Edge of Dawn

by Melinda Snodgrass

  “Who knows? Don’t you remember the fucking world is flat now?”

  “Yeah, yeah, just give me the name on the case. We can track it.”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  It was more like ten minutes, but finally Jay returned to the line. “Gaia. Ever heard of it?”

  “No, but I’ll check it out. Thanks for the heads-up, Jay.”

  “Yeah, you say that now, but when we’re up to our asses in monsters out on the rez, I think you’ll be cussing me.”

  “Oh, probably,” he said lightly. “May I have a private number where I can reach you?”

  The agent provided a cell number, and they hung up.

  Shaking off the anxiety, Richard booted up a browser. He went to Google and typed in Gaia computers. He got an article in the Wall Street Journal dating from six months earlier about the attempt to place low-cost, kid-friendly computers in third-world countries and rural, poverty-stricken areas of the United States. These efforts had begun after Gaia had been purchased by Wilton Hedge Funds. More digging revealed that Wilton was managed by the Titchen Group.

  Richard leaned back in his chair. “My, my, you have your tentacles everywhere, don’t you?” he said aloud.

  Jorge had done a cursory analysis of Titchen. It was now time to dig deep. Richard began by reading article after article on the company. Unlike Lumina, which bankrolled high-tech, cutting-edge research into alternative energy and biotech, Titchen specialized in bankrolling mining and oil interests—very much nineteenth-century products. Which made the purchase of Gaia very out of character.

  Richard dug further. Looking to see if the Titchen Group had a history of philanthropic activities, he didn’t find a single other instance aside from the very creepy prayerful community, which he was trying to subvert. And they certainly weren’t giving away the houses in Gilead. The investors in Titchen were making money off the subdivision.

  He found himself contrasting that with Lumina. Their single largest outlay of money was to fund various charitable projects around the world. They backed organizations that built health clinics and schools, dug wells, handed out mosquito netting, provided seed stock engineered for a given area and climate, helped reclaim exhausted farm land, and so much more that Richard couldn’t remember it all.

  Richard found a few photos of the man, which revealed him to be tall and spare with a receding hairline and wire-rim glasses, and the brown eyes behind those lenses were calculating. Maybe Alexander had suddenly grown a conscience? But he was bankrolling a subdivision that was creating a rune. Could it be the actions of others in his company? Some kind of cabal of middle-range officers? Richard would want proof of that before he gave Alexander a pass. Faces in the screen. Leaning back in his chair, Richard thoughtfully tapped his front teeth with a forefinger. The whole thing was very hinky.

  Another hour of digging on Titchen convinced Richard that these really weren’t his kind of people. The Titchen Group had defied the boycott of South Africa during the 1980s, and the board seemed to have a number of South American and Asian dictators among their number. Titchen was also named in close to twenty lawsuits alleging that the activities of subsidiaries of the company had polluted the water and endangered the populations of poor, rural, yet resource-rich areas.

  No, it didn’t look like Alex had grown a conscience.

  But now they were making computers available to underprivileged kids. Richard leaned back, laced his hands behind his head, and frowned at the computer screen, which displayed the logo of Titchen, an elaborate affair with birds and keys and griffins and what appeared to be a phoenix surrounded by flames. He wished he could just send Cross alone to the FBI office to look at the computer, but that was impossible. Richard could just imagine the reaction when the long-haired man in tattered jeans and a food-stained T-shirt turned up at the front door.

  Richard called New Mexico. “Jeannette, where’s the jet? Is it still at the John Wayne Airport?”

  He heard the fast clicking of keys, then she said, “No, it’s been sent to Hong Kong to pick up Dr. Chen and take him to Rochester.”

  “Who’s Dr. Chen?” Richard asked plaintively.

  “Nobel Prize–winning physicist. Eddie wants him for the sword project.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Eddie also wants you and the sword at the Rochester research facility as soon as you can manage it.”

  “Yeah? Well, that’s not going to happen real soon.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I need to come home for a day or two. I’ll take a commercial flight.”

  “Call me with your itinerary and I’ll have a car waiting at the Sunport.”

  “Thank you. You’re the best. I also need Cross. Is he out back?”

  “He hasn’t been around for a few days,” she said.

  “Leave messages for him at the usual drops. Tell him to get back and wait for me at Lumina.”

  “Got it,” Jeannette said, and hung up.

  Anxiety and a nervous knot in the stomach propelled Richard to his feet, and he walked out into reception. Azura/Amy looked up.

  “Would you please book me on a flight back to Albuquerque?”

  “When?”

  “Today.”

  The red hair bobbed as she nodded and bent to her computer. She gave him an odd look, but just nodded again.

  Richard returned to his office. Since he was a police officer, he had the option to travel with his weapons, but it often led to questions and delays. Easier to leave the guns behind, though the thought of that made a place between his shoulders itch. Everything about Titchen was making him twitch. He shook off the feeling. Just because the man had turned up twice didn’t necessarily mean anything. Coincidence was not causation. Removing his suit coat, he shrugged out of his shoulder holster holding the .40-caliber Browning. He then bent and removed the ankle holster with the Smith & Wesson .38 snubby, and placed them both in a bottom desk drawer. He felt strangely naked without the dragging weight of his weapons. He touched the hilt in its holster at the small of his back for reassurance.

  Azura/Amy tapped on the door and stuck her head into the office. “I’ve got you booked on a direct flight out of LAX leaving at four fifty. Okay?”

  “Sounds great. When should I leave for the airport?”

  She pulled her cell phone out of a pocket and checked. “One thirty. I was about to get lunch. Want me to bring you something? The food at the airport is awful.”

  “That would be very nice, thank you. Club sandwich with avocado on wheat bread. Lemonade.” Richard dug out his wallet and handed her a twenty.

  While he waited for Azura/Amy to return, Richard read through his e-mail. There was a note from Eddie reminding him about Chen. Another team, researching ways to save the world’s reefs, needed another $2 million. The energy division wanted an appointment to present their proposal.

  “Maybe Lumina should add a cloning project,” Richard muttered to the room.

  The outer door opened, and Azura/Amy returned carrying a plastic sack and a to-go cup. Richard joined her in the outer office to eat. He ate quickly, constantly checking his watch. At one o’clock, he balled up the sack and tossed it away. “Well, I better get going. And we better do that … um … that inoculation.” He reached into the holster at the small of his back and removed the sword hilt.

  After two years at this, Richard still hadn’t figured out the right approach. If he had the sword already drawn when a person entered the room, that was sort of alarming. Unless someone was really enamored of the Highlander movies, seeing your boss with a long black blade shot through with silver lights in his hand was never comforting.

  The other option was to draw the blade in the person’s presence, though when he pulled his hand away from the base, and the aforementioned long black blade suddenly appeared out of his hand, it was also disconcerting if not downright alarming. Azura/Amy had that whole Goth thing going, but she was a young woman, and meeting her with a sword in his hand seemed like a rath
er unsubtle metaphor, especially given her evident interest. Richard hoped she was going to be fascinated rather than terrified when the blade appeared.

  He held up the hilt. “This is the hilt of a sword.” He closed his right hand into a fist and pressed it against the base of the hilt. “When I do this”—he pulled his hand away from the hilt—“the blade appears.” Azura/Amy gasped as the long blade seemed to slide from his hand.

  Her eyes went wide. She clapped her hands together and breathed a single word. “Coooool.”

  “Now, I’m going to touch you with the flat of the blade. You will have a reaction. I can’t predict how much.” Richard had learned not to tell people it would hurt. That never went over well.

  Amy thrust out her arm. “Go for it.” As the blade was lowering toward her skin, she asked, “What’s it inoculating me against?”

  The strange metal touched her. She cried out and her body jerked. Richard dropped the hilt, the blade vanishing, caught her, and eased her down to the floor. She shook in his arms as a series of small convulsions took her.

  “Magic,” Richard said softly, answering the question, though he doubted she could hear him as the sword did its work and stripped away her ability to ever do magic or have magic used against her. Now no Old One could feed on her. If only he could do this to every human in the world, the creatures would have to retreat back to their own worlds or starve. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a viable option.

  As for Amy, he’d seen much worse reactions. The spasms passed after about ten minutes. He went over to the water cooler and got her a glass of water. She leaned against his shoulder, taking tiny sips.

  “Wow, that hurt.”

  “I’m sorry. Warning people seems to only make it worse.”

  “What did you do?”

  He explained the sword’s power.

  She pulled away from him. “Well, that kind of sucks. Maybe I want to be magical.”

  “Trust me, you don’t. Bad things can feed on you then. I hope you won’t quit, but I’ll understand if you want to.” Richard checked his watch. “And now I really need to go if I’m going to catch that plane.”

  She stepped back, planted her fists on her hips, and glared at him. “Okay, bub, you do not get to throw out a statement like bad things can feed on you and then not explain it. You are buying me dinner as partial compensation for taking my magic, and you’re giving me a much better explanation than this is an ancient and powerful weapon that removes from an individual the ability to do magic or be a conduit for magic.”

  “Amy, your mask just slipped. You are not a ditzy actress with only three brain cells to rub together. You repeated back my statement verbatim, and partial compensation? Really? Did you graduate from law school, or did you drop out?”

  She went beet-red and rubbed her bobbed hair into a haystack. “Guilty. I dropped out a year short of graduating. I just hated it. But how did you…?”

  “My father’s a judge and one of my sisters is a lawyer. Believe me, I know the lingo.”

  “You didn’t…?”

  “Not smart enough.”

  “How do you know what I’m going to ask before I ask it?” Amy demanded.

  “Cop.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you’re right, I do owe you a fuller explanation, but not today. I have to get back to New Mexico.” Richard headed for the door. “When I get back. I promise.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “A couple of days, no more. I’ve got things here…” His voice died away as he contemplated the subdivision. He would need to call Calderón and explain the situation. He hoped the man would believe him and not think he was trying to renege on their agreement.

  Chapter

  FIVE

  RICHARD rode down the final escalator at the Albuquerque Sunport to the exit. The automatic doors slid open, and a blast of dry, oven-hot air slapped him in the face. August in New Mexico. The sun glowed like a brass coin, its rays highlighting the cones of the distant extinct volcanoes. The Mercedes limo was at the curb with Joseph behind the wheel and Estevan standing next to the back passenger door. To Richard’s eyes, the bulge of the shoulder rig under the young man’s coat was painfully obvious.

  When did I become the guy who travels in limousines and has bodyguards? Do I like it? Not sure.

  Estevan grinned at him. “Hey, welcome home, Richard.”

  “Thanks,” he said as he stepped into the car. “But it’s a quick trip.”

  “How was the flight?” Joseph asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

  “Okay. Bit of a flying cattle car, and I do wish people didn’t think traveling in sweatpants or shorts was okay. I’m not asking for hat and gloves, but some of them look like they just rolled out of bed.” The two men laughed, and they pulled away from the curb. “Is Cross at headquarters?”

  “Wasn’t there when I left, but he can turn up pretty fast,” Joseph said.

  “That he can,” Richard said, thinking of the creature’s abilities.

  “Are you hungry? Shall we stop for dinner?” Joseph asked.

  “I’m okay,” Richard said.

  This time Joseph actually looked back over his shoulder. The setting sun made his dark skin glow and brought out the gray flecks sprinkled through the black of his hair. “Okay, but I’m going to tell Franz you haven’t eaten and have him fix something.”

  “I hate to have him cook another meal.”

  “That’s his job, and you have a tendency to forget to eat. You can only run on nerves and adrenaline for so long.”

  “Yes, Papa,” he murmured meekly.

  “Don’t try smarting back to me. I am old enough to be your father,” Joseph said in the cadence of his South Carolina upbringing.

  “Wish you were,” Richard said under his breath, and he firmly pushed aside any thoughts of his real father.

  Once back at headquarters, Richard headed upstairs. He wondered if he should call Pamela and let her know he was back for a flying visit, but then decided he’d let her have her evening. There were no lights on in the penthouse. Richard turned on a graceful torchère, revealing the treasures that casually filled the living room and found Cross waiting. This time he had a giant piece of carrot cake on a plate. He crammed in a bite and mumbled, “Hey, got your message. What’s up?”

  “Bad stuff,” Richard said, and elaborated. Cross listened without comment, just gobbled cake.

  “So you want me to check out the computer and see if there’s magical shit going on?”

  “Exactly.”

  “When do you want to do this?”

  “Tonight if possible.” Richard scanned the ratty figure critically. “It’s probably better if we don’t go in during normal business hours.”

  Cross shrugged. “They’ll just think I’m a snitch.”

  “Or a homeless guy looking to use the bathroom,” Richard countered. He went to a phone and called the number Jay had provided.

  “Yeah?” Like many law enforcement types, Jay wasn’t big on social niceties.

  “It’s Richard. Can we get in tonight?”

  “Sure. What time is it now?”

  “Little after eight,” Richard answered.

  “How about we meet at the office at nine thirty?”

  “Works for me.”

  “Um…” Richard waited, wondering what the agent was about to add. “Which form is Cross gonna be in?” Jay asked, sounding worried.

  “Homeless guy.”

  The relief was evident in Jay’s voice. “Oh, good. I was afraid he’d look like he did in Virginia. That was … scary.”

  Richard glanced over at Cross just finishing off the cake. “Not scary tonight, just crummy.”

  Cross grinned, raised a middle finger toward Richard, then ostentatiously brushed cake crumbs off his T-shirt. “Hey, that works on several levels.”

  Richard had no sooner hung up with the FBI agent than the house phone rang. Richard answered. “Joseph stopped by and told me you needed din
ner. I have a slice of quiche and a salad ready. May I bring it up?” The voice had a soft Eurotrash accent and a wealth of arrogance.

  “I really don’t have time—”

  “I’ll tell Joseph.”

  “Oh, God, all right,” Richard snapped.

  “Perhaps a little glass of white wine?”

  “No. Just water.”

  There was a put-upon sigh, and Franz hung up.

  A few moments later the elevator arrived. Franz, small and intense and sporting a nascent paunch, entered carrying a silver tray. In one corner there was a cut-crystal goblet. In the other a matching carafe. The plate of food was covered by a white linen napkin. Richard sat down at the small inlaid wood table, and Franz swept aside the napkin with a flourish. Presentation was important to Franz. The slice of quiche was a perfect triangle and garnished with a sprig of parsley. Next to it was a tumble of field greens and bitter herbs adorned with a few piñon nuts and mandarin orange slices. The smell of citrus and champagne dressing mingled with the scent of warm cheese, ham, and green chili. Saliva filled Richard’s mouth. He hadn’t realized he was hungry. But hungry or not, there was no way he was going to finish it all. The portions were gigantic.

  Richard looked at the chef. “Did you think you were serving Grenier? I can’t possibly eat all this.”

  “Whatever you don’t finish, I will,” Cross said.

  “You just ate all that cake,” Richard objected.

  “So?”

  There was nothing to do but sigh and shake his head. Cross sprawled on the sofa. While he ate, Richard contemplated the array of treasures the room contained. A Madonna and child by Caravaggio hung on one wall between floor-to-ceiling bookcases, which held many first editions. A Mughal dagger rested on the edge of the table where he sat eating. Canopic jars that had once been in a pharaoh’s tomb, and perhaps still held that pharaoh’s entrails, stood on an end table. The only thing in the room that was Richard’s was the Bösendorfer grand piano by the windows.

  “You oughta put this stuff in storage. Bring in your own stuff,” Cross said with uncanny perspicacity. “It’s been almost two years. Stop living like a permanent houseguest.”