by Rachel Caine
"I think you'll find," she said in an even softer whisper, "that it no longer matters, Mr. McCarthy. You've served your purpose. You're Chorus. You're that poor man in the back row whose name we won't remember when you die."
Silence. Lucia felt her whole body trembling with the tension of it. There was something terrible being said, something awful in Ben's face.
"What did you do?" he asked, and suddenly all that control was gone, and he was moving, moving fast, screaming. "What did you do, you bitch? You were just supposed to take care of her, you weren't supposed to—"
He went over the table. The woman stumbled backward, terror written all over her face.
"No!" Laskins yelled, and then it was a melee, and when it was over, McCarthy was on the carpet, facedown, panting, with Gregory's knee in his back. "I will not have this, do you understand? This behavior is unacceptable!"
"Unacceptable!" McCarthy's voice broke. "You fucking bastards, you have no idea what you're doing, do you? Ask Simms. Ask Simms if you don't believe me."
Silence. The assembled members milled around, and some of them returned to their chairs. Laskins looked around the room, then cleared his throat.
"Unfortunately, we can't do that," he said. "Max Simms broke out of his prison three days ago. We have no idea where he is at this point."
The thank-you messages Jazz and Lucia had gotten had been signed, in invisible ink, by Max Simms. They don't know that, Lucia thought, and met Jazz's eyes.
Jazz smiled slightly. Not a nice expression. She was furious, and she wanted to hit something, anything.
The fact that she hadn't, that she'd let McCarthy be taken down without jumping in with both feet, was significant. "What do you want?" Lucia asked. "Why are we here?" Laskins seemed to forget about McCarthy for a moment to focus back on the two of them.
"You're here for the same reason we all are. Because if you weren't, you'd be dead," he said. "And really, we can't have that happen. Not just now. Now if you don't sit quietly, I'm going to have Mr. Ivanovich handcuff and gag you."
"What are you waiting for?" Jazz demanded.
"Something terrible." It was one of the other Cross Society members, a sad-looking little man in a gray sports coat. He had a ragged fringe of gray hair clinging to the crown of his skull, and big dark eyes behind round glasses. "Something terrible. I wish we could avoid it, but it's impossible. Something terrible must happen."
Gregory Ivanovich let McCarthy up off of the floor and tossed a tangle of zip ties onto the conference table, along with three leather ball gags. Tools of his trade. Lucia felt her stomach clench when she saw them.
"Sit quietly, or I will do it," he said. "You know it, dorogaya. Tell them."
Lucia leaned forward and put a hand on Jazz's arm. A light pressure, but Jazz got the message.
McCarthy rose to his feet, breathing heavily, face still red with fury, but he didn't say anything either. After a moment, he took the chair next to Jazz and clasped his hands tight on top of the table. His knuckles turned as pale as parchment. Silence.
"That's better," Laskins said, and turned to look out the window at the view. "That's better. Now, we wait."
Two hours later, with no explanation, one of the Society members' beeper went off, and some unspoken signal was passed. They all relaxed.
Somewhere, something terrible had happened.
"Take them into the other room," Laskins said to Gregory. "Lock them in. We'll see to them later."
He nodded and made a gesture to get Lucia, Jazz and McCarthy to their feet. The next room was an empty office, and Gregory showed them in with another of his extravagant gestures. With a gun in his hand, of course. "No lock on the door," Jazz pointed out. For her, it was a pretty mild tone. Gregory's lips grinned, but the rest of his face stayed entirely still.
"Pretty one, I'm the lock," he said. "I'll be sitting in a chair across from the door. By all means, open it. I'm a very good shot, but I can always use the practice." He pulled the door shut.
"He's bluffing," Jazz said.
"No," Lucia sighed. "He's not. Ben? You okay?"
He hadn't said a word. He didn't even look at her. "I'm fine." He didn't sound fine. He sounded—terrible. "How long you think they'll keep us here?"
"Who the hell cares?" Jazz retorted. She stalked toward him. "You want to explain now?"
His eyes focused on her, then slid away. He walked toward a window, changed course and folded himself into a chair in the corner. Eyes shut.
"Oh, no you don't," Jazz said, and followed him. She stood over him, hands balled into fists. "What they said in there. About the Cross Society getting you out of jail. That was bullshit, right? Right?"
He didn't answer. Lucia felt what was left of the strength of fear bleed away, and her muscles demanded she sit. She leaned, instead, trying to look composed. "No," she said for him. "It wasn't. The pictures exonerating you were genuine, but they'd withheld them, hadn't they? They wanted something from you. And until you agreed, they wouldn't release the evidence that would get you out of prison."
"I wasn't guilty," he said. His eyes were still shut.
"I know," she murmured. "Not of those murders."
"Wait a minute. They did release the pictures," Jazz said. "So…you agreed…"
McCarthy stayed quiet. Jazz reached down and grabbed the faded shoulders of his open flannel shirt, hauling him to his feet. "You agreed," she repeated, and her voice was deadly quiet. "To what?"
"It doesn't concern you."
"No," Lucia said. "It concerns me. Doesn't it?"
His eyes opened, and even as numbed and tired and betrayed as she was, she flinched from what was in them. Jazz kept asking the question, but Lucia knew full well McCarthy wasn't going to answer her. She walked to the window and stared out, thought about Laskins treating himself to the same view one wall over.
She dug her cell phone from her purse and speed-dialed Manny's number.
No answer.
The office door opened, and an older man walked in. He was slender and stooped, with mild blue eyes and thin white hair. Short, maybe five foot five at most.
He looked sweet and a little lost, and his clothes were too big for him. He smiled at them impartially, closed the door behind him and walked across the room to the bare desk. He sat down in the chair, slid open the bottom drawer and took out a duffel bag. He unzipped it and revealed four military-issue breathing masks.
"You'll need these," he said, and held one out. Nobody moved. "Tick tock, people, tick tock. Let's move."
"Who the hell is this?" Lucia asked in confusion, and she looked at Jazz for information.
Jazz was staring at the man intently and didn't answer.
McCarthy did. He stepped forward, took the gas mask and said, "Meet Max Simms."
And then he put on the mask.
Jazz took the second one. Simms favored her with a beatific smile, then turned his attention to Lucia.
"Max Simms," she repeated. "You're kidding."
"We don't have time for introductions," Simms said, and checked a watch on his left wrist. "Let's see, did I adjust it for the time zone? Yes, I think I did. You have approximately ten seconds to make your decision, Lucia. Forgive me if I don't wait."
Jazz had tugged on her mask. Simms put his on.
Lucia looked at them all, one after another, and grabbed for the last one.
She got it in place as Simm's silent finger count went to three, then to two, then to a single index finger.
Then to zero.
Nothing seemed to happen at all. She felt nothing, smelled nothing except the industrial plastic of the mask and her own sweat. Her breath was coming fast, too fast.
"What the hell is going on?" she asked. The plastic muffled and distorted her voice, but she was pretty sure the others could hear her. Jazz lifted her hands and dropped them. McCarthy shook his head.
Simms said, "Obviously, somebody's delivered gas into this building."
"Lethal?" Lucia's mind went to
the drums of chemicals back at the warehouse.
"No. Wait, please."
If anything had happened in the other rooms, there was no indication at all. No sound. The minutes seemed to drag on, and on, and on. Simms waited, watching the second hand of his watch, and then moved to the door and opened it.
Gregory Ivanovich was nowhere in sight. A chair sat empty where he'd been. No signs of struggle.
Simms led them toward the elevators. As they passed the conference room, Lucia slowed and looked in.
Empty chairs, pushed back unevenly from the table. A handprint on the glass, smudging the sunlight. An overturned cup, with coffee dripping from the edge of the table onto the floor.
There were drag marks on the carpet.
She heard the steady chop of a helicopter—no, helicopters. She dashed forward to look out of the window just as three large black aircraft gained the sky and headed for the far horizon.
Where had they come from?
"Eidolon," she whispered. Her breath fogged the plastic of the gas mask. "Son of a bitch. You're working with them."
Simms took her by the elbow and silently walked her from the conference room out to the lobby. He hit the button for the elevator and stood with his hands behind his back, bouncing on his toes as if he had energy to burn. He hadn't taken off the mask. Lucia felt sweat trickling down the sides of her face and itched to rip the thing away, but she didn't dare. What the hell had just happened? How had Eidolon pulled that off? Not without help, that much was sure…
McCarthy's hand touched hers and twined around it, holding fast. She looked at him, but he was staring straight ahead, face unreadable under the gas mask. She shook free.
Once they were in the elevator and the doors had shut, Simms stripped off his gas mask. Jazz was yelling even before hers hit the floor. "What in the hell was that, you asshole? What the hell is going on?"
"I just saved your lives," Simms said. "Well, Jazz, yours and Ben's. Lucia's survival has always been assured."
"Excuse me?" Lucia tossed her gas mask in a pile with the others. The elevator continued down to the parking level, dinged and disgorged them into the empty structure. No sign of the limousine that had delivered them. Simms looked momentarily nonplussed, and then smiled as a shadow rumbled at the top of the ramp and started down.
Manny's black Hummer, glossy and impenetrable in the light. He was driving.
James Borden was in the passenger seat. He jumped out as the vehicle squealed to a stop, and threw open all the doors.
"In the car," Simms said. "This isn't safe."
That, Lucia thought, was the understatement of the century.
"You're in on this?" Jazz asked Manny, when they'd piled into the SUV and pulled out of the parking lot. Simms was in the back, with Borden and McCarthy; Jazz and Lucia were up front. Not that Lucia was happy having Simms at her back, but she wouldn't be any happier having him next to her.
Manny shot Jazz a near-panicked look. "In on what?"
"The Cross Society crap. Whatever crack dream conspiracy this is!"
"What?"
Jazz got control of herself, or at least enough to take in a couple of deep breaths. "Why did you show up?"
"Borden said you needed a ride. Jazz, you know I don't like strangers in my car. Who is he?"
Jazz looked over her shoulder at Borden, then at Simms. She turned around and started to answer, but Borden cut her off. "We can talk about this at the warehouse."
"No freakin' way am I taking a stranger to my house," Manny said. He stared at Simms in the rearview mirror. Simms stared back. "No freakin' way."
Simms looked away and said, as if he were talking to thin air, "Ben, how did you locate the unmarked spot where Mr. Glickman had been buried alive?"
Manny braked. Cars honked all around them, and he blinked and hit the gas. Going a little too fast, this time.
"Answer the question, Ben," Simms said gently.
"I followed the leads. I worked the case. So did Jazz."
"Yes, but you had something Jazz didn't, isn't that true?"
"Don't."
"You had luck."
"Not everything is your goddamn psychic powers at work, Simms."
"Not everything," Simms agreed. "And you would have found Manny eventually. But I helped you find him before it was too late. In the nick of time, in fact. Wouldn't you agree with that?"
Silence. McCarthy was staring intently out the window. Manny, on the other hand, was an open book—sweating, shaking, clearly and deeply rattled.
"Mr. Glickman, I'm not a stranger to you," Simms said. "I wish I could have helped you before you experienced— what you experienced. It is not a perfect world, and what I do is even more imperfect than that. But I need you now. I need your help. And I'm asking you to give it even though I know that it's against your nature."
"Did he—" Manny's voice failed, choked off. He slowed and stopped at a light, but Lucia could tell that it was just reflex, not thought. He was driving on autopilot. "Ben, did this guy tell you where to find me?"
McCarthy closed his eyes. "I knew where to find you. He told me exactly where to dig. Without that—it would have been another hour, probably."
Manny's eyes filled with tears. Lucia, even though she knew it wasn't welcome, even though she knew he'd flinch, put her hand on his arm.
He did flinch. But not as badly as he might have.
"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Manny," Lucia said. "Ever. You know that. Neither Jazz nor I would ever ask it of you."
He nodded convulsively, gulped in a breath and hit the gas when the light turned green.
Simms settled back, content, smiling.
She hated him, in that bright and completely lucid second.
"You know," Jazz said, as Manny pushed together two worktables and unfolded camp chairs, "we ought to just office here. Save ourselves the trouble."
"You couldn't afford the rent," Manny said. He wasn't looking at Ben or Simms. Ben, in turn, seemed to be avoiding everyone. The tension was so palpable it was like a vibration under Lucia's skin.
"Kidding."
"Yeah, well, I'm not in the mood, Jazz." Manny walked over to the part of the warehouse that was designated as his lab, opened a drawer, slammed it, opened another.
He came up with a pistol. A.38, Lucia thought. He pointed it directly at Max Simms, who didn't—of course— look remotely worried or surprised.
"Hey!" Jazz yelped. "Manny, what the hell—"
"Speaking of serial killers," Manny said quietly. "You think I don't know why he went to prison? I know." His hand was shaking. "Give me a good reason why I shouldn't just kill him now."
“Prison wouldn't be kind to you, Manny," McCarthy said. He hadn't moved from where he stood.
"That's it? That's your reason?"
"The only reason I know. Hey, go ahead. Kill the son of a bitch, as far as I'm concerned. None of this crap matters to me anymore."
"Well, it matters to me," Jazz said. "Manny, don't. He can help us."
"Yeah? Like he helped me?"
"He did help you, Manny."
"He could have done it earlier! " Manny yelled, and for a blinding second Lucia thought he'd fire. But then he threw the gun back in the drawer and slammed it and stalked away. "Fuck. Do what you want. I'll be in my office."
He went to the far door at the end of the room, punched in numbers and went through. The door—at least three inches of' solid metal—sealed with a solid thunk behind him, and the lights on the panel turned blood-red.
"What happened back there?" That was Borden, who was looking furious and ruffled and belligerent. His hair was spiked again, not so much from over-application of product but from running his hands through it in distraction. "Where are they? Laskins and the others?"
Simms, for answer, checked his watch. He was still looking down at it when he said quietly, "By this time? Nearly all of them are dead. The rest are running for their lives. Unfortunate."
Borden's mouth
opened and closed, and he leaned on the makeshift conference table and let his head drop forward. Struggling for control. "Laskins?" he asked.
"Milo Laskins is alive," Simms said. "I don't see any possibility that he'll have to give up his life in the current scenario. However, his days at Gabriel, Pike & Laskins are numbered, Mr. Borden. Your star is in ascendance. Feel free to be grateful."
Borden's head snapped up. His face was stark. "Grateful?"
"You had no real affection for those people, and we both know it. You disagreed with them quite a number of times, most recently just today. Let's not have any gnashing of teeth."
"You unbelievable bastard."
"Take a seat."
"Not with you. You arranged this—"
"Take a seat, Borden." Simms's voice snapped with command, and for a second there was nothing soft about him, nothing at all. Lucia remembered Jazz's description of him. Creepy. "The rest of you. Sit down. I don't have time for your histrionics."
"What about mine?" Ben McCarthy's voice was soft, and somehow even more intense than Simms's. Lucia looked over at him, but he was turned away, showing her only a hard profile, an angular shoulder, a fist clenched at his side. "You got time for mine?"
Simms met his eyes. "I'm sorry. That was not my choice, Ben. That was never my choice."
"It served your purposes."
"Yes. It did. It does. It will. What you're referring to had to happen. How it happened was your doing, by the decisions you made. You knew what the Society wanted from you. You chose to do otherwise." Simms studied him for a few seconds in silence. "How long have you known?"
'They told me, earlier today. Indirectly." McCarthy's lips stretched, baring his teeth, but it wasn't a smile. "They said I'd served my purpose. And we both know what that purpose was, from the very beginning."
"All right, I'm calling bullshit," Jazz said flatly, and slid into a chair next to McCarthy. She leaned on her elbows, staring at Simms. "What the hell are you two talking about?"
Nobody answered her. Borden pantomimed I have no idea with a helpless lift of his shoulders.
"About what happened to me when I was missing," Lucia said. "Am I correct? Gregory Ivanovich was behind that, at least."