Eye of Heaven

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Fred’s jaw tightened. “My employers take full responsibility for what happened—and for what continues to go on. But they’re practical. They could take out the middle men like Santoso anytime they want, but it’s the one pulling the strings who’s the main prize. And that, Ms. McGillis, was why your mother left you. She knew the importance of the work.”

  “That’s not enough,” Iris said. “I want more.”

  “Then you’ll have to find your mother to get it. Which is why I brought you all here. So we could work together to bring her home.”

  “Do you know where Santoso has taken her?”

  “Santoso is a bad man, but he’s a baby at heart. And what do all babies do when they’re hurt or threatened?”

  “They run home to their mommies.”

  “Exactly,” Fred said. “Which means he’s taking your mommy to the place he feels safest.”

  “Indonesia,” Blue said, with a curious lack of emotion.

  Iris frowned at him. “So we go there. Fine.”

  Fred shook his head. “You’re not going anywhere. As far as I’m concerned, this is your home until we take care of Santoso.”

  “Like hell it is. I’m going with you.”

  “Listen,” Fred said. “I know you don’t give a rat’s ass about what happens to me, but I happen to like my life. And if we get your mother back, and you end up hurt or worse? I am not kidding when I say she will do bad things to me. Very bad.”

  Iris tried to remember whether she had ever thought her mother capable of Very Bad Things. “Please. You almost sound scared of her.”

  “Terrified,” Fred replied, and there was nothing lighthearted about his response. Iris swallowed hard.

  Blue grunted. “Serena sent you to watch over Iris, didn’t she? All that talk about being FBI was just so you could get close.”

  “It was part of Serena’s deal. She wanted protection for her daughter.”

  “Shitty job you did of that.”

  “Shitty turn of events.”

  “I won’t do it.” Iris looked at Blue. “I won’t stay here.”

  “Okay,” he replied. There was no hesitation.

  Fred made a choking sound. “You can’t be serious.”

  Even Dean and Artur looked at him as if he were crazy. Iris battled her own surprise; she had not expected such easy acquiescence. Blue, however, gave her a small, tired smile and said, “Iris doesn’t give up. You try to keep her here, she’ll find some different way to Indonesia. Better with us than on her own.”

  “You’re thinking with your dick,” Fred said.

  “And you’ll lose yours if you keep talking like that.” Blue reached out, and Iris took his hand.

  Artur swayed close. “When do we leave?”

  Fred looked at Iris and shook his head. He sighed. She thought about giving him the finger. “Anytime you want. I have a jet waiting.”

  Blue nodded. “Dean, get Roland on the line. Fill him in.”

  “On it.” Dean pulled out his cell phone and moved down the corridor, just out of sight. Fred watched him go—a bad man to keep secrets around.

  Iris spoke up, “Santoso only recently came into my life. What was my mother trying to protect me from before that?”

  Fred dropped his bloody towel and reached for the cigarette still tucked behind his ear. He stuck it in his mouth.

  “Herself,” he said, and fumbled behind the bar for a match.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  There was no time for Iris to say good-bye to her cats, and even Blue refused to let her make a phone call to Pete. Too much risk, and too many questions that had no answers.

  They took the helicopter to the airport, and boarded a sleek jet with an interior that felt more like a country estate than a BBJ 737.

  “Adequate.” Dean sniffed, flopping down on the soft, creamy couch bolted to the floor. He propped up his dusty shoes on the polished coffee table, which boasted a vase of fresh roses.

  Fred leaned against the dark paneled wall. “Two bathrooms and two bedrooms, all down the hall. The galley is up front, and we’ve got a crew of two, not including the boys flying this thing. Relax, enjoy the ride, and try not to think about dying.”

  “Thanks,” Iris said. “It was at the top of my list.”

  “Don’t you need to see a doctor about that nose?” Blue called out to Fred, as the man disappeared down the long corridor leading to the back of the plane. Fred ignored him. The moment he was out of sight, Dean took his feet off the table and leaned close.

  “You guys really think we can trust this joker?”

  “Good timing,” Blue said. “Wait to ask the question until after we’re on his plane.”

  Dean scowled. “I’m trying to be serious here. Artur, what’s your take? You got inside his head, after all.”

  “I already said we can trust him. At least in this. He is loyal to Serena.”

  “And that’s it?” Blue asked after a brief silence. “You usually give us a full psychoanalysis.”

  “Which I’m sure he will eventually,” Fred said, coming back into the lounge. He sat down in a plush armchair and pulled seat belts from beneath the cushion. His mouth twisted, bitter. “How did my mind look, Artur? Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

  Artur said nothing, his face impassive. His scent, however, told another story. Conflict, unease, perhaps even a shred of fear. It made Iris wonder what he was not saying, and whether keeping quiet was an act of kindness on his part—or a betrayal.

  The plane took off. Iris remained in the lounge for a time, savoring the unusual sensation of being with people she did not have to hide herself from in any way or form whatsoever. But despite their friendliness, everyone but Blue was still a stranger, and she found that, on top of her ordeal, exhausting enough.

  Iris excused herself. It was her first time on a plane—and what a way to fly—but she found it a bit disorienting keeping her balance as she walked down the long corridor to the bedroom, which was a simpler affair than the rest of the plane. Wood paneling, a full-size bed with a thick down comforter. There was a closet and television, even a private bathroom with a large shower and a cabinet full of fluffy white towels.

  Very surreal. Iris kicked off her shoes, curled into a tiny ball, and closed her eyes. She tried not to think, or remember, but it was impossible to forget everything that had crashed into her life, and she found herself trying to reconcile what had happened to her, the people she had seen, with the refinement and beauty and wealth surrounding her.

  She thought of Songbird, the other women all drugged out, sprawled naked on their pillows. All gone.

  Even her mother was gone; and not just her physical presence, but everything Iris thought she knew about her. Every little scrap of memory from her youth—every hug and kiss and piece of advice, those quiet moments just sitting on the porch and watching the sunset, or cooking dinner in those stupid aprons she insisted they wear, or working with the cats, being cats, hunting, running, living free without concern or responsibility or the rest of humanity. That woman was a lie? Everything Iris had known, nothing more than subterfuge?

  You don’t believe it. Not even in your gut, you don’t believe it. Confused, yes. Hurt, definitely. But you know she loved you. That she still loves you.

  Because Iris remembered that look in her mother’s eyes when they had stood inside that casino. She remembered her mother’s eyes from the dark of the desert, fighting together side by side. Whatever else had happened—the lies, the subterfuge—that much was genuine. Iris had a mother who loved her.

  She heard footsteps outside the room. Blue. She was off the bed and at the door before he could knock, and she dragged him inside, wrapping her arms around his waist for a hug. No talking, just touching. She needed to be held—had years without any human contact to make up for.

  Blue nudged the door shut with his foot and swung Iris up into his arms with an ease that startled her. He kissed her forehead and gently lay her down on the bed. Still no words,
but he took off his shoes and spooned up behind her, cradling her body against his own, their right hands linking up while his left arm slid beneath her head. He turned her just enough to kiss, and Iris lost herself in the sensation of his mouth moving against her own. Kissing Tommy all those years ago seemed dry and clinical compared to this. At sixteen, there bad been no butterflies like the other women in the circus said they got. No sparks, no magic, no electricity.

  But with Blue, Iris finally understood. Being with him, touching him, was like running in a dark wood after years of prison, with each breathless moment filled to bursting with joy—and all those doubts, all the nagging fears that had dogged her every attempt to be a normal girl with a normal man, were suddenly so far removed that Iris briefly wondered if she had ever really felt those things.

  They did not talk with words, only their eyes and mouths and hands, and it was more than enough as Iris helped Blue pull off his clothes, both of them shivering as she explored his fine long muscles with her mouth and fingertips, tracing paths along his ribs, down his abdomen. She kissed his nipple, took it in her mouth to roll and tug, and she smiled at his gasp, at his low cry as her mouth moved lower and lower. Her nails bit into his thighs as she licked him.

  Blue sat up, breathing hard. Iris let him undress her, loving how he peeled off her shirt and jeans with desperate urgency while lingering almost shyly over her underwear. It did not matter that he had already seen her naked—she could see the reverence in his eyes as he unhooked her bra and drew it over her arms. He straddled her, his penis rubbing against her stomach as his hands covered her aching breasts. She tried to touch him again, but he pinned her wrists above her head and kissed her so deeply she felt the rumblings of an orgasm rise and rise.

  Iris tried to wrap her legs around him, but he slid away, moving down her body with a smile. She rose to meet his every touch, and when he hooked his hands into her panties and pulled down, she arched her hips, crying out when he put his mouth to her. His tongue felt so good, so wet and hot, and when he put his fingers to her, sliding inside—first one, then two—she bit back a cry as he began a slow rhythm, stretching her, pressing her. And when she was close—just a hairbreadth away, she felt something much larger rub against her, and she could not help but laugh.

  “What’s funny?” he growled.

  Iris rubbed the crease between his eyes. “You look so serious. Scared, even.”

  “Because I am. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  A sentiment she shared, but which was clearly inevitable. Iris reached down between them, and felt a moment of surprise that he had somehow managed to find and roll on a condom without her even noticing. He pushed against her hand, straining, and whispered, “Ready?”

  “Stick it to me, bad boy,” Iris said, and Blue stared, shoulders shaking as he choked down laughter. Just as she had planned—the shadows and worry fled his eyes, replaced by something bright, hot. Faster than she could blink he pressed flat and hard against her, so close their noses rubbed.

  “I love you, Iris McGillis. I want you to know that.”

  Iris smiled, about to tell him the same, but he pushed inside her before she could say a word. She did feel pain—briefly—but it was nothing to the sensation of being so deliciously, astonishingly full. Blue was inside her, stretching and pressing, and when he began to move—slow, gentle—the slide of his flesh inside her body made the breath rattle in her throat.

  “You okay?” he whispered. Iris nodded, still unable to speak. She could feel him shaking, and she dragged her legs over his hips, trying to match his rhythm as he increased his pace, his thrusts long and deep and so good all Iris could do was writhe beneath him, lost in the sensation. She could feel him losing control and she grabbed his buttocks, pulling him harder, urging him with her body until he held down her wrists, pinning her to the bed as his glistening body pounded her so hard and deep she came within moments, arching beneath him with a startled cry. He followed her almost immediately, his last movements wild, frenzied. Iris could only cling to him, toes and fingers tingling, the rush still pulsing through her body.

  It took a long time for her heart to slow, even longer for her voice to produce something more than a whimper, and with her body still wrapped around him and his mouth pressing the occasional clumsy kiss against her cheek, she said, “Is it always that good?”

  Blue laughed weakly. “God, Iris. If it is, I’m not sure I’ll make it to forty.”

  She smacked him on the shoulder, and he rolled them over, holding her close against his body.

  “No hitting,” he said, kissing her throat. “You’ll hurt my feelings.”

  Iris grinned. “Big, tough men like you actually have feelings? Be still, my heart.”

  His smile faded just slightly—a flash of something sad passing through his eyes—and Iris remembered too late Artur’s wife, Elena.

  Blue began to pull away from her, but she held on tight, clinging like a leech until he lay back down on the bed. He did not relax, though.

  “I’m sorry,” Iris said, her cheek pressed against his chest. She listened to his heartbeat, sure and strong.

  He sighed, running his fingers through her hair. “Don’t be. It just … reminded me of something I should have done.”

  “Which was?”

  “Make you hate me.”

  “What?”

  “I’m afraid of hurting you, Iris.”

  “Because of what happened to Artur’s wife.”

  “It’s not the first time.”

  Iris frowned, snuggling closer. “Tell me.”

  At first she thought he would not—he was quiet for such a long time—but then he cleared his throat and said, “The first time it was my dog. I was twelve and got angry. I don’t remember why. But my dog fell over and died. We thought he was sick. Until the electricity started going haywire in the house, at school, in the car. Everywhere I was. And then other things started dying. Birds, cats. I had a mean son of a bitch for a math teacher, and one day when he started coming down hard on me for no reason, I felt something pop in my mind, and the old man started having a heart attack. That’s when I finally put it all together. Humans run on electricity, too. Bioelectric pulses that keep the heart going. I can affect those just as easily as I can a lightbulb.”

  “What happened to the teacher?”

  “He died. Right in front of me. And I swear he knew it was my fault.”

  “Blue,” Iris breathed. She could not imagine the pain he had endured. What a terrible burden to put on a child. She said as much, pushing even closer, trying to tell him with her body that she was not afraid. His hand crept into her hair, down her neck, trailed across her shoulders.

  “I thought about killing myself,” Blue said, with a simple honesty made all the more terrible because it was not idle or melodramatic. Just truth, the kind that made Iris imagine razors against her wrists or a rope wrapped around her throat. She tried not to react—was afraid of how he would take it—but she finally gave up pretending and grabbed his hand, holding it so tight she knew it must hurt. He did not complain.

  “Why would you do such a thing?” she whispered.

  “Easy. I couldn’t live with the idea that I might hurt other people without meaning to. That just by thinking I could take another person’s life.”

  “So what stopped you?”

  He laughed, bitter. “Pure selfishness. I liked being alive more than I hated killing.”

  “I don’t think that’s selfish. That’s survival.”

  “And if I hurt you?” Blue tilted up her chin and stared into her eyes. “What would you say then?”

  “I’d say to keep on living. I’d say it was an accident and no hard feelings. And if I didn’t die, but was damaged, I would say the same. And if you even contemplated something as terrible and stupid as what your friend is considering, I’d make your life a living hell.”

  “Ah,” Blue said. “But if you were alive and healthy and making my life hell, that might just be worth it.�
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  “Not funny.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s not. I’ve got better control now. Or I thought I did. Before Elena, it had been a long time since I hurt anyone. But accidents happen.”

  “That’s right.” Iris poked his chest. “I could get hit by a car, struck by lightning, maybe, oh—find myself kidnapped by an international crime lord hell-bent on stealing my vital organs! Though I suppose that counts as murder instead of an accident. Point is, you can’t control everything. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

  “And that’s supposed to be comforting?”

  “Well, yes. Liberating, at the very least. I think.”

  “Sorry,” Blue said. “I missed that boat when the dog died.”

  Iris sighed. “What did your parents say? I know you weren’t close to your father, but he must have had some kind of opinion.”

  “No. I never had any contact with my father. I didn’t even know Daniel existed until a couple days ago.”

  “Huh.” Iris frowned. “Based on what Daniel said, that surprises me.”

  “Based on what Daniel said? You talked about this?”

  “Something … similar.” Iris was not quite sure how much to tell him, but decided she had already burned her bridges by saying what she had. “According to him, you were quite the presence in his life. Your father kept pictures of you around, and used them to … make Daniel feel bad. Whatever that means.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “That makes no sense, Iris.”

  “From what I’ve heard, it’s not supposed to. Your father, apparently, is not a nice man.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s sharp, brilliant, ruthless—and his one true act of genius has been letting the world see all those qualities, while somehow convincing it that he should be loved for them. He’s built his reputation around philanthropy, eradicating poverty, improving education for women and children. The perfect person. Except to his own family.”

  “And there’s no chance of a misunderstanding?”

  Blue laughed, a cold and bitter sound. “I told you my mother is from Afghanistan. She came to the United States during her country’s heyday, before things got bad. She went to school here, got her law degree, and when she was still in her early twenties she found a job as an associate in a firm my father used. There was a case … I don’t know about what, but it meant my mother had to spend a lot of time with my dad. He was attracted to her, and she wasn’t entirely averse to him. Things got out of hand. My mom is a traditional woman. Not strict in any sense, but she believed sex was for marriage. My father … didn’t.”