Thin Air (17 page)

Rodriguez raised his eyebrows just a bit. “Maybe I like you, Ms. Baldwin. Maybe I think you're the real thing.”

“The real thing.”

“Innocent.”

“Oh,” I said softly. “I doubt that. I really do. Come on, tell me. Why do you believe me?”

“Quinn,” he said. “I know how you felt about him, and there's no way you could say his name like that if you remembered him at all, especially after what he did to you. You're good. Nobody's
that
good.”

Rodriguez didn't go into detail, and I didn't ask. I was almost certain that was yet another memory I was better off not having in the total-recall file. He nodded once to me, a kind of comrade's salute if not actual friendship, and stepped outside. There was a murmur of conversation in the hall, and then the door opened again and the first two detectives came back inside and shut the door. They took up seats on the other side of the table, facing me.

“Detective Rodriguez,” I said. “Mind if I ask what happened to him?”

“Stabbed,” Tweedledee said. “Dumped in a ditch, left to die. He's a tough bastard, though. Wouldn't want to be the guy who shivved him in the long run.” He studied me closely. “You seemed chummy, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Considering he was partners with the guy you killed. Thomas Quinn.”

 

My lawyer arrived, some recent law school graduate with the ink still wet on her diploma. We chatted. I explained patiently about the memory thing. She didn't seem optimistic. Well, she probably didn't have reason to be, and she certainly wasn't being paid to be, since she was court-appointed.

And then they took me to arraignment, which was an efficient sort of in-and-out procedure. I barely had time to draw breath between when my case was called, I was shuffled up to the dock, and my attorney filed a not-guilty plea. There was bail, but I didn't hear the amount, and it didn't much matter anyway. Nobody was going to be rushing to my rescue, I figured. If Venna did, she wouldn't need collateral.

I was right about that. I went to jail. Long process, humiliating and nerve-racking, but in the end the cell wasn't so horrible, if you could get over the lack of privacy. My roommate was a big girl named Samantha—the strong, silent type, which was fine with me. I just wanted to lie still and let my head stop aching for a while.

David, where are you?
I couldn't believe this was happening to me. I was some kind of supernatural weather agent. Supernatural weather agents didn't get arrested and dressed in tacky bright orange jumpsuits. Supernatural weather agents kicked ass and took names, and they did not, ever, end up with a criminal record and a jailhouse address.

I was leery of falling asleep, but staying awake was too much of a struggle. I was exhausted, and even if the cot was no feather bed, it was at least horizontal. The pillow smelled of industrial soap, but it was clean. Even Samantha's snoring seemed less like a disruption and more like a white-noise generator to lull me into a coma.

I woke to a clank of metal, and opened my eyes to see that it was still artificially dark out in the hall, but a guard was opening up my cell. I sat up when she gestured at me. “Let's go,” the guard said. “Baldwin. You've made bail.”

“I have? How?”

“No idea,” she said. “Maybe somebody got you confused with one of those actor people; we've had one in here before.”

I tried to get my head around that, but not for long. Bail sounded like a great idea, even if it seemed suspiciously miraculous. I followed the guard out, and we marched down the center of the prison hallway. On both sides of the hallway were rows of bars and dimly lit rooms. Snoring. Mumbling. Crying. The guard was short, round, and jingled with keys. Her name tag said,
ELLISON
. “Who posted for me?” I asked as we arrived at the sally port gate. She gave a high sign to the guard on the other side, and we were buzzed through.

“Don't know,” she said. “Let's go, honey; you may have all night, but my shift's over in twenty.”

Processing me out took nearly as much time as it had spent to lock me up—the wonders of bureaucracy—and it gave me plenty of opportunity to wonder who, why, and how. I tried to decipher the forms they had me sign, but the light was poor, I was tired, my head hurt, and those things were complicated anyway.

So by the time I'd changed back into street clothes, it was getting near morning. Or at least, the indigo horizon was turning more of a milky turquoise. I'd hardly been in the big house long enough to get nostalgic about freedom, but still, that breath of cool, fresh air was sweet. Even if I still had to go through two more gates, some steely-eyed guards, and a final intrusive pat-down on my way out of the yard.

Beyond, there were a couple of taxis parked, complete with sleeping drivers. I wondered at the desperation involved in ferrying around criminals for cash, but remembered just in time that not all of us were, in fact, criminals. Some of us were just
alleged
criminals.

I looked around, wondering who would bother to bail me out and then leave me standing by the side of the road. I didn't have to wonder long. A sleek black car pulled out from behind one of the taxicabs and ghosted up next to me. The passenger window power-rolled down, revealing a pale, tired face. I didn't recognize her for a second, and started automatically cataloging features. Like blond hair that needed a root touch-up. Like an inexpert, hastily applied makeup job that didn't conceal the discolored bags under her eyes.

Like eyes that seemed a lot like my own blue shade.

I blinked. “Sarah?” I asked, and took a tentative step closer. It was the woman from Cherise's memories, rode hard, put away wet.

She gave me a thin, tired smile. “Jo,” she said. “Need a lift?”

I nodded and opened the back door of the car. No surprises lurking back there, just clean dark upholstery. My sister rolled up her window, and the driver—I couldn't see him—accelerated the car smoothly away from the jail into traffic. No matter what time of the day or night, there was traffic in Las Vegas, at least near downtown, where we were. I saw a confusing blare of neon up ahead, and had a strong, wrenching sense of déjà vu.

“How'd you find out I was here?” I asked.

“A detective called me, and Eamon and I pulled together the bail money.” She looked kind of defiant. “Can't say we don't care, can you?” Like I was going to?

“Of course we care,” said the driver, in a low, musical accent that I could only vaguely identify as British. I saw his eyes in the rearview mirror, couldn't tell what color they were in the glare of passing headlights and ambient neon. He was watching me as much as he was watching the road. “You're looking better than I expected—a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you. Feeling all right?”

I opened my mouth to reply, something polite and nonconfrontational, because I had no idea what my relationship was to this new guy. I didn't get a chance to be evasive.

“Before you start,” Sarah said, “Eamon wants to apologize. So let him, please. He's the one who insisted we come and get you. You owe him, Jo. Give him a chance.”

Who was Eamon, and what did he have to apologize for? What was I holding against him?
God.
Welcome to Brain Damage Theater. I was tired of confessing ignorance; I decided that maybe dignified silence was the best defense. They must have taken it for assent.

“I know you told me to stay away from Sarah, but I couldn't do it,” the driver—Eamon—said. “I won't apologize for that; whatever she and I do is between the two of us. But I do apologize for making that promise to you in the first place.”

Okay, so whoever Eamon was—and nice voice, by the way—I hadn't approved. But since I had no idea why I hadn't, and Eamon and Sarah weren't likely to give me an unvarnished explanation, I just nodded. “Water under the bridge,” I said. Aphorisms were made for moments like these. Saved me from saying anything that might be proven wrong. “Are you two okay?”

Eamon's eyes focused on me in the rearview for so long that I thought he might drive over a curb. Or another car. He was one of those avoidance drivers, though—either great peripheral vision or awesome luck.
Or something else. Maybe he's a Djinn.
Except I didn't get any Djinn vibe from him.

“Us?” Eamon said, and raised his eyebrows. “Of course we're all right. Sarah, tell your sister you're fine.”

“I'm fine,” Sarah said. She didn't look it. She looked tired and puffy and not in the best possible state. Hungover, maybe. Or worse. The way she said it sounded hollow, but not as if she were really scared of him. Just…submissive. Wonderful. I had a wet rag for a sister. “Jo, you need to understand, I love Eamon. I know you didn't want us to stay together, but…”

Oh, God.
The last thing I needed was to be the relationship police for a sister I'd barely met and—based on Cherise's memories—hadn't had much in common with to begin with. “I'm over it,” I said. “Eamon and Sarah, sitting in a tree. True love. Trust me, I'm more worried about the fact that I was sitting in jail for a murder that I didn't commit.” I left it there. I wanted to see what they'd have to say. Which was nothing, apparently. Eamon braked for the light at Fremont Street, and we all stared at the explosion of dancing lights during the pause. “Thanks for bailing me out.”

“It seemed the thing to do.” Eamon was being just as uninformative as I was. Not helpful. “Did you speak with the good Detective Rodriguez while you were in the precinct house?”

So he knew my friendly—or, at least, not adversarial—cop. “Yeah, I saw him.”

“Ah. How is he?”

“Healing up. He had some kind of accident.”

Eamon nodded. He kept watching me, and there was a tight frown grooved now between his eyebrows. “Did he say anything about what happened?”

“No.” I felt a weird surge of alarm. “Why?”
Please don't tell me that I'm responsible for that, too.

Was I crazy, or did he look oddly startled for a second before smiling? “No, nothing, don't worry. Listen, love, are you all right? You don't seem…quite yourself.” His voice was low and rich with concern, and man, that was seductive. I wanted somebody to care whether or not I was okay, and obviously that wasn't going to be my sister. Disappointing, but there it was.

Sarah twisted in her seat again to look at me. Her pupils were huge. Bigger than they should have been, even in the dark. I wondered if she was on some kind of pain medication. “Well, she
did
just get out of jail,” she said. “Of course she's not quite herself. She's scared, and there's nothing wrong with that. God, what are you doing in Vegas, Jo? You came looking for me, didn't you? I told you I didn't need your help. I told
her
, too.”

“Her?” I repeated blankly.

Sarah's pointed chin lifted so she could look down her thin, patrician nose at me. “You know who.
Imara.
”

My heart thudded hard against my rib cage, rattling to be free. Oh, that hurt. My sister had seen Imara. Imara had been part of my life. Had tried to help Sarah, evidently, for all the good that did. “When did you last see her?” I asked. Because if Sarah had seen her recently, maybe everybody was wrong about Imara. Wrong about her being…gone.
Come on, Joanne, say it.
Wrong about her being dead.

What, even David?
some part of me mocked, more gently than the question deserved. Surely David would know if his child was alive. I didn't have to know a lot about the Djinn to understand that much.

Sarah avoided my gaze this time, turning back to stare out the windshield as Eamon navigated the car through the neon pinball machine of the Strip. “I haven't seen her since I told her to leave me in Reno,” she said. “I know you both meant well, but honestly, Jo, she was getting on my nerves. And besides, she was worried about you. She wanted to get back and check on you, even though I told her you'd be okay. You're
always
okay.”

Ouch.
That stung, especially delivered in a tone so bitter it could have stripped paint. Apparently having a superhero wizard for a sister wasn't the party-in-a-box that you'd assume. Well, I wasn't finding it all clowns and puppies on this side, either.

“Jo,” Eamon said, drawing my attention back to him. “I'm guessing that perhaps in this instance your sister might not have been exactly correct. Right? Things haven't gone as planned?”

“No,” I said, and turned to look out the window at passing strangers who didn't notice me, or care. “Not exactly. Where are we going?”

“It's best if we don't tempt fate and stay in the city,” he said. “Sarah and I have a small place a couple of hours down the road. If you don't mind?”

I shrugged. I had no money, no transportation, and no real alternatives; seemed like I was stuck with Sarah and Eamon. At least Eamon seemed like a decent kind of guy.

A better person than my sister, anyway.

I wondered if maybe I was internalizing the dislike Cherise had felt for Sarah; probably I was. After all, I didn't have the normal family bonds and memories, nothing that would let me overlook Sarah's flaws and love her anyway. I didn't know her, except on the surface, and the surface wasn't looking very pretty.

Besides, it was fairly clear how she felt about me.

But she bailed you out.

Interesting.

Two hours and a boring number of minutes later, we entered a dry, sun-faded little town called Ares, Nevada. Population 318, and no doubt declining. It wasn't a garden spot, unless you liked your garden with lots of thorns and spikes. I remembered—actually, Cherise had remembered—my sister as being impeccably groomed, focused on polish and presentation. I doubted that would get her very far in the social scene of Ares, which probably revolved around the local Dairy Queen we'd passed, and possibly a strip club.

There was one stoplight in town, and Eamon obeyed it at the corner of Main and Robbins, then turned right. Nothing after the next block but some emptied-out stores with soaped windows, and the ruins of a few buildings that hadn't been so lucky or durable. We kept driving. About a mile on, Eamon turned the car off on a bumpy, unpaved side road, and I saw that we were heading for a mobile home community.

As trailer parks went, it tried to rise above the clichés.

There were a few struggling bushes, some attempt at landscaping at the front entrance. Not much clutter. The trailers were mostly in decent shape, although a few showed the ravages of time and weather. There were a couple of retirees walking small, fat dogs along the roadside, and one of them waved. Eamon waved back.

“I hate this place,” Sarah said. She sounded like she meant it.

“It's temporary, Sarah. You know that.” Eamon must have been tired of explaining it; his tone was more than a little sharp. “Just until the funds come through on the international transfer.”

“Meanwhile, we're living in a
trailer park.
With crack-heads! I used to live in the same zip code with Mel Gibson, for God's sake!” I wondered if the trailer park had its fringe benefits for her, like being a good place to score drugs. Heroin? Meth? Coke? Something that made her pupils so inordinately wide. Eamon seemed sober as a judge, though, so it wasn't likely he was the one supplying her habits. I wasn't sure he even knew, which made me think that he was willfully blind to her problems. Or he knew, and he'd given up trying to fix her.

“It's only temporary,” Eamon said again. “I'm sorry, love; I know it's not what you're used to. Things will get better. You'll bear with me, won't you?”

There was a kind of wistful longing in his voice, and Sarah softened. She stretched out a hand toward him, and he took it and held it. He had amazing hands—long, elegant, beautifully cared for. His fingers overlapped hers by inches. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean it that way. Of course I'll put up with whatever I have to for us to be together.” She threw me a look in the rearview mirror. A defiant one. “No matter what other people think.”

I'd thought
Eamon
was bad for her?
Wow.
I really hadn't had a clue about my sister if I'd thought that a slick English guy who would put up with her bullshit was a bad deal for her. “Other people meaning me?” I asked, and let a little of my frustration out. Sarah glared.

“Of
course
, meaning you,” she snapped. “What other controlling, know-it-all relative do I have in the backseat? Is Mom in your pocket?”

Eamon pulled the car to a stop before I could think of a suitably acid reply to any of that. Probably for the best. The sedan wasn't big enough for a real girl fight, and the bloodstains would never come out of the upholstery.

“Home sweet home,” he said with just the right touch of irony. “Sorry, I've given the staff the day off. Do forgive the mess.”

It was a trailer. Not a very big one—not one of the kingly double-wides, like the one across the road. And it was dented, faded, and run-down. There were some cheerful window boxes, but they were full of dead plants; what a shock. I couldn't see Sarah as the getting-her-hands-dirty gardener. Apart from the bold landscaping choice of a chain-link fence around some struggling, sun-blasted grass, there wasn't much to recommend the place.

“Nice,” I said noncommittally, and got out to follow Eamon toward the aluminum Taj Mahal.

It wasn't any better on the inside, although it was darker. The smell was a little strange—a combination of unwashed towels and old fried fish, with a little stale cat litter thrown in—and as I blinked to adjust my eyes I saw that the place must have been bought fully furnished. Matted, ancient gold shag carpet. Heavy, dark furniture that had gone out of style twenty years ago, at least. Clunky, vegetable-colored appliances in the small kitchen. There were dips in the carpet that I suspected meant rotting floors.

Still, they'd made an attempt. The place was mostly clean, and it was also mostly impersonal, with only a few personal items—Sarah's—in view. A trashy candy-colored book on the coffee table, facedown. A wineglass with some sticky residue in the bottom next to it. A fleece robe flung over one end of the couch, and I hoped it didn't belong to Eamon, because pale pink wasn't really his color.

Eamon swept the place with a look, tossed his keys on the counter, and turned to face me. It was my first good look at him, and I wasn't disappointed. My sister
did
have good taste in exteriors, at least. He wasn't gorgeous, but he was nice-looking, with a clever face and a sweet smile. The only thing that bothered me about him were the dark, steady eyes that didn't quite match the rest of his expression.

“Jo,” he said, and opened his arms. I took the cue and hugged him. He had a strong, flat body, vividly warm, and he didn't hang on an inappropriately long time, though he gave good value for his five seconds. When we parted again, his eyes were bright, almost feverish. “I'll tell you the honest truth: It's good to see you again,” he said. “I know I speak for Sarah when I say that we were worried when you dropped out of sight. Where have you been?”

I had no idea what span of time that covered, of course, not that I was going to tell him that. “Around,” I said, and smiled back. “I'm parched. Can I get something to drink?”

“Of course. Sarah.” He said it as if she were his servant, and I saw her frown work its way deeper into her forehead. Couldn't blame her on that one. I wouldn't have appreciated it, either. Still, she wandered into the kitchen and started rooting through cabinets, assembling me a drink. She didn't ask what I liked. I guessed either she already knew or didn't care. “Please, sit down. Tell me what happened to get you into this problem.”

“Mistaken identity,” I said, but I obeyed the graceful wave of his hand toward the couch. Eamon took a chair next to it. “Nothing to tell, really. They think I killed a cop.”

“Ah. Which cop would this be?”

“Detective Quinn.”

“I see. And did you?” he asked, not looking at me. He needed a haircut; his brown, silky shag was starting to take on a retro-seventies look that made him look a little dangerous.

“I can't believe you asked me that,” I said, which was a nice nonanswer. “What do you think?”

“I think that they're talking about Orry, aren't they?”

“Thomas Quinn,” I said. “They didn't mention anyone named Orry.”

He shot me a quick, unreadable glance. “Oh,” he said. “I see. Not the same person, then.”

I covered with a noncommittal shrug. Eamon smiled slightly, and then moved back in his chair as Sarah came toward us with drinks. Eamon's was clearly alcohol—something amber, on the rocks—and mine was just as clearly not. It bubbled with carbonation. I sipped carefully, but it was just Coca-Cola. No rum, no whiskey. It was even diet.

And yes, it was delicious. My body went into spasms of ecstasy over the faux-sugar rush, and it was all I could do not to chug the entire thing in one long gulp.

Sarah perched on the arm of Eamon's chair, her own glass clutched in one long-fingernailed hand. She needed a manicure, and she didn't need to be drinking whatever was in that glass, which wasn't likely to be as innocuous as my Diet Coke. “What were you talking about?” she asked. Eamon raised his eyebrows at me.

“Water under the bridge,” he said. “Now. Just so we understand each other, Jo, I did put up your bail money. It wasn't purely because I like you, although I do…or because I love your sister, although I do love her, obviously. It's because I have a business proposition for you, and I thought this might be an opportunity to have your full and undivided attention while we discuss the details.”

What kind of business did I have with Sarah's boyfriend? I felt a growing sense of disquiet, and it wasn't anything I could put my finger on…. Eamon's body language was kind, gentle, unaggressive. His eyes were bright and his smile a bit too sharp, but that might have been my own paranoia. Yes, the trailer wasn't a Malibu beach house, but it wasn't exactly a horrifying dump, either. Sarah was on drugs—I was nearly sure of that—but that didn't mean danger to me, only to her.

And yet. And yet.

“A business proposition,” I repeated, locking gazes with Eamon. “Go on. I'm all ears. Anybody who puts up bail money gets that much.”

His smile got wider. “You might not recall, but I had a small business venture under way in Florida when you arrived back there and took up residence. I was investing in construction with some silent partners. I was hoping to revive that effort, maybe do something on the West Coast for a change. I'd like to have your commitment to be involved.”

“I'm not really up for investing,” I said. “What with the murder charge, and the fact that I seem to be running a little short of cash. Nothing personal.”

Something flashed in his eyes, and I had no idea why he'd find that funny. “No indeed,” he agreed. “Not personal in the least. Well, to be blunt, you do owe me, Joanne. Not just for the bail, although obviously I have to consider that. No, before you left Florida, you promised to locate something very rare and very special for me—something I needed a great deal. As it turned out, you had a bit of a problem delivering on your promise, which was very disappointing for me, and caused me to lose something that I really wasn't planning to give up. But as you said, water under the bridge, and that's certainly far downstream at this point. Both our circumstances have changed—perhaps not, in your case, for the better. So please consider my offer as being a way for you to get back on your feet, in a sense, as well as a way to repay your debts to me.”

“I see.”

“It's either that or, regretfully, I'll have to ask you to immediately pay back the money. As you heard, I'm waiting on a funds transfer from Asia, but various political problems in that part of the world are causing delays. And, of course, I had to sink some of my capital into providing for your temporary freedom, pending trial. So perhaps you'd like to contact your bank and have them wire me about five thousand dollars. That should tide us over.”

In a trailer like this, in Ares, Nevada? I imagined that five thousand would probably tide them over for months on end. In style. Even if Sarah's drug habit was worse than I thought. “I'm sorry,” I said. “Even if I wanted to, I can't. I don't have any cash. No wallet, no credit cards, no checks. Nothing. I can't even go to a bank and draw out cash with no identification. If it makes you feel any better, I'm just as pissed about that as you are.”

“Ah,” Eamon said, and sat back, eyes going half-lidded and remote. “Well. How ever are you planning to pay me back for your bail money, then, if you're not interested in the investment and you can't provide the cash?”

“It's a temporary situation. It'll all—”

“Work out?” he supplied dryly. “Yes. I'm sure it will. Things do seem to do that for you. The favored, fortunate child, aren't you just?” Eamon suddenly came up with a lovely, charming smile, which he turned on my sister like a cannon, with about the same effect. “Sweets, why don't you give us a moment alone?”

Sarah clouded over, but it was a foregone conclusion that she'd obey. I ignored the intervening whines and concentrated on Eamon and on my environment. What kind of trouble was I in? And what could I do about it?

Sarah finally left the room, went to the bedroom, and slammed the thin, scratched door behind her.

He watched her go, his eyes intent and strangely fond, and without any change in his expression Eamon said, “I don't want to alarm your sister, but I'll warn you, if you try to pull any of your magical shit with me, I'll make both of you pay for it. Are we clear, then?”

It felt like he'd kicked me in the stomach. I opened my mouth but didn't quite know what to say. What the hell had just happened?

“Right,” he said. “Enough of our little dance, my dear. You're a puzzle to me at the moment—a not entirely unattractive one, but I have issues of my own to overcome, so I'm not terribly concerned about yours. Although you certainly can't believe some of the things you've been telling me, and I wonder what kind of mad plan you have in mind if you're lying about so much, and so blatantly. Nothing to my benefit, I'm sure. Well, let's be blunt, then: I need to get out of this town before I either go mad or do something quite unpleasant to your dear sister. Neither of us wants that, and I'm sure you'd like to help me out in this.”

“Are you threatening Sarah?” I asked. I stood up—not because I meant to, just because my muscles tensed so badly I couldn't sit still. I stared at him, and he smiled, still entirely at ease.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Come, now, don't act surprised. You knew it was coming, love; it was just foreplay to get there. Now we're down to the sweaty parts.”

“Watch it.”

“Well, you know that I do enjoy that as well,” he said, and grinned like a wolf. It made my skin crawl. Who
was
this guy? Why couldn't I get a decent read on him?

“Why'd you really bail me out?” I demanded. Eamon shrugged and tossed back the rest of his drink in one neat mouthful.

“I suppose because Sarah felt it was the thing to do, and I was curious about what you'd do and say; besides, I thought you might be useful. You had to know that I had her sometime, and it seemed to be a good time to press my advantage in that area. Tell the truth. Did you know I'd be with her? I know you were very serious about the threats you delivered last time, and I don't underestimate your ability to carry through…except that you do seem to be more alone than ever. What's wrong, love? Finally drive away the last few people who cared about you?”