But you’ll slip and say it out loud sometime.
Stop it! Focus. Answer the question.
What was the question?
Are humans perfectible?
I got control of the cosmic kibitzers in my head, and thought back on the violence I’d witnessed in four years of police work. There was the toddler killed when his angry father had thrust a hose up his rectum and turned on the water as punishment for a full diaper. A woman beaten by her boyfriend until her face was just pulp, knifings at a party, drivers shooting each other because they got cut off in traffic. And beyond my small and petty personal experiences, there was all of history rolling out dark, and violent, and terrifying. There was the destruction of the Cathars. Auschwitz. Pol Pot’s killing fields. The body-choked rivers of Rwanda. I lay there unable to muster a single argument for why mankind deserved to survive, and I hated Cross for making me face how evil humans really were. Maybe we do deserve to be cattle for the Old Ones.
Then my eye was caught by the Impressionist paintings hanging on the walls to either side of the gigantic bed. Shimmering water, flowers in dreamlike colors, misty landscapes. Twining through my errant thoughts were the haunting strains of Il mio tesoro intanto from Mozart’s Don Giovanni, and then the music modulated in the final movement of Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto. I could almost feel the keys of the piano beneath my fingers.
Next I looked at the enormous LED television hanging on the far wall, and I thought about the scientists, inventors, engineers, and machinists who had created that wonder of technology. I remembered thunder shaking the ground and vibrating in my chest that time Papa had taken me to Cape Canaveral to witness a space shot. I had been nine. The ship lifting skyward on a pillar of fire had been blurry because of the tears that filled my eyes. All of these were testaments to mankind’s genius.
Is that enough?
Were art and music and technological prowess enough to offset the horror? Well, there was love and sacrifice and generosity that sometimes transcended the hatreds between people.
It wasn’t rational, but a certainty that all these things were enough to justify our existence filled me. The tension headache pounding in my temples eased.
“Yes. Yes, I do.” Cross must have heard that certainty in my voice, because he straightened in the chair and his eyes became human again. “Now get back out there. Walk on water. Turn water into wine. You may be a fraud, but at least you’re my fraud, and you’re a fraud that appeals to what’s best about people. Give them hope. Help them hang on. We need them and we need you.”
Cross stood and looked down at me. “You’re taking an awful risk. I’m one of the monsters. I just happen to be on your side … for now. If I feed and use magic, I get stronger. There’s a chance I’ll revert to my essential nature, and then you’re really fucked.”
“And I believe in your ability to grow and change, too.” We held a look for a long time. Then Cross nodded and walked from the room.
SIX
In the late afternoon the Round Robin Bar in the Willard Hotel was fairly subdued. The after-work rush of lobbyists, lawmakers, bureaucrats, lawyers, and hookers hadn’t yet arrived.
Rhiana paused just inside the door and surveyed the room. She knew it was a famous Washington, D.C., watering hole, and this was the place Jack Rendell had suggested after she’d called him and asked to meet, but she’d never been here before. It was pretty, with wide expanses of rich green watered-silk wallpaper bisected with narrow vertical wood panels. It smelled of aftershave and liquor and money.
Jack Rendell leaned on the circular mahogany bar, one foot resting on the brass rail. A wide-mouthed martini glass was held negligently between his fingers, and the light through the red glass stem stained his fingers like blood.
There were only a few patrons in the bar, all of them were male, and they all reacted to Rhiana’s entrance. The hem of her long black wool coat swung at her knees and brushed at the tops of the stiletto-heeled black boots worn over form-fitting pants. She finished off the ensemble with a cashmere sweater, and a scarf pinned on her shoulder with a large amethyst brooch. There was a rattle like dry leaves in a high wind as Wall Street Journals and Washington Posts were hurriedly lowered, and Rendell, sensing the tide of male attention flowing toward a single point, turned. The attention ebbed when it became apparent where Rhiana was heading.
“Hey,” Rendell said, saluting her with his glass.
“Hi.”
The young bartender hustled their way. His eyes were alight with interest and pleasure as he looked at Rhiana.
“Get you a drink, miss?”
“A Dubonnet on the rocks.”
Jack drained his martini and waved the glass at the bartender. “And I’ll take another.”
“So, how did things go with the archbishop?” Rhiana asked.
“He’s conferring with Rome. I expect we’ll get some action in a day or two.”
“Good.”
The bartender deposited the drink in front of her. She took a sip and couldn’t control the corners of her mouth.
Jack laughed. “You really are a baby, aren’t you? Would you rather have a Coke?”
Rhiana nodded and swallowed past the lump in her throat. She was feeling too depressed and humbled to respond with haughty rage to Jack’s familiarity. And she had asked him to meet her. The Coke arrived, and Rhiana gratefully cleared her tongue of the sharp alcohol taste.
“Why did you order it?” Jack asked. “The Dubonnet, I mean? It’s not a very common drink anymore.”
“My grandmother … adopted grandmother. She just loved Jackie Kennedy … all the Kennedys really. She talked all the time about how beautiful and sophisticated Jackie was, and how she drank Dubonnet on the rocks.”
Jack looked down at her, and some of the sharp calculation faded, replaced by a gentler emotion. “That’s kind of sweet. But stick with me, kid, and I’ll teach you how to drink.” He threw back his head and laughed. “That’s a hell of a trade. You teach me magic and I teach you how to booze.”
“Shhh. Not so loud,” Rhiana said.
Jack looked around the historic old bar. “Why not? All of this … this bullshit”—he swept an arm around—“is going to be gone soon.”
“Yeah, but we don’t want them waking up and panicking.”
“Really? I thought the whole point was panic. Well, never mind that. You called me, and I assume it wasn’t just for an update, since I’ve been reporting to your dad.”
Rhiana pulled the piece of notepaper from her handbag and laid it on the bar. Jack read the notation and quirked an eyebrow inquiringly at her. “I found this in Grenier’s office,” Rhiana explained. “Since Grenier thought this Sandringham guy was important, I think we need to find him, and I want you to help me.”
“That seems to be all I ever do for you guys. I find people for you,” Jack complained. “When do I ever get to be part of the big game?”
“When I do,” Rhiana said. “And before that can happen I have to capture Richard.” She laid a finger on Richard’s name where it was scrawled on the paper.
Her nail resembled a blood-tipped talon. Rhiana stared for a moment at the long acrylic nail. Thought about the optical illusion that had turned Jack’s fingers red. Thought about the news coverage of women and children trampled to death during a religious procession in Mexico when word had come that miraculous cures were happening inside the tiny shrine. Thought about the Druidic group that had decided to resurrect human sacrifice as a way to tap the power. The normally unflappable British had been shaken by that event. And these were isolated incidents. More would follow in frequency and intensity. She felt a moment of doubt, but when she weakened the bonds that held her physical body she could feel the power, flame-like, licking at the edges of thought and emotion. It was enthralling, heady, far more intoxicating than the Dubonnet she’d tried.
“Richard is this paladin, right?” Jack asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you know anything about �
�” Jack glanced back down at the paper. “Sandringham?”
“I did an internet search. He owns a boutique brokerage firm in New York.”
“So if you’ve already found him you don’t need me,” Jack said.
“I want you to go with me when I talk to him. There’s a connection to Richard. I just don’t know what it is.”
“Why me?”
“I’m young and a woman, so people don’t take me seriously.” Rhiana gave a humorless little smile. “At least not yet. But you’re a man. You’re famous, or at least infamous. People will talk to you.”
“Aren’t you the Queen of the Night, or the Princess of Air and Fire, or the King of Elfland’s Daughter, or some other damn thing? Take one of …” He hesitated and nervously licked his lips. “One of them with you. The guy will talk, trust me.”
Rhiana studied him and couldn’t control her amusement. “So, I guess you got a gander at my dad when he’s not in his human form.”
“And some others.” Jack drew a hand across an upper lip suddenly shining with sweat.
Rhiana shook her head. “I don’t want the Old Ones knowing what I’m doing until I’ve finished the job.”
“I don’t want to piss them off,” Jack said.
“If we succeed they’ll be very, very happy with me … and anyone who helped me.”
“What if we don’t succeed?”
“I’ll take all the blame,” Rhiana said.
“Yeah, like I can take that to the bank,” Jack said.
“I trust you,” Rhiana said simply.
“Why?” Jack asked.
“Because you’re smart enough not to totally trust the Old Ones. Because I have something you want, and because you’re the only human I know who doesn’t hate me.”
The words just came tumbling out. Rhiana gasped, lifted a hand to her mouth. Her stomach clenched down tight, and her mind began whirling, playing the “I didn’t say it. Why did I say that? What if I’d said something else?” game. She wanted to cry.
He missed the center of the cocktail coaster. The martini glass teetered between cork and wood, then fell. Rhiana watched the tendrils of gin catch the light. Small rainbows raced across the top of the bar.
It was Jack’s arms sliding gently around her shoulders that brought her back. “Why not? I like New York. Maybe we can catch a show.”
SEVEN
“You must have some protein.” Pamela followed her father’s voice into the big granite and steel kitchen.
The judge was seated next to Richard in the bay window breakfast nook, and pushing a plate closer to her brother. Richard looked ghastly. His hair was tousled and dark circles hung under his eyes and he had gone beyond white to gray.
“I’ll throw up,” Richard said and looked up as Pamela entered.
She laid the letter down on the table next to his elbow. “I got this ready for you.” She watched as his eyes flicked across the brief and terse lines of text. She knew it by heart.
Dear Sir,
This letter is to inform you of my decision to tender my resignation from the Albuquerque Police Department, effective immediately.
Richard N. Oort
When he looked up at her, she almost took a step back at the bitter fury that twisted his face. “We haven’t discussed this. I would prefer to wait until the inquiry is over and I’ve been cleared.”
Their father didn’t respond. He just pulled out a pen and held it out to Richard. There was a look of desperate pleading on her brother’s face, but he lowered his lashes, veiling his eyes, and his face was suddenly as cold and as expressionless as a statue’s. Pamela stiffened; when Richard closed down, there was usually something going on behind the frozen facade. But there was no way he could get out of this. She had made damn sure of that. He took the pen and signed his name.
“It’s customary, is it not, to turn in the badge and the gun?” Pamela asked. “Where are they?”
He stared at her, struggled to his feet, and pulled the pistol out of the pocket of his royal blue bathrobe.
“That’s just pathetic,” she said as she took the gun. The metal was cold and heavy against her palm. “The badge?”
He grabbed up his crutches and swung out of the kitchen. Pamela followed him across the living room, down the hall, and into the master suite. He hobbled into the enormous walk-in closet. His bare heels were a flash of white in the gloom of that vast space. They moved past mahogany shoe racks, sock drawers, cedar-lined sweater drawers, and electric tie holders.
Pamela had always thought Richard had a lot of clothes, but his wardrobe barely made an impression in the closet. In fact, his suits looked like huddled little men overawed by their surroundings. He moved to where a line of sports jackets hung. One was hanging apart, and Pamela suddenly realized the dark stains on the navy blazer were dried blood. It was mesmerizing and horrifying, and she just kept staring at it as Richard dug into the inside breast pocket. He threw a leather wallet toward her, and the badge flashed gold as the top flap fell back. It was petty of him to do that. She wasn’t all that coordinated, and he knew it. Sure enough, the wallet grazed her fingers, she grabbed for it with a spastic, jerky motion, and it hit the floor at her feet.
“There. Happy now?” he asked.
She picked it up, glared at him, and then forced her glare a smile. “Ecstatic.” She gestured at the coat. “Why are you keeping that thing? It’s disgusting.”
“Maybe to remember.”
“Remember what?”
“What I used to be. What it meant to me. The difference I made.”
“Oh, please, don’t be so dramatic. It was just a job.”
EIGHT
RICHARD
Pamela left with my life tucked away in a cloth tote bag. My father got me settled in a recliner with the rolling computer desk and laptop close to hand, a stack of reports about the various subsidiary companies Lumina owed, and a glass of milk. The hum of the elevator faded away. I gave it a few more minutes just to be on the safe side, then grabbed my crutches and headed back to the bedroom.
Pain raced up and down my thigh each time I planted the crutches and swung through. Gritting my teeth against it, I wished I’d grabbed the cell phone out of the coat pocket. But Pamela would have asked why I needed it, and I wouldn’t have had an answer she would have believed. She’d always been suspicious of me. Probably with good reason.
And I’d always disliked her. With good reason. Memories from childhood went stuttering through my head—Pamela humiliating me when I was seven by telling a table full of guests that I sang along whenever I watched Mary Poppins. Pamela, pompous at twelve, declaring that she had thrown away my Transformers because they were silly. I had raced to the curb and pushed over the garbage cans, but the truck had already gone by.
It was gross having to touch the coat again. It probably couldn’t be salvaged. I just needed to throw it away. But it was my only navy blazer. I cringed on behalf of my credit cards as I considered buying another one. Then the phone was in hand, and I stopped worrying about clothes. What I was about to do would really give me something to worry about. But only if they found out. I really should have the courage to just discuss this with my father. My thumb depressed the speed dial button.
He picked up on the second ring. “Weber.”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Hey, Rhode Island, how you doing?”
“Crappy. It hurts.”
“Yeah, but consider the alternative. Hey, we got the shooter in the Mora case,” Weber added.
I recalled the facts of the case—Edward Mora, age fifteen, dead on New Year’s Eve after a street drag race went bad. His mother had been nearly mad with grief. “Oh, good. Have you told Mrs. Mora?”
“Yeah, and she turned up at booking with an antique cannon of a pistol ready to kill the perp.”
“Oh, shoot.”
“Fortunately not. I called in a psych team, and they took her off for observation.” My phone gave a faint beep.
“Da
mn, my battery’s running down. Let me get to the point. My sister’s going to be turning up with a letter of resignation, my gun, and my badge.”
“Shit.” There was a pause; then he said, “Well, maybe that’s for the best … considering … everything.”
“I want you to throw away the letter and bring me back my stuff.”
“Your father is going to fucking kill you.”
“Only if he finds out, and if he does I can always blame you for intercepting it.”
“Gee, thanks, you’re a real pal. But why?”
“Because in a weird way being a cop gives me some cred I wouldn’t have otherwise. People will be less likely to think I’m a nut.”
“What are you planning?”
“I haven’t gotten as far as a plan. I’m just thinking right now. But I want my badge, and I especially want my gun. They’re going to try again.”
“You’ve got security.”
“Would you depend on that alone?”
“Hell, no.”
“I rest my case.”
There was silence for a long moment. The phone bleeped again. I propped my shoulder against the full-length mirror at the back of the closet. I needed to get off my feet soon.
“Okay, I’ll do it. If for no other reason than it will really piss off your sister.” We shared a laugh.
“I’ve got to go.”
I hung up, and that’s when I noticed the message icon on the screen. I called the voice mail center and waited through the female robot’s announcement of “one call, received on January seventh at 1:55 P.M.” I had been in the kitchen of the Quincy house. The memory brought back the phantom smell of blood, and a sticky feeling on the back of my head.
“Richard,” came Rhiana’s voice. She sounded frightened; she was almost whispering.
The sound of her voice sent me swinging wildly between conflicting emotions. Regret that I hadn’t handled her better, fury over her betrayal, guilt that my behavior had led to the betrayal, and way down deep, the faint coil of attraction and arousal.
“Richard,” she said again, as if repeating my name forged a link. “They’ve got someone to kill you. Someone in Albuquerque. I don’t want you dead. Be careful.”
The Edge of Ruin Page 6