Deliverance (9 page)

“You’re kicking us out when we want to help find Yanmeng?” said Hound.

“No way,” said Amaro, shaking his head. “Uh-uh. Not this time.”

Maliha frowned. “I don’t have time to worry about everybody.”

“Excuse me, Miss High-and-Mighty, don’t you think we’re worried too? We want to help and you’re not shunting us out of the way. If you think I’m going to go sit in some tin can and chew my fingernails . . .”

“Can’t you work from there? There are secure computers,” she said.

“Hell, no! I was planning to catch a flight to Seattle, where I can act like a goddamned private investigator and investigate!”

“Amaro, you . . .”

Amaro’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes narrowed. He shook his head.

“Who the hell’s in charge here?” Maliha said.

Maybe breaking up this team can’t come soon enough.

The room grew quiet. Another word tossed out and the tension would have ignited. Finally Maliha plopped down on the floor, unsheathed her whip sword, and began the delicate process of cleaning it—again.

Amaro went off to his room, slamming the door. Hound sat cross-legged on the floor, knee-to-knee with Maliha. It wasn’t an easy position for him to get into, with his old injuries, but he managed with a little grunting.

“That wasn’t intended as some kind of threat, was it?” he said.

“What?”

“Getting out that whip right at that moment. Asserting dominance.”

“Of course not,” she said.

“It’s hard for me to know. We’ve been friends for a long time. We were lovers. But there are still things I don’t know about you and know that I never will.”

She lowered her head. “I can give you one simple explanation why I’m on edge about this. It’s about guilt. Yanmeng’s gone. Other people I loved have died, and I haven’t been able to stop it.”

Just as she ducked back into the shelter of the lab bench, she saw the tall man pick up a piece of broken glass from the floor.

Maliha knew his intent as though their minds were one.

She rolled out from behind the bench and planted a star in the wrist of the nearest gunman. He screamed and dropped the gun. As she passed by him, she finished him with a blow to the throat, and then turned her attention back to the real danger in the room. She launched a throwing knife at the tall man. He was in motion as she threw, and instead of skewering his heart, the knife landed in his arm. It didn’t stop him from carrying through the action he’d started. He yanked Claire’s head back and slit her throat with the piece of glass.

No!

Blood spilled and she knew Claire was gone.

Hound didn’t answer for a while. She knew he had the same kind of memories from his days in Vietnam, and had been helpless to save some of the men he worked with every day.

“Things have piled up on you lately. It kinda comes with the territory, doing what you do,” he said softly. “When you were Ageless, you killed without guilt. Now that you’re partly human—or whatever you are—you experience both love and loss.” He paused. “Would you do without love?”

“There’s one form of love I almost wish I’d never opened up to. Lucius is gone, Jake is . . . maybe not the one for me.”

Hound looked at her quizzically, but she didn’t elaborate.

“I think I’m responsible for Yanmeng’s disappearance, and Arnie was just an opening act,” she said. “If Yanmeng dies too . . .”

“Let’s not put him in the grave, yet. Maliha, you’ve got to bend on this. Let us help in the way we need to.”

Trying to calm her fears, she said, “All right. Just remember I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“We’ve never expected you to be.”

“What about Eliu—the safe room for her?” Maliha said.

“What do you say we leave it up to her choice? The new democracy.”

Maliha felt something slipping through her fingers that she knew she’d never get back. She was letting go of some degree of power she’d held because of her abilities.

Master Liu told me to learn humility. Maybe this is part of walking the mortal path.

“Okay.”

There was a knock at the door. Eliu didn’t have a key. Maliha assumed it was she, even though the doorman was supposed to announce guests. She ran to the door as Hound told her to slow down and check it out first.

It wasn’t Eliu. A small box sat right outside the door. Hound shoved her aside, looked each way down the hallway, and then headed for the emergency stairs at a run.

With her heart dragging the floor, Maliha brought the box in and opened it.

Inside, wrapped in paper towels, was Yanmeng’s index finger. She recognized the scar he’d gotten a long time ago in a tactical knife fight. There was a note demanding her presence at a meeting spot, alone.

Chapter Thirteen

M
aliha wrapped the severed finger in a clean cloth and put it on ice in a cooler in the vague hope of reattachment, making sure that the flesh didn’t rest on the ice. It would be ready for transport immediately, but she didn’t think Yanmeng would be recovered in time for that. There had been a clean removal with a sharp instrument, perhaps a skillfully wielded knife or even a sword.

She grimaced.
I’ve seen it all too often, a finger or hand cut off and sent to someone to intimidate. I should know—I’ve done it.

Her phone rang. It was Chick.

“Got a lady name of Eliu to see you, with luggage. Okay?”

“Yes, send both up.”

“Christ,” Hound said. “Should we hide all this?”

“I suggest we put the box and envelope away and tell her everything. She can decide what she wants to see,” Amaro said.

“Sounds good. Use my bedroom.”

The box, envelope, and cooler were spirited away before Eliu arrived. She waited until her two small bags were brought in before giving Maliha a tearful hug, then giving one in turn to Hound and Amaro. Maliha made some tea while the two men led her to a sofa and sat on either side of her trembling body like bookends.

“Has Yanmeng viewed you?” Maliha said, when all four of them cradled hot cups of fragrant tea. She wanted to know if he’d attempted to contact her via remote viewing.

Eliu shook her head. “It’s not a good sign. Usually we’re in touch several times during a day, sometimes for hours at a time.”

“Hours? I didn’t know he could sustain that.”

“That’s only been for the last few months. For him not to contact me in so long a time, he must be . . .”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Hound said. “He could be knocked out.”

“My husband’s mind is very powerful. He would have to be deeply sedated, I think. Like for surgery.”

“That’s an idea. He could be in a clinic somewhere,” Maliha said.

“The clean cut that took off his finger could be from a surgical instrument,” Amaro said.

Eliu looked startled. “What does this mean?”

“Way to go, big mouth,” Hound said. “You must’ve lost your tact pills.”

“I’m sorry, Eliu,” Maliha said. “Since we last talked on the phone, a box arrived. It was your husband’s finger.”

Eliu bowed her head. “Oh no,” she said in a small voice. “How do you know it was his?”

“I recognized the knife scar on his index finger.”

“I want to see.”

“Are you sure? It isn’t necessary.”

“It’s necessary to me.” Eliu straightened up and her voice was steadier. She’d made it clear that she wasn’t going to be sheltered.

Plenty of time for grieving later, if it comes to that. No, don’t think about that. I have to believe he’s alive so that I can bring him back home.

Maliha nodded at Hound. He picked a few items out of his fingerprint kit and then took Eliu into the bedroom.

When the two of them left the room, Maliha glared at Amaro. “Well, that could have been handled better.”

“You’re right. I messed up.”

There was no use in belaboring it. “This building has security cameras in the hallways. Why don’t you see if you can find out who delivered our surprise package?”

Amaro headed for his room, where he kept most of his computer equipment.

Hound came out by himself. He wore latex gloves and carried the note in a clear evidence bag. “Eliu needs a minute. She confirmed your identification. I didn’t get any latents off the box or envelope, so I doubt that this note will have any. It’s worth a try, though.”

“Let me see that note before you get started,” Maliha said.

8:15
A.M. TOMORROW,
C
ORNER OF
D
IVERSEY AND
N
EWCASTLE, HALF A BLOCK NORTH.
C
OME ALONE OR HE DIES.

“Diversey and Newcastle . . . where’s that?” Hound said.

“I know it. It’s on the northwest side.”

“Geez, woman, is there any part of this city you don’t know?”

“I believe in knowing my surroundings so I can get from point A to point B using the shortest route.”

“Get a GPS.”

“I’m old-fashioned in some ways. Sometimes you forget I’m older than I look.”

There was a knock at the door.

Maliha and Hound approached and pressed against the walls on opposite sides of the door.

“Who is it?” Hound said.

“Flowers for Marsha Winters.” The voice was cheery and young.

“Leave them outside and go.”

“Um, I need a signature.”

“Leave them. Go.”

A few minutes later Hound opened the door. There was a vase of two dozen red roses in the hall and there was no one around.

“What do you think?” he said to Maliha. “Bomb? A bug?”

“Who are they from?”

Hound squinted at the card tucked among the flowers. “Jake.”

“I think we can chance it.” She came over, picked up the vase, and brought it into the kitchen. The card said, M
ISS YOU MORE THAN
I
CAN SAY.
C
AN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU,
L
OVE,
J
AKE.

“I’m getting my kit,” Hound said. “Check it out for bugs.”

It’s sweet. Am I wrong about him? Jewelry, roses, must be candy coming next.

I
t was 20 degrees and blustery the next morning. The gray clouds seemed to hang so low that Maliha could reach up, grab one, and squeeze the snow out of it. She dressed in loose jeans, a T-shirt covered by a worn sweatshirt, and a jacket with deep pockets. One jacket pocket harbored a Walther P22 short-barrel pistol and the other an automatic knife and a few extras. At Hound’s insistence, she had a handheld GPS unit in the pocket of her jeans.

Woven into the neckband of her T-shirt was a wireless transmitter made of a new material, polyester fibers with a metallic coating twisted into strands or mesh. When an informant was wearing a wire, he was always in fear of being discovered by the bad guys. No one would suspect Maliha of transmitting information because her T-shirt looked like any other. Amaro would be listening to her conversations and recording them for later analysis.

She took a cab and got out a few blocks from her destination. Half a block north of Diversey and Newcastle there was an elementary school. Students were arriving, and Maliha tried to look like she was not lingering outside a school for nefarious purposes. A girl about nine years old headed toward her.

I don’t like this at all. My contact is a little girl?

It was disappointing, because Maliha had been planning to extract information from her contact, as roughly as necessary.

“You Malehat?”

My name lost something in translation.
Warily, Maliha nodded.

“Here.” The girl handed her an envelope and turned to walk away.

Maliha wanted to grab her by the shoulders and spin her around, but she wouldn’t do that to a child.
No wonder they sent me here. Very clever.

“Wait a minute. Who gave you this?” Maliha said.

“I’m gonna miss the bell.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No. He was here just a few minutes ago. He gave me five dollars.”

Maliha flinched at the thought of the girl talking to someone associated with Yanmeng’s captor. “What did he look like?”

“Not as tall as my dad but about the same age . . . old. I really gotta go now.”

“Okay. Don’t talk to strangers and especially don’t take money.”

The girl didn’t hear her. She was already hurrying away toward the school entrance, and the wind carried Maliha’s warning away. She opened the envelope.

C
ORNER OF
F
ULLERTON AND
L
OGAN.

She stuck the note back into the envelope, inserted it into a plastic bag, and tucked it into her back jeans pocket. She didn’t need a cab.

Here we go. One wild goose chase coming up.

Snow began to fall, insistent flakes that pelted into her face, driven by the wind. That was one thing about Chicago—it knew how to do a snowstorm right. She pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt.

As Maliha feared, the second location was another elementary school. This time a boy of about twelve separated from a group of friends and came over to her. The boys left behind shouted encouragement at him, as if he were about to charm the pants off her.

“You the Mailman?”

“Yes.”

“I got somethin’ for ya.” His friends hooted as he pulled an envelope out of his pants. He purposely held it close to his body so that she had to step forward to take it.

“Who gave this to you?” she said.

“Some dude.”

“What did he look like?”

“Talk wit some kinda crazy accent. Got one o’ them ponytails.” He swaggered back to his friends.

Maliha opened the envelope.

L
AMON AND
D
ICKENS.
H
USTLE.

There were two more stops before she ended up at Lavergne and Maypole, at a boarded-up house across the street from a school. Her target was marked with a red
X
on the plywood covering the front entrance. Maliha was frustrated from the runaround and hoping to get her hands on the man with the ponytail. She was disgusted that she’d been given children to deal with, and didn’t like the idea that some creep was using the children as intermediaries.

What was all this for? To make sure I’m not followed? It’s criminal to mess with these kids like that, or ought to be.

There were no footprints in the snow leading up to the front door. She went around the back of the house. No footprints there, either. That meant her contact had been in the house before it started snowing.

Hope he’s freezing his ass off in there. The temperature’s dropped 10 degrees since I left.

She loosened one of the boards on a basement window quietly. Wary of a gunshot from the interior, she pulled a telescoping mirror from her pocket so she could get a look into the basement.

The mirror showed no threat. Maliha moved to the middle of the backyard, ran toward the window, and dove through it, snapping boards and the remnant of a broken pane of glass. She rolled when she hit the concrete floor, jarring her shoulder a little, and stopped behind a large desk that had been turned up on end. She drew her .22 and checked out her surroundings. Dust motes, disturbed by her flying entrance, floated in the pale light coming in from the window. All the drawers of the desk that sheltered her were gone and the wooden frame was split in several places as though someone had started to chop it with an axe and gave up. As a vantage point to survey the room, it didn’t offer much cover.

The ceiling was low and the place was cluttered. In one corner, there was an old urine-stained mattress and an Army blanket with moth holes. There wasn’t any sign of recent occupation. Not far away was a rusty barrel on the concrete containing ashes and some wood fragments. The occupant had been keeping warm by burning pieces of wood from the dilapidated furniture. The splintered pieces of a chair were stacked nearby, but the burnt smell was stale and barely noticeable. It had been a while.

“Up here, sweetheart!”

The male voice came from almost directly over Maliha’s head, on the first floor of the house. The stairs were in a dimly lit area away from the only window. Several of the stairs creaked as she stepped on them, so there was no way to surprise the man waiting.

The door at the top was held in place only by its upper hinge, but had been fitted into the frame, another barrier to surprising her contact.

As soon as I pull on that door, I have a target on my forehead. This guy better be here to deliver a message, not to kill me.

She pulled the door open and came out ready for action. There was a battery-powered camping lantern hanging from a hook that had formerly held a hanging basket. She was in the kitchen, but there was little sign of cabinets. The squatter in the basement had gotten to them. The man she faced pointed a gun at her and for the moment she respected that. He was shorter than she was, dressed in dark pants and a black sweatshirt, and had a ponytail.

“Hello, Malehat,” he said. “That is your name, right?”

She studied him before answering. He had a thick, powerful frame and shiny black hair that was oiled. He spoke English well enough, but she recognized the accent of his birth language, Quechua, spoken by indigenous people who lived in the Andes Mountains. Maliha had lived among the Quechua people for more than thirty years when she was Ageless, exploring the Andes on foot. Millions of people spoke Quechua, but it was little known on the world stage because of the prevalence of Spanish in the Andean countries of South America. There were three variations of the language, and speakers from one region might have a hard time understanding speakers from a different region. She thought his native language was that of the central region, probably Peru.