None of her assignments, as she called them, was connected to her in the remotest way until this last one had snagged her, but good.
"I'm not sure what the answer is, though," he continued. "We know they were having an affair, that she killed him by injecting an air bubble into the femoral artery, and what snared her was the very visible mark left on his groin, along with a pair of her underwear left in his bed."
"Cute," she said. "But pretty far out of character for someone with her experience. Unless she's lying about the other hits. If not, then either she wanted to get caught, or her employers set her up."
"Any of the above is possible. And she's not talking. You'll see when you meet her. What other questions do you have?"
She looked away, somewhere beyond his shoulder and out the window, then brought her cool, clear eyes back to rest on his. "Why me?" she asked.
He expected that one. Knew how to respond. "What possible answers can you generate on your own?" he replied.
She held his eyes steady, without any discernible agitation in her own, as she enumerated. "That you're setting me up to fail by giving me an assignment you know is impossible. That you're hoping we'll kill each other. Or that there's some lesson you want me to learn—perhaps about my moral stance?"
"I don't set up my people, and I don't like exercises in futility," he commented, then waved a hand for her to continue. "Try again."
She brought a finger up to her forehead, let it run smoothly down her nose, and come to rest on her lips.
"Go ahead, Dr. Addams," he said.
"I'm translating an elusive feeling into words. Give me a minute."
"Try saying the words out loud, even if they don't make sense," he suggested.
"Okay," she said, "if that's what you want. My thoughts run along your particular capacities in the empathic arts. You're an adept. You perceive possibilities, and manipulate events toward the end you choose. Are you working within your art, and using me because I fit a specific outcome you've perceived? Will you tell me what that outcome is, or let me work blind? Or," she added, "are you just flying by the seat of your pants."
She would see it that way, he thought. She viewed the art of the adept, once called precognition, as manipulative and controlling, and she didn't trust him not to use it against her. No surprise there. He wasn't sure how he felt about some of her choices, either. She had arts he didn't even know how to name yet. Ways of being and doing that she'd learned long ago, in a high desert land. After three years they'd just begun to stalk the edges of trust with each other, sometimes moving closer, sometimes skittering away into their own private jungles of fear.
"Which answer will you choose to act on?" he asked her.
"Which one is most nearly accurate, Supervisor?" she asked in her turn.
He grinned at her. "You must be a fine poker player."
"Try me sometime. But answer my question first."
"I'm flying by the seat of my pants, Jaguar," he said, "and I'll let you know when I'm able to more fully articulate my reasons for choosing you."
"Fair enough. When do I start with Clare?"
"In a few days. She'll be in one of the Fun Houses—House of Mirrors, actually. I'll talk to you when that's settled, and you'll go right in."
She tossed the file folder back onto the desk.
"Something else just occurred to me," she said.
Alex felt himself tense, as if readying himself to hear words he hadn't prepared a response to. "What?"
"Does this have anything to do with Nick?"
He let himself relax. That was an easy one.
"Yes," he said. "It's a classified case, so he won't know your location while you're working on her. You'll be out of his sights and I want you to stay that way as much as possible."
"With pleasure. Anything else?"
"Many many things, but they'll keep."
"Good." She slipped her sunglasses over her eyes, stood and walked as far as his office door.
There, she stopped and spoke, keeping her back to him. "But you know, Alex, the assignment with Nick wasn't an absolute failure. The prisoner's real fear was death—and he did end up facing it."
After Jaguar left, Alex rode the elevator to the basement, intending to pick up the remainder of the background information on Clare Rilasco from Rachel. When the doors opened and he stepped out into the hall, his way was blocked by the bulky frame of Terence Manning, principal record keeper for Planetoid Three.
"Hey," Manning said, "looking for Rachel?"
"Yes, Terence," he said, "and I'll bet you know why." Terence seemed to know everything, and he seemed to know it all at once, as if the air he breathed was permeated with Planetoid news. He supposed that was a good trait in a record keeper, but he found it irritating, like having a conversation with an omniscient narrator.
"Rilasco," he said, jabbing at Alex's arm with his finger. "I know. Got the file today. Jaguar's on it, right? The prelims might be delayed, though. There's about a thousand people want to see them, and I'm headed out to the home planet for a few days. Got some family stuff to take care of." He glanced at his watch, pressed the button that translated Planetoid time to home-planet time, shook his head. "Hope I make it in time."
"We'll manage without you, Terence. You have a good time, and worry about it when you get back." He took a step around him and Terence moved to the side, blocking him.
"Was there something else?" Alex asked.
"Listen." Terence kept his voice low and leaned toward him. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry about Jaguar and Nick. I mean, I'm—well, everyone thought they made a pretty good team, and it's too bad about the trouble they're having. I thought maybe you could tell her that, or maybe if there's something you think I can do to help straighten it out, I'd be glad to."
A bubble of anger rose inside Alex. He didn't want to hear anything else about Nick and Jaguar from anybody, and he certainly didn't want Terence talking about it like it was the romantic tragedy of the decade. And what the hell did he mean when he said everyone thought they made a good team? Who was everyone, and what kind of team did they think Jaguar and Nick made?
"I don't have any idea what you're talking about," he said coolly, "and I don't think you do either."
Terence rolled his eyes and smiled. "Oh, sure. I get it. Private stuff. Don't worry—I'll keep it under my hat. But I wanted you to know I think it's a real shame, after he got her started and all, and I hope they find a way to work it out."
He patted Alex on the shoulder solicitously, and left. Alex stood and watched him go, wondering if everyone else on the Planetoid knew more about Jaguar than he did.
"Where are we going?" Adrian asked, trotting along beside her as they went down Spadina toward Yonge, "and why didn't we take wings?"
She didn't slow, but answered out of the side of her mouth, "I hate those things. Nothing to latch onto."
"That's generally the idea in flying," Adrian said.
He looked around him as she continued walking at a fast clip, her long legs striding out without pause, her mood inscrutable behind narrow mirror shades that wrapped around her eyes.
He had never been to Toronto before, but had always heard it was a clean city, and a polite one. So far he liked it. He made it a point to get a map, learn the streets and the layout, and then, while she was out doing whatever it was she did—getting tested, getting laid, he didn't know—he would walk around, get his bearings, find the best parts of the city to do his work. Conversations with people in coffee shops, at bookstores and newspaper stands taught him a lot.
And Jaguar was helping some, he had to admit. Tomorrow she was going to introduce him to a group called the Ascension Project, people who wanted to increase longevity through meditation, expanded spiritual awareness, and use of herbal synergists. The group was composed of middle-aged business men and women, and sometimes very wealthy older people who were vain of their looks and frightened of their deaths. The Ascension Project programs never asked them to do anyth
ing more strenuous, psychologically or physically, than sit cross-legged and take deep breaths, but it promised a life span beyond their wildest dreams. Just his kind of hook, and the faster he could bait the hook and make a catch, the sooner he could get out of his attachment to Jaguar. Not that he minded a lot of their interaction. Even now, when she was being insistently distant and moody, the view of her lean body swathed in black leather was a real treat. He hoped to keep in touch once the deal was complete. But he wanted to keep in touch on his terms not hers.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked, walking briskly to keep up with her, trying to figure out how she managed to walk so fast in so much leather and not sweat.
"Another connection. A doctor I know who works with ISD patients. He's got a list of names he's willing to sell for percent of profit. For a little extra, he'll help convince them to buy your snake oil from you."
"Yeah? How much up front?"
"Enough that you better make good, sonny."
She turned and pinched his cheek between her thumb and forefinger, laughing when he pulled away. As he stood and rubbed where she had pinched, she walked ahead, humming to herself.
"Will you slow down?" he yelled to her.
She stopped, and looked at him. "I thought you were in good shape."
"Didn't it seem like it last night?" he said, coming up to her and whispering in her ear.
"Good enough," she said, then thought some more. "I've seen better, but we can work on it."
He grabbed her arm at the elbow and held hard, to keep her from walking away. Last night, he thought she was going to eat him alive, swallow him without chewing once. And she called it good enough.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She looked down at the hand clutching her elbow, then back up at his face. "Let go," she said softly. A sensation of heat, more direct than sun, spread across the back of his neck, down his shoulders, toward his chest.
He loosened his hold and then dropped his arm to his side.
"Women." She grinned at him. "Can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em. At least, not since the Serials."
She walked ahead.
He followed, now walking in a more leisurely way. Let her stop and wait for him. He wasn't about to run to keep up with her. It was getting damn hot out, and why should they run? Maniac. That's what she was. She walked ahead very fast, and he strolled behind. She stopped at a corner and waited for him to catch up. When he did, still strolling, he said, "Y'know, I'm gonna need some stuff, too."
"What stuff?"
"Materials. Nothing very expensive. I can make a list, and you can get them, or you can give me money, and I'll get them. You pick."
"I'll give you the money," she said. "Just keep the expenses down, all right?"
"My mother," he muttered, "you sound like my mother."
"What?"
"Nothing. Hey, Jag, after this interview, let's go get some lunch, okay?"
She wheeled around to face him and stuck a long and elegant finger in his face. "Don't call me that," she snarled. "Just don't, okay?"
"Man, did you ever get up on the wrong side of today. What is it with you?"
She lowered her finger and pursed her lips. "Nothing," she said. "Just—skip it. Premenstrual, probably."
"No," he said. "I don't want to skip it. I'm tired of getting my head snapped off for nothing."
She turned to him. "Do you know what today is?"
"Um—let's see. It's a hot sunny day. Must be June. Not a lot of traffic, so a Saturday—"
"It's June seventh," she interrupted. "Traditional Memorial of the Serials. In Manhattan, there's a vigil. In L.A., there's a concert. In Toronto—they're too damn polite to remember a thing."
"Well, gee. If I'd known, I'd have made a cake."
"My family died in the Killing Times," she said quietly. "I watched."
He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He didn't like to talk about the Serials. What was the point? It was over. Long done. It could never happen again. These groups that staged memorials, insisted on remembrance days, were just stupid. If you couldn't let go of that kind of thing, you were screwed.
"We should keep walking," he observed.
Her mouth twitched into an unpleasant half smile.
"Didn't your father kill your mother around then?" she asked.
Adrian felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. He pushed it away and put a smile on his face.
"He probably would have killed her anyway," he said casually. "She was hell to live with."
"Some men," Jaguar responded, speaking slowly and precisely, "turn women into what they hate so that they can hate them. Convenient, isn't it?"
He balled his hands into fists, and hid the fists behind his back. He wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of seeing him angry. He took a moment, brought himself under control.
"I don't have to explain my life to you," he said. "You're not a tester, and it's none of your business. In fact, the only business we have together is business. So let's stick to it."
He stepped forward, off the curb, and a taxi whizzed by, startling him as the driver laid hard on the horn. He jumped back.
"Dammit," he spit out, "I thought people were supposed to be polite here."
"They are," Jaguar observed mildly, "but they don't suffer fools very well."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. I guess I'm just beginning to wonder how smart you really are." She watched as he raised his tightly pinched face to hers.
This. The moment of vulnerability, when he was using so much energy to hide his emotions, he wouldn't have any left to guard himself from her eyes. This moment was what she'd been working for, and she used it.
She focused hard, held his eyes with hers in close focus, and brushed the surface of his mind with her laughter, the strength of her ego. She allowed her knowledge of him to enter him. She stayed right at the surface, using no words, and no gestures that would frighten him or make him feel too much of who he was. Not yet. Now it was enough to sweep away the surface cobweb of emotions that he used to hide what lay beneath. He wouldn't know what hit him. He would only know that everything felt a little sharper, every word cut a little closer to the bone.
When she was done, she smiled at him. "You like music?" she asked.
He frowned, knit his brows. Something funny here. An old laughter in his head. His mother's voice. The sound of gunshots, smell of smoke and whiskey in the room. What did she ask him?
"I said, do you like music?" she repeated.
She was asking him about music. Had they been talking about that? "Music?" he asked.
"That's what I said. You know, whining guitars and bad sound mixes and incipient deafness. Spelled M-U-S—"
"I know what you mean," he said sharply. "I don't know why you're asking."
She laughed. "There's this band I sing with sometimes. Called Moon Illusion. Friday night we'll be playing out at Silver Bay. Wanna watch? I know how you like to watch."
"Sure," he said, still scowling, "sounds great."
"I'm overwhelmed by your enthusiasm. Look, I'm gonna introduce you to this doctor, and then you're on your own. I have to be somewhere."
Adrian smirked at her. "Hot date?"
She lifted her chin and looked at something in the distance that he couldn't see. "Just a roll in the hay with a big pussycat," she said.
3
"Red three on four of clubs," Terence said.
The Looker squinted up from his cards to the portly frame of the man who stood next to his booth at the end of the diner. He placed the three carefully at the bottom of the row, and then spoke.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"She's with Addams. Jaguar Addams."
He lowered his head and moved an ace up to the top of the row. As he considered his next move he indicated the seat across the booth from him. "Well," he said, "sit down. We'll need to discuss this."
"Right. How's the game today?"
> The Looker shrugged, and swept the deck into his hands, shuffling. "I've lost about five hundred, but I'll make it up. That's the way the game goes. Both strategy and luck play a part, and one is nothing without the other."
Strategy and luck. Terence imagined the Looker knew a lot about both.
When he hired Terence for what he called consultant work, he said he was in research and personnel management for the Division of Intelligence Enforcement, a private corporation that provided research and efficiency analyses for a number of intelligence agencies on a consultancy basis. Their research was techno-toy and applied strategy computer games—lots of psi-capacity work and information gathering for specific projects. The Looker wanted someone on Planetoid Three who could access information from their central files on an as-needed basis, and he wanted to avoid the delays associated with getting this information through the usual channels.
At first, Terence decided to accept this as the truth and not ask a lot of questions. Safer that way. There were many things about the Division of Intelligence Enforcement that he really didn't want as his burden of knowledge. It was enough to know that they were profit-oriented, and paid accordingly, in clean, untraceable bills. With the money from this consultancy work he'd be able to retire in good style.
After he'd signed on and began seeing the kinds of information they wanted, he had second thoughts, but by then it was too late. If the Planetoid Governors found out what he was doing, he'd be in deep shit. If he stopped doing it, he might not be alive long enough to be in deep shit. He'd seen the Looker's research projects, and the kind of personnel he managed, Clare Rilasco among them.
This meeting, arranged quickly and inconveniently for Terence, would probably be about that woman.
THE FEAR PRINCIPLE Page 4