She’d considered telling her mom about the huge blow out the night Mecca was supposed to sleep over, but she hadn’t. She’d kept the music on loud and the door closed and locked. “Sort of. I’m sure we will talk more about it today.”
If her mom thought she was hedging, she said nothing, but her look told Jenny that she knew something was up. “Who’s lunch with?”
Jenny hadn’t shared the meeting she’d had with Helen and the others, either. Any of the meetings. But she didn’t see a reason to lie about her plans. “Remember the people I met? The ones who told me about the hybrids disappearing? One of them.”
Her mom seemed as if she wanted to ask questions, but she only said, “All right. Let me know how it goes.”
Was her mom finally accepting that Jenny wasn’t a kid anymore? “You too.”
They exchanged a smile and Jenny left.
Since Mecca’s Uncle Ken had told her that her father was dead, she had felt empty and angry at intervals. For the first time, it seemed as if she had some purpose, a reason to move forward.
Chapter Fourteen: Claude
Claude tapped his keyboard with the hunt-and-peck method, answering yet another email from Trieste. The project’s progress had been lethargic, and Claude wasn’t happy.
A gentle knock came on the door.
“Enter,” Claude said.
“I’ve put him in the library,” Salas said after closing the door behind him.
“We’ll let him sit for a while.”
“As you wish,” Salas said.
“I will want the car later. Let us pay a visit to Trieste and see where the issue lies.”
His man bowed. “I will make the arrangements.”
Claude sent the email he’d been working on and closed the laptop.
Salas held out a pair of exquisite lambskin gloves.
He pulled them on as he stood. “Come,” he said, moving for the door. “Let us meet our guest.”
Claude entered the library precisely fifteen minutes after their arranged meeting time, the thick carpet swallowing his footfalls. He had chosen a different time, and David Trenow had dictated this time in response. It had been a power play that Claude had allowed the other man to win. There would be plenty of time to show him who held the power in this relationship.
“Mr. Trenow. Good evening,” he said, as he approached. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
Salas followed and moved off to the sideboard, where a decanter of brandy and four small glasses sat.
“I think we both know that I wouldn’t be here if there was a way I could not be here.”
Claude chuckled and inclined his head toward David. “That is so. You completed the request?”
“I killed your man, yes.”
Claude twinged at the vulgar words, and one corner of David’s mouth quirked up.
Salas, always adept at ignoring conversation as he served, presented a silver tray that held two snifters, both half-full of the sweet amber liquid. David shook his head as Salas offered the tray to him first. Claude took his own glass. Salas withdrew.
“Did you take a photo?” Claude asked, watching David closely as he sipped his drink.
David blanched. “No, I didn’t.”
“In future, I would like proof of death.”
David watched him for a moment, his eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to leave a photographic trail of my misdeeds. So, no, I don’t think I will be doing that.”
“You will.” Claude easily suppressed his urge to destroy David because of his refusal.
Centuries of manipulating people and events had given him the control to resist. But time had had no effect on the urge itself. Defiance of his wishes always created rage in him.
“Otherwise,” he continued, “our deal is in jeopardy. I cannot know whether you’ve completed the task. If I do not have proof of death, I wouldn’t know if you hadn’t done as you’re told until someone came along and became a problem.” He smiled. “And so it would be worse for you. And then it would be worse for Mecca.” He motioned to Salas.
The man stepped forward, produced a smartphone, and offered it to David.
“It is untraceable, as long as you are careful with it,” Claude said. “There is one telephone number programmed in and one application installed. You will take a photo, send it to the number, and delete the photo. It will be encrypted and deleted from the application’s servers once it has been viewed.”
“Great. Murder Snapchat,” David muttered. He took the phone and slid it into his jeans pocket.
“Keep it off unless you get a message on your usual telephone to turn it on,” Claude continued. “Understood?”
“What happens to the picture that the phone number—your number, I assume—receives?”
Claude enjoyed the fact that David thought he had any authority in this situation, demanding answers. He smiled again. “It will be stored to ensure you comply as we arranged.”
Alarm flashed through David’s eyes but disappeared in a second. “I don’t like this at all,” he said in an even voice.
Claude took another sip of his brandy, enjoying the sweetness on his tongue. It paired well with the sweetness of dominance. “This is how it is to be. It can be you, or it can be your daughter. That has always been your choice.”
David’s anger filled the room like a scent. Claude did so enjoy the smell of an opponent who realizes he has been checkmated.
Claude motioned his man forward again. “I brought Salas here so that you might meet him. He will be your main contact point.” Salas bowed to David in the manner Claude expected.
David shook his head, jaw set. “No.”
The corner of Claude’s mouth quirked up. “Excuse me?”
“I won’t have an intermediary. I will deal with you directly.”
Claude crossed one arm over his chest, leaned the other elbow in that hand, and raised his glass to his lips. He took a small sip. “You think you are the one in charge?”
“There is no ‘in charge,’” David said. “We have made an agreement of equals. In return for leaving Mecca alone forever, I consented to do a series of tasks for you—you. Not an intermediary.”
“You do not get to decide how I choose to communicate.” Claude found this entire conversation amusing. Though David’s brashness annoyed him, a small part admired the human’s tenacity.
David leaned toward Claude. His breath, smelling of mint, brushed against Claude’s skin like a feather. Salas tensed, but Claude raised a hand to still him.
“Let’s be honest, Claude. Straightforward,” David said. “The tasks you wish me to do will mean killing someone. I don’t relish these tasks, and so I will tell you clearly, right now, that I will not kill someone for you at the request of an intermediary.” He eased back. “Because I did not make this deal with an intermediary. I made it with you. So, by all means, send someone, if you’d like. Understand, though, I will only fulfill a request made by you, directly.”
Claude studied the man before him. David’s dusky blue eyes and stiff posture spoke of being resolute about his words.
“Very well,” he said. He inclined his head. “I suppose that is not terribly unreasonable. However”—now Claude leaned in and lowered his voice—“when you hear from me, I shall expect immediate results.”
Chapter Fifteen: Jenny
Jenny sat at Manuel’s Tavern in the Highlands, a glass of tea centered on the dark wooden table in front of her. She turned on her phone to check the time. 1:12. She didn’t know Helen very well, but she didn’t seem the type to be late. Or, at least, not without giving a heads-up.
Me: Traffic?
She ran a finger through the cool sweat on the glass. Patience had never been a strength.
“Still waiting on your friend?” the server said as she approached. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail with one errant dark brown lock tumbling over her forehead.
“Yeah. I’m sure she’ll be here soon. She’s coming from downtown, so she probably
hit traffic.”
“Want an appetizer or anything?”
“No, thanks. I’ll wait.”
“Okay. Holler when you’re ready.”
“Thanks.”
What her mom said about Claude flitted through her mind. “Just in case…” Was there a cause for “just in case”? Would he come after her?
Her mom had never been one to panic or overreact in a situation. She had always taken things in stride, calmly, carefully. So there had to be something her mom thought might happen.
Was Claude behind the disappearances? Was he responsible for Helen’s investigation into the deaths being quashed?
She tried to envision the small, blond boy—he really reminded her of a high school art kid—as a cold-blooded killer. It was difficult. He didn’t look dangerous. He looked like he should be making a silk-screen Warhol T-shirt.
There were too many questions and not enough answers. She didn’t know whether Helen had anything more on what was happening, but Jenny was impatient for the older woman to arrive. Even if there was nothing new, Helen had such a greater understanding of Visci politics and culture. Jenny was eager to learn from her.
She checked her phone again. No text from Helen.
1:28.
Calling people was not her favorite thing in the world. She often got anxiety about talking on the phone. But that would probably be the best way to get Helen. She couldn’t very well text if she was driving.
The phone rang four times before going to voicemail.
Okay, now Jenny was getting concerned.
Maybe Jorge had heard from her. She sent him a text. Ten minutes later, he replied that he’d texted her during the morning, but not the afternoon.
Me: She’s more than half an hour late. I’m worried.
Jorge: That’s not like her. Did you call?
Me: Yes. No answer.
Jorge: I’ll try.
The ice in her tea had melted into a clear layer of water on top. Jenny waited, edgy. Her phone rang. She snatched it up, hoping it was Helen, but Jorge’s name flashed.
“Hey,” she said.
“I tried her cell and her landline. No answer on either. I’m going to her place.”
“Me too. She texted me around eleven to confirm lunch.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“‘Kay.”
Another text came through as she disconnected the call. Mecca, sending an address for their meet later.
Me: Might be late. Something came up. Not sure how long it’ll take.
Mecca: K
Jenny didn’t know whether to read into that short reply. She brushed it aside, dropped a five on the table, and headed to her car.
Chapter Sixteen: Mecca
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Will asked as they approached the brownstone.
They were on a side street in Little Five Points, and Mecca didn’t think this was a very good idea.
“Probably not, but we don’t have another choice,” Mecca said.
He grabbed her arm and stopped. When she turned, his sea-green eyes flashed with intensity. “You have another choice. You do not have to leave. Go back to school. I’m a grown man, you know. I can take care of myself.”
“How? Your name is the name of a man born like a hundred years ago. How will you get a place to live, exactly? How will you pay your bills? With what money from what job? Do you even have a social security number?”
He let go of her arm. “I don’t need to be taken care of, Mecca. You have an entire life to live. Go live it.”
She frowned. “Who will help me kill the Visci?” She left the question sitting there in the air like smog over a city.
Finally, he said, “You don’t have to kill Visci.”
How could he say that? After everything he’d seen? After everything she’d lived through? She turned away and stomped up the steps to the brownstone. She couldn’t even look at him. He heaved a sigh and followed her as she rang the front bell.
The Star Wars theme rang somewhere deep in the house.
They stood there, looking like idiots, she was sure, and waited. After a few minutes, she rang again. She didn’t even let the theme song end before she hit the button a third time.
“Look, she’s obviously not home,” Will said.
The door opened. Sara stood there in a pair of dark grey cargo pants and a tank top. Her short black hair poked out in different directions, and Mecca thought she saw dark green folded into the ebony streaks. Sara’s expression clouded for a moment when she made eye contact with Mecca. She glanced at Will. Then she saw the duffel back over Mecca’s shoulder. “Oh, hey… Mecca, right?”
“Yeah, hey. Thanks for opening the door.”
“No prob. I was downstairs. Took me a minute.” She shifted her weight from one combat-booted foot to the other. “So, what do you need?”
“Could we come in for a minute? I need to ask a huge favor.”
“Favor.” She seemed to be weighing her options, but finally she stood to the side and held the door open. “All right. Come on.”
Once they’d settled into the living room—it looked the same as before, except Sara seemed to have acquired a lamp that looked exactly like the stocking leg lamp from that Christmas movie her dad loved to watch every year.
Sara must have noticed her staring at it because she laughed and said, “Heh, I won it in this weird Christmas hack-a-thon.”
“Hack-a-thon?” Mecca said, turning back to her.
“Yeah. A bunch of computer people get in a room, break into teams, then write code for some project they each come up with. We were runners up, so we got the leg lamp. Get it? Runner up?” She shrugged, obviously also not appreciating the humor in it. “Anyway, come on in. What’s going on?”
They all settled down on the second-hand furniture, and now Mecca found herself even more self-conscious than before.
“Sara, this is Will,” Mecca said, pointing at him as he sat down.
“Oh, yes, hi, sorry.” Will stood again and held a hand out to Sara.
Sara shook it. “Hey. Nice to meetcha.” She dropped back into the over-sized recliner and looked at Mecca again.
Oh man, why am I doing this? “Okay, I get that we’re not friends enough to even ask this,” Mecca said, “but I don’t have anywhere else to go.” She paused, not even sure how to ask for what she wanted.
Sara waited and tilted her head. “Uh huh. You haven’t actually asked anything.”
“Yeah.” Mecca laughed and cringed at how high-pitched and nervous it sounded. Will watched her calmly, but she was sure he was saying he told her so in his head. Okay, get to it, Mec. “I was wondering if it would be okay for me and Will to crash with you for a little while. I can give you some money for rent.”
Sara gave a surprised flinch. “Oh. Wow. Not sure what I was expecting, but that wasn’t it.” She looked from Mecca to Will and back to Mecca. “Your dad doesn’t want you shacking up?”
“What? No! I mean, we’re not shacking up. That isn’t… No.” Mecca’s cheeks flushed hot, and she shook her head belatedly.
Sara laughed and held up her hands. “Okay, okay. Don’t flip out. That was the only reason I could think of why you wouldn’t be crashing at your dad’s. I imagine he has room.”
“I’m not… He and I are not really speaking right now,” Mecca said. She hoped Sara wouldn’t ask about it. She was also glad that Will was staying quiet for once.
“Not speaking, huh?” Her eyes bored into Mecca but then looked away. She shrugged. “He’s not speaking to me either.”
Mecca didn’t feel the need to correct Sara about who wasn’t speaking to whom.
Sara looked again at Will. She leaned back in her chair and pulled her legs up under her. “So why don’t you have anywhere to stay, Will? New to town?”
“Not really,” he said. “My previous employer had provided lodging, but that situation has ended.”
Sara nodded, as if she bought that entire thing. Mecca did
n’t think she had, even though technically it was true. Of course, that situation ended because she, Mecca, had killed Will’s employer.
It was complicated.
“You can’t get an apartment? No savings?”
“Look,” Mecca said, “if you’re wanting us to sign a lease, we could have gone anywhere else. We only need a place to crash for a week or so.” Mecca could figure out the rest later.
“Well, you couldn’t have gone anywhere else, could you?” Sara’s eyes twinkled. “You said that on my front porch.”
Mecca bit back an exasperated snarl.
Sara grinned—part friendly, part competitive, if Mecca read it right. “You’re welcome to stay. But there’s one condition.”
Mecca narrowed her eyes. “What condition?”
She leaned forward, all seriousness now. “I want you to tell me what happened to you. When we found you on that property. Your dad would never give me all the details, and I helped him a lot. I mean a lot. He told me some stuff, but I want to know what really happened. All of it. You tell me that, and you can stay as long as you want.” She settled against the back of the chair again.
Mecca looked at Will. He wasn’t any help. She’d avoided telling Josie to only now have to tell Sara. Mecca couldn’t win. Sara had been the one to lead the people trapped in the maze to safety. And she had helped her dad do…whatever. So she at least had some idea of the level of danger involved in what was going on. What had her dad told Sara when he’d been here?
Sara sat there, watching her, as she warred with herself. But even as she weighed the pros and cons, there wasn’t much choice. Will had no money; she only had the money her dad had given her, which she hated using.
“All right,” Mecca said, finally.
Sara grinned and sat forward in her seat. “Great! Now, you were kidnapped, and I know where they kept you, obviously. Who are they, and why did they take you?”
Well that’s straight to the point. Mecca looked at Will again. He raised his eyebrows, and she took it as, “You’re the one who agreed to this.” She scowled at him.
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