncle Teo has a doctor on retainer?” Richard said faintly.

“Probably a good one.”

“I'd like to see him … or her.”

The last thing he remembered was his feet leaving the ground as Weber swung him up into his arms.

*   *   *

Uncle Teo's physician turned out to be a dapper Frenchman who cleaned the wounds in Richard's side and stitched up the places where the claws had torn long gashes. Uncle Teo was effusive in his gratitude and offered prostitutes, fine brandy, some of his product, anything that Richard and Weber might have desired. Richard would have been amused if Lumina hadn't lost two members of the strike team. He asked Uncle Teo to pay death benefits to their families. The elderly drug lord seemed startled by the request—he had lost twelve of his men and seemed unfazed by their deaths—but he agreed to make the funds available. Then it was back to the airport, where Wangai oversaw the loading of equipment into the waiting Lumina jets.

Richard clasped Weber's forearm briefly. “You take care,” he said.

Weber gave him a hug that had Richard gasping as Weber's arm came in contact with his stitches. Contrite, Weber muttered, “Sorry.”

Richard's inclination would have been to lean into the embrace. Instead he used the pain as an excuse and an opportunity to step out of the hug.

“You be careful too,” Weber added.

Richard nodded, then couldn't control the impulse and said, “I miss you.”

“You're the one who put me in charge of overseas security,” Weber pointed out.

“Yeah.”

“So, let me trade with Joseph.”

Was that hopefulness? Richard realized he was projecting, put aside the temptation, and gave Weber a wan smile. “I'll think about it.”

Once on the plane, Richard took two pain pills and slept during the flight back to Albuquerque.

*   *   *

His head of domestic security was waiting along with Estevan at the airport. Joseph Malcomb was an older African-American man with threads of gray through his black hair and a nose that had been broken more than a few times. “Wish you'd taken me,” he said as Richard climbed stiffly into the car.

“It makes me feel better knowing you're here to guard my people.”

“I understand, Richard, but you're too valuable to risk.”

“Well, thanks, but I don't see any way around it.”

“Cross needs to find us another paladin,” Joseph grumbled as they left the airport.

“He's trying, but as he keeps pointing out, there are seven billion people on the planet, and he's looking for a very small needle in a very large haystack.”

Richard leaned against the backseat and closed his eyes. Twenty minutes later, the seven-story Lumina building was before them. It was built on the shoulders of the Sandias, and its gleaming white-and-silver exterior was a crystal knife set against the dark blue–gray granite of the mountain. Off to the right, a tram car was just starting its ascent, heading for the restaurant on the crest. The dying rays of the sun turned it into a jeweled bead suspended from a silver string.

Joseph keyed the gate to the underground parking lot and pulled the limo into a spot between the Ferrari and the Lamborghini. Richard's predecessor had been a car fanatic, and there were seven including the limo. A strange vice for a man determined to save the world, but there was one nod to green technology. Among the cars was a Tesla.

Estevan returned to his sentry duties, Joseph to the security office, while Richard was whisked up to the sixth floor. His sister Pamela was seated on the edge of Jeannette's desk. Both his assistant and his sibling rushed him when he stepped off the elevator.

“You've got to stop playing the hero,” Pamela groused.

“I've arranged for Dr. Bush to look you over,” Jeannette said.

“You take too many chances,” hectored Pamela.

“Jorge wants to see you,” Jeannette said.

Richard raised his hands, palms out. “Stop! I don't want to see another doctor. I have to close these openings. And remind me again, who is Jorge?”

“Grenier's research assistant,” Jeannette said crisply. “Sophomore at UNM, journalism student, studying new media. You inoculated him back in April.”

“Right, got it.” Richard headed into his office.

It had changed little over the past year and a half since Richard had been given control of the company. Despite that authority, he still considered himself to be merely a seat warmer. Kenntnis, the man who'd built Lumina, was back now, and it was just a matter of time before he would recover. Eventually. Maybe. Hopefully. It hadn't happened yet, but Richard hadn't given up. Something had to get him out of this chair and the responsibility that went with it.

Richard had moved the giant espresso machine out into reception because most of the time he didn't drink coffee, and the Steinway Kenntnis had purchased for him stood in one corner. He had his B
ö
sendorfer upstairs in the living quarters. He preferred the touch on his own piano. The only other change was a television. With the 24/7 news cycle, Richard wanted to know what was happening at any given moment, and having the TV on as background noise saved him from having to pop out to the web too often. Lumina's computer science division had made their system as secure as possible, but a hack was always possible.

He turned his attention to the man waiting for him. Jorge Tafoya was a very young man whose features and coloring were a throwback to his conquistador ancestors. He was standing in front of the large oval desk and tracing the whorls in its granite top with a forefinger. Richard looked up and remembered hiring the boy. As they shook hands, Richard couldn't help it, his eyes followed the muscular forearms visible because of a short-sleeved T-shirt, and up to the line of the jaw. Standing this close, Richard could smell the Old Spice mingled with a touch of sweat, and the kid had been eating salt-and-vinegar potato chips.

“Jorge, what can I do for you?”

“I think I've got one … an incursion, sir. I know Mr. Grenier says I'm not supposed to bother you, but he's gone to the dentist, and the Jesus Man isn't around, and I think this is really important. I didn't think it could wait.” He studied Richard's face and ducked his head. “But only if you feel up to it. We heard you got hurt.”

“I'm okay, show me.”

Jorge laid a handful of printouts from websites and two newspaper clippings on Richard's desk. “Finding God in Everyday Tasks,” read one headline. “Cutting the Lawn as an Act of Grace,” read the title on a conservative website. Richard scanned the first article. It seemed a “prayerful” subdivision known as Gilead's Balm was being built in Orange County, California, funded by the reclusive right-wing billionaire Alexander Titchen.

“What do we know about this guy?” Richard asked.

“Here's the public scoop.” Jorge bent over the papers, and Richard considered the whorl of black hair at the nape of the young Hispanic man's neck. He resisted reaching out to touch it. “The Titchen Group's a global investment company founded in 1938 by Henry Titchen. His son, Randolph, took over in 1963 and ran it until 1990. The company's now run by
his
son, Alexander Titchen. The old man, Henry, was a stone-cold racist. He funded a bunch of bullshit research to prove that brown, black, and yellow people are intellectually inferior to the Mighty Whitey. Randolph was a Holocaust denier, and he gave some interviews where it sounds like he believed it's America's duty to bring about World War Three in the Middle East so the prophecies of Revelation can be fulfilled and the infidels and sinners appropriately punished. Alexander seems to avoid that kind of talk, but you have to wonder if that apple fell very far from the racist tree,” Jorge concluded.

“Lovely,” Richard muttered. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “These so-called Christian communities aren't a new concept. A Catholic subdivision was built in Florida a few years ago. It never occurred to me they might be a front for the Old Ones.”

Jorge nodded energetically. “Yeah, I felt the same way until I came to work for you guys. Now I just assume that anything associated with religion could be trouble.”

“Not always. The people who actually try to follow actual Christian tenets can do good work.”

“True, though our Jesus Man doesn't think much of them either. But check
this
out,” he said, his voice jumping with suppressed excitement.

Jorge pulled a satellite photo out of his folder. The boy's arm skimmed across Richard's side as he reached. Richard hissed and stepped aside, but it wasn't just due to the touch on his wound. He was surprised by his arousal. It had been a long time since he'd felt this way. Richard remembered waking in Weber's arms, and the hug … He pushed those thoughts aside and looked down at the photo.

A number of houses were already completed, others were in various stages of construction. Roads snaked through them. There were several parks where the landscaping was merely a suggestion, and the young trees looked like bushes from this height. What it all added up to was a rune. A big one.

“You didn't bug Bob Franklin for this, did you?” Richard asked. “I don't want him in trouble with the FBI.”

“No, sir, this is Google Earth.” Richard looked again at the satellite photo. “Now tell me that's not a rune,” Jorge said triumphantly.

“It's a rune,” Richard agreed.

Jorge gave a fist pump. “
Yes.
I knew it. I knew I didn't need to run this past Grenier or Cross. So what's the plan? And could I please go with you on this one, Mr. Oort? I just really want to see your sword, you know, in action. I love the whole sword thing.”

Richard felt his color rising, then realized that there was no hidden meaning to Jorge's inartful remark. He hadn't sensed Richard's interest. Wasn't responding. He just thought the sword was cool.

On the day Richard had “inoculated” Jorge, Richard explained that Jorge had to be touched by a sword as a condition of employment. The young man had been delighted and declared it the cutting edge of punk: a sword—“
totally a fantasy trope, man—but it destroys magic. I mean, how awesome is that? It's like antifantasy,
” he'd declared.

“Are you going to move in? Scope it out? I could pretend to be your … your … son … or something.”

Amusement and annoyance struggled for primacy. Annoyance won out. “Excuse me, I'm only nine years older than you are,” he said to Jorge. “I'd have to have been pretty damn precocious to be your father.”

“I'm sorry, sir. You just seem a lot older, sir. Maybe it's because I'm still in school and you're … my boss.”

The boy looked contrite, and Richard felt like he'd kicked a puppy. “I don't know what I'm going to do yet, Jorge,” Richard said. “And these things often turn out to be dangerous. I couldn't face your parents if anything happened to you. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. If you could, tell Jeannette to send in my sister and Joseph, and send Mr. Grenier to me once he gets in.”

*   *   *

Grenier returned to Lumina headquarters after he'd treated himself to a delightful lunch at Chez Nous, a bit of comfort after having a tooth prepared for a crown. His sense of satisfaction faded when he found a message from Jeannette waiting—he was wanted in Richard's office as soon as he got in.

He was panting as he reached the elevator bank. One of the pert girls from accounting was already in the car, and he noted her eyes darting to his shirt. He looked down and discovered a button had surrendered in its battle against his burgeoning belly and slipped free, revealing an expanse of white skin. He sucked in his gut, turned away. His prosthetic hand, courtesy of Lumina money and R&D, wasn't up to the task, and it took several tries before the gap closed. The button gave way again. He was going to have to buy new shirts. Again. Or lose weight. Neither prospect was particularly pleasant.

The elevator dropped the pert girl on five and Grenier continued to the sixth floor that held Richard's office and the conference room. As he passed Jeanette's desk, she keyed the intercom and murmured, “Mr. Grenier has arrived, sir.”

“Send him in,” came Richard's light tenor voice.

Grenier found Richard behind the desk, hands clasped in front of him. The boy was paler than usual, and the circles beneath his ice-blue eyes were like bruises. Joseph, standing across the expanse of granite from his boss, flipped through a sheaf of papers. The older man was frowning, and the grooves in his forehead, like furrows in dark, rich soil, deepened the longer he read.