He felt his mother watching, her careful mask fracturing, the cool woman beginning to fear. She knew. He could see it in her eyes. Blue wondered if she still remembered the feeling of the shovel in her hands, digging those graves.
“Boy,” Perrineau said, drawing out the word, saying it like a slow hammer fall. One word, one statement, one question—all of which demanded a response.
“Yes,” Blue said, swallowing his pride.
His father relaxed against his pillows. “Better. No room for indulgence here. No room for anything of the sort. You come here, you listen, you do as you are told. If you don’t, I have a remedy. I have an answer. Might be I’m dead to the world, but that doesn’t mean no one will hear me. I’m a Perrineau, boy. I’m the goddamn Good Samaritan. People think angels kiss my ass.”
Blue said nothing. His mother did not move. Brandon stood near, a shadow at her shoulder.
Perrineau looked him dead in the eye. “I have another son. Did you know that? He is twenty-seven years old. His mother was a waitress in one of my New York restaurants. She was beautiful and stupid, and I married her because she looked like she would be a good mother. And she was. Very good. My son? His name is Daniel. Thanks to you, Felix was already taken. So, there. Thanks to your mother, you have another piece of me. Blood and a name. Felix Junior.” He shook his head, smiling. “Your brother, though, is legitimate, legal, and my heir. The only problem is that he doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“Smart,” Blue said, fighting his emotions, schooling his face—trying not to reveal how shaken he was that he had a brother. He glanced at his mother, but her mask was back in place: cool, quiet. And, he thought, unapologetic. She did not look at him, which was a clue—but Blue was in no position to pin her down. He could feel his father watching, resting still as a corpse, and it almost seemed as though his pale skin glittered beneath the light of his electronics, sharp as diamond. Cold and perfect.
“Daniel is smart enough,” Perrineau finally replied quietly, his gaze unflinching. “Smart enough to evade me for the past six months. I kept his existence a secret, you know. Until now. I worried about enemies, kidnappers, bounties. A rich man’s son is never safe. Never really himself until it is time to take his father’s place.”
So what does that say about me, you son of a bitch? What does that say about how you feel toward me?
A whole damn lot.
“So you lost him,” Blue said. “Another son went bye-bye. So fucking what?”
“I need to find him. Right fucking now. I’ve certainly poured in enough money. Hired all manner of discreet professionals. A wasted effort. If his mother were still alive, I might have some control over him. She was not the running type. As it is, though, Daniel is … slippery.”
Slippery enough to make his father desperate. Very truly desperate. Reckless, even. For a moment all Blue could do was stare, wondering if the sudden chill on his skin was a sign of hell freezing over.
“You staged your own death to draw him home,” he murmured. “All of this … just to lure him out into the open. Goddamn. You are crazy.”
“Maybe,” Perrineau said, just as softly. “But it hasn’t worked. Which implies that my son either hates me more than I thought, or he isn’t in any position to return.”
“If he’s dead, you mean.”
The old man narrowed his eyes. “I’ll be dead soon enough, and that’s no lie. So if Daniel is gone from this world, and I join him …”
“Brandon will be a very rich man.”
His father laughed. “Clever. You don’t even act tempted.”
“Because I’m not.” Not tempted in the slightest. Blue did not want his father’s money. He did not want the power or the name. All his life, struggling to be his own man—I don’t want your place, never, not ever—and he was not about to turn and tuck tail now.
Blue glanced at his mother. Mahasti was not a timid woman. She was not shy or easily cowed, and even now when she returned his gaze, he saw that her fire, her sharpness, had not dulled in the slightest. Yet still, silence—and he could not imagine it, even if Felix had threatened her.
We could leave here, he thought again, ready to tear down his shields. To disable the network, the grid, and if anyone tried to hurt them—
No. Blue clenched his jaw. No, not that.
But still, escape. The problem was what to do afterward. His mother had a life. She had a career, friends, a home she had paid for after years of hard work. Her freedom meant everything to her, was a testament to everything that had been denied the family left behind in Afghanistan more than thirty-five years before. Live life on the run? Never.
Blue looked at Perrineau. “What do you want?”
His father briefly shut his eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? I want you to find him. I want you to ferret out your brother and bring him home.”
“And you think I can do it?”
Perrineau laughed. It was a weak laugh—a choke, a gasp—and the slight undertone of a wheeze sounded sick, tired, as if there were not enough breath left in his lungs for anything so strenuous.
“What is wrong with you?” Blue asked softly.
“Age,” Perrineau replied flatly.
“No,” Blue said. “No, it’s more than that.”
“More is not your concern,” the old man snapped, spittle flecking the sides of his mouth. “As I said, I want you to find your brother.”
Blue said nothing.
Perrineau sneered. “Your silence is no denial.”
“I know you can. I know you can and I know you will, no questions asked.” Perrineau shoved his hand beneath his pillow and pulled out a thick brown file. He tossed the paperwork to Blue, who caught it against his chest and flinched. More cold swept over his skin.
He opened the file. Read the first line, Regarding the operation of Dirk & Steele, and stopped cold.
His father began to laugh. Mahasti stepped in front of Blue and pulled the file from his numb fingers. She flipped through the pages and returned it to his hands, pointing. Blue saw his name and a candid shot of his face. Below the picture was his military history, age, and address—as well as some speculation, but no conclusions, about his “paranormal ability.”
“He knows almost everything,” his mother murmured. “There are dossiers on your friends. Pictures, too. The proof is all there. I examined it myself.”
“Impossible,” Blue hissed. “Most of what we do isn’t visible to the naked eye.”
His mother stared. “There is photographic evidence of a man turning into a crow. And another, a cheetah.”
Blue tasted blood—the inside of his cheek. He looked over his mother’s shoulder at Perrineau. “No one will believe this. No one. They’ll accuse you of falsifying the pictures.”
“Certainly,” said his father. “If I intended to disseminate them to the general public. Fortunately, I have better contacts than that.”
Blue’s vision blurred; he could barely see past the stars, the spinning. He bit down on his tongue, hard, and tasted more blood. The pain helped. “And if I find your son—my brother? What then? You won’t share the pictures? Forgive me if I don’t trust you.”
His father’s smile widened. “I must admit, the temptation is considerable. I have never in my life considered the possibility of such … wondrous things. The military applications alone … “He stopped, sly. “Well, it makes me wonder what you can do.”
“Stop this,” Mahasti said. “Stop.”
“I can make it stop,” Blue said, and he meant it. He would do it, if he had to. For his friends, for his mother. For himself.
Perrineau’s smile turned brittle. “I have copies. And if I do not call my agent within the next thirty minutes, I can promise you that everything in that file will be released to the proper authorities. And by authorities, I mean my contacts at the Pentagon. Which, I confess, has its own ailing program of psychic warriors. Pitiful creatures. Barely able to bend spoons. Nothing at all like my own flesh and blood. Or his
friends.”
Breathe, Blue told himself. Calm down. You have options. You’re not alone. You are not alone.
“Time frame?” he asked. He could do this. He could say yes, which would give him time to stall, to call Roland, to get a fix on this thing. He could eat his pride and anger a little longer. Anything for the people he loved. Anything.
“Quick. No more than a week.”
“Be realistic. It’s taken you at least six months.”
“And I don’t have that long. Not anymore.”
Good. “A month, then.”
“Two weeks, and that is generous on my part.”
Blue hesitated. “Why do you want him?”
“A father can’t say good-bye to his son before dying?” Perrineau smiled and closed his eyes. “No, you don’t think well enough of me for that.”
“You’re going to hurt him.” Blue felt sick. “I’ll bring him here and you’ll hurt the hell out of him.”
“Just bring me my son,” said the old man, voice dropping to a whisper. “Let me worry about the rest.”
Brandon was instructed to give Blue a large padded envelope, and then they were dismissed, turned away with a wave of his father’s hand like they were servants, beggars, clods. The business meeting was over. Time for other affairs, weightier schemes that could be conducted from beyond the grave.
Blue did not appreciate the illusion of freedom. He knew it for what it was—knew, too, that it was not so easy, that his father’s reach, even dead to the world as he was, was impossibly long. But Blue asked no more questions, just shut his mouth and walked out. Kept walking until he was out of the house, standing in the sunlight that trickled sweetly through the trees. He sucked in his breath, thought about putting his head between his knees. He was afraid he would not be able to straighten up again.
A familiar hand touched his back, a light touch. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Blue said to his mother, reaching back to hug her. “But you have to tell me what he has on you. What he did to bring you here. Back in his room I was afraid to ask.”
“I am his backup plan,” she said in a tired voice. “Or maybe I was his original plan. He will send me back to Afghanistan if you fail him, Felix. Or maybe he will have me deported just for spite, regardless of what you do for him.”
Oh, he really needed to lie down now. “You’re an American, Mom.”
“And that means nothing to men with money. It means nothing if you are of Arab descent in this day and age. All he needs to do is have one of his men call me a terrorist, perhaps plant some incendiary documents in my home. And there, my life is ruined.” She laughed weakly. “Forget deportment; I will probably be put in jail for the rest of my life.”
If it was an American jail, that would still be better than going back to Kandahar. Blue knew his mother would not last a day. The Taliban might be gone—sort of—but plenty of the old remnants remained. He tried to imagine her in a burka, alone with no friends or family, and the idea made him sick.
“It won’t come to that,” he told her. “I promise you. My friends—”
“You and your friends have enough problems,” she said firmly. “Take care of that, and then we will see what can be done for me. Besides, I am not without my own resources.” She touched his arm. “Felix, I meant what I said. I would not have come here, or allowed myself to be used, if it had not been for the file on your agency.”
Blue grimaced, unable to hide how much it pained him to think of her ready and willing to ruin her life just to protect him. Goddamn. He was going to find a way out of this or die trying.
Gravel spit. Blue looked up and found Brandon behind the wheel of another black Audi, just like the one they’d come in which was still parked nearby. He leaned out the window and tossed over a set of keys. “I’ll take Mahasti home. Drive the other car.”
“Like hell,” Blue said, but his mother touched his arm and drew him down for a tight hug. Then, before he could stop her, she slid into the passenger seat beside Brandon. Blue stared, numb. He was going crazy. Yes, finally, this was it.
“Wait,” he managed to say. “Stop. What’s going on? You can’t trust him.”
“She can trust me,” Brandon said. Blue wanted to reach through the open window and punch his lights out.
His mother looked him straight in the eyes with that cool dark gaze that had always been maddening in its utter lack of expression, its seamless stubborn strength. “I have to do this. There are things I can do to protect myself. I won’t be used against you. I refuse.”
“Mom.”
“I’ll be safe. If nothing else, Felix, trust me.”
As if he had a choice. That glint in his mother’s eye was the conclusion, the set of her jaw nothing more than a solid end to the conversation. Blue gave Brandon one long, hard look and then pushed out with his mind, scanning their vehicle.
“No bugs, no trackers,” he said, telling his mother, giving up the ghost and risking the truth in front of the older man. Brandon, however, did not show the slightest surprise at Blue’s announcement; there was no question in his gaze.
“I already checked it,” the man agreed, revving the engine.
Blue frowned. “Who are you, really? Why are you involved in this? Why do you care what happens?” And what kind of relationship do you have with my mother, you son of a bitch? Why in God’s name does she trust you?
Brandon smiled, but it was cold, ugly. “There are no stronger ties than blood, Mr. Perrineau. Nothing more beautiful or more hateful. But I suspect you’ll learn that lesson again when you find your brother.”
His mother did not wave or say good-bye. She gave Blue a long, grave look, and then Brandon drove them away. Blue thought about racing after, following in the car given to him, but he had a very strong feeling that was the last thing his mother would want. She, apparently, had a plan. Something he needed to get, and fast.
He glanced one last time at the house. No one stood in the windows watching him, but he felt the security cameras tracking his movements. Men, too, but they were also out of sight. Giving him the illusion of solitude.
Blue slid into the Audi and shook out the contents of the envelope. A thick wad of cash fell onto the passenger seat—several thousand dollars at least—as well as a credit card with his name on it. Blue ignored the money. He kept shaking, and a moment later a photograph dropped free, along with a folded piece of paper that, at first glance, seemed to be a letter to Daniel’s mother.
Blue did not read the letter. Instead, he held the picture in his hands, staring. The face that looked back at him was handsome, tanned, with short brown hair and blue eyes, a smile that was slightly twisted, as though his brother disliked the person taking the photograph. He wore glasses. He looked smart.
Smart enough.
Blue flipped over the photograph. Height, weight, a list of impressive academic credentials that consisted of a brief stint at Juilliard, followed by undergraduate and master’s degrees in arts education from Harvard. He had worked briefly as a teacher in Chicago, and then given up his profession to participate in various aid groups, most recently the International Committee of the Red Cross. His father had tracked Daniel’s movements everywhere, from Pakistan to Thailand, right up to New Orleans.
And then, nothing.
Blue shook his head and put away the photograph. He tossed the money and credit card out the door—he was not quite that stupid, thank you very much, nor did he want the taint of being paid to do his father’s dirty work—and cracked open his mental shields to scan the car. He immediately discovered a tracking device in the engine, as well as a bug in the air vent: two pinpricks tickling his head, floating on the surface of the electronic currents running through the car. Separate and unequal.
Blue shut off the devices, pushing farther with his mind. He found two cars idling on the other side of the house. Waiting to follow him, no doubt. Blue shorted out the circuits running to each battery, and for good measure wreaked havoc on the th
ree other cars in the garage. He thought about disrupting the entire electrical grid, but held himself back at the last moment. There was no telling just how much his father knew about him or what he would do to retaliate.
Play it safe, Blue told himself. For now.
So he did, remaining on high alert for the first hour of his drive off the mountain, scanning the road ahead and behind with his mind. He even checked the skies for low-flying aircraft: helicopters, a Cessna. He could not discount the possibility that his father was also using satellite technology to track him—the old man had supplied enough technology to the private sector and various world governments to qualify for his own personal feed.
His cell phone rang. It was Roland.
“We have a problem,” Blue said.
“Yes,” Roland replied. “You have a beard.”
Blue rolled his eyes. “Not funny. My father knows about us. He has pictures of Koni and Amiri shifting shape, and he’s using the information to blackmail me. If I don’t do what he says, not only will he turn the agency over to his friends at the Pentagon, but he’s going to tell the authorities that my mother is a terrorist.”
“Actually, that is pretty funny, you little fuck. Tell me another one.”
“I wish I could.”
Blue heard the beginnings of a laugh, followed by a choking sound. “Christ, you’re serious. But I thought your old man was dead. It’s been all over the news.”
“He’s not dead enough,” Blue said. “It’s a setup, Roland. Pure lies.”
“Fuck.”
“Yes.” Blue clenched his jaw as the car went around a steep curve in the road. He pulled the wheel too hard and his ribs throbbed, pain curling up the back of his neck into his skull. Too much he did not need.
Roland muttered something under his breath; Blue heard pencils snapping. “Did he give any indication how he found out, how he even knew to look?”
“No, but according to my mother, he has a dossier on every one of us. I only had enough time to see mine. No direct proof, but there was some inconclusive speculation about what I’m capable of.”
Eye of Heaven Page 4
