Driven Snow (20 page)

Snow puffed out some breath. “I have some money with a trust executor. If I can reach him, maybe I can get it, and then maybe I can find someplace to live where they’ve never heard of me and—I don’t totally know.”

“And what will you do about the chess tournament?” The elf smiled.

Well, crap.
There was another largely vital thing he’d pretty much forgotten. Snow looked at the little man. “Do I know you?”

“No, not yet, my dear. I’m Carstairs Pennymaker. I own this home the boys live in and visit them from time to time, although I live in the east.” He extended his hand. “How do you do?”

Snow frowned but shook the offered hand. “I must confess to having been better, thank you for asking. And in answer to your question, I haven’t thought much about the tournament in the last twenty-four hours. My life doesn’t seem to be about chess anymore.”

“Ah, my dear, I think you may find that your life is entirely about chess.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you arise, dress in something the boys can provide that fits a bit better, and we’ll feed you breakfast.”

The brother called Bash glowered at Mr. Pennymaker. “I don’t want anything to do with no stinking prostitutes.”

Mr. Pennymaker smiled. “
Any
stinking prostitutes, Bash, and what about the young woman you paid for sex only two weeks ago? Would you condemn her for the very act you took advantage of?”

“Aw, Mr. P.” He stared at the carpet.

“Don’t be a hypocrite, my boy. The world has far too many of them already.” He started making a shooing motion. “Besides, Snow is not a professional sex worker.”

Romeo grinned. “Damned shame.”

Mr. P. raised an eyebrow and laughed. “In that case, Romeo, you get to make breakfast.”

Fifteen minutes later, Snow sat in the big homey kitchen of the Iota Pis, wearing some jeans and a sweatshirt from Lib, the smallest of the IPis, downing scrambled eggs with tomato and feta cheese—a Romeo specialty. A couple of the guys had left for class, but the other five hung around, along with Mr. Pennymaker.

Snow chewed. Hard to talk when the food was so good, but— “Sir, what did you mean that my life is all about chess?”

Mr. P. smiled inscrutably. He nodded at Ballet Boy, who was standing closest to the old television they kept in their kitchen. “BB, will you turn on the local news?”

Just as the channel flickered on, the local female newscaster was saying, “I think this will be brilliant for the sport of chess, don’t you? Such a beautiful woman. And such a force in chess, I’m told. Wouldn’t it be great if she won the Anderson Tournament?”

A video of Anitra with her brilliant hair floating around her head, bent over a chessboard with a serious—and seriously contrived—expression, flashed on the screen.

Snow’s mouth opened.
What?
He closed it.

Mr. P. said, “You look surprised.”

“Uh, my coach—”

“Her husband, I believe.”

“Yes. He said she wasn’t that good. That she had talent but hadn’t really been tested. I’m just surprised that she’s entered.” Well, maybe not that surprised.

The TV cut to a live interview. Anitra looked seriously at the camera. “After the terrible disappointment of Snowden Reynaldi, I feel that it’s my responsibility to represent NorCal with honor and skill.”

Snow’s fingers closed on his fork.
Don’t throw it. Don’t.
No more appetite.

Mr. P. looked back at Snow. “Now do you understand?”

“I don’t quite get it.”

“When you said someone hates you and has falsely accused you, who did you mean?”

He pointed toward the TV. “Her.”

“And now she intends to take your place in the tournament. Are those facts not connected?”

“But—the prize money for the tournament is only $100,000. I mean, it’s a lot for chess, but not worth killing for—even if she could win.”

“When was the last time chess had a beautiful female Grandmaster?”

Snow shrugged. “There aren’t many.”

“As beautiful and charismatic as Anitra Popescu? The answer is never. If she wins, she’ll get club money, book deals, and above all, product endorsements. We’re talking millions.”

“She could get a lot of that even if I won.”

Mr. P. shook his head. “Quite honestly, Snow, it’s not likely. You’re not only talented at chess, you’re exceptionally beautiful.”

Romeo snorted. “You got that right.”

“If you show up at the championships and win, I think she fears she’ll be eclipsed.”

“So she’d go to these lengths? The professor? Me?”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t disturbed. She’s smart, ruthless, and crazy. A very dangerous combination. We need to be careful.”

“We?”

“Of course, my dear. We’re all going to help you with your future.”

CHAPTER 18

“OKAY, USE
this phone. Do you know how to access your phone messages?” Hacker handed Snow an old smartphone, then went back to fiddling with the computer he’d half taken apart on the desk in his room, frowning behind his nerd glasses.

“Yes.” Snow called the number that let him access messages from alternate phones. When it answered, he put in his code.

“You have seventeen messages,” the service reported.

“Oh man.”

“Bad?” Hacker typed in stuff on the computer so fast Snow could barely see his fingers.

“Just a lot.” Snow hit 1 for the first message.

“Snow, where are you? I’m so worried. I can’t reach you.” Riley’s voice stabbed at his heart. He must have left this message when Snow was in the river.

Snow played it again.

Get over it.

But—

Move on.

He clicked 4 to erase and sighed.

The next message was from a local reporter asking about the championships. Snow erased it.

Another reporter wanting to know about the accident. Erase.

Another. Erase.

And another. Erase.

Then the reporters’ voices changed. “Please call me regarding these allegations. I want to tell your side of the story.” Erase.

“Call me as soon as you can.” Erase.

And another and another.

“Snowden, this is Dean Franklin. Please call me at once.” He’d left a number. Erase.

“Grandmaster Reynaldi, this is Eleanor Turks with the Anderson Invitational Committee.” Snow took a breath and pressed the phone tight to his ear. “I need to speak with you right away. Please call me at your earliest convenience.” She’d left her number. Snow stared at the phone.

Hacker looked up. “Something wrong?”

“A call from the tournament. Probably to tell me I’ve been disqualified.”

“So you really aren’t what the press says?” Hacker peered at a circuit.

“A prostitute? No. Funny. I’ve only ever had sex with one person.” Snow’s chest hurt just saying it.

“Where’s that person?”

“He believed the stories.”

“Sounds like a stupid guy.”

“No, not stupid. He gave up a lot to be with me, and the stories are pretty convincing. I think it freaked him out that he changed his life so much and then I wasn’t who he thought.”

“Sounds stupid to me.” Hacker grinned, which made his thin face cute.

Snow smiled back. “Thanks, I think.” He looked at the phone. “I guess I should get this over with.” He dialed.

After two rings a voice said, “Eleanor Turks.”

“Hi, Ms. Turks, this is Snow Reynaldi.”

“Snow, thank God. We’ve been pretty worried about you.”

“You have?”

“Yes. We hear all this bullshit about you from the new head of your chess club, but we don’t hear from you.”

“Sorry, my phone got wrecked. So I’m not disqualified?”

“Why would you be?”

“All these stories about my being a—you know?”

“Darling, unless you set up a sex shop at the tournament, all we care about are your chess skills, and the last I knew, those were impeccable.”

“Thank you, Ms. Turks. Things have gotten a little complicated here. The stories aren’t true, by the way. But I still plan to be there.”

“Good. That’s all I needed to know. I didn’t want to have to announce that you weren’t playing. My God, all this publicity will probably double the size of the crowd.”

Snow snorted. “I guess publicity has its ups and downs.”

“We’ll make sure they spell your name right.”

“Uh, ma’am, I see that Mrs. Kingsley entered the tournament.”

“Yes. It appears she’s been hiding her light under a bushel. She’s quietly amassed a string of impressive wins that she apparently achieved while in some kind of disguise. Anyway, she more than qualified. I saw that she told the press she was taking your place. That’s why I called in such a panic. We certainly don’t want to lose you. I can’t think of anything better than the two of you meeting in the finals of the tournament. What a media show that will be. Of course, we’ll have to see if she’s actually that good.” She laughed. “See you soon.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She hung up. What a weird shift of fate. Was he actually going to meet this wicked woman across a chessboard?

Hacker gave him a nudge. “Doesn’t sound like it went so badly.”

“Apparently they don’t care if I’m a prostitute, as long as I’m a whore who plays chess.” Snow held up the phone. “Now I need to get some money to pay for my trip to Vegas.” He dialed the executors, and a receptionist answered. “Can I speak to Martin Southwick?”

“Who can I say is calling?”

“Snowden Reynaldi.”

“Oh. Yes, I’ll tell him.” Hold music took her place for a moment. “Uh, Mr. Reynaldi, Mr. Southwick said to tell you that they’ve frozen your accounts until it’s determined if you owe fines and damages.”

“What the hell? Who are ‘they’? Let me speak to him.”

“Uh, I’m sorry. He’s in a meeting.” The phone went dead.

Hacker frowned. “I gather that one didn’t go so well.”

“No. Which is bad, because I don’t have a dime without that money, and I need tickets and a place to stay in Las Vegas.”

Mr. Pennymaker stuck his head into the room. “Ah, there you are, my dears. Ready for your makeover, Snow?”

“Makeover? What do you mean?”

“We’re preparing you to go to the tournament with style and verve. No one who sees you win will ever forget it.”

“Win? Jesus, Mr. P., I can’t even get the money together for a plane ticket.”

Mr. P. fluttered a hand as he perched on the edge of Hacker’s bed. “Nonsense. You’re our investment. We plan to see that you not only win, you capture more endorsements and sponsorships than any chess champion in history.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I’m not. You are.” Mr. P. beamed and sprang to his feet, brushing imaginary lint from his black-and-white striped suit, which managed to make him look like a bundle of licorice. “Now, here’s the plan. Bash will teach you self-defense, Gormet shall make you a connoisseur of food and wine, BB will instruct you in dancing, Hacker will equip you with the latest electronics, Romeo will perfect you in the arts of love, Lib and Doc will challenge you at chess, and I—” He bowed slightly. “—shall teach you the elements of fashion.”

Snow’s brain had exploded somewhere back around the arts of love. “Sir, I can’t let you do this. I don’t even know why you’d want to.”

Mr. Pennymaker gave Snow a level look. “Good must defeat evil in this world, Snowden, and why shouldn’t good have style?” He laughed as he led Snow from the room.

RILEY WALKED
off the field and waved as the fans leaned down to try and get autographs. Didn’t feel like stopping to chat. Felt like crap.

Rog trotted by. His face softened from its usual glower, and he gave Riley a nod. Man, that was fucking different. Why didn’t it make him happy?

Danny jogged up beside him and bumped his shoulder pads. “Good game, man.”

“Thanks.”

“Looked like a well-oiled machine again today.”

“Yeah.”

“That catch Rog made was one for the books. Keep that up and the championship is yours.”

“Hope so.” Funny how his head always seemed to feel heavy these days. He stared at his shoes as he walked.

“I guess they quit giving you shit about being gay? Is that why the team is working so well again?”

Riley sighed. “They don’t like it, but they figure I got sucked in by a prostitute and lured and it wasn’t my fault.”

“You’re shitting me.”

Riley frowned. “No. That’s what they think.”

Danny slowed his steps, and Riley cocked his head to look at him.

Danny turned down a side hall and leaned against the wall. He waited until Riley followed. “I guess what matters is what you think. Do you believe that shit?”

Riley stopped. When had he ever thought Danny was a dumb jock? A dumb gay jock. He looked around. “I’m pretty confused.”

“Why?”

“The guy who accused Snow is kind of credible. I mean, I know him, and I can’t imagine he’d make up a story like that.”

“More credible than Snow?”

Riley lowered his voice. “It’s just that—” He took a breath. “—Snow claimed to be a virgin, but he was pretty accomplished in the sack, you know?”

“No, I guess I don’t know. But I never kicked somebody out of bed because they were too fucking good, man.”

Riley wiped a hand over the back of his neck.

“Snow ever ask you for money?”

“No. But maybe he was working up to it.”

“I heard the guy had some kind of trust fund.”

“The police say that may just be the proceeds from his escort service.”

“Oh yeah?” Danny pushed off from the wall.

Riley slapped a hand against the wall. “Jesus, Danny, I changed my whole life for him.”

“Really? I thought you changed your life because it was the truth.”

“Shit.”

“And I’ll tell you something from an outside observer. Snow Reynaldi’s one of the most beautiful guys I ever saw. If he’s selling that on the open market, why the fuck did he pick a no-money asshole like you?” Danny laughed and walked toward the locker room with that slow, loose-limbed gait.

Riley just shook. He’d asked himself that question twenty times. No good answer. But the police kept telling him the story appeared true. Jesus, pornography in Snow’s apartment.
I don’t want to believe it. I don’t. I don’t.