Tainted Waters

by Leah Cutter

  Nothing was there. Just families picnicking. Milk–carton boat races and all that silliness. A couple riding a tandem bike, wearing matching bright red helmets.

  Steve shook himself and got his bearings. His car was a block away. He could walk there. Drive away.

  And never come back.

  Ξ

  Erik crowed from where he stood on the sidewalk, streams of people pushing past him as the sky regained its blue hue, chasing away the clouds. The lake cleared, and even the promise of darkness disappeared.

  A fantastic joy filled Erik. That he’d even partially succeeded in raising R’lyeh was an amazing success. That group of idiot gamers had no idea of the strength of their fantasies.

  That he’d been foiled just meant he had to alter his plans slightly. And he would. The night of the fireworks. There would be the largest explosion of all.

  Poseidon would die. And Cthulhu’s great and terrible reign would begin.

  Ξ

  “So nothing’s coming, right?” Dusty asked again.

  Hunter sighed. He checked his area of knowing again. It wasn’t as large as he would like, merely a city block square, about a quarter of a mile. There was nothing coming at them.

  That wasn’t to say that there weren’t bad things out there. In the alley just behind the building where they were stood a stupid punk with a knife, waiting for the woman who lived nearby to return so he could rob her. Half a block down two winos were curled up on the sidewalk, having just rolled a third for his booze and cigarettes.

  But there were no cops in the area, nor any of the blessed.

  “Just us,” Hunter assured Dusty. No one was paying them any heed.

  Dusty’s deal was sure to be successful. Hunter hadn’t seen it, but he suspected it would be.

  While Csaba had been a good organizer, a general with an army of dealers reporting to him, Dusty was something far worse: a businessman.

  Dusty was expanding his territory carefully, slowly. He was willing to take a temporary loss in profits this quarter if it meant greater profits the following.

  He wasn’t signing contracts with his dealers, but he was making alliances and had a very complicated barter system that seemed to be working.

  That he’d gone to college hadn’t surprised Hunter. That he’d gotten an MBA from one of the more prestigious private business schools in the area had.

  Dusty had plans.

  The meeting between Dusty and his new investors was taking place at a men’s tennis club in a yet–to–be–rehabilitated part of downtown St. Paul. The bright lights made Hunter squint his eyes and sent sparks chasing through his brain. To the right stood an empty reception desk. Chances were low that an attacker crouched behind the desk, but Hunter checked anyway.

  Despite the industrial air filters, Hunter still smelled the sweat of too many clients. From above them filtered down the arrhythmic thumping of balls and players. Three more tennis courts were behind the long wall that held a series of empty cubicles.

  Would be a good place to store ammunition, in the shadows of one of those. If they came back here, Hunter would have to think about stashing a knife.

  The conference room Dusty used for meeting his investors met with Hunter’s approval. No windows marred the walls. The only entrance was the door. The table was too heavy for most to pick up. No one would be throwing it. The chairs were all lightweight office chairs, probably the most modern thing in the entire building. They could do some damage, if a guy knew how to handle himself.

  The businessmen meeting with Dusty didn’t have a clue.

  Hunter waited outside the room with the other two, the bald dude—Ryan—and Dusty’s usual goons.

  The businessmen’s muscle looked like rent–a–cops, with blazers and fake security badges on their breast pockets. Neither of them would be any trouble. For all their lack of ability, they didn’t seem excitable.

  “So, I heard you were in the Army. Look at you, standing all at attention and shit,” Ryan said, coming up to where Hunter stood beside the door.

  What would be the easiest way to kill Ryan? Of course, Hunter could merely crush his throat to get him to stop talking. Maybe he could hit Ryan’s nose with enough force to drive the bone splinters into his brain. Or maybe…

  “Hey, freak, I was talking to you,” Ryan said, stepping up close—too close—to Hunter.

  Hunter tilted his head to one side. He’d noted earlier that other people tended to listen more carefully to him if he didn’t stare at them straight on.

  “It would take two seconds to grab your arm, here,” Hunter pointed to Ryan’s wrist, “and here,” he continued, pointing to a spot just below the man’s elbow. “Then twist and break the radius, perhaps the ulna.”

  Ryan stood blinking for a moment. The two other guards stiffened, then both shifted slightly away from Hunter.

  Good. At least they knew better than to mess with Dusty’s “guards.”

  However, Ryan wouldn’t shut up. Not until he was dead. And maybe not even then. Hunter was likely to have a regular, mouthy ghost, if he ended up killing Ryan.

  It was one of the main things that stayed Hunter’s hand.

  “Are you threatening me, freak?” Ryan said, puffing himself up and stepping in even closer to Hunter.

  Really, would Dusty miss this asshole that much?

  But Hunter couldn’t draw the attention of the cops to them. Not yet. He needed to stay in the drug dealer’s good graces at least for a few more days, until Hunter had acquired enough of the ghost tripper drug that Cassie would be able to take it whenever she needed it.

  He wasn’t sure which stash she’d find in the city, so he’d built up five at this point.

  Hunter removed the last inch from between himself and Ryan, pressing their chests together. “I don’t threaten,” he said mildly. “I only speak the truth.”

  Ryan pushed back against Hunter’s chest.

  Hunter didn’t laugh at Ryan’s attempt, though he didn’t move at all.

  Ryan stepped back.

  Hunter knew better than to think the asshole was done.

  Ryan took a much telegraphed swing at Hunter’s head.

  Hunter stopped Ryan. Blocked his blow with his own hand, twisting as he brought Ryan’s hand down, then dropped the man with a quick elbow to his throat.

  Click.

  Hunter recognized the sound of a safety being flicked off. He moved toward the threat. Not a wasted motion.

  Bam. Hand holding the gun hit. Gun dropped into Hunter’s waiting palm. Two movements. Gun magazine removed. No chambered bullet.

  Second hit. Shoulder/neck. Drop the would–be shooter to his knees.

  Don’t kill him.

  Hunter pulled back and stopped, turning to face the other guards all standing there with their mouths hanging open.

  Amateurs.

  “Don’t ever pull a weapon on me,” Hunter told the man still on his knees, coughing, trying to get his breath back. “Not unless you intend to kill me immediately. Because I won’t give you a second chance.”

  Hunter caught Ryan’s eye. “I don’t threaten,” Hunter repeated.

  Ryan glared at Hunter, his gaze filled with burning hatred. But he still nodded his acquiescence.

  The other security guards merely nodded at him. Hunter expected more job offers would await him soon.

  He didn’t need another job. He certainly didn’t want to work security for the type of man who might invest in Dusty’s operation.

  All he needed to do was survive the next few days. No matter how dark his visions grew.

  Chapter Ten

  It being Sunday and all, I agreed to go have a late brunch with my mother. Sam begged off—not that I blamed her. Last time we’d gotten together the ice flowing around us could have frozen the Mississippi. In August.

  I met Mom at one of the newest frou–frou–chi–chi places on St. Anthony Main for brunch. The entrance was on the ground floor at the back of one of the old white–stone mills. Pe
ople were lined up out into the street and down the sidewalk. More than one of the yuppies gave me the stink eye as I sauntered up.

  Because of course, my mother had a reservation at a place that didn’t normally take reservations. Wouldn’t have surprised me if she knew the chef personally, or had been an angel investor for the restaurant.

  As much as Mom liked her charities and public board of directorships, she also delighted in being the power behind the throne.

  The restaurant turned out to be upstairs, on the far side of the building. Our tiny table was next to the windows, overlooking the Mississippi. Despite how crowded the room was—wall to wall with overly occupied tables and chairs—the noise level was merely a dull roar. Maybe because the architects had kept the twenty–foot ceilings, along with the exposed brick pillars and two–foot–thick ceiling beams.

  Mom had arrived before me, and there was a French press brimming with coffee already on the table.

  “Hello, Mom,” I said, coming up. What was I supposed to do? Kiss her cheek? Give her an awkward, one–armed hug over her shoulder? I think she would have liked either of those. Instead, I merely nodded at her before dropping down heavily into the other chair.

  Mom sighed.

  I knew that if I’d been younger, she would have made a comment about me trying to be more graceful.

  But I was never going to be that graceful ballerina daughter that she’d always dreamed about having. I took after my peasant Russian grandmother, solid and zaftig, not her Norwegian ice princess physique.

  “Where’s Sam?” Mom asked.

  “She has her own wages of sin to pay,” I told her.

  “Excuse me?” Mom asked, her tone frosty.

  “She had another brunch date,” I lied. Her date actually involved the Sunday paper, good coffee, and spending the morning in bed, being lazy. It was the only day that she generally took off, when she didn’t have police work or consulting to attend to.

  “I see,” Mom said. “Well, I’m glad you could make it, dear.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said. I vowed yet again to try harder. She always sounded so damned grateful that I showed up.

  “Have you been involved with this mad bomber?” Mom asked.

  I raised my eyebrow at her as I poured myself what was sure to be a superb cup of coffee from the French press. Mom didn’t normally ask about work things.

  She knew that I’d been having difficulty finding employment. Not that I would ever ask her for help.

  Owing Sam was bad enough.

  “Not officially,” I told her. “Sam is, though, and I’ve been helping.”

  “That’s good,” Mom said.

  The silence between us grew. Why the hell did I agree to come to these mother–daughter things? I should have insisted that Sam come as well. At least I would have had someone to talk with.

  “How have you been?” I finally asked.

  “I’ve been good. Emanuel came back from Florida for the week. He would like to meet you some day,” she added.

  “I know, I know,” I said. God, I was dying for a smoke. “Maybe in a few weeks. We could go have a barbeque on the beach or something.”

  “That would be nice,” Mom said.

  I knew it would never happen. My mother’s idea of roughing it involved a single room at a five–star hotel instead of a suite. For her to go to a beach and possibly get sand inside her sandals was unthinkable.

  “Speaking of the beach…” Mom started, then faded away.

  “Yeah, I was there, actually, yesterday. Saw it,” I told her. A chill ran across my shoulders and I gave a quick shudder.

  “I know that event wasn’t planned by the sponsors,” Mom said. “Something else happened.”

  I nodded. “Don’t know what. The timelines are all messed up.”

  None of the post–cogs who had come to the area afterward had been able to get any kind of read.

  And no one had any idea of how it was being done. And they all gave me the stink eye, as if I was personally responsible.

  “I put out some inquiries,” Mom said slowly.

  “About what?” I asked.

  “About getting a job for you,” Mom admitted.

  “I don’t need your help,” I told her. Wow. I hadn’t known that I could imitate her frosty tones so accurately.

  Like mother, like daughter, I suppose.

  “Jacobson Consortium would hire you, you know,” Mom said.

  I nodded. “I talked with them on Friday. But the contract is horrific.”

  “You read the contract?” Mom asked.

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” I told her dryly. “I can read, you know.”

  “It’s just that that’s unlike you,” Mom said. “You’re usually jump right in, feet first, damn the consequences.”

  “Yeah, well,” I said, squirming a little. Mom wasn’t necessarily lying about that. “I’ve always had my reservations about the Jacobson Consortium.” The consequences of their programs were still being dissected behind closed doors.

  But the paranormal community didn’t take well to being lied to. Possibly nobody else cared, and the Jacobson Consortium owned enough politicians that there might not ever be public consequences for their years of deliberately blocking support to some of the PAs.

  According to Sam, though—no one would take another Jacobson Consortium job. As contracts came up, they weren’t being renewed.

  If they were so desperate for talent, you would have thought the contracts would have gotten more favorable, not worse.

  “I know, dear. And I’ve looked into some of your accusations. There isn’t anything provable, however.” Mom paused, frowning. “What exactly did that contract say?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” I said, pulling out a folded up copy of the contract from my pocket. Sam had harangued me until I’d made a copy for my mom. I was sure she wouldn’t be interested.

  We might have had a bet with more sexual favors on the line.

  “Hmmm,” Mom said, taking the papers and unfolding them. Obviously she wanted to scold me for not treating the paperwork more carefully.

  It was just a copy, though.

  Mom rapidly flipped pages. “You know that most of this isn’t enforceable,” she stated. She read for another few moments before looking up at me in horror.

  “You weren’t kidding. This is one of the worst contracts I’ve ever seen. You can’t sign this.”

  “Mom—it’s the only legitimate job offer I’ve had in the last six months,” I said carefully. “If I want to work with my abilities, I’ll have to take their offer.”

  Mom hesitated. “If it’s about the money—”

  “No. Thank you. But no,” I said firmly. I was never going to take money from my mom. I’d rather sign a shit contract than be indebted to her.

  Besides, I was still taking some shifts at Chinaman Joe’s. I could go back fulltime if I needed to. Not like I wasn’t already working three–fourths of the time there anyway. When I could get the work.

  “You know,” Mom said, after glancing at the contract for another minute, “their non–compete clause is pretty standard. But their non–disclosure agreement is only applicable while you’re employed there.” She paused, then added, “If I had to guess, someone made a mistake with an existing contract, a copy–and–paste error.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly. I had a vague idea what she meant, but I wasn’t sure how that made anything better.

  “A lot of the issues with the Jacobson Consortium have come up because there’s no proof of systematic wrongdoing. A few people lost here or there is justifiable.”

  “Really,” I asked flatly. That struck me the same as being “a little bit pregnant.” You couldn’t just go halfway. A company needed to work diligently to train everyone who was trainable, not to deliberately let some slip through the cracks so they could do illegal drug testing on them.

  But I wasn’t about to debate ethics, or worse, morals, with my mother.

  Mom waved h
er hand, pushing aside my reservations. “You know what I mean. So,” she flipped between two pages, nodding, “you can’t work for a competing company while you’re employed with them. You also can’t divulge things about the company, but only while you’re working for them. After you quit, you can say anything you want. Legally.”

  “So if I happened to sign this contract, I could go in as a corporate spy. Learn about the Consortium. Maybe get some good dirt that we could use to bring them down.” I must admit, that made signing away my life much more appealing. Maybe I could do some good for the Paranormal community.

  It wasn’t as if the community had welcomed me with open arms. And I doubted this type of information would make me a sudden hero. I still was on the fringes of their general membership.

  Still considered crazy by too many of them.

  On the other hand, screwing with Josh was exactly the kind of thing I’d love to do.

  “Exactly,” Mom said. She gave me a cool, calculating smile.

  There was something else she wanted. Something else lurking in that brilliant brain of hers.

  I had to admire her deviousness, particularly when it was working for me, and not against me.

  The waiter came up to take our order, and we got into a conversation about a local author and her most recent book.

  It turned out to be a pleasant morning. Particularly since I didn’t feel I needed to tell Mom that the reason I knew about the woman and her writing was because I’d slept with her before I’d met Sam.

  We left on good terms. Hell, I was even willing to meet with her again in a few weeks.

  Maybe we could have a mother–daughter brunch once a month that wasn’t one hundred percent antagonistic.

  It wouldn’t have been the strangest thing to ever happen to me. Merely a close second to preventing Ragnarok.

  Ξ

  The day looked fucking amazing when I was sitting inside the cool restaurant. But outside was boiling and hell–like.

  I didn’t want to spend the money on a cab, and damned if I was going to walk. So I went looking for a bus stop before I fucking melted on the pavement.

  Too many happy!shiny! people were on the sidewalk. Moms with their suburban–sized strollers. It wouldn’t have surprised me if some of those fucking huge things were bulletproof. There was a group of nerds on their phones, playing some kind of asinine game in a group, standing in a circle and blocking the pavement while every one of them jabbed their screens rapidly.