Going Grey (32 page)

"Leo – "

"Are we clear on this? Don't even try to justify it. Just tell me how you're going to put it right."

Kinnery had paid for Ian with his marriage, his career, and possibly his sanity. There was a limit to how many times he could apologize. "If I could, I don't know if it would do Ian more harm than good."

"Can't or won't?"

"I can't even begin if I can't have access to his DNA or run tests on him. And I need a lab. I certainly can't use the university's."

Leo backed off a few paces, but only to pour himself a glass of water. He seemed to be regrouping, which probably meant he wasn't sure whether Kinnery was stalling him with fake science.

"Cell number," Leo said, changing tack. "Rob took the call and said it didn't sound like a wrong number. Female, thirties or forties. The phone's not registered, but the call was made somewhere in Lansing. So this is KWA on your ass, Charles."

Kinnery already knew that Shaun was watching him, but this was getting much more serious. He didn't know how Leo had traced the location and he decided not to ask.

"I don't know how the hell they got that number," he said.

"Probably someone working for the telco who's got a sideline providing PIs with records. It happens. It's less trouble than a wiretap."

Kinnery took out his new burner phones. He was carrying so many cells now that he was starting to look like a dealer. "Well, I've got two alternative numbers."

"Just remember they're not completely untraceable. And they'll still identify your location."

"Sure, but Shaun's got to tie me to these numbers first."

"Any more contact from him?"

"He called to ask me to come back and sweeten the merger deal with Halbauer."

"Excellent." Leo just raised an eyebrow. Maybe he knew already. "Take the offer."

Kinnery reeled for a moment. That was out of the question now. "Do you seriously think I'd work with him again knowing he's hacked my phone logs?"

Leo took a card out of his wallet and wrote on it. "Here. If you need to call me, use that number. Now rehearse how you're going to say, 'Thank you, Shaun, I'd love to come back to the fold.'"

"I said I don't plan to go back."

"You don't get it, do you, Charles? That's
exactly
what you're going to do." Leo picked up his glass again. "Shaun's sure you've done something, and if he feels he's contained the threat and got something out of it, he'll back off. But if Ringer ever comes home to roost, you've contaminated KWA by returning. So it'll be in his interests to protect you and keep Ian out of it."

"In other words, Leo, I'm your booby trap."

"Excellent analogy."

"But if he finds out that Ian exists, as in a
functioning
Ian, he might turn it around and use against me."

"I'm sure I could persuade him it's better for KWA to behave than to have me ask the FDA or the Bureau of Commerce to take a look at the company's activities. Claiming ignorance requires
your
corroboration."

Kinnery almost admired the tightness of that stitching. He just wished he wasn't being stitched as well. "You're good at this, aren't you?"

"I should damn well hope so. If Shaun's ever in a position to make life difficult for Ian, I'll see he never gets access to him for research. If you think I'm trouble as a politician, remember I have zero constraints as a businessman."

"You're taking this very personally."

"My son's involved. There's nothing I won't do to protect him. How likely would Shaun be to break the law to gain access to Ian?"

"He's already broken the law if he's got my phone records."

"I mean something physical."

"I think that's one degree too extreme for him."

"Intelligence doesn't preclude poor judgement. Or greed."

"So my sentence is ten to life with KWA, keeping an eye on Shaun from the inside."

"We understand each other, then. Good."

Leo drained the glass and checked his watch. Kinnery had no way out. It wasn't his fault that Shaun had dragged Leo into this, but he was the one who'd tried to do the deal with Leo to protect Ian. There really was a kind of mutually assured destruction about it after all. It had simply backfired on him.

"I don't have a choice, do I?" Kinnery said.

"Everyone always has choices, Charles. In your case, you can either be a liability to Ian, KWA, and me – and you know what happens to liabilities – or you can do the right thing for Ian, keep your reputation, and maybe even make your world-changing discoveries legally this time around."

Leo walked him to the door. There was no pretence at sociability, just politeness.

"I'll let you know when I walk the plank, then," Kinnery said. "I won't accept the offer too fast. Shaun might get suspicious."

"I might call him myself in due course and ask if he's had any more nonsense since he last rang me. Who knows what'll tumble out?"

Kinnery took that at face value and tried not to wring other meanings from it on the way downstairs in the elevator. It was a lovely evening to walk through the city and pick a restaurant, but he'd lost his appetite. Maybe he could retain his links with the university and still make the KWA deal work. Maybe he wouldn't have to move house.

Why the hell did I ever do it?

Memory was dangerously rewritable. Trying to recall a motive from years ago was difficult anyway, especially if it had proved hard to live with and had to be airbrushed so that he could cope with it. Had he really been too squeamish to terminate Ian as an embryo as the days dragged on, or had he just gone through with it because he could?

It probably didn't matter any more. Kinnery had been tried and convicted by Leo Brayne, and the sentence was life, just as it was for Ian.

GUEST COTTAGE, CHALTON FARM, WESTERHAM FALLS
NEXT DAY.

What the hell am I going to tell Tom?

Rob showered, contemplating how much his view of the world had shifted in the last few days. If he'd strolled into the pub and found an alien playing darts, he'd have told Tom all about it, because it changed the way the world worked. Where did Ian fit into that? Did seeing him morph qualify as a reality-changing, got-to-tell Tom event, or just another classified detail from an op?

Rob didn't know where to file Ian. At the very least, it would dump knowledge on Tom that he might be better off not knowing. Rob would just have to sit on it for the time being.

I suppose it's no different from getting a tan. Losing weight. Blushing. Plastic surgery. Or a coat of make-up -– Christ, I've woken up next to a few nasty surprises the morning after. Ian's changes are just faster, that's all.

Now the shock had worn off, worries had room to flex their muscles. Anything medical that involved a close look at Ian's DNA was a problem. How many thousand genes did a human have? Would anyone even spot the shape-shifting ones unless they were looking for them? Probably not.

And Ian was a teenage lad. Rob remembered being one of those. The only thing on his mind was sex. If Ian got some girl pregnant, would the baby be a shape-shifter too? Did Ian even have the confidence to chat up girls yet?

Christ, when I was his age I thought I was God's gift to women. Okay, first things first – build trust and confidence. Then help him work out how to control the thing.
The shape-shifting, anyway. The dick – well, I'm not the right bloke to lecture him on that.

Rob shaved and stood back to study himself in the mirror, wondering what he'd change about himself if he could. No, not one damn thing: he kept himself in terrific shape, his hair wasn't thinning, and he liked his looks. Sod it, he looked
great
. He tilted his head to one side and studied his wedding tackle, then looked down at it to consider another perspective. Well, maybe he could improve on perfection.

An inch more. Maybe an inch and a half. No point overdoing it.

If he wondered whether some magic genes could give him a bigger dick, then so would every other bloke. And women wanted to change every bloody thing about themselves. Where would it stop if people could do that? They'd never be satisfied. Then there'd be all the criminals wanting to disguise themselves, and the spooks, the medical researchers, and the biotech companies.

Poor little sod.

But he's still not on anyone's radar. There's the deeds to the ranch, but it's going to be tough for someone to make that connection.

One objective overrode everything else. Ian had to learn to control his morphing. Without that, there'd never be a driving licence or passport photo that he'd match, and without those, he was fucked. It was hard to operate without photo ID here. He wouldn't even be able to buy a beer.

And if he can't stay looking the same, he'll never have a woman. Well, not more than once, anyway. So there's the perfect incentive. Beer, cars and sex.

Rob put on his running kit while he waited for Tom's call. He could at least mention that Ian existed, even if he had to omit the details. As usual, Tom rang right on time and they exchanged sitreps.

"Mike's got a guest for the summer," Rob said. "Ian. He's a bit younger than you. I'm taking him training every day. He wants to toughen up, so I'm making a Bootneck out of him."

"Christ, Dad, be careful you don't end up injuring him. Yanks sue. It's a reflex. Just how far is this going?"

"Daily phys, fieldcraft, firearms. He might still be here when you visit."

And if he is, he'd better have that morphing shit sorted.

Tom laughed. "Dad, you really need to learn to flop on the sofa and veg out."

"I'm saving that for when you visit, kiddo."

When Tom rang off, Rob felt achingly lonely and lost for a few moments. Sod it, he lived over here now, and Leo had pulled every string to make that happen, so it was time he accepted it and tried putting down roots instead of pretending to himself that he was just visiting. Anyway, he owed the Braynes everything, and Mike really needed him around more than ever. The only way Rob could go was further in. There was no backing out of this. He'd always know what had happened.

You know what would be handy, Kinnery? Invent some amnesia pills.

Rob jogged over to the house and found Ian on the front steps, doing his stretches in a track suit that he'd borrowed from Mike. Oatie sniffed around the bushes. Ian was taking this as seriously as recruit selection.

"Had your breakfast?" Rob asked. "What's the rule?"

"Eat whenever you can, sleep whenever you can."

"Good man. No Mike this morning? Lazy sod."

"He said he's going to see his lawyer and start sorting out Gran's will for me." Ian retied his laces. "I think I need some new kit. These sneakers aren't right for running."

It took a couple of seconds to dawn on Rob.
Kit
. Ian was absorbing his slang. Rob couldn't remember when he'd last said it, but he knew he used the word all the time, and Ian didn't miss a thing. He learned fast.

Rob remembered being sixteen and shit-scared, lying in a bed in a dormitory full of strangers, staring up into the darkness and trying to remember the proper terms for things.
Pouch.
The pockets on your belt, your webbing, were called pouches, and Royal Marines pronounced it
pooches
. Pouch with a W sound was for the Army, for
Pongos
. Anything disgusting was
gopping
. There was so much to get right. It was all part of the essential ritual of belonging, until it became part of the fabric of him and defined what he was, as natural as breathing. He could see that need to belong in Ian. Everybody had it.

"We can go to the mall later," Rob said. "There's a big sports shop. Nobody's going to stare at you or anything."

"Okay."

"How do you feel?"

"Stiff and tired. But good."

"You're still going to beat yesterday's time, right? All that soft civvy shit's over. You're rebuilding yourself from the ground up."

"Yes, Rob."

"Okay." Rob checked his watch and started running down the drive. "Crack on."

A psychologist probably wouldn't have approved of his methods, but he didn't know what else to do. Tough physical training built self-reliance and mental discipline. As far as Rob was concerned, that was a lot better for Ian than sitting through a load of therapy sessions hugging a teddy and being told how shitty the world had been to him. Anyway, it wasn't as if he was going to have to do half of the rough stuff that Rob had done to get his green beret. Mike didn't have the facilities, and Ian couldn't afford to break a leg and end up hospitalized, tested, and compromised. Rob would just have to keep pushing him past exhaustion and thinking up alternative ways to challenge him.

Ian matched Rob's pace and didn't say a word. They ran along the grass verge of the road for a couple of miles before turning right into the forest and following the trails and firebreaks. Oatie loped beside them, occasionally racing ahead and circling back as if he was making a point about his top speed. Eventually a chain link fence with a private property sign loomed in front of them, marking the turnaround point. Rob slowed to look for a good spot to take a breather as Ian shot past him.