“Excellent, excellent!” The man beamed. “Yes, that’s what Howard did for me. He harvested the ovum and made me dozens of viable embryos. I paid him very well for the service. He was brilliant, you know. He’d developed preservation techniques ahead of his time. Those embryos are still viable to this day. Amazing.”
Bruno stared at Julian. This boy was his brother, his mother’s son, with that blank stare. Born after she died, twisted and deformed. Never knowing Magda Ranieri’s love or protection.
“You bastard. You cut open my mamma and stole her children,” Bruno said. “How did you get away with that?”
“It was easy. At the time, your mother was too busy worrying about you to worry about her ovary. But she got worried, at the end, when she figured out what I wanted to do with it. She even convinced Howard to be worried. She was so worried, she had to be, well, taken care of.”
“You son of a bitch. I’ll kill you for that,” Bruno said.
The guy was unperturbed. He folded his arms and waited, lips twisted in a half smile. Tapping his foot.
“What?” Bruno exploded. “What do you want?”
“Go on,” King said. “And the rest?”
“With what?” Bruno snarled. “Stealing her organs, kidnapping her potential children, that’s not enough? Aside from murdering her?”
“You’re not tracking,” King scolded. “Don’t tell me you skipped so many eighth-grade biology classes that you have no real grasp of the mechanics of human reproduction.”
Bruno grunted. “Haven’t gotten any complaints so far.”
Smack.
The slap rocked his head back. “Focus.” King’s voice cracked like a whip. “I do not appreciate crude sexual humor.”
Bruno struggled to fathom what the guy wanted from him. Some trail of reasoning he was supposed to follow? About those embryos, but he couldn’t . . . oh. Oh, shit. It started again. That drumroll. Another horrible truth he already knew but didn’t want to know.
“You’re talking about the sperm,” Bruno said. “You’re talking about . . . no. No fucking way. That’s not possible.”
King smiled, delighted, gave his head a pat. “It is.”
“You?” Bruno’s voice cracked. “You’re not . . . not my . . .”
“Your father?” King’s teeth gleamed, unnaturally white, as he finished the phrase for him. “Of course I am, Bruno. Who else?”
30
Z
ia Rosa didn’t see Kev when she stepped out of the exit gate at Newark. She marched along, staring straight ahead, with the stiff, rocking gait she affected when her edema was flaring up.
He stepped out into her path. “Hey, Zia.”
She stumbled back. “
O cazzo!
Kev! Whatchyou doin’ here?”
“I could ask you the same question,” he said grimly.
She sniffed. “I got business to take care of.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Bruno ain’t in here with you, is he? You gotta warn him that the cop from Portland is—”
“That’s what I need to tell you,” he said, cutting her off. He had to get this over with, quickly. “I have bad news. About Bruno.”
Zia pressed her hand to her heart. “He didn’t find the jewelry box?”
“No. Pina didn’t have it. But there’s more.”
Zia Rosa’s mouth started to shake. “No. Not my boy.”
“They took him,” Kev said, feeling helpless. “I’m so sorry. I tried, but they got him. And I don’t know where he is now.”
Zia Rosa sagged, toppling. He leaped to catch her, but he was positioned wrong. Fortunately, the man behind her lunged, grabbed her under the arms, and broke her fall. No mean feat, with a woman of Zia’s majestic proportions. Between the two of them, they eased her to the ground. Kev looked up to thank the guy for his reflexes.
The other man spoke first. “Who took him?”
Kev’s insides froze. He stared at the guy. No one he’d ever seen before. Tall, younger than Kev, messy dark hair, beard stubble. A tough, intelligent face. Sharp hazel eyes that knew too much about their private business met his over Zia’s squashed helm of bouffant black curls. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.
“I’m Detective Sam Petrie,” the man said. “Portland Police Bureau.”
Oh,
shit.
His heart sank. “And what are you doing here?”
The man’s gaze was very direct. “Looking for answers. And protecting your aunt, incidentally. She shouldn’t be traveling alone.”
“Oh?” Kev said, through gritted teeth. “Duh. Thanks so much for that blinding insight. How altruistic of you.”
Zia Rosa’s eyes popped open to shoot the guy a hostile glare. “Hah. Protecting me? In a pig’s eye.
Opportunista.
”
Kev grunted. “I doubt that the city of Portland is springing for your cross-continental air fare so that you can protect my aunt,” he said. “What did you do? Tail her to the airport when she bolted?”
“Yes.” Petrie hoisted Zia Rosa into a sitting position. “This isn’t official. I’m here at my own expense. This case got me going. When I latch on to something like this, I don’t know how to let go. So I followed her.”
“That’s a personality trait that might get you killed,” Kev said.
“I know,” Petrie said calmly. “Until then, I’ll just do what I do.”
They stared, sizing each other up. Petrie spoke again, his voice pitched just for Kev’s ears. “I’m not out for your brother’s blood. He told me he killed those men outside the diner in self-defense, and for what it’s worth, I believe him. I want to know more, before I find any more bodies. If Bruno was straight with me, he has nothing to worry about. From the law, that is,” he amended.
“What do you expect to accomplish here?” Kev demanded.
Petrie shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I just want to know more,” he said simply. “Your brother’s in trouble, right? Maybe I can help. I’m another gun, at least.”
Kev blinked at the guy, nonplussed. “You flew here armed? On such short notice?”
“Know a guy in the Portland Airport Police,” Petrie said blandly. “Used to work with him. He took me around the gates, through the Airport Police office. I think I owe him my firstborn child now, though.”
“That’s your problem. Nobody asked you to,” Kev growled.
“Fair enough,” Petrie said, unruffled. And just waited.
Kev harrumphed. “Great,” he said, sourly. “Zia Rosa wants to help. The cop wants to help. Everybody’s in my face, wanting to help. This much help could kill me.”
Petrie didn’t drop his gaze. Kev looked at the guy and let his perceptions soften, broaden. It was a trick he was picking up from hanging out with Edie, like he could almost ride her brain waves when she was drawing. He’d always trusted his own instincts, but time spent with Edie had sharpened his perceptions still further. He felt around in that other dimension for the shape of the other man. His intentions, his vibe.
The feeling he got was . . . solid. Like a rock, but dynamic. The guy wasn’t bullshitting him. He might be inconvenient, but not tricky. He wasn’t here sniffing for glory. He was hungry for the truth.
Who knew? Maybe he really could help. At the very least, like he said, he was another gun. “That was a dirty trick, showing Zia those photographs,” he said.
Zia Rosa batted away Petrie’s supporting hands, her face martyred. “I was so shocked,” she said. “I fainted.”
Petrie shrugged. “I’m sorry.”
People swirled around them, carts buzzing past, people dragging carry-on luggage trolleys, shoving strollers. Seconds ticked by.
“Who took him?” Petrie asked again.
“If I knew who, or where, I’d be there right now, blowing their asses to hell and gone,” Kev said. “It’s the same ones who’ve been trying to kill him for the past week. You heard that part of the story?”
“Might have heard that part betteif he’d asked for formal assistance from the authorities,” Petrie said calmly.
Kev looked at Zia Rosa. “We don’t have time for fainting spells.”
“’Course not!” Zia struggled to her feet. “Just tryin’ to stonewall this bozo.” She glared at Petrie and brushed herself off. “Get lost, babycakes.
Sparisci.
We got things to do.”
Petrie stood, unmoved. Kev sighed at the thought of the conversation that would immediately follow his next statement.
“He’s coming with us, Zia,” he said.
“He’s
what?
”
The yelling, the vituperation in Calabrese about his idiocy and Petrie’s perfidy, etc., etc., lasted to the curb outside in the ground transportation area. There was no point in explaining to Zia about perceptions from other dimensions, or following one’s instincts. That would be talking to a wall. Zia Rosa’s opinion of cops was as dim as Tony’s had been. Kev let the tirade flow through his head and past it.
Petrie marched alongside and had the good sense not to allow himself to look entertained.
Sean swooped in to pick them up. His reaction to Petrie’s presence was not as loud as Zia’s, but fully as strong. The look he gave his twin was more than enough. Kev looked away as Petrie got into the backseat next to him. “OK,” he said to the car at large. “Ignore him if you want, treat him like a piece of furniture. Zia, where to?”
“Gaetano’s house,” she said promptly. “He retired to a place out in Rupert. He’ll know who’s doing this.”
“Why him? Why don’t we just go directly to Michael?” Sean asked.
“I don’t know Michael from Adam,” Zia Rosa said. “Gaetano’s the one I got clout with. And Costantina, his wife. My man-stealing cousin. If Pina didn’t pack up Nonna’s jewelry box from Magda’s apartment, that
puttanella
Costantina must have it. She always thought it shoulda been hers. Then she married the man that shoulda been mine. I bet when Magda died, Costantina went over and helped herself to it. It’s time I had a talk with that dirty, thieving slut.”
“That dirty, thieving slut is pushing eighty, Zia,” Kev observed.
“So?” His aunt twisted in the seat and stared. “A slut is a slut. I ain’t afraid of Gaetano. That bastard jilted me. He can’t look me in the eye.
Lo mangio crudo.
I’ll eat him raw, eh? For breakfast!”
Kev leaned and put his hand on Zia’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Seriously, Zia. You wouldn’t have actually wanted to marry that guy, would you? To be caught in Mafia turf wars for decades? Costantina Ranieri is not a lucky woman. Would you really want her life?”
Zia Rosa gave him a look that was completely real. No jokes, no theatrics, no hamming it up. A look that Kev had almost never seen on her face in the nineteen years he’d known her, aside from Tony’s funeral.
She shrugged. “Boh,” she said, her voice bitter. “The bitch has eleven grandchildren.”
“No,” Bruno repeated, for the tenth time. “You can’t be.”
“Yes, I can. You know that it’s true. Look at me. See it?”
Bruno looked. The guy made his flesh creep, but he saw it. Those dimples. Like Bruno’s own. And Julian’s. The shape of the eyes, the teeth, though Julian’s and King’s had benefited from orthodontia that Bruno’s had not. The guy’s body, too. Tall, broad shouldered, lean hipped. The shape of his jaw, his hands. He’d seen it in the mirror. Bruno swallowed to calm his trembling throat. “So you were the pig who knocked my mother up and then ran out on her.”
King looked affronted. “Not at all! I was in love with your mother. She was brilliant. But so uncompromising. We had discussions about philosophical positions that we did not share. She became angry, told me to leave. I took her at her word. She never told me about the child. I found out about you seven years later, Bruno. By chance!” He sounded aggrieved, as if he’d been wronged.
“She figured out that you were bugfuck, and ran,” Bruno said. “But by then she was pregnant. She tried to keep me a secret. But you checked up on her.”
“Out of nostalgia, I suppose,” the older man said. “I expected to find her married and fat, with six children, stirring Ragu, growing a mustache. But no. I discovered you.” His eyes shone. “My own seed.”
Bruno recoiled. “So this is all about your sick ego?”
“I had to see what you were made of! I’d already begun my training programs. I had four pods going already. Zoe was in training, with three of her podmates. She’s my oldest living alum, from my second generation. But I couldn’t resist seeing what my own flesh and blood was capable of! With the cognitive enhancement drugs and my subliminal training techniques, I was sure that you could surpass—”
“Pods?” Bruno broke in. “What the fuck are pods?”
King looked irritated. “I grouped infant trainees into units of four,” he explained. “Results are better when trainees are raised in a family-style setting.”
“Infants?” Bruno looked around at the young people that were staring at him, with fresh chill. “Oh, my God. You mean, you’ve been fucking with these people’s heads since they were
babies?
”
“Cultivating them,” King corrected. “I’ve been cultivating them, exactly as you were not cultivated. What you could have been, what you might have accomplished, if I’d had you since birth!”
Yeah, he’d be as crazy and twisted as these wretched robot fucks. He jerked his chin in their direction. “Are they all, ah . . . your—”
“My genetic offspring? Oh, certainly not.” King chuckled. “That’s just a pet project of mine that sprang to life when I discovered you. Only Julian is related to you, of the operatives gathered here.”
Bruno shuddered, tried to drag his mind into focus. “So where did the other ones come from?”
“Various sources. I’ve tried many things over the years. Some I bought outright from pregnant girls—screened for their mother’s intelligence level, their births never recorded. Some are children of catastrophe, like Zoe. A war, an earthquake, a tidal wave, and you have hundreds of thousands of displaced people, and presto, there are already child brokers on the scene, scooping up orphans for instant resale. I tried buying them from the sex traffickers, but that’s problematic. So difficult to control prenatal care, nutrition. Many specimens were damaged. The cull rate was too high. My best results came after I found you. I decided to use Magda’s genetic material, since our combined genes had already yielded an exceptional specimen.”
But Bruno’s mind had glommed on one scary phrase, with a piercing stab of dread. “Cull rate? What’s the cull rate?”
King looked annoyed. “Don’t be dull, Bruno. It’s just as it sods. Not all of my attempts prove to be valid. Some just don’t work out.”
“So it’s kill rate, then,” Bruno said flatly. “Not cull rate.”
“Not at all,” King snapped. “It’s very civilized. Gentle euthanasia, not killing. A painless injection or a bit of gas, and they drift away.”
“Great,” Bruno muttered. “So you’re a mass murderer, too.”
King made a frustrated sound. “Exactly like your mother. Fixating on irrelevant details. Deliberately missing the point, just to irritate me.”
“How many were there?” Bruno asked. “Of Mamma’s babies?”
“I had dozens of embryos to start with, but we trimmed down to sixteen of the best,” King said. “Of those that were gestated, only six made it through the cullings over the years.” He looked wistful. “Three of those operatives died this week. One at the diner, then Reggie died immediately afterward, as a result. Then Nadia, killed by your friend Aaro. Then there’s my Julian. And the very last two. The little ones.”