Secrets & Lies

by Lauren Landish

  “What?”

  Katrina laughs and picks up another rock, throwing it into the valley harder this time, the thunk of the rock off the tree louder, sharper. “We're all fucked up. I don't trust the regular world at all, and have brought my husband and daughter into a shady half-world because of it. Hell, I'm a recovering drug addict, really, thinking of the shit my herbalist worked up for me and I popped like candy when I had my own nightmares that remind me a lot of what you go through. Jackson's just as screwed up, Andrea and Carson, too. There's been only two pure, innocent members of this family. BA's too young to be screwed up just yet, and I'll tell you, I’m afraid of the day I wake up and realize I fucked up and she's just as screwed up as Jackson and me. The other... well, Maverick was one hell of a dog.”

  “That's a pretty dark way to look at things,” I tell her. “Because when I see you, I don't see all those bad things. I see a warrior queen who loves her husband and her family, and if something happened right this second, she'd die to protect any of us. And I'd die to protect her too, even though I'm no good at that sort of thing.”

  Katrina smiles and kisses me on the cheek. “And that, more than anything else, is why you and Nathan should have your chance at happiness. You're this family's light. I love you, 'Lissa.”

  “I love you too, Katrina. But I'm getting a little cold. How about some cocoa back at the house?”

  Katrina gets up, helping me to my feet and taking my hand as we start to walk. “Good idea. I'll cook, maybe we can get Andrea and just make it a girl thing.”

  “Good morning, Robert.”

  “Miss Sands, it's good to hear your voice,” Robert, the general manager at the MCS Gallery in the French Quarter says. I'm in town with Carson, Andrea and BA, the four of us on the second of the weekly trips we've set up for supplies and other things in the Asheville area. Nathan's at the clinic down the block getting the last of his treatments for his kidney problem, apparently another of the underground clinics that Katrina was able to set us up with. Unfortunately there's no underground pediatrician in the area, but Andrea's not due for a prenatal check for another two weeks. In the meantime, I'm sitting on a bench, using the cell phone coverage to check an e-mail Robert sent last night while Carson and Andrea go around the big warehouse shopping center, buying food. “I'm glad you replied so quickly. How is your vacation?”

  I struggle for a second before it hits me. Ah yes, vacation. It was a quick excuse, but Carson told Robert I had a sudden urge for inspiration, so we were all going on a road trip, going wherever my artist's heart desires. So far it's holding up well, and it fits the stereotypical artist mentality. I could 'go' anywhere from California to Kalamazoo and still be 'finding inspiration'. Actually, maybe there is a kernel of truth to the idea, because hanging around the compound and seeing the breathtaking views of the mountains has my mind going places that make me feel like expressing myself. So my lie is easy, even if I feel a bit guilty about it. “Very well, thank you Robert. St. Louis is an amazing city.”

  “That's great, Miss Sands. I hope it is doing well for your health. I assume you got my e-mail?” he says in his kind way. I've spoken with Robert probably more than most men, and while he's not a friend, he's a nice man, and very good for us in running the everyday operations of MCS.

  “Yes, that's why I called. Something about a potential client?”

  I can hear the eagerness in Robert's voice, and I can understand. My pieces go for big money, even the small paintings. A commissioned piece like Ascension can fetch us all upward of a million dollars easily, although since it was for a school I gave them a price break. “Yes, Miss Sands. Yesterday we had a woman come in, she looked over Effort and Moon Dancer and was very impressed. She said she'd never seen such dynamic work before.”

  “It's always nice to have a fan,” I say, thinking instead of Vadim Orloff. He'd been enthusiastic as well. “Did she buy one of them?”

  “Yes, in fact she put down a cash deposit for Moon Dancer, but more importantly, she wanted to discuss commissioning another piece. Moon Dancer she said is for her company, but she wants to get something for herself as well, a piece she said she's willing to pay over a million dollars for. From the way she dressed, she's not some window shopper either.”

  I hum, worry winding its way through my brain. After Vadim Orloff, I feel warning bells in my head any time Robert mentions a fan. “Tell me about the woman please, Robert.”

  Andrea, BA in her arms, comes up, seeing me talking. “Everything okay?”

  “Maybe,” I whisper, relieved she's there, “but I've got it so far. Stick around?”

  “Sure,” she says, taking a seat on the bench next to me. I give her a grateful smile and turn my attention back to the phone call.

  “You there, Miss Sands?”

  “Yes, sorry. Andrea was just asking if I wanted anything, we're doing some shopping. Please, go ahead.”

  “Okay. Well, she was tall, with olive skin, with very long black hair. More than that though, I gave you a message because of what she was wearing. She certainly has money, Miss Sands.”

  A cold knot builds in my stomach as I listen to Robert's description, and I lick my lips, trying to keep calm. Andrea sees my discomfort and takes my left hand, stroking my hand gently, helping immediately. “What do you mean what she was wearing, Robert?”

  “She was wearing expensive designer labels, Miss Sands. I know you aren't into fashion, but I've learned a lot about this to help with judging customers.”

  The cold ball in my stomach expands into a freezing cold wave that spreads through my body, and the only reason I don't break down crying in fear is Andrea and the loving look she's giving me. My sister, my family, my strength. Okay, I can deal with this. “Well Robert, did she leave any contact information?”

  “Yes, she left a phone number and a name, a Miss Hayha. She said it was a Finnish name. I can e-mail it to you if you'd like.”

  I shake my head. “No... you know I prefer to let you and Carson handle customer interactions. Actually Robert, I know it's disappointing to you, but if you could please tell Miss Hayha while I would like to find out more details, at the moment I'm not in a place where I can do serious artwork like this. It will have to at least wait until I get back to the farm. I can't really give a timeline on that, but it will be at least a month or more. You see, I've had a bit of an accident, and broke my left hand. It's nothing major, but I'm in a cast right now, and can't even begin to think about welding or anything like that.”

  I can hear the disappointment in Robert's voice, but he's a professional, and he's worked with me long enough to know I can't be pushed into making any decisions. I've got more than enough money, and Robert doesn't understand that for me, my art is more than just money, it's a matter of life and spirit. “I understand, Miss Sands. Would you mind if I continued to speak with Miss Hayha to see if I can gather more information, maybe figure out what it is specifically she's looking for?”

  “Of course, Robert. And e-mail me whenever you get more information. I can't call all the time, but I will be in touch. If you'll excuse me, I see Carson coming. Take care.”

  “Take care, Miss Sands. And give my regards to Mr. Sands. Goodbye.”

  Robert hangs up, and I take my hand from Andrea, nodding gratefully. “Thank you, Andrea. That helped a lot.”

  Andrea smiles and raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

  “Well, I think Isis Bardot came by MCS yesterday,” I explain, Andrea's eyes widening slightly, but she handles it well. We expected this, after all. “Robert said he'll send an e-mail with more information, I was thinking Katrina can have some fun with what he tells us. Nathan should know as well.”

  Andrea nods and takes my hand again to give it a squeeze. “That's why you're awesome, you know that? Scared silly, and still thinking about how to help us out. Come on, lets get the rest of our stuff, and tonight we can go all Mission Impossible on the data.”

  Later that night, we gather in the big central room, Katrin
a dissecting my e-mail from Robert. “Well, he was nice enough to include her information, but I know for sure it's fake. Disturbing, but fake.”

  “What do you mean disturbing?” Carson asks, holding Andrea on the couch, cuddled together. The fire is romantic, and I've noticed Katrina and Jackson are also using their free time to just cuddle in front of the fire as well.

  “Her choice of alias can't have been a fluke,” Katrina says, tapping away. “Simo Hayha was a Finnish sniper during the war between Finland and the Soviet Union in 1939 and 1940. Nicknamed 'The White Death', in just about a hundred days he sniped over five hundred Soviet troops. Sending a message, you think?”

  “She always did prefer long-range fighting,” Nathan says, sipping his tea. He's sitting next to me tonight. “She's not as good as I was at hand-to-hand fighting, and considered close quarters battle to be too messy for her tastes. She thinks herself a surgeon, not a butcher.”

  “She doesn't sound as... bloodthirsty as Orloff at least,” Jackson says, and Nathan winces, shaking his head. “What?”

  “That is what makes her even more dangerous, Jackson. She’s more controlled. More importantly though, there is no way we can sway her to drop the contract. If Peter is able to pay the prices on our heads, there is no way she is going to switch sides.”

  “So what do we do?” I ask, and Nathan looks over, giving me a reassuring smile.

  “We do our best to keep living. And hope she makes a mistake before we do.”

  Chapter 11

  Nathan

  Sighing, I fire up Katrina's laptop, opening the special shell program she's set up for me over the past few days. Both of us are tired of the constant harassment.

  Every day it's the same. Another e-mail from Isis, another malware that has to be excised, another picture attached, and another short message. Katrina's automated the whole thing now and taught me how to do it so she doesn't have to bother with it any longer. “Besides, I'm getting tired of seeing her strip via e-mail for you,” she told me yesterday as she watched me run the scripts and do the excision. “Seriously, this bitch is angling for you. It's actually very Fatal Attraction in its own way.”

  “She's definitely playing head games,” I mutter to myself as I finish the script and see what's in store for me today. I gulp as the image pulls up, and I see that it's Isis totally nude from the neck down. Can't help it. I remember how good you used to be. Sure we can't get one last little fling in?

  With trembling fingers I put the image in Katrina's image analyzer, just in case we can find a clue as to where Isis is. I doubt it, Isis knows what she's doing, each image is taken in a blank background. This one is taken on a bed with white sheets underneath her lean body, and I shake my head as I close the script and shut down my e-mail, opening up a normal web browser to check the Times-Picayune to see what the local news is. After a picture like that, I can use some sports scores or maybe rumors about what the Saints are going to do this off-season.

  What I see instead turns my stomach. Local chauffeur third victim of sniper in past week. Michael Barr, 41, of New Orleans, was the third victim of what some are already calling the “Delta Sniper,” after the infamous Beltway Sniper pair of John Allen Muhammad and Lee Boyd Malvo, who terrorized Washington, D.C. in 2002. Barr, a driver for the Top Star Limousine Company, was preparing his car for work yesterday when he was shot in the chest by a large caliber round. New Orleans police stated that Barr was shot from at least four hundred yards away, and that while they do not have any clues yet, they are working with forensics officials from the FBI to identify the exact type of weapon used.

  “I can tell them what type,” I whisper to myself, looking at the crime scene photo in the Picayune.

  “She hit again?” Jackson asks behind me, and I turn, seeing him coming out of his room dressed for a workout. He and Katrina are working hard at what they can, although I can sense everyone wishes they could do some firearms training. When your enemy is reaching out and touching her targets from hundreds of yards away, working joint locks and takedowns seems like a waste of time. Still, it gives the two of them and Carson something to take up their time and energy, which is just as important if not more important than the actual skills. Fear is the mind-killer, and all that. “What is that, four?”

  “Five actually, if what Darcy told Katrina the other day is correct. Three sniper hits, and two others who were associates of Peter DeLaCoeur, all dead in the past ten days. She hit Mike yesterday.”

  Jackson, who'd had Mike drive him around for years, probably interacted with Mike more than any other member of the DeLaCoeur staff. He goes silent, then shakes his head. “Damn. Mike. I hadn't thought of him in a couple months at least. After that last time he drove me, Peter had Mike not interact with me at all. I mean, he wasn't a friend or anything, but he did try to look out for me when I had my head up my ass.”

  “That he did. I don't understand this one, either. Isis would not have put a bullet in Mike without instructions from Peter to do so, she doesn't kill without orders. But Mike was one hundred percent loyal, and Peter intentionally kept him in the dark,” I muse, running my hand through my hair. “Mike spent most of his time running you, Margaret, and Andrea around town. He only drove Peter on legit business. What was he doing on a hit list?”

  Jackson shakes his head. “Maybe Peter's just gone over the edge. After the Grammercys turned on him and we put Orloff in the ground, we did push him. Maybe it was just a push too damn far.”

  I shrug. “The good part though, if Isis is doing all of these, then she is also keeping other people off of the contracts. I bet she has put the word out, New Orleans is her territory for now. Whatever the case, I need to talk to Katrina. She and I need to coordinate our tracking of this bloodbath.”

  “Mind if I ask why?” Jackson asks, rolling his wrists to start to loosen them up. “Not saying that Isis isn't dangerous, but what's the point of tracking what she's doing down there? I'm sure Jeff and the boys from NOPD already have the feds involved, and they've got files on Isis, they probably already know who she is and everything down to her favorite color for Jimmy Choos.”

  “Last I knew, Isis Bardot's never been fingerprinted or anything approaching normal identification,” I reply, tapping my lips with my index finger. “She's even more of a ghost than Katrina. Fake IDs, all of it. Twenty years ago she had passports from half a dozen countries. Nowadays, I am betting it's even more. Hell, I don't even know for sure if her real name is Isis Bardot or not. When we were active in Kurdistan, the locals from Aisha's village did recognize her, and she's certainly related to Aisha, but as for the Bardot part, or the part about how she ended up being only a half-sister, well... I just don't know.”

  Jackson hums. “How did that happen, anyway? Dad fucked around on mom?”

  I shake my head, standing up. “According to Isis, it was actually that she and Aisha shared a mother. She was just a Kurdish woman who was working on the air base, working while her husband and daughter were living in Kurdistan, and they had an affair. She got pregnant, but her father kept her safe until after Isis was born. Being a married woman who had an affair, her mother abandoned her to her father, going back to her Kurdish family afterward. It wasn't until after she was back in Kurdistan that she revealed the truth to her husband. He accepted Isis as his daughter for a while, but soon sent her to live with her real father permanently. It could be true, it could be bullshit. I don't know. Doesn't really matter anyway.”

  Jackson hums, nodding. “True. So where are you going now?”

  “Now?” I ask, looking around the big main room. “I think I will check our wood supply, then get some exercise. Tell your wife that I’m not ready for our little sparring match, but soon. How is she looking?”

  Jackson chuckles and shakes his head. “I've already got a hundred dollar bet with Carson that Katrina hands you your ass.”

  I chuckle and pat Jackson on the shoulder. “Good to know. If Katrina can be ready around four thirty, I would appreci
ate it.”

  After getting exercise via splitting logs for forty-five minutes, I shower and change clothes, trying to get my mind right. I know what my duty is. I need to stay here and protect this family, to protect my family. But with every e-mail, every death, I feel a pull to go back to New Orleans, to try and bring Isis down. I may be playing right into her game, she's got to be trying to set me up with her messages, but they're still worming their way inside my mind.

  It's not the sexual overtones. While Isis was a past lover, there's nothing emotionally there for her, there never was. She reminded me of Aisha too much. I know I called her Aisha in bed so often that any other woman would have been pissed off. Not Isis, because when I was calling her Aisha, those were the days I gave her more of myself than normal.

  So there's nothing emotionally there for Isis herself. If I have any conflicting emotions, it's because I know I love Melissa, but there's still the ghost of Aisha in my mind, and having Isis involved now is stirring that ghost I thought was long-buried.

  My talk with Katrina is short, we've both been thinking of the same thing, and I agree that next time she has an online chat with Darcy, I should be there to feed her as much information as I can. Her husband's a good cop, and Jeff could use the information to help the NOPD with their hunt for Isis. Already the NOPD has made the connections between the five deaths in that they all worked for or were associates of Peter DeLaCoeur, so they're keeping their eyes on him. But there isn't much they can do, he's got an alibi for everything, and until they get their hands on Isis there's no way they can tie him to any sniper or killer.