Phantom Instinct (9780698157132) (12 page)

H
arper hoisted her backpack over her shoulder. Scanning the street, she locked the MINI and hiked toward her apartment building in the reddening sunshine. She had three hours of reading and research ahead, if she could keep her nerves contained. She wanted to fortify her apartment with sandbags and an antiaircraft missile battery and maybe a decoy, in the form of Detective Erika Sorenstam tied to her balcony railing. But she couldn't ignore her classes. Computational linguistics. Structure of Russian. Topics in Computer Security.

Nobody at the university knew about her background—in the Navy or on the street. Her classmates in mathematical cryptology had no clue she had passed trigonometry while incarcerated, or that at another secure facility ringed by razor wire, she had translated intercepted signals traffic. Keeping that information quiet was easy. She'd been trained all her life not to open her mouth.

Scrubbing away the rest of her teenage training was harder. She consciously avoided doing things the way she had in China Lake. She drove the MINI, not a muscle car. She never counted money like a bank teller, or a thief. Instead, at work she forced herself to switch hands when she counted cash, swiping from a pile of bills in her right hand with her left thumb. Her memories sometimes nauseated her, but very occasionally they produced a taste on her tongue like excitement. She worried that she was like an animal that had been conditioned to respond to an illicit rush. A devil slept on her shoulder, she feared, and if she drifted, even for a moment, it would wake and slide beneath her skin and whisper guiding evils to her once again.

Outside her building, a blue RAV4 was parked at the curb. She found Piper sitting at the top of the stairs, laptop open on her knees, phone in her hand.

“Hey. Everything okay?” Harper said.

Piper stared at the phone, thumb scrolling. “Needed some air. And cookies.”

She pointed. Her backpack was slouched against the wall, spewing textbooks and a copy of
Catching Fire
and a bag of Oreos. She wore skinny jeans with ballet flats and a baggy black sweater with sleeves so long they almost ran past her hands. It looked Dickensian.

Harper bent and kissed her cheek. “Come on in.”

Piper hit a bunch of keys on her laptop, rapid-fire. “I cadged access to your Wi-Fi. You should change your password.”

“I'll keep that in mind, vixen.” Her password was strong, but she had given it to Drew. Piper must have gotten it from him.

“‘Vixen'? What are we, in a film noir?”

Harper unlocked the door, smiling. It warmed her that she was someone Piper turned to. She'd had few people like that in her life when she was sixteen. And she wondered why Piper looked so lonely.

“Thought you had yearbook after school today,” she said.

Piper followed her in. “Please. Lame. I quit last month.”

“Dance team?”

“Do I look like I belong on the dance team?”

“Auto shop?”

“Now you're messing with me.”

“Repairing engines is a useful skill to have,” Harper said. “What do you want to drink?”

Piper strolled, half aimlessly, to the living room. “What are you having?”

“Coffee.”

“Then I'll have coffee.”

Harper started a pot. Piper stood by the plate-glass windows, gazing at the trees, biting her thumbnail.

Harper walked over and put a hand against her back. “What's going on?”

Piper shrugged. She looked at the room. “You get lonely living by yourself?”

“Not usually. I'm busy, and around people all day on campus and at work.”

She tried to read Piper's mood. Something was jagged underneath the surface. “What's up, kid?”

Piper looked at her bitten thumbnail. “I can't even breathe at home. Mom and Dad won't hear anything I say. I try to talk about Drew, and they glaze over, like they're
American Gothic
.” Her face flushed. “If Drew . . . would you guys have lived together? Would you have gotten married?”

Oh, sweetie.
“It's impossible to say.” She gently rubbed Piper's back. “I thought Drew was the greatest. I really did. We totally dug each other.”

Piper rolled her eyes. “Don't talk teen. You're speaking the wrong dialect.”

“Sorry. Drew and I were close. But, honey, we hadn't been going out that long. Anything's possible. I like to think . . .”

“Of what might have been?” Piper's eyes had a glass gleam in them. Maybe tears.

Harper steadied herself. This wasn't about her. “Drew's in my mind and . . .” She touched her chest. “Here, too. But I have learned that hindsight is twenty-twenty, and thinking of what might have been will make you blind. With rage or regret or grief.”

“So you don't wonder?” Piper said. “Not ever?”

The fragility in Piper's voice choked Harper up. “Sometimes. But if I let myself do it too often, I'd lose my shit.”

Piper raised an eyebrow and said, “Huh.”

Harper put an arm around Piper's shoulder. “I lost your brother. Building an imaginary life with him, only to see it evaporate when I opened my eyes . . . that would be self-inflicted cruelty, and more than I could bear.”

“But maybe if you at least imagined it, you could keep him alive in a way.”

“Oh, Piper.” She tightened her arm around the girl. “That's punishing yourself. You can't do that.”

“It takes the pain away. For a while.”

“I know. But if you immerse yourself in an imagined world where Drew's living, then every time you pull back from the fantasy, you rip open the wound again.”

“I want to.”

“I understand. But, Piper, you have to learn how to remember him without reliving the moment, the pain.”

“It's how I see him most clearly.”

“But you'll make yourself sick that way.”

Piper exhaled. “Do you at least dream about him?”

“Yes.”

“In the dream, do you know he's dead?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever tell him?”

“No.”

Piper looked up. “See—you don't want to break the spell either.”

Harper's breath caught. For a second, her pulse pounded in her ears. She wrapped her arms around the girl. “I know.”

Piper grabbed hold. Beneath Harper's embrace, her skin was soft, her elbows and shoulders hard.

When Piper stepped back, pink patches heated her cheeks. She picked up her backpack.

Harper said, “Don't go.”

Piper shouldered her pack. “I'm fine. Going to try out for cheerleading.”

“Oh, my God, you have a fever. Maybe a brain-eating amoeba.”

Piper smiled, but it looked melancholy. She kissed Harper's cheek and headed out the door.

When the latch clicked shut, Harper ran her hands through her hair. She walked to the plate-glass windows and out onto the balcony. The RAV4 disappeared down the street.

Could she have said something different? What did Piper need? How could she get her arms around a kid who was so riven with pain?

She leaned on the balcony railing and looked down.

A dog stood on the sidewalk directly below her. It was a red brindled animal, sleek and huge. Its mouth was open, and it was breathing hard through sharp teeth. Its leash dragged on the sidewalk, hanging from a studded collar. Its tiny eyes squinted up at her.

She held still. She'd seen the same dog across the street earlier. It bristled with muscle. Its ears were cropped into stubby triangles, tortilla chip ears. A deep set of teeth marks disfigured its face—fighting scars.

I know you,
she thought.

She'd seen it here twice. And once at the memorial garden, after Drew's dedication. Slowly, she straightened and looked up and down the street. Nobody in sight. She stepped back from the railing. The dog grunted and its hackles rose.

She reached into her back pocket for her phone. The dog growled.

Abruptly, its head swiveled. It looked up the street, Dorito ears twitching. It spun and broke into a muscular lope toward the corner.

Somebody had called it. Harper bent down, looking through the trees. The dog ran straight toward the corner, leash trailing. Somebody had used a dog whistle.

Near the bus stop, a man stood on the sidewalk facing the dog. He was about a hundred yards away, hands in his jeans pockets, Dodgers cap pulled low on his head. Harper went rigid.

His face was shadowed beneath the brim of the cap. He wore a sweatshirt, big and baggy. White guy, skinny, with a ragged strut.

Her hands seemed bolted to the railing. He whistled, an eerie sound, then laughed and strolled lackadaisically away. The dog dug in and accelerated.

Focus, Harper.
Don't see things that aren't there.

Dammit.

She ran inside, found her keys, ran out the door, and pounded down the stairs to the sidewalk. She ran along the street toward the man in the cap.

Was it him? The strut, the hands-in-pockets pose, the don't-give-a-shit laugh about a vicious dog running loose . . . it was him.

She ran under the trees, trying to punch the passcode for her phone. Take a photo of him, she thought. Evidence. Get something to show Detective Sorenstam that she wasn't hallucinating.

Something to give to Aiden to convince him he wasn't crazy.

Zero. Right there, in the open, a hundred yards from her apartment. What the hell was he doing?

She got a few yards from the corner when her warning system squealed
Stop.

Don't let him see you. Stay in the shadows.
That's what she'd been taught all her life.
Nobody sees
.

Hands shaking, she ducked behind a hedge. Through its leaves she peered across the street in the direction the dog had run. It was nowhere in sight. Neither was the man. But he had to be nearby.

Behind her, she heard a rustling sound.

She spun. “
Jesus
.”

Ten feet away stood a woman with pruning shears and gardening gloves. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry.”

Harper ran out onto the sidewalk again, looking up and down the street. She ran two blocks before she gave up.

She stopped and turned in a slow circle. She felt both ridiculous and exposed. The sun was bright, the palms purring in the breeze. Her phone hung in her hand, ready to take a photo of . . . what?

A truck cruised by in traffic, sun flashing off the windshield. She stared at the driver. He stared back. Sunglasses and a hat. Chilled, uncertain, she brought up the phone and snapped.

Then the truck was gone.

T
he pounding on the front door was rapid and sharp. Through the fish-eye lens, Aiden saw her standing on his porch.

He safetied the SIG Sauer and jammed it into the back of his jeans. He flipped the tail of his work shirt over it.

He unbolted the door. “Harper.”

Her hands were tense at her sides, fingers working. She looked like a jack-in-the-box about to spring. “Thank God you're here.”

He gestured her in. “What's wrong?”

“I talked to Sorenstam. She didn't help.”

“Slow down.” He shut the door. “Talked to Sorenstam about what?”

“I saw him. Eddie Azerov. Today. Up the street from my apartment building.”

“Time out. When?”

“Two hours ago. He was a hundred yards away.”

“You can positively identify him?”

“Yes.” She winced. “No. I chased after him. I tried to get a photo, but he had too much of a head start, and—”

“Chased him?”

“He was watching my place. Had to have been. I'd just gotten home from campus. He—”

Aiden put his hands on her shoulders to hold her still. “You thought you saw Eddie Azerov, so your first reaction was to chase him up the street?”

She paused, lips parted.

“You didn't lock the door and call the police?”

“No. He was leaving. He had a dog, it was off the leash, a fighting dog, running loose . . .”

“Harper?”

“I wanted proof,” she said.

He held on to her shoulders. “Can you give a description?”

“I gave it to Sorenstam. And a photo, truck with a partial license plate.”

“Not to the Santa Monica police?”

“I don't have any connections there.”

He shook his head and stepped back. She looked confused.

“What?” she said.

He didn't know whether to high-five or shout at her. “You saw the man you claim is stalking survivors, and your reaction was to run toward him? Without any backup—and, I presume, unarmed?”

She took a beat. “My neighbor was in the bushes with pruning shears.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “God help you.” He laughed. “You are something else.”

“Yeah. I'm scared shitless, and I got nothing to show for it.”

He put a hand on her shoulder again—reassuringly, he hoped. “Come on. Let me get you something to drink. Tell me all about it.”

In the kitchen, he got a bottle of Pepsi from the fridge. He popped the cap with a bottle opener and handed it to her.

“Cheers,” she said, and drank, greedily, tilting her head back.

Her neck was long and lovely. Her hair fell down her back in waves. He shut the cabinet door, hoping Harper hadn't seen the prescription bottles. They returned to the living room. She walked to the patio doors and gazed at the mountains.

“Sorenstam said if I have evidence that somebody is stalking me, to file a report with the Santa Monica PD. But I heard the skepticism in her voice.” She looked openly frustrated. “I got the impression that she thought I was trying to pull something on her.”

“So you drove all the way up here to try it out on me.”

Her face sharpened. “Jesus, no.”

He spoke evenly. “Don't take offense.”

“How can I file a complaint against a guy I haven't seen face-to-face since I was seventeen? A guy who hasn't contacted me by phone or mail or Instagram? Somebody the sheriff's department thinks is a figment of my imagination? How do I get a restraining order against a delusion?”

He reached out. “Hey.”

She swatted his hand away. “Ain't gonna happen.”

He raised both hands in surrender and backed off a step.

She flushed. “Sorry. I don't mean to sound so brusque.”

Now he smiled. “
Brusque
. You've been working on your vocabulary.”

“Sounds worse in Russian.
Grubo.
”
In Mandarin,
cubào.
She smiled back. “Let me start again.”

She crossed to the sofa, sat, and leaned forward, pressing the Pepsi bottle to her forehead as if cooling a fever. Aiden sat down beside her. Cobey padded in, tail wagging.

She said, “I can't be sure it was him. Maybe I did imagine it. I'm on edge, and I can't trust my own reactions anymore.”

“So you came to me because . . .”

She looked at a loss.

“Harper, why? Because I'll tell you what you want to hear? Back up your delusion?”

She took a second to calm herself. “Because you're the man who wears a star on his chest.”

Cold water seemed to pour through him. “You really are cynical about law enforcement.”

“I'm serious. You're not on active duty, but you're a lawman. That's who you are.”

“I've hung up my spurs and six-shooter. And . . .” He stopped, his voice tightening.
Don't do this.

The light in her eyes was silvery. She put her hand on his arm. Her skin was cool and smooth. Her grip was reassuring.

“Hey,” she said.

He just looked at her.

“Sorry. I'm rude sometimes. No, I'm an idiot.”

“Hardly.”

He stood up and held out his hand. “This house feels too small. Want to get dinner?”

For a second, she held back. Then she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. Her eyes glowed silver and gold, reflecting the sunset. Her pulse pounded near the hollow in her neck.

She said, “Yeah. But not yet.”

Harper stepped closer and felt the heat pouring off of Aiden. She held hard to his hand.

“I shouldn't have brought up your badge. It was thoughtless,” she said.

“No, it's okay. Nobody asks me about my life. Not really, not anymore.”

All at once, she felt ashamed. Ashamed of herself for barging in on him. For thinking so much of herself, of her roiling fears, the memory of blood and fire, that she had seen only her own pain. When in front of her stood a man who'd lost a part of himself, and with it, the world he had tried to forge.

She looked at their intertwined hands. His grip was sure. From her fingers to the small of her back, she felt electrified. She pressed herself against him, eyes on his.

He wrapped his arms around her. He was strong and lean and the heat and assurance in his embrace seemed a promise, safe harbor. His chest rose and fell against hers. He leaned down to kiss her.

She kept her eyes open and pressed her lips to his. Then her arms vined around his shoulders and she raised up on tiptoe and tilted her head and didn't want to break away, not even to breathe.

His hands snaked into her hair, and he kissed her again. Then he picked her up and swung her around and carried her to his bedroom. She felt a moment of doubt, heard a whisper back in her head saying,
Careful,
like a train crossing coming down, telling her to stop and wait and watch out. He kicked the door shut. The curtains billowed in the breeze. And she said nothing, felt like she was ignoring the clanging lights and warning signs, gunning the engine instead, racing for the tracks.

He set her down on the bed. She reached to work the buttons on her blouse, and he pulled her hand softly aside. She waited for him to undo them, but he dropped to his knees in front of her and leaned in and kissed her neck and the V in the open collar of her blouse. She breathed a hard
ahh
and felt a shiver down her legs. She shut her eyes.

The past bloomed vividly, and she saw everything again—Drew, his empty eyes, his life pouring red and running out through her hands. She smelled smoke and saw the world turn to flame. And she saw Aiden, indistinct at first, trying to reach her. She saw their lives collapse in thunderous noise.

She opened her eyes and saw him now, slate-eyed and warm, his mouth heating her skin, his hands cradling her shoulders. He was beautiful, and careful, and had a smile that could make the devil spit with envy. Her emptiness, her loneliness, dropped away like a scrap of cloth.

She grabbed the front of his work shirt, hauled him onto the bed, and pulled him on top of her. She didn't want to wait. Didn't want caution, or care, or tender exploration. She needed touch, sensation, raw blank sex to overwhelm her circuits. She held on to him, and they were all arms and elbows and grasping hands. She tried to pull his shirt over his head without letting go of him. She didn't want to talk—to talk would be to break the spell, the new thing that was happening, herself coming back into the world, with another damaged person as her guide.

He wrestled his shirt off and she tugged on the buttons of his jeans. Then her shirt was gone and his hands ran down her ribs. His lips traced the centerline of her abs, breastbone to diaphragm to her navel, and his breath on her skin gave her goose bumps. He reached for the nightstand and came out with a Trojan. She took it from him and was breathing so hard, her heart pounding, that she could barely see the packet. They both tried to tear it open and had to get another one, and she laughed and knew things would be all right. Sometime after that, she remembered shouting, and at some point, the lamp on the nightstand got kicked over. Then they were lying side by side, panting, spent, and the curtains waved as though in applause.

She rolled onto her back. “Okay,” she said. “Now I'm ready for dinner.”