Cutting Edge (15 page)

Anya shook her head. “I wasn’t planning on going.” She sat back down on the edge of her bed. “It’s over,” she said.

“We’re not talking about it,” Chris snapped. That had been one of their strictest rules: Never discuss past actions.

“I’m not. I’m stating a fact. I can’t live with myself if there’s another accident, if someone else—”

“Anya!” Chris shouted. “That’s enough.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t like being yelled at.

Maggie played the part of her defender. “Cut it out, Chris. We’re all upset. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Scott stared at her, but he didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t. He was as guilty as she was. Well, he hadn’t actually
cut
Jonah Payne, but he’d helped Maggie bring the body back from Tahoe, and he hadn’t said boo about it. Of course not. He was always too stoned to care much about anything but when he was getting his high. He was stoned now. Not too heavily, but enough to mellow him out.

“I’m sorry, Maggie,” Anya said. “I can’t do it anymore. It’s wrong.”

Wrong?
Anya had said the
wrong
word. There was nothing
wrong
in burning to the ground corrupt businesses. There was nothing
wrong
about killing bastards like Jonah Payne who destroyed lives without a thought. Lives like Maggie’s father, who had just wanted a platform like everyone else…

“We’re done,” Scott agreed. “I’m out. Chris?”

“Yeah.” Chris acted like a tough guy, but he’d gotten sick earlier. He didn’t have the stomach for action, and Maggie was glad they were quitting.

“It’s unanimous,” Maggie said. “I’m relieved.” Relieved that she had a plan to take care of these fools.

Anya hugged her. “I’m glad you’re back, Maggie.” She tried not to feel guilty, but she squirmed.

“Me, too.” Maggie pulled back, blinking away tears.

“What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “I’m just — the ducks. I’m so angry and upset. They didn’t need to do it.” That was the truth. Agent Nora English, the things she’d said. The things she’d allowed to happen. Maggie couldn’t think about that now. Later, later when she was alone and didn’t have to worry about what she said or did or thought.

“I’m thirsty,” Maggie said. “Anyone for iced tea?”

“Water?” Anya asked.

“Sorry, none here.” She’d gotten rid of it, knowing Anya preferred water to anything else.

“Iced tea, then,” Anya said.

Maggie poured the tea into cups and handed them around. She reached into her pocket, looked at her cell phone. “Damn, it’s my mother.” She rolled her eyes. “I gotta talk to her. I’m going in the hall so she doesn’t think I’m having a big party or anything.” As she opened the door she said, “Hi, Mom.”

She closed the door, pocketed her cell phone, and walked quickly away.

“Something’s up with her,” Chris said to Anya and Scott.

“Maggie?” Anya shook her head. “She tried to get back into college, but Rose said they needed the money from last semester before they would readmit her. She doesn’t have enough. I gave her three hundred dollars, all the extra money I have.” She drank her tea. It was icy cold and tasted like oranges.

“Too much sugar,” Scott said after sipping, but he gulped it down anyway.

“I think this whole thing is fucked,” Chris said. “The accident, then the feds killing all those birds. I just want to get out of here. Do you think they might, you know, put it together?”

Anya put a hand on her stomach. She had gas, pretty bad, but she didn’t want to ask Chris and Scott to leave just yet.

“I think I ate too many cookies,” Scott said.

Chris didn’t say anything, but his face was turning purple.

“Chris?” Anya stood, stepped toward him and fell to the floor, her stomach clenching. Suddenly she vomited uncontrollably.

Chris started convulsing, and Anya panicked when she couldn’t catch her breath. Intense pain radiated through her limbs and she couldn’t get up.

She crawled — slithered — to the door. Behind her, Scott started vomiting, the sound so deep, so violent, that Anya feared for him.

She couldn’t see, her head was floating, her body so tight. Her throat burned as if on fire.

It seemed like hours, but it couldn’t have taken her more than a couple minutes to reach the door. She pulled herself up against the wall, could barely touch the knob. Her vision blurred and she couldn’t turn the handle.

“Help!” she called, but couldn’t hear her voice. “Help.” Her throat wasn’t working. All she heard was her own breath coming in raspy moans.

Her hand wasn’t cooperating. Her vision faded, the pain so intense she just wanted to die.

She was dying.

Leif
.

Help
.

She retched again, down her front, and saw blood.
Help
.

Her hand fell from the knob and she slumped against the door.

While Nora changed her clothes, Duke walked around her house, curious. He’d never been here before, and he was pleased to see that it was both what he expected — private, tasteful, neat — and what he didn’t expect: open rooms, lots of windows, large garden, and an extensive collection of knickknacks.

The house itself wasn’t large, but it rested at the end of a short, private street in a hidden community in the middle of Fair Oaks. Each room was oversized, with high, vaulted ceilings and large windows. The windows in the rear looked out into a yard that distinguished itself by being simple: A deck overlooked a wide expanse of mowed grass, with established oak trees along the back hillside, a small, elegant pool to the right, and a rose garden to the left. The lighting was well placed, and the yard was one that would be comfortable year-round — there was even a gazebo in the corner for rainy days.

Duke had expected Nora to be more of a minimalist, but her home had built-in bookshelves in nearly every room, bursting with books and knickknacks and pictures, mostly of her and her sister Quin. Nora seemed to collect … things. One shelf of small clear glass animals, another shelf of seashells, another of ceramic elephants, and yet another of coffee mugs from twenty-one of the fifty states. He counted them.

In the den there were stuffed animals of all shapes and sizes and vintage crowding a loveseat in the corner. It made him wonder why she couldn’t part with any of them, why she clung to mementos. Above the couch was a framed photograph of Nora accepting an award, rifle in hand. He looked closer and was impressed, but not surprised, that she’d made FBI Sharpshooter.

There were two bedrooms on either side of the great room, each with its own bathroom, but Duke avoided those, not wanting to walk in on Nora dressing. Not true. He absolutely wanted to watch her dress — or undress. But not tonight. They were exhausted, and he just wanted to make sure she was okay after the afternoon at the lake. The experience bothered her on many levels, and Duke had finally gotten her to start opening up.

He found her in the kitchen. She’d changed into sweatpants and a faded FBI Academy T-shirt. She still looked gorgeous. She’d washed her face, and though she wore little makeup during the day, now she was fresh-faced and looked younger than her years.

“I boiled some water — I’m having chamomile tea, no caffeine — nothing to interrupt my sleep tonight. I also have caffeinated bags—”

“Chamomile sounds great.” It sounded like drinking weeds, but Duke wanted any excuse to stay.

“Do you live far from here?”

“Rancho Cordova.”

She shot him a look. “You don’t seem the type.”

“Because it’s a working-class city?”

“Maybe.”

He shrugged. “It’s my parents’ house.”

“You live with your parents?”

“They died. A plane crash.”

“I’m sorry. Recently?”

“Thirteen years ago. Now it’s just me and Sean.”

She put the tea in front of him, slid over the honey. He sipped it, then added some honey.

“What happened?” she asked.

He realized she thought his entire family was gone. “I should say, it’s just Sean and me in the house. My older brother Kane is a soldier for hire in Central America. The twins, Liam and Eden, are younger than me and live in Europe.”

“Europe?”

“They run their own personal security company there. For the rich and famous.” He laughed, but it didn’t sound funny. Maybe because he’d never thought it was a good idea.

He changed the subject. He didn’t mind talking about his family, but he wanted to find out more about Nora. “I like your house.”

Even in her exhaustion, she brightened. “Thank you. I’ve been here seven years. Bought it just after I turned thirty. It’s always been my dream…” Her voice trailed off and she grew melancholy.

“To own a house?”

“To have a home.”

There was a distinction, and Duke was curious. “Did you move a lot growing up?”

She didn’t say anything for a long minute. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“What would you say?”

“You don’t really want to know.”

“I do, or I wouldn’t have asked. I’m not making small talk.”

“Then what are you doing?” She looked him in the eye. She was suspicious, wary, and sensitive. But there was something about her tone, something
hopeful
.

Duke leaned back. “I’m getting to know you. It’s what people do when they work together. When they like each other. When they’ve been interested for, oh, four years. It’s called conversation.”

“I must have missed that lesson.” She glanced down at the mug, but there was a half smile on her lips, a smile she didn’t want him to see. She sighed and said, “I didn’t have a conventional upbringing. I didn’t go to school, for one. Lorraine claimed she was
home schooling me.”

“Lorraine is your mother?”

“Unfortunately. Her idea of education was teaching me about her favorite social causes. I learned how to pick a lock, paint a protest sign, and make bombs.”

That wasn’t the answer Duke had been expecting. He didn’t know what to say. How could he have worked with her on half a dozen cases over the years and not known?

Nora waved her hand as if it didn’t matter, but Duke saw it mattered greatly to her. “Some of Lorraine’s friends were saner than she was. I learned how to read because of Gigi, a wonderful but eccentric woman who followed the Grateful Dead around for fifteen years, earning her way by knitting and selling sweaters. I used to have some. My mother left me with Gigi for a few months when she went off on one of her crusades. The first time was when I was five, but I stayed with Gigi quite a bit. She had a pickup truck with a camper shell. Almost like a home.”

The wistful angst in her voice twisted his heart. No one should grow up like that.

“I assume your father wasn’t in the picture.”

She shook her head. “Not mine, not Quin’s. Different fathers. So we think. Lorraine knew who my father was — at least his name. I tracked him down much later. He died at the age of thirty-two, drunk. He fell off the cliffs near Soquel. Lorraine doesn’t know who Quin’s father is — never cared, either. She named her Quin Teagan because Teagan was the name of some guy she liked — but admitted to me that she’d never slept with him. I don’t know where she got Quin from. I think she took it from a Bob Dylan song, but spelled the name wrong. Probably on purpose. Lorraine never liked conventions.”

She looked out the window into the dark.

“I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories—”

“You didn’t. Today — it was just a hard day.”

“The lake.”

“That, and the arson, and the killer — you said something earlier.”

“About the psychopath.”

He remembered it well, because it had affected her.

“I knew a psychopath once. Cameron Lovitz. My mother met up with him when I was nearly sixteen. She’d always been a criminal, a petty criminal. Nothing more violent than graffiti, trespassing, and petty theft. A few bombs — but they rarely worked. She didn’t know I’d been sabotaging her plans for years.” Nora sighed. Duke didn’t interrupt. She needed the time to tell her story the way she wanted.

“I was just waiting until I was eighteen,” she said a few moments later, “but honestly, I didn’t know if I would leave — I couldn’t leave Quin. I was the one who made sure she went to school, and I taught myself with her schoolbooks. I used to live in libraries…” She cleared her throat, sipped her tea. “But Cameron Lovitz was a terrorist. He boasted of sinking a boat off Santa Barbara that was carrying a high-ranking oil executive and his family. I didn’t know if I could believe him, but at the public library I researched his claim and learned a board member of an offshore oil drilling company had died in what was apparently an accident. Did Lovitz do it? Maybe.

“But I became less skeptical of his claims when he pulled my mother into crazy plans. Setting bombs in new housing developments, planning to derail a train carrying toxic waste to show the dangers of toxic chemicals. Lorraine bought into it. And I was in the middle of it.”

She got up and poured her half-gone tea down the drain, rinsed the cup, and left it in the sink. “Lorraine was so stupid. And blind. And she said she loved Cameron and would do anything he asked her. Including breaking into Diablo Canyon nuclear power plant. Knowing what I know now, there was no way their plan would have worked, but that wasn’t the purpose. I think the purpose was to scare people. And maybe they should have been scared.”

“What happened?”

“I turned FBI informant when I was seventeen. Worked with the Los Angeles office, gave them everything, and they were there to catch them.”

“But they didn’t?”

“Cameron Lovitz is dead. The others are in prison, including my mother.”

“And then you joined the FBI?” It seemed incredible and unexpected, but it fit Nora.

“I didn’t know what I wanted to do after my world fell apart.” She walked over to the counter, leaned against it. “My handler lied to me. About a lot of things, but I didn’t know that until he died during the operation. I hated him, but I didn’t. I understand why, now, but at the time…” Her voice trailed off. “I met another agent out of Los Angeles, Rick Stockton. He’s now a director at the FBI lab. He was everything that Andy Keene was not. And he taught me a lot, helped me gain custody of Quin, helped me get my GED and go to college. Urged me to take psychology because of my aptitude tests.”