Secrets & Lies

by Lauren Landish

  “You won't, I promise,” I tell her quietly. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  I kiss her again, and hold her tight for a moment before letting go and giving her hands a squeeze. “When I come back, let’s talk.”

  Chapter 14

  Melissa

  I can't go to sleep. It's after midnight, but despite the exhaustion nibbling at my eyelids, I can't close my eyes. I know what will happen if I do, I'm going to have a nightmare. I'm a nervous wreck.

  If I was like the rest of the family, I'd exercise. I know it helps Jackson and Katrina handle their stress, but I'm not into it like they are. Walks through the woods and helping out around the house is more than enough for me.

  I don't know what to do, until I think about what does help me feel better. Spending time with Nathan isn't an option, he's still on the road to New Orleans. Knowing him, he's probably got the shotgun already, along with the ammunition and a bag of meal replacement bars or something from the same sporting goods store next to him, munching away while he drives.

  The image of his face, lit up by the dim green lights of the gauges on the truck and his own eyes burning out into the night swirl around in my head until I know what I want to do. I get up, startling Katrina who's lying on the sofa, monitoring her laptop and napping. She sits up, her hand moving to the table and I realize she has her pistol there, before she realizes it's me and she relaxes some. “You okay?”

  “I'm going out to the chapel,” I tell her. “Are you?”

  She nods and lays back down. “I'm just napping now, I've got the speakers on high so if he calls I'll be up in an instant. Don't worry, I've got his back.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, leaving as Katrina already slips back to sleep. It's a skill she's mastered. She can go to sleep and snap awake in an instant, something I know BA appreciates when she's needed milk in the night.

  The air in the chapel is below freezing, but as I look at the big block of granite in the front, I feel warmth fill me. The sledgehammer is still sitting in the corner, and I pick it up, looking over the granite. I can see it, I can see what I want to make, to create. I raise the sledge over my head and bring it down, crashing into the block. A few chips fly off the top, but it's still staying solid so far.

  Fine. I pick up the chisel and the hand sledge, and start tapping out the line I want to create that will give me the piece I want. Starting with a scratch, I deepen the split slowly, working with the stone to open it up. I'm so engrossed in my work that when the door to the chapel opens, I don't even raise my head until the cold breeze hits my now sweaty skin. I look up, seeing Carson standing there, his hands shoved into the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. “What are you doing?”

  “Working,” I reply, turning back to the block and going back to tapping. “What are you doing?”

  “Wondering why I'm being woken up by the sound of you smacking the hell out of a rock at one in the morning,” Carson says, grumpy. “Andrea's chilling out with Katrina on the sofa, thank God BA sleeps like her father. Those two would sleep through World War III if it started at night.”

  “Sorry. Like you said though, the urge hit me. I have to get it out of my brain before I can get any sleep. Without Nathan here, I've got to do something.”

  Carson huffs, and taps his foot. “Seriously, 'Lissa?”

  “Seriously,” I reply, feeling a little bit upset. “You've been acting pissy all evening since Nathan left. What's got your butt?”

  “What's got my butt?” he asks, slightly surprised at my rough language, then sighs. “Fine, I'll tell you. Are you sure this is the time to try and advance your relationship with Nathan? The man's driving to get shot at.”

  “I know that!” I screech, throwing my chisel to the ground and brandishing my hammer at him. “You don't think I fucking know that?”

  Carson stares at me, shocked as I continue my tirade. I've almost never cursed before in my life, and never, ever at him. “I love you, but I love him, too! But I'm useless here! I can't fight, I can barely cook, I can't even chop the fucking wood! So excuse me Carson if I interrupt your sleep. Maybe Andrea can lull you back to a restful slumber.”

  Carson steps forward, anger flashing in his silver-gray eyes, but I'm too pissed to back down. “You know, I've put up with a lot of shit from you, 'Lissa. And I've never, ever complained before. But this? For fuck's sake, when it was just a crush, when I saw that you two were circling each other, I encouraged it, but that was before we had a fucking assassin coming after us! That was before we spent the past five weeks living on a shower schedule, with daily internet limits because of power needs and the highlight of the fucking week being a trip to the suburbs of Asheville! That was before I spent the past five weeks scared out of my fucking mind that I'm not going to be able to see our baby born because some psycho chick's going to kill us! You think you're the only one with nightmares? Huh? Do you?”

  “At least you can do something about it!” I scream back, fully lost in my fear and anger. “At least you can protect her! What am I supposed to do? All I can do is crack this rock! So you know what? I'm going to crack this rock, and find the right piece, and maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to get some rest while I wait for Nathan to call. If he ever can.”

  Carson stares at me, then takes a deep breath and storms out, slamming the door to the chapel behind him. I stare at the door for a minute then go get my chisel, going back to work. When the door opens again I don't even look up. “I'm not ready to talk to you yet, Carson. I'm sorry we fought, but I'm not ready to talk.”

  “Actually, it’s me,” Andrea says, her voice tired, amused, and concerned at the same time. “And if you want a hand cracking that rock, we did a pretty good job at it last time.”

  I sigh, setting my hammer down. “You're not angry with me?”

  Andrea laughs lightly and shakes her head. “For what? For cursing Carson out? Or for making a racket that woke us up?”

  “Any of it, all of it, I don't know,” I reply, dropping my chisel. “Did I just really curse at my brother?”

  “Yep,” Andrea says, coming forward and wrapping me in a hug. “And you know what? He deserved it, too.”

  I blink, startled. “But...”

  “I don’t agree with everything he does,” Andrea chuckles. “I'm also your sister, remember. He was being a bossy jerk to you and to me too afterward. I told him as much when he came in and stormed around, bitching about what you said. Katrina's pissed at him about that, but she'll get over it.”

  I nod, a relieved smile on my face. “I should apologize to him.”

  “You can make up later. Isn’t that what siblings do?” She shakes her head, and goes over to the block of granite, picking up the chisel and tracing it along the line I'm making in the surface.

  We take turns with the hammer and chisel, working through the night. Finally, just as Andrea's watch beeps to tell us it's three in the morning, I swing the hammer one last time. The stone cracks again, giving me a large piece that's kind of triangular. I pick it up and turn it over in my hands, smiling. “Perfect... just perfect.”

  “Good,” Andrea says, yawning. “Because I'm beat, and my forearms are humming.”

  I set the rock down and we go back inside, both of us surprised to find Carson still awake, Katrina sleeping on the couch. When we close the door, he comes over and looks at both of us, saying nothing. There's something in his eyes though, something I don't quite get. “Carson?”

  “I'm sorry, Andrea. I was wrong, and I apologize from the bottom of my heart.”

  I look at Andrea, whose eyes glitter with tears, but she swallows deeply and touches Carson's hair. “And our sister?”

  Carson nods and turns without getting up, bowing deeper. “I'm sorry, Melissa. You were right, and I'm sorry that my fear led to me losing my temper with you.”

  “There's no need to apologize. I understand your fear, and I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” Carson says.

  “Then there's nothing to worr
y about,” I tell him, putting my hand on his shoulders. “Is there, Andrea?”

  Andrea shakes her head. “No, there isn't. I love you, Carson. But, if it's okay, can we just forget this and go to bed? I’m beat from swinging at that rock.”

  Carson looks at me and I nod, smiling, and Carson picks Andrea up in his arms and carries her from the room. I watch them go, only to be interrupted when Katrina chuckles. “Cute.”

  I turn and see her lying stretched out on the sofa, her eyes open and totally awake. “You heard?”

  “I'm the Shadow, the Ghost in the Machine. I hear everything, I know everything,” she jokes, pointing at the open space on the couch next to her. “Have a seat. You look like you could use some sleep too, and if there's any bad dreams, I'll keep you safe.”

  Chapter 15

  Nathan

  The sun is rising just as I cross Lake Pontchartrain and enter New Orleans. I'd wanted to rush more, but in trading e-mails with Katrina, who stayed up all night monitoring communications, we decided that I'd do best to meet with Margaret just after dawn. I was able to grab three hours sleep at a truck stop in Mississippi, helping me a lot.

  The hardest part about deciding where to meet Margaret was choosing a place she could blend in. With her surgical addictions, Margaret's had just about everything done, from Botox to tummy tucks. Her hair is bleached blonde to try and look younger and to blend in with the image of the DeLaCoeurs, her vanity contacts completing the look.

  All of this work means I couldn't send her to my normal safe houses where she would stick out.

  Which is why I decided to meet her where we are, at a hotel just outside the airport in the area of the city known as Camp Leroy Johnson because it used to be an Army airfield back during World War II. Close to two universities and the airport as well as the interstate, it gets lots of unique traffic on a regular basis, and I can keep anyone tailing her guessing as to where the fuck she might be going.

  I still don't know which of my two long-term safe houses I might stick her in, though. If she's off the sauce, I can take her to a little one bedroom house that I have north of the lake in Picayune, far enough from New Orleans that she might be able to blend in somewhat.

  If she's still half-drunk most of the time like she was at the DeLaCoeur home, then I can take her to another place I know to the south, a trailer park in Houma. It's nowhere near as nice, but that's the appeal. Margaret can drink her sorrows away, and most of her neighbors won't notice.

  “So which do you think?” I ask Katrina, who's using the VOIP system to allow us to talk. Thankfully Carson's truck comes with a charging dock for my phone, I'd forgotten to put one in my bag. “North or south?”

  “Don't forget option C,” Katrina says, remarkably awake for six in the morning. “Take her and dump her in a random spot.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “I mean, I get the idea, but I don't have the finances for that.”

  Katrina laughs, and I realize I once again underestimated the adept computer whiz. “If push comes to shove, I can get you funds to set Margaret up for a while. You know the sorts of places you can get her into very quickly, let's face it.”

  “Of course,” I reply, sipping the Jolt Cola I bought at the same truck stop I'd slept at, the same place I'd also gassed up the truck. “Give me a couple hours and I can get her into a place.”

  In my head, I already know the type of location Katrina's talking about, they dot just about every city, although I've seen more of them in the South than other places. Low advertised rents, deposits and rent done via credit card or cashier's check only. Basically, the same type of places that Peter DeLaCoeur used to launder his money through.

  “Don't even need to do that,” Katrina says. “Give me a city, and I can have everything short of the deposit done for you before you get within fifty miles of the place. At that point you could drop her anywhere east of the Mississippi and be back in time for dinner Friday night.”

  “Sounds good. What's on the menu?” I ask, getting off the interstate. I'm feeling relaxed, and having Katrina to talk to helps knock away the last of the cobwebs. “Please tell me Andrea isn't cooking.”

  “Hey, I heard that!” a voice in the background calls, and Katrina laughs.

  “That's what you get for forgetting I'm on an open mic and speaker here,” Katrina reminds me, and I have to smile. “But to answer you, I'm doing the cooking. I talked Carson and Jackson into doing a supply run today, they're going to go down to town and pick up a nice, thick one pound steak for you. How's that sound?”

  “Sounds like you're spoiling me. What's the occasion?”

  Katrina sounds like she's leaning into the microphone, and I wonder why before she speaks. “Because Friday night, you're having a romantic dinner date with Melissa, and if you say no, you and I are having another throwdown, but I'm bringing a stick this time.”

  “Then I guess I'm having a dinner date with Melissa,” I say with a smile. I drain the rest of my Jolt and put the bottle in the plastic bag I have hanging from the little hook next to the glove compartment, keeping things neat. “Okay, business time, I'm a mile from the meet-up. I'm going to shut down the call for now, I’ll call back when I have an update. Go get some breakfast or something. I'll try and call in by nine.”

  “Watch your six, Sergeant,” Katrina says, cutting off the call. Wise words, and as I pull into the motel parking lot, I do exactly that, checking all around me for signs of any danger. I chose this motel for a very specific reason, as up the street about two blocks is the New Orleans FBI building. Not that I think it would stop Isis, but I hope it helped Margaret feel a little less freaked out.

  The Magnolia Inn and Suites doesn't really have any suites, unless your definition of a suite means a bed that doesn't vibrate when you drop fifty cents into the box on the side of the bed. But it is low profile, close to the cops, and in an area of the city that Peter doesn't have a lot of business. Still, my Colt is out and next to my thigh as I park down on the end of the line of units, going to Unit 18. I had her choose that room for another reason, it'd get the most foot traffic and hopefully keep visitors away.

  When I reach the door, there's no answer when I knock, and warning bells go off in my head. Even if she's asleep, I knocked loud enough that Margaret should be able to hear me. I try the door and find it unlocked, my Colt coming up as I open the door.

  The first thing I see is Margaret. She's been tied to the bed spread-eagled, but she's not going to be complaining about it. The slit in her throat makes sure of that.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, trying to step back. “God dammit.”

  Suddenly, I hear a puff of air, and something hits me in the thigh. It's fast acting, and before I drop to my knees, I see Isis step out from the bathroom, her dart pistol in her right hand. “Long time no see, stud,” she says as I fall to the ground, my Colt dropping from my numb fingers. “Let's have a little fun.”

  I come to relatively quickly, finding myself stripped to the waist, my hands tied to the dresser of another room. From the décor, I'd say I'm still in the Magnolia. “Welcome back, lover.”

  The voice stirs long-buried memories inside me, and I open my eyes, trying to focus. “You bitch, you shot me. That's twice.”

  Isis is sitting on the bed, a seductive smile on her face and wearing tight dress slacks and a camisole that leave very little to the imagination. She's got her most seductive smile on, and her eyes twinkle as she studies me. “Oh come now Nathan, that first time was just a little flesh wound. Your eye isn't the most handsome I admit, but it does give you a certain... gravitas. As for your ass, I bet it barely even scarred. I was a good girl, I didn't check you for the mark.”

  “You mean you didn't have time to drag me down the hall, tie me up, and get my shirt off to see if I was wearing a wire before I woke up,” I grunt, my mouth fuzzy. “What did you hit me with?”

  “Well, let's see. If you can feel it, you've got another little bump in your other thigh, I shot you in your left si
de, so what do you think?” Isis asks playfully. “I taught you a lot about chemicals in the months we worked together.”

  “Etorphine,” I reply, hissing as I feel the spot where she injected the antidote into my other leg. “No wonder you wanted to work fast, getting the counteragent. You could have killed me.”

  “What I really wanted was something that would work quickly, but also fade just as quickly. So sodium thiopental wasn't on the menu, and ketamine... well, I've never really liked Special K. And let us not get into what fentanyl would do to you. No thank you,” Isis says conversationally, as if discussing the potentially fatal side effects of various drugs is something she does on a daily basis. “By the way, you're looking fit. No problem with your kidneys?”

  “What do you know?” I ask, curious.

  “I know that Vadim Orloff cut you, he wouldn’t have reported your death to Peter without injuring you. While I hate the Russians, he and I worked together sometimes, I know what he put on his blades. One of the side effects of it is a lot of stress on the kidneys. He was a very nasty man.”

  “That he was. You know, speaking of nasty, you weren't exactly polite to Margaret. Why?”

  Isis shrugs and reaches for the hem of her camisole top, thinking she’s teasing me a little by lifting it up, exposing her mid-section. “I needed a way to distract you. I knew you were coming, she was pliable under the Sodium Pentothal. But I also knew I only had a second at most to act, you're too professional to have skipped that bathroom. So the Colombian necktie was a bit of last minute improvisation to get your focus. Peter would approve, he's paying me more the messier each death is.”

  Behind my back, I start sliding my wrists slowly, trying to find a weakness in the rope. Expert sniper, yes. Good with pharmacology, for sure. Kinky ass nymphomaniac? Check. But Isis has never been as good as I am with fieldcraft, and I can feel she's made a mistake. The edge of the cabinet is sharp, maybe some sort of Formica that's a little worn, and she used what feels like a cotton rope. Okay, keep her talking.