I was damned tempted. But . . .
“I want to,” I said. “But I have an appointment.”
“A date?” Pascal asked with glee in her voice.
I flinched, shook my head. “No, no date. Unless a real estate agent counts.”
“Ah. Right.”
Comprehension all around. I’d told them about finding a new apartment, though I hadn’t mentioned the reasons. Navarette’s eyes narrowed, and she gave me a speculative look, but she didn’t ask any pointed questions.
Good thing, because I had no pointed answers.
***
By seven P.M., I had negotiated the Metro from Georgetown hospital to a redbrick apartment building in the SW quadrant. The advertisement had promised “the luxuries of modern comfort”—whatever that meant—at an affordable price.
Now the real estate agent, a woman with fluffy white hair whose name I’d forgotten the moment she told me, was giving me the official tour. As she led me through the narrow hallway, past the galley kitchen and into the combined living/dining room, she gave a running commentary that was an expanded version of that same advertisement.
“. . . six hundred square feet for this apartment, which is the single-small-bedroom floor plan. Fully appointed kitchen, complimentary Wi-Fi, and miniblinds . . .”
God. Miniblinds.
“. . . a business center on the ground floor, fitness club, and covered parking . . .”
I glanced into the bedroom with its full-length mirrors and its deep-pile carpeting. Whoever had selected the color scheme had done a masterful job with bland. Pale beige walls. Dark beige carpets. The minimal trim painted a shade exactly between the two. The absolutely odorless air, as though it too had been scrubbed clean and erased of life.
Very safe. Very dull. I couldn’t help but remember Jenna Hudson showing me 2809 Q Street for the first time.
. . . A comfortable couch and two chairs occupied the space in front of the window. An old-fashioned telephone in one corner, a small cabinet equipped with electronic devices. The whole room had the air of something from the late nineteenth century, but with grace notes of the twenty-first.
“. . . a very quiet neighborhood with easy access to . . .”
The agent’s voice trailed off. It took me moment to realize she’d stopped talking. I plucked my thoughts away from the past and 2809 Q Street and turned around with a smile. “My apologies. My thoughts went wandering. You were saying about the terms?”
She’d said nothing about the terms, but she was a professional. “Two thousand for the rent, with all amenities included, except the fitness club, which requires a small monthly fee. If you prefer more space, we also have a floor plan for a larger single-bedroom.”
I recalled the description from the advertisement. Seven hundred sixty square feet, five hundred dollars more per month.
“I don’t really know,” I said slowly.
“Of course. Take your time to think it over. The application fee is fifty dollars in case you decide to move forward.”
She handed over a sheaf of brochures, which I accepted more out of politeness than any desire to live in the country of the beige. In turn, I promised to call her back within a week.
Outside, I breathed in the night air, laden with exhaust smoke and the promise of rain. The Metro station was the next intersection over, the shops and restaurants of Chinatown only a few blocks farther on, and I could hear the traffic on 395. Quiet, but not silent.
Better than a hostel, I thought. Better than a dirt farm.
My first impulse was to text Navarette and join the merry crew wherever they had ended up. But I was in no mood to be merry myself. Instead, I took the Metro to Wisconsin, then walked to a Turkish diner I knew, where I ordered a plate of falafel sandwiches and a pot of spiced tea.
Waiting for my food, I leafed through the brochure. I found no surprises there. The glossy photographs of the various apartments all looked alike to me. There were a few larger suites that seemed more appealing, but they cost nearly three times as much.
I am such a spoiled brat these days, I thought.
I had just flipped to the back of the brochure and was scanning the prices a second time when a faint buzz sounded from my bag. I dug out my cell, thinking it had to be Pascal or Navarette. But the cell was quiet, and the buzzing didn’t stop.
Oh. Could it be . . .
I hurriedly sorted through the jumble of clothes and books and other oddments, to fetch out Sara’s texting device. When it buzzed again, it was little more than a soft vibration. Before I could speak Sara’s name, the screen flickered once, then a message scrolled by.
Continue to look confused, my love. But say nothing. Return this device to your bag, eat your meal, then read your book. Once you are truly private, you might consider the message embedded within.
Sara. She was somewhere nearby—she had to be.
My pulse beating faster, I followed her instructions: shrugged, rolled my eyes, tossed the device back into my bag. When my meal arrived, I concentrated on the falafel sandwiches as though nothing else existed.
So far, so good.
I pushed my plate away, then poured a second cup of tea and rummaged through my bag for the paperback I’d stowed there in the morning. S. A. Chakraborty’s latest novel. Epic fantasy at its finest, read the cover.
But when I pulled the book from my bag, my pulse gave another jump. Someone had inserted a bookmark at the end of the first chapter—a thick piece of paper folded in half. I never used a bookmark. Angela had teased me endlessly about this habit, but I liked picking up a book and flipping through the pages to where I’d left off. If I couldn’t remember, I told her, then maybe I needed to reread a chapter or two.
Reading was impossible. All I could do was pretend to scan each page. One page, one sip of tea. Once I finished the cup, I set the book aside, facedown, and poured a third cup while I contemplated the dessert menu. When the waitress returned, I sadly shook my head and said I had decided against having anything more, and could she please bring the check.
I replaced the bookmark where I had left off “reading” and returned the book to my bag. After I paid my bill, I stopped in the restroom and locked myself in the first open stall.
Now I was shivering. Sara had given me the texting device. I had always assumed she had one of her own. But what if the FBI had confiscated hers? What if they wanted a second, and more private, interview?
Well, there was only one way to find out.
I extracted the so-called bookmark. The paper was thick and textured. One side was blank. The other was covered with familiar handwriting that sprawled over the page.
Dearest Janet,
I need a very great favor from you. Do you remember where we first met? Of course you do. So. If you are willing to accept the challenge, go there Saturday morning at ten A.M. Wait for a bald man wearing a white carnation . . .
Just teasing, my love. What I really want you to do is contemplate the exquisite view for as long as seems plausible, then continue to #819 Seventh Street. If all goes well, and our mutual friends do not interfere, we shall have another of our private talks.
No signature, but I recognized that exuberant handwriting, not to mention the equally exuberant and unpredictable mind behind the set of directions. Running my fingertips over the upper corner, I found the expected pattern of raised dots. I held the sheet over the toilet and pressed hard against the dots. A sharp prick against my thumb was all the warning I had before the paper exploded into a shower of ashes.
I dusted off my hands and flushed the toilet. Stared down at the whirlpool of ashes.
Oh, Sara, what have you done now?
***
For the rest of Thursday, on through Friday night, I did my best to pretend I was nothing more than Janet Watson, a surgeon (of sorts) at Georgetown hospital, and not someone in secret communication with a covert government agent. I joked with Navarette about the young man who had flirted with her, and the hangover Pascal i
nsisted she did not have. I even sent a message to the real estate agent with a request to view the larger one-bedroom apartment.
Ten A.M. the next morning saw me underfed and undercaffeinated in the basement of the National Gallery of Art. Sara called Dalí’s Last Supper a moveable feast, since the museum liked to move its location every year or so. A typical Sara joke.
I hate you. I love you.
Complicated emotions for a complicated woman.
Twenty minutes passed while I contemplated Dalí’s luminous painting. It was silent here. Like a church at midnight. Like the medical unit at dawn, when the enemy slept. I practiced the one-minute meditation Faith had taught me, attention focused on the air rushing into my lungs, the pressure against my chest, and the sensation of light filling my veins.
Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t try to clear your mind. Let your thoughts hover.
Once, just once, I had the impression that someone stood behind me. The skin between my shoulder blades itched. I resisted the urge to spin around and continued my study of Dalí’s Last Supper. It was, after all, an excellent choice. I could make out the analogies embedded in the scene, the layers of meaning and images the painter had added to a straightforward depiction of this famous biblical story.
A few visitors came into the gallery, spending only a few moments before they continued to the next exhibit. I waited another five minutes before I’d had enough of Dalí myself and headed back toward the exit.
My cell charted my course from the museum, directly up Seventh Street, to the address Sara had given me. PHAN MINH TRADING COMPANY, read the sign. Dark red shades covered the windows from the inside, which were plastered over with signs in Vietnamese and English, advertising a sale. I pushed the door open and found myself in a crowded entryway, with an electronic cash register on one side and a narrow aisle winding toward the back.
A young woman behind the cash register nodded at me. “Welcome. Please let me know if you need assistance.”
I need to find a certain secret agent.
But I simply smiled back and nodded. “Thank you.”
Not sure what to expect, I continued along the aisle. Shelves on either side carried jars of spices, herbs, dried noodles, teas, and more. Overhead, a wingless paper dragon floated in the air. I skirted around an enormous stack of pottery, only to find myself in a small open space with two tables underneath a window
Once more, I sensed a presence behind me. Sara.
I spun around.
A short stocky woman stood behind me. She was the opposite of Sara—box braids tumbling over her shoulders, round sunglasses, and an oversize trench coat with too many pockets. I would have pegged her as one of the army of homeless in DC, except for the glittering diamond earring that dangled from one ear.
“Hello,” she said. “Glad you could make it.”
“Who are you?” I demanded. And where is Sara?
“We met once, last year,” the woman said. Her voice was light and breathless. “My name is Micha.”
Micha. Now I remembered. This woman was Sara’s cousin, the one who had located a car for me and Sara last October, so we could flee DC and track down who was killing veterans from America’s New Civil War. Her coloring was as dark as Holmes’s, her skin was stretched tight over her cheeks and jaw, and in the light from the window, I caught a glint of gray in her braided hair. Odd. I had imagined her as a much younger woman.
Micha tilted her head and smiled, as though she could guess the trajectory of my thoughts. She gestured to the table under the window. “You do remember me. Good. The tea here is excellent. I invite you to share a pot with me. No one will bother us.”
“Including you?”
She chuckled. “Sara was right about you. Sit. I’ll order tea. You can always leave, after all.”
I took a seat at the first empty table. Glanced around the narrow space. An orange cat, perched high on a shelf to my left, stared back at me with that same condescending expression as Sydney’s cat, Ono. Another cat, this one a dark tabby so ancient that its spine showed through its thinning fur, dozed in a patch of sunlight. It blinked at me, sniffed, then dropped back to sleep.
Cats were so damned judgmental.
Moments later, Micha set down a tray with a pot, two cups of translucent porcelain, and a pile of napkins. She slid into the chair opposite me and poured out tea for us both.
“We have five minutes,” she said, “possibly a few more, before anyone cares how much time you spend in this shop. So please listen while I explain.”
The tea was scorching hot and fragrant, with a whiff of smoke and a lovely flavor I had never tasted before.
“Go ahead,” I told her. “Start off with why you forged that letter.”
Her mouth quirked in a smile. “A matter of national and personal security. You would not have agreed to this meeting unless you believed the note came from Sara. No, don’t leave yet. Hear me out. The very short explanation is that Sara believes treason has been committed here and—”
“What does that have to do with me? She’s a federal agent—”
“Not anymore.”
That flat statement stopped me cold.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that our beloved Sara has gone absent without leave from her service. She did submit the necessary paperwork somewhere after or during the fact, but naturally that does not absolve her from crossing borders and engaging in forbidden activities.”
Oh, dear god. Those were a lot of words that boiled down to treason.
“What does she want with me?” I whispered.
Micha didn’t answer right away. She drank her tea, her gaze turned inward. Her face was all strong lines, brushstrokes of ink and umber. Her slim hands held the cup lightly and surely. I waited, almost patiently. Five minutes, or less, before the watchers noticed.
“As I said, it’s a question of national security,” she said at last. “Sara has not shared all the details with me, but she tells me the plot involves Nadine Adler and a faction within the New Confederacy.”
Oh, dear god. I was only joking when I told her she was obsessed.
Apparently not. My gut twisted over into knots at all the implications.
“Was it—is it the Brotherhood?”
“Them or another like them. Sara did not specify.”
Christ. She’d done it. Tossed her career into a bonfire. And now she wanted to involve me.
“What . . . What does she believe is the plot?”
Micha’s lips thinned. “Sara has not shared that detail either.”
A hint of exasperation showed in her voice. Aha. I was not alone in wanting to smack Sara Holmes upside the head. “You cousin wants the impossible. You don’t even know what she wants of me. You can’t even tell me where she is—”
“She’s in the New Confederacy. Oklahoma. I should not say even that much.”
Fuck.
“What does she want with me?”
“She . . . she needs a surgeon,” Micha said. “She told me you were the only surgeon she could trust. I’m to bring you to her, if you agree.”
Across the border. In the middle of the New Confederacy.
No, no, no. Not after Alton, Illinois. Not after what happened last October.
Already I was trembling.
Micha laid a hand next to mine, not touching. “I told her she was wrong to ask this of you. I understand. I’ll find someone else. Perhaps I can persuade Grandmamma to help.”
Sara’s grandmother, who granted favors but demanded even more favors in return. Well, that was just a warm fuzzy reassurance.
“But just in case . . .”
I jerked my head up. “In case of what?”
Micha stood up and smiled. “In case you change your mind,” she said. “Use the text device Sara gave you. Just say yes, nothing more. Let me know by midnight.” She paused a moment, then added, “Just remember, they are watching you.”
***
I fumbled my way through the re
st of the day, though I’m not sure I recall any details. I ordered takeout at one point, ate, and washed up my dishes, possibly in that order. By evening, I was sunk into the couch facing the grand bay window. The sun had vanished below the horizon and the DC skyline was edged in crimson.
By this this time, the haze in my mind had cleared and I was angry.
Goddamn you, Sara. You had no right to barge into my life. No right to offer safety and beauty, only to yank it all away. You goddamned didn’t have a right to send your triple-damned cousin to lure me into a scheme that can only ruin both our lives.
Trouble with being angry, it made it hard to sit still. I grabbed my bag and headed out the door.
The walk to the Mall needed only twenty minutes or so. I skirted around the Reflecting Pool and fetched up by the Lincoln Memorial. There I stopped at the bottom step and braced myself, in military rest, as I stared up into Lincoln’s blank white face, illuminated by the spotlights.
Hello, old friend. Nice to see you again. And what were you thinking? You who wanted all us black people gone from these United States. You who didn’t go to war against slavery, as much as slavery went to war against you and the North.
Lincoln said nothing. He never did—one of his most irritating traits. If only we could haul the dead before a court of law, the heroes, the villains, the ones with good intent, the selfish narcissists. If only we could demand the truth from them, or better, if we could make them confront the truth. Trump, for instance . . .
But Trump was long dead now, and his ancestors in politics would never confront the truth. However much I wished it, Lincoln and others like him could not undo history.
The problem was today, with Nadine Adler and the New Confederacy.
I sighed. I could see exactly where this was going. A sensible Janet Watson would remain in DC. Take that very boring apartment with all its amenities and miniblinds. Hold fast to the new life Sara herself had gifted me.
Except that Sara had saved my life two or three times over. Never mind that she had drugged me, turned my life upside down, and wreaked havoc with all boundaries between us.
Goddamn you, I thought, but without any real anger.
I took the texting device from my bag and held it to my mouth.
The Hound of Justice Page 12
