by Paul Duffau
“Two hours prior to the assigned time, you will turn on the second phone for a text with instructions on where the exchange will be.”
Kenzie felt a surge of hope. Her father could investigate the cell phones—
“Do not involve your father in this transaction. Any attempt by the Seattle Police Department to identify me through the purchase of the phones, or similar investigative efforts to locate me, will result in the immediate forfeiture of Mr. Jackson’s life.” Lassiter paused for emphasis. “Trust me, I will know, and I will have Mr. Jackson removed. Are we clear?”
Kenzie scrambled to find a gap that she could exploit.
“Miss Graham, are we clear?”
“How am I going to get out with only a couple of hours of notice?”
“I expect that you will need to be creative. Perhaps Mr. Merriwether can help, as he’s demonstrated a certain proclivity for such things.”
“Can I join her at the meeting?” Mitch said, rushing to add, “Not that I don’t trust you or anything.”
Lassiter considered it. He gave Mitch an infinitesimal nod. “You may. In fact, I insist. I’m afraid that left on your own, you might convince yourself to be a hero, and that would be quite a shame for Miss Graham.”
He returned his gaze to Kenzie. “Now, I believe that concludes our business, does it not, Miss Graham?”
Kenzie, chest tight, thought of Jackson and his innocent family, and whispered, “Yes.”
“Excellent.” Lassiter half-turned, paused. “In ten minutes, the laser lights will be turned off. That will be your signal that it is safe to leave. Take a step before then, and I will regretfully need to find new business partners.”
Two statues watched as he left the park.
Chapter 30
Crimson trickled down to Mitch’s wrist from the nasty gash on the middle knuckle of his right fist; he could think now.
It would have been nice to have destroyed Lassiter instead of leaving a gaping hole in the garage wall. The dust he’d knocked loose in the violent attack to the helpless drywall threatened to make him sneeze, so he put his left forefinger under his nose and pressed to discourage it.
The rage had built over ten excruciating minutes. The minutes crept by as tears, one at a time, dropped down Kenzie’s cheeks. She kept saying “I’m sorry” and Mitch kept telling her it wasn’t her fault.
She knew that, he knew that; not that it mattered. They believed Lassiter that the clock had started on Jackson, and him.
A plan, some way out, seemed impossible.
He had escorted Kenzie home, head on a swivel looking for any new threats. Silent, both of them walked and thought. He didn’t kiss her good-bye. Instead, he gave her a leg up onto the brick wall. His breath caught in his throat when she wobbled, jumping back onto the roof, and he exhaled only when she reached her window safely. Once she was inside, Mitch had sprinted for the Camaro and roared into the night, his vision tinged red at the edges.
The urge to pummel something, someone, Lassiter, overwhelmed him. Mitch held it together until he sneaked into the garage. Then he exploded, punching the wall with every ounce of force he could muster.
That release of adrenaline jump-started his brain.
Lassiter had all the advantages, including the biggest one: a willingness to destroy lives to get what he wanted.
Wrong.
The analytical part of Mitch flagged his assumption, manipulated it, and recognized the falsity. Lassiter had advantages, huge ones, but one, no, two weaknesses. First, he didn’t have the device, whatever the stupid thing was. Two, he was playing chess.
Mitch smiled, a grim-faced thing that would have scared the crap out of Kenzie if she had seen it.
Yes, Lassiter was playing chess, and he stood ready to capture a pawn named Jackson and remove him from the board. What, thought Mitch, would happen if he pulled him from the board first?
An innocuous brown paper bag sat on the workbench, covered with particles of white gypsum board. They’d found it right where the asshole said it would be, smack dab in the middle of the parking lot. Kenzie insisted that she needed to take it with her.
All Mitch did was ask one question: What happens when your dad finds it?
She’d deflated, and the mean streak he faked to keep everybody else away faltered, and he almost gave in. That he’d guessed right, that she knew her dad would spy on her, tore at his heart. It wasn’t like he had a whole a lot more privacy, but he carved out space for himself. Score one for being a pain in the ass.
You ever think about running away?
Until tonight, never.
Now he’d reconsider, if she’d run away with him.
But first, they needed to defuse Lassiter, and do it without getting Jackson dead. The SOB shouldn’t be allowed to screw with people like that.
In the dark of the garage, with the smell of old oil in the air, the rudiments of a plan coalesced, pieces dropping one by one into place. He didn’t know where everything would fit, didn’t need to yet, but at least he could see a way forward. Same as basketball, attack, attack, always attack, get inside the other guy’s head, stay unpredictable, never give him a second to catch up.
Lassiter wanted to play chess, and he had them in check, three moves from mate.
Fine, thought Mitch. Hate chess anyway, so screw it.
Let’s see how well he plays a different game.
Calvin-ball.
Mitch fished his phone from his pocket. He turned to the sooty window at the end of the garage. Punching numbers into the glowing screen, he faced his reflection. A chill crept down his spine as he recognized his father in the reflection, the same fracking crazed look in the eyes, the blood dripping darkly from the torn skin on his hand.
Not the same, he swore. This time things would be different.
A sleepy voice answered on the third ring with an unintelligible mumble.
He met his reflection’s accusatory stare, rock-steady and determined. The reflection looked like a wild man.
When he spoke, the man in the glass provided the words.
“How good are you at kidnapping people?”
Chapter 31
Sweat broke out on Kenzie’s temples as the warding spell slipped away from her control. Breathing suspended, she fought to keep the recalcitrant magic from alerting her father. Trembling, she steadied the wayward flow by canceling stray vibrations in the pattern. She exhaled softly.
She prised the screen out of the channel and, placing her fingertips onto the white vinyl of the window frame at the middle, slid it sideways an inch, enough to open a gap at the side jamb. She wrapped her fingers around the open edge and pulled in one strong motion to finish opening it. She climbed through, catching a heel in her haste. She freed the foot and got both feet on the floor.
Once inside, she worked efficiently to reset the screen, let the ward slip back, and then close the window. Only then, willpower spent, did she let the accumulated reaction overwhelm her.
She dropped to the floor like a piece of origami falling and unfolding simultaneously. As her knees hit the carpeted floor, she refolded into a compact shape with her arms crossed and hands, still shaking, clasping the tight muscle at the back of her arms. She rocked herself side to side even while her mind sought an opening, some way to protect Mitch—and Jackson, she reminded herself—without giving in to Lassiter.
Kenzie’s chest rose and fell, picking up frequency. She recognized the symptoms, less intense than after the kidnapping attempt, and forced herself to her feet. The action wetted her cheeks again, the luminous moonbeams refracting in the threatening tears.
No crying like a little girl, she ordered herself. Think.
She wiped her face with a hand. The tears stayed in her ducts, and her hand erased the gritty salt tracks left behind on her cheeks.
Poor Mitch.
Mitch had kept grunting “It’s not your fault” every time she apologized. The more he said it, the worse she felt. All he had tried to do was help
her. Each iteration also brought greater concern as she listened to his voice, and heard the rage emerging from the depths where he kept it buried, bound tightly by the pain she had felt the first time she’d touched him.
The casual violence promised for Mitch and Jackson, using her like a pawn, to the point of even coldly stating that they were all pieces on a board in a game Lassiter controlled, infuriated her. Kenzie felt the touch of that fire, now that she was safe. It grew hotter, until there was an acrid taste in the back of her throat and brimstone in her nose.
She sensed the potential in the emotion, the intensity that she could access, now that she didn’t need it. For a moment, she was tempted to seize it, to prove that she could. Kenzie gave in to the feeling. She drew it to her, to touch, not to hold. The potency filled her senses, the color of the anger a deep, ruby claret, while the burning brimstone took on the sweetness of wine. The touch built, lapped over the wall of her resistance, and Kenzie absorbed it like a parched woman who drank deeply on a life-saving draught. On the tip of her tongue a word sprang, full of malevolence, strange syllables readying themselves to terrorize Lassiter, if only she could find him.
If she could harness it when the time came and not freeze.
It was the mirror that saved her before she surrendered into the bleakness of the poisonous fire. The image of herself, lit from within, with ruddy flames upon her hands, and hair lifted like a banshee in an ancient picture, glowed from the reflective surface.
She choked, and the shock dropped her to the floor.
Desperately, she released the bloodred rage, let it spill away. From the vision that came from her mind, it seemed to slither, slink away, as though it were a spurned lover leaving, reluctant and truculent at the same time.
Kenzie fell back against her bed, shaken. Inside, she was sapped, without the energy to lift herself from the floor. Arm leaden, she pulled her quilt from the bed. Her pillow rode with it and fell against her.
Wearily, she wrapped the comforting material around her, the astrological patterns a familiar touchstone. Kenzie arranged her pillow and lay against it, gazing up at the mirror, half-fearing the menace would return. A shudder wracked her, and she clenched the soft fabric tight to her body. The vertebrae in her back pressed on the metal rail of the bed frame, so she shifted deeper into the comforter and pillow.
Her thoughts turned slower, shifting as each priority strove for supremacy. She ached to save Mitch, save Jackson. This was replaced with a repugnant need to find the abominable device that Lassiter demanded. Briefly, she thought to save herself, but that gave way to a longing to protect her magic, her Family. Despite herself, she drifted into a half sleep.
Just before she lost consciousness, it occurred to her that she should talk to Harold. The last thought she had as the darkness completely closed in was that she’d dispatch Lassiter to hell before she’d let him hurt Mitch. She knew the way now.
Chapter 32
“Answer the damn phone already,” said Mitch, as the ringing dragged on. When the recognizable click of the voice mail answering system resonated in his ear, Mitch hung up. Again.
Disgusted at the limitations of technology when he needed it right this second, he shifted his attention to a storefront that contained a museum. As best he could figure based on drive-bys, it appeared and disappeared on alternating Saturdays, the third Thursday of every month, and the twelfth of fricking never. Today, the door sat dark, with a “Closed” sign visible, resting cockeyed behind the grimy safety glass that reminded him of juvie.
Mitch had rolled out of the sack at dawn and had smacked his hand on the dresser, resulting in a slew of bad words and a hand that throbbed and hurt like hell. Exhausted by a brain that refused to shut down, he had thrashed in his bed, the sheets tangled and his pillow on the floor. Fading nightmares of Kenzie bleeding out from a hideous wound mixed with ruminations of plans, counterplans, schemes, and an overpowering desire to inflict pain on Lassiter, disturbed his rest.
I hope Kenzie did better, he thought, but doubted it.
He had dressed in the dim light, ears attuned to the sounds of wheezy breathing that came from the room next door. Much better than the nights when he could hear the bedsprings complaining and the headboard hitting the wall.
Why, why, why do old people do stuff like that?
He had sniffed a shirt, decided it would do, and donned it. Grabbed at socks, shoes, wallet, and gotten out of the house before anyone woke to stop him.
Now he stood on the deserted street, staring at the museum. Odors from the dumpsters next to the restaurants added a sour wrinkle to the damp morning air. A scratching sound caught his attention. Behind him, a mottled gray-brown rat quivered, beady eyes staring unblinkingly at him. It was joined by a larger rat. They watched him like they were waiting for him to turn his back again before rushing him.
A shiver of revulsion coursed through his body and he stepped out onto the street. A prickly feeling at the base of his neck made him cast a glance over his shoulder at the vermin.
Once across the street, Mitch banged on the door with his left hand, rattling the glass.
He wiped at the pane, cleaning off the particulate left by the city air. He peered in. The space inside stayed dark. He scanned up and down the street.
“Mercury, open up, man,” he yelled at the building. He hammered the door again with the bottom of his fist. Inside, the sign jumped and fell with a clatter audible through the thin glass.
“Mercury!”
A light blossomed at the far end of the interior space. Mitch breathed out a sigh of relief. A figure approached, dressed in gray sweats, a large purple W on the chest. A clack from the door handle and the door swung open.
“You could have just walked in, you know,” said Mercury. His hair stood in clumps, and his bushy brows crawled together.
“No, I didn’t know,” said Mitch. “Why would I?”
Mitch’s mind boggled at the purple W and tried to reconcile the Mercury he knew with a U-Dub fan. He expected the old wizard to be, well, wizard-like. Magical people should be different, he thought, then tried to reconcile that idea with Kenzie. And Hunter. He’d thought both were pretty normal until this week.
Mercury shook the door. “Come in or get out,” he said, and shambled away, leaving the door standing ajar.
Mitch followed him in and swung the door shut, plunging the room into gloomy darkness. For an old man, the wizard moved fast. He was already out of sight. Mitch walked around the display cases toward the sole source of light coming from Mercury’s weird garden room.
He halted at the door.
Mercury stood in front of him, a pair of speckled brown stoneware mugs in hand. Around him, the room had changed from a brightly lit garden room to a library. The windows still opened to a wild profusion of vegetation but the interior now resembled a bibliophile’s dream, old books—they all seemed to carry a weight of years on their leather spines—lining shelves on two walls. Two high-backed armchairs of worn brown leather and dark wood lined the third wall. Between them sat a matching table with a Tiffany lamp burning.
“Want some tea?” asked Mercury.
Mitch shook his head. “Got coffee?”
“Heathen pup,” muttered the wizard without a trace of animosity. He held out one of the mugs.
Mitch wrapped his hands around the mug, and the warmth permeated through to the damaged skin on his knuckles.
“Come, sit down,” instructed Mercury, “and tell me why in the world you want to kidnap someone.”
Mitch took a sip of coffee and grimaced. Bitter as wood chips mixed with month-old grounds that had soaked for a week.
“Crap, this stuff is terrible,” Mitch said, wiping his tongue on his upper teeth.
“No refunds.” Mercury pointed to the left-hand chair. “Sit. Talk.” As an afterthought, he added, “Please.”
Mitch sat, and recounted the threats Lassiter had made, leaving out the reason they were made. He failed to keep the anger out of his
voice when he described the businessman’s promise to destroy Kenzie’s femur but glossed over the threat to himself. When he got to the point where he needed Mercury’s help, he stood and paced, coffee mug forgotten on the table.
“So the jerk thinks he has the initiative. Until we break that, he’s got all the control. You asked me to help Kenzie, you didn’t say to sacrifice somebody else, so we need to get Jackson out of the way.”
Mercury sat brooding over his tea. He pursed his lips and spoke. “So the kidnapping is solely to remove Mr. Jackson from harm. You understand that this Mr. Lassiter will simply accelerate the time schedule for your demise.”
“I think he wants to kill me anyway. I can’t see any reason he needs me alive after he gets what he wants.”
Energetic eyes peered from under the bushy eyebrows, and Mitch had the impression that the wizard was weighing his next words, sorting through the options until he settled on one.
“So what does Mr. Lassiter want?”
Mitch had rehearsed lies, but under the penetrating stare of Mercury, he resorted to the truth.
“A memory-storage device, as near as I can tell. I don’t think he really knows what it is or where it is, so he’s using people around Kenzie as targets to get her to do what he wants.” Mitch paused, phrasing the next part as a question. “Do you know why he would use me and Jackson as blackmail instead of her parents?”
A filter dropped behind the wizard’s eyes, and Mitch prepared himself to be lied to.
Mercury surprised him by speaking the truth. “Because I think she cares more for you.”
Mercury spread his hands. “It’s not relevant now. I can help you with Mr. Jackson and with his family. We can’t very well remove him without also protecting his wife and children.”