The Sight (9 page)

I grabbed a butter knife. “Why do you think Erida's here?”

“I don't know. Things are getting dangerous. Maybe he's calling his people home.”

Tadji pushed the curtain aside. “You two ready? We're starving out here.”

“On our way,” I said, and we gathered our bounty.

—

We had iced tea, amazing bread, decent peanut butter, and a surprisingly delicious tomato spread that Gavin put together from the sun-dried tomatoes, salt, and olive oil. The latter was one of the few “gourmet”
ingredients I could get relatively easily onto the Zone caravans. And thinking of that, I made a note to myself to add Lizzie's orders to my next request.

But first, the mystery.

“So, what's with Erida, and your mission to bring her back?” I asked, slathering on tomato spread.

“She's a soldier; he's her commander,” Gavin said, pouring iced tea into a glass. “He made it worth my while not to ask questions.”

“He paid you?” I asked, frowning. How did an angel get money?

“He did. I'm guessing there are human sympathizers with funds,” he said to my unspoken question.

“I bet Malachi has something specific in mind,” I said, picking a piece of bread from the shard in my hand. “Maybe he's planning for what I saw on the other side of the Veil.”

The Veil had passed over me at the Memorial Battle, and I'd seen an army of Paranormals with their golden armor and shields, including a warrior on her steed, clearly eager for battle.

“Maybe,” Gavin said. “I left before the bombing, so it's likely not related to Reveillon.”

Tadji frowned. “But the Veil's closed, right? So why would that matter?”

I didn't know the answer to that, which was probably for the best, I thought, slathering peanut butter on bread. Unfortunately, while peanut butter was great, and Eleanor's bread was great, peanut butter and Eleanor's bread were not great together. They somehow managed to bring out the worst in each other. Like Gavin and Liam, I thought with a smile. And the joke almost made the gluey texture worth it.

“Why are you smiling?” Liam asked, eyes narrowed.

It was a good minute before I could unstick my mouth to answer. “Because this is delicious.”

Liam's gaze was direct. “Liar.”

“It's practically Christmas dinner,” I said without much enthusiasm, picking up another slathered hunk.

“I wish we still had Christmas,” Gavin said, crossing his ankles on the empty chair beside him.

“We do have Christmas,” Liam said, and kicked his feet off. “Get your feet off the furniture.”

Gavin put his feet down but slouched in his chair to get comfortable. “I know we still have the day, the holiday. But it doesn't mean the same thing anymore. Call it consumerism or whatever, but there was something magical about Santa Claus, stockings, presents.”

“There was something literally magical,” Tadji said, counting them off on her fingers. “Magical elf sweatshop. Flying reindeer. Corpulent bearded man who fits in chimneys. Ability to visit every house in the world in the span of a single night. Automatically knows who's been naughty and nice.”

Gavin snorted. “Maybe he had magic monitors, 'cause that sounds like Containment.”

“Amen,” Liam said.

I smiled at them. “Did you celebrate with Eleanor?”

“Our entire family,” Liam said, crossing his arms on the table. “Eleanor spoiled us at Christmas. She was frugal for an Arsenault—as far as that goes—but when the holidays came around, she'd have boxes of presents for me, Gavin, Gracie.” Grief shadowed his face at the mention of his sister, but he shook it off. “Did you ever drive by the Arsenault house?”

“Everybody drove by the Arsenault house,” Tadji said.

That was Eleanor's home on Esplanade Ridge, which had burned to the ground during the war. Every Christmas, Eleanor put on a monumental holiday display—thousands of lights, animatronic animals, a live Nativity scene, and a visiting Santa Claus. Neighbors
fussed about the traffic, but that didn't stop her. She said Christmas was for kids, and she made the displays bigger every year.

“Did y'all see the polar bear in the bikini?” Gavin asked.

“That was hard to forget,” Tadji said. “Didn't some morals council throw a fit about it?”

“Yep, did,” Gavin said with a slow and satisfied grin. “Eleanor had asked us for ideas for the display that year. I drew Paulette the Polar Bear, complete with bikini and”—he held rounded hands in front of his chest. “Sure enough, she had a light board made.”

“Part of me wants to ask why you drew a polar bear in a bikini,” I said. “And part of me already knows the answer.”

“Polar bears live in the snow,” Gavin said. “If they want to relax by the ocean, they're going to do it in a bikini just like anyone else.”

I narrowed my gaze at him. “I can't find the hole in that logic, although I'm pretty sure there is one.”

The bell on the door jingled and I sat up straight, remembering we were sitting in a retail establishment.

“It's just Gunnar,” Gavin said, glancing lazily over at the door and then back again.

“Good to see you, too,” Gunnar said, walking toward us. He looked a little less polished than he had that morning, his hair a little more rakish, fatigues a little more lived-in beneath a camouflage vest he hadn't worn that morning. “When did you get back?”

“Today,” Gavin said, hand half covering his mouth as he chewed another piece of bread.

“You look like shit.”

“Aw, now you're just being rude,” Liam said, reaching out to ruffle his brother's hair. “He can't help the way he looks.”

Gavin looked at me. “Is he always this funny?”

“Yes. The laughter died long ago.”

“Har-har,” Liam said this time, reaching past me to grab a piece of bread from the tray.

“And you're having dinner without me.” Gunnar pulled off the vest, which was heavy and lined, and put it on the back of the chair.

It was a flak vest, I realized, and couldn't tear my gaze away.

“It's just a precaution,” Gunnar said, looking around the table before his gaze landed on mine. “We haven't yet found the Reveillon members who escaped the bombing, so we're being careful.”

“You're searching door to door?” Liam asked.

“Every door in Devil's Isle,” Gunnar said, taking a seat. “Quadrant-by-quadrant searches, but we haven't found anyone yet. Evidence they've been hiding—empty water bottles, protein bar wrappers—but no people yet.”

“Are they waiting for an opportunity to escape,” Liam asked, “or an opportunity to strike?”

“Either. Both.” Gunnar scrubbed his hands through his dark, wavy hair, then linked them behind his head. “We don't know if they ran into the neighborhood to avoid capture, or because that's what they were supposed to do. If it was on purpose, they haven't done anything yet.”

“What would they do?” I wondered.

Gunnar glanced at me, dread in his eyes. “If they bomb indiscriminately, pretty much anything.” He looked at Liam. “At the risk of sounding like a total fucking hypocrite, considering who I work for, have you considered moving Eleanor out?”

Liam nodded. “I broached the issue. She wasn't interested.”

Gavin made a sound that was half laugh, half rueful sigh. “And one doesn't tell Eleanor Arsenault what to do.”

“Pretty much.” Liam pushed the tray of bread toward him. “You need food?”

Gunnar held up a hand. “No, thanks. I was teasing. We spent the morning reviewing physical evidence. It doesn't do much for the appetite.”

“Any new developments there?” Liam asked.

“Not as of yet. The forensic experts are running tests, doing the things they do.” He glanced at Liam. “Do you want to look through the photographs?”

“No,” Liam said. “But I will.” He looked at me, and I shook my head.

I could be brave when necessary. But since I didn't have any particular forensic skills, didn't know anything about explosives, I'd sit this one out. There were some things I didn't need to see again.

Gunnar pulled a green folder from his messenger bag, passed it to Liam. The folder was marked with the Containment logo,
TOP
SECRET
, stamped in red across the front.

“You have clearance?” I asked.

“I do,” Liam said, flipping through the folder. I kept my gaze on his face, on the shifting expressions. Disgust, pity, fear, sadness, rage. Each time he turned over a new photograph, the course of emotions crossed his face.

And I saw it the moment he stopped, frowned, squinted at one of them. And then he looked up at me. “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

I blinked at the request. “Um, yeah.” I'd set it out for the clock repairs. I walked to the counter, grabbed the brass-handled tool, and offered it.

“Thanks, Sherlock,” he said, eyebrows lifted as he looked it over. “Do you have one of those earflap hats?”

“It belonged to the store,” I said, knowing perfectly well that he'd said it to lighten the mood.

He turned back to the photograph, centering the magnifying glass over a bit of skin on the deceased's arm. “There's a mark here.”

“What kind of mark?” Gunnar asked.

“I'm not sure. It's on”—he looked up at us, then down again—“it's on one of the bombers' arms.”

My stomach rolled. The arm had clearly been separated from the rest of him or her. And it hadn't been a good separation.

“A tattoo?” Gunnar asked, moving closer.

“Maybe?”

Tadji edged in behind them, her eyes widening and lips thinning at the shot, the violence and gore. But she kept her composure. “That's not a tattoo. Or not just.”

Gunnar looked up at her, frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It's a Couturie code.”

“Camp Couturie?” I asked. Camp Couturie had been the largest refugee camp in New Orleans—hundreds of acres of tents in what had once been City Park. People still lived there; it had become its own neighborhood.

“Is it?” Liam asked, leaning down to check the mark again.

The ink was blurred with time, and looked hand-drawn on top of that. The tattoo probably hadn't been very crisp even when it was new.

“It's the Couturie X-Code,” Tadji said, tracing a fingertip over the uneven lines.

Like during Katrina, X-Codes had been used during the war to mark a house that had been searched for survivors. They'd also been used to create an address system in the camp, which took up a lot of real estate. Containment thought it helped give a sense of stability to the refugees.

“Huh,” Gunnar said. “That's a damn good catch. Maybe Reveillon's been recruiting at the camp.”

Gunnar took the folder back from Liam, scribbled a note inside it, closed it again. “I'm going to have to talk to the Commandant. Take a trip out there, get a look at the camp and a feel for what's going on.”

“You can't go,” I said.

Gunnar turned back to look at me. “Why?”

“You can't just walk around Camp Couturie. You're too conspicuous. Everyone in town knows who you are, and they'll know why you're there, why you're poking around. If there are Reveillon members at the camp, you won't be able to get any information about them.”

“She probably has a point,” Liam said.

Gunnar narrowed his eyes. “And what are you proposing, mistress of strategy?”

I smiled, walked to the aisle of the store where food and produce were organized, and picked up a basket of beets and greens I'd grown in the community garden on top of the former Florissant Hotel.

I walked back, put it on the table. “I'll go. Because I'm in retail.”

Gunnar went quiet, eyebrows drawn together as they did when he was considering. “The camp has a farmers' market.”

I nodded. “Every day of the week. It's open to the public, and to whatever vendors want to set up shop. I've only been there a couple of times. It was a lot of bartering, and I'm not really in the market for more dry goods.” I gestured to the store's interior. “I'm full up, so I haven't been in a while. But I can go now, take some extra vegetables, do a little trading, and do a little recon.”

“You're a civilian.”

I smiled. “No, I'm a bounty hunter in training, with a Devil's Isle pass to prove it.”

Gunnar was quiet for a moment, tapping his fingers together. Then he looked at Liam. “You'd go with her?”

“Not that I need an escort,” I muttered, but I wouldn't have gone without Liam. It's not like I could just whip out my magic, especially when facing down magicphobes.

“I could do that,” Liam said, glancing at the basket. “We play retailers trying to get rid of some stock, make some cash. See what we see.”

“And if the opportunity permits, ask some very subtle questions,” Gunnar said. “I'll have to talk to the Commandant, the Joint Ops team. We've got all available resources deployed, so we're running lean until PCC can get more troops across the border.”

“How's that going?” Liam asked.

“Not great. Outfit out of Branson was attacked last night. They were attacked coming into Arkansas. PCC hoped a mountain pass would be an easier approach. There was a band camped out on the border.”

“They can't have people along the Zone's entire border all the time,” Tadji said. “That's impossible.”

Gunnar nodded. “Exactly.”

“You think they've got somebody on the inside,” Liam said.

“I do think,” Gunnar said. “And I think it has to be someone in Washington, someone at PCC who's sympathetic, who has access to troop movement information. Or, if not on the inside, a very talented hacker or spy. But that investigation is several pay grades above mine. We're assured they're looking into it.”