Broken Shadows (18 page)

Chapter Nineteen

We both slept like logs in our separate beds. I didn’t even have time to regret not drifting off next to him before I fell into dreamless, miles-deep sleep.

When I woke, I couldn’t hear Jackson moving around, so I got up and took a shower with a towel wrapped around my head to keep it dry. My hair needed conditioning, but it would have to wait. By the time I finished, Jackson was awake, drinking a cup of coffee in his kitchen. His hair was even more ridiculously unkempt than it had been earlier, and he was wearing only his boxers and thick white athletic socks. He’d changed the bandage around his arm, and I thought he’d never looked more handsome.

“Made a whole pot,” he said. I went into the kitchen in my towel and poured myself a mug. Before I could ask, Jackson brought cream soaring over from the fridge.

I plucked the carton out of the air. “Thanks.”

He mumbled something and downed the rest of his coffee. Then he headed for the bathroom, squeezing my shoulder with his uninjured hand as he passed.

“Hey! Cut it out!” I hadn’t felt a transfer start, but still.

“Oh, hush.” He doubled back and planted a kiss on my shoulder blade, darting into the bathroom before I could yell at him.

By the time Jackson got out of the shower, I’d finished off half the pot of coffee and was feeling more like a human being. We picked up bagels at a shop on the corner and ate them while we drove over to Conner’s place.

“Don’t you have to be at work today?” I wasn’t used to seeing him in jeans and T-shirts.

“Called in sick.” He took an enormous bite of bagel while I mimed shock. “What?” he said after he’d chewed and swallowed. “You’ve never played hooky?”

“Kinda hard to do when you live in the boss’s house.” Also kind of hard when the boss was a telepath. A little pang went through me, a memory of Lionel making cinnamon rolls in the big B&B kitchen.

“I wish I could have met him,” Jackson said.

“Yeah. Me too.” I watched him drive, wondering what Lionel would have thought of him. He would have approved of his protectiveness. He would have recognized a like spirit.

Jackson parallel parked on the street next to a strip of green space. He managed it one-handed—I was impressed. Conner lived in a four-unit building near the Haight, one of the pretty Victorians gone to seed that lined Fell Street. The front door was locked, but Jackson opened it easily and bowed me in.

“After you.”

“First in, first to be arrested. How chivalrous.”

“It’s on the second floor.” He followed me up the stairs.

I waited on the landing and kept watch while Jackson broke in to Conner’s apartment. I was used to seeing him open the speakeasy door, but this was different. He leaned back against the wall beside the door and took out his phone. I laughed and shook my head.

“What?” he said. “It’s better than staging an argument.”

Or making out in the hallway,
my brain suggested unhelpfully, forgetting he could hear me. I thought I saw his eyebrow go up, but a moment later, the lock clicked, and Conner’s door opened behind him. I made to go in, but he held up a hand and stopped me.

“I need to make sure it’s clear first.” His eyes went distant, and I knew he was searching the rooms, looking for anyone still there. He’d told me Conner lived alone, but given recent events, I was glad he was being careful. After a few moments, he nodded, and we both went in.

It was clear no one had been there in weeks. The fridge was full of soured milk and expired condiments, and dust lay in a blanket under the cheap furniture. Jackson could tell no one was in the apartment, but he still moved slowly, keeping me behind him as he entered each room.

“What are we looking for, exactly?”

“Anything,” he said. “But especially anything that tells us something about his operation.”

Jackson took the drawers out and carefully lifted the jumbled clothes out of each one.

“Here,” he said softly, and the bottom of the drawer came loose with a click.

I looked over his shoulder and saw a cluster of small baggies. In one corner was an empty bag, white powdery residue on the inside. Jackson lifted it up.

“I guess that answers that question,” I said.

“He didn’t leave much behind.”

“Anything else?”

Jackson turned the drawer upside down. “I’d love to find a cell phone. Split up?”

“Sure.” I glanced in the bathroom and saw enough to realize it probably hadn’t been cleaned since Conner moved in. “I’ll take the living room.”

“Wimp.”

Conner’s living room was as typical for a single twenty-something guy as his bathroom, but less smelly. Empty chip bags under the couch, drink rings on the side tables. I rummaged through the drawers and even under the rug. Nothing but trash and dust. The most expensive thing in the room was a flat screen TV sitting on a smoked-glass entertainment center packed with DVDs. He had an impressive collection of kung-fu movies and what looked like the entire filmography of Quentin Tarantino. I started pulling the cases out, looking for things stashed behind them, and found another row of DVDs and video game cases behind that.

“Jesus, I guess I know what he did in his free time.” I stacked the cases on the mashed, dusty carpet as I went. One of them felt a little light. It rattled when I shook it.

I stopped my exploration of Conner’s collection and opened the case. Inside I found a small key, the type with bits instead of grooves, a cityscape of silver metal rising from either side of the blade.

“Hey, Jackson?” I called.

“Yeah?” His voice was muffled.

“Think I found something.”

* * *

“You’re fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting.”

“Relax. It’s going to be fine.”

“That security guard looks suspicious.”

“He looks suspicious because you’re fidgeting. Smile. Smile now.”

“What? Oh, shit.” I smiled. Someone was walking up to greet us. I grinned so hard my cheeks hurt.

We were in a bank in downtown San Francisco, the kind with marble floors and well-dressed finance professionals behind heavy wooden desks. The kind with safe deposit boxes in vaults.

“May I help you, sir?” The man was wearing a tie and an engraved nametag that said C. Brath. His hair had too much gel in it.

Jackson flashed a megawatt smile. “Yes. I’d like to access my safe deposit box.” He was wearing one of his suits, as much to play the part as to conceal his bandage.

“Very well. Your name, sir?”

“Conner O’Rourke. I have my key.” He held it up.

“Right this way, sir.” C. Brath walked stiffly toward a standing desk on the far side of the bank. He left us there, taking Jackson’s fake ID with him. He’d gotten it from Seb. Seb, apparently, had contacts. Not surprising for a man with six-foot wings.

Jackson had recognized the key as a safe deposit box key right away. Apparently his parents had one. We’d spent the rest of the afternoon scouring Conner’s apartment for bank statements. They’d been in a paper shopping bag in the back of his closet along with two years of electricity bills, cell phone bills, and credit card statements with high standing balances. Once we’d found his bank, it was a matter of calling around to find out which branch had safe deposit boxes on site. This was the third one we’d tried. We’d arrived half an hour before closing.

“If you’ll just fill out this form, please, sir.” Brath was back. He put the form down with a bit of a flourish and handed Jackson a fancy pen from his top pocket. I resisted rolling my eyes.

We’d been prepared for this part. Jackson had gotten an example of Conner’s signature from an old birthday card James had found, and he’d spent an hour practicing until it was seamless. He signed without hesitation, and Brath went away again. My palms started sweating.

“It’s not like we’re taking hostages, here,” Jackson whispered in my ear. He was smiling.

“Shut up.”

I shouldn’t have worried. Brath came back with a key of his own, and we were led into the vault with the boxes. He took both keys, opened a large box on the far wall and left us alone.

Jackson and I looked at each other. He pulled the box open.

A gun. Cash—lots of cash. And pills. Hundreds of them. Enough to supply every shadowmind in the state for months. Jackson lifted the first layer of cash and found another layer, and then a second gun.

“We should have brought a bigger duffel bag,” I said.

Chapter Twenty

I should have known that the abandoned car dealership next to Featherweight’s was more than it seemed. Everything else about the place was. When Jackson led me up to the locked garage door and knocked on the corrugated steel, I couldn’t even fake surprise.

“This is where Sebastian lives?”

“You have to admit, it gives him plenty of room.”

The door rolled up with a few dozen rhythmic metallic clanks. On the other side, standing on a concrete ramp, was James.

“No trouble?” he said.

“No trouble,” Jackson replied. He dropped the duffel bag full of guns, drugs and cash at his father’s feet. It had been a bit of a rush, carrying it out of the bank. I didn’t know if the enhancers were technically illegal, but they looked damning enough next to a Glock and fifty grand in twenties.

James eyes the bag. We’d barely been able to get the zipper closed.

“I take it we’ve moved past street-level dealers,” he said, picking it up.

“So it would seem.”

“Come on,” James said. “Seb’s upstairs.”

He led us up the ramp, and I took in the interior. Half of it looked like an abandoned, cleared-out factory. The windows were painted over with thick, streaky coats of whitewash, and metal pillars stretched from the concrete floor to the raftered ceiling twenty-five feet above. On the floor was a collection of worn-looking sparring equipment—a punching bag patched with duct tape, a rack full of long wooden poles, face guards, swords. Actual swords. I stared.

“You ought to see him practice,” James said, startling me. “He’s deadly with a short sword.”

James led us up a dark metal spiral staircase to a loft that covered half the building. Beneath it were a few walled-off rooms and doors painted a dull beige, but above was a space the size of a ballroom covered in polished wood. It was as different as possible from the lower level. One corner held a modern kitchen with steel countertops and a professional-grade hood over the stove. There was no bed, but the opposite corner held a huge canvas hammock suspended from the metal rafters. In the center was a wide leather bench, like a couch without a back, and a huge slab of unfinished wood with bark still attached to one side. That, apparently, was the coffee table, because a collection of iced drinks was sitting on top of it.

Caleb was sitting on the couch, and the moment he saw Jackson, he stood up, frowning.

“What happened?” His eyes went to Jackson’s arm, where his bandage was visible as a bulky spot under his slim-cut shirt.

“I’m fine,” Jackson said. Behind his back, I shook my head.

Caleb came forward and laid his hand on Jackson’s shoulder. He closed his eyes briefly, and the muscles in Jackson’s neck tensed and relaxed.

“Better?” Caleb said, still frowning.

“Much. Thank you.”

“I had no idea you’d been shot. Why didn’t you come to me?”

“Didn’t want to bother you. It’s just a little thing.”

“A little thing? You’ve got a dozen stitches in your arm.” He shook his head.

I glared at Jackson. “You said it wasn’t that bad.”

“It’s not.” He couldn’t meet my eyes. “Relatively speaking.”

“You are the most stubborn man in the universe. Next time, I’m driving you to Caleb’s instead of the hospital.”

“Thank you, Mina,” Caleb said. “If anyone can talk sense into him, it’s you.”

I
hmph
ed and sat next to him on the couch. Jackson sighed and joined me, grumbling something about being outnumbered.

“I’ve been trying for years.” James raised his drink in salute. “Good luck to you.” Jackson rolled his eyes, and I elbowed him in the ribs.

I heard a toilet flush, and Sebastian came out of a door on the far side of the loft. He was wearing faded jeans and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt with ragged wing-holes cut out over the shoulders.

“Oh, good,” he said, catching sight of me. “You’re here.”

Everyone sat down except Sebastian, who paced in front of the couch. This didn’t seem to bother anyone else. He walked back and forth, muttering to himself, wings dragging the floor in an arc every time he turned. James topped off his glass.

“We’re not sure who we can trust,” Sebastian said, surprising me by stopping mid-circuit and facing us. “To be honest, I think the jury’s still out on you three.”

James laughed. Jackson sipped his drink. I contemplated hiding behind the couch.

“But we have to work with what we have,” he added.

I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved by this, or terrified. I was glad Caleb was on the Trust List, but I was dismayed that Malik and Simon were missing from this little meeting. I’d had to lie and say I was sick to get out of my shift. Our circle of trust was narrowing.

“So,” Sebastian said, going back to pacing, “what we have here is some sort of...of drug ring.”

“You’ve been watching too many cop shows,” James said. “We don’t know there’s a
ring.
”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes at him. If he’d looked at me that way, I would’ve ducked behind the enormous wood-block coffee table with my hands over my head, but James only grinned and sipped his whiskey.

Sebastian held up his thumb. “Greg.” Another finger. “Turner.” Another. “Thomas.” One more finger. “And Conner. That’s four. And who knows how many others.”

“There’s that guy who dropped dead in the bar,” I supplied.

“Exactly!” Sebastian sounded pleased. “This has to stop.”

“With this much—” Jackson looked at the duffel, “—inventory, Conner must be the supplier. We find him, we may find out how deep this goes.”

“Well, we can’t ask Bridget,” James said. “I’d hate to think she was involved, but...”

Jackson rubbed the back of his neck. We’d discussed this on the drive over. I couldn’t imagine she’d ever been within ten feet of an illegal drug, but Conner was her brother. She might not be above lying to protect him.

Sebastian stood up. “Someone has to go to Alex.”

The room went silent. Someone’s ice melted and fell in a glass with a quiet clink.

“I’ll go,” Jackson said. “I think I have the best shot.”

Sebastian nodded once. “Good luck.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Jackson and I were driving north over the Golden Gate Bridge. It was my first time over the bridge in a car, and I couldn’t help craning my neck to look up at the spans. The traffic was terrible, so I had plenty of time. To my right, a mass of pedestrians trudged along the walkway, making the pilgrimage to the other side. I’d done it, too, after a month or so in the city. Not many of them had dressed for the cold or the wind—also just like my first experience.

“It’s a shame we can’t ask Bridget,” I said. “You don’t really think she’s involved in this, do you?”

“It’s pretty unlikely. But this thing is starting to get more serious.”

I had to agree. The cash, the guns. I definitely wasn’t going to be touching Jackson anytime soon. He glanced over at me.

“We’ll manage.” His smile quirked up, and my body heated all the way to my toes.

After the bridge, it was another hour of winding roads through towering conifer forest before we got to Alex’s. Jackson parked on the soft shoulder of a gravel road. When we got out, the smell of the trees hit me in the back of the throat, and I realized how long it had been since I’d been out of the city, how long it had been since I’d been in green space like this. To the left of the road, the ground sloped down gently. Redwoods towered overhead, mixed in with something else, maybe eucalyptus? The ground was carpeted with needles, and I could tell it would be soft to walk on. I stretched and inhaled.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Jackson said.

“I love it.” The road wound deeper into the woods, and I wondered how far it went. Did it end at the ocean? I thought I could smell the sea mixed in with the sharp scent of the trees. I was so intent, I didn’t notice Jackson had come up behind me until his hands circled me and pulled me against his chest. He nuzzled my shoulder through my sweater and stroked my upper arms.

“We should come back, when all of this is over.”

“It’s going to be over?”

He laughed, and I felt his chest move against my back. “We should come back anyway.”

I turned to look at the little cabin we’d come to visit, about fifty yards back from the road on a dirt footpath.

“Come on,” Jackson said.

It was cool under the trees, and it got dimmer the farther we walked. The cabin was situated at an odd angle, as if it had been built to avoid clearing any trees. When we got closer, Jackson slowed and moved in front of me, as if he was shielding me.

“Move slowly. He doesn’t like to be startled.”

“Won’t he recognize you as we walk up?”

“Alex doesn’t use his powers for things like that.”

Jackson knocked on the door, and I heard something hit the floor inside. I stood on tiptoe to look over Jackson’s shoulder, peering through the curtained window in the front door. Jackson shifted. “You should stay behind me,” he said. I did as he suggested, wondering what was so dangerous about Alex. Then he opened the door.

I’d expected him to be old—maybe even ancient—but he was a relatively young man, maybe thirty-five, with unlined light brown skin. He was a little shorter than Jackson, and he was thin in the way marathon runners are thin. Wiry and strong. His dark brown hair was trimmed short, and he’d shaved recently. He stood in the doorway, wearing a pair of faded jeans and a green sweater. His feet were bare.

“Who’s she?” he said. I smiled and tried to think nonthreatening thoughts.

“A friend,” Jackson said. “Her name is Mina.”

Alex didn’t acknowledge me. He didn’t even look at me. “Well, since you’re here, you might as well come in.” He backed away to let us pass through into the cabin.

It had looked small from the outside, but once I was in it, it was almost claustrophobic. There was only the one room, with a door in one corner that I assumed led to a bathroom. But it wasn’t the size that made the place feel tiny. It was the decor.

All four walls were lined with shelves, and every shelf was crammed with stuff. Most of it looked to be bundles of fabric, but when I looked closer, I saw it was actually women’s clothing, everything from blouses to belts to lingerie. One shelf held stacks of drugstore makeup. There was a whole section full of hairbrushes and clips. Even creepier, on some of the lower shelves were toys: a train set, a collection of stuffed animals. I shuddered. Jackson would never have brought me here if Alex were some sort of insane serial killer, but the sight of it all still weirded me out.

“Tea?” Alex asked. I jumped.

“That would be nice,” Jackson said, sitting down on a green futon in the center of the room. It was the only piece of furniture in the place except for the shelves. I sat down next to him, getting as close as I could without actually touching him. He put a hand on my knee and squeezed briefly.

Alex walked over to a little camping stove and lit the burner. “Almost out of water,” he grumbled, filling the kettle from a small cistern near the stove.

“I’ll bring you more before we go.”

He went about preparing the tea, and I realized, finally, that he was blind. He moved surely through the small, crowded space, and I felt that he’d looked at me when Jackson introduced me, but now I saw that his pupils were unnaturally constricted in the dim light, and he never looked directly at the items he reached for. While the water boiled, he measured out precise spoonfuls of green tea into three mugs, feeling the rims with one hand before he added leaves with another. He poured the water directly over the loose leaves, and they swirled in the cup like glitter in a snow globe. I nodded as he handed me mine, then said, “thank you” when I remembered he couldn’t see me.

“Last of the dragonwell,” he said, and I felt I should apologize for taking it. But Jackson only took his mug with a quiet “thank you,” and sat back down on the futon.

Alex stayed standing. “Why have you come here?”

I stayed quiet. He was clearly talking to Jackson.

“We need your help, Alex. We need to find somebody.”

“That much I discerned for myself. Why?”

“It’s a long story. You wouldn’t be interested.”

Alex sipped his tea. “Who is it?”

Jackson looked nervous for the first time since we’d arrived, but it didn’t show in his voice. “Conner O’Rourke.”

Alex’s face tightened. “Bridget’s brother?”

“Yes.”

“Why doesn’t she look for him herself?” he asked in a weary way, as though he already knew she’d failed.

Jackson confirmed it. “She’s tried. And...it’s complicated.”

Alex drained the last of his tea. I wondered if he’d swallowed the tea leaves. “Let me see.”

Jackson put his hand out, fingers spread, and Alex took his hand unerringly. They only maintained contact for a few moments before he rounded on me.

“Come on, then,” he said. “What about you?”

“I—didn’t know him.” How much should I explain? But Alex was already turning away from me. He sat on the floor.

Back home, I’d seen my uncle’s friend Janine do this sort of thing. Hell, I’d had it done
to
me. When I’d been missing, Janine had dowsed for me. It worked better when the dowser had more diverse memories to draw from, sort of like the way police made a composite sketch of a suspect from a lot of different eyewitnesses.

Alex arranged his legs in the lotus position and put his hands on his knees. He didn’t close his eyes. For an instant, something like sadness crossed his face, but then it was gone, and he was staring straight ahead again.

It took about thirty seconds, maybe less. Alex pulled open a drawer, dug out a green permanent marker and a creased paper map from a car rental agency. He ran his fingers along the edges, tracking them, then slid a finger west with a crisp, precise movement, stopping along a winding road north of the bridge.

“There. He’s dead.”

I gasped, and his head whipped around to face me. He had that same unseeing stare, and then, like a switch going off, his pupils dilated. For the first time, he looked right at me.

“Why so shocked?” he said. “People die.”

His gaze slid out of focus again, and he sat down on his couch, facing away from us. There was a scrap of red fabric draped across one of the cushions, and he picked it up and wove it through his fingers like a nervous man worrying a pen cap. It was a scarf, the thin, filmy kind a woman might wear knotted around her neck with a business suit.