Seeds

by Chris Mandeville

  “Come this way.” She indicated yet another door.

  As he went through, she took his robe and he stepped naked into a tiled room, empty except for a man in a long white coat.

  What was going on? This wasn’t right. Had Mia lured him into a trap?

  Fifty-Three

  Lost Angeles

  Pascal sat at his desk in City Hall, squinting at the report in front of him. He couldn’t bear the thought of reading glasses. Silver hair was dignified, but glasses were a sign of frailty. Gomez would have to write bigger.

  He signed the paper and handed it back to Gomez. “What’s next?”

  The benches were lined with people waiting to see him. He’d hoped for a tryst with Mia, but the business with Maybelline had taken all morning, and now he was backlogged.

  Gomez looked at his notebook. “Next is the Chief of Security with the weapons report. After that, someone from Supply, and the two dental apprentices you wanted to see.”

  “Father!” The double doors flew open and Linus stumbled in, covered in blood.

  Pascal’s heart stopped. “Linus!” What had gone wrong? How could this have happened? “Linus, come here. Everyone, clear the courtroom. Gomez, get a medic,” Pascal shouted. “You—” Pascal pointed at the Chief of Security, blanking on his name. “Secure the building. Post guards at the doors until further notice.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Father.” Linus collapsed on the dais steps.

  “Was it Van Hooten? What did the bastard do to you?” Pascal looked him over, trying to find the wound. “Where is the medic?”

  “Father, it’s not my blood.”

  “Thank God.” Pascal exhaled, feeling his tension fall away. He glanced around to be sure everyone else had left the room. Only Gomez remained, standing by obediently, waiting to be of service. “Gomez, cancel the medic. Bring us whiskey. Then privacy.”

  “Right away.” Gomez left.

  Pascal sat on the step beside his son, relieved beyond measure that he wasn’t hurt. He’d give the boy a moment to collect himself, but no more than that. He was anxious to hear how he’d come to be covered in blood. And if the blood belonged to Van Hooten. “Tell me what happened,” he said gently.

  Linus threw his arms around Pascal and sobbed. Pascal held him while he cried out the worst of it. Gomez placed a bottle and two glasses on the floor near Pascal’s feet, then scurried away. Pascal waited until the door closed, then disentangled himself from Linus’s grasp and poured two drinks.

  Linus was hyperventilating, but accepted the glass.

  “Toss it back in one swallow.” Pascal watched the boy do it, then emptied his own before refilling both. “Again.”

  The boy did as he was told then set down the glass. He was calm now. “I’m sorry I got blood on you.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Can I assume it’s Van Hooten’s?”

  “Yes, the bastard!”

  “Do you need another drink?”

  Linus took a shaky breath. “No, I’m fine.”

  “Can you tell me what happened now?”

  Linus nodded. “I only left Mother for a minute. Jenna was out getting me something to eat, and I stepped out to use the facilities. When I came back, Van Hooten was there.”

  “And Jenna, had she come back, too?” That would be a stroke of good fortune.

  “She walked in right behind me. We both saw him leaning over Mother with a needle. I tackled him and the needle went flying, but it was too late. He’d already injected something. I kept hitting and hitting him, and he kept yelling at me, saying it wasn’t what it seemed, the liar.”

  “Maybe he was telling the truth. Are you sure—”

  “He killed her! She stopped breathing, so Jenna blew into her mouth. Van Hooten said he could help and pounded on Mother’s chest. But I couldn’t let him, I couldn’t.” Linus’s voice broke.

  Pascal handed him another drink and watched him slug it back. He held Linus’s shoulder and waited. The boy needed to say it like a man, not have it coaxed out of him.

  After a moment, Linus continued, his voice steadier. “I stabbed him. This is his blood. I stabbed him until he was dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your mother?” Pascal asked quietly. “Were they able to revive her?”

  “No. It was too late.” The boy’s shoulders shook with silent sobs.

  Pascal poured himself another two fingers and turned away so the boy wouldn’t see his elation. Finally, the bitch was dead. And it had gone better than he’d hoped. Jenna had witnessed not only the stabbing, but also the suspicious actions and investigation leading up to it. Of course, Pascal’s word would suffice to clear Linus, but it would be much easier to paint him a hero now.

  His boy had become a man. Killed his mother’s murderer with his own hand. Not coldly with a gun. A knife. That made it personal. This would shape him, fuel him better than Pascal could have hoped.

  It was time to celebrate. He tossed back his whiskey and slammed down the glass. “Come with me, Linus.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a hero. Heroes don’t sit inside crying.”

  “My mother’s dead.”

  “Yes, but you avenged her death. I’m so proud. I want everyone to know. Stand up.”

  Linus stood and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

  Pascal wrapped his arm around Linus’s shoulders. “The whole city will know you brought a killer to justice. You will mourn your mother, of course. She was your mother, you loved her. But today you did the work of not just a man but a leader. Well done.”

  “Okay.” Linus was subdued, but he’d come around.

  “Bart,” Pascal called to the Chief of Security, now remembering his name. “My son is a hero. When he discovered Dr. Van Hooten poisoning his mother, he defended her, killing the doctor with his own hand. Have guards take Van Hooten’s wife into custody and send the news to all directors. Dispatch your fastest man to the Grand to have Ms. Ford prepare a hero’s welcome for my son.”

  “Yes sir!” The Chief saluted Pascal, then saluted Linus.

  “We’re going to the Grand?” Linus asked. “Covered in blood?”

  “You’re a hero decorated with the blood of the enemy. Wear it proudly.”

  Linus stood taller.

  “Trust me, son, you’ll remember this day long after Ms. Ford’s beautiful women have cleansed the blood from your body and the grief from your soul. Not as the day you first killed or the day your mother died, but as the day you became a man.”

  Maybelline and Van Hooten were gone. His son was becoming a man. And Pascal would get to see Mia after all. It was turning into the perfect day.

  Fifty-Four

  Lost Angeles, the Grand Hotel

  The man in the white coat beckoned Reid over.

  Reid’s heart thudded as he looked for an exit. The small white room had two doors, but both were closed. Probably locked. If they wanted him as a prisoner, it was already too late. He didn’t want to think Mia had betrayed him, but . . .

  “Come on over, son,” the man said. Reid liked it better when they called him sir. “I’m Dr. Levine, and I’ll give you a quick exam before you get dressed.”

  An exam? “I don’t need a doctor,” Reid mumbled. These people were overly concerned about germs and disease. Had there been some kind of epidemic?

  “It’s standard. Please remove your hands from your genitals.”

  It wasn’t much of an exam. The doctor didn’t listen to his heart or lungs, or look in his ears. He focused on Reid’s penis. He lifted it with gloved hands and looked at the end, then felt his testicles.

  “Any burning when you pee? Any itching? Foul odor?”

  “No.”

  “Any problem achieving or maintaining an erection?”

  “No.” What? Had venereal disease mutated to where it was infectious via casual contact? He sure as hell would ask the doctor if it wouldn’t risk giving himself away.

&nbs
p; “Any pain or discomfort with ejaculation?”

  “No.”

  “You’re done. Go through there.”

  Reid was through the door before the doctor’s gloves hit the trash.

  He was met by an attractive middle-aged woman.

  “Let’s get you dressed.” She looked him over and he covered his privates again. “Size thirty-two, I think,” she said. “You seem like a man who could wear red.” She made a selection from a wall of shelves and handed him a pair of red boxers.

  Reid had never worn red underwear in his life, but he put them on, happy to have something.

  “Those fit well, sir?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay, the thirty-twos fit. Would you like slacks? Or jeans? Maybe some silk pajamas?”

  Pajamas? This place is some kind of weird. “Jeans.”

  “Excellent.” She retrieved a pair that looked like they’d never been worn. “Now how about a starched dress shirt in cobalt blue to complement your eyes?”

  He shook his head.

  “Are you sure? You want to look nice for your appointment.”

  Reid remembered the nicely dressed people in the lobby. “Uh, okay.” Blending in was more important than being comfortable.

  She handed him a shirt, which he quickly put on.

  “Very handsome. Have a look.”

  Reid looked in the mirror and was surprised he was looking at himself. The haircut was the best he’d ever had, and the clothes looked nice, if a bit fancy.

  “What about—” He cleared his throat and made sure to mumble. “My belt and shoes?”

  “You’ll get those later. I have slippers for you now. What size, ten?” She gave him leather moccasins that fit well enough. “I think you’re set, except for a little cologne.”

  Before he could stop her, she squirted him. It smelled good. Maybe Mia would like it.

  In the hall, a pony-tailed girl who looked twelve years old was waiting. She wore a navy blue uniform like everyone else, just smaller. “Please come with me, sir.”

  Reid followed her up two flights of stairs and down a long corridor. They passed a dozen or more doors before she unlocked one.

  “Here you are.”

  Reid stepped into a foyer and the door closed behind him. “Hello?”

  “Come in.”

  He walked through an archway, and there she was—more beautiful than he remembered. She was wearing a man’s dress shirt that hung to the tops of her thighs, the white fabric in sharp contrast to her skin.

  Reid gulped. His heart pounded. He couldn’t form words, couldn’t remember why he was there.

  Time slowed as she came toward him. The shirt parted slightly as she walked, hinting she had nothing else on.

  She came closer, so close her breasts grazed the front of his shirt. His palms were sweating and he forgot to breathe.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” Her voice was low and husky. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I don’t know what I would have done if I never saw you again.” She touched his nose with hers, brushed her lips against his.

  He kissed her, just a touch, a test. Was he dreaming?

  She looked at him, and he got lost in her eyes, then her lips were on his, urgent and demanding. She leapt into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist.

  The room swam. Her fingers gripped his hair. She kissed him harder. He slid his hands beneath her shirt and found nothing but satiny skin.

  She squeezed him with her thighs. “We don’t have to rush,” she whispered, untangling herself. She led him past the bed to an oversized chair and pushed him into it.

  He sunk into the cushions, breathing fast, heart fluttering. She tossed her head and her hair fell in waves, dark and shiny against the white shirt as she knelt in front of him. Her hands traveled up his legs, gliding along the denim. He shivered as they slid under his shirt.

  “Mia, I—”

  She stopped him with a kiss. Her hands traced his waistband to the front where she undid his jeans.

  “But Mia, we—”

  “Later,” she said.

  She climbed astride him and the thought of talking didn’t cross Reid’s mind again.

  Fifty-Five

  California waters, aboard the Emancipation

  “Pirates!” the watch called from the crow’s nest.

  “Location and number,” Nikolai shouted from the helm.

  “Due south. About twenty boats. Intercept in fifteen minutes.”

  “Alert the captain and ready the crew below,” Nikolai told Olexi. He caught the grim expression on his face but brushed it aside. They had a good plan, providing Kennedy’s crew played their parts. It was hard not knowing the men, their strengths and weaknesses, who he could trust under pressure. But it was too late for second thoughts.

  He looked over their charade, noting that the crewmen appeared more keyed up than sloppy drunk. Thankfully, the pirates had shown sooner rather than later. Anticipation was often more difficult than the actual encounter, especially for those who’d never seen a pirate.

  “Report,” Nikolai called to the watch.

  “Five minutes,” he bellowed. “The largest is maybe a twenty-seven footer. Quite a few appear to be two-seaters.”

  Nikolai nodded to himself. Fortunately, not much had changed in these waters.

  “Are we ready, Captain?” Kennedy asked, emerging from below with Olexi.

  “As we can be,” Nikolai replied. “The crew belowdecks?”

  “Yes sir,” Olexi said.

  “Let’s get the party started.” Nikolai released the helm to Kennedy and headed to his post at the bow, nodding to each of the crewmen he passed, trying to assure them all would end well.

  Nikolai stood at the bow with the yeoman, and when the pirates were in earshot, he nodded, indicating it was time for the yeoman to start the show.

  “Ahoy! Ahoy, there, pirates,” the yeoman shouted, managing to sound quite drunk as the largest of the boats, a Coronado, approached the Emancipation.

  The deck of the pirates’ Coronado was littered with men pointing guns. Nikolai held his breath. It was a deadly situation, a powder keg waiting for a spark, but when he saw “Jolly Roger” scrawled in black paint across the bow he breathed a sigh of relief—these were northern pirates, not southern.

  “Prepare to be boarded, you bilge-sucking swabs!” the pirate yeoman called.

  Nikolai stifled a guffaw at the ludicrous pirate talk, reminding himself that even this breed of pirate could be deadly.

  “Helloooo,” he called out, raising his mug. Cider sloshed out, splashing on the deck. “Oops!” He brought his other hand to his lips in mock drama as he sashayed across the bow to the other rail. “I’m so clumsy,” he slurred to the pirate who was lashing the boats together. He ignored the other six men with guns trained on him.

  “Stand down or you’ll be meeting Davy Jones hisself,” one commanded.

  “Us?” Nikolai stopped, making sure to wobble noticeably. “We’re standed down already, see? No weapons.” He sloshed cider again as he gestured to the deck of the Emancipation, displaying what appeared to be a drunk, unarmed crew.

  He stepped aside as pirates poured aboard, bearing automatic weapons.

  Steady, men, Nikolai thought, hoping Kennedy’s crew would hold up under the stress.

  The pirates swarmed the ship, pointing their guns from crewman to crewman—Mike “passed out” on an untidy pile of rope, Ernie leaning lazily against the rear mast, Kennedy sprawled in the cockpit.

  “They’re drunk. Every last scab,” a pirate called.

  “Nooooo, we’re not drunk.” Nikolai hiccupped and followed it up with a burp.

  “I’ll see for myself,” a voice boomed.

  A pot-bellied bald man stepped onto the deck of the Emancipation.

  Nikolai had been banking on this man’s appearance. Apparently, the king had not yet recognized Nikolai.

  Wait . . . wait.

  When the king reached his “ma
rk,” Nikolai went into action.

  “What kind of welcome is this, men?” Nikolai called. “These fine pirates look thirsty. Get them some drinks. Here, sir, take mine.” Nikolai gestured with a flourish, sloshing cider on the pirate king’s boots.

  “Blaggard,” the king barked, wiping at his boots.

  When he looked back up, the “drunk” crew had guns trained on the pirates.

  As the rest of Kennedy’s armed crew emerged from below, the pirate king smiled.

  “Captain Petrov, you old scallywag.”

  “Good to see you, Captain Markoff.”

  “Looks like you win this one, Nikolai. Well played.” Markoff chuckled and slapped Nikolai on the back. “Men, stow your weapons,” he bellowed. “We’ve been bested by my old friend.”

  The pirates did as they were told, smiling and elbowing each other.

  “Stand down,” Nikolai called to the crew of the Emancipation.

  Mike, Ernie, and the rest lowered their weapons, the relief evident on their faces. Nikolai was relieved, too. It could very easily have gone another way if they’d come across someone other than Markoff.

  “You look thirsty, friend,” Nikolai said. “What do you say I introduce you to the real captain of this vessel, then we share a drink or three?”

  He turned him toward the helm, but between them and Kennedy stood two men with weapons trained on Markoff.

  Oh hell. Just when things were well in hand. He’d forgotten all about Fahnestock and White, or he’d have had them bound and gagged. They were about to ruin everything.

  Fifty-Six

  Lost Angeles

  “You’re a hero,” Pascal told Linus. “Stand tall and enjoy this moment.”

  “Sir!” Gomez ran toward them.

  Pascal had never seen Gomez out of breath, much less seen him run. “What is it?”

  “Sorry, but this can’t wait,” Gomez said.

  “Linus, go with the escort. Ms. Ford is expecting you. I’ll be along when I can.”

  Linus looked lost, then smiled as if realizing what awaited him. He saluted—something he hadn’t done since he was a toddler—and marched off, shoulders back, blood and all.