“It looks like no one’s been here yet.” He felt a stab of triumph at that.
Maggie trundled in, with Tara in tow. She sat down with a huff beside the bed, her tail slapping against the floor like a metronome. Was it too much to hope that the dog had scared them off? Maggie grinned up at him, drooling. Ferocious beast.
Tara’s eyes burned dark, considering. “They either have, and left things alone, or they’re watching to see who comes looking.”
She left the room, whistled for the dog. From the kitchen, he could hear running water and noisy slurps as Tara watered the dog. He heard her puttering around the kitchen, riffling through the drawers and cabinets. The crackling of a paper bag and the unmistakable rattle of kibble in a metal bowl made him smile. For all Tara’s cool reticence, she did seem to have some sympathy after all.
Magnusson’s office interested him the most. The original casement windows let in wan, late winter sunshine, striping a desk made from a door balanced on top of two file cabinets. Magnusson’s slippers lay, cast aside, beneath the desk. Papers and books teetered nearby on a battered bookshelf. His heart dropped when he saw the power and USB cables snaking across the desk, connected to nothing. A laptop computer had been used here at one time, but it was gone now. He stabbed the power button on the laser printer, but it spat out no forgotten queued printer jobs.
They had not been the first to arrive. He felt a twinge of disappointment at that. The tight net cast by Gabriel over Magnusson’s workplace may have reached even this far.
TARA FOUND MAGGIE’S EMPTY WATER BOWL AND FILLED IT from the kitchen tap. Enraptured, the dog leaned against her thigh and attacked the water with mighty slurps that splashed liquid on the tile floor.
Only a lonely coffee mug rested in the bottom of the sink. Tara opened the fridge, studded with magnets emblazoned with pizza delivery numbers. Refrigerators were often the best places to get a sense of a person, and Magnusson’s fridge was no exception. The fridge light illuminated a few bottles of microbrew beer, energy drinks, ketchup, a loaf of bread, and a takeout container. Magnusson lived the life of a distracted intellectual, for certain. There was no sign of a woman’s touch in the fridge, either.
She shut the fridge door. The sight of food made her stomach turn. Though she didn’t feel nearly as weak and sickly as she had last night, she didn’t want to tempt fate. She felt too unsteady on her feet, and didn’t want to risk barfing on the evidence.
As she popped another Rolaids tablet, her gaze roved the counters. An expensive espresso machine perched next to the sink. Magnusson was a gadget man, a man who would indulge a luxury or two. Or else, he was a man who was extremely hard to buy for during holidays.
She pawed through his cabinets, finding several kinds of whole-grain cereal, a half-used jar of peanut butter, plenty of multivitamins, and prescription bottles half full of Xanax and Ambien. The original refill dates were pretty recent. Magnusson was perhaps dealing with more stress than usual. She turned the Xanax bottle over in her hand. If Magnusson had left town willingly, he would have brought his meds with him.
Maggie shoved her nose into Tara’s thigh, blinking up at her with all the sadness only dogs can muster. Magnusson wouldn’t have left the dog behind, either. The amount of toys in the living room and the layer of pudge encasing the dog suggested Magnusson wasn’t a neglectful dog parent.
“You hungry, girl?”
Maggie whimpered.
Tara rummaged around the lower cabinets and found a fifty-pound bag of dog kibble. She dragged it out and unrolled it. Though the cartoon hound on the bag cheerfully announced the bag contained organic diet dog food for overweight dogs, it didn’t seem to have had much effect on Maggie. She upended the bag, trickling kibble into the stainless steel bowl on the floor. Maggie shoved her nose into the stream of food, crunching noisily.
Something shifted inside the bag. Frowning, Tara turned it back up, tore it open to look inside. A piece of clear plastic poked into view like a prize in a Cracker Jack box. She reached in after it, and fished out a small laptop computer encased in a plastic zipper bag. Jackpot.
She took it back to Magnusson’s office and placed it on the desk before Harry.
“Where did you find that?” Harry’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead, and he grinned.
“In the dog food. Magnusson evidently wanted whoever would feed the dog to find it.”
“And no one doing a cursory search would have seen it.” Li opened the greasy zipper bag to retrieve the computer. He punched the power button, drumming his fingers as it booted up. The screen blinked on, demanding a password.
“Shit.”
Tara scanned the office, turning on her heel to fully absorb it. This place was where Magnusson had done his real work.
For the first time, Tara could feel the force of Magnusson’s personality. Where much of the rest of the house was strictly utilitarian, as evidenced by the mismatched dishes and lack of interest in décor, this was his nest, feathered in books, paper, and bits of debris that spoke of who he was. A worn rug muffled her steps underfoot, stained with coffee. Maggie’s dog bed was tucked in the corner, strewn with soggy rawhides. As Maggie didn’t seem the type of dog to be far from her master, it implied Magnusson spent more time here than he did in his bedroom. Magnets cut in the shapes of cartoon aliens studded the file cabinets, holding notes of mathematical formulae. A chipped coffee cup on his desk proclaimed he was #1 Dad and held an assortment of very expensive fountain pens and mechanical pencils. No wonder he’d eschewed the cheap, government-issue ones from work. A half-evaporated energy drink sat open on the desk beside a paperweight carved to resemble a happy Tiki god. A telescope perched before the window was aimed somewhere over the tree line. Tara wondered what Magnusson thought at night when the moon and stars crossed its glass eye. She wondered if Cassiopeia was visible this time of year.
Tara paused to examine a poster of the Earth at night tacked up onto the rough plaster wall. Taken from a satellite, it showed the bright illumination of cities and power sources, leaving the rest of the planet to its soft, sleepy darkness. Dark and light, the chiaroscuro was exquisite, the energy and black seeming to seethe together as a living thing, full and empty at the same time.
Her fingers traced over the titles of Magnusson’s books: Black Holes: The Armpits of the Universe, A Unified Theory of Quantum Physics, Field Theory Equations, The Tao Te Ching. She picked the last one up and flipped through the pages. The philosophy of dark and light, again. Cryptic notes were scribbled in the margins, some legible, some not. She paused at a dog-eared page and a trio of passages Magnusson had underlined:
Spokes are tied together to form a wheel. Yet, it is in the hollowness that the usefulness of the wheel depends.
Clay is sculpted to make a vessel, but it is in the hollowness that the usefulness of the vessel depends.
Just as we take advantage of what exists in the physical world, that which can be touched, we should recognize the usefulness of nothingness.
Beside these, Magnusson had scribbled How to detect that emptiness, that immeasurable and fluid darkness?
She thought back to the articles she’d skimmed in Magnusson’s file, about his research interests in dark matter and energy, in the vast portion of the universe that was unseen. Her eyes flickered back up to the poster. If he was right, then only a small proportion of matter—light matter—would be visible, like the city lights. The rest of the universe, like the Earth, would be in darkness.
Had Magnusson come too close to this darkness?
A car engine roared and died in the driveway. Hearing the clomp of boots and a key in the lock, her head snapped around. Harry rose from the desk, unholstered his gun. Maggie bolted toward the door at a dead run, collar jingling and claws scraping on the hardwood.
Maybe she was a better guard dog than they thought. Tara followed Maggie and Harry to the entry.
A young woman pulled her keys out of the lock. Her jaw-length hair was dyed jet black, with blue h
ighlights. She wore a long black coat two sizes too big for her that smelled like patchouli. Her waffle-soled black combat boots flopped unlaced, snapping against the floor as she walked into the foyer. Kohl-rimmed eyes were fixed on Maggie, who bounded up to her and pressed her paws to the girl’s shoulders. The girl giggled, wrapping her arms around the dog.
“Cassie?” Tara asked. Though she looked nothing like the file picture of the clean-cut girl beaming beside her father, the resemblance was unmistakable: the same startling blue eyes, the thin frame.
“Who’re you?” The girl stepped back, eying Tara and Li with suspicion.
“I’m Tara. This is Harry. We’ve come to find your father.”
“Do you work with him?”
“No. We’re not with the military. We’re with the Department of Justice.”
Cassie took a deep breath, and her lower lip shook. “He—”
She took a step back and tripped over the dog as a gunshot rang out. The leaded glass of the kitchen window shattered, and Tara lunged forward. The girl, the dog, and Tara fell together in a tangled pile as the plaster foyer wall blistered open above them.
HARRY DUCKED AND SPRINTED TO THE FRONT DOOR, SWINGING out onto the porch. Maggie surged ahead of him, barking and snarling. He followed, trying to keep his footing in the gravel as the dog launched through a stand of pine trees to the fence at the property line. His breath burned in his throat, scalding his hammering heart. Maggie flung herself at the fence with such force the posts rattled.
He reached up for the dog-eared edges of the fence and swung up as another shot splintered into the cedar fence, close enough to shake dew from the pine trees. He swung his leg over and dropped to the ground in the neighbor’s cactus garden. Swearing under his breath, he crouched behind a decorative boulder, scanning the scene over his gun for movement, some sign of the shooter. Trapped behind the fence, Maggie howled as ferociously as chained Cerberus.
There. Movement flickered around the corner of the house: a man stuffing something under his coat. Gravel crunched as he fled. Harry ran after him, ordering him to stop. As they tore through yards, lights came on, dogs barked, and suburbia woke with a start and a snort.
The shooter sped down a driveway, toward the street. Harry got a good look at him for the first time: he was utterly nondescript, with brown hair, tan skin, muscular build, dark coat and shoes. He’d blend in anywhere, except for the barrel of the rifle peeking out the edge of his coat. As soon as his feet hit the street, Harry heard the rev of an engine.
He’s going to get away, he thought desperately as a tan SUV rounded the corner and picked up speed. The shooter leaned out into the street as the SUV slammed on the brakes.
Harry ran so hard he thought his lungs would burst, his legs jackhammering against the pavement. The shooter popped open the door and scrambled in. Before the door shut, the getaway car squealed away, leaving Harry in the empty street, panting, with neighbors peering out their windows. Harry recited the license plate number to himself, burning it into his memory, “DCD-1397. . . DCD-1397. . .”
“Hey, buddy. You miss your car pool?” a man in the next yard asked him, newspaper tucked under his arm, as he locked his front door.
Breathless, Harry gestured at the sound of the garbage truck two streets over. “Missed putting the trash out.”
“They change it every holiday. . . It’s one day later after each holiday.” The man nodded to himself and got into his car. “It’s hard to remember, with all those damn federal holidays.”
Harry ran back to Magnusson’s house. He could hear Maggie tearing up the fence, and hurried around the back driveway to check on Tara and Cassie. He hoped they’d hit the deck soon enough. While the thought of the girl getting hit terrified him, imagining Tara being struck trying to save her froze his chest.
It was then he noticed Magnusson’s garbage can was out. If today was trash day, he must have put it out two days earlier.
Magnusson had known he’d be gone.
The thought lanced through his mind as he ran back up the driveway, raced up the porch steps, into the foyer, where his breath caught and blistered in his throat.
There was blood. It stained the white plaster of the foyer in a misty, high-velocity blood spatter pattern. Tara and Cassie crouched in a ball on the floor, below the line of the fire.
“We’re getting out of here.”
Tara turned as Harry spoke, blood smearing from her jacket on the white plaster. All color had drained from her face. Maggie whimpered and jumped up on her, paws scratching on the wall. Under Tara’s arms, Harry could see Cassie’s dark coat and a frightened eye. Tara dragged her back from the broken kitchen window, protected by the wall studs in the foyer.
Harry raced for Magnusson’s office, crouching below the level of the windows. Though the shooter had gone, he had no reassurance there weren’t more, and he was certain the house was still being surveilled. He snatched the laptop from the desk, jammed it under his arm as if it were a football.
Harry sprinted outside for the car. Heedless of the landscaping, he drove it on the gravel, right up to the edge of the porch. He rolled out of the passenger’s side, gun drawn, popping open the backseat door. He scanned the yard, the neighbor’s fence, the street, as Tara and Cassie stumbled out of the front door. Tara had flung her coat over the girl, and they piled into the backseat. Maggie, whimpering, clambered in after them.
Harry looked back in the rearview mirror at the women and the dog. Maggie was vigorously licking Cassie’s face, slapping Harry’s arm with her tail. Tara kept her hand on the girl’s head, keeping close to the floorboards.
Harry threw the car in gear and rattled back out of the driveway in reverse. The tires squealed when they hit the street, passed the garbage truck, and tore out of the cul-de-sac into the gray winter morning.
Chapter Seven
THERE WERE always places to find dirty jobs, if one knew where to look. Black hat work didn’t bother Adrienne much. As a geomancer, she didn’t mind getting her hands dirty—literally or figuratively.
Adrienne stood in the back of a dive bar, arms folded, watching the room. Her boots had stuck to the floor, littered with peanut shells. The bar displayed a selection of liquors illuminated by a television above the bar showing a basketball game. Perched on bar stools, playing pool, drinking in the shadows at booths, were buyers and sellers of services. Judging by the ramrod postures and buzzed haircuts, many of these men were current or ex-military in civilian dress. A few biker types in leathers and long hair mixed in, and there were no other women. Some of the faces were familiar, those of former employers. Adrienne came here when she was looking for work, and never stayed long.
She knew Tara was searching for the missing physicist, Magnusson. Odds were, if she was looking for him, more shadowy types were, as well. Adrienne knew she stood a better chance of finding Tara if she allied herself with someone looking for the same thing. Geomancy had taught her all lines of power, most ley lines, ultimately intersected. . . if one knew where to listen. And unknown to most humans, this place that the black hats gathered was an intersection point for these lines.
Adrienne reached into her pocket for a milk quartz pebble tumbled into the shape of a perfect marble. Tracing its labyrinthine occlusions with her eyes, she breathed her intent into it. Find me someone who can lead me to Tara Sheridan.
She knelt and set the marble on the floor. Giving it a nudge, she watched the marble roll a few feet from her. It wobbled and began to spiral, fanning outward as it wove behind the pool table, between feet, around chair legs. It spiraled more quickly, gaining speed as it traced its way through the peanut shells and cigarette butts. Finally, it came to rest against a polished black boot.
Adrienne straightened and strode toward the owner of the boots.
“You have a job for me.” It was a statement. Black hats never asked for jobs.
Gabriel drained his drink and set it down on the scarred table. He gestured to the empty seat opposite him. �
��Have a seat.”
Adrienne slid into the booth, placing both her hands on the table. She knew Gabriel from previous jobs. He liked to see people’s hands; it put him at ease. She waited for instructions.
Gabriel lit a cigar, gave it a couple of puffs before he began with his terms. “I’ve got a problem. I need you to track someone for me. The daughter of a scientist. She’s being protected by a couple of rogue operators. They also have some data I want.”
Gabriel shoved a grainy, folded-up photograph across the table. Many employers brought photos to black hat interviews. Some black hats were squeamish and superstitious, and would reject a target on sight, without explanation. Some wouldn’t work on assignments involving women or children. Adrienne knew one black hat who, for whatever reason, wouldn’t take out anyone who owned cats. Better to know at the interview than out in the field. “These are the operators.” A grainy surveillance photograph of some type showed what Adrienne assumed to be a military installation, bounded by a chain-link fence. The photograph captured a man and a woman standing outside the car. Adrienne didn’t know the crisp-suited Asian man, but she recognized Tara. Her quarry was looking off in the distance, a distracted expression on her face.
“This is the primary target.” He flipped down a photo of a young woman clipped from a college newspaper. She was standing in a crowd, holding a sign protesting global warming.
Adrienne smiled, but it did nothing to warm her cold eyes. “What are the terms?”
“Loose. First priority is the data. Having the girl taken alive is negotiable. I prefer the rogue operators to be rendered inactive. Time’s of the essence on this contract.”
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