Rapture fa-4

by J. R. Ward

  “Your uncle knew Jim?”

  “He’s the head of human resources for the construction company he worked for.”

  Matthias took a deep breath, like he was choking up. “Jim was an awesome guy—we were in the war together.” He knocked the head of his cane into the partition. “You know how it is.”

  Four…three…two…one…

  “Look, why don’t I call my uncle for you. Maybe he has the number. Hold on.”

  The girl slipped out of the partition, paused, and then nodded, like she was on a mission for good, and determined to Do the Right Thing.

  As Matthias waited for her to come back, he listened for his conscience to speak up at the manipulation.

  When nothing came, he was disturbed by how easy it was. Like the act of lying was so familiar and insignificant, it didn’t register any more than the blink of the eyes did.

  The barista returned about five minutes later with a number written in a girlie script that belied all the I’m-a-hard-ass piercing stuff. “I’ll dial it for you.”

  Back behind the counter, she handed him the receiver again, and he listened to the beeping as she pushed the buttons.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring—

  No voicemail. No answer.

  He gave her back the receiver. “No one’s home.”

  Then again, what other response was there: Wake up on the guy’s grave, and he expected Heron to be answering a call? Long reach from six feet under to AT&T.

  “Maybe he’s on his way?”

  “Maybe.” Matthias stared at the girl for a moment. “Thank you so much. I really mean that.”

  “You want some coffee as you wait?”

  “I’d better go do a drive-by on the house. People react to tragedy in…funny ways.”

  She nodded gravely. “I’m really sorry.”

  And she was. A perfect stranger was honestly sorry for whatever he was going through.

  He immediately thought of Mels, who’d also been so willing to help him.

  Nice people. Good people. And his faulty memory said he didn’t belong in their company.

  “Thank you,” he said gruffly before limping out.

  * * *

  The forty-caliber handgun in Jim’s right palm weighed thirty-two ounces, with ten bullets in the mag and one in the pipe.

  He kept the weapon down at his side, by his thigh, as he walked out of the garage. After the mess in the shower, Adrian had left to go get some air and some food, taking his Harley and not his helmet. Dog was safely upstairs, resting on the bed in a patch of sunlight. Jim was on guard duty.

  Can’t you see? She’s in me—and she’s taking over.

  Fuck.

  At least he had an outlet: The good thing about the garage was that it was all the way at the back of a farmhouse property—and the white main house with its porch and its redbrick chimney had been empty since he’d started renting here.

  No one was going to see. But that wasn’t good enough.

  Shoving his free hand into his combats, he took out a suppressor. The silencer added ten ounces in weight to the autoloader and changed the balance, but he was used to the weapon like that.

  Now, no one would hear, either.

  Standing on the loose pea gravel of the drive, he took a drag of his cigarette and then held the thing in his left hand. Focusing on a branch that was thirty feet from the ground, he lifted his weapon and locked in on the one-inch-thick stretch of oak.

  Breathing calmly, he closed his eyes and pictured Devina’s face.

  Crack!

  Thanks to the suppressor, there was no noise from the gun, no pop, just the kick against his palm, and the impact on the wood.

  Crack!

  The trigger, like the grip and the barrel, was not only an extension of his arm, but his body, and he didn’t need his eyes to readjust the trajectory. He knew exactly where the lead was going.

  Crack!

  Calm. Centered. Breathing in the belly, not the chest. Unmoving, except for his forefinger and then his forearm muscles as they absorbed the subtle recoil of the gun.

  The impact of the final bullet was softer, but then again, there wasn’t much wood left.

  He opened his eyes just as the branch went into free fall, bouncing down through the arms of its brethren, delayed, but not stopped from the hard ground.

  Putting his Marlboro back between his teeth, he crushed the fallen pine needles and the scratchy grass under his combat boots as he went over and picked the thing up. Clean cut, relatively speaking. Nothing like what a saw would have done, but considering the distance and the means, it was good enough—

  “You are an excellent shot.”

  The haughty English accent coming from behind him made Jim want to keep squeezing off bullets. “Nigel.”

  “Have I caught you at an inopportune moment?”

  “I still have seven bullets left. You decide.”

  “Devina has been reprimanded.” As Jim spun around and narrowed his eyes on the aristocratic archangel, Nigel nodded. “I wanted you to know that. I thought it was rather important for you to know that.”

  “Worried that I’m going off the rails?”

  “But of course.”

  Jim had to smile. “You can be a straight shooter when it suits you. So what’s your Maker done to my enemy?”

  “She’s your opponent—”

  “Enemy.”

  Nigel clasped his hands behind his back and went on a quaint little walkabout, his lean figure dressed in the kind of hand-tailored suit Jim was totally unfamiliar with, and fully prepared to stay that way.

  “What’s the matter, boss,” Jim muttered. “Cat got your tongue?”

  The archangel shot over a look that might have dropped him dead if he’d been alive in the conventional sense. “You are not the only one with a temper, and I should remind you to watch your tone and words with me.”

  Jim tucked the weapon into the small of his back. “Fine. Let’s drop the small talk. What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing. I simply thought it would ease you to know that the Maker has taken action. I told you to let the demon overstep the boundaries. I told you to wait for the response, and it has come.”

  “What did He do to her?”

  “The wins and losses that you both have sustained are permanent. There is naught that He nor any of us can do about where the flags have gone—they are immutable. But He hath decreed that her actions cannot lay unaddressed—”

  “Wait, I don’t get it. If what Devina did affected the outcome of a round, then her win should be yanked.”

  “That is not how this contest is set up. The wins are…” The archangel looked to the heavens. “The parallel would be personal property, I suppose.”

  “Mine?”

  “In a manner of speaking, I would say yes.”

  “So if she fucked off the rules, and it changed the result, the Maker should give me back what’s rightfully mine. And while we’re at it, I’d like to point out that if I’d known who the damn soul had been when it came to Matthias, I wouldn’t have been focused on the wrong man.”

  “And that has been redressed.”

  “How?”

  In the far distance, on the other side of the meadow, a car turned in from the main road and started on the lane that went past the farmhouse.

  Shit. Visitors were so not welcome—and the yellow color suggested it was a cab.

  The thing didn’t stop at the main residence.

  Nigel cocked a brow. “I believe it shall be self-evident.”

  On that oh-so-clear note, his boss disappeared.

  “Thanks, buddy,” Jim muttered. “Big help. As fucking usual.”

  Ducking around the corner, Jim nailed his shoulder blades to the aluminum siding. The gun didn’t stay in his waistband. Once again in his hand, he was prepared to shoot.

  The taxi rolled to a halt in front of the garage.

  A moment later, a man he never expected to see again got out of the bac
kseat…a nightmare who lived and breathed…a blast from the past that he’d just frickin’ dealt with.

  This was the solution for Devina’s cheating on the rules?

  “Mother…fucker…” Jim hissed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As Matthias got out of the cab, he told the driver to wait. The garage ahead of him was two stories of utility, with a set of stairs that ran up to its second story on the left. The double doors on the ground level were closed; same with the one at the top landing. Curtains were drawn—

  Upstairs in the picture window, thin drapes parted and a scruffy dog appeared, as if it were standing up with its paws on the sill.

  Someone clearly lived here.

  “Tell the cab to go.”

  Matthias’s head ripped around to the right—and the man who stepped out from behind the lee of the building made him reach out for balance, his memory popping up an instant, vivid recognition.

  Jim Heron. Back from the dead.

  And from what Matthias’s gut told him, the guy looked as he always had, that big, muscled body, the dark blond hair, the hard, cold face. There was no context, however, no running internal commentary on how he knew the man, or what they had done or seen together. One thing was clear, however…gun aside, it was obvious this was not the kind of guy you wanted to be around if you were unarmed and without an escape vehicle.

  Matthias knocked on the window, gave a twenty to the cabbie, and sent the taxi packing.

  As the thing K-turned and went off down the driveway, the sound of its tires crackling across the gravel seemed as loud as rounds of ammunition.

  “Is that a gun by your leg or are you just glad to see me?” Matthias said dryly.

  “It’s a gun. And you want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

  “I would if I could. Maybe you can help me with that one?”

  “What?” When Matthias didn’t answer, Heron’s cynical baby blues narrowed further. “You’re serious. That’s an honest question.”

  Matthias shrugged. “Interpret it as you will. And while you’re stewing, I’d like to point out that you’re supposed to be dead.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Information. In a manner of speaking.”

  As Heron came forward, Matthias noted that the position of that gun with its silencer changed so the barrel was pointing right at his own chest. And he was willing to bet what was left of his nuts that the trigger could be pulled in an instant. Which meant either this soldierlike man was paranoid…or for some reason, he thought Matthias was dangerous.

  “I’m unarmed,” Matthias announced.

  “Not like you.”

  That forty didn’t lower; that body didn’t ease; those eyes didn’t lose their warning look.

  “You don’t believe me,” Matthias said.

  “After everything we’ve been through? Not in the slightest, old friend.”

  “Were we friends?”

  “No, you’re right. We were a lot of things, but never that.” Heron shook his head. “Goddamn, every time I don’t expect to see you again, here you are.”

  Heron knew the answers, Matthias thought. The man right in front of him was the path to finding out who he was.

  “Well,” Matthias murmured, “considering you’re still breathing, but I was at your grave about an hour ago, I’m not the only one pulling rabbits out of hats. You mind telling me the last time we saw each other?”

  “Are you fucking serious?” When he nodded, Heron shook his head again. “You’re saying you don’t remember.”

  Matthias put out his hands, palms up. “I got nada.”

  Calculation was replaced by a brief surprise. “Jesus.”

  “I wouldn’t know. My driver’s license says ‘Matthias.’”

  The laughter that came back at him was chilly. “Mind if I pat you down?”

  Matthias balanced his cane against his leg and lifted his arms. “Have at it.”

  Jim did the deed one-handed, and when he stepped back, there was curse. “Clearly you have lost your mind.”

  “No, only my memory. And I need you to tell me who I am.”

  There was a long silence, like Heron was trying to poke holes in the story in his head. Finally, the guy said, “We’ll see about any information dump on your past. But I will help you. That, you can take to the bank.”

  “Not good enough. I need the intel. Now.”

  “Do you really feel like you’re in a position to make demands?”

  * * *

  As Jim led his former boss, Matthias the Fucker, upstairs to the apartment, he was suffering from a serious case of the can’t-believes. And yet no matter how much his brain cramped, it looked like pigs could fly, there was a snowball in Hell, and somewhere across town, a twelve-year-old dog was learning how to drive a goddamn car.

  Was this what Nigel had been talking about? The redo for round two in the game?

  You will recognize him as an old friend and an old foe who you have seen of late. The path could not be more obvious if it were spotlit.

  Seemed like focusing on the wrong soul wasn’t going to be a problem in this round—assuming Nigel’s doublespeak was right and Matthias was, once again, the one on deck.

  Which was not such a great way of penalizing Devina. Damn it.

  Although the good news, if there was any in this particular back-from-beyond scenario, was the memory loss. The old Matthias would never have copped to a weakness like amnesia, so it was probably legit—and God knew that informational black hole was a leg up.

  This way Jim only had to work against nature.

  The nurture, on top of all that, had been…horrific.

  Jim opened the door and stood aside. “Humble abode and all that.”

  As Matthias limped into the studio, Dog rushed over and wagged a greeting, paws skidding on the floorboards.

  Given the happy/happy, it was obvious Devina wasn’t inside the other man’s suit of flesh. Nice tip.

  Jim shut the door, and watched his former boss. Same limp. Same voice. Same face. Sunglasses weren’t a big surprise given the condition the guy’s eye was in. “I’d offer you some food, but I have to wait for my roommate to get back. You’re welcome to my couch in the meantime.”

  Matthias groaned as he sat down. “Still a smoker,” he said, nodding to the carton on the table.

  “Thought you didn’t remember shit.”

  “Some things…they come back.”

  Jim went over to the galley kitchen and parked it against the sink. For some reason, he wanted to be closer to Eddie. “So let’s start with exactly what you do remember.”

  “I know I woke up on your grave.”

  “Dead is relative.”

  “So we’re both miracles.”

  Jim lifted a brow. “At least one of us is. We’ll have to see about the other. How’d you find me?”

  “Information.”

  “This phone isn’t under my name.”

  “You gave it to your last employer. I went to the library, reversed the number on the Internet and here you are. Not very good camouflage.”

  “I’m not hiding from anyone.”

  “Then why are you dead but living.”

  “Let’s stay focused on you, shall we.”

  “Okay, so why are you afraid of me.” As Jim gritted his molars, Matthias smiled in the way he always had, showing all his sharp white teeth. “That’s not memory, by the way. It’s the gun in your hand. We’re in your humble, out of sight—if I weren’t a threat, you’d put it down.”

  Fucker.

  Motherfucker.

  Even with amnesia, the guy was a bastard.

  On that note, Jim walked over, keeping eye contact with the dark Ray-Bans the man had on. With the suppressed muzzle pointing at Matthias, he put the weapon on the coffee table and pushed it across the pitted wood.

  “Help yourself.”

  “You’re giving me a gun.”

  “Sure, why not. Think of it as a homecoming gift.”<
br />
  “Am I home?”

  “Not in this particular place—you can’t stay here, and haven’t. Ever.”

  Matthias smiled a little. “Well, I don’t want to stay at my house.”

  “Where’s that exactly.”

  The guy reached into his pocket, took out a wallet, and flipped a driver’s license onto the table by the forty.

  Jim looked at the ID. It was well-done, with the proper holograms. Last name wasn’t right, of course, but the first one and the picture were.

  “What do you know about me?” the man demanded.

  “Nice mug shot,” Jim said as he eased back.

  “Not asking you about my future as a model. And why are you avoiding my questions.”

  “I’m trying to decide how to play this.”

  “Are we in a game?”

  “Yes, we are. And it’s got stakes you can’t begin to guess at.” Jim decided to sit down beside his guest. “Like I said, why don’t we start with what you remember.”

  Those sunglasses lowered as if the man were staring at the floor. Maybe his boots. The cane?

  “I was hit by a car outside of Pine Grove Cemetery last night and woke up in the hospital with no clue who or where I was. Today, I backtracked as much as I could and found your grave.” The Ray-Bans swung back up and around. “I knew your name the instant I saw it. Knew you as well, the second you stepped into sight.”

  Jim poker-faced it. “Not a surprise—the pair of us go way back. And that’s why I’m going to help you.”

  “So tell me how I got…” Matthias’s hand made an awkward sweep of himself. “All this.”

  “The injuries?”

  “No, my tutu and ballet slippers. What the fuck do you think.”

  “Take off the glasses.”

  “Why.”

  “I want to look you in the eye when I answer.”

  The hand that lifted shook, but he was willing to bet it was a physical weakness, not a mental one. And what was revealed was exactly the way it had been.

  “How did the injuries happen,” his former boss repeated in a deep voice.