What Lies Hidden

by C G Cooper

  He slumped to his knees, riding a riptide of exhaustion. Without knowing how he got there, he found himself on his back, covering his face with his hands as the woman aimed kicks at his head.

  The tall man pulled her away. With a hand on her back, he propelled her up the aisle. Mac tried to grab the man’s ankle, but he was already out of reach. As the world began to swim, the tall man said in his metallic voice, “Remember, this is for science.”

  Mac blinked, and his enemies were gone.

  Chapter Twenty

  Kreisburg was still shouting when Mac woke up. Unless the old man had an iron throat, Mac figured that meant he hadn’t been out for long.

  “Shut up a minute,” Mac said.

  “You with me, Boxer? What’s happening?”.

  He used the sound of Kreisburg’s voice to locate his missing hearing aid. He tucked it in his pocket.

  “I passed out a second,” said Mac. “I think—”

  A fog had settled in over his memory. He caught glimpses of the past few minutes but not roll film in brilliant color. The balaclavas had beaten him badly, though he’d gotten a few licks in.

  Then what?

  He saw himself sitting on a pew, being held down by the woman and the skull-faced kid. What had happened next was sidewalk chalk in the rain. His jaw hurt. The tall man had pistol-whipped him, he remembered. The snap of his head must have knocked him out, a flash KO. Whatever else had gone down, at least the balaclava gang had left him alive.

  “Where’s Tentpole?” he said.

  Kreisburg said, “Through the arch, upstairs.”

  As fast as he could drag his battered body, Mac lurched out of the auditorium.

  “There,” said Kreisburg, after Mac had followed his directions. “Door on the left.” His voice cracked like cheap crystal.

  Without pausing to draw the breath he sorely needed, Mac threw open the door. As soon as he flipped on the light switch, he saw Lynn lying in the middle of the classroom, surrounded by toppled student desks. Her hair was matted with blood and one arm was extended, the palm open. Mac went to her, touched two fingers to her neck.

  “She’s alive,” he said to Kreisburg. “It’s bad, though. We need a wagon.”

  “I’ll call it in,” said Kreisburg.

  “I’ll, uh, I’ll let the president know.”

  “No. I’ll do that, too. You concentrate on getting out.”

  “I will. I just—”

  “Make sure she’s stable.”

  “I will. I am.”

  He felt the gash in the top of Lynn’s head. It was deep but not arterial. He was too scared to shift her neck without a brace so he contented himself with checking her out without rolling her over. The upturned hand puzzled him until he saw that her weapon was missing. His hand went to his jaw reflexively, feeling the place where cold metal had knocked him out for a split-second. Lynn twitched when he placed a hand on her back, feeling for contusions, but she didn’t make a sound.

  “Get out of there, Boxer,” said Kreisburg. “Help’s on the way.”

  “I don’t know if I can leave her.”

  “I ain’t asking.”

  “She’s not—”

  “Get on your feet and get out. She’s tough. She’ll make it.”

  He straightened up. Lynn’s blood was on his right hand, making his fingers sticky. He stuck the hand in his pocket to remind himself not to use it on the way out. There were damp patches on both knees, too, but he’d been smart enough not to walk through any of the red stuff.

  Looking down at Lynn, he said, “E kala mai iaʻu.” Please forgive me.

  He jogged through the auditorium. Passing the baptismal font, he put a foot wrong and dipped his elbow in the basin, fouling the holy water. By the time he got clear of the church, he felt as bouncy as a wet sack. It was a long walk to the townhouse.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The hidden cameras of St. Alban’s hadn’t carried a bright enough picture to pick out the details of the fight. Shadows danced and tumbled. Mac saw himself seated, as he hazily remembered, and the motions of the tall shadow stirred something in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t make it out. Tomorrow morning he’d book in for a physical, he resolved. But he wouldn’t tell Kreisburg about the memory loss. He couldn’t risk the old man pulling him off the mission that was his last, best hope to get back his life.

  Peeling off his clothes was slow torture, but he got it done. A hot shower helped him feel like his ribs weren’t jabbing out through his skin, though he still felt compelled to move without twisting like a marionette. The bathrobe Chandra had graciously left hanging on a hook behind the bathroom door was a size too small but had the texture of warm whipped cream.

  Shuffling like a senior citizen, he went into the living room and was about to drop onto the sofa when the doorbell rang. He checked the clock over the TV. It was still early, just a few minutes after nine. Wishing he had popped some Tylenol before showering, he walked to the door and looked through the peephole.

  Emma Jarrald was shivering on the doorstep. Her overcoat was disheveled and her makeup, except her perfectly applied purple lipstick, askew. She fell into Mac’s arms as soon as he opened the door. Recoiling from the alcohol on her breath, he pushed her away.

  “Is that any way to say hi?” said Emma. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him, but he lifted his chin to avoid her kiss. “Fine,” she said, slinking by him into the hall. “Nobody loves me tonight.”

  “You’re drunk,” said Mac.

  “I’m cold,” she said, stumbling into the living room. “Get in here and warm me up.”

  Mac closed the door, but didn’t lock it. He had every intention of seeing her out.

  “I saw you at Grover’s tonight,” she called as he rounded the corner. “You didn’t see me. Ran out of there like the devil was chasing you.”

  “It did remind me of hell,” he said. “I’m more of a beach music guy. Look, sweetheart, I’m flattered you dropped by, but I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “I’m full of good ideas, or bad, if that’s what you want.” She slipped out of her coat. The dress it had been hiding could best be described as suggestive of its own presence, like consonants in French. Made of ivory satin, it clung to her like saran wrap, vaguely obscuring her from neck to knees.

  Mac tightened his belt. “Your friend Tad was at Grover’s, too.”

  “He was. He left after you did.”

  “Did you have a fight?”

  “With Taddy? Never. Tad doesn’t fight. He barely raises his voice when I make him say my name. And anyway, we don’t see each other outside of school. Not officially.”

  “Why not?”

  “Daddy doesn’t like it. Officially, Tad’s a friend. A buddy. A pal. He’s never even seen this dress on his floor.”

  She bent over to switch on a table lamp and nearly toppled off her four-inch heels. Mac took a step in her direction, reaching out to steady her. Instead of rolling an ankle, she plopped onto the sofa. Her legs went on to forever.

  “Come on,” she said, patting the cushion beside her. “I need body heat.”

  Standing in the borrowed robe with the shower’s warmth bleeding away, he felt exposed and strangely guilty for a guy who hadn’t even kissed his date goodnight. “C’mon. This isn’t right.”

  “You’re too decent, Mac. That’s your problem.” She stood with surprising agility, grasped both of his hands, and tilted back toward the seat.

  Her weight wasn’t anything. He could have braced her with an eyelash. But his chest ached and itched, and what he really wanted to do was make like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Fighting this girl didn’t seem worth the effort. He sat down.

  “What’s that?” she said, pointing to his jaw. “It looks like— Did somebody hit you?”

  “Ran into a door,” he said automatically. To dress up the lie he added, “On the way out of Grover’s. The bouncer — Fred, was it? — he got a good laugh.”
/>   “Eddie,” said Emma. She made a comment about what Eddie was, anatomically speaking. Then she said, “What happened at the club tonight?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  She pointed at his bruise again. “That doesn’t look like handling.”

  “You’ve got the wrong idea.”

  “Then give me a right one.” She slipped her hand inside his robe, fanning her fingers over his chest. “You need some tender loving care, Mac.”

  He pulled away. “It hasn’t been my night.”

  “It could be,” she slurred.

  “What about Tad?” Mac asked.

  “Tad’s a good time, that’s all.”

  “Aren’t you with somebody? I can’t imagine a woman like you…”

  “That’s the problem. Most men can’t imagine,” she pouted.

  She got up on her knees, leaning over him so that he was forced to either prop her up or let her fall. His knuckles had absorbed too much abuse from the truncheon to resist her squirming. She slipped inside his guard. Her lips were soft, her skin blazing. She tasted like the first wave of morning.

  It was Emma who pulled away. Lust drained out of her face, along with most of the color. A pink rose bloomed on each cheek.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Wasn’t so bad,” said Mac.

  She crawled off of him and wrapped herself up in her coat, concealing the mini dress so thoroughly that Mac thought he’d dreamt it. “You were right before. About Tad. It’s complicated. But it’s something, ya know?”

  “Sure,” said Mac. “It’s okay. I’m used to not being something.” He meant it, too.

  Emma clopped into the hallway unsteadily. She looked briefly back and said, “Be careful, Mac. You deserve better than– Just be careful.”

  “I will,” he said automatically. Then his brain caught up with what she had said. “Better than what?”

  The door opened and closed. She was gone. He wanted to go after her, but his muscles were jelly. It felt like his body had slipped out of gear. No matter how high he revved the engine, he couldn’t spin the wheels. Darkness closed over him, despite the lights being on.

  Sometime in the night, he dreamt of Anne-Jeanette Keyes. Shimmering hair framed her beautiful face as she leaned over him, massaging something cool and fragrant into his chest. Touching his face, she said, “This game’s too grown-up for you, darling.”

  Then she was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  — One Week Earlier: Tiffany —

  Tiffany had less than a second to decide. Was the person opening the door from the roof of Morris Hall an enemy or a potential ally? Having been warned to distrust optimism by Velvet, she kicked back against the door. She couldn’t tell if this had improved the situation, but she didn’t stop to ponder.

  Grasping the ends of the handrails, she launched herself down the stairs with all her might. Her boots struck Niko in the shoulder, sending him crashing against the drywall. His head made a dent.

  Spinning away, Tiffany heard him shout, “Cora!” He was still disguising his voice.

  Cora was mounting a few steps below. At the sound of her code name, she lifted her head. Before she could register what was happening, Tiffany barreled into her, spoiling her grip on the railing. Cora fell back, pivoted, and caught herself with the other hand as Tiffany ricocheted off the wall.

  There was no pain in Tiffany’s leg now, no ache in her shoulder where it had impacted the lower doors. The stairs rumbled by like planks on a roller coaster. Leaping down them three at a time, she plunged into the welcoming abyss that swept up to meet her, twisting to help her navigate its bends.

  Putting all her energy into staying upright, she blessed the swiftness of gravity and trusted herself to its embrace. Down was safety. Down was freedom. She pursued it with abandon.

  A jolt like lightning pulled her up short. She screamed even before she felt a pain like razor blades carving up her scalp. Thrashing her limbs, she looked back to see Cora gripping her fuzzy hat in one hand and a tangle of her hair in the other. She scratched at the black-clad woman and tried to claw her eyes out. Cora kicked her in the gut. She coughed dryly and would have fallen had she been free.

  “Pathetic,” said Cora. In contrast to Niko, she made no attempt at disguising her voice. It dripped with contempt, as usual.

  “Let me go,” said Tiffany. She wanted to shout it, but didn’t have the breath.

  Cora jabbed a boot into Tiffany’s hip. Caught off guard, Tiffany clattered painfully against the handrail. Still clawing like a cat, she took another swipe at Cora’s face. Ducking, Cora spun behind and cracked the back of her head with an elbow. Flashing lights and nausea doubled Tiffany over.

  Cora kicked out the back of Tiffany’s knee, tripping her away from the handrail. Pulling her close, Cora locked in a rear neck choke. Thrashing only made it tighter. Tiffany’s world narrowed, constricting into a red tunnel awash in heat haze.

  The next thing she knew, she was being carried. Niko had her arms and Cora her legs. They were carrying her up the stairs; they had already passed the fire hose where she had hidden her phone. She could hear footsteps trooping down from the direction of the roof and knew that in moments her situation was going to go from bad to worse.

  With a surge of pure adrenaline, she jerked her leg out from under Cora’s arm and tried to twist away from Niko. He was too strong. No matter how she leveraged her position, he clutched her arms tightly. Cora buried her knee in the underside of Tiffany’s leg, making it go limp. Tiffany writhed, wrenched, and screamed, but the only dividend she received was more pain.

  “Why didn’t you gag her?” said a shadowy figure, appearing from above. His voice sounded husky, unnaturally so.

  “Shut up,” Cora said to him.

  “Cover her,” said Niko.

  The newcomer reached behind his back and withdrew a pistol. He pointed it at Tiffany. She knew better than to expect mercy if she acted like a good girl so she made a another frantic attempt to break away from Niko’s grasp. Niko and Cora held on and carried her up the last flight of stairs. The other man climbed up backwards, a few steps ahead.

  “Don’t do this,” Tiffany said. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes, we do,” said Niko. “It’s for science.”

  They had reached the top.

  “Get the door, Dac,” said Niko.

  “Think you can handle that?” said Cora.

  The code name Niko had used, Dac, was new to Tiffany. In all the secret meetings she’d attended, she’d never seen Niko or Cora or any other DIOS member, aside from Jordan, without a mask. There had been as many as eleven attendees, but Tiffany had concluded long ago that aside from their core group, the others were visitors. Only the four remained consistent: Niko, Cora, Gan, and Ariadne.

  Jordan hated his code name, but of course he never said so to Niko. Tiffany had been his only confidant. It had been the great enterprise of her life to convince him they were in love. She had carried it off so well that she’d started believing the lie herself.

  “Where’s Gan?” Tiffany asked. “Does he know what you’re doing?”

  Cora laughed.

  Niko said, “Gan was weak. He’s gone.”

  Dac opened the door wide, admitting an icy gust that rocked Niko onto his toes. Even Cora recoiled. Tiffany used the distraction to make one last attempt at breaking their hold.

  First, she folded her body forward. Then, she arched her back, twisting. Cora released her legs to punch her in the stomach. Her fist ground into Tiffany’s diaphragm. Tiffany’s breath jetted out in one puff. Niko wrapped his arms around her body, pivoted, and tossed her through the door.

  Cora wrenched the pistol from Dac. “We should just shoot her,” she said.

  “No,” Niko said, calmly.

  He pushed Cora to one side and grabbed Tiffany’s arm. Dac grabbed the other. Before she could resist, Tiffany was hoisted between the two men. Niko
jabbed her solar plexus. She gasped. Pressing a hand to her sternum, he maneuvered her away from the door.

  Off-balance, she tumbled into Dac, who lost his grip. Seizing her chance, she threw a right cross that grazed his chin. He snatched at her, catching hold of her sleeve. She swung, claws out. Her middle finger caught the eye socket of his balaclava. He screamed. As she reeled back, her nail got snagged in the fabric. She jerked the mask off Dac’s head.

  A milk-white face, fleshless as Yorick’s skull, surged at her. He threw up his hands, but it was too late. She had seen the pain in his bleeding, gray eye.

  “Jordan?” Tiffany asked. She caught Niko’s meaning immediately. The man she’d known as Gan wasn’t dead, only the name. And with it, the quiet, mild soul she’d loved.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  — Day Three: Mac —

  Blinking at the surprising amount of light in the living room, Mac rolled off the couch. There was a crick like a clenched fist in his neck. A sour taste roved over his tongue. The hammering at the front door felt like it was happening inside his skull.

  His shoulders cracked as he stretched, but he felt a little better afterward. The knocking came again. He opened his mouth to shout, “I’m coming,” but his throat was too raw to bother. Scratching through a gritty haze, he tried to remember what had sapped his strength.

  The beating he’d taken was vivid enough, but it felt like there was something else holding him down. It took a heroic effort to shift his own weight. He pushed through, imagining he’d just been thrown off a swell and had to paddle to shore despite sucking seawater. Actually, that didn’t feel far off. He coughed loudly, and a little of his strength rolled back in on the tide.

  The knocking brought a twinge to his temples. He peered through the peephole. Tipped off by the darkening of the tiny lens, Chance gave an inquisitive look. Mac opened the door.