“Then what?”
“What Yuina said … about the Truman Projection. Christ, Bones, what if she’s right?”
“Oh God, you’re worried about that? You think we’re being invaded by aliens?” Mr. Bones burst out laughing. “Yuina is a very brilliant, very dedicated, very crazy lady and she’s been in the lab far too long.”
“Yeah, but what if she’s right?”
“She’s not right. ET’s gone home, Howard. We have junk and burned bodies and nothing else. This is all past tense and you know this.”
“What if she’s right?” Howard insisted.
“Not a chance in hell,” said Mr. Bones with absolute certainty.
Howard merely grunted, but sweat continued to boil from his pores. It ran in lines down his cheeks.
“Jesus Christ, Howard,” yelped Mr. Bones, “what’s wrong?”
“I … I think you’d better get my nitro,” said Howard very carefully. “I feel like shit.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Baltimore, Maryland
Sunday, October 20, 6:33 a.m.
We were starting to draw a crowd. I ignored them.
Beaky Nose kept trying to wriggle away, but I moved into his path of retreat and squatted down. He took one look at me and gave up.
I took his ID case and looked at it. The photo was bland and uninteresting. The name printed on the card was “Stephen Albert.”
“Who sent you?” I asked him.
Instead of answering he leaned over and vomited. His eyes were glazed and his face had turned a bright red. Huge spasms racked him from hair to feet.
“Let’s come back to that,” I suggested, and went over to pick the pockets of the other agents. Baldy was Benjamin Carr, Scarecrow was John Woods Duke, and the Italian-looking guy was Mark Bucci. I didn’t recognize any of the names. MindReader would get me every last detail about them, so I pocketed the IDs. I also took their guns and removed the keys from the ignitions of both cars. While I was at it, I checked the glove compartments and trunks of each vehicle and found nothing. The cars were as clean as if they’d just rolled off a Detroit assembly line. Not even a pack of gum or an owner’s manual.
The only remarkable thing I found was a small rectangular piece of metal Agent Albert had in his pocket. It was about the size of a Zippo lighter, but thinner and with no moving parts that I could see. I would have dismissed it as nothing more than a piece of junk except for the fact that he carried it and had nothing else of a personal nature. So it wasn’t a worry stone or a good-luck piece. It weighed next to nothing and was warm to the touch. I put it in my pocket.
Agent Albert was on his knees with his hands cupped around his balls, but his red face had turned gray-green. I squatted down in front of him.
“Who sent you?” I asked.
He tried to say something, but he couldn’t make coherent sounds. His lips formed the words: Fuck you.
“You’re not making this any easier on yourself, Albert.”
He didn’t respond to my use of his name. Not a twitch. His bug eyes stared at the puddle of vomit in which he knelt. People were coming out of buildings and stepping out of cars. A few began moving closer, but Ghost gave such an eloquent growl that they retreated to a minimum safe distance.
I leaned a little closer to Agent Albert. “Listen to me, asshole — I don’t know what they told you when they sent you four morons out on this pickup, but they didn’t give you enough information. You just stepped in shit and believe me when I tell you that a kick in the junk isn’t the worst thing that could happen to you today. On the other hand, if you tell me who sent you and why, I can see your luck definitely improving.”
All he did was give me a slow, stubborn shake of his head. I sighed. Twenty minutes ago I was in a warm bed with a beautiful woman. A beautiful naked woman. I’d intended on sleeping until noonish, then wake her up, romp with her some more, and afterward the two of us would go on a prowl for the thickest steaks in Baltimore. Instead, I was here. I felt like crap due to lack of sleep, residual booze in my system, a hangover that made my head feel like it was held together with duct tape and enough postconflict adrenaline to make my eyes twitch and my hands jump.
Plus there was that whole “the president has been kidnapped” thing that was setting fires in my head.
“Last chance,” I said to Albert.
Another slow shake.
I sighed. “Your funeral, pal.”
“Yo!” called someone from the crowd. “What’s going on over there?”
I got to my feet and held up my ID. “Federal agent. This is a crime scene. Clear the street.”
They milled but none of them left. Everyone seemed to be taking photos with their phones. In the distance I heard the banshee cry of sirens.
I made two quick calls. The first was to my brother, Sean, who was a detective here in Baltimore. I told him the details that mattered but nothing of what was really happening. Sean didn’t really know what I did for a living — like most folks from my previous life, he thought I worked for the FBI — but he promised to pass along word that I was to be allowed to leave the scene. He said he’d call our dad, too. Dad’s the mayor of Baltimore. Sometimes nepotism is the best grease for the gears.
Then I called Church and gave him the full story.
The sirens were really close.
“Theories?” asked Church.
“Not a goddamn one.”
“Okay, get out of there as soon as you can. I’ll handle things with Baltimore PD and we’ll see about a transfer to bring those four to a facility where we can interview them. I’ll also get Jerry Spencer out there to take samples and sweep their cars.”
“Cars are clean. Doubt Jerry’s going to get anything besides fingerprints.”
“It’s worth a try.”
Jerry was a former DCPD who now headed up the DMS forensics unit. He was damn good at it, too, though he never seemed to enjoy it. World-class grouch. No visible social skills. One of the DMS guys privately described him as “Sherlock Holmes with hemorrhoids.” Like that.
“Any news?” I asked, and he knew what I meant.
“No,” said Church.
“Call me paranoid, boss, but I find it strange that these jokers took a hard run at me today.”
“Because of this morning?”
“Maybe. Or maybe because the veep is now the commander-in-chief. Last time he was in the Oval Office he sicced the NSA on us. Could be doing the same with the FBI.”
“You think that’s likely?”
“Don’t know. Timing’s weird, though. And … the wattage is dialed up. These guys wanted to hurt me. They were drawing guns when I made my play.”
“I’ll make sure they land in our custody,” said Church in a way that was not intended to suggest that these guys were going to spend the rest of the day getting blow jobs and eating bonbons.
“Cops are here,” I told him as the first units screeched to a stop.
“Ghost — down and quiet,” I said and he obeyed. With that command he’d even let me get cuffed — if it came to that — without doing anything that might get him shot.
I stepped clear of the cars and raised my hands; one was empty and the other held my NSA credentials.
The officers pointed guns at me. They yelled at me. They manhandled me. They took my gun. I had to reinforce my orders to Ghost because he doesn’t like seeing people manhandle his pack leader.
“National Security,” I said over and over again.
Ghost growled.
One of the cops drew his Taser and pointed it at him.
“Listen to me,” I said in my most reasonable tone, “I am a federal officer involved in a matter of urgent national security. You can run my ID and do whatever you have to do, but if you Tase my dog I’m going to shove that gun so far up your ass you’ll be shooting sparks out of your nose.”
Maybe they weren’t impressed by the trash talk, but nobody fired a Taser at Ghost. For his part, my dog held his ground, though he e
yed them like they were items on a menu.
The cops tried to cuff me. I’m not stupid enough to try physical resistance, but I kept trying to stall them with credentials and the National Security angle. That worked only long enough for the juice to kick in. A call came down the line that made them suddenly back off and change their attitudes toward me. Maybe it was Sean, or my dad … or, more likely, Mr. Church. They handed me back my gun. The guy with the Taser holstered his piece and didn’t meet my eyes.
The four agents I’d dropped were semiconscious. Officers were trying to question them, asking where they were hurt, who they were. The agents said nothing. Not a word.
A sergeant supervisor arrived on the scene and came hurrying over. When he saw my face he slowed to a stop, a confused half smile beginning to form on his face.
“Joe—?”
I grinned. “Hey, Tommy.”
“The fuck’s this all about?” he asked, closing in.
Tommy O’Malley was a good cop. We’d worked together at a couple of precincts — White Marsh and Essex. He took my identification wallet from one of the officers, looked at it, frowned, and handed it to me.
“I thought you were with the Feebs.”
“I am, but … it’s complicated.”
He gave me a few seconds of the “cop” look. Frank and suspicious. “Uncomplicate it for me.”
But, I shook my head. “Can’t do it, man. And I hate like hell to do this to a friend, but I have to stonewall you. This really is a national security matter and I can’t tell you anything more than that.”
Tommy was shorter than me, and he had one of those thin, freckly Irish faces that are no good at hiding their emotions. I saw the sudden shift as our relationship changed from Tommy and Joe to street cop and fed. Or, as we used to say when I was on his team, street cop and fucking fed.
I could feel him take a mental step back from me, and even after we’d hurried through the necessary steps and I was back in my car, the weight of his disapproval was heavy on my shoulders.
It depressed me. I was no longer one of that brotherhood.
Chapter Twenty-four
Little Palm Island Resort
Little Torch Key, Florida
Sunday, October 20, 6:39 a.m.
“Where are you going?” asked Berenice.
Erasmus Tull looked up from the suitcase he was packing. Berenice stood in the bedroom doorway. She still wore the bikini bottoms but she’d pulled on a loose white cotton shirt. His shirt. It hung open and unbuttoned. Purple shadows painted her skin and darkened the undersides of her breasts.
“I have to go to Maryland on business.”
She came in and leaned against the dresser. “I thought you were retired.”
“I am,” he said, stuffing his shaving kit into the corner of the bag. “But I take it in installments. Now I have to go back to work to pay for the next installment.”
She stepped over and removed his shaving kit from the suitcase, unzipped it and held it out. The small .22 pistol was wrapped in blue silk. She whipped off the silk and held out the pistol flat in her pam. “And so what business is this?”
Tull gently took the pistol from her. “My own.”
“Are you a criminal?” she asked, her green eyes searching his. Concern etched a single vertical line between her brows.
Outside the window a mockingbird taunted Tull in a hundred voices.
“No,” he said. “The gun is protection.”
She straightened and her features hardened. There was a small crescent scar on her cheek, a souvenir from a baby moray they’d encountered in the waters off Osprey Reef in the Coral Sea. When she was hurt or angry that scar darkened to the color of autumn wine. As it did now.
“Am I a fool that you lie to?” she demanded. “Am I some little beach bunny that you hump and dump?”
“Don’t be vulgar.”
“Why? Is it less polite than lying?”
He sighed and tossed the gun down onto his folded pants. “I thought we agreed not to talk about our pasts?”
“Easy for you,” she said. “You already know mine. Donderbus Elektronica is hardly unknown and I may be last in the line of succession to take over the company. I am still an heiress, which means that you could Google everything you need to know about me.”
Tull had to force his lips not to curl into a smile. When they’d first met, he had done exactly that. “I know, but you still agreed to the arrangement.”
“Because I didn’t think it mattered.” She indicated the pistol with a curt uptic of her chin. “Until this.”
“This doesn’t involve you — or us,” he insisted. “I’ve got a small matter to handle and then I’ll be back.”
“What is this ‘matter’?”
“It’s confidential,” he said. “I can’t discuss it with anyone, not even you. Considering what your family does, I’m sure you can appreciate the need for secrecy in some aspects of business.” He reached to take her hand. “Look, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Berenice took a step back from him.
“So that’s it? You just up and leave and to hell with me and us and everything we’ve—”
“Believe me,” he said, “I’ll be back.”
“How many times have you said that? How many women have stood where I stand now? Involved with you, in love with you, fascinated by everything that you know and all the mysteries you never shared? And then — what? Abandoned? Is that what drives you? To seduce and abandon?”
Tull laughed. “Seduce? As I recall, Berenice, you seduced me. Or as near as. You came up to me at that party in Marseilles and dropped a killer line on me. What was it? ‘I’m a lot more interesting than anyone you’ll find here. Escape with me.’ You had me on your hook from the beginning.”
The stern expression on Berenice’s face flickered momentarily. “I was only telling you the truth. We were more interesting than those inbred swine.”
“No argument. The point is, you’re not a victim of my irresistible seductive powers and I’m not the love ’em and leave ’em type.”
“Oh? What type are you?”
“Mostly,” he said, “I’m alone.”
Berenice came and sat down on the bed. The action caused her shirt to flap open, revealing a perfect breast. The nipple was as dark as her scar and fully erect. Caused by anger, he knew, but that was a form of passion, too. He busied himself with folding his shirts so that he did not stare at her.
“How long will you be gone?” she asked.
“I — don’t know. A few weeks at least. Maybe longer.”
“What am I supposed to do while you’re gone? Sit here and pine?”
“Cut it out, Berenice,” he said softly. “You define your own life and always have. That’s why they don’t like having you at board meetings. It’s why you picked me out of the crowd at that party. So, skip the guilt trip. You’re playing the wrong card.”
The mockingbird hopped onto the windowsill and regaled them with a schizophrenic diatribe.
“Will you have to use that gun?” she asked.
He picked up the blue silk and rewrapped the pistol.
“You’re not answering me?” she said. “Is it because you don’t want to lie? You’d rather say nothing?”
“What do you want from me?” said Tull. “I told you this is confidential … Can’t we leave it at that?”
“Not if you want to be able to find me when this is over,” said Berenice.
He looked at her.
“That’s what it comes down to, Tull,” she said. “We’re both adults, so if this is the end of what we had, then have enough respect for me to say so.”
“I—”
She stood up and moved in close, pressing her body lightly against his. Tull was infinitely aware of her animal heat, of the familiar curves and planes of her body, of the insistence of nipples hard enough to be felt through the fabric of her shirt and his. She looped her arms around his neck and looked up into his eyes.
“I can bear any truth,” she breathed, “but never lie to me.” She reached for his belt, unbuckled it, popped the top button of his trousers, slid the zipper down.
“I…”
His trousers fell down. Her fingers, clever and cool, slipped inside his boxers, found his hardness, squeezed it, stroked it.
Tull closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers. He was breathing as hard as if he’d run up a flight of stairs. So was she, and for a moment they breathed the same breath back and forth.
“Berenice…,” he murmured.
“Please,” she whispered.
And then his lips were on hers. On her lips, on her face, her throat, her breasts.
He reached out and swept the suitcase off the bed and then they crashed together onto the sheets. Their mouths breathed fire, their hands were everywhere. The bird stood on the window sill, silent now, wise enough not to mock this.
* * *
An hour later, Berenice lay naked on the tangled sheets, the sweat still drying on her skin. Tull could see her through the open bathroom door, through the gap between the shower curtain and the wall.
When he’d left the bed to go into the bathroom, he’d taken the pistol. It lay on the closed lid of the toilet, wrapped in a towel.
Waiting.
While he and Berenice had made love, his thoughts kept drifting from the beautiful woman under him to the gun.
To its elegant lines. To its potential.
To the way in which it simplified things.
He wished she hadn’t asked him about it.
He wished she hadn’t asked him about where he was going. Or when he was coming back.
As the hot water rinsed away the soap and their commingled oils and the scent of her passion, Erasmus Tull tried to keep her in his thoughts. Only her.
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