Ari came back upstairs soaked with sweat but in a better frame of mind. While he took a shower, I kept my TWIXT communicator handy. Spare14 never called. Ari turned sullen.
“What’s so wrong?” I said. “I don’t get why you’re so worried.”
“I’m not worried. I merely want my chance to bring the Axeman in. That incident on Three, when he just walked away from us!” Ari growled and slammed his right fist into his left palm.
“Ah. You want revenge.”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
I considered. “Not really. I want the job done right, but that’s different.”
“True.” Ari took a deep breath. “It’s a better way of looking at it. I need to find some sort of distraction.” All at once he grinned. “But one that leaves my hands free to answer the phone should it ring.”
That evening the distraction arrived when Dad, Michael, and a six-pack came to our flat after dinner. They wanted to discuss the new gate that Dad was planning on building with Mike’s help.
“If I can show them that I’m capable of it,” Dad said. “The Guild will finance buying a building to hold the gate to Six.”
“You can do this, can’t you?” Ari said.
“Of course.” Dad shot him a sour glance. “Or I’d never have offered, would I?”
“All right. Has Nola warned you about the terrorist group operating on Six?”
Dad’s eyebrows shot up. Ari delivered the warning at some length. When he finished, Dad considered for a few minutes.
“We’ll stay out of the likely target areas,” Dad said. “And don’t forget, Mike and I can walk fast. Tell me something. How different is San Francisco Six from here?”
“Not very,” I said, “as far as I can see. Oh, and another thing about the terrorists. The authorities there are taking steps to protect the city now. They know how real the danger is.”
“True,” Ari put in. “I can ask a higher-up for a report on what measures have been put in place, and what’s been planned for the future.”
Dad and Michael stayed for a good hour, discussing gates and possible sites. As they were leaving, I escorted them down to the front door to have a private word. I told Dad that I’d spoken with Maureen and described what I had in mind
“You know about the terrorist threat now,” I said. “We’ll have to take that into account before anything can happen.”
“True enough, darling.” Dad thought for a moment. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I think we need to keep it in mind. When I was inside, I met a man who’d killed his wife and children for trying to leave him. He stalked them for three years before he got his chance.”
“Three—oh, God!”
“Indeed. He bragged about the whole thing. Said he would have kept at it if it had taken him ten years.”
“Did they eventually hang him?”
“Oh, yes, but because he killed the children. The wife? The jury called that second-degree murder because it was a crime of passion.” He shook himself as if he could throw the memory off. “Safety’s a relative thing. Chuck may be a worse danger than these bastards on Six. Well, I’ll talk to Maureen before we make up our minds.”
I locked the door behind them, then sat on the steps to call Maureen myself. I wanted to make sure she never mentioned my abortion around our father. She agreed that the effect of doing so would be spectacular—spectacularly awful, that is.
“Don’t worry, I won’t say a word,” she said. “He’s never going to change his mind about some things, and that’s one of them.”
“What about Sean and Al?”
“That’s probably another sticking point, yeah. But I think we might have a little leeway there. Maybe.”
“I’m not going to push it.”
I heard footsteps above and behind me and looked over my shoulder. A glowering Ari had come halfway down the stairs.
“I’ve got to go,” I told Maureen. “Unless you want to talk with Ari about your Unpleasant Ex?”
“I do have one quick question, now that you mention it. Can you just hand him your phone?”
I got up and did so, and the glower disappeared. I heard him say, “I think Jack’s right. Daylight should be safe enough as long as you don’t go out of the family compound.” He gave me the phone back, but he waited on the stairs with me until I finished saying good-bye.
We returned to the living room. “Family compound?” I said.
“That’s what Jack and Kathleen’s property amounts to,” Ari said. “A protected area. In the Middle East there’d be a concrete wall around it. Too bad there isn’t one here.”
“I can’t imagine living inside walls like that.”
Ari shrugged the comment off. “The kids want to go swimming,” he said. “Staying inside even with pets to play with is hard on them. I remember the pool as being far enough from the fence for safety’s sake.”
“Good. You’re the one who knows about guns and stuff.”
“And stuff.” He smiled briefly. “The thing is, Chuck has a rifle with a long range, but he won’t be able to carry that openly in San Anselmo. You can’t hide a long gun in broad daylight. Now, unfortunately, he has a handgun, too, but—”
“They analyzed the bullets, huh?” I interrupted him. “From the engagement party, I mean, if they know he used a handgun.”
“I knew it already from the sound of the shots. At any rate, if he tries to use the handgun over at Jack’s, he won’t be able to get close enough to the target for effective range.”
The target. My sister. Ari put an arm around my shoulder and gave me a reassuring squeeze. It helped, but not enough. I reminded myself that Dad had taken charge of the problem. Dad takes charge every chance he gets, actually, whether you want him to or not. In this case, I was glad of it, because Ari and I had a target of our own, and we needed to return to the hunt.
It wasn’t until the next day, however, that we received the signal that the hunt was on. Spare14 called around three in the afternoon. Yes, Wagner would cooperate.
“In fact,” Spare 14 said, “he seems quite eager to help get the Axeman out of SanFran.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said.
“No more than I. Now, Rasmussen’s turned out to be a good fit for the Wagner nephew role,” Spare14 continued. “His cover story is that he’s come from the Central Valley to help his ailing uncle.”
“What about his status?” Ari said. “Can he play an active role in the sting?”
“Oh, yes. Kerenskya—you remember her, I think, the liaison captain on Three? She’s got his status upgraded from clerk to agent recruit.”
“Excellent! When do they bait the trap?”
“Soon. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear.”
Ari and I waited another hour before we heard the next installment. After Hendriks and Wagner drafted a note, Rasmussen took it over to the Octagon Brothel and delivered it with no trouble. Now that he’d introduced himself there, he’d be recognized and accepted when the Axeman or his messenger saw him behind the counter of the bookstore.
“The sting’s set up for tomorrow around noon,” Ari told me. “It’s possible that the Axeman will send someone else to pick up the orbs. If so, we’ll leave immediately for the Diana statue to stake out the gate there.”
“It sounds like you’ve got things covered.”
“Let’s hope. It’s entirely too easy for something to go wrong in this sort of operation.” He smiled at a sudden cheerful thought. “Even if it does, the Axeman will still be trapped on Three.”
I waited for some Negative Psychic Input, what used to be called a bad omen. None came, but, as I reminded myself, omens aren’t the most reliable forecasting tool.
We arrived back in South Park 3.0 on Interchange early the next morning. We stood in a clump of concealing trees while I cleared a space for my mind. Once I had psychic room to operate, I ran scans—no immediate danger. When I did an SM: Location for Wagner’s bookstore, I did pick up a hard-to-read thre
at nearby. I tried to zero in with an SM: Personnel and got a result that was clearer but not conclusive.
“Someone’s watching the place,” I told Ari. “I can’t be sure who or why.”
“It won’t be anyone on our team.” Ari took out his communicator. “Let me call Hendriks.”
While he called, I ran scans for our present location. We were in no more danger than was usual for a place swirling with radioactive dust and crawling with criminal gangs. I’d just finished when Ari put the communicator away.
“Let’s go,” Ari said. “Rasmussen stayed overnight at the bookshop last night, so he’s inside. Hendriks will drive down and park a few blocks uphill. I’ll explain the plan as we walk up to Market. We’ll take the streetcar to Turk.”
Our trip over went smoothly. We got off the streetcar and walked about half a block to a narrow alley just up from Market, where we lingered behind some garbage cans. Ari stood behind me with his back to me and made calls with the communicator while I did my best imitation of a sleepy hooker waiting for her pimp to finish pissing against the wall. A couple of men passed the alley mouth but never gave us a second glance. We left the alley and started up Turk toward the bookstore. I saw a woman walking along ahead of us with a market basket over one arm and a couple of kids trailing after her. They turned at the corner and trudged uphill on the cross street. Otherwise the sidewalks were empty. SanFran’s not a town for early risers.
“All in order,” Ari said. “Hendriks is on his way down. Rasmussen’s coming outside with a broom to start sweeping the sidewalk. Can you pinpoint the threat?”
“Yeah.” I paused to let my mind roam up the street ahead of us. “Guy across the street from the store.”
When we’d walked about half a block farther, I smelled cooking grease, or to be precise, my talent activated neurons and made them believe that my nose smelled cooking grease.
“Guy in a doorway next to some kind of diner,” I said.
We strolled a little more slowly up to the corner. I could see Wagner’s store about halfway up the next block. Rasmussen came out with a broom in hand and began sweeping the night’s detritus into the gutter. He wore beat-up jeans and a torn T-shirt consistent with his role as Wagner’s nephew. When I ran a quick scan, I became aware of Hendriks’ presence nearby, just around the farther corner, maybe.
I brought my attention back to our location and saw a sign advertising a “Fry Shop” across the street from and a bit closer to Market than the bookstore. Next to it, a two-story building advertised “Rooms.” In the sheltered entranceway, a tall guy in jeans, a gray shirt, and a Giants cap sat on the stairs drinking from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. He leaned against the stair behind him and muttered now and then as if he were sloppy drunk. I didn’t buy it in the least.
“That’s him,” I said.
“Wait here.”
I found a relatively clean wall to lean against and looked hooker-ish. Ari crossed the street, strolled up the block, and whistled, one sharp note. I started running in his direction. Rasmussen dropped the broom and darted across the street. Ari grabbed the spy by the shirt, hauled him up, and slammed him so hard against the wall that he dropped the bottle. He yelped and made a feeble slap at Ari’s face. Ari ducked under and punched up from below. He hit the guy on the point of the chin just as Rasmussen reached them. The kid caught the spy under the arms as he crumpled and began to fall. Ari stooped and grabbed his legs.
I ran to the bookstore and opened the door as Ari and Rasmussen carried the unconscious man across the street at a jog. We all hurried inside just as Hendriks ran down the block to join us. I shut the door and locked it while Ari and Rasmussen hauled their prey into the back room.
“Plenty of rope back there,” Jan remarked. “I made sure of that last night.”
“You never know when you’re going to need a nice bit of rope.”
Jan tilted his head and looked at me narrow-eyed.
“Never mind,” I said. “A quote from a work of literature.”
We made our way to the back of the store just as Ari came out of Mitch’s living quarters. He stood behind the counter and rubbed his knuckles. I judged from the look on his face that they really hurt.
“Does Mitch have any of that aspirin left?” I said.
“He needs it more than I do,” Ari said.
“What’s going to happen,” Rasmussen asked, “when the Axeman gets here and his stakeout guy is gone?”
“He’ll think the worst of the stakeout guy, I assume,” Ari answered. “Or he’ll get the wind up and won’t come in. I suspect, however, that he needs the orbs badly enough to risk it.”
“I agree,” Jan said. “Well, we’ll find out. Now we wait.”
While we did, I went into the back room. Wagner was sitting in his armchair, feet up on a carton of books for a hassock. His face had gone from red and swollen to slightly less swollen and purple, with black bruises here and there in the shape of gun barrels. He raised a feeble hand and waved. Beyond him on the floor lay the bound and gagged stakeout guy. He’d come round, and his dark eyes darted this way and that in impotent fury. I carried my shoulder bag past them both and went into the tiny bathroom.
I’d brought makeup with me and a slutty black top to wear with my tight jeans so I could pose as Rasmussen’s girlfriend. During the sting I needed to be in the store itself to keep running scans, particularly of the Axeman and whoever else came with him to buy the orbs. The last time I’d disguised myself in SanFran I’d made my skin look darker. This time I used a very pale foundation, black mascara, green eye shadow, and dark red lipstick, all of which together gave me a Goth vampire look. Since the sleeveless top had a deep V-neck that meant going braless, I made sure I carried the pale foundation all the way down my neck and into the cleavage. I’d brought bubble gum with me for a final addition to the persona.
When I returned to the store counter, Rasmussen grinned at me and winked. The guy had a certain charm. When Ari glared at him, he wiped the smile off his face fast. Ari turned the glare on me.
“Well,” I said to Ari, “I don’t look like a government agent, do I?”
“No,” Ari said. “That’s certainly true.” He sighed with what I considered unnecessary drama.
I popped my gum at him and wandered off to check out the heaps and stacks of books. To pass the time, I idly searched for books that authors we knew on Four had never written. The vast majority of Wagner’s stock, however, had been published before the Great Disaster and thus pretty much corresponded to the literary history of Four. I did find some books of serious journalism—Sacramento Betrayal and Central Valley Poverty—by one of the most incongruous doppelgängers ever, Elinor Glyn. When I showed them to Ari, he bought them for the TWIXT archives.
I’d just washed my hands of the dust and cobwebs I’d picked up in my search when a car drove up and parked in front of the store. A real car, not a patchwork, it looked to be a vintage 1920s box on wheels, a shiny dove gray with spotless tan fenders and running boards. Ari and Jan rushed into the back room. I draped myself onto a stool behind the counter as Rasmussen trotted forward to unlock the door. I could make out a man in a gray chauffeur’s uniform on the other side of the glass.
“We’re closed today.” Rasmussen opened the door about a foot. “Uncle’s sick.”
“My employer’s come to pick up her magazines,” the fellow said.
“Okay. Come on in.” Rasmussen stepped back and opened the door wide.
Her magazines? I ran a quick scan, but the only danger I sensed was vague and tentative, the whisper that something might go wrong rather than that something had. I ran a quick SM: Location on the car. Only one person sat inside, a woman.
Out on the street another man in a gray uniform opened the back door of the magnificent car. Draped in a pale blue duster, the woman emerged and stepped from the running board onto the sidewalk. The fellow holding the car door closed it behind her and followed as she hurried into the store. Both chauffeur t
ypes entered with her, and I noticed that they both wore shoulder holsters under their jackets.
I was seeing Madame Karina herself, I figured, a tall woman for Interchange since she was about my height, 5’8”, and one who must have been lovely in her youth. I pegged her at about fifty, a SanFran lifer. She’d dyed her long hair purple and wore it swept back from her face with a pair of diamond-studded combs. I knew that color—burgundy wine mixed with henna—and she’d done her eyebrows to match. She walked up to the counter, glanced at Rasmussen, and considered me with icy blue eyes.
“You are?” she said.
“My girlfriend, ma’am,” Rasmussen said. “She’s been cooking for me and Uncle Mitch.”
“Ah.” Karina considered me. “Looking for work, girl? I’ve got a few clients who like your type. Skinny and tough-looking. They’d enjoy taming you, if you know what I mean.”
“Hey!” Rasmussen snapped.
Karina ignored him and smiled at me. “You’d have to learn how to use makeup right, but we’re talking real money.”
I felt like a mouse, smiled at by a snake right before the big gulp.
“No, thanks, ma’am,” I said. “My dad would beat me black and blue.” I jerked my thumb in Rasmussen’s direction. “Well, if Dave didn’t do it first.”
She started to speak, but hesitated, caught by an honest grief that had nothing to do with me. She suppressed the emotion with another snake’s smile. “I’m glad you’ve got a father who cares about his daughter,” she said. “Unlike some I know. Okay. Have those orbs come in?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rasmussen said. “We found you two. But I gotta warn you. They ain’t gonna work just anywhere. The guy we got’em from, he says you gotta use’em at a gate.”
“Huh!” Karina snorted. “So that lousy rat was telling me the truth, was he? I’m shocked!”
I figured the lousy rat was the Axeman, who’d doubtless tried to explain why he couldn’t just return to Six at her order.
“Ma’am,” I said. “Do you know where a gate is?”
“That statue out in old Sutro’s garden, right?”
“Right. I just wanted to make sure you knew. We want you to be happy with the stuff we sell.”
Love on the Run Page 28