by Steve Vera
Noah was unfazed.
“Try and understand,” she said patiently, though her eyes were metal. “The very fact that you have even looked at the cover of this book signifies more than you can possibly understand. I have shared with you, so now I expect you to reciprocate.”
Her posture remained calm and erect, but he could almost see the field of tension building around her like static electricity. It was within his rights to slap some cuffs on her—don’t go there, Skippy—and squeeze every drop of info from her cute little upturned face, but there was an element of menace in the slight tilt of her head. Skip was utterly charmed by it.
“Okay. I’ll play. The kid had a scar across his neck,” Skip began. “It went ear to ear as if someone had slit his throat.”
Noah leaned forward. “I’m listening.”
“He was young, maybe twenty, ridiculous good looks, and he was wearing red sunglasses in the middle of the night.”
Skip watched Noah as he spoke. Nothing. Note to self: do not play poker against this woman. “What else?”
Skip stretched out the silence. “Long hair, blond, raspy voice and oh, I have a picture,” he offered as if in afterthought.
Noah’s eyes lit up. Bingo. “What? I must see it!”
“Sure, just as soon as you tell me what’s going on.”
She soured. “Chief Walkins, it would be better if you did not involve yourself.”
“Oh yeah?” Skip unbuttoned his shirt, more gingerly than he would have preferred, revealing the blood-soaked bandages beneath. “I’ve got seventeen stitches and two cracked ribs that say otherwise, so I’m already involved. You don’t tell me what I wanna know and I’ll arrest your ass.”
Her eyes blinked rapidly and then went robotic. “I cannot. I’m bound by oath.”
“You better get unbound then.”
“Impossible.”
“And why the hell not?”
Axel Rose crooned from his cell phone resting on top of the coffee table. She glanced down at it as he picked it up.
“Pasta-boy?” she asked, her left brow rising.
“I gotta take this,” he said, standing. Too quickly. Just when things were getting interesting. “Tell me something good, Frankie,” he said after he hit accept.
“You sure know how to pick ’em, Skip.”
“Why’s that?”
“Let’s just say your boy is quite known in the greater Los Angeles police system.”
“Oh yeah?”
“There’s a lot here.”
“Just give me the bullets.” He glanced at Noah. She didn’t fool him one bit. Though her attention was on the flames of his fireplace, she was listening to every word. “Hold on, Frankie.” To her. “Noah, make yourself at home, I’ll be right back. And no…crazy business.”
She stared at him as if he was the idiot who speaks too loud with headphones on.
“There’s beer in the fridge,” he added and backed into his bedroom. He shut the door. “Talk to me.”
“Who was that?” Frank asked.
“A girl.”
“Oh yeah?” Frank asked, momentarily distracted.
Skip was not. “Yep. Hot little ticket, too. Now, what did you find out?”
“All right, the kid’s name is Donovan Smith.”
“Donovan Smith, huh?” he said, tasting the words. They didn’t taste right. “Go on.”
“Well.” Frank hesitated. “Evidently, about five years ago Mr. Smith got himself killed.”
“Come again?”
“Pronounced dead for thirty-seven minutes. Some disagreement with a now-disbanded set trying to make a name for themselves in North Hollywood. You’re gonna love this,” Frankie said. “Shot five times, stabbed—wait for it—twenty-six fucking times and had his throat slit. All at the ripe old age of fifteen.”
“What the— Geez, no wonder he’s so pissed off.”
“Skip, I got a book here. Where’d you find this guy?”
Skip stared at a three strands of a spiderweb beginning to form in the east corner of his ceiling. “Bullets, Frankie, bullets.”
“You’re such a pain in the ass. Fine. Says here he was found when he was about five years old, wandering Santa Monica Boulevard ‘adorned in clothing fashioned of leaves and twigs.’ I’m not making this up.”
“Leaves and twigs?”
“There’s a picture too. Not too shabby, considering.”
“Fax it.”
Skip cocked his head and looked at the door. He sensed Noah listening. He opened it suddenly. Noah was exactly where he’d left her, gazing at the fire. She rotated her head slowly toward him like a cyborg. Weird. Hot, but weird. Skip smiled and held up his index finger. Two minutes, he mouthed and then shut the door. He turned on his television for sound camouflage. “All right, keep going. Leaves and twigs—what else?”
“No family, no identity and complete amnesia from before he was found. Bounced around foster homes until he was seven, got adopted by state congressman Charlie McKennar of California, arrested for…” Skip heard pages rustling. “Fighting, fighting, disturbing the peace and…seventeen counts of murder.”
If Skip had been drinking a glass of milk, it would have shot out of his nostrils. “Say what?”
“I know, I checked it three times,” Frank said. “Not only did that set fillet him, they wiped out the congressman’s family. And his girlfriend. And his girlfriend’s family. These guys were brutal.”
“Ho-lee shit, I remember that on the news.”
“Yup.”
“Lemme guess, seventeen murders of a now-disbanded gang.”
“Every single one of them.” Frank cleared his throat. “Gruesome too. This guy don’t like to lose, Skippy.”
“Any convictions?”
“Not a one. The DA couldn’t find a single witness, and those who could, refused. Not one shred of forensic evidence either. Which makes me think there was some bullshit involved.” Made sense. Sounded as if Donovan had done the dirty work for the congressman.
Skip found the maker of the spider web lurking in the crease where the wall met the ceiling. I see you. “Anything else?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s the big stuff.”
For the first time Skip suspected Frankie was lying. Or at least fibbing. “You sure?”
“Well, if you must know, the rest is classified.”
“What?” Skip barked into the phone.
“Look—” There was an edge in Frankie’s voice that hadn’t been there before. “My ass is gonna be in a sling as it is if this gets out. I’m not about to commit a felony too.” A pause. “I think a thank you is in order.”
“Yeah,” Skip said, deflated. “Thanks, Frankie. Scratch another one.” Praying he wasn’t making a mistake, Skip decided to press his luck. “You sure there’s nothing else you can give me?”
“You ungrateful pig.”
Skip let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and winced. His chest hurt as if it had been painted with magma lacquer.
“Actually, there is one other thing.”
Skip’s pain subsided. “What’s that?”
“The report says that he had some kind of metal fused to his chest. Unknown element. Nobody could figure it out.”
Skip rubbed his eyes and remembered the vapor-light coming off the kid’s chest.
And he’d thought he’d left all his adventure days behind him in the city.
“I gotta run, Skippy. I know it’ll fall on deaf ears, but be careful, for crying out loud.”
“Yeah-hmm.” Skip had all but signed off verbally, lost in thought.
“And when this is all ov
er, I expect an explanation.”
“I promise. Thanks again, Frankie. I mean it.”
“The clock starts now.” Frankie hung up without so much as a “you’re welcome.”
Skip leaned against the wall, digesting the data overload he’d just devoured. He glanced at his nightstand. His Rolling “Crick,” Montana Chief of Police badge appraised him in silence. His ribs ached. He sighed.
He reached past the badge and grabbed his Python, checking the cylinder to confirm it was loaded—it was—and holstered it. He then took the photograph of Mr. Smith he’d quickly hidden in his desk drawer, slid it into a large yellow envelope and sealed it by pressing down two bendable metal prongs. He then found his Cambridge leather Padfolio, unzipped it and tucked the yellow envelope inside.
The last thing he grabbed was his Rolling Creek Chief of Police Badge, shined it on his shirt, winced at his stitches and sheathed it over his belt in plain view.
He walked out of the room.
Noah looked up.
“Time to unbind you from your oath.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Will there be anything else, sir?” the barista asked, voice cracking in mid-question.
Donovan noted the pungent odor of her sudden sweat. Tuna fish and cumin. “That will be all,” he replied from behind his sunglasses.
She squirmed under the pressure of his stare, looking anywhere but his face. Inevitably, her attention settled on his scar. He hated that. She seemed to sense this and looked at the only place remaining—down. He stared a moment longer and when he was satisfied that she was thoroughly cowed, he turned around. The people in line instinctively gave him wide berth as he walked away with his coffee in hand and took a seat by the window.
The Whisperer was close. As it neared its destination it flew harder and faster. He would have preferred to interrogate Amanda last night—these kinds of visits were best if not rushed—but Amanda kept a turbulent schedule. Busy little bee.
But she was alone now.
Standing in line, waiting for her order, she slipped somewhere vacant and deep. Donovan watched her, envying her refuge. She had a good soul, strong vibrant lazuli splashed with royal gold. Her outer bands however, sparked maroon and sapphire—pain and sadness. And a touch of scarlet anger.
“Venti Café Mocha breve with extra whipped cream,” the barista announced.
Amanda snapped back to the present. With a nod and a tight smile she took the cup, slid on a coffee sheath and sat two tables down from Donovan, scattering her bangs with a full-bodied sigh.
Striking as he was, Donovan could be quite invisible when he wanted to be. Dimming his colors, he became little more than occupied space, like an F-117 Stealth Fighter on an enemy radar. Of all the talents he possessed, this one brought him the most pleasure. There was something godlike in watching people up close and personal when they didn’t know they were being observed. Even if from mere feet away. Donovan liked that feeling, even more so now that he could enjoy it.
Savor it.
He contently sipped at his coffee. Thumbed through the book he’d picked out, On War by Carl Von Clausewitz, and settled on page 228. He’d already memorized the text long ago, but conjuring a memory of passage was different than absorbing it directly. His fingers floated down the page and onto one his favorite passages, a sentence as intimate to Donovan as the beating of his own heart.
The direct annihilation of the enemy’s forces must always be the dominant consideration.
Almost there, Mr. Clausewitz. By default, if these people had indeed imprisoned the Whisperer they would have information on its weaknesses, its identity. And they would share it. Perhaps they might even know about Donovan and where he came from as well. That would be a bonus. Lemonade. To actually know who he was, where he was from…what it was buried in his chest.
Yes. They would share all they knew.
Amanda glanced his way and flinched, sloshing her mocha onto her wrist. What was this? She saw him? Donovan watched in amusement as she jumped in her seat, her eyes trained on him a full moment before finally looking down to wipe her wrist against her jean-clad thigh, cursing quietly. Not easily cowed, this one. He liked that.
He took a sip of his own coffee, unfazed by its molten nature, and studied her. He didn’t give a damn about her honey-brown hair or her height or attractiveness. There was something in her bearing that distinguished her from the average student. She possessed depth; the hues of her colors were rich and vibrant, hardly a flicker, indicating unusual strength and steadiness. Heart. He was intrigued.
Her gaze darted toward him a couple more times to see if he was still staring. He was. She made a halfhearted attempt at wiping her mocha spill from her table, gathered her things and beelined it to the door, her jeans whispering with each stride. She studiously ignored him.
Donovan smiled and took another sip of his coffee. It was black and bitter. Just the way he liked it.
He already knew where she was going.
He stood and followed her out.
Chapter Nineteen
“Do not disturb me unless absolutely necessary,” Noah said as she settled into her seat. The whine of the jet’s engines revved throughout the aircraft, and Skip was surprised to see a tremor in her hands as she tightened her seatbelt.
“Don’t like flying, huh?”
“I was born with neither wings nor a propeller.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
Noah wrinkled her nose and closed her eyes, settling deeper into her seat.
Skip usually loved flying, had jumped out of many an aircraft as a PJ: static line, HALO, even the coveted HAHO—High Altitude High Opening. There was nothing like jumping out of a perfectly good airplane at twenty-seven thousand feet and parasailing forty miles in full combat gear before reaching the objective to get the blood pumping.
Now he just wanted more room.
Noah’s white-knuckled fingers vised into her armrests as the Airbus launched down the runway, pushing their bodies into the backs of their seats. Her lips moved quickly and silently. He wondered who she was praying to.
Once they were airborne, blood slowly returned to her face and her lips stopped moving, though her eyes remained closed.
Skip studied her. She looked innocent enough, delicate in repose, but there was something about her that didn’t make sense. Once again he was reminded of a Zen or Shaolin monk, masquerading in the body of a cheerleader.
He glanced down at her rucksack, tucked beneath the seat in front of her, and wondered what other secrets it contained.
“That would be unwise,” she said without opening her eyes.
“Just looking,” Skip responded offended.
“Mmm-hmm. You’ve done quite enough already, Mr. Walkins. This little insistence of yours is costing us a full day.”
“What do you mean by that?” Skip asked.
Noah opened her right eye and peered at him, contemplating whether or not to answer his question, and decided against. She reclosed her eye.
Whatever.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Noah said.
He looked over at her. Her eyes were still closed.
“Just wondering what I’m in for,” Skip said, surprising himself with his candor.
Noah smiled. Her eyes remained shut but Skip detected a twist of bitterness to her almost perfectly heart-shaped mouth. “You have no idea.” She sighed. “What you should do is give me that photograph, answer the rest of my questions and get on a flight back to Rolling Creek.” He’d never pegged her accent, but she pronounced creek properly…crick
.
“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”
She shook her head and was quiet for the rest of the trip.
They touched down at Bradley International Airport at eight thirty-seven Thursday morning, two days after the graveyard incident. They were greeted by a giant serial killer. At least, he looked like one. Fortunately, thanks to a July 2009 security implementation, TSA now allowed LEOs (lucky law enforcement officers) with proper credentials to travel with a firearm. Skip possessed these credentials, of course, and he had his good ole handy-dandy Python stowed in his Galco black leather shoulder holster under his right pit. The thing had been a bitch to put on and he hoped he wouldn’t need to retrieve it anytime soon. It was unnecessary. Noah’s calm demeanor shattered when the two saw each other.
“Tarsidion!” she cried and then rattled off in some peculiar language he couldn’t place. Which was unusual. Skip was an ace when it came to that sort of stuff, had studied Latin back in boarding school.
The behemoth, whose face looked as if he had just dined on a litter of puppies, lit up, the ferocious expression replaced with delight. With a squeal Noah launched herself at him and he caught her midair in a bear hug.
He had to be a mix; there was no straight race of man Skip had ever heard of that fit his profile, and Skip had seen some pretty extensive profiles.
Comanche, Danish-African mix? Or something? And Irish; it seemed as if everyone was Irish.
The two of them rattled off in their own peculiar language, still embracing, but the happy tempo plummeted when Mr. Serial Killer settled his eyes on Skip Walkins.
“Howdy,” Skip said with a wave.
The giant looked down—far, far down—at Little Buddha. “I said question him, not bring the damn witness with you.”
“He was very persuasive,” Noah said quietly. “He has something I think you’ll want to see.”
Skip held his ground as the giant approached, reflexively tightening his grip around his Padfolio with Donovan’s photo inside. “Somebody’s been eating his spinach,” he observed as the man towered over him, which didn’t happen often, jet-black hair cascading down the black leather motorcycle jacket that was unzipped in the front, revealing pectoral muscles that pushed against his T-shirt.