Evolution

by Hope Anika

  Altered.

  Forever. And not for the better.

  So she and Ruslan had shared a pepperoni pizza and itemized everything they knew on the large grease board in the conference room; unfortunately there’d been no earthshattering epiphanies as a result. Then she’d curled up on the small loveseat in her office, while Ruslan had taken the bigger couch in the lobby, and she’d lain in the dark and listened to the old building settle, painfully aware of his presence.

  Being annoyed with him—being angry about his secrets—was easy. She was good at being angry. And his cold intransigence only fed the fire, making him the perfect target. A man whose secrets endangered them all; a man carved from the hardest stone, one who watched the world with taciturn indifference and a detachment she had no idea how to bridge. The very thing that drew her to him also repelled her, and that made her mad, too.

  Especially when—for one brief moment—he’d looked at her as though he was anything but repelled, only to reject her a heartbeat later.

  And not one stinking answer.

  Except for his tattoo. He’d shared that small piece of himself with words so cold and remote, he might have been telling the story of another. But he sought answers. Which meant he cared very much about where he’d come from. Who had borne him; why they marked and then abandoned him.

  I was not raised with human contact, and I am uncomfortable with the intimacy of such contact.

  Yes, anger was easy. Because for all that Ash despised her father, he had touched her with kindness upon occasion. When she was little there had been hugs. Piggyback rides. Even a kiss or two. And while that would never make up for his penchant for casual physical violence and emotional abuse, it was more than Ruslan had ever experienced.

  Perspective. An important and often elusive ingredient in life.

  “It’s not perspective you need, ding dong,” she told herself, annoyed. “It’s objectivity.”

  Because things with Ruslan were beginning to feel very, very personal, and that simply could not be. He was not a man to get attached to—not in any way, shape or form—and Ash had no desire to ever be attached to any man.

  So what the hell was her problem? Why did she feel so connected to him?

  They had zero in common.

  Just because she was attracted to him...big whoop. She was human. Female. Shocker. And if the thoughts—and images—that had begun to pop into her head were a little startling, well, she wasn’t dead. Her physical response to the man was nothing to get her panties in a wad over.

  Just something to get her panties wet.

  “For crying out loud,” she muttered.

  No. There were simply too many unanswered questions tied to Ruslan. His sudden, inexplicable appearance, his miraculous possession of a PI license, his stubborn insistence that he had to repay the debt he owed...a debt still not fully explained. And now, there was his tattoo, which just happened to match the markings left on Anson Grant’s living room wall nearly six years ago, and which could not be a coincidence.

  Not by any stretch.

  So she was not going to follow her libido down the rabbit’s hole.

  Besides, Ruslan was incapable of reciprocation; the bronze man, forever frozen in space and time.

  And a man she couldn’t trust, no matter how much she wanted to.

  “This is a big enough shitstorm as it is,” she muttered.

  True story.

  Designer baby juice and experimental children. Men and women playing God, and unpredictable manifestations—whatever the hell that meant. Conspiracy and men in black and alchemic symbols scrawled like a gang sign in a dead geneticist’s living room.

  The dread that had bled through her while combing through the documents left to them by Joe Pierce had solidified into a cold, leaden weight in her chest, and her instincts said it was just the tip of the iceberg. Inside of her a cold, unwavering knowing had been born, and it wasn’t something she could explain. But it wasn’t anything good.

  Especially with Wylie and the girls on the run toward a place that may or may not be safe—because Ruslan was correct. Assuming the cabin was any more secure than the Vault had been was just foolish, and Ash could only hope that however those assholes had found the Vault, they hadn’t located the cabin, too, or they were all royally screwed. And then there was Eva Pierce, who was a whopping twelve years old, who had a now-missing guardian, and was likely a GenTek Primary.

  Fantastic.

  Ash had tried calling the number Joe left: straight to voicemail. And while she could only hope he was laying low, after yesterday’s adventures, she wasn’t feeling particularly optimistic. Especially when she thought about that file, which seemed like the passing of an ominous torch.

  A torch she didn’t want.

  Because if Joe was dead... What were they going to do with Eva? Making an adult disappear wasn’t difficult: a change in appearance, a new identity. You could put them on a plane, a train, a bus, and then it was on them. But a twelve-year-old...she needed care.

  Parents.

  And if she was a Primary...good gravy. How did one even begin to deal with a genetically superior kid who—

  “You’re getting ahead of yourself,” she said. Paranoia and dread taking control. “Rein it in.”

  Because maybe Joe was alive. Maybe she and Ruslan would figure this thing out, maybe they would resolve it, and maybe Joe and Eva would ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after.

  And maybe you’re a delusional freak show.

  Regardless, first thing first: figure out who was hunting Eva. Why.

  And how to stop them.

  But before that, there was the piece of paper on the desk in front of her, which she had been avoiding. Another promise she shouldn’t have made—but which couldn’t be broken—and another responsibility she didn’t want, but which she had taken on.

  Again: dumbass. When would she learn?

  She looked down at Butch’s notes and sighed.

  Jace Folsom. 15. Son of Marguerite, brother of Jesse. Been in trouble for theft, vandalism and battery. Kicked out of school in April. Took off three weeks ago. No computer, phone gone. Jesse checked with the kid’s friends and ex-girlfriend, no dice.

  Likes: video games, death metal and bong hits. Dislikes: cops and responsibility.

  Jesse says his brother is “different.” Volatile, impatient, lacking in empathy. Very intelligent. (see: sociopath). Jesse convinced he wouldn’t just disappear. Mother’s sick—breast cancer. Stepfather is abusive. Says Jace wouldn’t abandon them. He thinks someone else is involved, but doesn’t know who.

  I call bullshit. This kid is a RUNAWAY. And you can’t find someone who wants to be lost.

  Nice. Thanks, Butch.

  Still, he was probably right. Jesse’s brother had—more than likely—just taken off. Fifteen, headstrong, full of testosterone, piss and vinegar. A sick mom he couldn’t help and didn’t know how to deal with; a bully for a stepparent. An older brother to pick up the pieces.

  Not a lot of hope there.

  The phone rang, startling her, and for a moment, she simply stared at it. But there was a business to run and communicating with the outside world was a necessary evil.

  She picked it up. “You’ve reached the Firm.”

  “Hey, sweet pea, what are you doing answering the phone?” Shirley’s west Texas drawl made relief immediately flutter through Ash. Safe. She was safe. Considering the woman was three thousand miles away in the Florida Keys, Ash had prayed that was true. But to hear that sweet southern accent was music to her ears. “I told Wanda that was her job while I was gone.”

  “She’s busy,” Ash said. “How’s the vacay?”

  “Hotter than hell; my sweat is sweating. I miss the damned desert, if you can believe that.” Shirley sighed. “And my sister is driving me crazy. Why a fifty-five year old woman thinks a thong is a good idea, I’ll never know.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “Buried in ce
llulite. How’s it going there?”

  “All is well,” Ash lied cheerfully, because really, nothing good would come of telling the truth. Shirley would only hop on the first flight out, and Ash didn’t want another person to worry about. Of course, that was assuming Shirley was safe where she was, but being on the other side of the country had to help.

  Right?

  “I called your cell last night,” Shirley continued, “and it went straight to voicemail. So did everyone else’s. I got kind of worried.”

  “We’ve been out of pocket,” Ash said. “A new case, kind of a pain in the ass.”

  “A new case? That’s fantastic. What kind of case?”

  Ash stared down at Butch’s notes. “Missing person.”

  “Well, good. I know it’s been slow, and you’ve been worried.”

  We’ve all been worried. Shirley didn’t have to say it; Ash knew it was true. Shirley had worked for Charlie for the last three years, and although she only worked part-time answering phones and running errands, she relied on that income to survive. The older woman was another one of Charlie’s broken birds, rescued from an abusive husband after Charlie had stumbled across her in the first aid aisle of the local drug store. Bruised and hollow-eyed, one arm broken, she’d been trying to open her purse to pay for her purchases when Charlie stepped in, paid for her items and then coerced her into a cup of coffee and the baring of her mortal soul.

  Not an uncommon occurrence with Charlie.

  One week later, the Firm had a new part-time receptionist, and Shirley’s husband had mysteriously disappeared. Or “relocated” as Charlie liked to say. Tersely, in a tone that brooked no further questions. Ash had always wondered where Shirley’s husband had relocated to.

  Whether it was above ground or below.

  Because while she couldn’t imagine Charlie killing anyone—especially in cold blood—what she’d told Ruslan was true: Charlie had been a soldier first. His first tactics were always diplomacy and mediation, but if those failed, he didn’t hesitate to use any weapon at his disposal in order to accomplish his goal. Especially when it came to helping people.

  And Shirley had needed help. Upon meeting her, Ash had recognized immediately the look in Shirley’s bruised gaze; she’d seen it often enough in the mirror. The blows, she thought, were always apparent to those who’d suffered the same hits.

  “This case,” she said, because she had to, “it’s kind of high-profile, so just...just keep an eye out.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Shirley was not a stupid woman. “I think it might draw some attention to the Firm,” Ash said smoothly, “and I want you to be aware of that. I doubt it’s something to worry about, but if you see anything...suspicious, let me know.”

  “Suspicious?” Shirley repeated. “Suspicious how?”

  “I don’t know,” Ash said, because men in black who might tie you to a chair and torture you wasn’t appropriate. “Someone paying too much attention. Someone following you. High profile means press, and you know how those assholes can be. You should be safe in the Keys, but I wanted to give you a head’s up.”

  “Now you’re making me nervous,” Shirley muttered. “Do I need to come back there?”

  “No,” Ash said firmly. “Stay and have fun.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, if you’re sure....”

  “I am.”

  “Okay. How’s everything else?” Shirley paused. “Mr. Ruslan, for instance. How is he?”

  Ash scowled. “What is your deal with him?”

  “I like him.”

  “You don’t even know him.”

  “I know enough. Besides, I’ve seen how he looks at you when you aren’t paying attention, and I think you could use a little action.”

  God help me. “No, thank you.” And he doesn’t look at me. Don’t say that. Damn you. “I have to go. The other line is ringing.”

  “Liar.” Shirley snorted. “What could it hurt? Just a date.”

  “No,” Ash said shortly.

  “Sweet pea, I know your daddy was a shitbird—believe me, if anyone knows, it’s me—but you’re too young to write off everyone with a penis.”

  “You should embroider that on a wall hanging.”

  “I mean it,” Shirley insisted stubbornly. “You deserve someone wonderful who will love you, and that’s not going to happen if you keep playing with knives and acting like Rambolina.”

  “Rambolina,” Ash snickered.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement.” Another lie, but easier than arguing.

  “Sure you will,” Shirley murmured, not fooled.

  “I really do have to go.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll be back in a week, if I don’t get arrested for sister-cide first.”

  “Don’t,” Ash advised. “Take care and have fun.”

  “You, too, sweet pea. And watch your back. If this new case is as...sensitive as you say, you need to be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll still worry.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t stop just because you tell me to.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re like my kid.”

  “I know.”

  “And since Charlie died...”

  Ash felt her throat swell, painful and unexpected. “I know.”

  Shirley sighed. “Well, okay. I’ll call again soon. Just to make sure everything’s fine.”

  “Alright,” Ash said, because there would be no stopping her.

  “Talk to you later, sweet pea.”

  Ash hung up and rubbed at the ache in her chest. She was bruised and sore and felt like she’d been run down by a Mack truck, but the dull, throbbing pain in her heart was all grief. Processing, she told herself. You’re still processing. Because she’d never lost anyone before, and Charlie had been...

  Everything.

  One moment he’d been driving across town to meet a new client, and then he’d been turned into scrap metal by a runaway concrete truck. There’d been no in-between. No chance to say good-bye, or to even think it. Just...gone.

  None of them had been prepared. Not her, not Wylie. Only Charlie had been ready, his will and estate documents all signed and notarized. In point of fact, he’d had everything assembled and neatly labeled in a file box she still hadn’t been able to bring herself to go through.

  The time was coming, no matter how much it would hurt, but not now. Not yet.

  The only good thing to come out of her current situation: distraction.

  “Goddamn it,” she said and rubbed her chest again.

  She didn’t like lying. Shirley was part of the team, and it didn’t feel right to withhold things from her. It only fed the growing disquiet she felt.

  But there was the matter of the Vault. Someone had found the Vault—when they shouldn’t have—and in spite of what she’d told Ruslan, Ash wasn’t even sure there was evidence of the Vault on the Firm’s server. Tax payments, maybe, but more than likely Charlie paid those out of a dummy account under the same name that was on the deed—another reason to get to that file box—and he’d bought the building decades ago, long before every document was scanned and archived electronically. Someone would have had to spend days searching in order to find it.

  And before yesterday, only three people had known of the Vault’s existence: her, Wylie and Butch. She hadn’t told anyone, and she was pretty sure Wylie hadn’t, either. Which left Butch.

  Something she really didn’t want to contemplate.

  “Those look like some deep thoughts, kid,” said a voice from her doorway, and Ash looked up to find the subject of her deliberations standing there, showered, shaved and dressed in a too-tight, freshly pressed blue suit. A tiny brown stain marred his cream-colored tie.

  “Hey,” she said, surprised. Not even nine am, clean, cri
sp and sober.

  Huh.

  He was, she thought, a good-looking man when he tried. Thick, wavy silver hair, sharp brown eyes, a roughly hewn, handsome face that was aging with a grace rarely afforded to those who drank their dinner every night.

  “Ellery St. Clair,” he said and waved a manila file folder in the air. He walked into the office and sat down in the chair across from her. The fabric of his suit stretched; seams groaned. She slid a little to left so that when the buttons trying to hold his suit coat together flew off, they didn’t take out an eye. “Fifteen, missing since middle of last week.”

  She took the file. “Another missing person?”

  Butch shrugged. “Over two thousand kids disappear every day.”

  She stared at him.

  “True story.” He shook his head. “The world’s fucked.”

  She opened the file. A picture greeted her, a large 8x10 school photograph of a young woman with short, dark, burgundy-tinted hair and olive skin. Pretty eyes, a mixture of green and brown, with a round face, a dimpled chin and a solemn, unsmiling mouth. She wore a purple t-shirt, a pair of red eyeglasses and small silver hoop earrings.

  “Top of her class,” Butch continued. “The kid’s three grades ahead of where she should be—a senior instead of a freshman—and MIT wants her bad. Chess club, physics club, captain of the debate team. Mother doesn’t think she’s a runaway. Says the girl keeps to herself, doesn’t have many friends. Says they’re close, but that’s what they all say.”

  Ash nodded. The file contained Butch’s notes, a few more photos, and a written statement signed by a Marlene St. Clair. “Marlene is the mother?”

  “Yeah.” Color curled into Butch’s cheeks, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Nice gal.”

  Mmmm-hmmm. “Do tell.”

  Butch scowled. “Phone’s gone, presumably on the kid, but Marlene’s had no luck tracking it. Her Mac’s in my office, but she’s got it locked down, and until Wanda can get it open, it’s useless. Thought I’d go by the school, talk to a few of the teachers, maybe some of the kids.”

  “Where’s the father?”

  “Dead.”

  “Did Marlene file a missing person’s?”

  “Last week, right after the kid failed to show. Didn’t come home after debate practice.”