Blood Echo

by Rice, Christopher

  How many times will Luke be able to watch her trigger before he starts to see her as the woman with weapons for hands and not the woman sitting with him now, talking about feelings? How long before he’s assaulted by memories of her last hunt every time he tries to kiss her? Will his tenderness disappear? Will he start to touch her like she’s made of iron?

  Watching her take down Pemberton was one thing. For starters, he wasn’t her boyfriend then. They hadn’t learned the feel of each other’s bodies, become familiar with the sounds of the way the other breathes while they sleep. But the first time he saw Zypraxon in action, he actually threw up. If he joins Cole’s team, if he watches her take down monster after monster, will he be able to reconcile both versions of her in his mind, his heart?

  She’s far from sure, far enough to feel terror at the thought.

  If Luke had seen me kill Richard Davies, would he still have helped me shave my head?

  He’s walking toward her across the grass, pocketing his phone.

  “Mona needs me to come in,” he says.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s Edward,” he says.

  “Her boyfriend?”

  “Yeah, he’s . . . freaking out. He needs her to take care of him, but he doesn’t want her to see him this sick and so he’s been threatening to break up with her and . . . and anyway, the whole thing’s a mess and it’s been going on for days. He finally caved and asked her to come over, and with Henricks gone they’re going to be short tonight, and I don’t want to stop her, you know? The only sort of good thing about it is that it’s keeping her from digging into Lacey’s disappearance as much as she wants to.”

  Neither of them say anything for a few long seconds. Neither of them’s comfortable with this definition of good, it seems.

  “Figured I’d go in,” Luke finally says. “You know, since we’re not supposed to be doing much of anything except having our normal, comfortable lives.”

  “Luke—”

  “Listen, just forget what I said. I don’t know, maybe I just needed to say it out loud.”

  “Luke—”

  “I mean, you’re right. The Bailey thing. It’s getting to me. And Cole taking the flash drive . . . I just. Maybe I’m having a man tantrum.”

  “A mantrum?”

  She can’t remember a sound that soothed her as much as his laughter does now.

  When he bends down and kisses her on the cheek, she feels like her heart’s beating at a healthy, steady pace for the first time in weeks.

  “Check in,” she says.

  “I will.”

  He’s almost to the sliding back door when she says, “And be careful.”

  “Do I need to be?” he asks. “Cole’s got eyes all over town.”

  Luke waves both hands in the air as if a swarm of helicopters were circling above. Then he turns and drops his pants enough to flash his bare ass to the yard. Charlotte’s still laughing and trying to catch her breath when he slides the door shut behind him.

  “No,” Marty says for the third time.

  “What do you mean, no?” Charley asks.

  It’s dark out, but they haven’t left the backyard. Charley assumes it’s the only part of the house that might be safe from digital eavesdroppers, even if it’s not the most pleasant spot at night. There’s always the twinkling view. But the new security lights on either side of the kitchen’s sliding glass door give off a harsh glare that ends just a few feet from the Adirondack chairs. She can barely make out Marty’s face, but if she glances over her shoulder, she’ll be blinded.

  Just inside the half-open sliding door, her cell phone sits on the nearest counter. She’ll hear it if it rings, but hopefully it’s far enough away that Cole can’t use it to eavesdrop on their conversation.

  Whatever, she thinks. For all we know, they probably put mics in the oak tree while we were sleeping.

  “That’s the worst damn idea I’ve ever heard,” Marty says.

  “It’s not an idea. It’s just a feeling, and he needed to talk about it.”

  “News flash. Nine times out of ten when a man says he’s talking about his feelings he’s just talking about an idea for how not to have any. And this is a really, really bad idea, Charley.”

  “How do you know? You weren’t in Seattle. Maybe he could help.”

  “Cole doesn’t need Luke’s help. Cole doesn’t need anyone’s help. He’s one of the richest men on the planet.”

  “He needs my help.”

  “That’s different. You’re special.”

  “Luke’s special. He’s whip smart, supereducated, and speaks a bunch of different languages.”

  “You going after Russian serial killers now?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Charley, you’re not hearing what Luke’s really saying.”

  “Fine. What’s he really saying?”

  “I’m too hotheaded for basic police work, but you should drop me in the middle of an operation so complicated and crazy there isn’t even a name for it. And while you’re at it, you should expect me to keep my cool while my girlfriend’s placed in mortal peril, even though Lacey Shannon’s bruises made me lose my mind.”

  He lets this sit.

  It does.

  Hard.

  “I mean, come on,” Marty continues, “that’s like the busboy saying he should be promoted to manager because he’s so good at dropping dishes.”

  “That’s a little harsh, Marty.”

  “Maybe, but it’s also clear. Which Luke is not right now. Look, he’s hurting because he can’t accept who his brother really is. I get that, but this is not the solution.”

  “And how’s that supposed to work, accepting Bailey for who he is?”

  “Cut him loose. I mean, for Christ’s sake, Bailey’s why Luke’s life was so messed up when you got here. If my little brother’s crimes kept me from having a shot at the career of my dreams, I wouldn’t be wandering around worrying about my family obligations. Let Bailey be Bailey, is what I say. And that means let Bailey go.”

  “How’s he going to let him go when he’s working for my boss?” Charley asks.

  “Well, I have a suggestion. Luke shouldn’t go to work for the same boss.”

  She can’t argue with him there.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I think Bailey’s only part of it.”

  “Yeah. I agree. The other part is that Luke’s acting just like one of those tools who whines and feels threatened because his wife makes more money than him. And you’d be able to see that if he wasn’t lighting up your Christmas tree in the bedroom.”

  “OK, now you’re just being crude.”

  Her cell phone makes a text chime on the counter. Marty doesn’t seem to hear it.

  “I’m serious, Charley. Don’t let him manipulate you like this.”

  She gets to her feet and heads to the open door. It’s probably Luke, texting her to check in.

  “I’m not being manipulated because I’m letting my boyfriend tell me how he feels.”

  “Fine. But you already let him tell you once. You had the talk and that’s great. But the next time he brings it up, that means he’s trying to convince you. So distract him or change the subject, or I’ll be over here to read him the riot act.”

  “Oh, what? You’re spying on us, too?”

  “I’m serious, Charley!”

  At the open sliding door, she spins. “Marty, I invited you over so we could relax, not so you could lecture me to death.”

  “You invited me over because you knew what a bad idea this was, and you needed someone to talk about it with.”

  “We are not talking. You are lecturing. Jesus! What if both of the men in my life chilled out for, like, I don’t know, ten minutes? Would the world stop? Would birds fall out of the sky?”

  “I’d probably grill some of ’em if they did,” Marty says.

  “In the BBQ sense, or the ‘you don’t know when to shut up’ sense?”

  �
��Both, maybe. If they were hiding something.”

  “Charming.”

  She steps inside the kitchen and picks up the phone. The latest text message reads:

  Tell Marty to leave.

  She doesn’t recognize the number. Who the hell is this?

  Who do u think?

  Not in the mood for games.

  Cole just bypassed me and sent something 2 digital services he wants them 2 review. They won’t tell me what it is except it has something to do w/ Altamira.

  Bailey. Of course it is.

  She types, Don’t you hear everything we do?

  Not lately. I work in different areas. I’ve tried 2b respectful.

  Of us? Or your new boss?

  Both.

  Should we be talking? Don’t THEY hear everything?

  Not right now. I bought us some privacy.

  What does that mean?

  I kicked yr monitoring system offline.

  Won’t they notice?

  Nope. Looping some archive from last night.

  How long will that work?

  Not long enough for U2 keep asking questions like this. Or for Marty 2 hang out. Tell him 2 leave please.

  Why?

  Because we need privacy.

  Why???

  Why don’t u trust me?

  Trust you? You and Cole both lied to us, and now Luke knows and he’s pissed.

  Luke’s always pissed. Tell him, he’s pissed. Don’t tell him, he’s pissed. Someday Luke will have to admit no one asked him to run the world but I’m not counting days till then. Tell. Marty. To. Leave.

  Point is, trust isn’t your selling point right now, Little B.

  We can think up dumb nicknames later. Now I have someone who wants to talk to you. If something’s up in Altamira, he might be able to help.

  “Who are you texting?” Marty asks from the yard.

  “Luke.” Her breath catches when she notes how easily she spoke this lie.

  Who? she writes.

  Tell Marty 2 leave x 1000

  I have someone who wants to talk to you. The words bring gooseflesh to the back of her neck and a tight feeling to her throat.

  One sec.

  Marty’s standing when she steps out into the yard.

  “Everything OK?” he asks.

  “How about a break?”

  “A break? Girl, we’re not dating.”

  “Weird! That’s not what I meant. I just need some time to clear my head. You know, without a man having feelings about how another man doesn’t have feelings or . . . whatever this has been.”

  “When’s Luke coming home?”

  “Not too late. It’s not the graveyard shift and it’s Sunday anyway, so it’s not going to be that busy.”

  “Are you kidding? They have wet T-shirt contests at the Gold Mine now on Sundays.”

  “Those are illegal?”

  “They’re festive. Fine. I’ll leave. Just as long as you’re not alone all night.”

  “None of us are, remember?” she says, then she remembers that Bailey just knocked the monitoring system off-line. Still, he’s listening in now, so she’s not technically alone.

  She walks Marty to the sliding kitchen door; then, when he steps across the threshold, he stops and turns. “You know I’m just trying to help, right? With Luke, I mean. The last thing I want is him throwing himself in the middle of something that’s already complicated and making it even more complicated.”

  A brush-off will only trigger another round, she’s sure, so she tries the opposite approach: total candor. “And honestly, I don’t want my boyfriend seeing what I have to do out there. So you and I are closer on this than you might think.”

  “He saw what you did with Pemberton.”

  “This is different.”

  “Because this guy died.” When he sees the look on her face, he says, “Sorry. That was a little direct. I’ll go. Just remember, I used to give your grandmother foot rubs before she took a shower, so there’s no getting me out of your life. You owe me.”

  Marty pulls her in for a quick hug that flushes her with guilt given how easily she lied to him about Bailey’s texts.

  She waits until he completes a wide U-turn that puts him in the direction of the state road, then she closes the door, steps back inside, and looks to her phone.

  He’s gone, she types.

  I saw.

  Shock. I figured you’d have eyes everywhere by now.

  Yes, and no. Mostly no. Like I said, trying to be respectful.

  What changed?

  When he bypassed me I got suspicious. Made me think it might involve Luke.

  Would it comfort Luke to hear about Bailey’s concern, as detached as it is? Or would he just point out what she’s thinking now: Bailey’s doing this because he’s pissed Cole cut him out of whatever cyberstalking he’s doing of Jordy Clements.

  Alright, she types, who wants to talk to me?

  A second later, the phone rings. She doesn’t recognize the number. It doesn’t even look like a phone number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Charley,” the man she once called Dylan Thorpe says.

  34

  She knew this moment would come at some point, but she didn’t expect it to feel quite like this. The last time the sound of someone’s voice filled her with this many memories in a single instant, the voice was Marty’s, and there were years of shared experiences between them waiting to be stirred up by a reunion.

  With Dylan, with Noah, only three months had passed between their first meeting and the revelation of his betrayal. But in that short time she had experienced a type of intimacy different from any other in her life.

  In a daze, she walks to the kitchen counter, powers on her earpiece, and waits for the Bluetooth to connect. Once it’s linked, she puts it in her ear and says the most innocuous words she can think of. “Where are you?”

  “He’s keeping me prisoner at some ranch in Colorado. I think his father built the place. I guess you could say I’m on probation.”

  “I don’t assume they allowed this phone call?”

  They didn’t, Bailey texts, so tell him not to take forever.

  “I don’t think so, no,” Noah answers.

  “How’s he doing this?” Charley asks.

  “Well, first he made contact through these little lenses they make me wear . . .”

  “TruGlass,” she says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “They’re called TruGlass.”

  “Right. Then he started looping the footage so I could write him little notes. And now, this. I’m not exactly sure how he’s done it, but I assume he’s using whatever monitoring system they have here. It’s the first time I’ve had a conversation with an alarm clock, so it’s probably not just an alarm clock. They must use it to watch me in some way. Which is silly, because I’m not exactly getting any visitors.”

  Boo fucking hoo, she thinks.

  “He’s a very resourceful guy, your new boyfriend’s brother.”

  Bailey texts. Tick tock.

  “He says we don’t have much time,” Charley says.

  “OK, then. Get in your car and drive.”

  “What?”

  “You’re in Altamira, right?”

  “I am.”

  “Good. Get on the 101 and head north. Can you do that?”

  “I can, but why would I?”

  “Bailey thinks there’s some sort of security threat there, and Cole’s not being as honest with everyone as he needs to be. Am I wrong?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I’m wrong in a manner of speaking or I’m wrong about the threat?”

  “Something’s up. We’re not sure what. We have a theory. It’s not good.”

  “OK, then. I have something that might help.”

  “What?”

  “Drive and you’ll find out.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t want help?”

  “Maybe
not from you,” she says. “Your definition of help frightens me.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously.”

  “Charley, I’m not exactly twirling my mustache at an island compound while I think of ways to make your life difficult. I’ve been a prisoner here for almost half a year. After you left me at the farm, Cole’s men came bursting out of the woods and put me in restraints. Then they injected me with something that could probably kill me the minute I don’t do what they want.”

  “Well, you don’t have long to live, then, because you never do what anybody wants.”

  “Really? Our mutual friend says you had a successful operation in the Pacific Northwest last week. Perhaps you used some over-the-counter Zypraxon you grabbed at CVS?”

  You two have been real chatty, Charley texts Bailey.

  The response comes back instantly. He’s super smart. You should really let him help.

  She shouldn’t be surprised that a man with half a conscience would be impressed by a man with none.

  “Charley, can I just ask a question here?” her former fake psychiatrist asks.

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “Why, when everything seems to be going so well—for everyone except me, that is—why am I still being treated as if the worst-case scenario came to pass?”

  “Which worst-case scenario? The one where I might have torn myself to pieces on the drug you said was for anxiety? Or the one where the drug didn’t work and Jason Briffel raped me in my own house?”

  “I never would have let Jason harm you.”

  “Sure you would’ve. If that’s what it took to make your drug work. It’s a very, very bad idea for you to ever say Jason Briffel’s name to me again. Got it, Noah?”

  The silence on the other end might be the closest he ever comes to admitting fault.

  It’s not enough.

  It never will be.

  “I see you’ve been brought in on the new directive regarding my name,” he finally says.

  “I don’t actually like it, to be frank.”

  “Then why not call me Dylan?”

  “Because that’s the name you used to earn my trust, and you’re never getting that back.”

  “Fair enough. I’ve always wanted to be a Michael, if that works. Or maybe an Edward?”