All Fixed Up (33 page)

Misha nodded. “It seemed to give him a new purpose. He was … I don't know,
offended
by the idea of adaptors. Said your existence was dangerous to ‘real' human beings.”

Lovely
, I thought.
He could take a page from Billy's birth mother's book.

I glanced at Billy—his jaw was tightly clenched. He must've had the same thought. I took his hand and leaned my head against his shoulder. He stiffened at first, but then put one arm around me and pulled me to him. That was good. He needed to know I was there for him.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about Loughlin?”

Misha hesitated. Mark jumped on it. “What?”

“My drone. I gave it to him.”

Mark just stared at him.

Misha leaned toward Mark, hands upturned, his body language begging for understanding. “I thought if I gave him the technology, he could give it to the Russians instead of giving them us. Don't you see? It was a way to get rid of Loughlin and the Russians, too. He was supposed to leave us alone after he got it.”

Mark twisted his mouth briefly. “How'd that work out for you?”

Misha flushed. “Not as well as I'd hoped. As you know.”

“Does Rudy know?”

“About the drone? No,” Phil said quickly. “We didn't want to involve him in something the government might not approve of. By then we knew he was already going to be in enough trouble without that.”

“Is the technology classified?” Mark asked.

Again, Misha hesitated. “No.”

“But?” Mark said, voice hard.

“It might be, once the government gets wind of what it involves. But I haven't finished the design. There are still bugs to be worked out.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“It depends on who sets its controls, and what they're delivering,” Misha said.

“Does Loughlin know how to operate it?”

Misha nodded bleakly. “I showed him. It was part of the deal—he was afraid the Russians wouldn't accept it as payment otherwise.”

“Anything you want to add? Did you hand the Russians anything else they might weaponize and use against our country?” Mark couldn't quite keep the disgust out of his voice.

“No! I swear that's it. And the Russians have scientists working on similar technology—it was only a question of who would get there first. That is the drone's only possible value to them, to beat the Americans to the punch. But that in itself is worth a lot to them.”

Mark rose to leave.

“What now?” Misha asked. “Are we going to prison?”

“No,” Mark said. Though he kind of looked like he wouldn't have minded sending them up the river. “Now you'll be taken back to your home. Your security detail will be tripled until we find Loughlin. Dr. Carson, your mission will go on as planned. No one wants to jeopardize its success.”

Relief flooded her features, spilling out of her eyes. “Thank you.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but couldn't seem to find the words.

“One thing—if you hear from Rudy, you have to let me know immediately. He may think he can guarantee his children's safety, but he's wrong. It would be a whole lot better for him—and the kids—if we find him before the Russians do. Or before Alec Loughlin does.”

Dr. Phil nodded. “What will you do with him?”

“It's not for me to decide.” Mark's neutral expression gave nothing away, but I suspected it was a good thing for Rudy that Mark wasn't going to be the one judging his actions.

*   *   *

The cookies were every bit as heavenly as I'd thought. Combined with the rich flavor of the coffee, it was like chocolate and caffeine were doing a happy dance on my tongue. (Yeah, yeah. Sue me. I wasn't going to feel guilty over half a cup of coffee when I was ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure there was no way I was pregnant.)

Mark had brought us into the parlor after Dr. Phil and Misha were taken home. We were discussing our next move. Well, Mark and Billy were discussing. I was mostly listening, because it's rude to talk with your mouth full.

“So, how worried should we be about that drone?” Billy said.

“It's certainly something to add to the list,” Mark said. “Misha was an idiot to think the Russians would take it and leave them alone. Why settle for a golden egg when you can control the goose?”

“Naïve,” Billy agreed. “Speaking of idiots, do you think Rudy gave Loughlin inside info on adaptors?”

“I do. Loughlin knew the Russians had Rudy's kids. He could have used it to coerce all kinds of useful information out of him, like how there's a relatively large enclave of adaptors in New York, and, later, where Ciel lived in D.C. He's one of the few people who had clearance to access my personal files. God damn it, I
trusted
him. He should have trusted me.” He paused to take a breath, reeling back the little emotion he'd allowed to show. “I won't make that mistake again.”

Billy nodded, obviously understanding how dangerous trust can be in the world of covert operations. “So, Aunt Helen? Loughlin killed her only because she was, what, the first adaptor he came across once he got to New York?”

“Possibly. If he even killed her himself. He might have employed the same guy who went after Ciel at the skating rink. We're matching his DNA against traces on all the victims.”

I shuddered at the memory, almost choking on a cookie. There'd been a hell of a lot more than a trace of his DNA on me. I'd been covered in it.

Billy patted my back. Mark got me a glass of water from the bar in the corner and continued speaking. “I suspect Aunt Helen was first because her routine was so regular. She walked in Central Park every day at the same time, no matter what the weather. She was old, slow, and an easy target. Plus, it was a good bet her funeral would draw most of the adaptors in the area in to one spot where they could be easily photographed. Once he had pictures, he could always take his time and pick them off as he came across them.”

Billy nodded. “And right now he's probably waiting until adaptors are easier to get to. He has to know such a high level of security can't be maintained indefinitely.”

“That would be my guess,” Mark said, and then looked at me thoughtfully. “Except in Ciel's case. He might have something against adaptors in general, but he seems to have fixated on her for some reason. He didn't wait to try for her in D.C., or at the ice rink either.”

“What the hell makes me so special?” I muttered.

“Could be he blames you for his failed attempt to snatch Phil. Whatever the reason, I don't want you to go anywhere alone until we get him.” He might have been talking to me, but he was looking directly at Billy.

Billy got the message. “I won't let her out of my sight.”

I twisted my lips. “Well, damn. That's going to make wrapping your Christmas present problematic.”

 

Chapter 27

“Grumpy climbed to the top of the tree in the living room again!” Mom hollered. “Somebody get him down—my hands are full. Patrick? Thomas? James? Brian? For God's sake, will one of you get him down before he shreds the angel?” She hurried into the dining room with a huge tray of cinnamon rolls and Moravian sugar cake fresh from the oven.

Christmas morning in the Halligan household is a boisterous affair in any given year. Add seven cats (named by Jenny after Snow White's dwarfs—she'd been a huge Disney fan) to the equation, and “boisterous” morphs into “chaotic” quicker than a fledgling adaptor flits through auras.

Coincidentally, we had one of those, too, Santa having delivered Molly's dearest wish. She was officially on the road to full-blown adaptorhood, and delighting in exhibiting her new talent to everyone. It had (naturally) been her idea to bring the three cats the Doyles were fostering—Dopey, Doc, and Sneezy—so they could visit with their friends. Happy, Sleepy, and Bashful were running around in blissful joy at being reunited with their brethren. (Grumpy apparently preferred the tree to his feline friends.)

The whole Doyle clan had shown up on the doorstep at the crack of dawn, all of them wearing red- or green-plaid flannel pajamas beneath their heavy coats, their feet encased in sturdy, fleece-lined slippers. Our families traded off every year, one taking Christmas Eve, the other Christmas morning. Frankly, I was glad it was our turn for Christmas morning, because it was damn cold outside, even for the short walk.

Molly, Sinead, and Siobhan had each carried a cat (one short-haired tuxedo, two long-haired gingers). Auntie Mo and Uncle Liam had hauled giant bags of garishly wrapped gifts, slung over their shoulders. A resigned-looking (and no doubt well-armed) contingent of Mark's agents accompanied them, and had taken up positions outside with our own long-suffering guardians.

Billy was the only Doyle missing from the gang when they arrived, but only because he'd insisted on remaining with me overnight in the basement. Which might have been romantic, except for that whole being-my-parents'-house thing, and besides, Brian had stayed downstairs with us the whole night. I suspect Mom put him up to it once she found out Billy wasn't spending the night in the bosom of his own family. (Thomas and Laura were using my room again, and James and Devon had the room James had once shared with Brian. Ha. Hope they enjoyed those bunk beds.)

Of course, Brian had smuggled some of his special cookies into the house, and had snacked on them liberally as we watched
A Christmas Story
yet again. It hadn't taken long for him to fall deeply asleep, so (according to Billy) we were as good as alone. During the rest of the movie, he had done his level best to convince me, via a whispering campaign and sneaky caresses to my ridiculously sensitive inner elbows, that fooling around in one's parents' basement was a sacred rite of passage, and since I'd missed it as a teenager, he would be happy to help me through this essential developmental milestone.

I might have succumbed to his persuasive techniques if, a) I hadn't been afraid Bri would wake up with a bad case of the munchies in the middle of things and, b) if Santa hadn't brought me my own special gift earlier that week. Or maybe it was Mother Nature. Whoever. My period had finally started. Sure, it was almost over, and technically I could adapt around it, but frankly I didn't want anything—not even a short partial adaption—messing with my plumbing until I was sure everything was back to normal. We'd compromised on mutual foot massages, the one I received being twice as long as the one I gave. Which was only fair, because his feet were twice as big as mine. (Hey, you can't argue with math.)

“Ciel, guess what—I got a drum set! A real one. It's
awesome
!” Molly said, once she was done (for the moment at least) shifting through auras, and was adequately stuffed with sugary goodness.

“Whoa! Fantastic, Molls. Who's it from?” I asked. Auntie Mo and Uncle Liam couldn't be that masochistic.

Thomas had a huge smile on his face, one arm around Laura. (We were all in our flannel pj's, too. Tradition dictated it.) “I believe Santa left it for her. He probably heard rumors about the great “Wipe Out” solo at our wedding and figured she needed a professional set.”

“Mmm-hmm. Santa is special that way,” Auntie Mo said. The glint in her narrowed eyes as she looked at Thomas told me there were going to be many loud toys in his offspring's future.

Mom clapped her hands. “Okay, everyone, you know the drill. Retire to the living room and start tearing paper!” She reached down and snatched a bow out of Happy's mouth as he whizzed past. “And do
not
let the cats eat the ribbons! I don't want to see any of them running around later with streamers under their tails.”

Once upon a time, Mom and Auntie Mo had insisted on an orderly distribution of gifts, with everyone taking turns opening them, and much oohing and aahing over each present in turn. They'd given up on it years ago—there were too darned many of us to keep organized, and it would have taken until dinnertime to get through everything. Frankly, none of us—including Mom and Auntie Mo—had that kind of patience.

Billy pulled me down next to him on the floor close to the tree—an eight-foot-tall blue spruce chaotically decorated with every homemade ornament my brothers and I had made from birth onward, intermingled with the genuine antiques my father was fond of giving Mom every year. (Normally, it was littered with silver tinsel, but Mom had heard it was dangerous for cats, so she had painstakingly removed every last piece of it.) The lights were the multicolored, big-bulb kind. It should have been a tasteless mess, but somehow it was beautiful, even attached to the ceiling with fishing line as it now was.

Billy scanned the crowd. “Guess the spook's not coming this year.”

When Mark wasn't in one of the far reaches of the planet for the holidays he usually spent the day with us. Sadly, more often than not, Christmas seemed to invite crazy happenings requiring CIA intervention by someone with Mark's special skill set. He never talked about his own family, if he even had one. I'd asked Thomas about it once, long ago, but he'd ignored me. When I'd pressed him, he'd told me not everybody was as lucky as we were, and to drop it. For some reason—possibly fear of what kind of pain I'd find buried inside Mark—I'd never pursued it.

“Not sure,” I said. “Thomas said he might stop in later, if it looks like things are quiet on the Loughlin front.”

Billy gave my nose a quick kiss. “Good thing he assigned me to watch you. It's the one job I'm willing to do on Christmas Day.” He grabbed a package from under the tree. “Hey, Molls, heads up!” He tossed it across the room to her like it was a football, which, coincidentally, it was. She was thrilled, as were all the others in the crowded room when they dug into their own loot. Most of the gifts were simple, thoughtful expressions of affection, nothing terribly extravagant. Joke gifts abounded, as both families considered laughter to be the best present you could give anyone.