Canon in Crimson (Symphony in Red Book 1)
Page 21
“Wait!” I froze abruptly in the doorway, suddenly panicked. “We can’t leave yet!”
The Ghost tilted his head to one side.
“What is there to stop us?”
“It’s…I have to go back. They took—I mean, I took…”
I trailed off. How could I bring myself to tell him what I’d done in a childish fit of jealousy?
Lucky for me, I didn’t have to. As I stood there grasping for a way to explain, the Ghost reached for my other hand and pressed something flat and cold into my palm. I opened my fingers to find the coin, the precious key I’d stolen, right there in front of me. Safe and sound.
I blinked, gaping at it, and then at him. An entirely new wave of guilt washed over me as I watched him looking back at me with the kind, steady patience he always showed me. He’d just crept into the lion’s den, taken down dozens of men, and fixed my terrible mistake—all while I’d been thinking about someone else.
“I don’t know what to say,” I whispered, shame and gratitude aching in my throat.
“Nothing need be said, my Andromeda,” he answered, squeezing my hand. “The monster is slain. Let us leave it behind.”
We stepped out into blinding sunlight, and I immediately discovered that we weren’t alone. Screwdriver was kneeling next to the building, gingerly holding a set of wires and a pair of scissors, clearly focused on making a decision. But when we got outside, he dropped them with relief.
“So you made it out without my help!” he told the Ghost happily, standing up and taking off his gloves. “Good thing, too. The place is set to blow sky high on command.” He looked at me and shook his head. “And you, Vic. You gave us a real scare!”
“Damn right you did! And we didn’t even get to rescue you,” said a deep voice behind me. I turned straight into the crushing embrace of both the twins. When they finally released me and we headed over to the car, I discovered that in fact, everyone was there except Alger. Shifty and even the Doc had come along (“just in case,” they said), and the Driver was waiting just a little way down the street. I gathered that it had been about a day and a half since I’d been kidnapped. Overwhelmed and exhausted, I didn’t say much, except to thank them and tell them I was glad they’d found me.
A long drive and another round of hugs later, we were home, and the Ghost walked me up to my room to make sure I didn’t collapse on the way. When we got there, he helped me unwrap the bandages on my hand, and I found that the crippling gash had faded to an angry red scab, well on its way to disappearing. The Ghost examined it as I sat next to him on the edge of my bed.
“The results of your injury are as unlikely as its cause,” he said, smiling. “Truly, you are extraordinary.”
But the cut on my hand couldn’t compete with the pain of guilt sinking its claws into me, and I shoved aside any questions about it as I turned to the Ghost.
“Listen,” I said, wrapping my fingers around his, “there’s something I need to tell you.”
He just looked back at me expectantly, patiently waiting for me to go on. I took a deep breath, full of dread.
“Well, I’ve had a lot of time to think, and…the men who kidnapped me, they said—I mean, they made me think about…” This was impossible. Especially now, after he’d just risked everything to save me, how was I supposed to tell him that I realized he wasn’t the one I wanted? I started over. “You’ve been so good to me. And I know I should—this is what I should want. But I—it doesn’t make sense, but…”
“I know,” the Ghost said softly.
I broke off, surprised.
“You do?”
He nodded.
“I have always known I only borrowed your attention, and from whom.”
“But, then why…?”
He smiled, that same bittersweet expression he’d had when I’d woken up from the brink of death to find him at my side—and asked for Alger.
“Because I love you, Victoria,” he said simply.
And then, rather than waiting for an answer, he kissed my hand, stood up, and walked out the door, closing it silently behind him without looking back.
After that, I took a little time to recover: I showered, ate something or other, and sipped halfheartedly at a cup of coffee that Screwdriver made me, postponing the inevitable. But I’d sworn to make things right, and I knew that meant that sooner or later, I’d need to talk to Alger. I might as well get it over with.
A little bit of sleuthing led me out to the balcony around the back of the house. But as I headed down the hallway, I heard his voice outside. I stopped, waiting to find out who he was talking to, and it was the Ghost’s voice that answered. Oh, hell. I wasn’t exactly ready to talk to them both at once, so I pressed my ear to the wall and listened to their conversation instead.
“Twenty-seven and they still rigged explosives?” Alger was asking. “I suppose I should take that as a compliment.”
“And yet it was not enough,” the Ghost replied.
I could hear the smile in his voice, and Alger laughed briefly too. Then a silence fell; without looking, I couldn’t tell whether it was the comfortable quiet of close friends who don’t need to speak, or the uneasy emptiness of things unsaid. Either way, Alger broke it first, and when he did, all of his humor was gone.
“Did they hurt her?”
“No,” the Ghost answered, “but I gathered that they were prepared to if necessary.”
You ought to kill her and have done with it. I shivered.
“Then thank you for ensuring that it wasn’t,” Alger told him.
“Not at all, my friend. Consider it a parting gift.”
What did he mean, parting? My heart crawled up into my throat, but Alger didn’t seem alarmed at all.
“Of course, it’s always been understood you wouldn’t be with us forever,” he said. But his tone plainly asked, Why now?
“In fact, it is long past time,” said the Ghost, “but there were reasons to stay. And now…” I heard the Ghost sigh. “Now I can no longer run from the truth.”
I spent the next long pause kicking myself. It was my fault. He wouldn’t be leaving if it weren’t for me, and they both know it. But what could I do? It was too late to change what had happened. Now I wouldn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.
“Well then,” Alger said eventually, “is there anything I can do for you before you’re off?”
After a moment, the Ghost responded.
“Perhaps there is one thing,” he said. “Promise me you will not wait forever.”
This time it was Alger who sighed, apparently knowing what that meant.
“I can only promise to do what needs to be done,” he said.
“Then for both your sakes, I hope that you will see the need while there is time,” the Ghost answered gravely.
I heard a slight rustling and knew he was standing up. I ran to the doors and stood watching from behind the glass as he and Alger bowed to each other, exchanging a few words in Japanese, and then shook hands.
“It has been an honor working with you, Algernon,” the Ghost said solemnly.
“The honor has been mine, Satoshi,” Alger answered.
My best friend glanced at me, just for a moment, to show that he knew I was there. And then he turned and walked away, disappearing off the edge of the balcony and into the night.
I stood at the door for a while, drenched in guilt, expecting Alger to turn around and notice me or come inside. But he just stood there, leaning against the railing and staring out at the city. After a few minutes, I accepted that I would have to be the one to budge. Reluctantly, I opened the doors and tiptoed over to stand a couple of feet away from him. His eyes flicked over to me briefly, but he didn’t acknowledge my presence.
Say something! Admit you were worried, tell me you didn’t mean what you said, yell at me for being an idiot, but just say something! Then I fought the conflicting impulse to throw my arms around him and say how much I regretted what I’d done, tell him how relieved I was
that they hadn’t caught him, and explain everything I’d thought while I was alone in the cell. Finally, I held back the burning need to ask him about what I’d overheard and what it all meant.
But instead, eventually, I just pulled the coin out of my pocket and handed it to him. He took it, still not saying anything, but I saw the barest hint of a smile tease the corner of his mouth.
“So,” I offered, “did she tell you anything?”
“Yes,” he said curtly. “A great deal.”
“And?”
Watching his shoulders relax almost imperceptibly, I knew we were back the on familiar ground where I asked questions and he told me the answers.
“Well,” he began, “the word in her circle is that John Cyrus Kingston had been down on his luck shortly before he purchased the box in New York. So he must have had a bit of help from another party who wanted the item. Personally, I’d wager it was the organization employing your abductors.”
I nodded; after seeing their interest in the coin, I believed it.
“But it appears that Kingston attempted to elude them rather than following through on their collaboration,” he continued. “And while he was engaged in his evasive maneuvers, a third party attempted to gain possession of the box, but your encounter with him derailed everyone’s plans.”
I struggled to follow what he was saying.
“So you think the spies were backing him…and then he made off with the box…so, why do you think the Third Party tried to poison him, and not the spies?”
He glanced warily at me when I said “spies,” and I winced, remembering that I hadn’t told him I knew who they were—or who he was. But he continued without asking.
“I can’t be certain, but I wouldn’t really expect that to be the Crown’s style,” he answered. Well, I guess you would know. “Regardless, Kingston’s been doing an excellent job of hiding since then. Fortunately, however,” he added, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice, “Yvonne also heard a rumor about where he’s been seen recently.”
“Where?” I was excited enough to ignore the wave of hatred I felt at hearing her name.
“A little town just outside Berlin.”
“So we’re going back to Germany?”
“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “Though even that might not be soon enough.”
Because I’d lost us two days, I knew, inwardly flinching at the pang of guilt. After waiting through another awkward pause, I spoke again.
“Alger, I…”
But somehow, the apology still froze on my tongue. I just couldn’t bring myself to say it.
“Yes?” he said.
“I know we’ll find the box,” I told him instead.
He nodded, not really answering—but something in his expression told me he knew what I hadn’t said. Still without looking in my direction, he lit a cigarette. Then, for the first time, he offered me one too, and I took it like an olive branch. We shared a moment of tacit understanding, and then we watched well into the night as people passed in the streets below, letting silence settle into the space between us. And that’s how we spent our last evening in Paris.
Chapter 25—Something Never Comes
The train jostled me back and forth like luggage, my cards forgotten in my hand, and as the twins and Screwdriver played Hearts around me in the cabin, I stared out the window. To me, the countryside rolling by in the window’s frame might as well have been a film or a canvas, painted in distant shades of January white and ash.
Or it might have been any of the other places we’d trekked through, from Berlin to Frankfurt, to Madrid to Marseilles to Brussels to Rome and back to Frankfurt. Everywhere, we’d been inches away from catching Kingston, just days or even hours too late—and every time, even as Alger had insisted that we were almost at the finish line, I’d felt a little more hope and color drain out of the world. In one weak moment, I’d destroyed everything, and for my crime, we’d all been sentenced to drift through limbo in the faded shadow of our recent glory.
And understandably enough, my own punishment had been the worst: while Alger and Shifty had played detective at each stop, searching for Kingston’s trail, the rest of the Gang had pulled a few routine bank jobs to keep us flush after we’d sold off Cointreau’s treasures. But Alger hadn’t asked me to do more than wait nearby, staying out of sight. I could’ve argued, of course, but I hadn’t wanted to risk cracking the chilly, brittle peace we’d found in Paris. The day we would’ve called my eighteenth birthday came and went, and the silence continued; I let the landscape and the minutes slide by.
And that was that. I’d driven Satoshi away, and now I was the ghost.
“Vic?” Big Six said. I thawed enough to turn and face the twins.
“Yeah?”
“It’s your turn,” the Torpedo told me.
Blinking away my sluggishness, I searched my hand—and found that Screwdriver had passed me the Queen of Spades. Slade’s most valuable and dangerous asset. Suddenly, the cabin felt much too stuffy, and I stood up.
“I need some air, fellas,” I said in a rush, slipping out the door while they all looked after me with concern on their faces. I took a deep breath as I closed the door behind me, and I turned around—only to smack right into someone heading down the corridor.
“Oh!” I started to apologize. “I didn’t see—”
But I broke off when I did see him. It took me a second to place him: an average-looking fella with dark hair, and…
Those eyes.
He’d grown a close-cut beard, and faint traces of silver had edged into his hair in the last year, but I knew him. He was the man from the auction—the one who’d haunted my cyanide-laced nightmare. He looked at me shrewdly, his expression betraying the same compelling, terrifying hostility I remembered.
“Do I know you, girl?”
I couldn’t place his accent—almost Russian, but not quite—but his voice matched his eyes, cold and sharp as a razorblade. I shook my head, taking a step back, and his lips spread in a hyena’s smile.
“What’s wrong, lovely one?” he asked, taking a step closer to me. “Are you scared?”
I felt my eyes fly wide open, the chill of his voice and eyes creeping over my skin. Without answering, I darted back through the door and slammed it behind me, hearing the echo of his laughter as he continued down the corridor.
“Vic? What’s wrong?” Big Six asked in alarm, as all three of them stood up. “Are you okay?”
I shivered.
“I’m fine,” I lied shakily. “Does anyone have any brandy?”
The twins did, of course, and I drank deeply before diving back into the game. My mind was just as far from the hand of cards as it had been before, but now, it was because the sudden shock of terror had woken me from my drowsy indifference, and curiosity was pouring in like sunlight. I’d been right, I knew, when I’d guessed that the man from the auction had been looking for the box too. So if he was here, there was good news and bad news. The good news was, we must be close to finding the box after all—the bad news was, so was he. But who was he? Did he know who we were? Was he following the same trail? And most importantly, how could I find out?
I immediately dismissed the idea that I’d look into it myself; I was much too scared of him to try. I would just ask Satoshi to check him out, I thought automatically…until I remembered that I wouldn’t, and I had to wait out the inevitable dull throb of guilt and loneliness before moving on. Okay then, who was I going to ask for help?
Well, you know the answer by now, don’t you?
So after we arrived in Vienna, I gave the twins the unpleasant job of waking me in the morning, and the three of us were waiting at the door when Alger and Shifty showed up to go on the hunt for Kingston. Alger raised an eyebrow at us, and I thought he might forbid me to come along, but after a second, he just shrugged and opened the door without comment, and we went out to take another stab at finding our elusive prey.
Out in the street, the city’s mood match
ed the season. Families in drab greys hurried along unswept cobblestone to get out of the cold, greying beggars didn’t even bother to hold out their hands, grey stone arches reached up into the grey sky of aging winter. But even so, sparks of color penetrated the dreary palette of the day. Flower buds still bloomed on a few balconies, a man on the corner played a sweet tune on his violin, and a street vendor tried valiantly to press dyed carnations into my hand. Even through the strain of winter and hard times, life persisted.
And so did I. After a few blocks, I finally dredged up the courage to talk to Alger, and I slid past Shifty to fall in step beside him.
“Hey,” I started. “I wanted to ask you something.”
But he didn’t even turn to look at me.
“You’ll have to ask later,” he answered. “We’ve arrived.”
I sighed, looking dolefully at the building, which could very well have been any of the last twenty we’d tried: three stories tall, off-white stone, set right against the street with no sidewalk. I would just ask him on the way back, after we didn’t find anyone for the millionth time, I decided as we tromped up two flights of stairs to a door with chipping paint and a faded number painted in the middle.
But something was wrong; the door was slightly ajar. On closer inspection, we found out that the knob had been broken, as had a couple of deadbolts. Instinctively, I pressed my ear to the door and listened, but I didn’t hear anything. I looked at Alger and shook my head: nothing. He nodded, so I turned and carefully, slowly, noiselessly opened the door. I walked in—and froze.
The little flat, no palace to start with, had been completely wrecked: papers strewn across the floor, a suitcase spilled open and obviously rifled through, broken glass and an upturned table. Drawers had been opened and thrown on the ground, mostly empty now. Dents marked the walls, some of them smeared with blood. There was no sign of any box, other than a couple of empty jewelry boxes. And there was a man, crumpled and motionless in the corner.
As the others followed me in and closed the door, I crept over to get a closer look at the victim, who clearly wasn’t breathing. It was John Cyrus Kingston, alright—the fella I’d once called Handkerchief Man—but he seemed to have aged twenty years since I’d seen him. It’s not every day a beautiful girl falls into my lap, I remembered him saying, nervous, but charming. Now, his neatly cut hair had grown long with wide streaks of white, and his face looked like it hadn’t seen a razor in weeks at best. His fine clothes had deteriorated into a tattered, threadbare jumble, which hung loosely on his now slight frame.