Which, he hoped, it would not.
“How did you find me?” Miri asked, and he heard the rest of it, unspoken, a quiet How did you find me after all this time?
“Accident,” he said. “It’s complicated.”
“Must be. I still don’t believe this. I still don’t know if I can trust you.”
“You trust me. You wouldn’t be here right now if you didn’t.”
“It’s just survival. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late, babe.” He remembered that he had a hotel room in this building, though it was long gone above them. He could hide Miri there, keep her safe until he called the home office and found out what the hell to do next.
But that man up there knew your name. He knew Dirk & Steele. You think any place is safe?
Fat chance, and no way he was going to risk it. Out of the building—that was what his instincts were screaming. Get Miri far and away. He did have other options, after all. Just not ones he had used in a very long time.
“You said there are other men looking for me?” Miri asked, breathing hard.
“In the lobby. They’re organized.”
“Is there another way out of here?”
“Basement garage,” Dean said. He wanted to say more, but words seemed cheap, inadequate. Instead he settled for stealing glances—and found Miri doing the same.
No one pursued them. They ran themselves all the way down to the garage, which was universal in its flickering perfect-for-a-murder lighting, painted concrete walls, and stuffy humid air. Security personnel, men in bright orange jackets, lounged in chairs at various intervals in the garage, giving Dean some worry, but all the old men did was smoke their cigarettes and drink from tall, thin cans of mango juice, watching Dean and Miri like disapproving parents seeing their kids off for a first date.
They were on the first level of the garage; it was easy to access the street, and they did so, breathless and sweaty, on the far side of the hotel away from the main glass doors and glittering lights of the Far Eastern Mall. An old man with a tiny white dog walked past them; Miri almost clobbered him trying to get to the road. She hailed a cab.
“Why do I get the feeling you already know where we’re going?” Dean glanced up at the sky to see if Koni was anywhere nearby. Nothing, not unless he was hiding. A small yellow car swerved toward them.
“Because I do,” Miri said, and there was a challenge in her voice, a dare. Dean did not take the bait. He did not need to. He trusted her.
They got into the cab and drove away.
Chapter Four
It was, by the clock on the cab’s dashboard, almost midnight by the time they reached National Taiwan University. The driver took them down Palm Boulevard, a wide street lined with tall old-fashioned lamps and even taller royal palms, and made several turns down dark campus streets populated by groups of students walking and laughing in the road and on the sidewalk.
So ordinary. So normal. Miri wanted to scream at the young men and women, rage against the simplicity and safety of their lives.
Everything is relative, she thought, and then, Owen. Owen, hold on. Wherever you are, I’m coming to help you.
If she could even help herself, which seemed unlikely. There was an ache in her heart, a rumble beneath her skin, like she was on the edge of jumping out of her flesh; screaming, screaming. Delayed reaction, maybe. Gung-ho chick at the hotel, shriveling down to nothing but an old adrenaline stain, less than a leftover flake of deodorant.
In fact, the only thing holding her together was Dean, and even that was rocky. Looking at him made her feel like the victim of an aneurysm or some odd exploding eyeball disease. Not the way she would have imagined a miraculous reunion—which she had, all those years ago when it was so difficult to believe he was dead. Dreaming of him holding her again, laughing in her ear, in the kitchen with her grandmother with his hands greasy from dumplings and pork, poking her with chopsticks, making her crazy and crazy with love.
Miri, pressed up against her side of the cab, stole a glance at Dean, studying his loose posture. His profile was older now but still her friend, still familiar. Strong cheeks, strong mouth, strong eyes. That soft blond hair, tousled. He sat with his hands resting on his thighs, drumming his fingers as he stared out the window. He looked good, almost better than she remembered, which was also unsettling.
He turned his head and caught her staring.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Hey,” she replied, and then, because she had to say something, anything, added, “This is crazy.”
“Yeah,” he said, and seemed to fumble for a moment, mouth opening and closing, hesitating on his next words. But in the end he said nothing at all, and gave her only a weak smile that was unabashedly shy.
How did you survive? she asked him silently. Was it magic that saved you? The same magic I saw tonight? All those things you used to do, turning into something new?
Something that could stop a bullet? Miri closed her eyes. This was insanity, pure and simple. She had lost her mind, and even if she hadn’t, the coincidence of him being here was too much. She almost asked him, almost opened her mouth to pin him down with questions, but she stopped herself at the last moment. She was afraid of what he would say. Or what he wouldn’t tell her.
It’s all a conspiracy: Men breaking into my room, men coming back from the dead, men who won’t stay dead …
And yet, here she was—with a man she had not seen in twenty years. A man she might not be able to trust. This Dean was not the boy she had known and loved. Not this strange man who carried a gun and who appeared out of the blue to wave around that weapon and … save her. That was just weird. Weird and frightening.
Too late, she told herself. You can’t run now. Besides, if he can still do those tricks with his mind, you need him. You have to find Owen.
And if Dean refused to help her? It had certainly taken him long enough to track her down.
He told you it was an accident; he thought you were dead.
Maybe. If only.
The cab stopped on one of the side streets near the archaeology building and Dean paid the fare. There was a breeze as Miri stepped out of the car, but it did not help her breathing. She saw some girls walking down the sidewalk, holding hands, surgical masks covering the lower portions of their faces. A good idea. The night air was too hot and sticky, filthy with smog. Terrible for the lungs.
Dean joined her; the girls walking toward them stared and put their heads together. Their eyes crinkled.
“Where are we going?” he asked. The girls continued past, still staring, and Miri heard one of them say “Shuai ge.” Handsome brother.
Dean heard; he glanced at them, and said, “Xie-xie.”
They giggled and pranced off, still hand in hand. Miri stared at him. He tried to look innocent.
“What? Girls tell a man he’s hot and he has to say thank you.”
Miri’s eyes narrowed. “We’re going to the archaeology department,” she said. “If Robert was telling the truth, then Owen was taken from there. He might even still be close. We can find him.”
“And you want me to …” He stopped, wiggling his fingers around his head.
“You don’t mind?”
Dean frowned. “When did I ever? It’s what I do, bao bei.”
“And you still trust me?” she pressed. “Even after all this time?”
His frown faded, smoothing into the hint of a smile. “I always trusted you, babe. Even when we were kids, you were the only one I believed in. I never held anything back from you.”
“Nothing,” she murmured, remembering. “Not even when life got so weird.”
“The headaches,” he said quietly. “The blindness. I missed so much school, and then those social workers got involved. Assholes made my uncle take me to the doctor. What a load of crap. They just made it worse.”
“Because there was nothing wrong with you.”
“Yeah. Developing psychic powers aren’t exactly on the list of p
hysical ailments.” He shook his head, scuffing the ground with his sneaker, and smiled grimly. “Everyone thought I was a liar, a lazy good-for-nothing piece of shit. Except you.”
Miri shrugged, suddenly shy. “I knew the truth.”
“It wasn’t just that,” Dean said. “I remember how those teachers tried to pressure you to stay away from me. They thought I was trash. Twelve years old, and they wrote me off. But you always took up for me. You fought for me. Jesus, Miri, you got in fucking screaming arguments with those old ladies when you thought I wasn’t being treated right.”
“You were my friend,” she said simply. And despite her misgivings, suddenly recalled everything with heartbreaking clarity. For eight years she’d had two anchors in her life, two people—one young, one old—giving her a real family, keeping her from drifting away. She would have done anything to protect that.
And she wondered, looking into Dean’s eyes, if she was in danger of feeling that way again.
They started walking, remaining silent until the first edge of the archaeology building came into sight. It was difficult to see—some of the streetlamps were not working properly—but even in the midnight darkness the square lines were very distinct. Dean made an odd sound, low in his throat.
“This could be dangerous,” he said.
“Gee, no. Never would have guessed.”
“You want a gun?”
Miri stopped walking. “Do I want a gun? What kind of question is that? You know I hate those things.”
“No,” he said, startled. “I don’t know. You never hated them before.”
But even as he said those last words, his eyes changed, and Miri knew he understood. They were standing under a streetlamp; she pulled aside the neck of her tank top. Dean leaned close, his breath warm on her skin. Goose bumps ran up her arms as he studied the puckered scar above her heart.
She watched his face, and saw the echo of some terrible pain pass through his eyes, an awful sorrow that made her breath catch, her heart pound just a little harder. His hand twitched. She covered herself before he could touch her.
Dean said nothing for a very long moment. And then, slowly, he pulled down his own collar. The T-shirt was old; the material stretched easily. There was a thin gold chain around his neck, but Miri peered past that at his skin and saw a scar that mirrored her own: a circle, the shadow of a hole. She thought of the bullet that had struck him that night, twenty years past, and remembered the bullet that had slammed into him tonight.
Bad memories. She touched his scar. Dean sucked in his breath, but did not move. He held very still as she explored it—her curiosity morbid, surreal. She glimpsed something else just below the mangled flesh, and tugged his collar a little lower.
“You’re hurt,” she said. The cut was ugly, fierce. Something about it, however, seemed familiar.
“It’s nothing,” he said, but she barely heard him. She was finally looking at the chain, following it down to something small and round, a pedant, a locket—
She leaned close, not touching, but peering at the familiar round lines, the shape and glitter of the gold. He still had it. After all these years, he still wore the damn thing around his neck.
“Dean,” she said, and there were no words, nothing to explain what it meant to her to see that locket still with him.
Dean finally touched her, wrapping his warm hands around her wrists. His voice was low, rough; she looked up into his eyes and found them dark, and very, very, close.
She tried to step back, but Dean did not let her go.
“Do you remember?” he said quietly. “Do you remember that night? I was going to teach you how to drive, and then we got distracted in the big backseat of my uncle’s car.”
Miri remembered. It was supposed to be best night of her life. Their first time together, naked and ready to do something more than just hug and kiss. Something special. Mind-blowing, like all those books said it was meant to be.
And maybe it would have been … if you hadn’t been interrupted by that asshole with the gun.
Bang, bang. Miri closed her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about this, Dean.”
He let go. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. There’s a lot to remember.” She sucked in a deep breath and forced herself to look him in the eyes. Only for a second, though. Her gaze slid back down to her hands, clenched tight in his collar. She did not know why she was still holding his shirt, and forced herself back. Tiny lights danced in her vision; she felt sick to her stomach. Her heart burned.
“We’re wasting time,” she said. “I need to help my friend. If you’re worried about it being dangerous, you don’t have to come with me.”
“Now you’re being insulting. What kind of man do you think I am?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Oh,” Dean said. “Oh well. Thanks a lot.”
“What did you expect me to say?”
“A compliment wouldn’t have hurt. My ego needs stroking.”
“Stroke it on your own time,” she muttered. “We need to go now.”
A crow cawed. The bird was close, its voice so loud and unexpected, Miri jumped. Dean, scowling, grabbed her hand and tugged her out of the light.
“Fine,” he said. “You sure you want to do this? I could go in by myself. I’m a bad man, after all. Totally off-the-wall dangerous.”
“I didn’t say that. Besides, I don’t care about the danger. I have to do this, Dean. You know how it is.” How it is, how it was, all to commit to one thing for the sake of another. Because if you had a friend in trouble, you went balls out, or else you had no balls at all.
“Rule numero uno,” Dean said, just like he could read her mind. His mouth crooked into a smile. “The Lee and Campbell book of survival. Yeah, I remember. I just don’t recall bone diggers ever being quite this popular, except on television. You’re not channeling Indiana Jones on me, are you?”
“If only. I’d feel better with a whip and fedora.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Dean asked, and they started walking again. He made them take a circuitous route, cutting behind bushes and trees, hugging the shadows. She understood why—might have done the same on her own—but the slow pace was monstrously annoying.
The area around the building was quiet, and the few late-night students walking nearby did so with the oblivious weariness of the hard-core studier. They saw no guards, no suspicious loiterers, no unusual activity. Only once, from the corner of Miri’s eye, did she glimpse another kind of movement: swift, large. Her stride faltered. She looked.
The shadow was flesh and blood; a tall, powerfully built man dressed in black, standing only a stone’s throw away. Ordinary, simple. Nothing to be afraid of. But seeing him sent a shock through Miri’s stomach that she could not explain, and she tugged on Dean’s hand.
“What?” he whispered, and she pointed.
The man was gone. Miri stared, turning around and around, but she saw no trace of him.
“Someone was here,” she told Dean. He said nothing. He made her walk faster.
The large glass double doors of the archaeology building were still unlocked and, inside, the halls were empty and even more still and silent. Some of the lights had already been turned off, and Miri’s chest tightened when she saw the darkness, the shadows. Danger, calling.
This is crazy. You should be running away, calling the cops.
And then what? Get taken in for questioning by a bureaucracy that would not help Owen quickly enough, or worse, would not believe her at all? Besides, the local police would be coming after her soon enough, what with all the blood in her hotel room and a man tied up on her floor. If, that is, Robert stayed there long enough to be found by hotel management. Somehow she doubted it, given the sounds of those men who had gotten off the elevators just after she and Dean left the room.
“How did you know there were other men waiting for me at the hotel?” Miri asked, as she led Dean down a long corridor to a narrow stairwell. Bathrooms were
nearby; they smelled like the ai-yi hadn’t cleaned the dirty toilet paper out of the wastebaskets for days.
Dean hesitated, then pulled a picture from his back pocket. It was an up-close shot of her face. There was a name and location clipped to the back. Her name. Her room number at the Far Eastern Hotel.
“Where did you get this?” She did not recognize the moment the picture documented, but she knew it was not here in Taiwan. Someone had been following her at home in Palo Alto.
“I was investigating a murder,” Dean said, carefully watching her face. “I found that with the latest victim. Just tonight. I went to the hotel immediately. In fact, I was staying there, too. Only one floor below yours.”
One floor. One floor separating them. What a terrible irony. What an awful implausible thought. If it was true.
But she looked at him, at the open sincerity and pain of his gaze, and she could not bring herself to call him a liar. She believed him. And maybe she was wrong to believe, but it was impossible not to. Like breathing, like eating; trusting him felt so natural it was either going to kill her again or keep her going for the rest of her life.
“You found me,” she said.
“I found you,” he echoed. “I wish I had found you sooner.”
He began to say something else, and hesitated. Miri found herself reaching for his hand—did her own dance of hesitation—but Dean met her halfway and wrapped his fingers warm around her palm before she could pull away.
“If I wasn’t afraid of losing you,” he murmured quickly, “of letting you out of my sight, I would tell you that this is the stupidest, most fucked-up idea I’ve ever heard, and lock you in a hole while I go and look for this friend of yours.”
“You always were a charmer,” Miri said, and tugged him down the stairs.
They moved slowly. Dean reached under the back of his shirt and drew out Robert’s gun, holding the weapon close against his side. There was no place to hide between the stairs and the lab, just open territory at the bottom of the stairwell, followed by a set of doors into the exam room, and from there, Owen’s office. They encountered no one. The area was very quiet. Dean’s eyes went distant—just a glaze, a remoteness that she remembered. Although, she also recalled him looking a lot more cross-eyed. She wondered if had been practicing the use of his second sight in front of a mirror.
The Red Heart of Jade Page 9