Richard gestured toward the room. "Let's go in, sit down."
"No, they've a camera there. They monitor everything in this place."
That was good, that Bourland was mindful of such things. But was it to preserve Richard's secret or to leave no record of a shooting? "I shut it off. It's safe enough."
Neither man moved.
"Are you going to use that?" Richard indicated the Walther. It was a P-99 with a full sixteen-round magazine, and Bourland would know well how to use it.
He seemed to realize it was in his hand. He puffed a laugh at it. "My God, after what you've been through, what you've survived, this would hardly make a dent, would it?"
Richard was pleased to hear that line of reasoning. "Let's not find out, if you don't mind."
Bourland put the safety on and slipped the pistol into the shoulder holster under his arm. "I came back to see if you might be awake. My cell phone woke me. There's another brain hemorrhage case, this one on a plane that just landed in Heathrow. Charon must have been on it. They were still screening off-loaded passengers. I came back here and saw the impossible: you on your feet and walking down the hall. I couldn't believe it. Then you went in that lab, the young woman, what you did to her . . ."
"She's unharmed."
"You drank her blood," he stated. He was frightened and angry and disgusted.
"She's unharmed, Philip. Doesn't remember a thing."
"To hell with that, you drank her blood!"
"I had to," he said softly. "And she is unharmed. I swear that on Michael's life."
This put him off a little, but he was clearly still unnerved. "Sabra—she knew about you?"
"Yes. Everything."
"Does Michael?"
What? "Why should he?"
"That's no answer."
"The truth is I'm not sure. Michael knows many things beyond his years. He just . . . knows, like how he got my real name out of thin air. If my . . . my condition is part of that knowledge, then he's never seen fit to mention it, nor did I ever raise the topic with him. I doubt Sabra did, either."
Apparently Bourland was doing some fast thinking, but this bombshell was a lot for him to process. "You and Stephanie."
Richard bowed his head at her name. So much pain there. His lover. Michael's mother. A second daughter to Bourland. "I loved her, Philip. Loved and lost."
"Is this why you never married her?"
Not what he expected. He'd thought Bourland would go on about the blood-drinking, demand to know if she'd been touched in that way, had been harmed by it, revolted. But this . . . ?
"She wanted children. I'm . . . not fertile."
"You think that would have mattered to her?"
More surprise. "I was certain I could never give her the life she wanted. It seemed better for her to move on."
"Yet for all that you are, she might be alive today if you'd—"
"Please, Philip, don't go down that road. I've been there a thousand times, and there's no answer, only pain. What we have, the things that happen that are out of our control, for good or ill, is what is, not what might have been. That's what we all live with, and we either accept it or not. We deal with it or let it crush us. What do you think she would say to you?"
That hit home. Harder than Richard had ever intended. Bourland's body jerked as though he had been struck, and his eyelids blinked rapidly, but he mastered himself, lifting his chin. "You can make me forget the last few minutes, can't you? I've seen you work whatever it is on others. Certainly with that woman back there."
"I could. But I'd rather not."
"Why? It's safer for you. God knows it'd be easier on me."
He shrugged, discomfited. "I think this was meant to happen. That you were supposed to find out."
"Why only now? You've had years to decide whether or not I could be trusted."
"This isn't about trusting. I said nothing because it was always for the best. But Sabra taught me that things happen for a reason. I'm thinking that now is the time you need to hear everything."
"Why?"
I've lost so much, please, don't let me lose you, too. "Because you're my only friend . . . and we both loved her."
Bourland caught his breath, his face twisting as he fought his emotions. His eyes glittered a moment with unshed tears. He looked away a moment, then back, his shoulders slumping. "Look, there's a break room up the hall. Perhaps . . . perhaps I can deal better with this with some coffee in me."
* * *
They talked into the early hours. Even when Richard touched only on the barest essentials it took a very long while. The story of one's days is never a quick or easy tale to impart, even for a man with an ordinary span of years.
He told of his life as the Champion d'Orleans, of Sabra saving him from death by handing him defeat, and how she'd delivered death to him after all, and with it, a dark rebirth, the Goddess's Gift.
"Sabra was like you?" Incredulity now.
"Older than me. I never knew how much older, but sometimes she talked about the Romans in Britain. Not kindly."
"My God. No wonder she laughed at me."
"About what?"
"Never mind. Go on. She became human again. How?"
At first Bourland sputtered with questions, but they ceased, and he listened. He managed one cup of coffee, then stared at the table as he heard the truth about the Grail. Richard was finally able to give him the backstory of what was really going on with Charon. In this bright and sterile place, rife with the most sophisticated scientific gadgetry outside of NASA, Bourland was able to hear and accept legend, superstition, and the mystical without demur.
"Of course I may wake in a few hours and with great relief know it was all just a dream," he pointed out.
"You won't."
"I suppose not. It certainly explains why Charon kept calling you 'Lance.' I thought it might have been one of your cover names from whatever you did before you came to Toronto. The sunglasses crowd are still looking into it."
"Do they know the d'Orleans name?"
"No."
"Then nothing will come of it."
"I'll see to that."
"Thanks."
And just then she walked in. The woman Richard had fed from. She moved slowly, her eyes dull.
Bourland froze.
She didn't notice, continuing on toward a wall of cupboards above a sink.
"Excuse me," he said.
She paused to glance at Bourland. "Hm?"
"Are you all right?" He got up to look at her.
That action earned him an odd look in return, then she snorted. "Only asleep on my feet. I'm out of my gourmet blend, now I get to try the company-bought battery acid." She pulled a red plastic packet of pre-measured commercial coffee from the cupboard, then went to a coin-operated dispensing machine. After consideration, she picked a candy bar. "You guys up late or in early?"
"Up late."
"My sympathy. All-night rush jobs are the downside of salaried pay, I tell you. I've been getting one a week for the past month. I should form a union and go on strike."
On her way out, she glanced at them, staring puzzled at Richard's still bare feet, but making no comment.
Bourland was also silent. Then: "She seems all right. Didn't seem to recognize you at all."
"As I said."
"Indeed. No huge damage, just two small holes and a lot of beard-burn."
Richard suddenly felt himself coloring. "Philip, the new hemorrhage case . . . ?"
"God. I'd forgotten. That's all I know at the moment. This morning in London—their time—a trans-Atlantic flight landed with a dead man aboard, the investigation's ongoing, they'll let me know if and when."
"I doubt they'll be able to get Charon."
"Oh, come, he's not superhuman."
"Don't be too certain, and he has help. The Grail. And whatever powers he's learned to use since our last run-in."
"I thought the Grail was only meant for good."
"So's electricity
." He let the inference sink in. "Intent and use are all."
"To think she had that thing sitting in her back room. I thought it was just some curiosity she'd found antiquing or something. Clueless, that's me."
"Safe. Come on."
"Where?"
"You're all in, as am I. Rest while you can. Tomorrow could be busy."
Bourland grunted, but allowed himself to be guided out. "Dear God. All this time. You." He shook his head, then fixed on Richard. "So . . . what was King Arthur really like?"
He gaped, but his friend was utterly serious. "Well, he sure as hell didn't look like Sean Connery."
* * *
Richard went back to his room. For the time being he had no other place to go, might as well sleep while he could.
If he could.
He lay in the dimness, waiting for the morning to bring fresh news, and humbly thanking the Goddess for Bourland's acceptance. It was good to have an ally on that level, one who knew everything.
Richard had few left with Sabra gone.
He touched on that raw and bleeding wound. He wanted to scream. Howling out one's grief was allowed, and he drew breath for it, but none came forth. Richard struggled again to let go, to cry; he wanted to break down and let it out here in this impersonal space where it would be safe, but nothing happened. No tears. He'd been ripped in two, the better part of him taken forever, and still he could not weep.
If he could just hear Sabra's voice again in his mind as he always had before and know she was all right wherever she might be, then he wouldn't feel so empty and lost and afraid. But the silence within was absolute and final. She was gone. All trace of her had departed but for fragile memories. One small inadequate tear did finally trickle from his right eye, past his temple to his pillow, but it had nothing to do with release so much as reflex from staring at the ceiling.
Eventually sleep settled lightly on him, and with it came dreams. He'd had none during his healing, now they poured through his mind, one after the other. Only flashes, not solid as the visions, but still vivid. He glimpsed the great snake god, coiled into a knot, seeming to float in space. It noticed him, shifting. Within the vast loops of its long body Richard thought he saw something . . . someone . . . Sharon?
Just as he tried to get closer he was pulled away, flying toward the sun. It didn't burn, though the brightness made him wince. A green, flat land stretched below, very familiar. Its fields were crisscrossed by glowing lines of power, many intersecting. Where there was an intersection was a marker, either a man-built hill or a stone circle. Strangely, some of the intersection points were darkened, as though blasted by the heat of a fire, or as though a bomb had gone off. The stones were shattered, their power gone.
He almost had the meaning . . .
Then he was wide awake. Someone was in his room, moving stealthily close.
Frank the bureaucrat was at the side of the bed, his great eyes startled, quite startled, to see the change in Richard. "What th—"
To spare both of them future bother, Richard had to move fast. The door was shut, there wasn't enough light to hypnotize. He rolled from the bed, caught Frank by his perfect suit coat and slammed him against the near side wall. That knocked the wind from him, but not the fight. He'd gotten training from someplace, and Richard had to block two powerful moves that might have hurt had they landed. He struck three nerve points himself in speedy succession that paralyzed, but did not knock the man out, then reached to flip on the overhead light.
Puffing and face to face, Richard put him under quick. Damnation, why hadn't he knocked first? Richard could then have put on a light and taken care of this with much less exertion. Why was it when you were in a hospital situation people took it as their right to simply barge in on the sick?
"Why are you here?" he demanded.
Frank gazed calmly past him now, unseeing. "Looking for Philip. Something's wrong. Our computer files on you are gone. They've been tampered with."
"Oh. Not at all, you ordered it. You were under orders yourself to do it, and you and any others involved with my care will never speak of it or me again. Mr. Bourland and I are only special guests here for the time being, and in need of your full cooperation and resources. Isn't that right?"
"Of course."
"But before we leave, let's make sure all the little loose ends concerning me have been snipped . . ."
* * *
As the day waxed in Canada and waned in the United Kingdom no news came of finding Charon. By inference, the hemorrhage case on the trans-Atlantic flight meant that he was in the country. Via Bourland, Richard had people on that side checking airport arrivals video.
"All of them," he insisted. "And remember he may no longer be wearing an eye patch."
Copies were digitized and sent across so he could comb through them himself. He parked at a computer and worked with a graphics expert updating a composite of Charon's face, removing the facial scarring. Several versions were now on the same sheet, with and without the patch, scars, add a beard, leave it out, short and long hair, wig, hat, sunglasses. They used the distorted image captured from the curved mirror, cleaning it up even more, refining. It was all they had so far that could be considered a current picture.
But he felt it was wasted effort. If they'd not caught Charon at the airport, then he was elsewhere and well hidden. Richard was certain Charon had thrown up some kind of shielding to get himself past the thicket of security. Of course, he couldn't actually make himself invisible, but he could arrange to simply not be noticed. A subtle difference, but just as effective. It might have been such an effort that had buggered all the cameras in the other airports and at the hospital.
Also, Frank's people in the field did confirm Richard's guess about the timing of their ceremonies. The ones at Stonehenge were preparing for theirs to commence at moonrise. Since it would be a full moon, that would put it just at sunset. The people at Chichén Itzá would conduct their ceremony in the full light of day—but the same moment. Neither knowing about the other, they had arrived at the times independently.
Afternoon in Toronto passed with nothing else coming in from nightside Britain. Thankfully no further odd deaths were reported, though Charon was certainly capable of hiding a body if necessary.
When it was sufficiently dark, Bourland and Richard left in the back of an anonymous white van for a safe house Bourland had set up. By now Richard was in more substantial clothing than the borrowed scrubs, all of it new, since it would be a breach of security to go to his house to pick up anything of his own. The stuff fit, even the hiking boots. Some very meticulous people were looking after things.
The house was in one of the newer Toronto suburbs, and had an attached garage. The van went in, the garage door went down, and they got out, entering through the kitchen. Once inside, the door went up and the driver departed. Richard judged they would be safe enough with himself in shape to guard again.
He never got a look at the exterior of the place. The curtains and shades in every room were drawn, only to be expected, but it was comfortable. There were several bedrooms, kitted with two and three beds each, allowing not only for the people needing to drop from sight but space for those assigned to protect them. The furnishings were inoffensive and impersonal as a hotel suite but comfortable, and some very wise person had invested in a largescreen TV with a satellite hookup in the fight against cabin fever. Current magazines were neatly lined up on tables, and in one corner was a shelf stacked with a surprisingly large collection of well-thumbed comic books. Escapism at its finest.
Michael was overjoyed to see Richard, though he wasn't his normal ebullient self. The safe house was strange territory and the abrupt changes left him very subdued. A retreat to the familiar for comfort was impossible. Bourland had done the best he could to bridge things, and an importation of books, movies, CDs, and video games served to keep the boy diverted.
Excused for the time being from school because of the family emergency Michael still had homework. H
e had no heart for it, though, and no one pressed him. Understandable.
Improbably, the two specialist bodyguards turned out to be excellent sitters. The cold man played vid games with the same deadly focus and speed as Michael, and the woman taught him how to partner-dance.
Richard raised an eyebrow at that one, curious as to how the subject had ever come up, but whatever filled the time and distracted. Apparently Michael knew his adored foster uncle was a good dancer, but was too shy to ask to go to an instructor to learn for himself. Being taught by a pretty woman with time on her hands was an ingenious compromise.
With Bourland and Richard's return, the bodyguards were no longer needed, their murderous talents fortunately unused and required elsewhere. Richard could not admit any regret at losing them, though Michael had developed quite a crush on the lovely blond woman and couldn't stop talking about her. Also understandable.
It was a bleak evening as Bourland and Michael ate microwaved frozen dinners in the kitchen while Richard sat at the table to share company. None of them were able to speak about Sabra. Now and then Richard was aware of Bourland looking at him, but he let it pass without comment or question. His friend was simply curious, and needing to get used to his new knowledge. Bourland would be matching the long and ancient background history up to the man he knew and trying to merge the two. Not easy. He must have still been bursting with questions, but those could wait.
Bourland had been in and out of the paranormal center throughout the day, seeing to other errands that could not be accomplished by phone or computer, and right after his meal dozed off on one of the living room couches.
"Shouldn't he go up to his room?" Michael whispered, troubled. He was sensitive to adults behaving out of character, and watched Bourland from the couch opposite.
Richard said no, and came over to sit next to him. "He'll get a better sleep there than he will in a bed. I don't know why, but sometimes that's how it works out for grown-ups. Just keep the TV volume steady and it'll be fine."
"He told me you were dead."
That change of topic drew his sharp attention. If Michael had taken the information the wrong way . . . "When?"
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