A Perfect Darkness (8 page)

Gerard glanced at the monitor again. “You've always been too soft. It's time to toughen up.”

The phone rang. It was headquarters—his boss. Gerard had no patience for the other aspects of his job now that DARK MATTER was coming together, but he answered anyway.

“Darkwell, it's Greely. I was expecting the report on the SALON project this morning. You're not in your office, and from what your secretary says, haven't been lately.”

SALON was another research project on tactics, one that wasn't nearly as interesting as DARK MATTER. His other line rang in. He noted the number; an important call. Reining in his impatience, he said, “I apologize for the delay, but we've had some personnel issues. I'll get you the report by day's end, sir.” He closed the call and took the other one.

“It's Samuels, sir. We found a body.”

“Gladstone's?”

“Well…we think so. He's been burned to a crisp. You can hardly tell it's a body, much less whose body. But given the information and location, I'm guessing it's him. We'll have to take him back to the lab and run some identification tests.”

“Let me know.” He hung up. “They found Gladstone.”

“Dead?” Robbins asked, a squeak in his voice.

“Very. We're going to bring in the police. I want Eric Aruda now. He's just become a wanted criminal…for arson.”

“What about murder?”

“We don't need to muddy the waters. The police, and the press, will want to know who was killed. Gets complicated. Just arson. That'll be enough to bring him in, and then we'll take care of him from there. A lot of things can happen when you're bringing in a criminal.”

“He'll be killed?”

“He's too dangerous to keep alive. The other Rogues will prove useful, though. They'll be our guinea pigs. Test subjects without limits.”

A
my had felt fear before. Usually it drove her inward, to her cocoon. The fear of losing Lucas drove her out. She couldn't help herself; she peered from the side of the front window to spot her “company”: a black, generic car parked within sight of her apartment, a man sitting inside. No way could she get out of her apartment without Spy Guy seeing her. How Eric knew that, she didn't want to contemplate.

Pasting a bored expression on her face, she trotted downstairs with her laundry basket, forcing herself not to look at the black car. Her backpack was buried in the bottom of the basket. Too bad she couldn't enjoy the summerlike day. Others were out by the pool or wandering the path that wound through the courtyard. She took that path directly to the laundry building. She dumped her clothing into the washer, dropped in coins, and tucked the basket behind a chair.

A man wearing dark shades and talking on his cell phone walked down the path. She assumed he was reporting her movement. How exciting was she, in her
apartment for long periods of time, broken up with a trip out with her dirty clothes?

This wasn't the guy she'd confronted at the festival. This one blended in better, wearing khaki pants and a cotton button-down shirt, but she was sure he was one of them. He had a controlled glow, so tight to his body she couldn't ascertain the color. He wasn't an Offspring, though. What if he came into the Laundromat and hung out? He'd look mighty conspicuous without any laundry.

She settled in a chair off to the side and grabbed a women's magazine someone had left behind.
What to do when you suspected your man was cheating. How to punch up your bra size in three easy steps.
The magazine might as well have been in Swahili. She yawned as she flipped the pages. It was doubtful they'd actually buy that she was returning to her normal life—not after yesterday. Still, even someone sneaking around had to do laundry once in a while, right?

Spy Guy continued down the path toward the recreation center, his head cocked at an angle to catch any movement should she leave through the front door. He was not much taller than she was, looking as far from some government agent as she could imagine. Which was the point, of course.

She eyed the window way up high with an iron grill on it. Great. It should have a release button. Hopefully, the bathroom had a window, too, a much better place from which to escape. She walked into the small room. Damn, no window. She had an idea, though. She closed the door and turned on the water, annoyed at hearing Ozzie's voice in her head chastising her about wasting water. She cracked the door and saw Spy
Guy glance up when someone asked him a question. She exited, quietly closed the door, and ducked out of sight, hoping he'd think she was still tinkling.

He walked past the open door and then around the corner, out of sight. She jumped on top of the washing machine below the window, saw the green Pinto through the grimy window—and Spy Guy! She ducked back. While making sure the bathroom had no window, he looked up at the window she was next to. Could he see her? She held her breath while he studied it for a moment. If he saw her, he'd know she was up to something.

He walked around to the other side of the building and, seeing it blocked by a fence, quickly walked back toward the front again. As he did, she jumped down and ran back to the bathroom. Shut off the water, waited a second, then came out. Now, he was standing in the open doorway. He replaced the worried look with a casual nod and continued on.

Playing along, she tossed her paper towel into the garbage can as though attempting to make a basket, and dropped down into the chair. A second later she launched herself up and on tiptoe and looked out the high, short windows. Spy Guy was pretending to watch the people in the garden area, though his head was turned slightly toward the laundry building. He started to wander back. He wasn't going to give her a lot of time. She jumped back onto the washing machine, opened the window, and pushed the button that released the grill. It was stuck. She pounded it while watching him through the side window.

Fluck,
as Orn'ry would say. “Damn it, come on!”

Spy Guy was getting closer.

She pounded on the button. It finally gave. With a rusty screech, she pushed it open. Spy Guy glanced at his watch and then at the building she was in. He was almost there. Five more steps and he'd see her, ass sticking out the window. She only realized how far the drop was when she looked down, half in, half out. She landed on the concrete with an
Oof!
No dignity, and, unfortunately, not unobserved. A woman who stood nearby, next to her car, was staring at her.

“Sorry,” Amy whispered. “Trying to get away from my ex.”

The inside of the Pinto smelled old, looked old, and frankly, was old. Eric had probably looked for the crappiest car he could find. Didn't these things blow up if you sneezed in them? She found the key and started it. A cap and sunglasses were on the passenger seat, and she slipped them on as she put the car in gear. And not a second too soon. Spy Guy came through the corridor as she passed it.

Stay calm, don't gun it. If this thing can be gunned.

Through the rear view mirror, she saw him watching the car. Her fingers tightened on the wheel. He ran toward her. Stopped, looked at the stairs going up to the apartments near him. Then he glanced in the other direction, looking for her in places other than the Pinto.

Adrenaline shot through her veins. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, I'm crawling out windows and hiding from CIA dudes.” She took several deep breaths and then a laugh bubbled out of her. “I ditched a CIA dude. Me! Little ol' computer nerd me!” She started howling in laughter, knowing she was only one step away from hysterical. More deep breaths. She sobered herself
by wondering what Spy Guy would have done if he'd caught her climbing out the window.

She'd only felt such an adrenaline rush one other time, six months ago. She had been summoned to look at a guy's drive on his yacht at a marina. Admittedly, she'd been busy looking at the stars in the night sky, thinking of her dad, and only glancing ahead enough to make sure she didn't walk off the dock. She'd entered a dark section where the lights were out and became aware of a guy working on his boat. He said, “'Evening.” He had the same dark glow the creep she'd worked for had.

She had continued walking, trying to appear cool and unconcerned. Animals could sense fear, after all. In a flash, hands grabbed her from behind, a knife was pressed to her throat, and a gravelly voice said, “Walk with me toward the boat. Don't mess with me or I'll cut your throat.” He edged her toward his boat, and she frantically tried to figure out what to do.

Then she saw another guy running toward them and thought, Oh, God, there are two of them, except the second guy did a Rambo on the first. He told her to get out of there, and she raced to the office to get help.

By the time she'd returned with the manager, the creep was cuffed to the railing on a boat, her rescuer gone. She'd never even seen his face. The police had asked him to come forward as a witness, thankfully keeping her name out of the press, but he never did. She hadn't gotten to thank him.

One of the things that still haunted her about that night was what the police had found on the creep's boat: ropes and nonspecified instruments of torture (it was better that she not know). The other thing was the
blood on the dock, which was nowhere near the creep. She hoped it was the creep's blood, but…what if it wasn't?

Now, once she was on the highway, she let out a long sigh. “I'm already exhausted and I haven't even gotten to the tough part yet.”

The car coughed, then paused before continuing. She called Eric's number. “Nice ride,” she said, her voice dripping with sweetness.

“It runs, doesn't it? You're on your way, I presume.”

“After ditching my parasite.” She wasn't going to tell him how close it got. “Is Cyrus still online?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know? Do you have a camera or something?”

“That's not for you to worry about.”

Implying that she had plenty of other things to worry about. Another call beeped in.

“Who's that?” Eric asked.

She glanced at the screen. “A client. I'll catch him later.”

“Client? What do you do?”

“I save data from damaged hard drives. Ever heard of Disc Angel?” Even now she could hear pride in her voice. Until she wondered how all this was going to affect her business.

“No way,” he said. “
No
frickin'
way.”

“Yes, way.” She made a turn onto the highway and toward Cyrus's neighborhood. “And that seems strange to you because?”

“Never mind. All right, remember what I told you to look for?”

“DARK MATTER. Names and addresses.”

“Right. Petra is going to show up at his door and use her feminine wiles to convert him to the Order of Brotherly Love. You won't have long, but you should have enough time to at least get a few names. She'll be on the sidewalk by his house. Make eye contact and then she'll wander to the door. Okay, good luck.”

He hung up. She passed Cyrus's house and saw Petra in a simple dress and plain top with one button too many left undone. Her hair was plaited in braids and she wore glasses. She held what Amy surmised was a Bible and some pamphlets. They nodded to each other, and Petra walked toward Cyrus's door. Amy turned into the common area and parked, feeling a sick turning in her stomach. She walked along a path that meandered through the green space behind Cyrus's house. Doing this in the daytime was going to be tricky, but she didn't have much choice. Hopefully most of the close neighbors would be at work, as all reasonable people were. Not that she'd ever been reasonable.

Like, for instance, she still held onto some brainless hope that this was all a big fat misunderstanding, and all she'd find on Cyrus's computer would be boring government secrets about the Clintons or Al Qaeda sex orgies.

She slinked to the back porch. Fortunately she'd never convinced him to take one of the shelter dogs that she worked with, so no animal would give her away. As she'd hoped, the back door was unlocked, and she slipped inside just as Cyrus opened the front door.

His office was in a second bedroom off the main hallway. She knew that he conducted CIA business on his Company-issued laptop. She kept one ear tuned to
the door, where she heard Petra introducing herself. She knew she probably wouldn't have time to get out of the office when Cyrus shut the door in Petra's face, which would be as soon as his patience wore out. If that happened, she would duck into the closet he used for storage. Maybe she would learn more by listening for a while.

Now, however, she slid into his chair, which was still warm. He was logged into exactly what Petra had described as a MySpace page. She was startled to see her god-awful driver's license picture staring back at her: green eyes, hair she'd tried to tame until she stepped out into the humid day. On the left were several links:
Background, History. Skills,
and
Notes
. He was typing in a Notes section of the page. Resisting the urge to read more on herself, she clicked on the
Home
link and saw links for
BLUE EYES
and
DARK MATTER.
The CIA logo wasn't at the top, but rather,
DEPARTMENT OF TACTICS AND DEFENSE.
She clicked on
DARK MATTER
and saw a list of about a dozen names, hers included.

“But I can tell that you're lonely,” Petra was saying in her effort to keep Cyrus talking. “We're all lonely until we accept God into our hearts. Don't you want a family to embrace you, to keep you warm during the cold nights?”

Good grief, she was mixing seduction with religion, and she wasn't very good at it.

She saw Lucas's tab, too, and her finger twitched to click on it. But she needed new names. Unease shivered down her spine, as though someone was standing right behind her. She jerked around. No one. Eric's camera?

She clicked on the name Randall Brandenburg. His driver's license picture showed a good-looking guy who could be in a rock band, with his goatee, eyebrow piercing, and two-toned hair. She jotted down his address, using the pen and the pad she'd brought, then went back to the main page and clicked on the next link.

“But sir, I really need to talk to you more,” Petra said in an urgent voice. “I've got to save someone's soul or they'll punish me.” Time was running out.

“If you belong to some cult that punishes you for not getting converts, you need some intervention. Unfortunately, I've got too much on my plate to do it.”

Next she chose Nicholas Braden, going right to his address. Then Jerryl Evrard, only memorizing his address when she heard Cyrus say “Get help” and close the door. Just as she was about to scram, a thought hit her: she had to go back to where he'd left the cursor. No time! If she didn't, she'd be busted anyway. She clicked on her link again and positioned the mouse at the end of the last sentence:
Still no indication of…

If only she had time to read it. She pushed away from the desk. His footsteps sounded across the wood floor. Coming down the hallway. She opened the closet door. Oh, jeez, it was more jammed than she remembered. Boxes stacked up to her waist, and Cyrus had been tossing stuff in.

Footsteps came closer.

She climbed up on the boxes, feeling one collapse a bit beneath her. She folded her legs up and pulled the door closed just as she heard Cyrus walk into the office, muttering about religious crazies.

She realized she was holding her breath and released
it in degrees. The box beneath her crumpled more. She squeezed her eyes shut.
God, if You get me out of here I'll never…I don't know, cuss or something, again.

The phone rang.