It was a good thing, too.
Almost a half hour later, he watched her step into a small bodega on Perelman. This was a rough neighborhood, but she moved with easy familiarity, ignoring everything because it was the usual, the expected.
She came out just as the street lamps were flickering on, with a small net bag. Oranges, and something green, and a bottle of cheap red wine. A small bit of cheese. No wonder she was so thin, if she ate rabbit food all the time. Looked like a night alone for her.
At least, he was pretty sure she was alone. He didn’t smell anyone else on her, not even a cat.
Four years ago he wouldn’t have known, just a regular soldier with dim connectors in his brain, a happy-go-lucky idiot. How the hell had he ever managed to get through basic training without the invaders? How had he survived the state home, and the tours of duty, or anything else?
At least the virus gave him a chance. You got used to the perks pretty damn quickly. You went through a phase of thinking you were invincible. Then came something like Tangiers.
He shook his head, dropping back as she sped up. She nipped aside into a run-down four-story building; he gave her a good head start. Most of the time he just made sure she got to the door all right, just like a gentleman should. Tonight, however...he’d been a good boy. He could use a little reward, right?
Inside the foyer, there was a wall of brass-door mailboxes. The place had seen much better days before being chopped up into studios and one bedrooms. She’d definitely passed this way, heading for the stairs. Cheap food, desperation, the close fug of people living all piled together. Four big black trash bags jammed against the opposite side of the foyer, someone’s bicycle chained to the newel post of a Gilded Age staircase. Wood flooring peeked out from under scarred linoleum.
It was child’s play to find her mailbox. It all but reeked of her, and he put a fingertip against its chilly metal door. CANDLESS, the tag said. Could be a previous tenant. Top floor, 4D.
Not even a buzzer on the front. Security nightmare. Did she have real locks? He glanced around to make sure he had exit routes, then climbed the stairs and peered down the hall. She was down at the end. There was an emergency exit, but it was chained shut. A fire would trap everyone in here like rats in a cage.
The building breathed around him, roaches in the cracked walls, someone on the bottom floor cooking enchiladas, and that door at the end of the hall, reeling him in like a fishing line—4D. What would the space behind it look like? Pink and frilly? She was girly, but maybe not in that way. A woman, living alone—he’d bet she didn’t even have a goldfish. She didn’t go anywhere after work, except occasionally the bodega. No parties, unless she sneaked out past midnight.
He’d stayed a long while, once or twice, just to see.
Reese had his hand raised to knock on her door before he realized what the hell he was doing and backed away.
She was a civilian, for God’s sake. He was just making sure she was safe.
It took him the entire way home to make his hands stop shaking. Now he knew precisely where she lived, not just the building. So what if he’d been tempted to knock? What the hell would he have said? Hi, I followed you home, but don’t call the police? Christ.
He got the hell out of there.
It didn’t help that when he got back to the residence, he had his first respectable hard-on since Tangiers. He took an icy shower—his bathroom was probably as big as her entire apartment—and told himself to calm and never, ever go near that diner again. The needle pricks in his arms ached deeply, relentlessly.
He already knew he wasn’t going to listen.
* * *
Working the Friday middle shift always gave her a headache. Antony was not making it any better, because he was getting desperate and kept following her around. “You can close up. Help me out here.”
“You’re not paying me overtime, Tony.” Her feet ached, too. That fifty under the register could buy another decent pair of shoes. Either that or a hammer to fix her headache. She hadn’t been able to eat this morning, either. A beautiful salad, gone to waste. Not even oranges tasted good anymore. “No dice.”
“Like you’ve got something to do after work? Come on, Holly! I’ve got courtside seats!”
She shook her head, four plates in her arms and a fresh ketchup for table eight tucked in her apron. He’d been after her ever since she arrived. It wasn’t his fault Angie had come down with the flu and they were already one short. Nobody else was due in until eight, and it was going to be a long time until then. Maybe she should be flattered that he trusted her to close up, but he probably would sign the diner over to the devil himself for a stand-in at this point.
“Anything else I can get you?” she asked every table, and of course there always was. Some days were like that—none of your tables were outright awful, but they all changed their minds a million times or they thought of some extra thing they just had to have.
At least when she was running through the dinner rush Tony couldn’t really put the screws to her. Even the counter was full, each stool taken, and she didn’t notice the guy on the far end in the familiar canvas jacket, a blue baseball cap pulled low over his dark eyes. Working the counter was Tony’s job, with Brenda doing backup, and Brenda had enough trouble taking half Angie’s tables as well.
The crowning event of the night was a piss-soaked drunk passing out in the men’s room, but Juan the night cook took care of that, heading right back into the kitchen to crank out special after special. Bart was in there, too, furiously chopping and prepping, and the busser tonight was dreamy Eduardo, who was excruciatingly slow but at least never stopped shuffling while he stared into each tub of dishes like it held the Holy Grail.
Her calves and lower back were solid bars of nauseating pain by the time she looked up and noticed it was seven thirty and the rush was clearing. Two minutes in the ladies’—her first break since she’d walked in—got her face splashed with cold water and her hair pulled back again, this time just in a ponytail. She barely managed to haul herself upright after sitting on the toilet, scrubbed up and headed back out to get her last tables sent off with a smile even though she’d dry-heaved over the sink a bit. The nausea just wouldn’t quit.
At least the tips were good.
Tony started in again as she was bent over a table, scrubbing up the last of a toddler’s birthday ice cream. Cute kid, chubby cheeked and flaxen haired, but he’d spread the damn dessert everywhere and probably eaten the cheap stick candle, too.
Tony’s tie was a little askew and his cheeks were flushed, his proud beak of a nose dotted with sweat. “Come on, Holly. I’m dying here. I can make the second half if you close up for me.”
“No, Tony. I can’t.”
“What you got that’s so important?” He waved his hands, his gold pinkie ring flashing. There was a diamond in it, a microscopic one he was inordinately proud of.
Her temper almost snapped. None of your business. The rag went into the tub; she hefted it and stepped back, almost colliding with him. Even with the weight she’d lost recently she could knock him over, having a head’s worth of height on him. “Laura and Benny are due in at eight. Maybe one of them can help you out.”
“You’re killing me!” Tony moaned, and she was startled into a laugh. She set off for the counter, hissing an out breath as her back cramped a little.
“You’re the boss, Tony. With great power, you know. Great responsibility.” She cut the corner too close and almost bumped into a customer. “Whoops, sorry.”
“No worries.” The voice was familiar, and she stopped dead.
It was the mystery man, and he’d actually eaten, for once. Looked like a short stack and over-easy, four stripes on the side. And orange juice. Breakfast for dinner. Well, some people liked that. The thought of over-easy eggs made her even more queasy, though.
They had been Phillip’s favorite. I want a divorce, Holl. She’d sat at the kitchen table for a long time that day, then gotten up and hadn’t stopped moving since, it felt like.
“Oh.” All the breath ran out of her. “Hi. Reese, right?”
“Yeah. Hi.” That nice smile, and he looked just fine. Not pale or anything, and she could have sworn he was bruised the other day, but he didn’t seem to be now. Maybe he’d just been jet-lagged. Nobody ever looked good coming off an airplane. He looked at her face as if she had something growing on it, dark eyes narrowing just a little. “No coffee this time.”
“Did you want some?” She was suddenly, acutely aware of the sweat soaking through her uniform, her sloppy ponytail, and that she probably looked like hell. Certainly not worth the once-over he was giving her.
Why do I care? It wasn’t like it mattered. Sooner or later her body was going to just give out. Until then, she was simply marking time, getting along with the least amount of mess possible. If she vanished tomorrow someone would grouse about how she didn’t show up for her shift, but nobody would feel any wrenching pain. Tony would hire a new waitress, maybe one even younger and more brassy than Ginny, and that would be that.
At least, that was the plan, and Holly intended to stick to it.
A ghost of a smile showed up on Reese’s face. “Only if you’re pouring.”
Did it taste better when she poured, or was it just this guy being weird all over again? It didn’t matter, she decided. Even if he did look a lot better now. He probably cleaned up very well. Imagining him in a suit didn’t hurt anything, and it even made her feel a tickle of amusement. “I can, sure. Just give me a minute.”
Tony muttered as he punched at the cash register down at the other end of the counter, running off the after-rush numbers. He really did love his basketball. She almost felt charitable enough to agree to close up for him.
Almost.
Brenda, her spray-lacquered hair in place and her drawn-on eyebrows giving her a perpetually surprised expression, shook her chunky blue plastic earrings as she put together a fresh pot of coffee. “If he asks me one more time I’m going to dump him in the fryer.”
“I’ll help,” Holly muttered. “Hey, what’s with the guy at the counter?”
Brenda peered around the coffee cubby’s edge. “Him? Polite, no trouble.” It was the highest praise a waitress could give. “Why?”
No reason. But she had one, thankfully. “He’s a regular. Tips well.”
“Good. I could use it.” Brenda sighed. “God, I need a smoke.”
A long time ago Holly might have told her to quit anyway, it was a bad habit. With things as they were, though, she didn’t waste the breath. “Go on, I’ll handle it. Just don’t let Tony talk you into anything.”
When she came back, Reese was looking down the long polished stripe of the counter. “Busy night.”
“Fridays.” She set the cup down and poured. At least it was fresh. Eduardo had cleared the mystery man’s plate and moved on to Brenda’s half of the diner. “You did it again last time.”
Did he look startled? His eyes really were very dark, barely any difference between iris and pupil. “Did what?”
“The tip.” She felt her eyebrows go all the way up, a comical feeling. Tony had headed to the office—he was probably going to call his bookie and complain about missing the game.
Reese shrugged. That was it. No explanation, nothing. Was he embarrassed?
“I can get you your change right now, if you want,” she persisted. “Because, you know, I thought it was a mistake.”
“Again?” He leaned forward on the counter, bracing his elbows. “No. No mistake.”
How could a place go from being so full one minute to practically empty the next? Eduardo had another tubful and was heading back to deposit them for Jackie the dishwasher. Who was no doubt listening to ranchero hip-hop while he scrubbed and kept up a steady stream of half-whispered invective. Brenda was in the alley smoking, and the office door closed behind Tony with a thud. Every table was bare.
“Okay. Well, thank you.” She took a step back.
“You’re welcome.” He kept watching her. “Can I ask you something?”
“I guess.” She braced herself. Aha. Here it comes. She was already rehearsing how to let him down easy. I’m married, she could say. She’d said it before. Or even I’m a lesbian. Now there was a new one. Would it work?
His shoulders relaxed a little. Maybe he was just nervous. “Do you ever wonder where people go when they leave here? You know, try to guess who they are, what they do?”
It wasn’t what she’d expected, so it took her a couple seconds to shift mental gears. “Doesn’t everyone who works this kind of job? I mean, it’s natural to wonder about people.” She rested the coffeepot on the counter. Juan, back in the kitchen, yelled something at Bart, who replied in the same tone. Something about scrubbing down the grill. “Like you, for example.”
“You wonder about me?” He even looked a little pleased, that faint ghost of a smile intensifying.
Well, now she’d gone and done it. “We wonder about all our regulars.”
“I’m a regular?” Surprised, and maybe a little horrified.
His expression was pretty priceless, so she actually laughed, cupping her free hand over her mouth as if to catch it. “Sort of. Barb—she’s here in the mornings—well, we call you the mystery man.”
His smile in return was...really nice. The image of him in a charcoal-gray suit, the tie loosened just a little, wouldn’t go away. “Oh. I’m really kind of boring.”
Well, that’s a relief. Me, too, and I want it kept that way. “Oh?” Everyone wanted to talk about themselves. As long as you let them, you could get away with not saying much about your own life.
Mostly.
“Yeah. I work...security.”
Huh. And you have such nice big shoulders. I’ll bet you loom really well. She examined him, critically. “You don’t look like a rent-a-cop.”
“Not that kind. I’m sort of a consultant.” He lifted the coffee cup, blew across the top. No bandages, just some pretty livid scratches.
“Your hands are a lot better.”
“It looked worse than it was.”
“Oh.” She searched for a polite escape. “Well, I’m glad. Listen...”
“I’m listening.”
She reached over and scooped up his ticket. “This one’s on me. Okay?”
Now that got a reaction. “There’s no need for that.” His hand shot out, but she was too quick for him; she already had it tucked in her apron.
She stepped back, hurriedly. “Call it relief. Last time you were in, you looked pretty thrashed. Jet lag can really wallop you.” Why am I doing this?
Even if you were looking to leave a room quietly, there was no reason to leave a mess, right? No reason not to be kind while she was waiting to go.
“Holly...”
The grin on her face felt strange, because it was genuine. “You can say thank you,” she informed him. He wasn’t so bad after all. Just strange, but that was okay. She headed for the register, her back not cramping so much now that she’d had a bit of a breather. “Leave a good tip for Brenda. She’s got kids.”
“Thank you. I really wish you’d—”
The swinging doors burst open, and Benny—six foot plus of good-natured pacifist Samoan, with gentle eyes and light feet—threw his hands in the air. “I have arrived, good peoples!”
“Benny in the house!” she called back, and didn’t notice Reese the mystery man’s hand slipping away from his waistband. “Be careful, Tony’s going to try to con you into closing.”
“On a Friday? Oh yeah, the Toppers are playing.” The front doorbell chimed, and Benny dropped his arms, a little sheepishly. Sometimes peo
ple thought his size meant he was scary. “Was that a dine and ditch?”
“Hmm? No, I’ve got it right here.” Holly glanced up and stopped. “Huh.”
The Crossroads was empty. Reese was gone. He’d left a twenty, though.
Brenda was happy about that; she didn’t even notice Holly was a little...disappointed? Was that the word?
Let it go, Holl, she told herself yet again. Getting involved, even just overly friendly, wasn’t a luxury she was allowed.
Even if she—useless to deny it—wouldn’t mind just a tiny taste of it, one more time.
* * *
His arms itched, and he’d almost put the drop on the guy. Just a waiter. That would be great, to walk into his next eval and lay that on the table. I killed a waiter. Because he startled me.
It had been going pretty damn great up until then. She’d dropped her guard, visibly deciding he wasn’t a stalker. Laid the groundwork, nice and careful, then almost ruined it.
He could still call off the strike. All it would take was staying away. He wasn’t real enough to get close to her, even. He was an agent, a ghost in the machine, an invisible man. It was pretty likely that he’d try to help her and get misinterpreted, or worse, mess everything up just like the idiot he was. He should stay well away—it was best for her.
So why was he here in the rain without his hat, watching the alley? Why hadn’t he gone back to residence, dried off, poured himself a shot of something alcoholic and useless? You had to drink a lot to outpace the invaders.
His fingers drifted across his hip. He couldn’t feel the little telltale bump under the skin, but he knew it was there, a small silver cylinder inserted under the skin. He hadn’t been able to determine if it was live or just a passive beacon, though he’d gotten offgrid with it a couple times now. Technology was great, but transmitters still had a hard time with foil.
That little bump was a very good reason for leaving a kind, pretty little waitress alone. No matter how good she smelled.
It was dark when she came out. No laughter this time, just the head down, don’t-look-at-me walk. Her hair was loose, spilling against the shoulders of her plastic-gleaming raincoat. He probably could have followed her a lot more closely, but why? Hanging back was good practice.
Agent Zero Page 4
