Authors: Lynn Viehl
If he had been a man who prayed, he would have made a single request of God—that he be given a second chance at life with the only thing he had ever loved. And she was here, in the city, perhaps even now just around the corner. Just out of his sight.
What was she doing? Walking the streets? Watching faces? Looking for his? After all this time, did she still think of him? Or had she made herself forget him?
She could do that, and more. With her powers she could make dreams come true. He had seen it with his own eyes; touched the proof of it with his own hands. And now she was out there, lost and alone, hiding herself among the herd of common humanity, who should have been gathering around to fall on their knees to worship her like the goddess she was.
The knowledge that she lived made him feel young again. It also made him aware of every tick of the clock on his mantel, every shadow shifted by the passage of the sun.
“Mr. King.”
Gerald kept his staff on a ruthless schedule designed to keep his contact with them to a bare minimum. The interruption now, however, could not be avoided—not when he was so close to finding her. “What is it?”
“You have an electronic message from Atlanta, sir.” The communications technician remained standing just beyond the threshold. “The transmission came through flagged as urgent and encrypted for eyes-only.”
That meant only King could open the message. “Upload it to my system and then destroy the original transmission.”
“Yes, sir.” The technician withdrew.
No one had access to King’s private computer array; he kept it completely isolated from the rest of the household terminals as well as the networks used by his various business interests. A subterminal system allowed one-way communication between the household system by accepting uploads, which were then vigorously screened and sanitized before a second upload to the private mainframe. Nothing on King’s system could be downloaded or copied; any attempt to do so would initiate a terminus protocol that would destroy King’s computer as well as every computer that had ever uploaded anything to the subterminal.
It took time for the subterminal to scan, study, and clean the upload before it was forwarded. King used the time to engage his privacy measures, which isolated and secured his living space from the rest of the house and generated an electronic signal that would scramble any listening device within five hundred yards.
He glanced at his terminal, where the words
upload completed
appeared. “Open most recent encrypted file, password silence-one-one-two-seven-one-nine-five-six-rebirth.”
The terminal’s voice recognition software responded not only to the spoken code but to King’s voice itself, which it instantly compared with the voice print kept on file. Because the voice matched, it accepted the code; if anyone else had tried to use it the result would have been initiation of the terminus protocol.
“Audio file opened,” the system’s computerized voice told him. “Hold, replay, save, or delete?”
“Replay.”
A moment later, a familiar voice came through the system’s speakers. “Mr. King, the partial DNA sample taken from the female prime has been used to resolve the problem with the transerum. Mr. Genaro is now aware of the value of the female and has determined that she is presently in New York City.”
Pain lanced through his head and for a moment split his vision in two before he reached for his phone.
King had obtained much of his communications equipment from various agencies involved in high-tech surveillance and other covert operations. The satellite phone he used to place the call was one of only three in existence; it could not be monitored and any call he made on it could not be traced to the line he called or back to his residence.
The voice that answered was as void of emotion as its owner. “Yes, Mr. King.”
He had to unclench his teeth in order to speak. “How did Genaro find out she’s in the city?”
“I’ve been unable to determine that, sir,” his operative said, “but I believe he’s using some unconventional means to locate them.”
Them. As if King cared about anyone but her. But if Genaro had developed some new technology that could track her . . . “What could he use?”
“Theoretically speaking, a government spy satellite could be programmed to search for them. They all have unique energy signatures that register off the grid. But I don’t think he has enough information gathered to correctly identify a targeted individual.” The operative paused. “He may be using one of them to locate the others. We’ve yet to identify a remote viewer, but it’s certainly not beyond the scope of their abilities.”
King closed his eyes, forcing the pain back. “You told me he was killing everyone he captured in order to harvest their DNA.”
“That is what we’ve been told,” his operative agreed, “and what the records show.”
The chairman of GenHance had many secrets; it would be nothing for him to deceive even his most trusted employees. “What action is being taken?”
“A team of trackers has been dispatched to recover her,” was the reply. “They will arrive within the next twelve hours.”
Genaro’s efficiency and decisiveness remained unchanged, but this time he was sending his men into King’s territory. “Send complete profiles and photographs for each member of the team.”
“They’re being transmitted to you as we speak.”
King heard a faint rushing sound in his ears, as if sand was pouring out of them. “Has Genaro tested the modified transerum on a living human subject yet?”
“No, sir.”
Genaro’s uncharacteristic hesitancy gave King a slight advantage, one he would use to eradicate his wealthy rival in Atlanta. “Continue monitoring the situation. When the transerum is tested, report back to me at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
King ended the call and left his bedroom, moving through a short passage and through a door no one but he was allowed to enter. Inside the smaller room the air was much cooler and drier, but still scented with the faintest trace of lily-of-the valley.
He went, as he always did, to her pristine bed, where snow-white Belgian lace cascaded from a gracefully arched canopy to veil the cream linens. They lay pushed aside, as if someone had just risen from the bed. The right pillow still held a slight indentation, and draped on the end of the mattress lay a long robe of pale pink satin.
He reached out a shaking hand, reverently touching the depression in the pillow as he thought of the many nights he had come to this bed and found the ultimate pleasure in her arms. She had been so sweet and trusting, and while she had never truly understood his passion, she had accepted it. Her love had indulged his every desire, giving him all that he had asked of her, refusing him nothing.
That selflessness, that unstinting generosity—that was true love.
King turned slowly toward the painting hanging on the south wall. He had commissioned her portrait just before she had come to him, and the world- renowned artist had captured every nuance of her being: the pale gold of her hair, the exquisite whiteness of her skin. Her eyes, large and beautifully blue, looked down at him, shining from within. All the love she had brought into his life he saw in her gentle smile, her thin hands.
He could not bear to look upon her for more than a few moments; so great was his grief that he turned and moved to her little vanity table. The dainty pearl necklace that she had set out to wear that day curled beside the ivory brush and hand mirror she had used that last night. Some strands of her hair remained caught in the bristles of the brush, and when he brought it to his face he could smell her sweetness and goodness.
Carefully he set down the brush exactly where it had been in the thick layer of dust that he never noticed. When he glanced in the curved mirror, he saw only his own eyes, dark with the pain he bore, wet with the tears he refused to shed.
“Soon we’ll be together again, Alana,” he murmured. “Very soon, my love.”
Det. W. J. Patterson Jr.
Rowan also saw that she was the only woman in the kitchen—Dansant’s staff was apparently all male—which obviously wouldn’t help matters.
The shortest guy on the crew finally came over to speak with her. He was a burly, balding Italian who looked like he busted kneecaps on his days off. “You got a name, kid?”
She placed the last bag of rye flour on the shelf. “Rowan Dietrich.”
“I’m Lonzo.” He didn’t offer a hand, but turned and started pointing to the others. “That’s Manny, George, Vince, and Lou. Dishwasher’s Enrique, but he don’t speak English too good. Bernard’s the sous-chef, but he’s late again.” He gave her the once-over. “Why’d Dansant hire you?”
She didn’t think saying
I crashed my bike into his sous-chef’s Volvo
would go over well. “I needed the job.”
“He walk you through the place, show you the stations?” When she nodded, he did the same. “All right, Trick, you’re my
tournant
tonight. Do what I tell you, don’t fuck up, and we’ll see how it goes.”
It was not the warmest reception in the world, but it was a fair one, and she’d rather be called Trick than
kid
any day. “Thank you, Chef.”
Rowan expected some form of initiation or other trial by fire, and wasn’t disappointed when Lonzo took her to a big, sunken table at the back of the kitchen, handed her a six-inch flexible blade with a slight curve, and got her started on her first task. That was where Dansant found her thirty minutes later, up to her elbows in fish innards and slime as she worked her way through gutting and cleaning fifty pounds of striped bass.
“What are you doing?”
She finished trimming a fin before she spared him a glance. “You need me to explain this procedure to you, Chef?”
He made an impatient sound. “I meant, why are you doing this?”
“Easy. Your idiot supplier doesn’t clean them.” She made a slit in the carcass’s belly skin, extending it from the anus to the gills. “Also, if I don’t do this, Lonzo will kick my skinny ass.”
Dansant scowled. “He will do no such thing.”
She turned her head toward the front of the kitchen. “Hey, Chef,” she yelled, “what’ll you do if I stop cleaning this fish?”
“I’ll kick your skinny ass,” Lonzo shouted back.
“See?” Rowan reached inside the carcass, felt for the spot where the guts were all connected at the base of the head, and stripped out the lot. “Why doesn’t your supplier clean these guys out first?”
“He purchases them from a fish farm, and brings them into the city in tanks. That way he can keep them alive until it is time to deliver,” Dansant told her. “I prefer to have them cleaned by my cooks.”
“Farmed, tanked fish.” She shook her head, amused.
He didn’t go, but watched her scrape out the bass’s liver and slice away the remains of its swim bladder. “You have done this before tonight.”
“No,” she admitted. “But I’m good with knives, and you guys only have to show me how to do something once for me to get it.” She also sensed their conversation had drawn the attention of the other chefs, which made her shoulders itch. She didn’t want to be seen as receiving any kind of coddling or special treatment from Dansant. That would turn the staff’s wariness and suspicions into resentment and contempt. “Is there something else you need me to do, Chef?”
“Yes.” He studied her face. “Add some ice to the bath”—he nodded toward the basin of water in which she’d placed the cleaned fish—“or the warmth of the water will leech out the flavor.”
Relieved, Rowan nodded and quick-scrubbed her hands at the sink before grabbing a scoop and hurrying to the ice machine.
A second after she had dropped the last fish into the ice water, Lonzo called her over to one of the prep tables, where a basket of brown, wrinkly morels and a huge colander of bright green pea pods sat beside a smaller, cloth-swaddled wooden box.
“After we do the chicken you’re gonna shell those peas,” he told her as he began unwrapping the box. She picked up the colander to take it to the rinsing table as he lifted the lid to reveal a dozen ugly black lumps nested like charred eggs in what appeared to be an airtight inner container. He caught her staring and took out one of the largest to hold it in front of her face. “You know what this is?”
She tried not to breathe in the intoxicating fragrance, but it was too close to her nose to resist. It smelled of the earth and rain, with just the slightest hint of hazelnuts. “It’s a truffle.”
“It’s a Périgord black truffle.” He turned it over in his hand as gently as if he were holding a newborn baby chick. “Twenty years ago you could only get these from Europe. The French exported them, but it would take a week or better, and what they sent was too small or old.” Lonzo made a nasty sound. “Greedy bastards kept all the best ones for themselves.”
She’d read about these rarest and most prized of cooking fungi in books, but at prices that rose as high as sixteen hundred dollars a pound, she’d never had the money to buy even a dinky one. “Are they really that good?”
“They’re the reason I go to the church on Sunday,” Lonzo said flatly, “and thank God that He loves us so much.” He removed a very thin, honed knife from the roll of black cloth beside the cutting board. “Now we got
trufflieres
that grow them right here, in America. Things go right, in a few years we’re gonna have all the black diamonds we want,” he added, using the fungus’s extravagant nickname.
“You want me to wash the diamonds?” Rowan asked, and watched Lonzo yank the truffle back as if she had tried to spit on it. Dansant came over to the station and selected three more of the black tubers out of the box. “Or maybe I could just watch.” She was curious to see her new boss at work.
“You ain’t got time.” Lonzo stepped between them and dumped into her arms several perforated plastic bags containing fresh rosemary, thyme, and mint. “Rinse the herbs, check them for black spots, and then take them to George’s station.”
Over Lonzo’s shoulder, Dansant gave her a wink. Suppressing a chuckle, Rowan took the bags back to the rinsing sink.
Although she stayed busy, Rowan was able to turn slightly and observe Dansant working with Lonzo. After delicately wiping clean his precious truffles, the
garde-manger
handed them to Dansant, who sliced them into perfectly even, wafer-thin rounds while Lonzo began lining up several untrussed chickens to one side of the cutting board. Once he had sliced enough rounds, Dansant loosened the skin of one chicken from the neck opening all the way across the breast, and then did the same for the legs.
Rowan caught herself holding her breath as Dansant began deftly slipping one at a time the thin rounds of sliced truffle under the skin. His long, elegant fingers worked them in place, until most of each thigh and the breast were covered with the aromatic fungus. Once he had finished, he used kitchen string to bind the ends of the legs before crisscrossing it over the breast and under the back.
By the time Rowan had delivered the cleaned herbs to George’s station, Lonzo called her over to tell her to carry the truffled chickens, now plastic-wrapped, back to the meat refrigerator.
“Shouldn’t these go over to the
rôtisseur
?” she asked as she stood holding the tray while Lonzo unloaded them onto the shelves.
“Vince will roast them tomorrow night.” For every package of chicken he put into the fridge, he took out another and placed it on the tray. Then Manny yelled for him, and he cursed under his breath before trotting off.
“The truffles must have a day to infuse the meat with their magic,” Dansant said right behind her, making her nearly drop the heavy tray. He came around and supported it from the other side. “These are the chickens we stuffed last night.” He peeled away some of the wrap and pulled back the breast skin, enough for her to see how the truffle had darkened the meat.
“
Poulet demi-deuil
must be real popular,” she said, looking up at him. Tonight all the lights were on in the kitchen, and made his eyes look so dazzling a blue that Rowan almost let the tray slip a second time. “To make it every night. Do you? Put it on the menu every night?” In some corner of her head she knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t stop looking at him. Gay or not, he seemed to become more beautiful to her with every slam of her heart in her chest.
“It is a house specialty.” He moved his hands around the edge of the tray until his fingers slid over hers. “Tell me what you are thinking.”
“Why should I do that?” she heard herself ask in a strange, hollow voice.
He bent his head until his breath cooled her damp scalp. “Why shouldn’t you,
ma mûre
?”
“Trick.”
Lonzo’s bellow jerked her back to herself just as she felt her eyes sting. “You go deaf or something? Vince is waiting for the tray. Bring it over, now.”
“Right away, Chef.” She ducked her head, ashamed for making such a transparent ass out of herself in front of the rest of the staff, and hurried off.