Swift Edge

by Laura Disilverio

  I had cut the distance between us to barely fifteen feet when he suddenly looked up, alerted by some tiny noise I’d made, or clued in by a subliminal sense of danger. The pale oval of his face turned toward me and he sprang to his feet, dropping whatever instrument he’d been using to pick the door. It clattered to the ground.

  “Kungfu, wait!” I called as he whirled and began to run. I lunged at him, catching the tail of his jacket as he reached the corner. I tugged, breaking his stride, and flung myself forward just far enough to get my arms around his thighs and bring him to the ground.

  “Charlie! Are you okay?” Gigi called out. I could hear her crunching over dried leaves and broken bottles as she hurried toward us.

  Kungfu heard her, too, and struggled to his feet, kicking at my hands, which had slid down to his ankle and gripped it tightly. The youth was slipperier than a greased eel. He tried hopping away on his unencumbered foot, but my weight attached to his ankle slowed his progress considerably. He’d hop, dragging me about six inches, then pause to catch his breath. Hop, drag, pause.

  “Father Dan wants to talk—” I gasped in between his hops.

  The pause this time was longer. “Father Dan?” he asked, looking down at me where I played limpet.

  Suddenly, Gigi appeared in front of us, violet parka visible even in the low light, bent knee, straight-arm stance like something out of a cop show’s credits. What was she holding? I knew she didn’t have a gun because I’d locked hers away “for safekeeping” and only took it out when we went to the shooting range for practice.

  “Don’t worry, Charlie,” she yelled. “I’ve got him.”

  “Don’t—” I started, “don’t” being my default word of choice when dealing with Gigi, but before another sound could leave my lips, pain jolted through me, making every muscle spasm. My hands clenched reflexively around Kungfu’s ankle, and everything grayed out as he toppled.

  21

  I’m not sure I was completely unconscious, but I might as well have been. Grogginess and pain immobilized me for several minutes. The ability to think and analyze my surroundings slowly returned, and I realized I was lying on the gravelly ground behind Tattoo4U, with Gigi kneeling beside me, chafing my wrists as if I were the fainting heroine in some period romance. I tried to bat her away, but my hand flopped spasmodically.

  “Oh, Charlie, thank goodness you’re alive,” she said, fear and relief pitching her voice higher.

  I became aware of a heavy weight on my legs and tried to heave it off without success. I lifted my head and peered toward my feet. There seemed to be a body sprawled across my legs. Kungfu.

  “What—?”

  “I didn’t know it would shock you, too,” Gigi said. She put her face inches from mine, apparently trying to examine my eyes. “Do you have a headache? I hope you didn’t get another concussion when you fell. How many fingers am I holding up?”

  Since the fingers in question were a half inch in front of my nose, I couldn’t focus on them. “Did you tase me?” I asked.

  “No, oh no!” she gasped, rocking back on her heels. “I tased Kungfu, to stop him from getting away.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Since I was holding on to Kungfu at the time, you tased me, too,” I said. “Don’t you know anything about electricity and conductivity?”

  My tone brought tears to her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Did it hurt?”

  “Try sticking your finger in an electrical outlet and then ask me if it hurt,” I bit out, shoving myself up on one elbow. At least my muscle function was coming back. So was Kungfu’s; he rolled off my legs and lay staring up at the sky.

  “Damn, that smarts,” he said in impeccable, accentless English. “Shit!”

  Even in my befuddled state, it occurred to me that he sounded like the product of the American public school system, not a scared immigrant from mainland China.

  “Give me the Taser,” I said to Gigi, holding out my hand. “Where did you get it?”

  “The Internet,” she said, handing over the weapon.

  I stuck it in my pocket and clambered to my feet, brushing aside Gigi’s helping hand. I reached down to grab Kungfu by the upper arm. “Come on, Kungfu, or whatever your name is. Probably something like Bill or Jason.”

  He got to his feet willingly enough, slapping gravel bits and dirt off his jeans. Standing, he was about three inches taller than me. The muscles in his arm tensed under my hand. “Did you say something about Father Dan?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, cheered that he didn’t seem inclined to make a run for it. I wasn’t up to chasing him after my near electrocution. “He’s worried about you. He asked me to find you.”

  “Why you?” Kungfu asked, walking beside me as I headed for the street. Gigi trailed us, leaning forward to hear the conversation.

  “I’m a PI.” I stuck out my hand. “Charlie Swift.” We had reached the street by now, and the light from the liquor store windows showed me a slim young man with black hair, smooth almond skin, and an Asian cast to his eyes.

  Kungfu shook my hand with a firm grip. “Aaron Wong.”

  “I’m a PI, too,” Gigi piped up. “Gigi Goldman.”

  Aaron and I turned and glared at her, united in our memory of the painful tasing. She dropped back a step, muttering, “Sor-ree! It was an accident. Well, not an accident, exactly, because I meant to shoot you—Kungfu, that is, not Charlie—but a misunderstanding. The directions didn’t say—”

  “How about we go see Father Dan?” I suggested.

  Aaron cast a disgruntled look over his shoulder at the tattoo parlor and then at a middle-aged man emerging from the liquor store with a case of Corona. “Might as well,” he agreed. “There’s nothing more I can do here tonight.”

  * * *

  Aaron and I pulled up in front of the rectory half an hour later, having dropped Gigi back at the office, where she’d left her Hummer. She wanted to get home and talk to Kendall before the girl went to bed. “Not that she’ll be in bed before midnight,” she sighed, “but she is only fourteen, and I don’t like to leave her alone too long, especially after dark. I don’t know what Dexter had planned for tonight, so…” She got out of the car slowly and beeped open the Hummer’s locks. Her shoulders slumped as she crossed the parking lot.

  “It was the right thing to do,” I called to her after a brief internal struggle. “Tasing Kungfu.” He made a disgusted sound from the backseat, but I ignored him. “For all you knew, he might have been armed, might have been going to shoot me.”

  “Thanks, Charlie,” she said, climbing into the Hummer with a little more of her usual bounce.

  I’d phoned to let Dan know we were coming, and he opened the door immediately when I knocked. “Charlie!” Dan said, his large frame filling the doorway. “What happened?”

  “I look that bad, huh?”

  “Not bad,” Dan said, smiling, “but like you could use a Scotch.”

  “When can’t I?” I crossed the foyer and headed to the kitchen, where I knew Dan kept his booze.

  Aaron hung back as if unsure of his welcome but stepped into the entryway when Dan said, “It wasn’t my plan to heat the great outdoors.” They joined me in the kitchen, Aaron rubbing his hands together.

  “Anyone else for Scotch?” I asked, raising the bottle I’d found in the cabinet over the stove. I eyed Aaron, who looked sixteen but held himself with the confidence of someone older. “I’m betting you’re legal.”

  “Twenty-four,” he admitted. “I’ll take a beer, if you’ve got one.”

  Without comment, Dan pulled two beers from the fridge and opened them, handing one to Aaron and keeping the other for himself. “Let’s sit,” Dan said, leading us to the den at the back of the rectory, where a corner stove glowed with warmth and scuffed leather chairs beckoned invitingly. I flopped into the nearest one, sitting in it sideways with my knees over the squashy arm. Aaron stood with his skinny rear facing the stove’s heat, and Dan headed for the chair opposite mine; it sig
hed a great poof of air as his weight settled in. Our reflections hovered palely in the dark, uncurtained sliding glass door that looked out to the backyard and my house beyond it.

  “So, let’s have it, Aaron,” Dan said, setting his bottle on the scarred coffee table with a click. “You’re obviously not a runaway like I thought. Where are you from and what are you doing here?”

  “And why were you trying to break into Tattoo4U?” I asked.

  Aaron edged his thumbnail under the bottle label and peeled up the corner. “I’m from California,” he said finally. “West Hills, in L.A. I’m a reporter.”

  “Hello!” That made me sit up straighter. “Are you working on a story?”

  He shook his head, dislodging silky bangs that fell into his eyes. He pushed them back impatiently. “No. I wish. I’m looking for my brother.” His dark eyes flicked from me to Dan. Apparently reassured by what he read in our faces, he continued, “It’s a long story.”

  “There’s more beer where that came from,” Dan said, nodding at the bottle in Aaron’s hand.

  Aaron flashed a quick smile but then sobered. “It all started when my brother enlisted in the army last year. He was only eighteen and had just graduated from high school. He wasn’t much of a student—more because he’s a little spacey than because he’s not smart—and he didn’t apply to any colleges. He worked at a grocery store for a month or so, but then, out of the blue, he visited the recruiting office with one of his buddies and signed on. I actually thought it might be good for him—give him a little discipline, you know, and money for college later—but it freaked our mother out. She was sure he’d get killed in Afghanistan.”

  Dan nodded. “With Fort Carson down the road, I counsel a lot of army spouses and parents when the units deploy. Living with uncertainty about a loved one’s well-being can be hard, too.”

  Aaron looked grateful for Dan’s understanding. “Yeah, well, Mom got Nate all worked up about it, and he decided he didn’t want to do it, but he’d already signed the contract. I talked to him, got him settled down a bit, and he went off to basic training feeling pretty good about the decision, I thought. Then one of the guys in his unit or platoon or whatever you call it, committed suicide, and Nate totally lost it, insisted he had to come home immediately. Well, of course the army didn’t let him, so he just left.”

  Aaron looked from me to Dan again, searching our faces for—what? Judgment? Understanding? I’d spent several years in a military uniform and had little sympathy for troops who took the paycheck but didn’t pull their weight. Still, it sounded like Aaron’s brother wasn’t cut out for life as a soldier. I raised my brows as an invitation for him to continue.

  “I didn’t see him,” Aaron said. Flecks of soggy paper sifted to the carpet as he continued to work at the beer label with his thumbnail. “He got home and told Mom he was AWOL, that he’d be sent to prison if the MPs caught up with him. She gave him the money she had on hand, and he told her he was going to head for Canada.”

  “So what are you doing here?” I asked. I drained the last sip of Scotch from my glass and contemplated getting more. I was too comfortable in the chair to bother moving.

  “He hitchhiked here,” Aaron said, tension invading his voice. “I guess he was working his way gradually north when he could get a ride. He called Mom from Dellert House and told her he had a line on a fake ID. He said next time she heard from him he’d be in Canada. We never heard from him again,” Aaron said quietly. “That was a month ago. When she finally told me what was going on, I took vacation time and headed up here, thinking I could get a lead on him.”

  “I can see why you didn’t involve the police, but why bother with the illegal immigrant routine?” Dan asked. From the set of his jaw I knew he was annoyed that Aaron had lied to him, and that he’d bought into Aaron’s tale.

  “I thought I might learn more if I seemed to be in Nate’s situation,” Aaron said. “Someone who needed an ID, someone who might be in a bit of trouble with the law.”

  “So did you?” I asked.

  He nodded, narrowing his eyes. “Yeah. Someone left me a note in my stuff at Dellert’s. It said that if I was interested in a new identity, I should visit Tattoo4U. So I did. I hung out there some and talked to the guys who seemed to be regulars, but when I hinted around about needing some ID, I got nothing.”

  “Maybe someone wasn’t buying your illegal alien act,” Dan suggested.

  “Or maybe they didn’t think you could pay the going rate,” I said. “Do you still have the note?”

  He shook his head. “No. I tucked it back in my book, where I found it, but it was gone the next time I looked for it.”

  “Someone’s being cagey,” Dan said, sliding a look at me.

  “Slick,” I agreed. “No exposure. No trail.”

  “Did anyone remember your brother?” Dan asked.

  Aaron looked a little sheepish. “I couldn’t really ask about him, not when I was pretending I hardly spoke English. How would I explain knowing Nate? Besides, most of the guys there seem to be in and out in a matter of days. I doubt there’s anyone there now who was around a month ago when Nate came through. Maybe he scored some ID and moved on to Canada and we’ll hear from him when he gets settled.”

  He didn’t sound convinced.

  “Have you been in touch with your mother since you got here?” Dan asked.

  Aaron nodded. “Yeah, she hasn’t heard from Nate.”

  We were silent, pondering the possibilities. They didn’t seem good from my vantage point. I found it hard to believe that an apparent mama’s boy like Nate would suddenly stop communicating with his mother for no reason. I couldn’t think of a good reason; most of them were bad.

  “Why were you trying to break into the tattoo parlor?” I asked Aaron.

  “I got a feeling that place wasn’t on the up-and-up,” he said. “Call it reporter’s instincts.”

  “What’s your beat? Crime?”

  “Sports.” He shrugged and gave me a tired smile. “Hanging around that place, pretending to be undecided about getting a tattoo—I overheard parts of some conversations that didn’t sound right. They’ve got a room in the back that’s always locked, too. Graham—the owner—used a key to open it a couple of times. What’s that all about in a tattoo shop? What are they hiding? One-of-a-kind tattoo designs?” He made a prrp sound that dismissed the idea that tattoo designs were worth guarding.

  “What did you hear when you tried to break in Friday night?”

  Aaron’s head jerked up. “You were there? You saw me?”

  “Gigi saw you,” I said. “She took your picture.”

  “She’s dangerous.”

  Dan cocked an eyebrow, inviting explanation, and Aaron told him about Gigi tasing us.

  “Both of you?” Dan asked, a smile playing around his lips as he studied me. “I’ll bet that hurt.” He chuckled.

  I gave him the finger.

  Edging away from the stove, Aaron set his beer bottle beside Dan’s on the coffee table.

  “Let’s find you a spare toothbrush and get you to bed,” Dan said, noticing his guest’s weariness.

  “I can stay here?” Aaron looked surprised and relieved.

  “Sure. You can help the custodian with some chores around the church in the morning.”

  “That’s great,” Aaron said. “I got fired from my newspaper when I didn’t go back last week, and my credit card’s getting declined now, so I really don’t have anywhere to sleep. Ironic, huh? I showed up at Dellert House pretending I was homeless, and now I really am, until I get back to California anyway.”

  I pondered the sacrifices he was making to find his brother while Dan ushered him out of the den and down a hallway I presumed led to the bedrooms. He’d given up his job and put his life at risk to find the Nate-the-Deserter. I wondered if Nate, assuming we found him, would appreciate what his brother had done for him, or resent it.

  Dan returned a few minutes later and grasped my hand to pull me out of
the soft chair. I was tired and achy and supposed I should blame the tasing. Dan kept a grip on my hand once I was up. His large, callused thumb traced circles absently on the back of my wrist, sending shivers of warmth up my arm.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “You ask that a lot,” I said with a small smile.

  “I wonder it a lot,” he said, looking down into my face.

  I squeezed his hand and released it. “I’m fine,” I said. “Or as fine as someone gets to be after being electrocuted.”

  “You didn’t make Gigi feel bad about it, did you?”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “No, I told her I like being zapped with a kajillion volts of electricity and asked for another round. Jesus, Dan!”

  He backed away a step, his face closing down. “You’re tough on her sometimes. She tries hard.”

  “Whoop-de-doo.” Was I really such a bitch that Dan felt he had to protect Gigi from me? I’d told her she’d done the right thing, for Pete’s sake. “I’m tired,” I said shortly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Dan stepped aside silently, and I walked past him to the front door. “Thanks for finding Aaron,” he said as I yanked the door wide.

  The frigid air bit my face. “Sure,” I said. “It’s what I do.”

  22

  My house seemed cold and empty after the warmth of Dan’s. I flicked on the kitchen light, my eyes going immediately to the length of plywood leaning against the wall. I’d already removed the old counter, a mustard-colored Formica, and I found the half-finished look of my kitchen depressing. Usually, I found it exciting, enjoying the process of transforming an old, dingy room to something vital and fresh. Tonight, though, maybe because I was tired, it weighed on me, an unfinished task. Pulling the OJ from the fridge, I glugged some straight from the carton, noting by the microwave’s digital clock that it was only ten o’clock. It felt later.