by Sidney Bell
The argument continued, but Brogan could tell Timmerson was still stuck on hell no, because Coop was a vibrant shade of heart attack red.
“If Oriole Touring asked for it, Timmerson would have to pass it over, wouldn’t he?” Mario asked.
“I don’t think so,” Nora replied. “Touring only owns Ford’s HR file with his company. All the Security Division research is confidential—as a security company, we have access to things that an employer shouldn’t, so Timmerson might not be allowed to give the research over, even if he wanted to. Besides, what the hell could Coop need it for?”
Mario knocked an elbow into Brogan’s side and raised his eyebrows. It was very what do you know about this?
Brogan blinked innocently at him, then leaned around Mario to ask, “Do me a favor, Nora? Pull up whatever we have on Coop?”
Her fingers clacked over the keys for a minute. “Presto.”
He gave the cord on her headset a friendly tug of thanks and slid into the chair next to her to read. He’d glanced at it when Coop was first called in, but he hadn’t known then how shady the guy was.
Personality Assessment: Subject appears rigid, heavily moralistic, and prone to rash, angry judgments. After eighteen years of employment, subject displays a near-fanatical loyalty to Touring Industries, and has deeply identified with his position here at the company. There would be considerable strife if subject perceived that relationship to be at risk.
Final Threat Assessment: Warrants further investigation.
“Are you staying, Brogan?” Nora asked. “You can have my shift.”
“Very kind, but no,” he said. He tuned out the rest of her words, far more interested in the way Coop was stabbing his finger in the air toward an unyielding Timmerson than in Nora’s new holster, although Mario, being a gentleman, paid due attention.
* * *
When he got home he fed and walked Giz, then climbed back in his truck, the Salem address in hand.
4751 Arbor Circle was a gorgeous old thing, two stories of sand-colored brick and ivy surrounded by lush lawn and a low stone wall. It commandeered the lot on the corner, the stately aunt acting as head of the younger, newer models in a neighborhood of half million dollar homes.
It had been a pretty day, warm and bright, and an elderly woman was taking advantage of the weather to fiddle with her flower beds. She held a rake in one gnarled hand, a watering can in the other, and wore a purple velour jogging suit that said Juicy across the ass.
Brogan sucked in a breath.
Could this be the botanist who’d taught Embry’s father how to grow an orchid? Because that would mean... Brogan glanced at the house next door with wide eyes. It was smaller than the old woman’s but not by much, and every bit as handsome—red brick and huge windows and a second floor balcony.
Had Embry grown up there?
When he refocused, the old woman was studying him.
“Hello,” he managed.
“What are you?” she asked. She tipped the handle of the rake in his direction and he accepted it automatically, freeing her to put her hand over her eyes to cut the glare so she could stare at him.
“Animal,” he said, scrambling a little. “Unless it’s before seven in the morning, and then I’m definitely a vegetable.”
She turned her head to one side, narrow-eyed and peevish. “Reporter? Because it’s been done.”
“It has indeed,” he agreed, his heart thumping in his chest. She knew something, but he wasn’t sure how to get her to tell him. All his thoughts about how to handle this had fallen out of his head at the realization of who this woman was. “If you mean...the story on your delightful roses?”
Which were hibernating because it was the middle of March, but whatever.
“Slick enough to be a reporter,” she said, clearly not enthralled. “But your suit is atrocious and your teeth aren’t capped, so probably not. Police officer?”
“Certainly not,” he said, a little offended and making a face. “I’m far too law-abiding.”
Her lips twitched once, and she pulled a gardening glove from her pocket, apparently for the sole purpose of swatting him on the arm with it. “Well, if you’re not a cop or a reporter, why are you asking me questions?”
“‘Hello’ isn’t a question,” he pointed out, and she pinned him with baleful stare.
“I may be eighty-six years old, young man, but I am every bit as clear as the day I was born. I doubt you’re here to collect on any bills, because I pay mine, and it’s not the kind of outfit one wears to check the meter, is it?”
He couldn’t help chuckling. “You caught me. I am here to ask questions.”
“About my roses?” she asked, the saucy thing.
“About what happened next door five years ago.”
She didn’t react in any way, which meant that she’d been expecting it. He waited, giving her time to consider. “If you’re here to hurt him in any way, I won’t help you,” she said finally. “That boy’s been through enough.”
“I’m not going to hurt him,” he said, hoping it was true. He didn’t have the first clue what he was going to do about all of this. He had no desire to think about that part yet.
“You’d better not. He’s a good boy. A wonderful boy.”
The old woman’s perspective of Embry seemed far warmer than the ones he’d been hearing lately—but then, she was talking about the earlier, less war-bound Embry. “I’m trying to help him.”
“Who are you to him?” she asked, her white eyebrows settling low over rheumy—but piercing—eyes.
He hesitated. He’d planned to stick with the private detective story, but some instinct told him that was the wrong route here. She wasn’t some stranger to be pumped for information—Embry had stayed in contact for at least a little while after leaving Harvard, and he’d spoken of her with affection. Then there was the handwritten note on the postcard, the “take care, love.” She mattered to Embry, and Brogan didn’t want to lie to her.
So he gambled and gave her the truth. “A friend, I hope. One day, if I can get past all the walls to the gooey center, maybe more. Embry’s...thin on trust these days. And he’s work. God, he’s work.” He studied the bud-free bushes because it was easier than watching her figure out what he wasn’t saying. “I think he’s in trouble, and he’s too stubborn to let me help.”
She pursed her lips. “You’re crazy about him.”
Yeah, she hadn’t lost a step. He smiled, only a little sheepish. “Or just plain crazy. But either way, I’m in too deep to walk away now.”
“He won’t thank you for prying, you know.”
“Yeah, he’s going to throttle me,” Brogan agreed. “I’m not happy about my odds, but you’ve gotta ante up sometime.”
She took back her rake. “I suppose you’d better come in and have some tea as part of your last meal, then.”
The inside of her house was less intimidating than the outside—here, there were homey touches and friendly clutter. She led him to a sun room overflowing with plants and shooed him into one of four cushioned wrought iron chairs clustered around a small table, then brought out a large pitcher of iced tea and some cookies on a plate. The tray was burdened well enough that he worried she might tip over before she could set it down. She was a tiny thing.
“Are you going to give me your name?” she asked, pouring tea into tall glasses.
“Brogan Smith.”
“Helen Lowell. Nice to meet you.”
He held out his hand to shake, which made her smirk, and then they sat for a minute drinking tea and eating cookies. He was beginning to wonder if he should come up with something to ask when she said, “I used to do this for the Evanses. They’d come by at least once a month. I thought at first that they were humoring the old lady. You know, save the lonely elderly, that sort
of thing. I resented it a little, but as I got to know them I realized they were legitimately interested in making friends.”
“They sound decent.”
“They were.” She gazed around the room, eyes distant, as if remembering. “He was only seven or eight when they moved here, and he wasn’t like the rest of them—Embry was quiet. Shy. He’d go hours without speaking a single word. After a few months of tea visits, Embry started coming over more often. He’d help me with chores, listen to me talk about things he couldn’t possibly have been interested in. He still barely spoke, but I waited him out until he felt safe enough to open up. I loved having him here.”
“You appreciate sarcasm, hmm?” Brogan asked.
“Sarcasm? That boy? Lord, no. Never met a more earnest child. No, sarcasm was more Amy’s style.”
“Amy?” Brogan frowned. “His mother?”
“No,” she said. “I’m not surprised he hasn’t told you about Amy. She was his sun. Passionate, funny, dry and smart. Holy hell, was that girl smart. I can still see her, coming over here in the summer to collect Embry after he’d cleaned my attic or mowed my lawn, scrapes all over her knees, chewing gum and singing Nina Simone at the top of her lungs. Girl had a taste for the blues. So much energy, that one. She would’ve been obnoxious if she weren’t so warm. She genuinely liked getting to know people, figuring them out. Opposite of Embry that way.
“He was so terribly locked inside himself most of the time, but whenever I saw the two of them together, he was a different person. He could laugh with her. He could play. She brought out his voice in a lot of ways. And as much as he needed her, she needed him—he kept her grounded. But then, I hear you get that sort of thing with twins.”
“Twins,” Brogan said. His stomach rolled over. He had a near-palpable sense of dread growing. “If they were that close, I’m surprised he went away to college when he was sixteen.”
“Oh, she went with him. It was the only way they could get him to go. Embry was very intimidated by the idea of leaving. He’d gotten more comfortable with himself by then, but that’s the sort of thing that’s difficult even for well-adjusted kids, and Embry was never that. There was a kerfuffle about it—Paul and Anna were concerned that he was letting his shyness ruin a brilliant opportunity. He threatened to start doing drugs if they made him go, which made me laugh when I heard about it, because the boy wouldn’t even drink soda. Too much sugar.”
Brogan didn’t doubt that for a second—Embry at sixteen was probably more responsible than most adults.
Helen sipped her tea. “I think they were more worried that he’d work himself to exhaustion than anything else. Paul made good money at his job—something with computers, I think—and he stayed here so they could afford the tuition, but Anna and Amy went with Embry to Boston that first year. As time went by and the kids needed her less, Anna spent more time back here with Paul. They had a family friend in the Boston area who agreed to keep an eye out, be there in case of emergencies, that sort of thing. And Anna and Paul spoke to the children on the phone almost every day.” She laughed. “I say children...as if they weren’t a few months shy of being adults by then.”
He didn’t want to know. He really didn’t. He asked anyway. “What happened?”
By the time she finished, Brogan was staring at the floor, the silence buzzing in his ears.
Helen wiped her thin, papery cheeks with her bony hands and sniffed hard. “He came to see me after. To thank me. He sat right there in that chair you’re sitting in now, but he wasn’t Embry. He wasn’t here. He wrote me a check—between the house, college funds, and life insurance, he’d inherited almost two million dollars—and asked me to put it all in a trust in my name. Then he gave me a kiss on the cheek, and got up and left. For a while, whenever he needed money, he’d send me a postcard and I’d arrange for a check. But I haven’t gotten a postcard in almost a year, so I thought maybe...” She dropped into a whisper then. “Lord forgive me, I thought maybe he’d killed himself.”
That explained why Security Division hadn’t seen all those suspicious dollars in his accounts. Helen Lowell. Probably the only person alive that Embry trusted, and even she was left in the cold when Adam Embry Evans became Embry Ford.
And with his new picture of Embry—a childhood spent locked in by crippling shyness, followed by something like this, where grief and rage conspired to steal his voice all over again...no wonder he’d worked so hard to keep Brogan at arm’s length.
She blinked a few times before wiping her eyes again. “Tell me something, Brogan, please? Is he all right?”
He didn’t know what to say.
Part Two: Embry
Chapter Fourteen
February, 2011
Mouth: I’m not even joking. It’s beyond unnecessary. Nuclear armament will destroy the world, and you’ll die as the second embodiment of Enrico Fermi, best known for the travesties you’ve committed.
KuhnWasFramed: Not unlike that red dress you wore to prom?
Mouth: Hey, it got me John Milliard, so bite your tongue.
KuhnWasFramed: And he was not without his charms, but I’m still not leaving. I have less than a month. Also, Fermi was awesome, so stop talking about nuclear armament. I’m not building a bomb for my midterm, Amy, Jesus. I have a paper due.
Mouth: Pleeeeeze ? I has cheeze. And skis. And I’ll get some young blond thing to do a strip teeeeze?
KuhnWasFramed: I can watch porn on the internet from here.
Mouth: Internet porn cannot possibly compare with the strapping young men of Salem, OR.
KuhnWasFramed: That is blatantly untrue. Kiss the parents for me, though. And call me before you leave. And when you land. And when you see them.
Mouth: All right, but only because I know you’ll actually really miss me, you daft creature. Don’t hide behind gender stereotypes and testosterone. Cry if you must. Hold a picture of me and sob like a woman recently widowed.
KuhnWasFramed: Take a snack for the plane. Not Slim Jims. And pack clean clothes. Don’t make mom do your laundry.
Mouth: You are a shit, because now I have to make her do my laundry. It’s all your fault for forbidding it. You’re forcing me into the role of abusive daughter.
KuhnWasFramed: I miss you already. Three days?
Mouth: Two and a half, really. I’ll be back late Monday, and we can commune under the stars and speak of the old days with such glee that the moon will be jealous.
KuhnWasFramed: Very poetic. Now go pack. Underwear. An apple. Update your iPod. Get your charger. Put your liquids in travel containers. I’ve got some in the bathroom under the sink.
Mouth: I’m packing bathing suit bottoms, some crack cocaine, and Adrenalize on vinyl. For reals, though, I’m taking the leftover weed that you hid under the elephant lamp. I’ll put it in my shoe. They’ll never find it !!! Damn the man!
KuhnWasFramed: Don’t do that. They make you take your shoes off at security and even if they don’t find it, you’ll be smoking your feet smell. Besides, that stuff is ancient. I don’t even remember who left it. It’s probably moldy.
Mouth: I’m gonna.
KuhnWasFramed: AMY.
Mouth: Okay, I’m going. But only if you promise you won’t stay in there until four in the morning again just because I’m not there to drag you out by the short and curlies.
Mouth: You have to eat something with sugar in it, okay?
Mouth: And sleep.
Embry watched the flashing cursor in the instant message box for several seconds. The computer lab was empty around him—no surprise, because it was 8:30 on a Friday night—so there was no one here to distract him from the gnawing ache in his stomach.
His things were strewn around him: the two worksheets for his calculus class and the questions on solitons and dispersive effects for his wave phenomena class
, and he had a dozen unread texts from Geiger on his cell phone, because Geiger couldn’t stop worrying about the damn ANOVA for their research project, and then there was the paper on Dead Souls for his Russian literature class, which he was not looking forward to because Gogol could kiss his ass, that cryptic bastard. He was starting to think he didn’t have a particular affinity for the Russians, which was saying something, because up until now there’d never been a book that Embry cracked open and didn’t love.
It was a lot.
Not that he didn’t enjoy it, because he did—he loved physics. He couldn’t think of anything else that was so thoroughly predictable and mysterious at the same time, and the puzzle of it fascinated him. He was just tired, and sometimes, like when Amy could simply take off for the weekend, Slim Jims in both pockets and weed in her shoe, he wondered what possessed him to think he should do all of this. Harvard and moving out of the dorms and living with Amy and trying to manage a budget when she just wanted to buy vintage Eartha Kitt records, play “World of Warcraft,” and start a band.
Not that he couldn’t do it, because he could. He was. But sometimes he heard his mom in his head, telling him that life was about wringing every drop of meaning and joy out of it as you possibly could, and that probably didn’t include staying in the lab until dawn.
He wished he were going with Amy, even if it meant falling behind, because Dad’s false reassurances on the phone had scared him. That was why Amy was going home, but she was Amy, and she had faith in the order of the universe, faith far beyond Embry’s, which stopped dead at the point where the math became intangible. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was really wrong on his dad’s end, and he didn’t know how to write it down without sounding melodramatic.
Fix them, he wanted to write. Make it okay.
KuhnWasFramed: Fly safe, twit.
Mouth: Laters, twat.
So maybe he stayed in the lab until two in the morning. And maybe he set his alarm for six. Blinking awake after three and a half hours of sleep, he felt rebellious and unapologetic for these decisions. What the hell, right? Amy would never know. He lay there in bed with his clothes still on, face smushed into a pillow—exactly the way he’d fallen asleep—and admitted that she’d totally know. She’d take one look at the bags under his eyes and groan and call him names and smack him about the head and shoulders, complaining all the while about why the gods had chosen to saddle her with such an ungrateful beast of a brother, and then she’d get coffee and donuts and order him to like them or else.
