Red Glove (6 page)

Hated. Hated snitches.

In my family going to the cops is cowardly, despicable. Cops already can do whatever they want to workers—we’re criminals, after all—so going to the cops is kissing the ass of the enemy. If you turn someone in, you’re not just betraying the people around you. You’re betraying what you are. I remember Philip talking about someone in Carney who’d reported on somebody else for some petty reason—old guys I didn’t know. He spat on the floor whenever he said the man’s name.

“Your brother came to us about five months ago,” Agent Hunt says. “April of this year. Said he wanted to change his life.”

I shake my head, denying what has to be true. Philip must have gone to the Feds because he had nowhere else to go. Because of me. Because I thwarted his plan to assassinate Zacharov, a plan that would have resulted in Philip’s closest friend leading the crime family. A plan that would have gotten my brother riches and glory. Instead I got him killed; if Philip is dead, Zacharov must be behind it. I can’t think of anyone else with a reason. And what would Zacharov care about his promise to leave my family alone, especially if he was faced with the discovery that Philip made a deal with the Feds? I was an idiot for believing Zacharov’s word was worth anything.

“Does my mother know Philip’s dead?” I finally manage, throwing myself back down into a chair. I feel like I could suffocate on guilt.

“We’ve managed to keep it quiet,” Agent Jones says. “As soon as you leave here, she’ll get the call. And we won’t be much longer. Try to hang in there.”

“There’s a kitten poster like that.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own.

They both look at me oddly.

I feel suddenly so overwhelmingly tired that I want to put my head down right there on the table.

Agent Jones goes on. “Your brother wanted to get out of organized crime. All he needed from us was to get a hold of his wife so he could apologize for what he put her through. We were going to send them into witness protection together. As soon as we got them into the program, he said that he’d give up everything he had on Zacharov’s hatchet man. Maybe bring down Zacharov along with him. The guy’s real bad news. Philip gave us the names of six workers this sicko killed. We didn’t even know for sure they were dead, but Philip was going to lead us to the bodies. Your brother really was trying to turn over a new leaf, and he died for it.”

I feel like they’re talking about a stranger.

“You find Maura?” I ask.

Maura lit out of town last spring, their kid in tow, once she discovered that Barron had been changing her memories. He’d made her forget every fight she’d had with Philip and remember only some kind of sweet dreamlike relationship. But not remembering their problems didn’t stop those problems from cropping up again and again. Plus, being worked that often results in bad side effects, like hearing music that’s not there.

Philip was devastated when she left. He blamed me more than Barron, which I don’t think is entirely fair, although I guess in the end I gave her the charm that let her realize what was going on. Still, I refuse to feel guilty about breaking up his marriage.

I’ve got enough to feel guilty about already.

Agent Jones nods. “We talked to her today. She’s in Arkansas. We contacted her for the first time about a week ago, and she agreed to hear your brother out; first step was gonna be getting them on the phone together. Now she says she won’t come back, not even to claim the body.”

“What do you want me to do?” I ask. I just want this to be over.

“Philip told us enough that we think you have access to information. Information we need,” says Agent Hunt. “You know some of the same people that he did—and you have connections to the Zacharov family that he never had.”

He means Lila. I’m almost sure of it.

“That’s not—,” I start, but Jones cuts me off.

“We’ve been hearing about Zacharov making people disappear for years. Just poof! Nothing. No body. No evidence. We still don’t know how he—or his wetworks guy—did it. Please, just look at some of the cases. See if there’s something familiar. Ask around. Your brother was our first big break. Now he’s dead.” Jones shakes his head with regret.

I grit my teeth, and after a moment he looks away, like maybe he realizes that was a jackass thing to say. Like maybe, to me, my brother was a human being.

Like maybe if I start looking around, I’ll wind up dead too.

“Are you even trying to find who killed Philip?” I ask, since they seem fixated on Zacharov.

“Of course we are,” says Agent Jones. “Finding your brother’s murderer is our number one priority.”

“Any leads on this case are going to point us directly at his killer,” Agent Hunt says, standing. “Just to show you we’re on the level, I want you to see what we’ve already got.” Reluctantly I follow him out into the hall and then through a door into the observation room behind the mirror. He presses a button on some video equipment.

“This is sensitive material,” says Agent Jones, looking at me like he expects me to be impressed. “We’re going to need you to be a smart kid and keep this information under wraps.”

On a small screen my brother’s condo complex comes to life in full color. It’s evening, the sun glowing from the edge of the building as it slips below the tops of the trees. I can see the heat shimmer on the asphalt of the driveway. I can’t quite see his unit, but I know it’s just to the right of the frame.

“The complex put in these surveillance cams recently,” Agent Hunt says quietly. “There was a break-in or something. The angle’s terrible, but we were able to get this footage from last night.”

A figure in a dark coat passes in front of the camera, too close and too fast for the film to register much. The camera is pointed too low to get a glimpse of the face, but a few thin fingers of a leather glove are visible at the hem of a billowing black coat sleeve. The glove is as red as newly spilled blood.

“That’s all we have,” Agent Hunt says. “Nobody else in or out. It looks like a woman’s coat and a woman’s glove. If she’s Zacharov’s regular hatchet guy, shooting isn’t her usual method of killing. But lots of death workers turn to nonworker techniques after they lose too many body parts to blowback. That’s usually how they trip themselves up. Of course, she could be a new recruit Zacharov sent out blind, just someone to get a job done with no obvious connection to the organization.”

“So you’ve basically got no idea,” I say.

“We believe that the person responsible for the murders found out that Philip was going to finger him. Or her. When Philip came to us, asking to make a deal, we asked other informants about him. We know he had a falling-out with Zacharov and we know it had something to do with Zacharov’s daughter, Lila.”

“Lila didn’t do this,” I say automatically. “Lila’s not a death worker.”

Jones sits up straighter. “What kind of worker is she?”

“I don’t know!” I say, which comes out sounding like the obvious lie that it is. Lila is a dream worker, a really powerful one. Powerful enough to make dreamers sleepwalk out of their own houses. Or dorm rooms.

Hunt shakes his head. “All we know is that the last person to enter Philip’s apartment was a woman with red gloves. We need to find her. Let us focus on that. You can help by getting us the information that Philip died trying to impart. Don’t let your brother’s death be in vain. We are certain those disappearances and your brother’s death are linked.”

It’s very moving, the speech. Like I’m really supposed to believe that Philip’s last wish was for me to square him with the Feds. But the vision of the woman entering his apartment haunts me.

Agent Jones holds out some folders. “These are the names your brother gave us—the men he swore were killed and disposed of by Zacharov’s guy. Just look the pages over and see if anything jumps out at you. Something you might have overheard, someone you might have seen. Anything. And we’d appreciate it if you didn’t show these files to anyone else. It serves both our interests if this meeting never happened.”

I stare at the tape where he’s paused it, like somehow I should recognize the person. But she’s just a blur of cloth and leather.

“The school already knows I went for a ride with you,” I say. “Northcutt knows.”

Agent Hunt smiles. “We don’t think that your head-mistress will be a problem.”

A terrible thought occurs to me, but I quash it before I can even articulate it to myself. I would never hurt Philip.

“Does this mean I’m working for you?” I ask, forcing myself to smirk.

“Something like that,” Agent Jones says. “Do a good job, and we’ll recommend you to come aboard with Agent Yulikova. You’ll like her.”

I doubt that. “What if I don’t want to go to this training program?”

“We’re not like the Mafia,” Agent Hunt says. “You can get out any time you want.”

I think of the locked door of the room, the locked car doors. “Yeah, sure.”

They drive me to Wallingford, but by the time I am back on campus, classes are half over. I don’t bother going to lunch. I head to my room, tuck the folders under my mattress, and wait for the inevitable summons from the hall master.

We’re so sorry, he’s going to say. We’re so sorry.

But I’m sorriest of all.

CHAPTER FOUR

PHILIP’S FACE LOOKS LIKE it’s made of wax. Whatever they did to preserve it for the viewing gives his skin an odd sheen. When I go up to the casket to say my final good-byes, I realize they have painted the visible parts of him with some flesh-colored cosmetic. If I look closely, I can see traces of bloodless skin they missed—behind his ears, and in a stripe above his gloves below the cuff of his sleeves. He’s wearing a suit Mom picked out, along with a black silk tie. I don’t recall him wearing either one in life, but they must have come from his closet. His hair has been pulled back into a sleek ponytail. The high collar of his shirt mostly obscures the necklace of keloid scars that mark him as a gangster. Not that there’s anyone in this room who doesn’t know what his job was.

I kneel in front of his body, but I have no words for Philip. I don’t want his forgiveness. I don’t forgive him.

“Did they take out his eyes?” I ask Sam when I get back to my seat. The room is filling up fast. Men in dark suits, sipping from breast-pocket flasks; women in black dresses, their shoes as pointed as knives.

Sam looks at me, surprised by the question. “Probably, yeah. They probably use glass.” He blanches a little. “And fill the body with disinfecting fluid.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Dude, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you that.”

I shake my head. “I asked.”

Sam is dressed a lot like Philip. I’m wearing my father’s suit, the one that had to be dry-cleaned to get rid of Anton’s blood. Morbid, I know. It was that or my school uniform.

Daneca comes up to us, looking like she’s masquerading as her mother in a navy sheath and pearls.

“Do I know you?” I ask.

“Oh, shut up,” she says automatically. Then, “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“Everyone has to stop saying they’re sorry,” I say, maybe a tiny bit too loudly.

Sam looks around the room in a slightly panicked way. “Uh, I don’t know how to tell you this, but all these people are going to tell you that. That’s, like, pretty much the point of funerals.”

The corner of my mouth lifts. Having them around makes everything a little better, even this.

The funeral director comes in with another mountain of flowers, Mom trailing him. She’s crying, mascara bleeding down her face theatrically as she points to the spot where he’s allowed to put the arrangement. Then, seeing Philip’s body for about the tenth time, she lets out a small shriek and half-collapses into a chair, sobbing into her handkerchief. A small group of women rushes over to comfort her.

“Is that your mother?” Daneca asks, fascinated.

I’m not sure what to say. Mom’s putting on a show, but that doesn’t mean she’s not actually sad. It’s just that she isn’t letting her grief get in the way of her performance.

“That’s our mom over there, all right,” a slightly bored voice says from behind me. “It’s kind of a miracle we weren’t knocking over drugstores in our diapers.”

Daneca jumps like she’s been caught shoplifting.

I don’t have to turn around. “Hello, Barron.”

“Dani, right?” he says, giving Daneca a predatory smile as he takes a seat next to me. I find it a hopeful sign that he actually remembers her—maybe he’s been staying away from doing much memory work—but I also am suddenly conscious of the danger I have put Daneca and Sam in just by letting them come here. These people are not safe to be around.

“I’m Sam Yu.” Sam extends his hand, leaning over so that he’s in front of Daneca.

Barron shakes it. His suit is a lot nicer than mine, and his dark hair is clipped, short and tidy. He looks like the good boy he’s never been. “Any friends of my baby brother’s are friends of mine.”

A minister walks up to the lectern off to one side and then says a couple of words to my mother. I don’t recognize him. Mom’s not exactly the religious type, but she hugs him like she’s ready to be baptized with the next bowl of water she comes across.

A few moments later she yells loudly enough to be heard clearly above the pumped-in elevator music. I have no idea what set her off. “He was murdered! You tell them that! You put that in your sermon. You tell them there’s no justice in the world.”

On cue, Zacharov sweeps into the room. He’s wearing another of his long black coats, this one draped over the shoulders of his suit. His fake Resurrection Diamond glints at his throat, the pin stabbed into the loop of his tie. His eyes are as hard and cold as the chip of glass.

“I can’t believe he had the nerve to come here,” I say softly, standing. Barron touches my arm in warning.

Beside Zacharov is Lila. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since our disastrous conversation in the hallway at Wallingford. Her hair is damp with rain and she’s all in black except for red lipstick so bright that the rest of her fades away. She’s all mouth.

She sees me, and then her gaze goes to Barron. Stone-faced, she takes a seat.