He found himself mourning for his lost home and hating them all. Grenier moved away from the center of the room and took up a position against a bookcase. Resting his shoulders against the case, he watched the people swirling, clotting and breaking apart, like balls on a billiard table. Conversations flared and jumped from person to person without any connection or logic. He hoped Lumina wasn’t always this disorganized. Perhaps it was his arrival that had thrown them into such total disarray, and perversely the thought made him feel better.
“What is this sword?” the German woman was asking.
Pamela, referring to Sam, said, “Can’t somebody shut her up?” Grenier felt like he knew the sister. He’d studied her photo, her education, her cases in the public defender’s office in Newport, her boyfriends and lovers, in his effort to understand Richard and find the key to breaking him.
“Who are you?” Judge Oort was demanding of Syd.
“You will help her, right?” Syd was yelling into Richard’s left ear while Armandariz said into his right ear, “We need to redress your leg.”
Grenier studied the coroner curiously. He had never actually met the woman. Just nearly killed her when she came between Richard and one of my spells.
Richard waved Armandariz off. “It can wait. We need to deal with …” Richard put a hand in the center of Syd’s chest and pushed him back a step to get the former FBI agent out of his personal space. “What’s her name?” he asked, nodding at the whimpering Sam.
“Sam,” Syd provided.
“Samantha.” Pamela Oort seemed to be testing out the name.
“Yeah, but never call her that. She hates it. The whole Bewitched thing,” Syd babbled as he nervously patted his weeping daughter on the back.
Pamela sniffed and took herself off to sit on the piano bench.
Richard pulled the hilt out of the pocket of his bathrobe, swept his hand away from it, and the blade appeared. There was a flare of intense pain from Grenier’s stump as he remembered that blade shearing through his wrist. Rage and tears beat at the back of his throat.
As it was drawn, musical overtones went echoing away into infinity. Sam stopped crying, lifted her head from her father’s shoulder, and turned to face Richard. Richard said something to the young agent, but it was so low that Grenier couldn’t hear the words. Then Richard touched her lightly on the shoulder with the blade. She cried out, shivered, and would have collapsed to the floor except for her father’s supporting arms.
When Sam lifted her head from her father’s shoulders, her eyes were clear, her expression calm, if a little bit defensive. The tears were gone. The German woman who’d tried to commandeer a ride dropped into an armchair. She looked shell-shocked.
Grenier was surprised when Richard limped over to confront him. Grenier had pegged the young paladin as a person who avoided confrontation at all cost.
“Why are you here? What do you want?” There was nothing soft in the delivery, and Richard stared defiantly up at him.
“Sanctuary … since we’re in a medieval frame of mind,” Grenier said, with a gesture from the sword in Richard’s hand back toward Sam. “My former … associates take a dim view of failure.”
“What failure?” Richard asked. “You bound Kenntnis.” Bitterness lay over the words, but Grenier also heard the deeply buried fear and loss.
“Ah, yes, but I failed to deliver the sword. And in trying to deliver the sword I never got around to killing you.” The young man before him blanched. It wasn’t easy to hear someone so matter-of-factly discussing your death. “So, here I am. Throwing myself on your mercy because you’re the only person who can protect me. And if the milk of human kindness doesn’t work for you, you can try enlightened self-interest—you might find me useful.”
“Tough! Get the fuck out of here, and I hope they do kill you,” Armandariz said. Anger blazed in her brown eyes.
“Angela.” The way Richard said her name demanded silence.
The coroner subsided, and Grenier realized that the young man actually had a commanding presence, but seemed totally unaware of it.
“Taking him in makes a certain degree of sense,” the judge said in his dry, precise way from his position on the sofa. “But only if you can trust him. Do you think you can trust him, Richard?”
“Probably not, sir.” Richard turned back to Grenier. “Still he has knowledge and information that we need. I think we have to take the risk.”
The timid fawn look was back in the blue eyes, as if Richard were already second-guessing his decision. The coroner kept silent, but she still managed to make her feelings known. She threw her hands in the air and stalked away.
Across the room, Sam shook off her father’s embrace. “I’m fine. I’m fine now. Really.” Her tone and expression radiated embarrassed defiance.
The judge stood. “Richard needs to have that wound dressed again. Many of you have been traveling. We can reconvene after you’ve all had something to eat.”
The plan was met with universal approval. Grenier joined the move toward the arch separating dining room and living room. The judge caught him by the sleeve, holding him back.
“Your Honor, so good to see you again,” Grenier said.
The last time they had met, they had been in Grenier’s office at his compound and Grenier had been trying to kill the elder Oort with a series of magical spells. But the remark didn’t elicit a rise. The judge’s control was better than his son’s.
“I’ve had the chance to observe you over the years,” Oort said, referring to political events in Washington they had both attended. “My impression was that you were an opportunist. So I expect you can be trusted, at least until someone makes you a better offer. Just be aware that I will never let you accept that new offer.”
“A threat? Judge, I thought you were a great liberal defending the rule of law,” Grenier answered.
“You shattered those rules when you joined forces with those things. And on a very personal level—your people drove my wife to suicide. You imprisoned and tortured my son. I won’t allow you to betray us. Have I made myself clear?”
“Very.”
FIFTEEN
RICHARD
Lying on your stomach on a bed with your pajama bottoms pulled down to your knees makes you feel either naughty or vulnerable. Unfortunately, vulnerable was winning. My face was pressed into the pillow, and my hands gripped the corners of the pillowcase as Angela probed the wound. I hissed softly, and then her latex-sheathed fingers hit a particularly painful spot. I yelped, and bit the corner of the pillow to avoid any more embarrassing outbursts. The fabric tasted faintly of detergent, and my mouth was already Sahara dry from tension and pain. Chewing on a flannel pillowcase wasn’t helping.
Grenier.
I should have kept thinking about the taste of the pillow. Instead my mind went skipping back to Virginia. I could hear the spark as Grenier had brushed those stripped electrical wires together. My muscles tightened as if I were once again struggling against the thin cord that had bound me in that straight-backed chair. The cords had cut so deep that blood had trickled along the sides of my hands. Maybe in time I could have used the slick blood to help me worm out of the knots, but I had been distracted by the use the wires had been put to. Just the memory had my scrotum tightening, and my testicles trying to retreat deep into my belly.
And I’m letting him stay.
There was firm pressure as Angela pressed an antiseptic pad onto the hole left by the bullet’s exit. What was I doing allowing the man to stay, even temporarily? My brain began a schizophrenic argument.
But he’s worked among them. Served the Old Ones. He might be able to help.
But we’ve already nurtured one traitor. Rhiana had been planted on us. What if Grenier is the same?
But they wouldn’t try the same thing twice. They would know that the members of the Lumina would never fall for that again.
Oh really? You’re falling for it right now.
Self-doubt and seco
nd-guessing is the worst. It felt like a vise had been wrapped around my head and was slowly tightening.
“The sutures have cut into the edges of the skin,” Angela said, interrupting my whirling thoughts. Her hand slipped under my knee, and she applied the surgical tape over the dressing. There was the sucking, snapping sound of surgical gloves being stripped off; then a warm palm was laid on my buttocks. “Nice buns. It’s been a while since I’ve seen them.”
“Angela!” Thanks to her wandering hands, memories of the last time we’d been in a bedroom together came forcing their way into my thoughts. It had been so damn humiliating … a sexual disaster …
She bent down, putting her face on a level with mine. “You’ve got a respite until you recover, but after that …” She kissed me.
Her lips were soft and tasted of honey from the lip balm she wore, and I felt like I was drowning. Angela pulled back, looking alarmed. I realized I was gasping for breath.
“Somehow I don’t think this is passion,” she said. “Anxiety?” I managed a nod. I didn’t have enough air to speak. “I’ll write a prescription and send Estevan.”
The hammering of my heart filled my ears. I couldn’t wait for Estevan to drive to Walgreens and come back. I couldn’t breathe.
I was going to vomit. I caught her wrist and managed to say, “I’ve got something. Xanax. In a pillbox in the drawer.” I indicated the bedside table.
As she pulled out the silver and enamel box, I remembered the day my mother had bought it for me. The family was spending Christmas in Germany, skiing and enjoying the Old World celebrations. We had gone to Rothenburg to shop because the weather was so bad we couldn’t ski. Snow was swirling down the narrow, crooked cobblestone streets. Overhead, the upper stories of the medieval houses almost touched.
Many of the buildings had been converted into shops. It was in an antique store that we had seen the eighteenth-century snuffbox. The picture on the lid was of a man’s face. He wore a tricorn hat, a powdered wig, and a domino mask. The eyes behind the mask were made from two tiny sapphire chips. There was something in the smile that curved his lips, and the way the gem chips flashed, that I found fascinating. I wondered who he had been. If this had been his snuffbox. When I opened presents on Christmas, this had been wrapped as a birthday present. I had used it as a pill case ever since that fifteenth birthday.
The five-pointed white pills seemed to be rebuking me. Not all that long ago I was priding myself on resisting using the drug. But that was before Kenntnis was captured and all this got dumped on me.
I was suddenly afraid that Angela would read my anxiety as rejection. Of course it was, but I didn’t want her to know that, so I quickly said, “This isn’t about you kissing me.”
“I know that, it’s about you having to save the world. But my kissing you sure does kick over your neurosis.”
She was looking so hurt that I couldn’t help it. I closed my fingers tightly around her hand. Her skin was slightly slick from the residue of powder from the glove. “I’m sorry. Thank you for hanging in there with me. I know I’m a lot of trouble, but someday things will settle down and we’ll have a chance to really spend time together … figure things out.” It was an awkward conclusion and elicited the response it deserved.
“Yeah, like that’s going to happen anytime soon,” Angela said sourly.
SIXTEEN
“ In order to understand Richard, you really need to understand his relationship with his father.” The speaker was of medium height with graying brown hair and a neatly trimmed Elizabethan-style beard and mustache. He was handsome and very well dressed and had a clipped accent that reminded Rhiana of Richard.
Drew Sandringham sat on one side of the small table in the bar of the Beekman Tower Hotel. Rhiana and Jack sat across from him. Through the wide windows Rhiana had a view across Manhattan. The UN Building caught the light off the East River. Directly across and some ten floors down from their aerie, a woman in a housecoat wandered out the door of her condo and into the tiny rooftop garden. She was a doll-like figure.
“Oh?” Jack said in that encouraging tone that invites more comment.
“Of course it’s terrible pop psychology,” Sandringham said with a short laugh. “But in this case it is spot-on. Richard has spent his life trying to please Robert and win his approval, without, I might add, any notable success.”
The sun appeared to be impaled on the tops of the more distant skyscrapers. Out over the river the clouds were tinged pink, peach, and blue. The light of the setting sun turned concrete and glass into spikes of gold and crystal. It was all breathtakingly beautiful. Rhiana tried to reconcile her old life with the new. The new one had advantages. Money, luxury, power. It also had stress beyond belief. Maybe it was better when she just felt deprived and resentful. At least she could dream. Now she only seemed to have nightmares. Sandringham’s voice recalled her to her surroundings.
“Richard tends to form attachments with older men who can fill that father void. I know.” He gave them a flash of perfect white teeth, and with a forefinger traced the line of his perfect mustache.
“And you know this how?” Rhiana didn’t like the proprietary nature of the man’s smile.
“Richard worked for me for a few months after his return from the conservatory in Rome. He had a master’s in voice and piano, but he was a little old to start on the competition circuit, and his vocal auditions never yielded any roles. I’m sure some of that was his height. Tenors tend to be short, and female singers tend to be very, very large, and Richard is slight as well as short. I also think some of it was his insecurity. You need one hell of an ego to hold a stage for three-plus hours. Richard has always tried to be overlooked. Hard to do when he’s so very handsome.” Sandringham paused for a swallow of whiskey.
Rhiana wondered why Sandringham was talking so much. It seemed like an excess of information. Her drink arrived. Rhiana took a cautious sip.
“How do you like that one?” Jack asked.
“It’s good.” The nutmeg and cream damped down the sharp taste of the brandy. Rhiana had another sip.
They all waited until the waiter left the glass verandah.
“Anyway, Robert asked me to hire Richard as a favor to him. Robert and I were at Harvard together, and were close friends, so I was happy to oblige.”
“But he only lasted a few months?” Jack asked.
“Yes. Richard was a dead loss as a stockbroker.”
Jack and Rhiana’s research before this meeting had fleshed out the bare-bones information that Sandringham owned an investment firm. They now knew that it was a boutique firm with a list of very wealthy, very private clients, both foreign and American. They knew that Sandringham had divorced more than twenty years ago and never remarried. There were whispers that he was gay, but others they had spoken to attributed those rumors to spite and jealousy engendered by his success. Rhiana had wondered why this successful, well-connected man would ever agree to talk to them, but when Jack had said they had some questions regarding Richard Oort, the man had immediately suggested the Beekman Tower.
“Who got blamed for Richard’s failure? You or Richard?” Jack asked.
“Robert knew who to blame.” Was that the faintest hint of glee? Rhiana couldn’t really tell. Sandringham hurried on. “Not to say that Robert hasn’t been unfair at times.” Sandringham sighed and took another sip of his whiskey. “Still, it must be difficult being the longed-for son, and ending up such a disappointment. Fairly or not,” came the hurried addition.
“In what way?” Jack asked.
“Well, Richard’s been totally outstripped and eclipsed by his sisters. Amelia a surgeon, Pamela an attorney, and then there’s Richard … a cop. After all the opportunities Robert gave the boy.”
Rhiana was at a loss. The note in Grenier’s office had seemed to portend something, but there wasn’t anything here.
“Well, he’s left the girls in the dust now,” Jack said, weighting the words to give them significance. Rh
iana shot him a glance, wondering where he was going with this.
Sandringham arranged his features into an expression of polite inquiry. “Oh?”
“Yeah, he’s the head of Lumina Enterprises.”
Rhiana shouldn’t have been surprised that an investment broker would recognize the name. There was a flash of some indescribable emotion deep in Sandringham’s eyes. The businessman took a long swallow of Scotch.
“Well, that’s quite a lot to take in,” Sandringham said slowly.
“Yeah, little bastard,” Jack said softly. He leaned in across the small table. “Go on, you can say it.”
The man’s mouth worked for a few seconds; then he burst out, “This is unbelievable!” And the floodgates opened. “That little cocksucker threatened me … threatened me as if I were some kind of common criminal. And then talked, breaking a thirty-year friendship irretrievably. I’ll never forgive him.”
“What happened?” Jack asked. His voice was warm and inviting, exuding comfort and inviting trust.
Sandringham lowered his voice and took a quick glance around. The only other occupied table was across the verandah. “Richard and I were lovers.”
The words struck Rhiana hard. But he was attracted to me. I know he was. Rhiana remembered the time she had bandaged Richard’s burned hands. She had watched his cock stiffen, pressing against the zipper of his trousers. She had felt his quickening breaths brushing across her hair and cheek.
She had lost the thread of the conversation. When she started listening again Sandringham was saying, “… a dinner party for a couple of clients. Things got a little rough. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but Richard blamed me. He quit, and we haven’t spoken in four years. Not until he threatened me last month. Then a few weeks ago Robert called and told me he was taking his business elsewhere. He was so cold. When I pressed him to tell me why, he said what I’d done to Richard was unforgivable, and that we would not speak on this or any other matter ever again.” The man looked honestly hurt.
The Edge of Ruin Page 10