Authors: Kathy Disanto
Three a.m.
Moon-washed sand rolled away in
every direction. Here it lay pleated by the wind, punctuated by scabs of rock
and tufts of dune grass; there it piled in whaleback dunes. The blue-black sky
overhead was thick with stars. I stood in the darkened living room, hands
tucked in the pockets of a government-issue white terrycloth robe, staring out
the bay window of the cloaked safe house now parked a hundred feet above the
Saline Dunes in Death Valley.
Sensing I wasn’t alone, I glanced
over my shoulder. Wearing a white t-shirt and pale pajama bottoms, Jack sat
watching me, one hip perched on the arm of the sofa. His blond hair was brushed
silver by moonlight, his long, narrow feet were bare.
“Up early?”
“Up all night,” I said and turned
back toward the window.
“Pretty view,” he said, crossing the
room to stand beside me. “Peaceful. Almost makes me forget the downside of my
desert tours. Sand flies and saw-scaled vipers. Parasitic skin infections.”
I grimaced. “Yuck.”
“
T
ell me about it
.”
The conversation, such as it was,
stalled there. The air between us vibrated softly with his unspoken invitation
to talk, but I couldn’t seem to start. He decided to help me out.
“What’s on your mind, A.J.?”
“I’m having trouble with this.”
“What?”
“This deal with Sidorov. I’ve been
chewing on it all night, only the more I chew the tougher it gets. It kills me
to know she’s going to walk.” And pocket a hefty payoff on her way out the
door. “The woman practically confessed to cold-blooded murder, Jack.”
“Um-hm.”
“And that crack about turning over a
new leaf? Rubbing our noses in it.”
“She’s a professional killer,
probably a sociopath. Conscience isn’t part of the job description.”
“Yeah. I’ve been trying to remember
how she got that way. Some people never catch a break. How much of who we are
is shaped by our circumstances? Tanya—or whatever her real name is—popped out
of the birth canal with two strikes against her. Maybe I would have turned out
the same way, if I had started life in a whorehouse in Eastern Europe.”
“Maybe. But life gets off to a
lousy start for millions of people. Or turns sour along the way. Disease,
poverty, abuse. Most folks still manage to stay in the right. Besides, catching
the breaks doesn’t always earn you a halo. Look at Conover. He had it
all—money, privilege, great education. You can debate nature versus nurture
until you’re hoarse, but the truth is, we’ve all got it in us to go either way.
Maybe the real question is, why does one go bad when the next guy doesn’t?”
“There but for the grace of God?”
“As good an explanation as any, I
guess. But luck of the draw or no, there’s right and there’s wrong, and unless
you’re completely psychotic, you damned well know the difference, no matter
where you started. We all share that, too. That awareness.”
“Yeah. That’s where I keep ending
up.”
Good always triumphs over evil in
the end, yes?
She
had asked the question mockingly, like the answer was so obvious only an idiot
with a Don Quixote complex could miss it.
Good almost never triumphs.
Ninety-nine percent of the time nice guys really do finish last.
The man
on the street would probably agree that was the way the world seemed to work
more often than not.
Que sera, sera
, right? Well, I couldn’t accept
that.
“You know,” I murmured, “as much as it
embarrasses me to admit it, in my heart of hearts I believe justice always wins
out in the long run.”
“Oh. An idealist.”
“Nope, a pragmatist. The way I
figure it, if right didn’t eventually even the score, mankind would have
self-destructed centuries ago. Granted, the comeuppances can be a long time
coming, and we don’t always hear about them, but I’ve always figured justice was
your basic irresistible force.”
“What goes around comes around? You
reap what you sow?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“So deal or no, Sidorov will get
hers in the end.”
“If she doesn’t turn herself
around? I can hope.”
“Well, while you’re waiting for lightning
to strike, remember. If she’s on the level, we’re one giant step closer to decapitating
the Ferrymen.”
“I know.”
“We’re letting the smaller fish go
in hopes of catching the big one. You’ve been around long enough to understand
how it works.”
“Sure, I understand. I just don’t
like it.”
“Nobody
likes
it.”
“Except the fish that gets away.” I
shook my head. “Come on, Jack, you and I both know she’ll hire out again the
minute she runs through the credits.” I rubbed the knotted muscles at the back
of my neck. “What happens if she goes back into business a year from now? If
somebody else dies because we gave her a free pass?”
“Who said anything about a free pass?”
I looked at him, surprised. “You
would go back on your word?”
“No way. If
Conover goes
down, and the Ferrymen go down with him, Sidorov will be able to write her own
ticket as far as immunity from prosecution, a new identity, etcetera.” He
paused before adding, “But we’re going to keep her on a short leash. You’ve
heard of SIRIs?” He pronounced it
series
.
“Submicroscopic intracranial
rehabilitation implants? Who hasn’t? Track the subject’s movements, monitor
neurobiology for indicators of antisocial or violent inclinations, and
instantly correct brain chemistry as needed.”
He gave me a
well?
lift of
the brows.
“For Sidorov?” I snorted. “Never
happen! You would have to convict her first, and if CIIS agrees to the deal, prosecution
will be off the table. But for the sake of argument, say trial is an option,
and she’s found guilty. You would still have to prove she’s a Repeat Offender Incapable
of Reforming. Hard to do when she doesn’t have any adult priors on record. No
priors, no ROIR classification, which means you’ll never convince two shrinks
and one medical doctor to recommend the implant. No recommendations, no court
order. End of story.”
“Only if we’re talking about an involuntary
procedure. What if we get her consent up front?”
“
Consent
? Fat chance!”
“You would be surprised what people
will agree to when the stakes are high enough. Sidorov has plenty riding on
this deal, and I’m not talking about money and immunity. What happens if word gets
out on the street? You know, the story about how she rolled on her boss and joined
forces with the feds? We may not know who Conover’s clients are yet, but it’s
a lead-pipe cinch they won’t be thrilled to hear one of his hired guns is
talking. And neither will he. Bad for business.”
I felt my lips curve. “You think
word will get out?”
“In a heartbeat, if she doesn’t play
ball.”
The SIRI wouldn’t stop Sidorov from
living the high life, but it would definitely keep her on the straight and
narrow. If it wasn’t justice, it was probably the next best thing.
“Okay,” I decided, “that helps.”
“Thought it might. And while you’re
looking for the silver lining, try this one on for size: I’m convinced. About
your … uh … gift,” he said in answer to my blank look. “Not that we need to
run around yakking about
visions
,” he added hastily, when I broke out in
a delighted smile. “If you ask me, the fewer in the know, the better. Bring
too many people in on the secret, and it’ll be impossible to contain.
Remember, A.J., you’re only one up on the bad guys if they don’t know you have
the edge.”
Finally, we were on the same page,
although I had to admit Eagan was a paragraph or two ahead of me.
Sam Bonner had said I would know
what to do with my gift when the time came. He was right. Once I figured out that
crime, real or potential, was a trigger, using the Sight as a stealth weapon in
the fight
against
crime was a no-brainer. I mean, what else would I do
with it, open a carnival act? My job with WNN
would provide the perfect
cover and, for better or worse, more peeks at the ugly side of life than I
could shake a stick at. Now Iceman was suggesting we keep my gift on the QT, all
the better to nab the bad guys and protect my assets. Good plan, but I had one
question. If only a few people were going to be in on this, and Eagan was one
of them, did that mean he expected us to work together on a regular basis?
If so, I wasn’t sure how I felt
about that. Mister Protect and Defend could definitely cramp my style. Not
that he wasn’t easy on the eyes and occasionally reassuring to have around, but
he was a rules-and-regs type. A bossy, buttoned-up fed. I, on the other hand,
preferred independence, improvisation,
and serving the story while it
was smoking hot. Not exactly a match made in heaven.
“I agree,” I said, keeping my reservations
to myself. “And thanks for telling me. That you believe in me, I mean.”
“Yeah, well. Fair’s fair.”
“Right.” I could see him clearly
now. A glance out the window revealed a sky lightening to pearl gray, erasing
the stars and leaving Venus to fly solo above the faintly gilded horizon.
“Sun’s coming up.”
“You’ve got time to catch a couple
hours’ shut-eye before the day gets off and running,” he pointed out. “Gonna
be a long one.”
“Probably, but I’m still too wound
up. Maybe a cat nap later.”
“All right, if I can’t talk you into
getting some rest, how about breakfast?”
Before he crossed the “t” on
breakfast,
my stomach grumbled,
Now you’re talking!
“Does that answer your question?” I said,
sharing Eagan’s grin.
I followed him into the kitchen and
watched him dial up a batch of fresh, hot cinnamon rolls as big as saucers and smothered
in gooey white icing. He brewed a cup of oolong for me and coffee for himself,
going through the motions with the relaxed, competent air of a man who knows
his way around a kitchen.
Well, would you look at him?
Iceman was full of surprises.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only
one.
The jogging path wound through
sun-splashed fields stitched along both sides with split-rail fencing. Shadows
pooled under clusters of live oak, the trees’ olive-drab leaves barely stirring
under the feather-light touch of a summery breeze. The sky was blue and
cloudless. Pounding along a smooth, uphill grade at the five-mile mark, I was
starting to feel the burn, and the endorphins were kicking in.
I was a hundred yards short of a runner’s
high when Hank Ellison stepped onto the path dead ahead and announced, “We need
to talk.”
My arms and legs kept pumping, but
the magic was gone. Not because Ellison was apparently set on a heart-to-heart,
but because he was standing still, making it painfully obvious the scenery was
moving, and I wasn’t. Holographic bells and whistles notwithstanding, I was on
a treadmill, still stuck in the safe house, and going nowhere fast. I blinked
the sweat out of my eyes and tried not to hold the unwelcome reminder against
him.
I shook my head. “If this is about
going home—”
“Just the opposite,” he cut in and
glanced around. “Look, can we dispense with the drive-by landscape? It’s
making me dizzy.”
“Computer. End virtual and initiate
cool-down,” I commanded, resigning myself to the inevitable.
As the treadmill leveled off and slowed,
my rural fantasy faded from sight, revealing beige walls, a set of free
weights, and one of those insect-like exercise machines that are all rods and pulleys.
So much for my bucolic interlude.
“Thanks,” I murmured when Ellison tossed
me the hand towel I had dropped on the incline bench. I continued my cool-down
walk as I dabbed at my face and neck. “So, talk.”
“I have a proposition for you.”
“What kind of proposition?”
“A partnership-type proposition.”
He waited, probably trying to gage my reaction. “As in, you and me,” he added,
in case I had missed the point.
I hadn’t. “I don’t need a partner.”
“Okay, maybe partner is the wrong
word. How about assistant?”
“Hank—”
“Sidekick,” he interjected hastily.
“Whatever!”
I eyed him in exasperation. His
horsey face had
I’m not going to take no for an answer
written all over
it. “What brought this on?”
“You, taking down creeps like the Ferrymen.
That’s what you’re planning to use this new …ah …
talent
of yours for,
right? Well, I want to help.” I started to ask him how he thought he could do
that, when he held up a hand and hurried on, “Hear me out. I’ve been a
reporter for five years, ever since I got out of college, and what have I got
to show for it? You do
your
job, and the world is a safer place. I do
mine
,
and gladiolas bloom.”
“The world would be pretty dull without
gladiolas.”
“And orchids and daffodils and
forget-me-nots. I agree. But it’s not like nature will wither and die without
my input.”
“Exit program.” The treadmill
coasted to a stop. I waited until the anti-grav cushion dissipated and the
unit touched down before stepping off. “And now you want to jump from
mild-mannered gardening guy to caped crusader?”
He blushed but didn’t back down.
“If by
caped crusader
you mean I want to work the crime beat, then,
yeah. Problem is, the closest I ever came to that kind of reporting was an exposé
on Millie Driscoll, a seventy-year-old retired librarian who tried to enter a
ringer in the Festival of Roses. Turned out her Homegrown Blue hybrid was actually
a clone from Hoboken.”
“And now you’re ready to tackle big,
nasty baddies.” Hands on my hips, I stared at him long enough to make him
squirm. Finally, I nodded. “Okay.”
He must have been expecting a
put-down, because he blinked and said, “Huh?”
“Go for it. I’ll even introduce you
to two or three editors who might let you get a foot in the door. But don’t
expect
me
to provide on-the-job training. I’m not going to have time.
You’ll have to find your sources and earn your byline the old-fashioned way.”
His face fell. “You still don’t get
it, do you? This isn’t about a byline! This is about making a difference!”
“As my assistant.”
“Right.”
I rolled my eyes. “Earth to Hank.
Have you been paying attention? The Ferrymen are dead set … no pun intended …
on murdering me and anybody unlucky enough to get within a five-mile radius of
me. That’s bound to be the case from here on out, no matter which ‘creeps,’ as
you call them, I go after. Watching my back and making sure my will is up to
date are going to be part of my job description. I’m not happy about it, but
I’ve had that talk with myself, and I’m ready to accept the risks. Are you? No
offense, but you practically had heart failure when you heard my broadcast the
other night.”
“Only because I didn’t know what you
had planned!” he insisted. “Look, it’s not like I haven’t thought this through.”
He smiled crookedly. “There hasn’t been much to do
but
think since you
guys kidnapped me.” The smile faded. “I’ve had that talk with myself, too, A.J.
I understand the risks. I admit my knees start to knock whenever I imagine the
what-ifs, but here’s the bottom line, as far as I’m concerned: You’ve got a
gift. You’re going to use it to hammer crooks. I want to be a part of that,
weak knees and all.”
There he stood, the expression on
his freckled, horsey face a crazy combination of hope and the importance of
being earnest, and I started to wonder if his was such a bad idea. Hank already
knew about the Sight. Had apparently become a believer. He would probably
keep my secret—provided some gorilla didn’t track him down and wring it out of
him. Of course, that could happen whether I hired him or not. So why not include
him? What did I have to lose? He was a bright guy and a trained reporter. An
extra set of feet, hands, eyes, and ears—not to mention a fresh, if naïve, perspective—couldn’t
hurt.
“What if the closest you get to the
action is background research or fact checks?”
Recognizing capitulation when he
heard it, he started to smile. “I can live with that.”
“Not very glamorous.”
“Not very dangerous, either.”
“Knock on wood. All right,” I
sighed. “We’ll give it a try. God willing, neither of us will be sorry.”
“Sorry about what?”
I glanced over my shoulder to see
Jack standing in the doorway.
Tipping my head toward the
now-beaming Ellison I explained, “Seems I have a new assistant.”
“Good for you,” he said, which
wasn’t even close to the
have you lost your mind
I expected, so I turned
all the way around to look at him.
His expression was unreadable, but
those ice blue eyes spoke volumes. And nothing they had to report was good
news.
That quick, I knew. “Who is it this
time?”
“Sadie.”