by Jen Blood
“Come on. We give this ten minutes… Then I’ll have to come up with something else.”
I had no idea what that something might be, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.
I leaned back on Diggs’ bed and picked up his file on Mitch Cameron. So evolve—don’t get a friggin’ lobotomy, he’d said earlier that day. I thought yet again of all the people who’d died so far in this quest to find the truth about my father. Diggs was right: I hadn’t pulled the trigger. Still, he was crazy if he thought I could consider myself completely blameless in all the bloodshed of the past year.
Now, he might very well join their ranks.
And I had no idea why.
I opened the file and began reading.
It didn’t tell me much, really: Mitch Cameron had been Special Forces until 1975, when—according to a very official-looking death certificate—he was killed just before the fall of Saigon. From what I could gather from the file, Diggs had worked with a friend of his to do a composite sketch based on his memory of Cameron the night we’d both nearly died last summer. From there, they must have done some kind of reverse-aging process, because the final result was a computer-generated printout eerily similar to the photo in a newspaper article on Cameron’s death in ’75.
Cameron was born in Lynn, Indiana, in 1950. Diggs had a map he’d marked of the town. Just as he’d said earlier, my father, Max Richards, and Mitch Cameron lived on the same block together.
I scratched Einstein’s head. He sighed and rested his paw on my thigh while Grace kept a polite distance from us, her head on her paws and her eyes half closed.
To pass the time once I was finished with the file, I amused myself by going through Diggs’ stuff. Which was wrong. And he would hate me for it. And yet…I didn’t care anymore. The way I figured it, if we actually found him at this stage of the game, he probably wouldn’t waste his breath bitching about me poking around a little. It could be faulty logic, but I chose to run with it.
In the worn old duffel beside his bed, I found a flip portfolio of photos I hadn’t seen before. A lot were shots from his travels over the years: Tokyo, Yemen, Fallujah, Capetown, Bangkok, Sydney… It’s not like I’ve never left the country before, but I might as well be a shut-in when you compare my passport with his. After the travel pics, there was a shot that I’d seen framed in his father’s office—the only one he had of Diggs as a kid. In it, Diggs was probably eight or nine. He stood beside an awkward-looking, pudgy boy with the same ash-blond hair and the same Diggins grin. Diggs’ arm was draped over the boy’s shoulder. His brother, Josh.
There were half a dozen shots of me over the years, from fifteen on up. One was from the only summer we actually dated. I was nineteen. We were on the lam at the time, running from a ritual killer and a bunch of drug dealers we were doing a story on together. I was in bed in the picture, a sheet pulled up to my chest, while the sun poured in the window of our seedy hotel hideaway. He’d taken it the morning after our first night together. Biblically speaking, I mean. We’d spent plenty of nights together non-biblically before that. And after.
He told me that night that it would change everything. I don’t want to just sweep this under the rug—I can’t do that with you. I won’t.
He was right: nothing was quite the same for us after that. I’d never actually been with anyone before, biblically speaking. And you know how everyone always says the first time is the worst, and if women gauged sex by that fumbling first encounter they would probably never knock boots with anyone again?
Their first time definitely wasn’t with Diggs.
Of course, it wasn’t just the sex—it was the laughter and the moonlight, the urgency and the feel of his arms around me and the way he whispered my name, his forehead tipped to mine, the first time he pressed past that final barrier between us. People may have been trying to kill us just outside that sleazy hotel room, but I’d never felt safer in my life than I did in his arms. That night, my universe was knocked sideways. The man who’d been my best friend, my mentor, my confidante…
It sounds corny as hell, but I can’t really help that. That night, Diggs became the love of my life.
And then, of course, Diggs and me being the stubborn jackasses that we are, spent the next thirteen years doing everything conceivable to push each other away.
I flipped past the picture and looked at my watch. Time was moving way too fast.
After the shots of me and every third-world country on the planet, there were a slew of photos of Wyatt and his family: baby pictures and candids and that prom shot of Rick and Danny that I’d noticed in the Durhams’ parlor when we first got to Justice. I flipped through quickly, but then turned back when something caught my eye.
Before I could fix on exactly what that something was, both dogs catapulted themselves off the bed in a fit of frenzied barking so sudden I nearly jumped out of my skin and into next Tuesday.
There was a knock on the door.
I made both dogs settle down, then went to the door and pressed my ear to the wood. The peephole might have come in handy, but they’re not that useful during power outages. Einstein growled from his spot on the bed.
“Hello?” I said.
“I’m assuming that sign is for me,” Mitch Cameron said. “Though I suppose I could be wrong.”
I opened the door.
He was drenched, wearing a blue LL Bean raincoat that left pools of water on the floor. He looked around uneasily before he came in the room. There was a black leather briefcase in his left hand. Einstein was on his feet now, the fur on the back of his neck on end. His growl deepened. Grace stayed where she was, whining.
“Have you started a kennel?” Cameron asked. He kept his eyes on the dogs, his hand creeping toward what I suspected was a gun at his side.
“They’re all right,” I said. “As long as you don’t come after me, they’ll leave you alone.” At least I hoped they would.
He nodded toward the window. “You need to take that tape off there. And move the damned light.”
I didn’t argue. Once the tape was gone, I turned back to him. He was still standing in the doorway, hand at his side. Grace had laid back down on the bed, but Einstein stood next to me, watching Cameron’s every move.
“Diggs is missing,” I said. “I didn’t know what else to do. Since one of your favorite pastimes seems to be spying on us, I thought maybe you’d seen something. That you could tell me where he is.” I decided to leave out the part where I suspected he might be in on it, at least for now.
“I’m not your partner,” Cameron said. “We aren’t in this together.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I asked, my voice rising. “You think I want to be playing out little X-Files fantasies with you when my—” I stopped, willing myself to calm down. “I told you: I didn’t know what else to do.”
“What makes you think I would help you? Your friend hasn’t been sticking to our agreement as well as you have. It would be easier if he was simply out of the picture.”
“I know that, Mr. Cameron.”
I watched his face. He didn’t look especially surprised at my use of his name. The smile that he offered chilled me to the bone. I took out the file Diggs had put together and handed it to him.
“You can take that. I won’t let him go near any of it again. He’ll drop it.”
“Because you say so?”
“Yes,” I said simply.
He didn’t question that. Instead, he took the file without looking at it, opened his briefcase, and slid it inside. He snapped the briefcase closed again, straightened, and we stood there, staring each other down. Einstein sat at my feet, his body warm against my calf. The candles flickered and the clock ticked and Diggs’ life hung in the balance.
“When we talked to you that first night, you said you didn’t have anything to do with Jesup Barnel or anything that’s happening in Justice right now.”
“I didn’t say that, actually,” he said. “I told you I was more intere
sted in you and your friend—which was true, at the time.”
“But it’s you and…whoever it is you represent, who are pulling the strings on this whole thing. Isn’t it?”
He looked away, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. It was the first real reaction I’d seen from him, and it made him seem unexpectedly human.
“I’ve told you how many times now to leave this alone?” he asked.
“I was leaving it alone—you know that. We came here because someone killed Diggs’ friend. That’s it. Neither one of us had a clue that you had anything to do with this. You have to believe that.”
He scratched his head. There were circles under his eyes that I hadn’t noticed before. “I do believe that, actually,” he said. “We have many interests at the moment—a number of projects around the globe. It seems to be one of those tragic tricks of fate that your friend Wyatt got caught in the mix on this one.”
“So, you know what they have planned for midnight.”
He nodded infinitesimally.
“And you know where they are.” Another nod. A surge of anger burned through me. “You have to tell me how to find Diggs.”
“Why?” he countered. “Why do I have to tell you anything?”
I took a step toward him, my voice rising. “Because none of this would have happened if not for your people—whoever the hell they are. Diggs is out there somewhere, and you know where. You saved us last summer. Since then, I’ve spent every second trying to make sure I never have to see you again. All I can see when I look at him now is that friggin’ gun pointed at his head.”
“Because I’m the enemy, Erin.” His voice rose, his eyes suddenly dark. “I am not your guardian angel. Don’t make the mistake of thinking otherwise. I am your worst nightmare—and they will have me prove it, at the first opportunity.”
“I don’t care!” I shouted. “I don’t care what they’ll do to me. I don’t care who they are, I don’t care who you are, I don’t care what they have to do with my father or who burned down the Payson Church or why they’re feeding Barnel’s insanity by helping him with this whole apocalyptic nightmare. All I care about is finding Diggs. I don’t give a rat’s ass about the rest of it—I’ve already proven that once.”
I advanced on him fast, my eye on the briefcase. I don’t know what I thought I was going to do—Juarez taught me a couple of nifty moves if a second-rate thug jumped me in the street, but he sure as hell hadn’t schooled me on how to lift a briefcase of deadly secrets from a world-class assassin.
Cameron picked up the case when I was still a couple of feet away. For a second, I thought I saw a flicker of sadness in his eyes. Regret, even.
“I can’t help you, Erin. It isn’t my place.” He buttoned his trench coat and nodded toward the window, indicating the spot where my magic J had been. “Don’t do that again—it was very stupid. They watch me, just as I watch you. A private meeting between you and me would not be received well. Particularly now.”
“Right,” I said numbly. “God forbid.”
He got as far as the door before he looked back. There was no mistaking his inner conflict.
“Do you ever watch magicians?” he finally asked.
I shook my head, confused. “Like Houdini? Not really.”
“Their secrets are all the same—there’s no such thing as magic, of course. You’ve heard the phrase ‘smoke and mirrors’?”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s all about misdirection: having the audience focus in one direction while the magician does his thing somewhere else.”
“Precisely.” I started to ask another question, but he shook his head. “That’s all I can say. And trust me, it’s far too much. I’m sorry about your friend… I’ve come to like him. The fact is, I’ve come to like both of you. That’s not a good thing in my line of work.” He stopped, torn. “Don’t contact me again, Erin. I’m not an ally in this.”
He slipped out the door without another word.
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Diggs
00:50:02
“All right, Professor. Your turn,” I said. I scooped another handful of dirt onto the pile and set back to the task. My arms ached and my wrists were bleeding—which would teach me to ask a tweaker just coming off his drug of choice to set me free. But I was making progress. The professor looked flummoxed.
“Top twenty-four…” he began.
“Records, Munjoy,” I said. “Albums. The music that rocked your socks way back when.”
“Probably some classical shit,” Biggie said.
“Shut it, Nickelback,” I said. “Let the man speak.”
“I don’t really listen to newer music,” the professor said. “I’m partial to the groups I liked in high school.”
“No shame in that,” I said amiably, already mentally forming the list: Tony Bennett, Burt Bacharach, The Four Tops. We’d been playing this game for the past half hour while we tried to dig ourselves to freedom. So far, everyone had proven predictable in their tastes.
The rest of the group was more subdued now, focused as they were on our imminent escape. Even Glenda had settled down to a quiet, rhythmic rocking, still crouched against the wall with her head down. I was working with Danny, Sally, and Biggie, whose buddy Riley’s tremors were debilitating by now. We’d decided to limit everyone else’s involvement in the actual digging, just in case someone was watching. Besides which, you can only have so many people digging one damned hole before efficiency is significantly compromised.
“Come on, Doc,” I said again. “This isn’t a hard question.”
Actually, I’d been going back and forth on the question for nearly twenty-four hours now, but he didn’t need to know that. Your top twenty-four records of all time isn’t a list to take lightly.
Finally, the professor took a deep breath. “Licensed to Ill,” he began. I looked up. Biggie stopped digging. “Uh—that’s the Beastie Boys,” he clarified. “Nothing’s Shocking—Jane’s Addiction, of course. Darklands… The Jesus and Mary Chain. Though I do love Psychocandy,” he admitted in his proper British voice.
“Where the hell did you go to high school?” I interrupted.
“And when?” Biggie added.
He looked at me innocently. There was a twinkle in his eye that made me suspect I was being toyed with.
“I didn’t say I was partial to the groups I liked when I was going to high school,” he said. “Just when I was there. I used to teach; always found music to be a good way to reach my students. And their tastes just rubbed off on me, I suppose.”
“I suppose,” Biggie said, mimicking the professor’s accent. “If that’s your record collection, Doc, I reckon you can party with us anytime.”
“Now that’s a party I’d come to,” I said.
“We make it out, and everybody here’s invited,” Biggie said. “We’ll do it up right.”
Beside us, George swayed slightly. He leaned against the wall, his color worse now. I looked at Sally, crouched beside me.
“Will you take a look at him?” I asked.
“She’s not comin’ near me,” George said. “I don’t need no baby killers touchin’ me.”
“Well, that’s intelligent,” Sally said. She straightened, wiped her hands on her pants, and pushed George back against the wall.
The issue of who was bound and who wasn’t had been a contentious one. We finally agreed that only a few of us should be loose—everyone had to be able to get back into the zip ties quickly when Jenny came back, and the more people expected to do that, the greater the chances that someone would screw up and we’d all be caught. We’d also been going back and forth on whether or not to simply take out Jenny and her man when they came calling next, but I had a strong feeling the only thing that would accomplish would be getting a slew of us killed a little sooner than midnight, while the rest of us were tied up so tightly there would be no hope of escape.
And it didn’t hurt that the threat of violence wasn’t quite so immediate when everyone was tied up, of cou
rse.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Sally said to George, unbuttoning and removing his shirt. “But it looks like the bullet just grazed you—it would be nice if we could clean the wound. How long ago’d this happen?”
He had to think about it. “Wednesday, I guess. Maybe Thursday. I was headed up to the cabin and got jumped. A car run me off the road, and a couple fellas pulled me out of the truck. They tried to put a needle in me, but I don’t hold with none of that. I got a couple jabs in and took to the hills. Didn’t get far before they took me down, though.”
“You didn’t see anyone’s face?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said. “Like I said—everybody’s in black. But they knew what they were doin’, for sure. Ow—dammit, woman, stop that.” He pulled away from Sally, who was tying an awkward bandage using the shirtsleeve of his discarded flannel.
That left George in his undershirt. When I looked at him, my eye was drawn immediately to a too-familiar scar just under his collarbone. I’d never seen it before.
He caught me staring and scowled. “What the hell are you lookin’ at, boy?”
I nodded to his chest. “That cross.”
“What about it?”
“You got it from Barnel?”
“I know what you’re thinkin’, but it wasn’t what it is now,” he said, his voice rough. “He’s got one, too. We come up together; went to school together. Took a vow, together. It was all voluntary—nobody was holding the other one down, forcing ’em into something they wasn’t ready for.”
“And Billy Thomas?” I asked. My voice didn’t sound quite right. “Did he take that vow?”
Biggie continued digging, but the others were looking at George and me with great interest. George looked down. It took some time for him to tamp down his emotions.
“We vowed to follow the Lord. Accepted that brand over our hearts—it was a sign of our faith. Our devotion. Our willingness to endure hardship, to stay on the right path.”
I wet my lips, fighting a wave of revulsion. “You killed him,” I said.
Danny looked up sharply. George shook his head. “He turned his back—violated something holy. The things he did to those girls…” He looked at me, his eyes dark with conviction and despair. “You think a man like that deserves to live? A monster like Billy Thomas deserves hell.”