I’d declined his offer to take me to Abe’s, and his gray eyes radiated worry. “Where will you go?”
“I need a place to sleep this off. Somewhere quiet. A place to think.”
“About Cushing?”
“Yeah. We’re not out of the woods yet, not while she’s still out there—even if she’s gone rogue.”
As I opened the door to get out of his car, Zander snagged my arm. “Hey.”
“Yes?”
He pulled me back in and drew my face toward his. Stared at me, up close and personal. “I love you, Gemma Keyes. That isn’t going to change.”
I blinked back the moisture that sprang to my eyes. “I wish things were different.”
“Yeah, well, we still need to talk this out. A future together can’t be impossible. We should pray over it. Let God direct us and show us what to do.”
Maybe we did need to talk. Maybe we needed to pray together. But I already felt certain of the answer.
I just nodded, and he let me go.
I threw the bag into my car and drove toward Coronado Center. I parked a few blocks beyond the mall at the Marriott hotel. I could have retrieved my Kathy Sawyer credit card and I.D. and used them to check into the hotel—but Cushing knew about my alter ego. If she were monitoring Kathy Sawyer’s card, she would find me.
“Good bye, Kathy.”
The cash I depended on had burned with the safe house, all but the chunk in the cinderblock wall along the alley—if the wall had survived the blast—and the coffee can buried in Mateo Martinez’ back yard. And I was too exhausted to go digging at the moment.
Under the nanomites’ cover, I approached a hotel side door. It was locked, but it opened under my hand. Then I found the front desk, had the nanomites twiddle in their computer a bit, then snagged an empty elevator to the sixth floor.
My room was near the stairs for easy egress, and the nanomites had triggered payment for four nights—a theft I vowed to repay. I’d also sent the nanomites into the hotel’s closed-circuit camera system. Via my room’s Internet connection, they would monitor the cameras and alert me should an armed force of any size enter the hotel.
I stripped off my filthy clothes, showered away the grime and grit of battle, climbed into bed, and fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
***
Genie hadn’t eaten in two days: She was convinced that Gemma’s house was possessed. It echoed with the accusations of a voice she despised. Wherever she turned, the voice spoke to her. It haunted her dreams and troubled her waking hours.
“The devil owns you, Genie.”
Genie needed to get away, so she drove her sister’s car for miles. She had no destination, only a goal: to escape Zander Cruz’ voice in her head. She drove until the gas gauge neared empty—and never once left Cruz behind.
Wherever I go, there you are, she snarled. I’d take an icepick to my head if I thought it would chisel you out.
Genie had no money left. She’d spent the three hundred in cash her sister had put through the cat door on her past-due credit card bills. It would not be enough—not remotely enough—to fend off the collectors. Her failing credit would, in a month or so, ensure that she’d never pass a background check—that is, on the off chance she even got that far in the hiring process.
Genie barked a derisive laugh. Off chance? The odds were more unlikely than that. To date, she’d not received a single favorable response to her employment search.
So here she sat, without gas for the car, without a job, without a dime to her name.
Jake dozed next to her, and she found herself clinging to him. He seemed the only sane and stable entity in her life.
“The devil owns you lock, stock, and barrel. You think you don’t submit to anyone? You say you are free? You are not. You’re driven and compelled . . . bound over to commit evil—as he directs, not as you choose.”
“Get out of my head!” Genie whispered, but the voice did not heed her.
“You should know whom you serve, Genie. You serve Satan—not yourself.”
“Do I? Is there a real devil, a real Satan?”
“Think about what I’ve said, Genie.”
“Like I can think about anything else.”
“You have only one choice left to you. At present, you are under Satan’s control—but you can choose Jesus. Salvation doesn’t depend upon your broken, twisted feelings; it depends upon your choice.”
“My choice?”
Next to her, Jake stirred and sat up. Stretched. Stared toward the kitchen. That Jake might leave her—even for a few minutes—freaked Genie out more than she cared to admit.
“You can choose Jesus.”
Jake jumped to the floor and pattered away. Genie watched him, convinced he had abandoned her and would not return. And why would he? Gemma had said Jake hated everyone, including her.
“He seems to like you.”
“Well, he’s a pest.”
“No, what I mean is, Jake doesn’t like anyone. I’m serious. Watch this.”
Her sister had approached Jake. Immediately the cat had attacked her.
“Jake detests me. Always has—but, then, he pretty much detests everyone. No one in the neighborhood would take money to pet him; they know he’ll bite or scratch. But he did love Lucy.”
“Then why would he want me?” Anymore, Genie’s thoughts were muddled. She didn’t know if she was asking about Jake or about Jesus.
“I’m losing my mind.”
“You can choose Jesus.”
“Why? Why would I choose Jesus? He isn’t real.”
Then you will stay broken.
Stunned, Genie did not move. Did not speak. Did not blink.
The words had not been in her head. Like before, they had rung into the open air of the living room, as real as if Zander were standing before her—and it had not been Zander’s voice she heard.
“I am. I’m losing my mind.”
“Salvation doesn’t depend upon your broken, twisted feelings; it depends upon your choice. You can choose Jesus.”
Genie covered her face and swore into her hands, cursing Zander Cruz and his “god” with every vile expletive she could conjure.
She ended with, “Get away from me! I hate you!”
But I love you.
***
Imogene Cushing splashed another inch of bourbon into the cheap hotel glass. She gulped it down, relishing the fiery trail it made down her throat and into her stomach.
Cushing replenished her drink. She had little left to relish, so why the *blank* not?
Gemma Keyes had confirmed her fears: The President knows I conspired with Harmon; he will send a team for me. All black. No public bulletins or fanfare, just “problem solved.”
I should lay low until the heat dies down. Then find a way out of the country.
The money in her Cayman Islands account was looking better and better.
The problem—as Cushing analyzed her situation and distilled the facts—was that she’d burned the contractor she’d counted on flying her out of the U.S. She’d allowed him and his men to perish in the explosion. Cushing had considered the sacrifice worth it if it guaranteed the death of Gemma Keyes.
The death of Gemma Keyes?
Cushing had nearly lost control of herself when she saw Gemma rise from the ashes and rubble. She swallowed another mouthful of alcohol and forced herself to return to the difficulty at hand: She had to get out of the country—and that might be more than a little tricky.
It might prove impossible.
Mercenaries, being ex-military brothers-in-arms, were both paranoid and tightknit at the same time. Various contractors fought each other with ferocious self-interest over prime contracts only to turn around and team up with the same competitors when the next opportunity benefitted from their joint participation. Unless individual contractors or contracting organizations violated the unspoken code of honor, they were, in the main, loyal to each other and their mercenary community. The communit
y would find out that Cushing had burned her own assets.
They would not hesitate to snuff her out.
Cushing sipped on her drink, finding clarity in the heat burning its way to her core and the warmth seeping into her limbs.
No matter how I play my hand, the odds are I don’t get out of this alive.
She snorted at the delicious irony. Oh, Danny, so you’ve won after all. And your little friend has shown herself to have more mettle than I could have imagined, hasn’t she? Yes, I underestimated her, seriously so.
She tried to pour from the bottle, but sloshed more onto the table than into her glass. Cushing laughed, and her words slurred. “Guess I’m drunk, huh?”
She ignored the precious liquid spilled on the table and tossed back what had landed in the glass. “You may have won, Gemma Keyes, but can I allow you to enjoy your victory? Can I? I think not.”
The more she drank and mused, drank and pondered, the deeper she sank—down, down, down into a blinding, murderous rage. “Oh, how I despise you, Gemma Keyes. I. Hate. You. Are you the great white whale to my Captain Ahab, Gemma? Are you my nemesis, Moby Dick? Let’s see. How does it go?”
To the last I grapple with thee;
from hell's heart I stab at thee;
for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee.
The glimmer of a strategy crept into her stupefied mind: How to lure Gemma to her death. Cushing took mental inventory of what was hidden in the trunk of her car and congratulated herself on her foresight.
“Yes. That would work.” She lifted her glass in mock salute. “For hate’s sake, Gemma.”
With drink-numbed fingers, Cushing placed the lid on the bottle and screwed it down. She would end the self-pity. Sleep off the alcohol. Prepare for her last stand.
“No, I won’t get out of this alive, my dear. Therefore, I shall ensure that you don’t either.”
~~**~~
Chapter 27
Morning arrived in subtle shades of gray.
Genie woke slowly, clinging to a dream. In the dream, she’d stumbled upon a place, a contented place. The Place. The place of peace. It was so real, so vivid. So right.
All she had to do to remain there forever . . . was to heed Zander’s words.
“You can choose Jesus.”
Genie sighed. She didn’t want to leave the dream where she was . . . happy.
Happy? Have I ever been happy? Do I know what happy is?
All she had to do was act on Zander’s assertions that her feelings were not as necessary as her choices. But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t give in and show her weakness. She resisted the pull, the tiny tug to do just that.
Jake must have sensed the change in Genie’s breathing as she left sleep behind. His comforting weight on the bed shifted. As he stood, panic hit Genie.
“Please don’t go!”
Instead of hopping off the bed as he usually did first thing in the morning, Jake raised his hind end and tail into the air, stretched his back, then climbed up on Genie’s chest. He laid down there with his eyes closed. A purr rumbled in his throat, and he flexed his claws, each one a gentle, clinging embrace on her nightgown. Happy cat. Happy scratch.
“Jake pretty much detests everyone.”
“I don’t know why you like me. I’m not exactly likable material.”
Slanted green eyes opened to study her.
Because I love you.
This time, Genie didn’t flinch: She froze and stopped breathing. It wasn’t Jake speaking to her. I’m not that far gone, not that crazy. Yet.
No; she’d heard a real voice, not the memory of Zander’s confounded preaching resonating in her head. Only one possibility remained.
“Why? Why would you love me?”
You can choose Jesus.
She continued to resist. “Why? Why would I choose Jesus?” But she no longer protested that he wasn’t real.
Because I chose you.
Jake stared at Genie. Challenging her.
“I don’t understand why you chose me. I can see why you’d love Aunt Lucy . . . but me?”
Jake rose and planted one paw on Genie’s mouth, silencing her. He put his nose to hers and proceeded to rub his jowl along her cheek line.
Because I love you.
I don’t want you to stay broken.
Genie, I chose you. You can choose me.
Genie closed her eyes. A moan escaped from her lips.
***
Late in the morning after ordering room service and consuming two breakfasts, I left the hotel feeling more like myself. It’s nothing short of amazing what good sleep can do. However, I hadn’t relished putting on my filthy clothes over my clean skin.
Gross.
To rectify that situation, I needed cash. Needed to dig some up. I trotted down the stairs to the exit and had the nanomites scour the parking lot around my car before I went to it.
Gemma Keyes, we detect no surveillance.
“Great, thanks. Could you, um, change the color of my car? Alter the plate?”
We can.
Before my eyes, my beautiful slate-gray Escape became a royal blue.
“Not my fav, but good. Now, let’s go get some money.”
As I drove toward my old neighborhood, I reminded the nanomites that Kathy Sawyer was blown. I would need a new identity.
We can accomplish this task with relative ease, Gemma Keyes.
Relative ease. Riiiight.
I tried not to grumble over the twisted machinations I’d put myself through to establish Kathy Sawyer’s identity—before the nanomites and I developed a working relationship. Before the merge. Before the revived nanocloud. Before I’d started thinking outside the box.
Gemma Keyes, do you wish to select a name for your new identity? Or do you have a preference?
“Won’t we need to, um, select and appropriate an existing identity?”
No, Gemma Keyes. We will generate and file all documents necessary to backstop your new name, a name of your choosing.
Oh, yeah. Thinking outside the box? Where we’re going, we don’t need no stinking boxes.
I snorted. “Peachy. Peachy keen.”
Is Peachy Keen the new name you choose, Gemma Keyes?
I had to laugh. “No, Nano. It’s just an expression of, um, approval. I like your idea. I should choose something I won’t hate since I’ll be stuck with it for a while. Let me think on it, all right? I’ll get back to you.”
Funny how you get used to a thing. I almost felt bad for leaving Kathy Sawyer behind. I would miss her.
I didn’t park far from my old house. I got out, and the nanomites covered me while I hoofed it around the curve and into the cul-de-sac.
I scanned the neighbors’ houses: The Tuckers’, Mrs. Calderón’s, my house, the Flores’, Mateo’s, Abe’s. Everything looked right on the surface. Of course, Genie had left my car in the driveway instead of parking it in the garage, which kind of irked me.
As quickly as the annoyance popped its head up, I stomped on it. “Lord, I turn loose of my old life again—including my car. Not mine any longer. I let them go. And I choose not to be offended with Genie. I forgive her. Thank you for helping me to walk in love—and thank you for helping her.”
I grabbed a shovel from my garage and headed for Mateo’s back yard. It only took a few minutes to dig up the coffee can I’d buried there. I pulled the plastic-wrapped bundle from the can, stuffed it under my shirt, put the can back in the ground, and covered it over. After I hid the money in my car, I went to see Abe.
I evaded the two off-duty officers watching Abe’s house and slipped in the back door. Emilio noticed me first and ran to me.
“Gemma!” He hugged me hard. “I’m so glad to see you.”
Abe was right behind him. “Glad to see you, too, Gemma.” He looked askance at my grime-crusted appearance. Digging in Mateo’s yard hadn’t helped any.
“Uh, I figured Emilio would be in school.”
“Nope! Christmas break,
” the boy proudly announced.
“Christmas break?” I was bewildered.
“Christmas is in three days! Got the whole week off from school. Next week, too.”
“Christmas is in three days?” That’s when I noticed the stockings and the tree and the few presents under it. “Oh, wow. I must have lost track of time.”
“That’s not all, I’m guessing,” Abe hinted.
I looked down at the boy attached to my stinky, grimy shirt and sweat pants and back to Abe. “Long story. I need some new clothes.”
I glanced again at Emilio and did a double take. “Whoa. You’ve grown! Are you almost up to my shoulders?”
He grinned and nodded. “I’ll be taller’n you pretty soon.”
“Not if I have something to say about it!” I knuckled him on the head and squeezed him tight.
Abe ignored my sidestep. “That long story of yours have somethin’ to do with a so-called gas leak a couple miles the other side of I-40? Explosion? Fire? Chaos and destruction?”
“Uh, it might. Right now, I need to high tail it to the store for . . . you know, clean clothes? Just thought I’d stop and say hi.”
“Shopping? Why don’t you have Zander take you?”
“What?”
“Thought you and Zander could come here Christmas morning. Bring your two friends.”
“Dr. Bickel and Special Agent Gamble?”
“If they don’t have family or elsewhere to be.”
I was careful how I couched my next words. “Dr. Bickel is, uh, spending a few nights away. You know. Over off University. Where you stayed?”
Abe’s eyes widened. “Is he—?”
I shot him a warning glare. “He’s fine.”
“Okay. Glad to hear it. Will . . . do you think he’ll be able to come for Christmas?”
“I think so. Thanks for the invitation—and the reminder. I, um, I’ll need to find us a place to stay . . . soon.”
Abe and I exchanged a meaningful look, and he tipped his chin to say he understood. Then he went back to the shopping theme.
“See, I thought you and Zander might want to shop together.” Abe inclined his head toward Emilio. Subtle like.
“Oh! Uh, yeah. Great idea.”
Stealth Retribution Page 28
