Trade Secrets

by Beth Ryan

  “One billion.”

  His eyes grew wide, and he took half a step back. I couldn’t help but grin.

  Overestimating his need was a tactic made to set him at ease. He was surprised, as though he hadn’t come to the best of the best. I was almost offended by his low expectations of what I could do. I could manage pretty much anything, given enough time. Anything aside from unlocking the secret that changed your status from civilian to Lemniscate, of course.

  I always shook my head at those who argued it was still possible to stumble upon the words that would give so much power to one person. I’d studied the times that civilians had been accepted into the Lemniscate ranks and I knew the real trick to it.

  No one ever managed to join unless another of the Lemnis had died, or were ready to marry. Those who claimed to know the secret of becoming a Lemnis only ever joined when the Lemniscate were looking for new blood, and if the selected civilian wasn’t quite what they wanted the newest member of the Lemniscate was always found dead soon after.

  It wasn’t some magical cure-all. There was no ultimate truth guaranteed to turn your account balance from almost empty to an infinity symbol. It was a recruiting technique, and a fairly obvious one at that.

  With my arms still crossed, I gave my new client a challenging look. He didn’t need a billion credits, that much I could be sure of. He’d been too caught off guard by the number.

  “You can manage that?” the brown-eyed man hissed regardless.

  I shrugged. “If you really need it, I can swing it,” I answered with a cocky grin. “Might cost you more than you’re willing to give up, though.”

  “Ah. Well, not that much,” he said, and I caught the spread of a light blush rising from the collar of his shirt.

  Thinking back in what I’d said, and how I’d said it, it became hard to keep my own blush at bay. He scratched his jaw and refused to meet my eye again. I fought down the huff of irritation that rose, at myself and at him. Most clients were trusting enough to keep making eye contact at this point. As I’d expected, this kid would be a real challenge.

  “Maybe around half a mil,” he admitted. “Also, I heard you do, um...” He trailed off.

  “Be more specific.” I enunciated each word with care in the silence left by his hesitation.

  My tone cautioned him even as my words prompted the truth. Again, this was a delicate balance. I knew what he was about to ask for and the illegal nature of my work required that we both proceed with extreme caution. I had to be certain that I wasn’t facing an undercover profiler. I wouldn’t be caught by something as stupid as a misunderstanding that could result in my own execution.

  There were some things the profilers could overlook. Generating fake credits or creating a secret worth enough to get a man out of debt still helped the economy in some ways. However, there were other things I did that they would never be able to turn a blind eye to.

  “I can do a lot of things. Sing old pop songs off-key. Build custom birdhouses. I’m a very artistic potterer, too. Potterist? I make nice vases, anyway, and I—”

  “I’m looking for a change,” he interrupted. His words were blunt, and he was finally looking me in the eye. I tried not to be distracted by his hands, which had changed from pressing his fingertips together to tapping his two left fingers against his right ones. The sanctuary crowd were a strange lot, and their nervous tics were even stranger to me. Still, body language always spoke for itself and his was telling me that what he was looking for wasn’t something that could be provided by just anyone. He needed a specialist.

  I took a moment to appreciate the way the world wasn’t writhing beneath me anymore and then tapped my finger against my bottom lip.

  “A change, you say?” I hmmmed. “Yes, you do look like you could use a change. That hair of yours is a nightmare.”

  He wore an affronted look when I said this. His hands were quick to rise up to pat his hair. Every lock was in place still, held together by whatever product his half-a-million-credit account could afford.

  “My hair is just fine as it is.” He scowled at me.

  “If you say so,” I replied with a cheeky grin. “Tell me, are you looking for a permanent kind of change, then?”

  Suddenly, the atmosphere turned from playful and taunting to something more. Something darker.

  His hands snapped back behind him and he looked at me with wary eyes. Again, almost without his knowledge, he reached up and touched the back of his neck. He was taking a risk here, and we both knew it. One word from me, and profilers would be surrounding the house in a heartbeat. If I wasn’t the kind of man he thought I was, then he’d just made a very big mistake. One that could get him executed in a heartbeat.

  Lucky for him, I wasn’t the kind of person to turn in someone else looking for a change. Instead, I was the kind of man who had just the right set of skills to ensure that change occurred.

  We both waited a very long time as he weighed his options. Whatever had chased him here won out in the end. With a slight hesitation, he dropped his hand to his side and gave a quick nod.

  I replied with my own nod and stepped around him to head up the stairs. I turned back after a moment and stared my new client down. He didn’t flinch under the weight of my gaze, which was something I had to give him credit for. His fingers did fidget with the hem of his coat, however. It took me a few moments to clamp down on the urge to slap his hand away from the frayed edge. He seemed to have the same awful habit I did, and if he weren’t careful, he’d find himself unraveling everything he owned.

  “Don’t tell me your name,” I ordered.

  I expected he wasn’t that stupid, but I couldn’t take the risk. This wasn’t some challenge or game anymore. It was serious business. There was no room for mistakes. Miscommunications were the cheapest sort of lies, and I didn’t deal in cheap things.

  I waited at the base of the steps until the young man gave me a nod of understanding. Miscommunication went both ways, after all. A few lighter waves of euphoria gripped at me, mixing in with my own excitement at having a case worth my time. I almost tripped on the first step as I turned.

  Before my nameless client could catch on to my instability, I gripped tight to the railing and darted up the stairs. I didn’t say another word to him as I left. If he couldn’t figure out that he needed to follow me, then he wouldn’t have what it took to handle avoiding detection and execution during the tedious process of creating his new identity.

  5

  Tapping my almost empty pack of cigarettes against the windowsill, I listened for the telltale creak of the stairs. As I waited, I nudged the toe of my boot against a pile of dirty clothes. There wasn’t time to clean it up or hide any of the mess in the room that doubled as my office. Thankfully, it didn’t reveal anything about me other than my refusal to do the cleaning that Bev was hired to do.

  Still, there was something about the young man I’d left at the bottom of the stairs that made me want to hide the mess, and as an extension, the worst parts of myself. I willfully ignored that urge the same way I willfully ignored everything else I might have noticed about him.

  Already, I knew that he wasn’t comfortable around strangers, that he was left-handed, and that he smelled like mint. I could tell without asking that he preferred summer and disliked people watching him, and those superficial facts were far more than I ever needed to know.

  Above all, I knew the choice he would make after being given the chance to follow me further into the house or flee through the unlocked front door.

  I opened the carton of cigarettes just as the third step of the staircase creaked. I fought down a triumphant grin and flicked the window open. I pulled a cigarette out and set the rest of the pack on the sill. I twirled the little white death stick in my fingers, the breeze from the window brushing against my face in a soothing way. Lighting the cigarette was an unconscious decision born of muscle memory more than anything, but once it was lit, there was no fighting my nature. I took a long d
rag.

  Waiting for the nicotine to do its job and rush me through the roller coaster of CAPS symptoms, I focused on the sounds of the street below. There were two men walking side by side, from what I could hear, and a woman leading a child in the opposite direction. I didn’t look down to check if I was right. I didn’t want to see the other details that their presence might provide for me.

  Already, I could tell that the men were tired. Their heavy steps suggested they’d had a long day. They were probably returning from work at the factories. They probably had calluses and blisters on their hands, coal dust darkening their clothing and skin. Most men looked that way in this city.

  From the sound of the woman’s steps, I knew she was wearing heels. She wasn’t being gentle with the child, either. I couldn’t fault her for that. So many people were going missing nowadays, and I didn’t think she’d stand a chance against those men if they turned on her. However, both sets of footsteps died away, and I was left alone at my window once more.

  I exhaled and watched a line of smoke drift up toward the gap of grey that peeked out between the chimney bricks of my building and the one beside it. It joined the smoke that lingered in the air, the blanket of grey hanging in the sky. It was all smoke these days. Smoke and mirrors.

  “I’ll get you that half a mil,” I vowed, flicking the cigarette at the ashtray. A thrum of exhilaration had my heart racing, and I fought to keep it out of my voice. I’d been able to hide the symptoms of the CAPS when that was all I was on. Now that it was amplified with the nicotine, though, I had to be extra careful to keep the signs hidden.

  The startled intake of breath from the doorway was even more satisfying than I’d thought it would be. The door creaked open behind me to reveal the man I’d known was waiting there. As though my words were his sign of permission, he finally entered the room. I waved him toward the bed with the hand holding my cigarette. Then I took another drag, exhaled, and put the butt out in the over-full ashtray. I could already feel the way the smoke was interacting with the side effects of the pills.

  I bent over my plywood desk, holding myself up with one hand against the plank of wood while I worked. I fiddled with a few outdated screens and a keyboard that had seen better years, planting my feet to keep my balance steady as I felt the world drop out from beneath me.

  I knew it was a trick of my mind, that it was only my own balance that had shifted. That didn’t change the tight grip I had to take on the edge of the desk.

  While I worked to stay upright, the client shuffled toward the bed and gingerly sat on the edge. When I glanced back at him, I found he was frowning at the bedroom I’d led him to. His brows scrunched together, creasing the skin above his nose, as though he were trying to make sense of it all.

  I knew using my bedroom as my office was about as professional as using a shady alleyway. Signs of my presence were all over the place, in the food wrappers I hadn’t thrown out and the letters sitting open on my desk. If I’d known someone was coming, I might have bothered to clean up a little, or at least ordered Bev to do it. As it was, the room couldn’t be helped. It worked for what I needed and kept me out from under the gaze of the profilers.

  I watched from the corner of my eye as the young man hunched over, barely sitting on the edge of the bed. His elbows were propped up on his thighs as he sat there, rubbing his left index finger down his right palm over and over again as he waited. His gaze kept flicking between me and the details of the room we were in and his body language screamed that he was uncomfortable.

  That wouldn’t do.

  I needed him to relax, or he’d make a mistake before we’d even begun. He’d managed to express his desire to change his identity without drawing scrutiny thus far. However, the more tense a client, the more likely they were to slip up. I couldn’t be babysitting his every move and filtering his every word. Not while the world was spinning around me the way it was.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” I said, turning my back to him. From the way I was angled, I could still see his reflection in the window. He jumped a bit at my words, and I snorted, shaking my head. There we were: the high-strung, troubled socialite and the low-class criminal strung high on illegal drugs. We were both pieces of work, and bound to get caught if we didn’t pull it together. “No one here is going to cause you trouble.”

  “Right,” he said, and then proceeded to not look any more comfortable in my presence.

  I tapped away at the keyboard, setting up the new profile. I hoped that the quiet, rhythmic pattern of my typing might lull him into a sense of security. When I turned back to look at him, though, he appeared even more distressed than before.

  “You look like I’m killing your best friend,” I said, the laughter in my voice incongruent with the words.

  His gaze shot up to mine, and I kept my grin in place. I wiggled my eyebrows a bit, trying to make him laugh. He didn’t look like he wanted my kind of humor, though. There was a horrible sadness in his eyes.

  Fuck.

  I rubbed a weary hand down the side of my face and took deep breaths as I turned my whole body to face him. This is why I usually had Audry around to help out. She knew how to comfort the clients who were beyond my capabilities. She could soothe a screaming child or charm an answer from the most recalcitrant old man. Where I played at being easy-going, she didn’t have to act. She was genuine, and kind, and mischievous.

  I, on the other hand, was not. I only seemed to upset the clients that needed real comfort. Sure, I’d eased troubled minds and settled worried souls. That was part and parcel with the job. That didn’t mean I was good at it. Not like I was good at the other things I did.

  “So, that’s not something we’ll be talking about,” I said.

  His lips thinned into a tight line and he swallowed hard and I tucked the reaction into a mental box labeled for disposal. Pushing the glasses up my nose, I peered through them to stare at the pathetic looking scrap of man sitting in my room.

  “Let’s try this again. I’m going to make things better for you, and all you have to do is relax. Understand?”

  “No,” he said. I blinked, surprised that he’d spoken at all. “I don’t understand. I can’t pay you, and you haven’t even asked for payment. What do you get out of this?”

  “Don’t you worry about that.” I shook my head, but stopped the motion as soon as I’d started. It only made the room spin more. Turning back to the keyboard, I kept up my frantic typing. The sooner I had this set up, the sooner we’d be done. I really didn’t want to give him much of a chance to say something he hadn’t thought through all the way. “I’ll get you what you need, and I’ll end up with something of my own.”

  “But...” He was frowning hard now, and I could see his mind working to piece together the reasons I did what I did. “Only death is free.”

  “Right you are.” I nodded. It seemed there was something that bridged our two worlds, a phrase that held the same meaning regardless of where you came from. Everything had a cost; every action and every word would give or take from your credit account. Only death would put an end to that. “However, a secret shared is a secret halved.”

  “But you can’t tell anyone!” he hissed. I stopped typing then, shoulders bunching as I waited for what I knew was coming. “If you tell anyone about this, I can’t—”

  “Stop.” I whirled, facing him full on with my hands thrown out. His words caught in his throat, and I shook my head. With an exasperated sigh, I sat down hard on my upturned bucket and massaged the bridge of my nose.

  “Sorry,” he whispered.

  I could hear it in his voice. He was sorry that he’d almost said something that could get us both in trouble. I didn’t know how his sentence might have ended, but I knew the tone of voice he’d been using. There was too much desperation. Too much honesty. I was half a second from sending him on his way. As much as he clearly needed my help, I didn’t need his recklessness.

  He stared up at me with those massive brown eyes, and I c
ouldn’t look away. When I thought of the words that would send him out the door, my stomach ached. I didn’t know if that was guilt or an aftereffect of the mixture of nicotine and CAPS I’d taken.

  Either way, I didn’t like it.

  Rubbing my eyes, I tried to decide where to go from there. I already had the profile built, though really, I could give the new identity to any young, white male around my age. It wouldn’t be wasted, no matter what happened next.

  The client was staring at me, eyes pleading. His expressive features were both his weakness and his strength. I could read every thought he had, I could see the way the light was leaving his eyes as he realized I was going to turn him away. I could also see the way his bottom lip quivered. The way his eyes shone. I could almost hear the words he might say.

  “You’re my last hope, Nate. Please, I can’t do this without you.”

  It broke my heart.

  This was why I had my rules. I’d watched people like me destroyed by smaller things than this. I’d been unable to look away from the screen when Carl Foster had seen the electric chair. Dottie Carson had opted for the firing squad, declaring destruction on those who upheld the Lemniscate’s laws. Elliot Hill had gone down in a glorious blaze of fire just outside his safe house rather than allow himself to be taken in when his client said the words that drew the profiler to him.

  “A lot of people depend on my business,” I said, watching him jump at the sound of my voice. He was wound too tight. As much as I wanted to help him, I couldn’t. Not unless he fully understood the danger that lay hidden in every word he spoke. “People I helped ten years ago depend on me to keep them from falling into debt. To keep them out of trouble. Understand that if you do anything to put myself or my clients in danger, you will find you do not like how I react.”

  “I understand,” he grumbled, looking away.