“I like to be thorough when I’m on a case.”
Oh, the spy game was hot. She racked her brains for a spy role-play thing to say back to him. “A pity,” she said sadly. “Because you will fail, you know.”
His eyes twinkled. “I doubt that.”
“You’ll never get anything out of me, Nick.” She sat up straight and cool, casually inspecting her fingernails, as she’d seen a gangster moll do in the movies. “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed that yet.”
He watched her, expression unreadable, and then, as though moved by a force, he kissed her, pushing her gently onto her back, covering her with his body. He kissed her everywhere in that madly erotic way of his—her neck, her shoulders, the inside of her ankles, and then up her thighs, setting her quite on fire. Sometimes his moves involved light kisses, sometimes rough whiskers. Feather or sandpaper, she never knew which she would get. She gasped as he reached her moist sex.
“I will penetrate you completely,” he said.
“Please do,” she panted, feeling his hot breath on her pussy.
She gasped when he licked her. He did it again, and again, slowly, until she teetered on the edge of oblivion. Then he did as he promised, penetrating her fully, completely, and deliciously.
Later, washing dishes in the kitchen, she wondered if she’d taken the spy banter too far. Yes, there was the whole continuity-with-his-true-home thing. But also, it was the fun thing in the moment. Just what she wanted to do. Was she being dangerously selfish? Had she ruined a man’s entire existence with her selfishness? Was she damaging Sir Kendall every moment she kept him in the world? But now that he was here, how could she let him dissolve? She felt paralyzed. She wished Karen would come home early and meet Sir Kendall and tell her what to do.
No, she needed to think about what to do. She needed to make a decision. Before she could decide anything further, Sir Kendall strolled in. He suggested a jaunt into town in order to take his shirt to a drycleaner for repair.
“Downtown Malcolmsberg isn’t the most exciting place, I’m afraid,” she said. “Pretty boring, actually. Sometimes, I think I’ll go stir crazy living here.” She raised a finger. “But there is a dry cleaner.”
He smiled. “And, there could be some questionable characters lurking about that you’ll be able to identify. Having lived in the town for all these months.” He said this in a joking manner, like she really hadn’t.
“I don’t really know that many people,” she said. “But what the heck. And we could pick up food. I’m sure I’ve been feeding you girl food.”
He smoothed his thumb along her jawbone. “And it’s been bloody delicious.”
CHAPTER NINE
An hour later, Sir Kendall parked in front of Bean Central, the town coffee shop. Alix had dressed for the occasion in ridiculous white boots, which were decorated around the tops and front with small white tassels. She paired those with pink short-shorts and a sleeveless white top with pink bra straps showing. Bra-straps-showing seemed to be one of her favorite fashion statements. He’d worn nice slacks and the spare white shirt he always kept in the suitcase in the Alfa Romeo.
He’d insisted on peeking in at the coffee shop, and was surprised that she knew the barista by name. A young fellow named Benji. Seems she’d spent at least some time establishing herself. Had the real Alix been some sort of a hermit, perhaps?
According to the quick Googling he had done, the real Alix had moved to Malcolmsberg roughly four months ago, in the spring. Annoying to have to do his own research, but connections were down all over, his email as well as his phone. He’d had to hack her wireless to get her password, which turned out to be Lindy after all. The emails were exceedingly inane; certainly the account had belonged to the real Alix.
“Benji, this is my friend, Sir Kendall—Nick,” she corrected herself.
“Pleased to meet you,” Sir Kendall said, shaking the boy’s hand.
“So you’re a Sir? Like Sir Paul McCartney?” the boy asked.
“Not quite. Sir Paul is a knight. I’m a baronet. It’s a hereditary title. Below a knight, but above a baron.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Wow.”
“Luck of the draw, really. And the good favor of King James the second some three hundred years ago.”
Alix stared at him, lips zipped, dimples on her cheeks.
The boy looked back and forth between them. “You’re pulling my leg,” he said.
“Hardly.” Sir Kendall turned to Alix. “Something amusing?”
“No!” She seemed flustered. “Just, wow. You hadn’t told me. I mean, King James.”
“The second,” he bit out, feeling unaccountably irritated.
“You have a whole family tree.”
“One tends to.”
Alix fell silent.
Sir Kendall was unused to women finding him amusing, unused to women toying with him as she seemed to do…between bouts of ineptitude. The woman didn’t add up. First, there was the Denali bottle incident, which had frankly shocked him, and he wasn’t easily shocked. In breaking the bottle, she’d declared herself a friend or, at least, not an enemy. But then this afternoon in his room, she’d chosen to reveal a certain strategic opposition to him, yet in such a…clichéd manner. A pity, because you will fail, she’d said, inspecting her ridiculous blue nails. A person who had the heft to say such things would never put it that way. Was she being naïve? Clumsy? Ironic? Was she working her own agenda, off-roading from Hyko’s plan? Or following it exactly? He typically felt energized when people presented as puzzles, usually savored the challenge.
No so much here.
It wasn’t just this case; something about the whole place made him uneasy. The surreal quality of it. The vague sense of chaos and vulnerability. There was something he needed to worry about, but what? When he tried to get to the root of his uneasiness, it shifted and fled like a fragment left over from a dream.
He bought them a cookie to share and they walked out.
If Hyko’s people were watching, they’d assume he’d taken the bait and thought the woman an innocent. Perhaps they’d interpret this visit to town as a signal: Poor innocent Alexis Gordon is under my protection now.
Dry cleaners next. He introduced himself to Norm Stapleton, proprietor of Stapleton’s Dry Cleaner. Norm didn’t appear to know Alix; to her credit, this didn’t seem to make her nervous.
Norm’s eyes lit up as Sir Kendall pushed the shirt across the counter, along with a hundred dollar bill. “I’ll pay you ten times your usual rate to restore this to a pristine condition as soon as possible,” he said.
Norm examined Sir Kendall’s button-less shirt.
“Lady gets a bit excited.” Sir Kendall mimicked her ripping open his shirt. This in retaliation for the family tree bit.
“Oh, my,” Norm said, eyes wide with amusement.
Alix’s face went bright red and she hit him in the shoulder. “Wasn’t me!”
“Don’t be bashful, my pet.”
Her mouth fell open.
Norm assumed a businesslike tone and assured Sir Kendall that the buttons would be restored by Monday morning. It would normally be the next morning, he explained, but tomorrow was Sunday, and they were closed Sundays.
“Monday’s fine,” Sir Kendall said.
They passed a drug store; Alix wanted to run in and get soap for the guest bathroom. “I’m all out up there. What do you use?”
What soap did he use? He took showers, but… “Just soap,” he said.
“Like…Ivory? Irish Spring?”
Was that a soap? “Any soap.”
She looked at him strangely. “You don’t have a brand?” And then something stopped her. “Right. Never mind.”
He smiled sunnily. “Whatever is the finest soap, that’s the brand I prefer. I’ll wait out here.”
She hurried in.
She’d expected him to name a brand of soap and had seemed baffled when he hadn’t. What was the significance of a brand of soap?
Usually when he noted a mundane detail, such as a rock in his shoe or a brand of soap, it would relate to the larger mystery and become a clue in some fashion. But so many such details were accruing here, and they couldn’t all be clues. What was the significance of the sound of his own chewing he’d noticed this morning? Of squirrels, chasing each other around a tree?
He’d noticed something else, too: time itself felt different. Things took longer. Was this simply a quality of the American Midwest? A slower pace of life and all that? Could the slower pace of life be making insignificant details seem more vivid than usual? Or was every detail here significant? Or conversely, was the abundance of details itself the clue?
And there was the old computer lab he’d found the basement. Vintage computers hooked up in a strange configuration. Somebody had taken a sledgehammer to the machines years ago, judging from the dust patterns. There was something about it, something he wasn’t seeing.
Certain things felt unusually weighty, like the fact that he’d killed so many, or the way he’d severed Hyko’s thumbs. And his plans to torture Alix seemed a bit much. But then, that’s what separated the men from the boys—you did a thing even when it was distasteful.
He reminded himself of the so-called dog cage behind Alix’s carriage house. Galvanized steel, maybe titanium. It had been created to hold something more powerful than a man, than a gorilla, even an elephant. He’d end up there, or worse, if he didn’t act with steely decision.
He strolled down the block toward the mailbox he’d seen on the corner—the only one he’d seen in all of Malcolmsberg. Such a tiny town, and so different than the foreign capitals and remote outposts he was used to. He thought wistfully of his vacation chateau in Luxembourg. He’d go there as soon as he learned what there was to learn here. He needed a rest. Maybe that was it.
He opened the mailbox and dropped in the package he’d stamped and addressed. It contained a sample of the broken Denali bottle along with the sample of Alix’s hair, which he’d snipped off just before she’d woken up that morning.
She’d snuck off to make a phone call in the yard. He’d heard bits of it. She’d argued with somebody on the other line. If she was, indeed, off-roading from Hyko’s plan, was she foolish enough to let his people know it? He’d heard her mention Pinocchio. Had somebody in their organization lied? Had Hyko caught their mole, Henry? That would be disastrous.
At any rate, the lab would tell him whether the Denali had been drugged or poisoned, though it couldn’t be anything too powerful—Hyko would never have him killed, not with the Falcon letters still out there. Had an enemy of Hyko’s wanted him killed so that the Falcon letters would get out? If that were true, it would suggest that Alix could be a high-ranking spy in Hyko’s organization, doing damage control while playing the slattern.
It was Saturday. He’d have the results by Tuesday. He went back to wait outside the store.
It was then he saw Hyko, ducking around a corner.
Sir Kendall leaned coolly on a lamppost. It had been just a flash—long blond hair, long coat, floppy hat, but he’d recognize the man anywhere. Even the way Hyko moved was eminently familiar. Comforting, even.
Alix came out with his soap—a brand called Ivory. The best soap, she assured him.
Sir Kendall just nodded his head. Had she told Hyko they’d be in town?
He offered to buy her an egg roll at the little Chinese deli down the block, and during an extended exchange in Cantonese with the proprietress, he discovered that his Alix was a frequent purchaser of Chicken Chow Mein, going back four months. This came as something of a shock. Was it possible there wasn’t a dead Alix out there after all? That Alix was a sleeper? And why was Hyko himself in town, rather than out at the site of his launch?
“I can’t believe you know Chinese,” Alix said, munching her egg roll on a quaint bench overlooking the river. “What were you guys saying?”
She really hadn’t seemed to follow the conversation. Was it possible she didn’t know Cantonese? “I told her that you’re a sex maniac who rips buttons off men’s shirts.”
She hit him. Teasing her was quite enjoyable, really. So was the egg roll. The crust seemed extra light and flaky, crunchier, and the inside richer, a flavor explosion in his mouth. The Lings were truly masterful with egg rolls.
“Perhaps we ought to have a proper meal somewhere,” he said.
She nodded. “Not a bad idea. Actually…” She squinted down the street. “Yes! Check it out!” She pointed at a mortarboard outside a pub on the next block. “Bob n’ Bonnie’s has catfish sandwiches on daily special.”
“Sounds splendid,” he said.
Bob n’ Bonnie’s pub was dark inside and somewhat empty for a Saturday afternoon—just a lone fellow at the bar, a couple rustics eating at a table, and a stocky barkeep with a ponytail.
“Pick a table—I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the women’s bathroom. Was she contacting Hyko?
Sir Kendall sat up at the bar; the wall of mirrors behind the bar gave him a perfect view of the whole place. He had this under control. He’d bested Hyko countless times; no reason for this to be different.
He ordered a Denali from the barkeep, who wasn’t sure they had any, but after an extended search he pulled out a dusty old bottle. “Not many folks ordering Denali,” he said.
“Which only means not many folks have tasted Denali.”
The barkeep grunted.
“Have you?” Sir Kendall asked him.
“Tasted Denali? Nah.”
“There you go. You must let me buy you one, good fellow.”
“I’m on the job.”
“Consider it employment-related research.” He put down a hundred. He wasn’t taking any chances—he needed to see that barkeep drink it first. “Two Denalis, neat, with lime, and the rest is for you.”
“Far be it from me.” The barkeep poured two lowball glasses and added lime wedges.
“Go ahead, then, try it,” Sir Kendall said.
The barkeep sipped. He smacked his lips. “Hmm. Piquant.”
“Good with bitters and soda, too,” Sir Kendall said. “Denali is always just the thing.” The barkeep took another sip, seemed no worse for wear. Sir Kendall felt curiously relieved that the bartender would be okay. The prospect of collateral damage had never bothered him before. What was wrong with him? Resistance to collateral damage would get him killed as quickly as walking in front of a train. Sir Kendall sipped his drink. It was fine. More refreshing than he’d remembered. He downed the rest.
A voice from across the bar. “No!” A freshly be-lipsticked and be-jingling Alix rushed to his side, grabbing for his glass, which he lifted out of her reach at the last moment. “Did you drink it?”
“Indeed I did.” Warily he watched her eyes. “And I daresay, I might drink another one.”
She stared at the glass, then at him, then the glass and then him again, with a look just this side of horror. “I told you not to drink it!”
“My dear, you can hardly expect me never to drink a Denali again.” He addressed the barkeep. “What did you think? Not so bad, eh?”
“Not bad at all,” the man said. “Thank you kindly.” He rapped twice on the bar and sauntered away.
“Crap,” Alix breathed.
“We both drank it. Seems we’ve survived the experience.” Sir Kendall brushed her hair from her forehead. Her eyes shone with tears. Why? “Come now, what is all this?”
“I just…I didn’t want you to drink it.”
“Do you have reason to believe it’s tainted?”
“No,” she whispered. “It’s not that.” Tears streamed down her face.
He wiped them away with his thumb. “What, then?”
She shook her head.
“Come here.” He pulled her to him, feeling uneasy again. “It’s going to be all right,” he assured her.
She sniffled. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
Again she shook her head, a
pparently too overcome to speak. What was she sorry for?
“Crap, okay,” she said, pulling herself together. “Okay.” She wiped her eyes and fixed him with a mischievous look. “You know what I say?” she said. “I say, let’s have some fun. Let’s have some cocktails, let’s dance, let’s fuck in the bathroom and whatever else!”
“In the bathroom. I daresay; you’re impugning my decorum.”
“Hell with decorum.” She slapped the bar and smiled down at the bartender. “Two Denalis please! Doubles!”
Sir Kendall raised his eyebrows.
“Why not?” she said. “Maybe I was too quick to judge. And it’s your favorite drink, right?”
Sir Kendall called to the bartender. “Make hers with lime and ginger ale. A Denali Fresh.”
She swiveled to face him, draped an arm along the bar, and smiled rather fetchingly. “The lady thinks a Denali Fresh sounds fan-fuckin-tastic.”
“Such tender sentiments from my delicate flower,” he said.
She smiled at him sadly. A very bad sign.
The barkeep delivered their drinks and she made a toast. They had another round while they awaited their sandwiches.
So she imagined he’d die now. How was it connected to the Denali? Was the drink a trigger of some sort? A signal to Hyko? She’d glanced at the door once or twice. Did she expect company? Public takedowns had never been Hyko’s style.
They bantered about whether or not they’d have sex in the bathroom—he assured her that he’d never have a lady there. He taught the benighted barkeep how to make Denali drinks, including a Fee Fi Foe Fum with Denali and cointreau.
Their catfish sandwiches were flakey and sweet and tart and succulent…stunningly delicious, in fact. Alix ordered another Denali Fresh, but he held off; not because he felt drunk—he felt powerful, actually. It was more that nagging sense of threat, the growing feeling that things were spinning out of control.
“Tell me,” he said to her.
He brows snapped together. “What?”
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