by Wen Spencer
A Jewish space alien?
"What are we?" Atticus wondered if he could trust Murray's answer any more than that of the Iron Horses or Agent Zheng. "Werewolves, space aliens, demon, or angel?"
"Angel is new." While the idea seemed to amuse Murray, there was no indication it was correct.
"Any of them true?"
"What we did to you on the beach, we did because you can't lie mind to mind. You can't create a believable memory any more than you can have a fully textured dream."
"So?"
"If you want the unassailable truth, you can examine our memories. See how our kind came to this world."
"Yeah, right." He wasn't about to let them back into his head. This casual intimacy—a stranger's emotions raw and honest—grated like sandpaper against his sense of privacy. It had been barely tolerable with Ukiah; despite everything, he had to admit—reluctantly—he'd been excited about finding his brother.
"You're the one who has to live in ignorance." Murray gave a mental shrug. "If you change your mind, we are denning tonight at Ponkapoag Camp, outside of Randolph."
How did you shut someone out of your mind? Atticus had never learned the trick of not listening that humans seemed to easily achieve. He stalked across the hotel lobby, hoping that distance could block Murray out.
The hotel had two restaurants. Breakfast was being served at the one named—ironically enough—the Intrigue Café. Kyle was hovering nervously by the door.
"I thought I would be able to recognize her." Kyle motioned at the various businesswomen already seated. "She's not one of these, right?"
"Not even close." Atticus took out his—Kyle's—phone and found the time was five minutes after. He dialed Zheng's number and was dropped immediately into voice mail. Her phone was either busy or off.
"Think she blew us off?" Kyle checked his own watch, and then compared it to his PDA. "Or maybe she got into trouble?"
If she was working with the Pack, wouldn't Murray have mentioned if Zheng had gotten into trouble? But when Atticus considered this, he realized that Murray was guarding Zheng. She was somewhere close by. If she was on her phone, then perhaps she had sought out someplace private to talk.
"Get a table." Atticus patted Kyle on the shoulder. "I'll find her."
Now that he was focusing on her, he caught her scent on the air by the door. He drifted through the café. She must have left the doorway moments before the elevator delivered them to the ground floor. While the front of the hotel faced an elevated highway (which Kyle had told them would be torn down once the Big Dig was finished), the back was directly on the waterfront. Sleek yachts and sailboats were tied up to the U-shaped wharf, shrouded thick with fog. Globe streetlights still burned, extending his range of vision. A glass rotunda sat at the far end of the wharf, and a female figure stood within it.
Zheng? Atticus pushed out into the chilly, damp morning. Her scent led toward the building that signage identified as the Ferry Pavilion. She stood in profile to him, looking out into the fog, but her attention was on the cell phone she held to her left ear. Tension filled her body, although the only sign on her face was a slight gathering of her brow. The glass wall blocked her voice until Atticus pressed his hand against it and caught the vibration.
". . . felt better if you'd slept with me last night," she was saying.
Who was she talking to? There had been only a queen-size bed in her room at the Residence Inn. Had she worn her lingerie? Atticus considered Murray's presence and wondered if there were some Pack-to-panties correlations; maybe Zheng's involvement with the Dog Warriors had begun at the same time she had started to buy fancy underwear.
If so, who was the lucky Dog? He couldn't imagine the sleek and elegant Zheng with any of the Dog Warriors, but they said opposites attracted.
Judging by her body language, Atticus wasn't the only one having trouble hearing the other end of the conversation. Zheng pressed the phone closer to her ear and focused on the words.
"I'm fine. It just unsettled me. I hate walking blind into them—though Socket is right; it's like they're one person wearing borrowed skins. We should have expected this after Butler—I'm fine. Murray is here with me. Where are you now?"
Zheng paused to listen, rubbing her brow to soothe away the slight signs of distress. In a moment, she regained her serene composure. "What are you going to do about—are you on a pay phone? Call me when you can talk without being overheard." She glanced at her phone to check the time. "I'm going to be late to this meeting. Is that spelled how it sounds? H-o-w-a-r-d?" She started to turn toward Atticus. "Okay, I'll check my—"
Atticus rapped on the glass before she fully faced him, making it seem as if he'd just walked up and signaled immediately for her attention.
Interesting to note, her first reaction was to go for her pistol. As she registered his presence, she slipped her right hand into her trench coat, stopping only when she recognized him. More surprisingly, she actually blushed.
"I have to go," she murmured. "Call me later."
She hung up and stepped out of the pavilion. "Sorry to keep you waiting."
He wanted to grill her on the phone call and Murray's presence, but the longer they stood outside in view of the cafe, the more likely Sumpter would come looking. "My superior is sitting in on this. He's not in the loop."
"What does he know?"
"We're after a drug that the cult is manufacturing. That's it. I'm not even sure how he'd handle the whole alien invasion thing. I suspect he'd laugh in your face and yank us back to D.C."
"What does he know about your brother?"
Atticus felt a prick of guilt. Why did he continue to protect his jerk of a brother? "Nothing."
"This him?" Zheng indicated the cafe door with her glance.
Sumpter stood in the doorway, about to come out, kept inside only by the bitter cold.
"Yeah." Atticus motioned that they should join the others in the cafe, even though somehow it felt like walking into a lion's den.
Zheng introduced herself to Sumpter with the calm authority of someone expecting to be taken as an equal. The only thing feminine about her handshake was the pearl gleam of her carefully manicured fingernails.
"Randolph Sumpter." Sumpter did his impersonation of an undercover agent, Mr. Joe Cool. "It's good of you to meet with us and combine efforts on this."
"Thank you." The slightly rattled woman on the phone had vanished behind calm professionalism; whatever Zheng thought of Sumpter didn't show on her face or leak into her voice.
"You've met Agent Steele. His partners, Hikaru Takahashi and Kyle Johnston."
Sumpter had commandeered a large corner booth. Kyle had his laptop out and was immersing himself in calming data. Ru was finessing superior service out of the waitress.
On their introduction, Ru gave a smile without getting up, clearing the path for Kyle's bid.
Kyle stood and offered a handshake. "Kyle Johnston. I'm their hole man." He realized the possible sexual implications of the phrase. "I mean, backup man."
"Good to meet you." Was that a warmer greeting than the one she gave Sumpter?
Ru coughed slightly and indicated the steaming cup of coffee at the place setting beside Kyle.
"I got you coffee," Kyle said. "Hope you don't mind."
"Thank you." Her Mona Lisa smile appeared and vanished, proving that she did appreciate the kindness. She slid off her trench coat and folded it over the back of a chair. Under it she wore the same pantsuit and strand of pearls but with a different white silk blouse. Thanks to Kyle's research, Atticus recognized the "Angels" lace camisole under the sheer fabric and wondered if she wore the matching panties.
Ru noticed his gaze, and—judging by the slight frown—guessed his thoughts.
It was Atticus's turn to blush.
Ru had the waitress hovering, so they glanced over the menus. Sumpter waived his turn to see what Zheng ordered. Atticus ordered two eggs scrambled, bacon, and French toast. Ru went with coffee and a bagel wi
th cream cheese on the side. Kyle kept to his standard of hot oatmeal, raisins, brown sugar, and milk.
"A poached egg, plain wheat toast, orange juice." Zheng glanced down over the menu. "And the fresh fruit."
"Ah, a woman with a healthy appetite," Sumpter murmured. "Steak and eggs for me, double order of white toast. Very rare on that steak; just let it shake hands with the fire." Obviously Sumpter missed the fact that Zheng's breakfast was low-fat and well-rounded. He did catch the hard look she leveled at him. "Most women would just get coffee and a bagel and talk about watching their weight."
Atticus winced, as that described Ru's order and reasoning.
"I run five miles every morning," Zheng said. "Weight-train three times a week, and study Muay Thai kickboxing."
"I thought," Kyle said slowly, "that you studied judo."
Atticus tried hard not to wince at Kyle's slip.
"I studied judo in high school." Zheng switched her cold look to Atticus. "I wanted something that offered more attack moves, so I switched to kickboxing."
Sumpter often talked about liking aggressive women. It was amusing to see him quail in the face of a real one. "What does your boyfriend think of the kickboxing?"
Zheng's gaze flicked down to Sumpter's left ring finger and noted it was bare. "Subtlety, I see, is not your forte."
Touché.
Fortunately, the hotel proved its four-star rating by having the food arrive quickly. The presence of the waitress as she handed out plates, refilled water glasses, and topped off various coffee mugs curtailed conversation down to a game of "who do you know," as they compared people they'd worked with in each other's agencies. Zheng proved it was possible to eat elegantly and talk at the same time.
They had just rid themselves of the waitress when Sumpter's phone rang. He answered with a voice half an octave lower than normal. "Speak to me."
Atticus caught a puzzled "Who is this?" from the caller and recognized the department's administrative assistant, Darcy.
"Sumpter here."
"Randy?" Darcy said with an equal mix of surprise and accusation.
The cool composure cracked and Sumpter stood up. "Excuse me; I need to take this call."
Laughter danced in Ru's eyes as Sumpter hurried away, which confirmed Atticus's suspicion that his partner engineered the call.
"I couldn't help but overhear part of your conversation," Atticus confessed to Zheng. There was no telling how long Sumpter would be gone, so he had to cut straight to the point. "The disadvantage of having sharp ears is that you often hear things you weren't meant to," he covered with a partial lie. "What happened in Butler? Who did you run into?"
Irritation flashed across Agent Zheng's face and was quickly smoothed away. "The Ontongard had the Ae stored in shipping crates at an underground storage facility north of Butler. The Temple of New Reason stole the Ae several years ago; they booby-trapped the crates with high explosives and left them behind—so the cult would know when the theft was noticed."
Kyle had said something about an explosion at a storage facility on Tuesday night while Atticus was trying to get drunk.
"Iron Mountain?" Atticus earned a nod. "And there was a second explosion at the cult's mansion."
Zheng nodded again. "Rennie Shaw and Ukiah accidentally triggered the booby trap, and the explosion made live coverage for several hours. We know that the cult had memory mice in the mansion's basement. What we think happened is that the Ontongard, on their way through Butler to check on the Ae's condition, sensed the mice."
"What was the cult doing with mice?" Kyle asked.
"According to Socket, they had trapped several Gets and rendered them down to mice to perform experiments. They tested poisons, narcotics, stun weapons, tear gas, suffocation, and drowning on the mice."
"Eeewww." Ru wrinkled his nose in distaste.
Atticus thought of the cremation sites and felt sick. "So you're saying the cult didn't blow up the mansion? The Ontongard did?"
"We think so. Two cultists who had been patrolling the grounds of the mansion had been killed in a manner very atypical of the cult. The fire marshal verified yesterday that there're no bodies in the wreckage, so it means at least two cultists are definitely missing."
"Which ones?"
Indigo produced two photographs out of her briefcase. The first was obviously a senior high school photo of a blond young man. "This is Parity. His family owned the mansion. His real name is Thomas James DeMent."
DeMent? Poor kid. The name sounded like a flavor of Pepto-Bismol or "demented." Parity was an improvement.
"He's really this young?"
"Nineteen. His parents thought he was still at college. They flew back from Europe on Monday."
House leveled. Son missing. They couldn't be happy campers.
"This is Ping."
Atticus had noticed the absence of Core and Ping from the mug shots that Zheng gave them earlier and thought them both safely dead. He realized now how relieved he had been not to have to put faces to his brother's rapists; the lack of messy details kept it all nicely distant. He braced himself for Ping to be hulking, muscle-bound, ugly, and, most important, male; so he found himself oddly unprepared for the beautiful young Asian woman in the Polaroid photograph. She wore a nightgown transparent as smoke and a fuck-me look. The edge of the picture was singed, as if it been plucked from a fire.
"Wow," Kyle murmured.
Yes, but how had Ukiah felt about being shared between her and Core? Atticus recalled Ukiah, on the point of collapse, leaning on Ru as he warned them away from handling the drug; relaxed to the point of intimate. What direction did his brother swing?
"We don't have another name for her yet." Zheng had tried for a neutral tone and failed. The cold brittleness crept back into her voice. "She was extremely devoted to Core and would do anything for him; he used her more than once to lure recruits into the cult, including Parity."
She kept her gaze down, trying to hide the hurt and anger.
What had Ping done to Zheng? Or was the fact that the girl was missing the problem? "How does this relate to what happened to you yesterday?"
"I spotted an Ontongard near a house that the cult owned in Uxbridge," Zheng said, naming a town at the southern edge of the state. "It means that the Ontongard are definitely hunting the cult. It was a site known to all of the cultists, so Parity could have been the source of the Gets' knowledge. Ping was inner circle; she would know all the cult's secrets."
"So the clock is ticking."
"Yes. I'll be honest with you. You have not a clue how dangerous this is. The Ontongard Gets view themselves as completely disposable. They're fearless. They will attack until they're destroyed. If they kill you, Atticus, they'll either mistake you for a Dog Warrior—and burn your body—or they'll recognize you for what you are—a breeder—and break you down to mice. It's imperative that you never fall into their power."
Without conscious thought, Atticus stilled, expanding his focus away from Zheng and the table to the room and beyond. Instantly he knew the location of every human in the cafe, including Sumpter, walking through the lobby toward them. Once he realized what he'd done, he pulled back his awareness and took a sip of water. "I'm an undercover narc; I'm well used to dealing with danger."
Zheng frowned at him as Sumpter returned, dropping into his seat with a mumbled "Sorry about that. Now where were we?"
No longer talking about aliens.
"We searched these sites." Atticus steered the conversation to a safe subject by indicating the locations they had visited and found empty. "The cult hasn't been to any of them recently. We have a theory. Right, Kyle?"
"Oh. Um." Kyle pulled up the satellite photos he had searched out earlier. "We know that Ascii was to meet Ice at the Salem train station parking lot. See how close it is to the harbor? We're thinking that perhaps they had a boat."
"What was wrong with the train?" Sumpter asked.
Kyle gave Ru a desperate look; they couldn't mention that the
cult had arranged to move a body if the police hadn't found one in the car.
"They were covered with blood," Ru said. "That's what tipped off the people at the rest stop. That and the barely concealed weapons."
"If we can find the boat," Atticus said, "we might be able to find the cultist. It's going to be easier to find than a car—there's only a limited number of places they can dock it."
"When we thought that the cultists were going to poison the Pittsburgh water supply, we searched for any connections they had to boats," Zheng said. "Parity's family had a speedboat, but the marina where they docked it said that the family took it out of storage last summer and never returned it."
"And this helps us how?" Sumpter asked.
"Parity attended Harvard," Zheng said. "He might have brought the boat up with him."
"That's just across the river," Atticus said. "He would probably dock it someplace close by."
"That's what I'm thinking." Zheng sorted through her briefcase and pulled out a laser-printed photo of a sleek boat. "This is a picture of the model, a thirty-four-foot Sea Ray Sport Cruiser. It's named the Nautilus."
"Follow the money." Kyle turned his laptop so Zheng could view the screen. He had run a standard credit report on Parity. "The Charles River Yacht Club did a credit check on him on July seventh, 2003, and currently he's fifty-two days late on August 2004's fee."
Taking out his borrowed cell phone, Atticus dialed the marina. A machine answered immediately. "You have reached the Charles River Yacht Club," a cheerful female voice said. "We're either out on the docks or on another line. Please leave a message and we will get back to you." He hung up without leaving a message.
"It's just across the river. Ru and I can duck over and look to see if the boat is there. See if anyone knows anything."
"I think you're right in that they were heading for a boat, but you've got the wrong reason," Sumpter said. "There's tons of places they could have ditched the car and changed clothes without being noticed; you've got a list of sites right here that they know well. No, they need the boat to get someplace. An island."
