Deja New

by MaryJanice Davidson

  “But we’re getting off track,” he reminded her. “As I was saying, I’ve got nothing new for the file.”

  “I know. It was beyond decent of you to come here and tell us yourself.”

  “But.” He leaned forward, his blue-eyed gaze never wavering. “I would imagine you’ll keep working it.”

  Angela could feel herself flush with pleasure. Kline had never, not once, referred to her assistance as “working the case.” Unless “Jesus Christ, I don’t need a civilian getting in my way!” was code for “working the case.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “Commendable.”

  She took a page out of his book and deadpanned, “No.”

  He laughed. Again! “Had that one coming. But listen, if anything comes up or I think of anything, I’ll get in touch right away.”

  “Thank you so much!” Why am I excited? It’s not like he asked me out. “And could I call you if I have a question or run across something new? Or should I pester CCD?”

  “Please pester me. If it’s beyond my scope, I’ll be glad to hand you off to one of their detectives.”

  Again: Why am I so psyched? It’s not like I asked him out, either.

  She knew why. It was an excuse to see him again, however slim. My dad’s killer might not ever be found which makes me happy because I can occasionally call Jason Chambers. That’s fucked up.

  “Aw, you two are cute.” Jack bustled over with armfuls of plates. “Soup’s on. Not literally.”

  Jason inhaled. “Something smells wonderful.”

  Her little brother beamed. “That’d be my cologne, also known as Dawn Ultra dishwashing liquid. Or Angela’s perfume, Eau de Office Max.”

  “Angela wears Dune.” Jason paused. “Sorry. I think that might be one of those things I shouldn’t have picked up on. Or, having deduced it, shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “Not a problem,” Angela managed, because all the spit in her mouth had dried up. Drinks chocolate milk. Great socks. Wonderful smile. Hard worker. Atoning for adolescent bad behavior. Notices my perfume. I might die. I might die right here in the kitchen at the turtle table. I’m coming, Dad! Soon we’ll be together!

  “Or maybe you’re smelling . . .” Jack presented their meals with a graceful flourish. “Steak Diane with mushroom risotto. Those’re reheated from last night but the endive and watercress salad I just made.” He turned and shrieked, “Any of you useless fuckwads want to stuff your mouth holes, get your asses to the turtle table!”

  Angela started to turn back to Jason to apologize, and almost missed his chuckle. He was already sawing into his steak.

  “Thanks, Jacky.” Angela managed—barely—to not clap her hands. “Oh, looks wonderful.”

  “Well, you liked it well enough last night, so.” But he was pleased. Whew! Because there was a careful balance to complimenting Jack: too far in the take-him-for-granted category and your next three meals would taste like bacon mixed with paper towels and tears. Go too far in the other direction, he was too embarrassed to go near the kitchen for a day.

  “Oh. God.” Jason looked up, chewing furiously. His eyes were narrowed with pleasure. “Outstanding.”

  Jacky jabbed her in the ribs and muttered, “Marry this man.”

  Don’t tease, Jack.

  Paul chose that moment to breeze in. “Can I have extra meat? Instead of the salad? Or the risotto? I’d also like meat for dessert. Two desserts.”

  “I’m not giving you a big plate of steak as your meal again. And I’m not making beef crème brûlée again. Eat the sides,” Jack ordered.

  “Ha! You’re not in charge of what I eat or what I don’t eat but hide under the couch, shrinky dink.” When Jack reached for a cleaver, Paul added, “Fine! But I’m doing it because I want to, not because I fear you.”

  “Whatever works.”

  “Hey, Chambers!” Mitchell had plopped down opposite them and started in on the risotto. “Bet you’re wondering why we call this the turtle table.”

  “Why would anyone wonder that?” Paul demanded. “You always think we’re more interesting than we are.”

  Jason glanced down at the shiny lacquered table, then back up. He had almost demolished his steak and was starting on the salad. “Because it resembles a tortoiseshell in color and pattern? Like a form of marquetry?”

  “Huh.”

  Now I’m going to get horny every time I think of marquetry. Dammit.

  The chaotic meal—especially with the addition of Archer and Leah—which should have been a fifteen-minute study in embarrassment, was great fun. Even more impressive, Jason held his own under the barrage of inappropriate questions and observations. She was sorry when the meal was over and everyone went back to what they were doing when not gulping down risotto. That was a first.

  They

  (kiss me! I’ll also settle for a comradely pat on the boob. well, my under-boob)

  shook hands at the door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring better news.”

  She shook her head at him. “Nothing to apologize for. It was kind of you to take the time and let us know. I’ll be sure to reach out if I find anything new.”

  “I will, too.” He hesitated, like he was going to say something else, then just smiled at her and left.

  “Nice enough guy,” Jordan observed from over her shoulder.

  “Uh-huh.” Nice didn’t begin to encompass the coolness that was Jason Chambers.

  “Too bad about Dad’s case,” Paul added. “But this guy’s a huge improvement over Klown.”

  “Kline,” she corrected.

  “Pretty sure it’s Klown. And if it’s not, it oughta be.”

  “He’s wonderful,” Angela declared. “Did you see his socks?”

  “He had socks?”

  “He had feet?”

  “Monet’s Water Lilies.” She sighed. No question: Jason Chambers was making her care about art again. Hopefully it wouldn’t turn into some odd, embarrassing Pavlovian response. Museum visits would be a nightmare.

  TWENTY-TWO

  NOVEMBER 1889

  KAMCHATKA PENINSULA, RUSSIAN FAR EAST

  She had known when the contractions would not stop, even after her daughter had emerged, though in truth she had suspected for some time. She had gotten so big, every woman who saw her tried to smile and then looked away. A few pulled her aside: Do not worry, your man is a big man, and you! So tall! You have a large son in there, I am sure.

  She had no sons in there. She had two girls. Twins, as she had been a twin seventeen years earlier.

  We have to keep our ways, her mother had whispered, as her grandmother and great-grandmother had reminded their daughters, and back and back, all the way to their beginning, when Kutkh gave the Koryaks the moon and the sun. Without the old ways, we are no better than the Cossacks. Without them, we would have lost one villager for every two.

  Pity the Koryaks on the mainland, who had suffered exactly that after enduring smallpox and war. She could almost feel sorrow for the Cossacks, who had never fought Koryaks and were amazed and fearful to see how her people waged war: with everything. Because their lives and their people were so, so precious, they set their homes ablaze to deny the Cossacks shelter. They killed their own women and children to deny the Cossacks slaves and the spoils of war.* Defeat was unthinkable, but if it came, there was nothing left for the enemy, and the price for all sides was high.

  Her people’s love was fierce and all-encompassing, and not just in times of war. “Save me,” an elder would say, would demand. “I am sick, weak, show me my value. Did I not teach you the last blow? Do you not love me?” And so the mercifully quick death, rescuing a revered elder from the inevitable slide into the suffering of old age.

  Twins? A double burden on mother and tribe. Instead of a strong, thriving infant, the village had to contend with two smaller, weaker
babies who would drain resources. Twins were a tragedy.

  “I love you,” she whispered to the one, raising a work-roughened hand to press over the tiny mouth and nose. “As my mother so loved my sister.” To the other: “And you in your love for me will someday do the same.”

  Without those acts of love, what were they but godless savages?

  TWENTY-THREE

  Jason blinked, disorientated. The village, the smell of smoke and suffering and pain, was gone in a moment. He was back in his room

  (back? you never left. just a dream, just the same dream)

  and a few seconds ago he had been a member of the Alyutors, his reindeer cloak spattered with muck and blood, his blood, and he was pressing his hand over his baby’s mouth as an act of lo—

  Oh. That dream again, the one where his sister had been killed and then, years later, he’d killed one of his daughters.

  Stop showing the same slides, he thought irritably at his subconscious, the thing that never shut up. I know all this. There’s no need to keep hammering it home.

  He groped for his phone and squinted at it: 5:57 a.m. A new record for that month. Not hard to reason why, either. After he’d returned from the cheerfully chaotic Drake dinner, he’d actually felt . . .

  . . . felt . . .

  . . . good?

  Not only good, and sated, but pleasantly tired; he’d crawled into bed just after midnight. And slept, undisturbed, for nearly six hours.

  Huh.

  And he was hard. Nocturnal penile tumescence had reared its mushroom-shaped head once again. Like the groundhog predicting when spring will come, he thought, amused. His erection was more a cause for puzzled bemusement than alarm. It was a universal biological phenomenon most healthy men experienced; it didn’t mean that infanticide aroused him. As for what did . . .

  Did the Drakes rekindle my sex drive?

  Of course not, that was idiotic. Angela was rekindling his sex drive. Well, Angela and Paroxetine.

  In fact, he’d been having a string of good days; his big black dog, it seemed, was going back to sleep.* It would lope back into his life soon enough, but as his mother had been fond of reminding him, even big dogs have collars.

  He hopped out of bed and headed for the shower. He was halfway to the bathroom before he realized he was whistling “Chick Habit.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Sherlock yanked John forward by his jumper and claimed his mouth, his plush lips slanting over the smaller man’s—

  “No update, I assume?”

  “I wasn’t reading BBC’s Sherlock fanfic!” Angela slammed her laptop closed. “If. If you were wondering.”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, maybe just a couple of pages.”

  Leah smiled, one hand on a slim hip, the other holding on to the doorjamb as if unsure of her welcome. Which meant Archer had given her an earful.

  “You don’t have to hover, c’mon in. And you know Archer has frequent bouts of clinical insanity so you should take whatever he says about me with a metric ton of salt, right?”

  “Archer told me you work hard to take care of the family and deserve your privacy.”

  “Sometimes his insanity is more benign,” she admitted.

  Leah laughed and let go of the door. “You’re a bundle of contradictions, did you know?”

  “I didn’t, actually. What’s up?”

  “Several things, but I don’t want to interrupt your—”

  “Don’t say ‘work’ with quotation marks, implying I wasn’t working,” Angela warned, smirking. “I won’t have it.”

  Leah grinned back and took the chair opposite the desk. “Your disgusting* fangirl secret is safe with me. Surely you must know that as the Babe Ruth of Insighters, it’s literally my job to keep secrets.”

  Angela groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry. They are awful. We’re awful.”

  Leah waved that away. Though her tone was light, Angela thought she looked pale and strained. Just the pregnancy? Or the stress of being in the vicinity of a murder of Drakes?

  “It’s fine. Are you the only Insighter your family’s produced?”

  “Well, so far. We’re not all done having kids yet. Heck, some of us haven’t even started. You and Archer are way ahead.”

  Leah put a hand on her stomach for a moment. “Yes, well. It’s not a contest. Or a race.”

  Angela snorted. “Good thing, because as far as I can tell, your fiancé is the only actual adult in the family. Besides my wrongfully convicted uncle . . . No, wait, he frequently throws ‘I’m not speaking to you, so don’t you dare come visit’ tantrums, so I stand by the original assessment.” Who would have thought?

  “Paul was telling me about his girlfriend—”

  “Oh, that . . . that won’t last. He goes through women like a cat goes through cat litter. A short cat.”

  “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “Not for a while.” She held up a hand, traffic cop-style. “And before you say anything, it’s not the work and it’s not the murder. I’ve got other priorities, is all. So when I do date, they don’t get my obsession and I don’t get their ‘but tons of people get murdered every day and this happened ten years ago, so can we fuck now?’ indifference. Or the Horde runs them off. Usually both. It’s too exhausting to fix.”

  “‘Fix’?”

  “Look how we live.” She made a gesture encompassing the house. “More than a half dozen people in a 2400-square-foot house. Most of us are legal adults. None of us have lived away from home for very long. Or if we do, we always come back. Archer was the first who didn’t. And before you blame my mom—”

  “I wasn’t going to,” Leah said mildly. “Though it’s interesting that you immediately went there.”

  “It’s not just that she’s . . . y’know, shattered.”

  “Is she? Forgive me, because I haven’t known any of you very long, but her grief . . . it’s almost vengeful in nature.”

  “That’s just how she grieves. You didn’t, uh, pick anything else off her after you shook her hand?” Like—ha-ha!—maybe she was the killer? Or knew who was?

  Bad path to go down, so Angela got back on track. “Our mom doesn’t want to be alone, and if it was just that, we could fight. But we don’t want her to be alone, either. So we stay and get older and Mom never leaves the house, much less dates, and Mitchell handles the taxes and balances the checkbook and I’m the main breadwinner and Jacky’s the cook and Mom’s a ghost and the weeds grow up on our father’s gr—” She stopped herself. “Sorry. You’re probably as sick of hearing this as I am of talking about it.”

  “So you’re all—”

  “Trapped,” she finished. “In a very nice cage that we locked ourselves. A comfortable cage with great food where we can be with people we love. But it’s still a cage. Archer grew up. The rest of us are in limbo. By choice, but there it is.”

  “But what if you did meet someone? What if you wanted children, what if Paul got married tomorrow?” Leah was leaning forward, her small hands clenched together almost like she was at prayer. “Would you leave? Would your mom? Sell the house and start chapter three of your lives?”

  Angela gave Leah a long look. Pale face, dark circles under her dark eyes—so her face was color coordinated, if nothing else. One of Archer’s button-downs. Khaki shorts. Bare feet. Comfortable but tired. Engaged but holding back. Where is this coming from? This is more than getting-to-know-the-in-laws chitchat. “There’s no long-term plan here, Leah. I don’t know what Mom would do if Paul stopped measuring himself long enough to get married. I don’t even know what I would do. Jacky’s going to college in a couple of years and he’s leaning toward the University of Chicago. He won’t consider anything out of state. He won’t consider anything out of Chicago. This is nothing anyone asked him to do. Paul and I flat-out told him he had the g
rades to go anywhere in the country and we’d support wherever he wanted to go. Mom even weighed in. But as far as he’s concerned, if it’s not within a two-hour drive of the house, it’s off the board. Because he grew up in the cage, you see? So do we kick him out? Force him to go to, I don’t know, UMass? Dad’s alma mater? Or fresh ground, a place that no ever Drake has even been near, help him make his own way? Even if he doesn’t want to?”

  Leah leaned back, loosening her grip on herself. “Your mother. When I shook her hand. She’s—”

  “Not there,” was Angela’s flat reply. “I know. I had to be around her for years before I figured it out; I don’t get entire lives from a handshake.”

  “It’s less fun than it sounds,” Leah said dryly.

  “Sure it is.” Still. She couldn’t help being envious, the way a minor league pitcher envied a big league superstar. “But Mom—she’s lived before, like most of us have. At least three lives.”

  “Seven,” Leah fake-coughed into her fist.

  “Do you live in 1995? Nobody fake-coughs insults anymore.”

  “Smart-ass,” she fake-coughed.

  “God, stop it.” Whoa. Did I just giggle? I think maybe I did. “But yeah, I get where you’re going: In every life, she’s always alone.”

  “In every life she’s alone by choice,” Leah corrected. “Which isn’t the same thing.”

  “Choice or not, that’s the reason I can’t leave. I figure she deserves at least one lifetime where she’s not totally abandoned by the time she’s in her forties.”

  “So keeping her company . . . that’s the purpose of your life this time around?”

  Angela didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing. Leah leaned forward again. “Please listen to me. And forgive me for talking to you like a client, when I’ve got no right to butt into your head or your life.”

  Oh, shit. “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not, you’re just being polite.” When Angela laughed, Leah smiled a little. “You are. You’re also too hard on yourself, but that’s an inappropriate chat for another day.”