by Kim Foster
“Where are they?” asked Sandor.
“Across the hall in your office.”
Abruptly, our meeting ended, and I was left to see myself out. Which I started to do. And then, I reconsidered.
A hook of curiosity snagged the back of my brain. Who were they? Who was here to talk to Sandor? I bit my lip. Was it another thief? My potential replacement?
The truth was, there was a host of other possibilities. And when it came right down to it, I didn’t know a lot about Sandor and his people. What else were they up to? Who else did they deal with? If it had anything to do with the Fabergé, shouldn’t I know about it? And if it didn’t ... well, maybe there were other things I should know about.
It was clear to me this curiosity was not going to go away. Only one thing to do. I glanced furtively in all directions, then doubled back. There was an unoccupied room beside the one where Sandor was meeting the mystery people; I tucked in to it.
It was dark and smelled musty and damp. The room appeared to be disused, empty apart from a few boxes collecting dust in the corner. There was a heavy oak door on the inside wall that connected this room with Sandor’s. I soundlessly moved across the floor and pressed myself against the warm oak.
I could hear voices. But not well enough to make out words.
There was a small gap beneath the door. Perfect. It would be just enough. I opened my backpack and fished out my fiber-optic bendy wire. This was the best invention ever. Better than self-tanning moisturizer, even.
With this I would be able to see, and hear—through the micro-microphone—the other room. I slipped the wire under the door, allowing it to point upward. With a little wriggling and adjustment, I managed to train it on the people in the room.
The moment I did, I almost lost my grip on the fiber optic. Because sitting there talking to Sandor across his broad desk were the two men dressed like monks who had been following me the other day.
“. . . but that’s just it, we came here to request that you call off your search for the Aurora Egg,” the tall monk with mushroom ears was saying. His voice cracked as he spoke.
“Why would I do that?” Sandor asked, looking somewhat bored.
“Because it’s the right thing to do.” The darker, square-jawed monk’s chair creaked as he leaned forward. “Surely you must know what is contained in the Egg. You know it’s the rightful property of the church.”
My eyebrows went up. So these two really were monks—it wasn’t just a disguise.
“What?” Sandor said, laughing with surprise. “What are you talking about?”
“We entreat you,” said the tall one. “If you do locate or acquire the Egg, please—whatever you do, do not open it. There will be great danger. Instead, please contact us immediately.”
“I’ll think about it,” Sandor said, nodding noncommittally “Good day, gentlemen.” He stood and the monks followed suit, quickly scurrying out like brown rabbits. Sandor and his entourage shortly exited, flicking off the lights behind them.
I sat back on my heels in the musty darkness with mind whirring. I knew it. I knew there was something important inside the Egg. But what? And why was the church interested? Did Sandor know what it was? He wasn’t letting on that he did. And clearly, even if he did know, he had no plans to tell me.
Only one way to find out. I’d just have to get the Egg and see for myself.
Chapter 23
As the car rolled to a stop in the clubhouse parking lot—my brain spinning with thoughts of Fabergé Eggs and what they could possibly contain and when was that damn gas mask going to arrive anyway—I experienced a tweak of anxiety about the immediate task at hand. But how difficult could golfing possibly be? I’ll admit that, technically, I’d never golfed before. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t do it. Just look at those guys playing golf on TV—their median age must be, what, seventy? If they could do it, I could do it. Anyway, I just needed to make an appearance and, ideally, make Jack chartreuse with jealousy and impressed by my sportswomanship and then make a fabulous exit. Besides, it would be a nice distraction; there was little I could do about the Fabergé job until my mask was delivered.
I had been firmly against attending Nicole’s golf tournament. But when Jack had asked me about it after our train escape, I’d lashed out. “Yes, of course I’m coming,” I’d said, angrily stuffing my parachute back in its sack. “And I’m bringing a date. I hope that’s okay.”
I’d glared at him defiantly, daring him to object. He’d blustered a little and then said, “Yes, of course ... Why wouldn’t it be?”
Naturally that left me with the small matter of recruiting said date. After several sweeps through my address book the only person I could come up with was Ethan. When I called him and extended the invitation there was a moment’s silence, during which I clenched and unclenched my jaw.
“Wait a sec,” Ethan said. “This is a golf tournament with a bunch of cops, right? FBI and such?”
“Yes,” I said, employing a breezy and unperturbed tone to suggest that it was a perfectly normal occurrence for criminals and law enforcement to mingle in a social-slash-recreational forum particularly when charity was involved. “Is that a problem?”
There was another pause. And then, with a mischievous laugh, he said, “Not a bit. Sounds like a blast.”
In preparation for this torture I decided it was mandatory to look absolutely fabulous. So I bought a marvelous outfit for the occasion: cute golf skirt, two-tone shoes, Nike visor, the whole works. And I borrowed a top-of-the line set of clubs from Mel, who golfed religiously.
For the finishing touch I popped over to the local mall to get an airbrush tan. It was something I’d never done before. But what looks better than a healthy, tropical glow? When I got home I thought it looked a little peculiar but I didn’t have great lighting in my bathroom. Memo to self: Remember to get lightbulbs.
Ethan and I crunched across the gravel of the parking lot and strolled into the clubhouse. And then I did something I promised myself I wouldn’t do: I immediately started scanning the room for Jack. I couldn’t help myself.
It didn’t take long. He was standing in a small clutch of people. As if sensing my arrival, he looked up. When he spotted me he broke into a great smile. My heart twanged like a giant bowstring and I couldn’t help smiling back. Then Jack’s gaze shifted to the man standing beside me. His eyebrows lifted in surprise.
And this—well, this angered me greatly. Did he think I’d been bluffing? Okay, so yes, at the time I was bluffing, but that wasn’t the salient point.
Jack had more nerve than a broken tooth. Break up with me, crush my heart, then start dating the perfect woman, invite me to this ridiculous event ... and I wasn’t supposed to bring anyone?
Nicole appeared at my side. She grabbed my hand. “Cat, I’m glad you could come,” she said with a warm smile. This statement had the effect of making me extremely grouchy. She drew me and Ethan over to the group.
I noted that none of the other women were dressed quite the way I was. They were all much more casual, in shorts or pants and simple T-shirts and sweaters. Nothing quite so, um, flashy as my outfit. Or so bare. It was mid-September, after all. But it was fine, I told myself. Nobody ever said that FBI agents, or golfers for that matter, had much fashion sense.
I flicked a glance at Jack. His expression had been smoothly replaced with a mask of cordiality.
“Nice clubs,” he said to me, nodding toward Mel’s golf bag. “They’re yours?”
“Of course.”
He looked momentarily confused. Like he thought he knew me. Like he thought he knew I don’t golf, that we’d had conversations to this effect in the past. Well, ha, Mr. Barlow. Guess you didn’t know me as well as you thought. (Okay. So maybe we did have those conversations. Still. It didn’t mean he knew me.)
We had another minute to wait for free tee decks. Jack turned to my date. “So what do you do, Ethan?” he asked, with barely restrained hostility. His hands were gripped firm
ly around a golf club and I could see his forearm muscles flexing.
Ethan, on the other hand, was enjoying himself greatly. “Oh, I’m a professional thief,” he said.
Next came a stunned silence in the group. Followed by hearty laughter, as everyone got the joke. Jack’s face darkened.
As someone else engaged Ethan in small talk, Jack stood next to me and I could feel his eyes on me. I ignored him, focusing instead on the conversation between Ethan and the others in the group.
“What’s wrong with your skin?” Jack whispered to me.
“What do you mean?” I asked uneasily.
“You look a bit ... weird.”
I shrugged, but when he turned away I immediately dashed to the washroom. I stared at my face in the well-lit bathroom. As I did so my head swam. Unfortunately, I looked precisely like an Oompa-Loompa. My skin was a lovely burnished orange, a shade generally reserved for shag carpet circa 1972.
Okay, no need to panic. I ripped out a compact from my handbag and vigorously rubbed on more blush to try to take the orange out. I’d come this far and I was not backing down now, dammit. Besides, I needed to look at the positives. I had a great outfit, and my hair, thank God, looked excellent in my adorable visor.
When I returned from the washroom I caught a snatch of conversation as I approached the group.
“She’s really making her mark on the department, isn’t she?” a man was saying to Jack. They were both looking in Nicole’s direction, who stood by the desk signing our group in. Ridiculously, I tucked myself behind a large potted ficus tree to hear what would come next.
“Yes, she is,” Jack said, matter-of-fact. “You know she wrapped up that Phillips case this week?”
“The bane of the department for three years?”
“That’s the one,” Jack said. He smiled warmly.
And that small thing—well, it just about killed me. He’d never looked like that when talking about me. I’d never heard that tone of voice, not when it came to me. And certainly not when it came to my line of work.
Nicole returned and began herding everyone out to the practice range. I was tempted to bolt right then and there but no. I was not going to do that. I rejoined the group and walked outside. My skin broke out in gooseflesh as the chilly wind whipped my bare legs. In retrospect, I really should have consulted a weather forecast before selecting my outfit.
Everyone in our group took a position at the driving range for a warm-up bucket of balls while we waited for our tee-off times. I did the same. Jack lined up on my right, Ethan on my left.
As I was getting myself set up on my little square of AstroTurf I snuck a glance at Jack. He looked amazing as he swung his driver. So masculine, so smooth. He hit the ball professionally, with a lovely schuck sound, and it went far. Who knew golf could be so sexy?
On Jack’s far side was Nicole. She swung and her ball sailed up and away. Unreasonably far, if you ask me. And straight. What was she, the Bionic Woman?
No problem. I could do that. What was so difficult? You swing the club, you hit the ball. I copied the way Nicole lined up in front of the tee. Here goes.
First swing, I missed the ball entirely.
I looked around furtively. Nobody appeared to have noticed. Fine. I’d chalk it up to a practice swing.
I swung again and ... missed. I looked down at the stupid white ball sitting there, mocking me, looking all innocent perched there on its miniature pedestal. “What are you looking at?” I hissed to the smug little ball. I tugged my skirt down, which now felt somewhat idiotic, lined up and swung again. Nothing but air. Quite possibly I might have cried.
I became acutely aware of how absurd I looked. Skirt and visor and everything, like I was on the PGA tour or something. I wanted to tear off the visor, given that there wasn’t actually any sun out at the moment, but I knew my hair would look horrible if I did. And I would have loved to change into a nice comfy pair of sweats.
But what I really wanted was to hit the goddamn ball. Ten swings later, I still hadn’t made contact. I glanced over at Nicole. She swung. Schuck went the ball, as she made contact and the ball flew up and away. Perfection, again.
I clenched my teeth and swung hard. I made contact with a loud clunk. Hurrah!
The ball shanked off at a ridiculous angle and hit a guy in the shin.
“I’m so sorry!” I hollered, cringing. I lined up again.
“Just stay loose, Cat,” said Jack next to me, in a low voice.
Loose. Okay. I could do that. I swung again, thinking loose ... loose. . . . The club went flying from my hands, out onto the range.
“Fuck,” I said—aloud, I’m pretty sure. The good news was the club flew a pretty respectable distance. Was it wrong for me to be proud of that? I darted down the hill to retrieve the club.
“Attention!” a voice boomed over the PA. “Would the golfer in the skirt get off the range ... immediately!”
So apparently it wasn’t “okay” to go onto the range. How was I to know that?
The marshall strolled over to inform us that our tee-off time had arrived. Everyone started moving away to the course. The thought of continuing on this way made me feel ill. I wanted to disappear. To scream. And mostly, to cry.
But how could I back out now? Making up some lame excuse would make me look—and feel—even more pathetic.
At that moment, Ethan appeared at my side. “You okay, Montgomery?” he said in a low voice, looking closely at me with concern.
I returned his gaze and everything he needed to know was written all over my face. He nodded, mouth set in a line.
At that moment, Ethan’s cell phone slipped out of his pocket and bounced on the square of Astroturf. He bent down to retrieve it, and suddenly grabbed at his low back, letting out a yelp of pain. He remained frozen there, hunched over in an awkward posture.
“Ethan, are you okay?”
An attempt to straighten triggered another moan of pain. I stooped to help support him. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “It’s this old injury—”
I looked up and saw that everyone had stopped, watching us uneasily. “Can I help?” asked Jack.
“We’ll be okay. You guys just go ahead,” I said.
Ethan was not moving. His breathing was heavy and his eyes were squeezed shut.
I hunched over further, supporting him from underneath his left side. I looked up into his face, hidden as it was from everyone else. And he winked at me.
He was faking it. Of course he was faking it.
I bit my lip to keep from smiling, as a warm crest of relief and gratitude broke over me. He’d provided me with parole. And more than that: he was willing to make himself look ridiculous for my sake.
“This is so embarrassing,” Ethan muttered, loud enough for those closest to us to hear. We made an attempt at hobbling to a bench inside the clubhouse, assisted by one of the golf pros. Moans and groans punctuated the journey. By this time, everyone else had packed up their things, ready to move off to the golf course.
I left Ethan sprawled awkwardly on the bench and found Nicole. “You know, I think I should just take him home. He doesn’t seem to be doing very well.”
Jack was standing beside her. A peculiar look played on his face. Did he know Ethan was liberating me from my torture by faking his own? I couldn’t be sure. He certainly wasn’t saying anything to dissuade me.
“Of course,” Nicole said. “I completely understand.”
The golf shop staff put our clubs in Ethan’s car and I helped him climb into the passenger’s seat.
I flopped myself down in the driver’s seat, ripped off my ridiculous visor and stared out the window. I watched as our group moved away to the course. Jack and Nicole were walking side by side, the gently rolling green ahead of them. Nicole inclined her head to him and said something. A horrible ache crushed my chest. And with that, I realized the truth. It was right that they were together. It made sense.
“Let’s get out of here, shall we?” Ethan said. �
��I think that’s more than enough golf for today.”
I turned to him. “Ethan, how can I thank you enough for getting me out of there?”
He shrugged. “Forget it, Montgomery. You’d do the same for me.”
We went back to his place, picking up Thai food on the way. It was just what I needed: a nice warm meal and then I’d be off home to soak my miseries in a hot bath. Outside, the sky had grown thick and gray; the wind carried the scent of rain.
Ethan cracked open a frosty beer for each of us. “So you used to date that guy, huh?” he asked casually, as I broke my chopsticks apart.
I looked at him with surprise. “Which guy?”
“You know. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. The hero guy. The FBI.”
“You could tell?”
“Painfully obvious.”
He peeled the lid off the pad Thai container and a spicy aroma of peanut and lime curled upward. “He was the heartbreak, wasn’t he? The one you were talking about at the conference.” I nodded, dipping a spring roll into chili sauce and biting down with a loud crunch. “You know,” he continued, “if you don’t mind me saying, he’s just not your type.”
I raised my chin defensively. “Excuse me?”
“Montgomery, he’s a good guy. You, my dear, are a bad guy. And bad and good don’t mix. It’s like roller coasters and egg salad.”
I took a sip of my ice-cold Stella Artois. “What about ‘opposites attract’?”
“Sorry, babe, I don’t buy that.”
I became aware of Ethan’s proximity to me, beside me on the sofa, and the way he was looking at me. I was not getting involved with him. Absolutely not. I did not need more heartache.
“Tell me, Montgomery, why do you do this? What keeps you in the criminal game?”
“Well, it’s complicated,” I said. I dug into a container of shrimp and spinach curry. I sipped more beer and felt a distinct tingling in my legs.
“I’ve got nowhere to be,” he said.
And then—maybe because of the alcohol—maybe because I needed catharsis after my awful day, or maybe because I felt like I could trust Ethan, after what he’d done for me today, I found myself telling Ethan all about my sister, Penny. He watched me thoughtfully as I told him.
