Wicked Game

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  Impressed as I am by Shane’s conniving compassion, I keep my attention on my father. He’s squatting down petting the cat, but his eyes are on David, evaluating him.

  I know that look. It seeks weakness.

  Dad’s gaze trips between the animal and David, and I can almost hear the calculations running through his head. He must know who Antoine is to Gideon. But does he know who Antoine is to David? How long will it take him to figure it out? It might not matter, but I can’t take that chance.

  “Ready, Daddy?” I pipe up to distract his thoughts.

  His eyes light up in my direction. He straightens with a grunt and offers his arm in a gallant gesture. “Let’s go, Pumpkin.”

  He always was a sucker for the “Daddy” thing.

  Due to Colonel Lanham’s presence, my father and I keep the conversation casual on the way to the safe house. I tell him about school, the basics of my job, and he tells me about life in a minimum security federal prison. It sounds a lot like Gideon’s lair, minus the bloodletting.

  We pull up to a split-level home on a tree-lined street in Silver Spring, a suburb that is neither silver nor springy. The garage door opens as we approach.

  I admit, I’m a little disappointed that the “safe house” isn’t surrounded by armed guards with radioactive Rottweilers. I hope it’s more secure than it looks.

  Lanham opens the car door for me. “The bedroom on the top floor should have everything you need.”

  I pass through a family room, then up a short stairway to the cozy, inviting kitchen. Another turn brings me to another staircase. I grab the railing and bounce up, buoyed by the novelty. The only house I ever lived in was my foster parents’. Before that was mostly motels; after that was dorms and apartments.

  On the top level is a large, neat room with homey-looking furniture. The bed is wide and low and bears a faded patchwork quilt. The air’s a bit stuffy, so I switch on the wicker ceiling fan, then exchange Elizabeth’s suit for a T-shirt and pair of jeans I find in the closet.

  As I head downstairs, a man in a black shirt and pants slides back into the shadows of one of the bedrooms. I wave to him.

  “Evening, ma’am.” His clipped voice says he doesn’t want to chat.

  I grab a soda and an egg salad sandwich from the fridge and go down to the family room, where my dad is watching Jay Leno and eating a bowl of cereal.

  He beams at my casual clothes. “Now you look like the Ciara I knew.” He pats the sofa next to him.

  Instead I sit in a chair across the room. I need distance for what I’m about to ask. “You said you’d tell me why you didn’t take Mom.”

  His head jerks back in surprise. “What did we teach you about small talk? When did you get so direct?”

  “Just tell me.” I try a smile. “Please.”

  He scoops the last of his cereal into his mouth, then wipes his face with a paper napkin and sets the bowl on a side table. “First, you should know that this place is bugged.”

  I take a bite of my sandwich, pretending the surveillance doesn’t bother me.

  “But don’t worry,” he says. “The Control already knows everything I’m about to tell you.” He mutes the television, then sits back on the cushion with a sigh. “I couldn’t take your mother into Witness Protection because she’s not my wife.”

  The sandwich goes dry in my mouth. “You got divorced?”

  He puts a hand to his chest, as if my words are more shocking than his. “Divorced? No. My goodness, no. We were never married.”

  “What?” I brandish my sandwich at him, still chewing. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  His eyes widen. “Language, Ciara.”

  I struggle to swallow. “Am I really your daughter? Am I Mom’s daughter?”

  “Of course you are.” He holds up both index fingers. “Let me explain. When I was eighteen, I married another Traveller. It was an arranged thing, the way marriages often are among my people. She was only fifteen.”

  “Yuck.”

  He ignores this. “Your mom and I met when we were twenty-two. Her grandmother was a, er, customer of mine.”

  “A mark, you mean.”

  “The usual scam.” He dramatizes the process with almost hypnotic hand gestures. “Go to an old person’s house, convince them their roof desperately needs fixing, offer to do the job, then disappear with their cash deposit.” He grins. “Your mom tracked me down on my way out of town and ... well...”

  “Kicked your ass?”

  “In a sense. A week later, I left everything to be with her—my family, my religion, my home.” He gives a sly smile and flicks up his fingertips. “After I fixed her grandmother’s roof.”

  “Why didn’t you just divorce your first wife?”

  “Even if I’d asked, she would have refused. The Travellers are strict Catholics.” He heaves a sigh. “It’s the way we were brought up. Divorce is a terrible sin.”

  A fuse just blew in my head. “More terrible than adultery?”

  “Yes. I would’ve been excommunicated.”

  “But you just said you changed religions for Mom, so why would you care?”

  “When you’re born a Catholic, especially among my people, you’re part of a body. Being cut off from that body is like losing a piece of yourself.”

  “I don’t get how that’s more important than marrying the woman you love.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand. We raised you as a Pentecostal, like your mother. For you, and for most of the people who came to our revivals, living in sin is worse than divorce. That’s why we never told anyone.”

  I wave my hands. “Don’t assume anything about what I believe. As far as I’m concerned, the lies are the worst part of it.” At least until the next thought hits me. “Do you have children with this woman?”

  “I do not.”

  I squint at him, wishing I could play back his reply to search for the deception. “Four years and she never got pregnant? I’m assuming no birth control, of course, since that would be a sin.”

  He scratches his ear, face reddening. “That’s more detail than I want to discuss with my daughter.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth when I was a kid?” As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I know the answer. They figured I’d blab to someone, and they’d be exposed as sanctimonious hypocrites.

  “I’m sorry we never told you. It came out in the trial, but you were only allowed in the courtroom long enough to testify.” His pause swells the tension. “Since you were the key witness against us.”

  I take a sudden renewed interest in my sandwich. “They made me testify. I couldn’t lie on the stand.”

  I feel his gaze on me as I pick the flaxseeds off the crust of the multigrain bread. For some reason they’ve always bothered me.

  My father doesn’t speak, and in his silence lies the accusation I can’t deny.

  I wasn’t just the key witness; I was the fink. I gave the cops the anonymous tip that started the entire investigation.

  If I could reach the remote, I’d un-mute the TV to crack the oppressive hush. There’s a band on the Tonight Show I don’t recognize, with a female lead singer in a red muumuu.

  I can feel my father watching me, waiting for my confession. Now I know why Shane’s silence last night tore up my insides. I’m tired of being on trial.

  I turn to look him in the eye. “Are you going to do this for the next eight years, too?”

  “Do what?”

  “Not talk to me.”

  He shifts his weight. “I’ve been undercover. I haven’t talked to anyone on the outside.”

  “For two years. And the six years before that, you were in prison, not calling me. Not writing.”

  “Not being called. Not being written to. Not being visited by my own daughter.”

  My stomach twists at his victim voice. “Illinois is a long way from here.”

  “Your foster parents were an hour’s drive from the prison, and I know they offered to bring you.” Hi
s voice rises, bludgeoning the air between us. “In the eighteen months before college, you never came to see me. Not once.”

  “Because you never called.”

  “Why was it my job to call you? You were the one who put me there.”

  “And that’s why I needed you to call me. To tell me I was forgiven.” My voice cracks on the last word.

  He looks away. He can’t say it.

  My throat grinds out a whisper. “Mom forgave me.”

  His jaw clenches. “Yes, she was good at that. Not like you and me.”

  I enunciate each word. “I’m not like you.”

  He lifts his head to meet my gaze. “You’re exactly like me. We hurt people even when we don’t mean to. And when we do mean to ...” His smile is both proud and diabolical. “The Control told me all about your last con. A masterpiece.”

  My hand clenches around the sandwich, squeezing egg salad over my fingers. “I needed money for college.”

  “So did that man’s children.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Ciara, we do what we have to do.” He comes over and sits on the arm of my chair. “That man was greedy, like all marks. He wanted to get rich quick. He was cheating on his wife, for heaven’s sake. He deserved everything you did to him.” Dad sighs and rests his hands on his knees in a posture of defeat. “I only wish you hadn’t compromised your virtue to make the score. Your mother and I raised you to be decent.”

  I lean away from him and scoff. “What does sex have to do with decency?”

  He doesn’t answer, just cocks his head as if I’m speaking Swahili.

  I glare at him. “I spent my childhood watching you steal from people who weren’t greedy, just gullible. How is that raising me to be decent?”

  He stands and moves away, waving his hand dismissively. “Regardless, I don’t think you should be dating a vampire.”

  My brain goggles at the rapid change in subject. “What?”

  “I’ve lived with them for two years. They only care about feeding their needs.”

  “Shane’s different.”

  “Maybe now he is. But it’s just a matter of time before he decays into a monster.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “And you can’t.”

  I won’t have this argument with him. “I’m only twenty-four. I’m not looking for a husband.”

  “And one day when you hurt him, he won’t crawl away quietly like your last boyfriend did.”

  “This isn’t about the mark, and it’s not about Shane.” I stand and face him. “Say it, Dad. I betrayed you. But you just did the same thing to your own family.”

  He eyes me up and down, coldly. “Yes, I learned about loyalty from the master.”

  My chest tightens. I shouldn’t let him do this to me. I shouldn’t feel guilty. I shouldn’t care how much I’ve hurt this lying, scheming sociopath.

  The tears come anyway. Immediately my father’s at my side, his arms around me.

  “Ciara, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.” He strokes my back in soothing circles. “Angel, please don’t cry.” His voice is rough around the edges, like he’ll break down himself any moment. “It’s not your fault I’m a crook. You just did what you thought was right.”

  “I didn’t know they’d send you away.” I pull back and wipe my face. “I thought you’d get a fine or maybe a few days in the local jail. I just wanted you and Mom to stop so we could have a normal life.”

  “I know. You didn’t realize you were knocking down such a big house of cards.” He picks up a tissue box from the side table and hands it to me. “You didn’t know about the rest of it: the insurance fraud, the phony investment schemes, the identity thefts.”

  His last words stop the flow of my tears. I drag the tissue over my eyes, so hard it pulls my lashes. Time to wrestle my brain back to business.

  I glance at the clock. “I’d better get to bed. I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

  “Ciara, have a seat for just a minute longer.”

  I sit, this time next to him on the couch, though not close enough to touch.

  He folds his hands. “I want to help you.”

  “Help me what?”

  “I know why you and your friends were at that apartment.”

  My face stays straight, even as my mind is screaming Oh shit! “We were just cleaning up.”

  “And gathering her papers so you could pose as her.”

  “We weren’t.” I remember the bugs. “And keep your voice down.”

  “The Control knows about your plan, and they don’t care. It’s not their jurisdiction.”

  “They wouldn’t care if I impersonated one of their agents? Not that I am.”

  “In the short term, all they care about is getting Gideon. I’ve given them enough evidence against him to ensure my freedom—and yours—for a long time.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “Photos. Documentation.” He tugs on the end of his sleeve and looks away. “Physical evidence.”

  I wince. “Were you bitten a lot?”

  “The usual two-week rotation. I’d feel sick and tired the day after, but the rest of the time it wasn’t half-bad.”

  I decide not to undergo the does-being-bitten-feel-good discussion with my father.

  “So tell me your scheme,” he says. “Friday’s the big day, huh?”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Elizabeth’s office is bugged. So are her phone lines. And no, David doesn’t know.”

  I hesitate. He already knows about the scam, so I wouldn’t jeopardize it by telling him. And I could use his help. I’m sure I haven’t thought of all the angles. Saving the station is more important than my pride.

  Speaking of pride, the criminal’s kryptonite, a not-so-small part of me wants to flaunt my work, to show my father what I’ve learned. Show him what I’ve become.

  “All right.” I pick up my sandwich, suddenly hungry again. “Here’s the deal.”

  27

  Everybody Wants to Rule the World

  August 2

  8:00 a.m.

  An anonymous Control agent drives us to the station. It feels odd planning a crime under the watchful eye of a man in uniform, but what my dad said makes sense: out-maneuvering a communications conglomerate is small potatoes next to capturing Gideon. Actually, the scam is big potatoes, but the Control doesn’t eat potatoes. Anyway ...

  The station’s front door is locked as always. I knock.

  “Go around,” says a voice I recognize as Shane’s.

  I lead Dad to the cellar door at the back of the building, the door that connects via a closed corridor to the downstairs lounge. “So they don’t fry,” I explain.

  We come upstairs to find Travis at my desk with his laptop, color printer, and binding machine. Shane and David stand behind him, and Franklin sits at his own desk with a cache of sharpened pencils within reach.

  Shane steps forward. “Ciara, what’s he doing here?”

  I walk over to him. “Dad’s going to help us with the con.”

  “You told him?”

  “He already knew.” I look at David. “The Control bugged Elizabeth’s office and phones.”

  David grimaces and lets out a sharp exhale. “What about my office? What about downstairs?”

  “I don’t know,” my dad says, “but I could check if you like.”

  David’s shoulders sag in relief. “Thank you. Let’s start in the lounge.”

  When they’re downstairs out of hearing, I turn to Shane. “You could be a little friendlier to my dad.”

  “He looks at me like I’m a circus lion about to turn on my tamer.”

  “Ooh, I’m your tamer?” I tug his shirt collar to bring his mouth to mine. “Let me get my whip and chair.”

  Travis clears his throat. “When y’all get your tongues off each other’s tonsils, I’ll show you the file.” With a few swift mouse moves, he displays a two-page print preview. One page contains a surreptitious p
hoto of the real Elizabeth, followed by a list of fun facts about her. “All we gotta do is replace the information with disinformation.”

  I pull his digital camera out of my lower drawer and turn to Franklin. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mister DeMille.”

  In the parking lot, Franklin shoots me doing mundane things like walking to my—I mean, Elizabeth’s— Mercedes. To simulate candidness, I pick my teeth in the rearview mirror.

  Soon David and my father join us. Franklin starts snapping shots of David. I scan the woods for the Control agents I know are patrolling, but even in the morning light I can’t see them in their mottled green daytime uniforms. I doubt Gideon would send a human to do his work, anyway, so we’re probably safe until dark.

  Dad stands next to me, chin in hand, examining David.

  “Hold everything,” he says suddenly. “I have an idea.”

  David stops his charade of casualness and turns to my dad as if awaiting orders from General Patton.

  “I know what this con is missing.” Dad takes a dramatic pause. “Emotion.”

  I ask him to explain, knowing I’ll regret it.

  “These Skywave folks,” he says, “won’t believe Elizabeth has changed her mind just for the money. After all, the whole reason she was improving the station was so she could sell it.” He points at David. “What if she has a better reason to keep it?”

  “I don’t get it,” I say, though I actually do. I just don’t want to be the one to explain it to my boss.

  “Hear me out.” Dad slips into sales mode—not that he was ever much out of it. “A relationship gives Elizabeth a plausible motive for keeping the station. After all, she wouldn’t put her ever-lovin’ honey out of work.”

  David looks at him, then me, with more than a touch of trepidation. “So we pretend we’re going out.”

  I gasp. “No, more than that.” I reach into my—I mean, Elizabeth’s—purse and pull out the tiny black jewelry box.

  David advances on me. “You stole the ring?”

  “I was going to give it to you, once you’d wised up enough to take it.”

  He snatches the box from me and opens it, looking relieved it’s not empty.

  “A good con is all in the details.” I reach forward and pull out the ring, then slip it on my finger. “We get a picture of me wearing this and maybe us holding hands.”