Fade To Midnight (43 page)

They headed for the door, but Con stopped, blocking their way, to peer at a framed magazine article. Big color photos. A black-haired guy flashed an ain't-I-cute smile from the pages. Lots of dimples, movie star teeth. Con pointed. “That's Ranieri.”

They stared at the face, memorizing it. The receptionist started muttering nervously into the phone again. Calling the cops, maybe.

They went down the stairs. As they reached the lobby, an angry male voice was suddenly amplified as a man shoved the door open.

“…was I supposed to do, for the love of Christ? Hold her at gunpoint? Her dad just got offed! I had to take her home!”

It was Ranieri, without the dimples or the smile, dressed in a fleece shirt and jeans and growling and snapping into his cell phone.

“…sure, if he'd ever answer his fucking phone, so get off my case!” He walked past them. “How should I know? He didn't tell me where he was going! He has to face the monsters alone and all that macho shit…if you have a better suggestion, I'd love to hear it!”

“Bruno Ranieri?” Davy said.

Ranieri spun around. “Gotta go,” he muttered into the phone. “Call you later.” He clicked the thing shut. “Who wants to know?”

“I'm Davy McCloud. This is my brother, Connor McCloud, and our friend, Miles Davenport,” Davy said.

They looked for a reaction to the name, but Ranieri didn't exhibit one. He just stared, slit eyed. Sizing them up. “What do you want?”

“We're looking for the guy who designed your kites,” Davy said.

Nothing changed on the surface of Ranieri's face, but Miles could feel the temperature plummet. “Can't help you. Sorry.”

Davy looked like he was grinding his teeth. “Just his name.”

“Nope.” Ranieri turned toward the stairs.

Connor grabbed his shoulder and spun him, blocking the punch Ranieri aimed to his midsection, and shoved him against the wall.

“We're not fucking off until you give us some information,” he said.

“Wrong,” Ranieri spat.

A quick, slashing flurry of tight blows and blocks followed, only a fraction of which Miles caught, they were so fast, and then Ranieri did something quick and twisty with Connor's arm, followed up with an elbow whack to the point of his chin that Con barely evaded. He hooked a leg around Con's bad leg, jerking him off balance. Con stumbled back.

Ranieri backed toward the exit, panting, still on guard. “You assholes want some more?”

Con waved his hand. “That's OK,” he said. “I've had enough.”

Ranieri backed out the door. Miles stared after the guy as he loped away, and at Con and Davy.

“What, you're just going to let him leave?” he squawked. “Why the hell aren't we following him? We know he knows Kev, right? Don't we know that he knows Kev?”

“Yeah, we know.” Con held up a little square of gray paper. The backing off one of the slap-on tags, the Squeaker. The smallest of the battery operated tags from the SafeGuard catalog. It had a limited amount of juice, but it was flat, light, hidden in a square of dark mesh fabric with an adhesive back, and could be swatted onto someone's back and not noticed for hours. “And you bet your ass we'll follow him. Did you see those mantis moves? And the white crane?”

“Saw it,” Davy said. “He's good, too.”

Miles was sick of not getting the mysterious significance of all the monosyllables. “What does this guy's technique have to do with Kev?”

“That's one of Kev's favorite strikes,” Con said. “Kev trained that guy.”

“Ah…oh.” Miles's mouth snapped shut.

“I want to attack him again,” Con said. “See what else he likes.”

“You're starting to sound like Sean,” Miles observed.

Connor lifted his eyebrow. “Miles. You wound me.”

“And we're wasting time!” Miles yelled. “Let's go run that son of a bitch to the ground! Let's squeeze him like…like a lemon!”

Davy's laugh sounded freer than Miles had ever heard it, in all the years that he'd known the guy. He gave Miles a slap on the back that jolted all of the organs inside his rib cage into a new alignment, and they took off running, as fast as Con's limp would allow.

 

He and Yuliyah pushed out the door, unchallenged. It was some industrial warehouse complex out in the middle of nowhere, chain-link fences, buildings. It was cold, raining. Apparently deserted.

He looked down at Yuliyah's bare feet, gritted his teeth, and dragged her behind him. Cars were parked behind the building. He held up the pop locks he'd stolen, tried them. Lights flashed on a Mazda CX-9. There was a GPS device mounted on the dash. He ripped it out and loaded Yuliyah into the SUV. It seemed strange, how easy their escape had been, but their opponents had no reason to think anyone could beat an X-Cog crown. Ava had been confident of her supremacy.

His mind raced as he maneuvered the car through the complex, looking for an exit. Yuliyah's pale, bare legs were goose-bumped. He ramped up the heat, gestured at the seat belt, but she was shivering, lips blue. He leaned over, yanked out some slack in the belt, fastened it.

He couldn't leave her at an emergency room. Too dangerous. The paperwork, the questions, the cops. He couldn't afford an encounter with the police, either, if what Ava said about Parrish was true. That was a tarpit he could drown in. Stay away from bureaucracies when people are trying to fuck you, frame you or kill you. But he had to get Yuliyah someplace safe. Zia Rosa? But Zia was compromised already, having rented the car for him. The police might even have already followed that trail of bread crumbs to its source. Rosa, Tony, the diner.

In which case, God help them. The police, that was to say.

He had to stay free, armed, off the grid. He needed cash, a new vehicle. To wash the crusted blood off his face. To save Edie. And he was responsible for Oksana, Margaritka, Olga, Katyushka, and Marya, too. To say nothing of that freezer full of dead girls.

Ah, man. And the day was still young.

He got out onto the road, and drove around until he saw signs for 26. He headed back to Portland, trying to keep it under ninety, but he was so jacked up, it was impossible. He jerked the car to a stop outside Any Port. Yuliyah fumbled with the seat belt, hands shaking. He circled the car, unhooked her, set her pale bare feet on the curb. He pulled her to her feet, but her knees buckled under her. She was done.

He tossed her over his shoulder, ran up the steps, buzzed.

“Who is it?” someone asked.

“It's Kev Larsen. I've got to speak to Dorothea, quick,” he said. “It's an emergency. A life or death situation.”

The door lock popped open. He pushed into the foyer, up the stairs. Dorothea hurried toward them. “Good God! Who is this girl? What happened to her?”

“Got a bed I can put her on? Some warm blankets, hot fluids?”

“Come in.” She led him down a maze of corridors, into a cubicle with a dorm-style bed. Kev laid Yuliyah on it. Tracee, Dorothea's assistant, hurried in, arms full of blankets. Tracee appeared to be fussing competently around Yuliyah, so he pulled Dorothea out into the relative privacy of the hallway. He grabbed her hands, squeezed them.

“Her name is Yuliyah,” he said, cutting off the excited stream of words. “She's from Latvia. Find her a translator. She's been kidnapped, abused. She's in danger. You have to keep her hidden. Her enemies are very powerful. Get her a doctor if you have to, but keep it quiet.”

Dorothea blinked. “I take it her enemies are your enemies, too?”

“You got it. Look. I'm being framed for something bad. Yuliyah could prove my innocence.” He paused. “If she survives.”

“I don't need any proof,” Dorothea said stoutly. “I'm convinced.”

“I appreciate that,” he said, meaning it with all his heart. “Just keep her safe.”

“Count on me,” she said.

He squeezed her hands. “I'm putting you and your organization in danger. I'm sorry, but I didn't know what else to do. I have to go.”

“Already? Sure you don't want to rest too?” She patted his unscarred cheek anxiously. “A cup of tea, some soup?”

“No. There are other girls where she came from. I have to help them.” He grabbed her hand, kissed it. “Thanks, Dorothea.”

“Well, take this, at least.” She pulled a small packet out of her pocket. “You look terrible.” It was a package of Wet Wipes. He pocketed it with a grin of thanks and bolted for the exit.

“Kev! Wait!” Dorothea huffed behind him as he took the steps four at a time. “I just got this visit from this guy who claimed to be—”

“Later, Dorothea!” He let the door slam, his mind miles ahead.

If they hadn't yet discovered that he and Yuliyah had escaped, then they had no reason to guard his place. If they had discovered it, they would be sending someone to wait for him. Just in case he was actually so ass-wipe, dick-brained, asinine stupid as to go back home.

Which he was. He had no choice. He needed those alternate identities he'd grown. Too bad he hadn't had time to grow one for Edie. It took years to establish an identity that held up to official scrutiny.

But if he had at least one, he could work, and they would be able to travel, rent cars and housing while he grew ones for Edie and Ronnie.

And he needed weapons. He felt naked without them.

The tires squealed as he yanked the car around and accelerated in the direction of his home. In and out, hard and fast.

He had to risk it. It was their only chance.

“S
omeone's been at this thing with a lock gun.” Seanleaned forward to take a closer look. “Recently, too. The lock is new. And so are these marks.” He looked up at the blank, unadorned brick building, stark against the white sky. “Wait in the car, Liv.”

She made an inelegant sound. “Don't be ridiculous.”

He didn't even bother to start that battle. He just pushed right on in. The lock had been so damaged, it no longer functioned at all.

They climbed the stairs, finding no clue as to which of the doors on those landings could be Kev's until the top floor, where there was only one, the others having been bricked up. That door hung open.

“Someone broke in here, too,” he said.

“What a coincidence,” Liv murmured.

Sean poked his head through the door, listening. It was dead still in there. Liv threaded her fingers into his. He kept listening, until Liv started tugging impatiently. He walked in, pulling her behind him.

Huge, open spaces. Vast windows. Raw brick. Wrought iron. Gleaming expanses of teak flooring. Huh. Kev had not done too badly for himself. As if giving fortunes to the runaway shelters wasn't enough of a clue. That metal-toned kitchen with the big tiled central island including sink, gas range, oven…wow. After redoing a kitchen and bathroom in his condo with Liv, he was keenly aware of just how much money he was looking at. His brother had one hell of a decorating budget. Son of a bitch.

The mobiles hanging from wires on the ceiling made his breath catch. They twisted and turned gently in a draft from some open window. Like the ones Kev used to carve from twigs and acorns back home. Models of molecules, from when he was twelve years old, reading post-graduate-level books on organic chemistry. For fun.

Yup. This was Kev, all right. This place was Kev all over.

“What do you want to do?” Liv's voice sounded hushed and nervous as she looked around. “Wait for him?”

Sean stuck his fingers in his pockets. “I have a funny feeling.”

“Funny feelings are the norm for you,” Liv pointed out dryly. “If you weren't having one, you wouldn't recognize yourself.”

“No. I mean, about him being gone. The locks being forced. The graphic artist's place being tossed. Something's wrong. Something's off.”

“What a surprise,” she said dryly. She spun around, gawking at the high ceilings, the vast windows. “Think there's anything wrong with looking into the other rooms? It seems, I don't know. Invasive.”

He laughed. “No more invasive than letting us think he was a corpse rotting in the ground for eighteen years. That really invaded my peace of mind.”

“Sean—”

“I wouldn't worry about it, babe. Really. Root around in his underwear drawer. Let's see if he's a boxers or briefs kind of guy. And while we're at it, let's just see…” He grabbed an unopened envelope from a mesh basket on the desk, ripped it open. He peered at the bill. “Whoa. Look at all those extra cable features for his fifty-two inch plasma TV. Cushy, for a guy who grew up hauling water in a bucket and crapping in a hole in the ground. He's forgotten his humble roots.”

“Sean, stop it,” she said.

He strode into the kitchen. “I'll check out the fridge, while we're being invasive.” He yanked it open, pulled out a bottle of Dos Equis. He twisted the cap off. “About time that bastard stood me a drink.”

She draped her crossed arms over her baby bulge, her soft lips gone thin with disapproval. “You're losing it,” she snapped. “Cool it.”

“Oh, I'm cool. I'll just chug this beer on down, and when it works through the tubes, I'll go take a nice, long piss in his bathroom. Then I'll use his toothbrush to freshen up.” He sauntered back to the studio. An envelope had fluttered to the ground. He scooped it up. “What's this? A phone bill. Let's take a look!” He ripped it open, peered at the balance. “Huh. This one's pretty contained.”

“He probably mostly uses his cell,” Liv said.

“Or maybe he just doesn't have any friends,” Sean said. “Maybe he has nobody to talk to. Must be hard to maintain relationships when you go around faking your own death. Puts a real crimp in your social life. Goddamn fucking lying
bastard
.”

“That is enough!” she yelled. “You are indulging yourself, and I am tired of this tantrum! Get your head back in the game!”

Sean let the trapped air escape from his lungs, in a long, thin wheeze. “It's not a game.”

She took his hand again, tugged it. “I know that, baby,” she said quietly. “I know it better than anyone. Come on. Let's keep looking.”

 

“Alarm's tripped, at the Larsen place,” Wanatabe said.

Tom whipped his head around. “What?”

“You heard me.” The guy's voice was sullen. After three days, his balls were still aching. Fucking sissy baby. Tom was losing his patience.

He stomped over. “You got a visual?”

“They've just moved out of range,” Wanatabe said. “Looks like Larsen and some chick. But not the Parrish chick. A different one.”

“Larsen?” That jolted him. “That's not possible.”

Wanatabe shrugged. “Looks like Larsen.”

“Let me see.” He leaned over while Wanatabe selected the footage, ran it back, and set it to play.

They watched Larsen poke his head in the open door and look around for a long moment, those weird, pale green eyes glittering with concentration. Holy shit. Tom's jaw dropped. How…?

The guy looked behind himself, murmured, and crept through the door, pulling a woman behind him. Not the Parrish woman, as Ken had said. This one was shorter, chubbier. Long, curly dark hair. Pretty, vividly colored, curvy. Pregnant, he noticed suddenly. He could see the swell under her sweater. Larsen clutched her hand, keeping her close—

No. Not Larsen. This guy's hair was longer. The man turned, three hundred and sixty degrees, to look at the apartment, lips pursing in a silent whistle. The right side of his face was smooth. Unscarred.

Fucking shit, this was the twin! Sean McCloud. The one they'd read about in the files. The one who slit Dr. O's throat.

Rage gripped him. A desire to tear out the guy's throat. Intellectually, Tom knew it was the conditioning Dr. O had instilled in his elite cadre of star pupils. But knowing didn't lessen the urge.

McCloud was lucky it wasn't public knowledge who'd slaughtered Dr. O. If it had been, every member of Club O would have been after him, to rip him into bloody pieces. Wipe out his entire gene pool.

He eyed the bulge under the sweater of that pretty woman. Yeah, actually. His gene pool would be a fine place to start.

“Contact the rest of the team. Tell them to rendezvous outside Larsen's place immediately,” he said. “We'll meet them as soon as we can get there. We're taking that son of a bitch. Alive. He is mine, got it? The woman, too. Don't kill them. Use the dart guns, or the Tasers.”

He lifted his com device, since duty dictated that he keep the crazy bitch in the loop, and punched in Ava's code. “Come in, Ava. We have a situation at Larsen's place.”

No reply. Fury burned in his belly. He hated dealing with self-indulgent civilian pussies with no concept of team-work, order, or discipline. Fucking him up, slowing him down. Drove him nuts.

“Ava! Come in, goddamnit!” he roared.

Nothing. He tried the guards he'd posted above Ava's snakepit lab. “Janowizc? Hackman? Come in! Come in!”

Nothing. What the
fuck?
He had to waste precious time to compensate for incompetence. He was going to personally crush Janowizc's and Hackman's balls for dicking around on the job. “Go ahead,” he snarled to Wanatabe. “I'll meet you there. Have to go check on Marr's bitch. Block them into Larsen's place. And do…not…hurt…them!”

Wanatabe got to it with gratifying speed. Tom left the big trailer that they'd been bunking in, and jogged, panting, through the warehouse complex til he got to the one that concealed Ava's lab.

He peered into the guardroom. His jaw sagged with dismay. Aw, fucking shit. Both guys unconscious, bleeding, and tied to the radiator, useless bags of shit that they were. He left them, and ran toward the room where Larsen had been shackled. It would be just like that crazy bitch, to go have fun with the guy, gloating and taunting.

Sure enough. The room was empty. The chair where they had fastened him was empty too. The shackles lay open. Larsen was gone.

What the
fuck?
That arrogant bitch wasn't supposed to touch him. No one knew how Kev McCloud had gotten away from Dr. O and Gordon. No one knew how Sean McCloud had beaten the crown and managed to kill Dr. O. Until they knew, the plan was to proceed with extreme caution, and a loaded gun to the guy's head at each baby step.

He keyed open Ava's lab. A nasty stink and a cold draft came from one door. Fridge was open. He closed it, shoved the other doors open.

The mess told its silent story. The bench, plasticuffs hooked to the top bar. Chunks of plastic cuffs lying around on the floor. An empty wheelchair on its side. Syringes on the floor. Ava had muscled that guy in here all by herself, and crowned him. And McCloud had taken her.

Good fucking riddance.

Tom pulled out his cell. The call to Des had just connected when he heard the muffled thudding sound, choked whimpering.

Oh, man. No way. This was too sweet.

He cut off the call, followed the sound to the supply room. He flipped on the light, clambered over the boxes, peeked down into the suffocating crack of space where Ava was wedged.

She was arched backward, red faced, choking for air. Her purple face, broken blood vessels, wild eyes, and tangled hair made her look like the ugly hag that she actually was.

He started to laugh. Time was tight, but he held up his cell phone and snapped a picture. “Sorry, but I just had to immortalize this,” he told her. “You look like ten kinds of shit, sweetheart.”

She mewled, thumped with her feet.

Tom shook his head. “You let him go, you dumb cunt. Now I have to go find him. You can wait until Des comes to get you. I don't have time for this tedious shit. Sit tight, babe. Think good thoughts.”

He pried himself out of the tumbled boxes, still laughing, and flipped the light off before letting the door of the utility room slam shut.

 

Sean and Liv took their time wandering through Kev's apartment. Everything Sean's eyes fell upon made his guts clench up with weird recognition. They studied the kitchen, the desk, the studio, the artwork, the bookcases, the living space. They stopped short on their appraisal as they approached the dining area, assailed by a horrible smell.

“What's this?” Liv said. “Yikes. That's vile.”

“My brother has become a slob?” Sean postulated. “That's weird. Kev was always superclean. Even worse than Davy. I was the only one in the whole family who ever approached slob status.”

They stared at the mess on the table. Someone had laid out a romantic feast, complete with candles, and left the remains to ferment.

“No one's been in here in…” He sniffed. “Four days. Or three. There was fish in that meal. Fish is the secret incredient that gives unwashed dishes that special olfactory oomph, you know?”

“Spoken like a true ex-bachelor,” Liv said primly. “I wouldn't know, myself. I do my dishes as I use them. On the spot.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. You're perfect, and all that.” Sean held up one of the candle holders, sniffing it. “Scented candles? Pink? Jesus, has he gone over to the other side? What the fuck is that about?”

“It's about her,” Liv said quietly. “It's about Edie Parrish.”

He gaped at her. “Nah. Really? You think?”

“Didn't you see the way she draws him? Did you see those graphic novels? How over-the-top romantic they are? She worships him.”

Sean picked up another candle, this one a deep crimson. “Well, hell. Looks like he worships her back. So they were too overwhelmed with passion to come down and do their dishes. For three whole days?”

Liv looked thoughtful. “We're talking a McCloud guy plus true love, remember. Three whole days in bed is doable. I can visualize it.”

Sean squinted at her. “Don't visualize it with anybody but me.”

She started to reply, eyes sparkling. He clapped his hand over her mouth. “Get your head back in the game,” he whispered, and gave her a kiss. He pulled her across the expanse of floor, and up the spiral staircase. The bathroom was on the loft. Not opulent, but nice. After their remodel, Sean could price the materials with his eye. Ching ching.

They opened the door to the bedroom. It too was large and simple. Wooden venetian blinds over the windows, swaying in a draft.

Then they saw the mandala painting on the ceiling.

Sean was helpless to reel his jaw back up into place. His throat was tightening, like screws were turning. His hands had gone numb. He put the beer down on the dresser with a trembling hand.

The mandala was identical in every detail to the painting on the ceiling of their bedroom, the one Kev had done the year after Dad died, except magnified to the tenth power. It seemed to expand out to infinity, far beyond the confines of the room.

The twelve-year-old Kev had lost himself in that painting for weeks, putting all his unspoken grief into it. None of them had talked about how they felt after Dad died. None of them knew how. It wasn't done in Eamon McCloud's house. They swallowed it down, clenched their teeth and their bellies against the sickening ache, pretended that everything was normal. When the bottom had fallen out of the world.

Kev's mandala brought it back. Those strange, silent meals in the first months. Davy looking tough and tightlipped at the head of the table instead of Dad. Eating Davy and Con's cooking. Burned meat, squirrel stew. Flat, unyeasted bread, crunchy undercooked rice. Dirt in the vegetables. Not much else. In a holding pattern of uncertainty, afraid to take a breath, make a move. No fucking clue how they would survive without Dad. What they were supposed to do, alone and broke.