by Tina Whittle
The words fell between us into a flat uncomfortable silence. Boone looked significantly at Jefferson, who returned the gaze evenly. Then he looked at me.
“I don’t run with that crowd anymore. But they know better than to lay a hand on you.”
“Are they in the trade right now?”
“What trade?”
“The Confederate relic trade.”
Boone scratched the back of his neck. “I suppose so.”
“Will they be at the Expo?”
“Guess you’ll find out tomorrow, won’t you?”
“So—”
“That’s all I’m saying. You’ll have to figure out the rest yourself. But watch yourself, girl. The brotherhood does not play.”
I didn’t ask any more questions. Information was a commodity, after all; it had its own systems of commerce. I leaned on the wooden railing next to Boone. The wolves went about their business.
Boone waved his hand at the gathered pack. “Which one you think is the alpha?”
The slate-colored wolf was now sitting right in front of Boone, staring at him with challenge in its clear gray eyes. I pointed.
Boone shook his head. “Nah. That’s Cheyenne. He’s the beta.”
I looked over to where Trey stood. A large silver-gray wolf now paced back and forth in front of him. It reminded me of the way Trey paced sometimes, tight turns, repetitive.
“That one?”
“Nope. That’s Brook. Mid-level.” Boone pointed. “See the white one over there, next to the den?”
“The one that’s asleep?”
“Pfft. He’s not asleep. That’s Odin. All the other guys are scrambling for any opportunity that comes, but Odin? He knows he’s top dog.” Boone put a foot against the fence and leaned forward. “Your feller over there? He’s all alpha. Probably quiet, though, when he’s not knocking heads. Real clear ideas about right and wrong. Reads people like a book.”
I kept my expression blank. Yes, Trey could read people, but only the lies, which lit up their faces like Times Square billboards. The motives behind the lies remained opaque to him.
I smiled Boone’s way. “They teach you that psychology stuff in the big house? Or you been watching Dr. Phil?”
Boone laughed until he started coughing. Jefferson took a step closer, his features knit in concern, but Boone waved him back. Eventually he got his breath again, and Jefferson settled down.
Across the enclosure, I noticed another wolf rise, this time a mottled black and gray one. It shook off the dust, dipped its nose into the stream. Every other wolf in the enclosure looked its way, suddenly on point.
Boone jabbed his chin in its direction. “See that one?”
I squinted across the enclosure. The wolf was smaller than the others, self-contained and compact. “Another beta?”
“No, that’s Buckeye. A female, the only one in the pack right now.” Boone looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “And that makes her the most powerful creature out there.”
Chapter Seventeen
Once we were in the room, Trey went straight to his desk and unloaded his pockets—the leather notebook, primary pen, handkerchief, phone, secondary pen. I closed the door behind me.
“Are we being recorded now?”
“The system is sound-activated.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“Yes.”
He arranged his things according to some personal geometry, then took off his jacket and draped it on the back of the chair. I wasn’t used to seeing him against a backdrop of beiges and neutrals, thick curtains and pillowed upholstery. The suite looked so innocuous, and he looked so…not innocuous.
I locked the door behind me. “When you said you were taking care of the Hope situation, I didn’t think you meant this.”
“It seemed a prudent option. Considering.”
“And you just happened to have an audio surveillance system lying around?”
“I asked the director of Secure Systems if I could field test one. He agreed.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I planned to tell you as soon as I saw you. But then I heard the first transmission and decided instead to meet you at Oatland Island.” He moved to the safe. “Why didn’t you tell me about Boone?”
“I didn’t think you’d let me go alone. But I was going to tell you when I got back.”
He unholstered his gun and unloaded it, then the mag. Everything went into the safe, joining his spare H&K in its travel case. I handed him my bag. It was specially designed for concealed carry, with a lockable holster and separate compartment for ammo. It held my S&W .38 and a speed loader. He double-checked each item before placing it inside the safe.
Through the window, a ripple of lightning fractured the dusk-dimmed sky. Another storm was coming, spawned by the weather system still spinning in the ocean.
I crossed my arms. “We’re not doing a grand job of trusting each other.”
He shook his head, eyes on the weapons. “No, we’re not.”
I moved behind him. “Remember when I said that I needed to up my game? And you agreed that you did too?”
“Yes.”
I turned him around to face me. “This isn’t how we do that.”
“I know.”
“So let’s start doing things differently. Let’s start right now.”
I unsnapped his holster, an Alessi custom-made that was practically unnoticeable under the well-tailored drape of an Armani jacket. I eased it off his shoulders, then leaned forward and put it in the safe with our respective armaments. He didn’t move, not even when my breasts brushed against his chest.
He put his hands on his hips. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Trying to seduce me into a deal of some kind.”
“Not a deal. A compromise. You can keep your surveillance set-up, but I want the codes. I want to be able to turn it off when I’m in here.” I looked him in the eye. “When we’re in here. You and me. Doing certain you and me things.”
Trey cocked his head. “What if I reject this compromise?”
“Trey. Boyfriend of mine. I am asking sweetly—”
“That never works in interrogations.”
I pulled back. “Interrogation?”
“Technically, yes. You want the codes to the surveillance system. I am, however, resisting the idea of giving them to you.”
“Why?”
He kept his head tilted, scrutinizing me. “Because I still don’t trust you. Not completely. And I need to trust you.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“I suggest we return to your first suggestion.”
“Which was?”
His eyes never left mine, and the challenge in them was acute and erotic and potent. “Trying something different.”
Now I was the wary one, especially when he shifted his weight into a neutral stance, his shoulders dropping. I was two seconds from ending up flat on my back. Again. Which was, I realized with a hot flush, a development ripe with possibility.
I stood on tip-toe, my mouth inches from his. “I want those codes.”
“They’re useless without the password.”
“Then I want your password too.”
He inclined his head lower. “I know.”
“Give it up, Trey.”
And then it happened. His mouth curved against my lips, and when I put my hand against his cheek, I felt the deep-set dimples revealing themselves. A smile, a slow deliberate one, brazen and enticing. My knees went weak as a wallop of thunder rolled in from the ocean and rippled through me in a wave.
“Make me,” he said.
***
Forty-five minutes later, I sat propped up against the cushioned headboard staring at his phone. The thunderstorm had arrived in full force, dragging sheets of rain behind it. The drops drummed on the balcony, occasionally hitting the window like bullets, almost as fierce as the lightning and keening wind.
I squinte
d at the screen. “Okay, where do I type the code?”
“You have to input the password first.”
“So what’s the password?”
“It changes daily. Every morning, I feed a new starter sequence into this program, and it creates a numeric password for me.” He tapped an icon. “And then I memorize it and erase it.”
I saw several grids, each like a tic-tac-toe square, numbers one through nine in the boxes. “This looks like Sudoko.”
“What do you know about matrices and determinants?”
“Nothing. You have to start at the beginning.”
He was still naked. So was I. It was a testament to my time with Trey that lying naked in bed talking about higher math felt perfectly normal.
“Okay. The beginning. Matrix codes are very difficult to crack. Using one to create a password is almost as secure as a randomly generated password, but there’s a repeatability factor in case I forget.”
“You don’t forget shit.”
“Mostly true. But if I ever do, I’ll need a way to generate the password again. Sequenced input generates a coded output. And even if the program is compromised, I can create the inverse matrix with a calculator and still access my data.”
“Sequenced?”
“A changing formula based on the day and date.”
He typed in tuesdayfifteen, then fed the letters into one of the seven matrixes. “Tuesday is the second day of the week, so…matrix number two.”
A numeric sequence appeared. He typed it in, then dragged another icon with his finger. “Once you’re in, finding the audio files is simple. They’re chronological.”
He clicked on the day’s collection, seven files. Some were only five minutes long; others lasted almost an hour. I looked at the most recent file, which was still taping, then handed his phone back to him. He logged out and put it on the bedside table. Such a remarkably simple system, but virtually impenetrable unless you knew the key. Which in many ways was exactly like the man himself.
I poured a glass of water from the bedside carafe. “I forgot to tell you Rico called. He discovered some suspicious material on the dead guy in Florida.”
“How suspicious?”
I filled him in, including the part when I went all good citizen and called Garrity with the info.
“And another thing,” I said. “Boone and Reynolds both told me that the Klan may be involved in the case.”
“How?”
“Reynolds implied they’re big behind-the-scenes Confederate collectors. Boone was less specific what they might be up to, but he said to start with the Expo. So I guess that’s what I’ll be doing tomorrow morning.”
Trey frowned. He had an appointment with Marisa and Reynolds to scout alternate locations for the tournament. I could see the worry in his eyes suddenly sharpen.
“It’s ridiculously safe,” I assured him. “Cops and private security in spades. I’m meeting Dee Lynn there for the vendor’s lunch, and she’s like a mother hen sometimes.”
“Are you ready?”
“Sure. I don’t know what I’ll find out, but I have a tote bag full of research to prime the pump.”
He shook his head. “I mean, are you ready for the sale?”
“Oh.” I did a quick calculation. “I guess so. It doesn’t start until Saturday. Between then I have the business meeting on Thursday and the reenactment on Friday. But yeah, I’m ready.”
“Good.”
He was almost asleep, hanging out in that fuzzy realm between wakefulness and dozing. I lay down beside him. “Trey?”
“Yes?”
“Why didn’t you just give me the code? Why’d you make me pry it out of you number by number?”
He yawned. “I don’t know. It seemed…I can’t think of the word.”
“Fun?”
“No.” He slipped me a sideways look. “Not that it wasn’t. But that’s not the reason.”
I stretched against him. Just when I thought I knew the rules, the rules shifted. Oh, there were always rules, dense as jungle undergrowth. And I could machete my way right through them. But I was also learning that I could ease around them. That for every rule, there was a loophole. For every obstacle, there was a way around it. Exactly like…
“Sparring,” I said.
“What?”
I propped up on my elbow. “Making me get those codes from you. It was sparring.”
“How?”
“Not dominating, not surrendering. Give and take the whole way. Which is why it’s got the same kick.”
He didn’t argue. His heart was still thumping faster than its normal sub-sixty beats per minute, his skin still warm from the blood rush. The collision of chemicals, as irresistible as physics.
I sat up all the way. “Is that why you’ve been backing down in sparring? The kick?”
“Which kick?”
“Not a literal kick, the hormonal one.” The realization came like the crack of dawn. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re not just afraid of hurting me—you’re afraid of liking it.”
Trey froze. I watched the gears of his brain turn and mesh as the understanding caught. Adrenalin, testosterone, neuronal circuits crossing and crisscrossing. Arousal was arousal, after all, no matter what followed it.
He stared at the ceiling. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Just…can’t.”
“Can’t talk about it, think about it, what?”
He exhaled and shook his head.
“Trey—”
“Please, Tai.” He rolled his head to the side and looked at me. “Not now. Please.”
Please. The most intimate word in his vocabulary. Of course he’d held onto those secret numbers, sharing them with me one at a time—they were a vulnerability. And even though he’d trusted me with them eventually, it was only after we’d hit that middle ground, the surprising and unsteady territory of give and take. And I knew he’d trust me with this new weirdness we’d tapped. Eventually.
I rested my head against his chest. He flinched at my touch, but I moved his hand to my hip and stretched under the covers, all of me against all of him, skin to skin.
“Not going anywhere,” I said. “Get used to it.”
He let out the breath he was holding and closed his eyes. This was how we’d make it work, breach and then fortification, break down and build up. One strange and shaky step at a time.
Chapter Eighteen
I’d noticed something was wrong the second I pulled into the parking lot at the Convention Center. Instead of vendors moving their wares inside, a knot of people clustered around the front entrance. Two Savannah Metro police department cruisers parked catty-corner, practically on the sidewalk, blue lights flashing. Almost a dozen cops worked the crowd, holding back the main swell while people screamed obscenities.
Not at the cops. At the man on the sidewalk, clutching pamphlets. The man wearing the triple tau t-shirt, the three-pronged symbol of the Ku Klux Klan.
“We have the Constitutional right to be here!” he yelled. “We are a legal political entity, and we have the right to share our message!”
Two uniformed policemen protected him from the surging edges of the crowd, a kaleidoscope of rage and volatility. He was pure white-bread, this Klansman—thinning brown hair, close-set eyes, pale freckled skin. And he was enjoying the hatred. It justified every vile thought in his head.
I heard the squawk of a police radio right behind me, and then a voice from my past. “Oh no. Not you. Like I haven’t had a rough enough morning.”
I whirled around. A short dark cop with biceps the size of pork loins stared at me, a wry grin at the corner of his mouth. His muscles strained the black uniform, and a sergeant’s badge glimmered on his chest.
I squinted at him. “Kendrick? Is that you?”
“Yeah, Tai. How you been?”
To our left, the Klansman held his arms in the air. “We support the rights of all people to peaceably assemble! Equal rights for everyone
, special rights for none!”
I jerked a thumb in his direction. “Seriously, Kendrick? Y’all just gonna let him spew all over the steps?”
“He’s not the one I’m worried about, it’s the people he’s pissing off.”
Kendrick was as wide and brown as the delta of a river. He hadn’t grown an inch taller since high school—his nickname on the football team had been Fireplug—but the body under the uniform was hard, like a flint-napped arrowhead. He’d sported a crew cut then too, only now it revealed a man’s skull, with muscle at the neck.
“Heard you were running a gun shop up in Atlanta,” he said.
“You heard right.”
“Back for the Expo, huh?”
“Right again.”
The officers bum-rushed the Klansman into the convention center, the sleek glass doors closing behind them, leaving the protestors to churn in their anger with no clear target anymore.
“So what’s going on here?” I said.
Kendrick sighed. “The Klan applied for a booth permit. They were denied. The organizer said they didn’t get the paperwork in on time. The KKK says that’s a lie and that they’re being discriminated against, and now the ACLU is involved. So this is my morning.”
Mine too. I remembered Boone’s warning about stirring things up. Damn. The Klan was one big anthill.
I looked back at my car. “So when will those of us nonracists who do have a valid permit get to set up?”
He poked his chin toward the back. “This way.”
***
I found Dee Lynn in her usual spot, right inside the entrance, the first and last vendor the customers would see. She’d rented two tables and had them covered with old bullets, buttons, coins, the smaller detritus of her trade illuminated in the high fluorescent overheads. Behind her, an eight-foot-tall triptych displayed poster-sized portraits of her at work—Dee Lynn underwater in SCUBA gear, Dee Lynn standing erect at the wheel of her boat. When she saw me, she put down her barbecue plate and stood.
“Lord, what a mess. Fucking Klan. Come here and hug my neck.”
She’d changed little, still tall and wiry, still sporting the salt-cured tan that came from hours of exposure to ocean wind and the merciless coastal sun. The skin around her eyes was the soft white of well-milked tea, however, her ever-present sunglasses shoved on top of a baseball-capped head. Gray now liberally streaked her black hair, which she kept pony-tailed in a kinky rope as thick as my wrist.