by Sarah Lovett
"I missed you, too. God, did I miss you. I tried calling you again yesterday—last night, New Mexico time—but I got the machine . . ."
He held a finger to his lips.
She slipped out of Serena's bed, adjusting the covers before she followed Matt into the hallway. "I didn't want to leave you four messages, repeating myself." She paused, her mind beginning to expand to possibilities. "Did you work late?"
"My meetings ran long." He started up the stairs. "I stayed overnight in Albuquerque."
She trailed him into the bedroom. "Meetings with . . . ?" She heard him sigh, then he turned toward her. The room was dark, but moonlight fell through the skylight and she could see his face clearly as he said, "Lucia Hernandez called in some of her chits—people who owed her favors."
"Don't you mean Lucia called in her brother-in-law's chits? It helps to have a sister married to a senator."
"Whatever," he said. "Lucia was kind enough to set up a dinner—one that helped make funding for the new project more than a pipe dream. It looks like we'll be able to expand special operations, create the new command center to coordinate law enforcement, emergency responders, HazMat teams . . ." He stopped, and his eyes grew wide. "You're not jealous?"
"Of course not."
"Good. Because that would be ridiculous."
"But Lucia Hernandez isn't just any business associate—she's smart and she's beautiful."
"You're right." He took her arm. "Damn it, Sylvia, I'm going to marry you next week—I love you—I've been trying to marry you for years—I can't wait to have our child."
"I'm not jealous."
"Where are you going?"
"I need a shower." Sylvia was already walking into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. She opened the shower tap and stepped into water that was only lukewarm. Through the clear curtain she saw him come in and position himself against the wall, arms crossed, staring at her. "I hate it when you walk away and I'm talking to you."
"Sorry." She selected a bottle from the shower rack and squirted shampoo into her palm. "I'm exhausted, my muscles ache, and I need to wash off all that recycled air—all those airplane cooties—"
"Cooties?"
"—so I can go to bed. Don't start an argument, please."
"I'm not starting an argument." His voice registered fear. But he shrugged it off, saying, "Take your shower. I love you. I missed you. I'm just glad you're back."
"Me, too." She lathered her hair, squinting as soap burned her eyes.
"I want to hear more about your trip."
"Tomorrow. I'll tell you all about it."
He didn't go away. He stood watching her—and then he started unbuttoning his pajamas.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Getting in." He kicked off his pants before following her into the shower. "Turn around, I'll soap your back."
She pressed her face against the tile and sighed with pleasure when the loofah roughed her back, her butt. "Ooh, that's good . . ."
Familiar pressure against her thigh. She turned to kiss him and he responded, moving his mouth onto hers, murmuring, "See what happens when you go away?"
When they came up for air, she took his face in her hands and asked, "Does that mean I'm forgiven?"
"I'm afraid not. A trip to London without your fiancé requires severe punishment."
"What kind of punishment?"
"This kind of punishment . . ."
"Oh. Good."
Matt made it to bed before she did. She finished smoothing moisturizer on her skin, then gave her teeth another brush, even flossed. She expected to find him asleep, probably snoring. But he was wide awake, seated on the side of the bed, her black leather purse in his lap. "Why did you lie to me?"
Not quite registering, she shook her head.
He held up the pink plastic packet of contraceptive pills. "You're still taking these."
"Yes."
"Fuck." He said it softly, ominously—a man who almost never used profanity. "I can't believe it. Shit."
"Matt . . ."
"Hush." He held up one hand. His expression changed, altered by emotions—pain, sadness, fear.
She started to say something—couldn't think what—and her mouth opened but nothing came out. She just shook her head.
"I thought we'd agreed," he said. "In there, just now, I thought: Maybe it's happening right now. Maybe we're creating a life."
"I know I should have—" She felt herself cringing. "I thought I was ready but—I can't help it if I need more time."
"You're right. You can't help it if you need time. But I deserve the truth." He threw the purse, the pills, on the floor and stood. As he walked past her, he whispered, "Jesus, Sylvia."
1:45 A.M. Thursday.
"I ran those names you gave me through MOSAIK."
"And?" Sweetheart prodded. He was sitting in the dark, in his room at the Eldorado Hotel. A bone-dry desert wind slapped the windows.
"Dr. Cray is clean. Which makes me suspicious." Luke's voice—traveling eight hundred miles via satellites and scrambled signals—was soft. "Why is it these guys are usually vulnerable? Natura humanas."
"Dig deeper."
"Always do." Luke asked about the weather in Santa Fe, complained about the smog in L.A. They made small talk.
Finally, Sweetheart asked, "What have you got on Lang?"
"Something you'll like," Luke said, audibly stifling a yawn. "Mr. Lang has credit problems. His girlfriend definitely hankered after the finer things. Their relationship—or the fact Lang tried to borrow money—caused family problems, including a skirmish with a relative. Lang's in debt."
Sweetheart whistled when Luke mentioned an amount.
"You asked me to check on the times Samantha Grayson missed work," Luke said. "Apparently she wasn't sick—or at least not sick enough to stay home in bed." He paused, and the small space was filled by the clicking of a keyboard asking questions and the intimate electronic answers of a powerful computer. "She racked up frequentflyer miles with trips to Amsterdam, Athens, Hong Kong, the Seychelles—apparently she liked to dive, do the scuba thing."
"I didn't know people did the scuba thing in Amsterdam," Sweetheart said dryly.
"Or Hong Kong. But they do in the Seychelles. I hear the water's hot there. So she was in hot water." Luke gave a small laugh. "By the way, Paul Lang never got to go along for the ride."
"I doubt he really knew what she was up to."
"The trips were arranged by a travel agency—World Tours. It's since gone out of business. Apparently World Tours, Inc., was connected to World Enterprises, and their enterprises included a chain of hotels and escort services. World Enterprises has a corporate address in Hong Kong."
"We keep ending up back at the Chinese connection," Sweetheart said. "Who paid for Grayson's trips?"
"She never paid for the flights or the hotels. But her credit cards—make that seven cards, with a total balance of twenty-eight thousand dollars—are heavy on clothes, jewelry, and luxury items."
"Porton Down's internal security didn't pick up on it? That level of debt should've sent up a gigantic red flag."
"Nobody would pick up on it without the tip you gave me from your source—four of the cards are under Samuel Grayson's name. Her father. He died in nineteen ninety-eight."
"So she just kept the cards going," Sweetheart said, "and paid the bills."
"Electronic transfer from an account in her father's name. Actually, she made a large payment about eight weeks before she died. Thirteen thousand dollars. The money didn't come from her salary."
"Let me guess. World Enterprises paid for her services as a travel agent."
"World Enterprises paid for her services as something. She was a party girl."
"And perhaps a courier." Sweetheart took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and exhaled slowly. "Was she carrying money, goods, or information?"
"Good question. I'll keep looking. Hey, Professor," Luke said faintly. "Give my regards
to Dr. Strange. Tell her I plan to kiss the bride."
Sweetheart grunted. He heard Luke ask, "By the way, what are you getting them for a wedding present?" In lieu of an answer, he disconnected.
He weighed this information with the other bit he had received tonight.
Toshiyori had written:
Answer to your request must be negative. Secrecy imperative. Regret if this endangers your friends. Stakes are great.
For the next three hours Sweetheart sat in shadow, letting his mind flow like water but always keeping a fixed point to return to—flow, return, flow, return—like breath, like sumo practice, a meditation.
He traveled the globe in stillness. Visions of Hong Kong hovered in his consciousness, and geography was particular, not haphazard.
The sound of the voice that came to him was hushed and melodious, and one he rarely allowed himself to imagine. A lullaby his mother used to sing to him in the morning just before dawn, when she returned home.
He remembered a sea of blue with waves that tickled his skin; perfume; his mother's dress somehow permanently etched in his consciousness; blue, her favorite color, the blue of the mountains as afternoon clouds draped the sun and the air was heavy and ripe, the blue of peacock feathers and fish just beneath the glassy surface of salt water.
From there the imagined scene shifted between Hong Kong and Hawaii.
His life on two islands—but the history was gone along with his mother, her lovers, his father. As always, on the rare occasions he allowed these shattered excuses of memory to emerge from his subconscious, he wondered, Why am I still here?
Another vision, much more recent, much less fractured, floated into his consciousness: two bodies, intertwined.
Japan. Rain falling against paper.
Soft voices and the smell of vinegar.
He was surprised by the pain and anger.
The longing.
And something else, another emotion, sharp, the color of pure jade.
These emotions were not familiar.
They didn't please him.
They disturbed his equanimity.
Paul Lang stared at the compact black carrying case. When he opened it, he smelled the sharp, tangy scent of something chemical. The vials fit perfectly in neat slots. The Velcro sheath kept them snug, the thick lining protecting them from breakage. Some of the slots were empty. A few still contained vials.
Samantha always kept the case with her toiletries. It held her medicines, she'd said. He'd believed her. But after her death, he'd found it at the very top of the bathroom shelves. She'd tucked it behind a box of first-aid odds and ends. Perhaps she'd tossed it up there hurriedly when he'd surprised her one day.
He could only guess.
His hands shook, his fingers trembled, as he lifted the largest vial. The seal was broken. When he held it to the light, he saw almost-microscopic dust. It could've been anything. Anything.
These days, he'd begun to imagine opening the vial and inhaling the contents. Alternately, he thought of putting the vial into his pocket and walking to the tube, sitting on the train, crushing the vial beneath his foot. Waiting.
These days he imagined many things.
But tonight he slid the vial back into its slot; he tamped down the Velcro; he closed the case. He packed it with the few clothes and the passport he was taking on the trip. To America. To New Mexico. He would gain eight hours and arrive by 6 P.M. Thursday evening.
He'd learned the hard way to detect betrayal. The American profilers had lied to him. They weren't going to bring Christine Palmer to justice. She was going to get away with murder—just like she always did—unless he did something about it.
He had his own plan, his own way to make contact.
He zipped his garment bag, logged off his laptop, and shut it down.
He stared at the clock. He had an hour to rest. He didn't choose the bed. Instead, he found the exact spot on the floor where Samantha had died, and he lay down, pulling his knees to his chin. Finally, he closed his eyes.
PART III
Lex Cornelia
CHAPTER
16
redrider: did you miss me?
alchemist: yes
redrider: can't know what that means to me
alchemist: I know
redrider: want to offer a token of my esteem
alchemist: not necessary
redrider: I insist / will tell you where and when
alchemist: dangerous
redrider: trust me
alchemist: you could ruin everything
redrider: have faith
alchemist: don't cross boundaries
redrider: sooner or later we must move to next level
. . . . . .
redrider: we have to trust each other
. . . . . .
redrider: no turning back
CHAPTER
17
Special Agent Darrel Hoopai had been around the block and back again. He knew hinky when he felt it. And he could definitely feel it this Thursday morning when he rolled out of bed at 6:03 A.M. and Jessie, his very pregnant wife, said, "What's wrong, honey, you've got that look."
"What look?"
"The look you get when something's bugging you."
Hoopai imagined that look had been creeping up on him for the past twenty-four hours, ever since Christine Palmer had turned up in his nightscopes. Damn, he prided himself on the fact that he didn't leave holes in his surveillance. And then he had to go and leave a whopper, a black hole, an unknown. It might be a forty-five-second hole; it might be a forty-five-minute hole; it might be a seventy-five-minute hole. A lot of things could happen in a span of seventy-five minutes.
In his mind Hoopai now visualized all five doors, hence five avenues of egress from the Target's residence (not counting windows).
The basement door was sheltered—Hoopai decided that if he were going to slip out of that house, he would've used the basement door.
If the situation allowed—surveillance positions, no unforseen circumstances, no surprise visitors—it might be possible to exit the residence unobserved.
He had to admit it to himself. No surveillance was perfect. There were always holes. But seventy-five-minutes holes . . .
The Target could drive to Santa Fe and back.
She could drive to the airport.
She could drive off a cliff.
That was why Hoopai decided to run a check of all vehicles parked within a five-block radius of the Target's house. The search turned up three vehicles with expired plates. One of those—a battered and apparently abandoned Toyota Tercel—was registered to a resident of the town of Española.
When questioned by Special Agent Hoopai, the previous owner remembered, "A lady bought it off me—a few months back, but I don't remember exactly. I parked it out near the highway with those other cars and trucks—no law, is there?"
S.A. Hoopai asked if the man remembered the lady's name.
The man shrugged, then brightened. "But she was a looker."
Jeff Hess, Hoopai's special agent in charge, agreed they would leave the vehicle where it was, along with the global positioning device they placed strategically on the auto body. If the vehicle was used—by the Target or anybody else—they would receive the notification and the tracking signal.
Special Agent Hoopai wasn't all that satisfied with the arrangement. "Why do I have the feeling that car ain't going nowhere fast?" he asked his coagent, S.A. Weaver.
"You mean, it's going nowhere fast," Weaver said.
"That's what I said."
"You said ain't. Ain't going nowhere means going somewhere."
They left it at that.
He could feel it—something was going to happen—and not necessarily something that would make him or his fellow agents happy.
This cop hunch left him bad-tempered. Nervous.
And then there was the fact that another scientist—a carrot-top named Harris Cray—had shown up to replace Dr. Thomas. An
d now Dr. Cray and Dr. Palmer were all chummy and playing squash and hanging out in her baby-blue Jag.
In addition, there was a good chance the profiling team's cover was blown. A very good chance. Now everybody and their cousin knew there'd been an inquiry in England.
S.A. Hoopai didn't like getting kicked around by a target, especially one who was a serial killer. Poisoning. He stared at his eggs when he sat down to breakfast. He lifted his fork, cut into a yolk, watched the yellow pool spread, set his fork down again. Not hungry.
"What?" Jessie asked, setting orange juice on the table. She placed her palms on her full belly, fingers spread, as if holding the world.
"What, what?'
"You've got that look again."
Sun through the skylight lulled Sylvia from a melatonin sleep just after 7 A.M. In contrast to cold and wet London, desert sky and dry air shocked her system, giving everything she touched a static charge.
She felt hollow. Last night's scene with Matt replayed itself in her mind. Conflicting needs asserted themselves. She wanted to find him and explain, but he'd left for work while she was still asleep. She wanted to hide in bed, never come out again, never see another person.
She was still lingering beneath the sheets when Serena brought her a cup of coffee. Strong. Good. It went down with a jolt, and halfway into her second cup she registered the caffeine kickoff.
Matt had left behind a note that Serena now produced: Syl, mark the Harveys and Justine Carver wedding confirmed. Your mom wants the guest room all four nights. Nine days to go. Love M.
The hollow feeling returned. Apparently their wedding was still on.
The groom hadn't walked out on the bride.
She wouldn't have blamed him if he had. At the moment she hated herself.
When she emerged from the shower, Serena met her at the door for a fashion consultation. She was holding a sweater in each hand. "Red or purple?"
"Purple, definitely, you'll look adorable." Smiling, Sylvia ran her towel over her wet hair. "New sweater?"
"My dad got it for me."
"Did he pick it out?" Sylvia asked, watching the smile grow on Serena's face.
