by Sue Duff
Tara got up from the floor. “I’ll grab the unpacked box from the kitchen.”
Ian wandered down a short hall and discovered a spare bedroom. Other than a cardboard box with Rayne’s laptop sitting on top and charging, the room was empty. He grabbed the laptop and the charger. When he poked his head into the cramped bathroom, he caught a whiff of vanilla. His stomach lurched at the scent of her hair, and he took a deep breath to stave off the threatening melancholy. Any resolve he had left crumbled the moment Ian reached her bedroom threshold. The knickknacks on her dresser stopped the beat of his heart.
Rayne had saved a memento from almost everything that the two of them had shared. Her visitor pass from QualSton hung from one of the knobs on her garage-sale dresser. The napkin from their dinner in Rogue Basin stuck out of its plastic Ziploc pouch. She had pressed a delicate wildflower she’d picked next to the outdoor patio of their favorite pizza café. He picked up a small seashell he’d given her on a walk along the beach one moonlit evening and clenched it in his fist. Each souvenir that caught his eye drove a spike into his heart and he backed up, bumping into the bed and sliding to the floor. He hung his head while his shoulders heaved with every suppressed ache.
Tara knelt beside him and gathered him in her arms. A few minutes later, drained, he lifted his face. “Where’s Marcus,” Ian choked.
“He shyfted the box to the mansion.” She wiped her face and left him on the bedroom floor. When she returned, she had a handful of toilet paper. Tara tore some off for herself and handed him the rest of the wad. They blew their noses until the toilet paper was spent, and then sat in silence. Ian focused on steadying the beat of his heart, and the blessed numb gradually returned. “Patrick,” he whispered.
“Patrick,” Tara said with conviction. She stuffed the laptop into the Faraday case she’d brought, then grabbed Ian’s hand. He shyfted them home.
{35}
By the time Ian joined the others in the great room, the techno geniuses had set up a virtual roadmap of information they’d gleaned from Rayne’s research.
Pacman was seated cross-legged on the couch with his laptop propped on his knees. Xander stood in the middle of the room with extended index fingers controlling free-floating data.
Joule was in a heated debate with Tara at the far end of the room. Ian cocked his ear and eavesdropped on the girls while bits of data floated in the air around him. Every few seconds, Pacman punched the keys on his laptop, adding another new word or term from a fresh sheet off a stack on the coffee table. The info popped up in midair and, with the swish of his finger, Xander added it to an already existing group.
Fascinated by the technology laid out before him, Ian’s attention drifted from the girls, and he didn’t refocus until the tail end of their conversation. From what he could decipher, Joule was upset no one had offered to locate her father. “You promised,” came out in repeated hisses along with strings of expletives that if Ian uttered, would have Milo reaching for a bar of soap.
“Joule, let us get a handle on this, and then if we can, we’ll split up our efforts and help you, too,” Ian said.
Marcus wandered in with one of Milo’s rolls in his hand and a steaming mug in the other. The smell of freshly brewed coffee made Ian rethink his earlier decline of the beverage. “How much longer?” Milo asked.
Pacman tapped the short stack in front of him. “This is the last of it.”
“Preliminary report,” Marcus barked, then took a generous bite of his roll.
“It appears that she was researching a woman,” Xander said. He added what looked to be a German car company logo to a new column.
“I don’t need your fan-dangled tech to tell me what a highlighter already did,” Marcus said with a bulge in his cheek. He took a sip of coffee and the bulge disappeared.
“A lot of the info dates back more than forty years,” Xander said. He stopped chewing his gum and stood back, staring at the virtual board. “Some, longer than that.”
“It can’t be one woman, or she’d have to be older than dirt,” Pacman said without lifting his face from his screen.
“My money says it’s more than one person.” Xander blew a bubble and popped it.
“I betcha next year’s ComicCon tickets it’s two,” Pacman said. He grabbed another red licorice stick, then gnawed on it and stared at his screen.
The overwhelming data had Ian’s head swimming. The international companies varied from a custom-built German car to an Irish, hundred-year-old whiskey company. The only one he recognized from the first column was QualSton genetics. If not her father, who the hell had Rayne been tracking—why the secrecy?
Pacman’s laptop keys fell silent. “Some of these companies are over a hundred years old but I also found some newbies. The most recent has only been in business for three years.
Joule walked up and bobbed a finger at one of the entries. “That’s my father’s favorite whiskey.”
Her comment prompted Ian to rescan the lists, looking for anything familiar other than QualSton.
“Has anyone ever heard of a car by this name?” Tara indicated the word Osera.
“It’s an anagram.” The gruff voice came from the direction of the foyer.
The Primary stood in the archway. Ian couldn’t remember when he’d ever seen the man so angry. Dr. Mac was with him and was staring at the virtual board with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Ian wasn’t the only one impressed by the boys’ toys.
“An anagram for what?” Joule said.
“Aeros.” The name came out like a hissing snake. The Primary approached the virtual board and tapped Osera with his finger. Its pixels scattered but then corrected, the Primary unable to erase the Duach Leader. He gave the group a sweeping scowl, and turned back to the board. “Where did this information come from?”
“Rayne,” Marcus said.
“The Duach had this?” the Primary snarled.
Heat rose in Ian’s core and traveled to his tightly clenched fists. Tara shot a look of warning at him. “We found it in her house,” she said.
“We’re sorting the mess out.” Marcus set his mug on the coffee table and sat on the edge of the couch.
“I thought I made it clear a few months ago.” Heat emanated from every pore of the Primary’s face.” You were to stay away from her!”
Ian had only seen the Primary this angry once before, when his arch enemy had surfaced. The Pur leader gazed at the virtual board in fuming silence. When he picked up the framed picture of the QualSton researchers, his knuckles turned ghostly white. Marcus threw Ian a look chock-full of questions. Was Rayne searching for Eve?
Ian recalled the night in the vortex field. Ian forced himself to recall every detail. Jaered wasn’t kidnapping her. She was going with him willingly, in search of answers.
Milo wandered in from the kitchen, carrying a large silver tray piled with assorted snacks. “Mac, what are you doing here?” he said on his way past his old friend.
“I brought him to reexamine the Heir,” the Primary said. “I want to know what the rebels did to Ian.”
“I’ve given you my report, I found nothing other than a strong, healthy core,” Dr. Mac said. “This is a waste of my time and resources. I have other patients.”
The Primary glared at Dr. Mac. “I want everything confirmed.”
The front door to the mansion flew open and the Primary’s elite guard filed in, one after another, carrying what looked to be medical equipment. They towered over scrawny Henrick, the Primary’s personal assistant, who brought up the rear.
“Henrick will be monitoring your examination, Doctor,” the Primary said.
“Then let’s get this hogwash over with so I can get back to people who actually need me. Milo, I’m commandeering the kitchen.” Dr. Mac led the five guards away. Henrick stood next to the table. His watchful eyes never straying from the Primary.
“I want the guards to confiscate all of this,” the Primary gestured at the stacks of paper. “Don’t leave anything
behind.” Henrick nodded.
Pacman’s licorice fell from his mouth. “Bullshit! You’re not taking my stuff, Pops.”
The Primary took a step toward him with murder in his eyes. Pacman shied away, melting into the couch. “Make sure they get it all,” the Primary snarled.
“Whatever,” Pacman muttered under his breath.
“I’ll return with you and help,” Marcus said.
“Tell me, Marcus. What is your son up to these days?” The Primary glared at Marcus as if a lie would be the death of him.
Marcus’s jaw clenched. “I have no idea. We haven’t spoken in months.”
“You are now confined to the estate with the others,” ordered the Primary. Marcus made to protest, but the Primary raised his hand. “Or would you rather be incarcerated?” Marcus sobered. The Primary approached the foyer table and, without missing a beat in his step, shyfted in an emerald cloud. Henrick stood in front of Pacman and stuck out his hand.
“It you’re going to hack off my right arm, at least let me back up my stuff,” he whined.
“Perhaps you’d rather one of the guards intervene.” Henrick thrust his hand closer.
“Give it up, bro,” Xander said.
Pacman hit a key and the floating virtual board vanished. He slammed the computer lid shut, then shoved it onto the coffee table. Henrick picked it up and headed for the kitchen.
“I better get all my data back, or I’ll hack your credit cards,” Pacman yelled to his retreating back.
A drawn-out exhale came from Xander and he deflated, slouching on the coffee table. “Fuck me. For being a runt, that’s one scary dude.”
“There goes what may be our chance to find Patrick,” Tara said.
Marcus shook his head. “And Vael.”
“Oh ye of little faith,” Pacman said, but swallowed his snicker the second Marcus turned on him.
“What’d you do?” Marcus hushed under his breath.
“I’d already pushed everything to the Cloud,” Pacman said.
Xander reached out and they bumped knuckles. “We had a bet as to who’d be the first to crack Rayne’s puzzle.”
“We just need a computer and WiFi, and we’re set to go,” Pacman said. He rubbed his hands and sprang to his feet. “So, the way I see it, someone owes me a new computer and a year’s worth of licorice.”
“I could kiss you,” Tara said, but when Pacman licked his lips, she rolled her eyes in regret.
“If it leads us to Vael,” Marcus said, glanced in the direction of the foyer, then lowered his voice, “I’ll buy you the goddamn licorice factory.”
Ian put a hand on Pacman’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your laptop. We’ll get it back for you.”
“Nah, it’ll be fried by then,” Pacman said, pulling the last licorice stick out of the cellophane package and crinkling it up into a ball.
“My man Pac has the most gnarly security system,” Xander said, gushing with pride.
“A work of art, am I right?” Pacman said. They bumped chests, then leaned back and wiggled their fingers.
“Sweet and geek!” Xander said, but in an instant, sobered and slapped his friend’s arm. “Eulogy, bro.” He placed his hand over his heart. Pacman did the same.
Ian pressed a fist to his Seal and stood across from the boys while they paid homage to their sacrificed equipment. If they found Patrick, would they also find Eve?
{36}
Thick, salty air and a distant foghorn told Patrick that an ocean was nearby. Unsure of anything he saw or heard in the dark, he kept pinching himself, hoping to wake up and find out this was nothing but a bad dream.
He reached what looked to be a main street and turned onto it with the soft plops of the mongrel following at his heels. The boy rested his head on Patrick’s shoulder and was snoring before they’d made it to the edge of town.
Why the hell would anyone kidnap him? Was this about his family? The questions burned a hole in his thoughts while he navigated the field headed toward the town. He’d been estranged from his billionaire father for as long as he could remember, and contact with his society-minded mother was nothing more than a couple text messages a month.
The unknown continued to plague Patrick as he wandered the dirt street between simple, single and two-story rural structures. Handmade bricks peeked out from beneath crumbling plaster exteriors, while some of their verandas were held up with rotting timber rails. Absence of street lamps made it difficult to see the brightly colored buildings he vaguely remembered from his earlier drug-induced fog. Everything now appeared as a gray palate lining the moonlit streets. The scattering of lights he’d seen from the edge of the orchard at nightfall had slowly extinguished on his trek toward town. By the time he reached the first building, only a few were visible in upper stories. From the flickering, he guessed that the light either came from candles or oil lamps. His hope that modern technology would come to his rescue faded the more his thoughts cleared.
Epi stirred in his arms, turned his head, and settled once again into a deep slumber. Patrick reached a crossroads and stopped to assess his options. The dog whined and looked up at him. “Sorry, I don’t speak dog,” Patrick muttered.
The mangy mutt lifted his back leg and peed in one long, continuous stream that landed directly in front of Patrick’s shoes. Splatters of pee mixed with the dirt landed on the bottom of his pants, and he did an Irish jig to get out of the way. “Oh, for the love of . . .” His voice trailed off as his focus turned to sounds one street over. From the noise of their engines, the high-powered vehicles were picking up speed.
Adrenaline kicked in and Patrick frantically searched for a hiding place. He ran toward a rug that was suspended from a second story window, and long enough that it nearly touched the ground. Slipping behind it, he pressed his hand over Epi’s mouth when the jostled child awakened in his arms. The mutt barked from the other side, but Patrick coaxed it to join them, and it quieted as long as the animal licked his face.
The child squirmed, then pulled back and rubbed his eyes. “Bad men,” Patrick said, counting on the tone of his voice to break the language barrier and make the child understand.
Epi hugged Patrick around the neck and leaned in, staying very still. A few heartbeats later, Patrick felt the tiny hand rubbing his back shoulder. It brought instant comfort and Patrick slowly released an exhale, then breathed deep.
Tires skidded to a gravel-spitting stop farther down the street. Car doors opened and slammed shut. Hushed voices. Scuffles on the dirt road quickly spread out in different directions. Patrick peered out of the slit between him and the thick rug, which smelled of mildew and damp wool. A glint of moonlight on metal confirmed the men came bearing guns.
Footsteps approached. Patrick tightened his hold on Epi, pushed back against the solid wall, and then crouched down, shielding the boy. His pulse revved the closer the steps. Heat rose in the center of his chest, simmering, then blistering with each passing second. A gentle breeze passed between the building and the rug, and Patrick shuddered.
He loosed his grip on Epi and pressed a fist to his chest. Goddamn it! He’d picked a hell of a time for a heart attack. The child whimpered softly. Patrick ignored the searing pressure and tuned into the noises on the other side of the rug.
The surrounding shadows melted into pitch, as if someone turned off the moon. A muffled rustle and the rug quivered behind him. The blistering internal heat burned Patrick’s throat as adrenaline exacerbated whatever was happening in his chest. He parted his lips and swore a heated plume escaped. Shouts from farther down the street. The edge of the rug fell still. Voices faded along with their hurried footsteps.
Every one of Patrick’s strained muscles released at once and Epi stretched from beneath Patrick’s loosened hold. The mutt licked its butt then settled back down at Patrick’s knee. The heated pressure in Patrick’s chest eased but failed to completely vanish as if it left a scorch mark to remember it by. He pressed his back against the wall and took deep, sil
ent breaths, trying to erase the lingering sensation.No matter what he did, the reaction had left its imprint.
Whack! Whack!
Dust filled Patrick’s lungs and he let go of Epi, hacking on the surrounding cloud. He opened his eyes to discover that the sun’s rays peeked through the slit and contributed to the sweltering heat in the cramped space.
Whack!
His racking coughs woke up the boy and the child sneezed then rubbed his face. The mutt stretched its front paws with a yelp of a yawn. A dirt cloud filled the cramped space between the wall and the hung rug, and Patrick made to stand but stiff, unforgiving muscles screamed in protest. He grabbed at his back.
Whop! Whop! Whop! Patrick covered his nose and mouth with his hand and, choking and gagging, emerged from their hiding spot. He covered his eyes at the brilliant sun overhead.
When Epi went to step out into the street, Patrick restrained him while scanning for trouble. The vehicles from the previous night were gone along with the gunmen. Patrick stepped out from under the veranda and sneezed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He stretched until the kink in his back popped.
Shrill, staccato speech came from overhead. A middle-aged woman in a loose, flowery dress with her hair tied back in a ponytail stood on the upstairs balcony. Her sun-kissed skin enhanced the light-colored shift. She gripped a long-handled straw broom in one hand and leaned over the railing, addressing him below. Patrick lifted his hands and shook his head to indicate he didn’t understand what she was saying. She continued her diatribe anyway. When he didn’t answer her, she shook a fist, then waved her arm about. Patrick motioned to Epi. The child stepped out and stood next to Patrick, staring up at the woman. He blinked then rubbed one eye, the other one not leaving the woman overhead. Patrick marveled at the woman’s breath support as she carried on about something. Epi just blinked, shook his head a couple of times, then pointed to the rug. The woman’s tone grew terse, and she glared at Patrick during her relentless tirade.