What Lies Within (16 page)

I
can’t believe the mess you’ve made of this. You’re telling me those old men haven’t given up?”

“Maybe if your boy had done his job—”

“Think carefully before you finish that sentence.”

The man on the other end of the phone call fell silent. Good thing. One more word and he’d have had to find another lackey.

Because that one would have been dead.

“Now, let’s do this again. I ask the questions, you answer them. Short, concise answers. Have they given up?”

“No, Mr. Ballat.”

Good. Tone and words both restored to the proper level of respect. “Do they have the resources to continue?”

“It’s tight, but … for now, yes.”

His lips pressed together so hard it made his jaws ache.
Relax, Samuel. You’ll win. You know you will. Just consider it a challenge that it’s taking longer than you thought
. “What do you mean, ‘for now’?”

“They almost gave in. Their funds really are close to gone. But Fredrik Tischler … he drew them back.”

“And how”—he didn’t try to keep the ice from his tone—“did you let him do that?”

“It wasn’t something I could stop!”

So. His weapon wasn’t as effective as promised. “Then what am I paying you for?”

“Look, I’m doing all I can. But you can only get so far in the face of Bible verses and prayer. Not when people really believe in them. These men, they’re dinosaurs! They don’t even know how extinct they are.”

Sam’s lip twisted. “You listen to me, my friend, and listen close. I expect this job done on time. Failure on your part to do what you’ve promised will cause … dire consequences.” He let that sink in, then softened his tone a fraction. “Success, though, will make me very happy. And if I’m happy, you will be as well.”

The answering silence didn’t bother him. He’d learned the value of silence, of letting people chew on the meaning—evident and hidden—of what he said to them.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get it done.”

See there? Given a moment to ponder, the dolt on the other end of the phone line finally understood. It wasn’t Sam Ballat’s neck on the line. It was his.

Sam let the phone drop into the cradle, glad to be rid of any contact with the worm who’d come to him, hat in hand, promising all and, so far, delivering naught.

Maybe …

He fingered the phone receiver. Maybe he should make another call to an associate he
knew
he could trust. Send that person after the worm, reminding him that prayer didn’t matter when you had no soul. Which the worm didn’t. Because he’d sold it.

To Sam.

He let his hand fall away.
No, give him time. See what he does in the next day or so. You can always call later
.

Ah, the voice of reason. How he treasured it. What a pity those old fools at the church didn’t do the same.

Prayer.

How fascinating that people still believed in such an archaic concept. Prayer to some supposed almighty being who watched over them, shifting lives like pawns on some celestial chessboard, all according to His children’s whims.

Ridiculous.

He wove his fingers together, lips drawing to a smile as he remembered his grandmother teaching him an old poem.

“Here’s the church …”
Her soft voice warm in his ear, the hint of peppermint on her breath as she demonstrated hands, palm to palm, linked by interwoven fingers.

“Here’s the steeple …”
His child self had been captivated as she pressed her wrinkled forefingers tip to tip, thumbs side to side.

“Open the doors”
—Paper-thin hands parted at the heel, rotating so soft fingers come into view—“and
see all the …
”

Fools.

He closed his eyes, brushing aside the tender voice of love. The voice that promised so much and delivered nothing.

His hands dropped to his sides as his smile slid from his face. Not, of course, the way his dear grandmother taught it. But far more accurate.

For who but simpletons and fools would believe some all-powerful being actually cared one iota about their pleas and requests. Still, there was a kind of poetic justice in it all, seeing as it was belief in prayer that had kept his enemies from taking any real action.

He splayed his hand out against the cool glass of the window.
Enemies
might be a bit harsh.
Opponents
. Yes, that was better. Though they could hardly be considered serious opposition. What he wanted, he got. It was just that simple.

He stood, walking around the massive teak desk, hand caressing the imported wood, and went to survey the world out his expansive window. Portland held such promise. So many opportunities for growth. For profit. Opportunities that were his, and his alone. Yes, because they brought him money. But not because of the money itself.

No, money was just a tool—admittedly, a very effective tool—for bringing his plan to fruition. And no one was going to stop his plans.

Not small-minded legislators—or their lackey inspectors—all of whom tried to impose ridiculous rules and regulations.

Not his competitors, who lacked the conviction to make hard decisions, no matter the cost.

And certainly not a bunch of silver-haired, wizened old men devoted to a so-called God that couldn’t protect them. For a moment one hand clenched at his side, then he eased it open, flexing the fingers. His gaze drifted to the phone.

Perhaps it was time to flex something else.

Two strides carried him to his chair, and he reached for the intercom. His secretary’s response was immediate.

“Yes sir?”

Satisfaction drew his lips into a smile. Let others set so-called reasonable hours. His employees stayed as long as he needed them. No questions asked.

Or they didn’t remain his employees.

“Susan, get Mr. Wright on the line for me.”

“Right away, sir.”

Leaning back in his chair, he let his fingers tap out his impatience on the desk. Susan probably knew the number by heart. He used Mr. “Wright” more than any other associate. The play on words made him laugh. Or as close to laughing as he ever got.

Susan’s voice came over the intercom. “Mr. Wright holding for you, sir.”

Of course he was.

He hit the speaker button. “Wright?”

“What can I do for you?”

“Plenty.” He explained the situation, and as he’d expected, Wright knew exactly what to do.

Which, he thought as he disconnected the call, was why he’d given the man that name.

His associate was, ever and always, the right man for whatever job came up. Few others were so dependable. So capable.

So willing to do whatever it took to get the job done.

Were he a man given to humor, he’d be laughing. Instead, he let one finger stroke the smooth wood of his desk.

The old fools could kneel until doomsday, whispering prayers until their voices gave out. Nothing they did would matter.

That property was his.

FIFTEEN   

A
storm was brewing.

Rafe didn’t need The Weather Channel to know it. All he had to do was look at the set of Tarik’s shoulders. The grim glint in his eyes. The creases in his brow.

Oh yeah. The kid was bugged. Big time.

Rafe had been waiting all night for Tarik to start talking, but this had to be something big, because the boy didn’t say a thing. Just sat there, school books open on the table in front of him, tapping his pencil against the page. The same page.

For an hour.

Finally Rafe went to take the pencil from the boy’s fingers and set it on the table, then he shut the book.

Tarik sat back in his chair with a thud. “What? You got a problem?”

Rafe sat in the chair across the table and met the boy’s burning gaze. “No. But I think you do. So spill. ¿
Que pasa?”

For a moment Rafe thought the kid would digress, jump up from the table like he used to in the face of any conflict or perceived slight. Maybe even send the table flying. He’d done that once or twice too.

Thankfully, the months of working through issues had had an impact. Tarik just leaned his elbows on the table, gripping his hands together. “The fire. At the church.”

Rafe waited.

“It was the 22s.”

So. That explained it. The heaviness in Tarik’s tone, the furrows on his brow. “How do you know?”

Tarik’s gaze shifted, fixed on the wall as though it held some answer to the questions churning inside him. “King K. I talked to him. Asked him right out.”

“He admitted it?”

“Didn’t have to. I saw it on his face.” He lowered his head, rubbed his temples with fingers that trembled. Rafe laid a hand on the boy’s sagging shoulder.

“You’re not part of them anymore, Tarik. You got out. You did it on your own. And you’re making your way. Doing all the things your mother wanted you to do. Finishing school. Getting the grades to go to college.” He squeezed Tarik’s shoulder. “You’ve done what’s right. That’s all you can do. King … He’s the only one who can control his actions. Whatever he does, it’s not on you.”

Tarik swallowed and finally gave a slow nod.

Rafe pushed his chair back and stood. “Come on.”

Tarik looked up. “Where?”

“I hear a Big Mac callin’ your name.”

The kid loved Big Macs. His lips lifted a fraction. “And fries?”

Rafe angled his head. “And … do I hear what I think I hear? Yes, I do! A milk shake. Chocolate, no less.” He nudged the boy. “C’mon, kid. I’m buyin’.”

Tarik stood and reached for his jacket hanging on the back of his chair. “You better be, man. I’m broke.”

He fell into step beside Rafe, but when they reached the front door he hesitated.

Rafe glanced at him.

The boy stood tall, gaze unwavering. “Thanks. For listening, I mean. It helps to talk about things.”

Rafe pulled the door open. Yes, indeed. The kid had come a long way.

How was this possible?

Rafe glared at the TV screen, punching the channel button over and over.

More than a hundred stations on this crazy thing, and there was nothing worth watching.

Nothing!

Venting his frustration on a growl, he hit the power off button, pushed out of his recliner, and tossed the offending remote back on the seat. This was ridiculous.

He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t find anything to watch. Didn’t feel like watching videos or DVDs. He’d seen them all over and over.

It was too late to start a book or phone a buddy. And food held no interest.

“Arrggh!” He slammed his cane against the seat of his recliner, which let him vent without running the risk of waking Tarik.

He turned and headed into his bedroom. He poked the power button on his computer monitor, waiting as the screen hazed to life. Yes, he’d just checked e-mail about ten minutes ago, but maybe something had come in since then.

A spark of relief burst to life when he saw one message waiting. From AngelEyes. He’d e-mailed her earlier about Kyla’s visit to Cuppa Joe’s.

His snort was only slightly amused. Couldn’t stay away from him, huh? She’d practically bolted from the shop to escape him today.

Yeah, so had he.