Diabolical (46 page)

Then again, even if he had known, he wouldn't have cared. Davis was an arrogant fuckup, a guy who killed a family of unarmed peasants and tried to cover it up.

Of course, that wasn't exactly an argument he could make to the man's revenge-minded lover, even if he were in the mood to defend his actions.

Edgar scraped the edges of the knives against each other, creating a smooth sound of sliding metal. A sharp sound.

“Do you have any idea what it's like to have to hide who you are? Skulk around in the shadows because you're different? Conceal something you want to be proud of? The way everyone else is? Sure, now they say they've repealed that. But do you really think anything has changed?”

“What happened to Davis had nothing to do with that.”

“No? Are you going to pretend you didn't know what he was? That you would have acted the same way if he'd been one of the boys? If he hadn't been different?”

There was no way to answer that, so Hatcher didn't. He'd had his suspicions about Davis but hadn't given it much thought. Had those suspicions influenced how he'd treated the man? How he'd judged him? He suddenly had a flash of a different scenario, one where Davis couldn't rely on his teammates, one where he'd been forced to do things alone, one where cigarettes were taken in solitude, because you couldn't trust those around you not to make a big deal of it. He pictured a soldier surprised by an irate Afghani, shouting in the night. A panic response, wife screaming, child wailing. The cover of night being pierced, certain to alert the target. Him making a split-second decision. Maybe doing it to save himself, maybe doing it to save his teammates. Was it possible? Hatcher couldn't say. He'd never considered it before. Now didn't seem like the best time to start.

“You John Wayne types,” Edgar continued. “So wrapped up in your own masculinity, wearing it like a costume to hide your failures, your insecurities . . .” He twirled the blades again in his hands, spinning them first in his palm, then tumbling them over his fingers. “You think life is all one big action film, where you're the hero. You don't care about anything but feeding your ego. You think you can just save the day, then ride off into the sunset. Well, you've watched too many movies.”

The blades made a whiffling sound as Edgar slashed the air in front of him, carving a complex, overlapping pattern in rapid strokes. He started forward, arms still moving like a threshing machine.

Hatcher stabbed his hand into his pocket, withdrew it in the same fluid motion.

“And you obviously haven't watched enough,” he said, pointing the mini-gun and pinching the trigger.

The pop sounded like a firecracker. The tiny flash scalded Hatcher's finger and a whiff of gunpowder braced his nostrils. Edgar flinched, then stood motionless, hands swooping low and hanging there, looking confused. After a few seconds, both knives slipped to the ground and he raised his hands to his throat. A rope of blood flowed out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin.

He gurgled once and sank to his knees. Hatcher couldn't tell if he was trying to cough or vomit, but he was definitely bleeding. A lot. The shot had caught him directly in the mouth.

A sharp noise broke Hatcher's focus. Someone clapping. He swung around to see Soliya, slowly giving him mock applause.

“Always a surprise when a big man packs such a small gun in his pants.”

Hatcher glanced down at the tiny weapon in his palm, then stuffed it back into his pocket.

“What are we going to do with you?” she said.

“Vivian,” he said. “Tell me how to get her back.” He took in a breath, swallowed. “Please.”

Soliya frowned, dimpling her cheek. “We really don't know of any way. You could pick up where Valentine left off.” She glanced over to the wall. The Sedim were huddled low, crouched down as if in prayer. Valentine's body hung limp from its shoulder.

“You know,” she continued, “spending millions of dollars trying to find a way? Seems like there are better things to do with money. But to each his own.”

“I don't have millions of dollars.”

Arching an eyebrow, Soliya smiled and hitched a shoulder.

The light from the torches suddenly dimmed. Hatcher glanced around. Only a few of the torches remained lit. He spotted Deborah pulling one down from its holder, snuffing the flame with a metal damper.

Soliya stepped forward and leaned close, hushing her voice like a coconspirator. “By the way, Deborah and I had a bet whether you actually loved her. I won.”

A light moved in his periphery, and he swiveled to see Deborah approaching. She was holding something that looked like a severed hand, burning at the fingertips. A candle. She held the hand out in front of her.

“You know how fond I am of you, Hatcher,” she said, her lips puckering slightly into a smile that looked almost affectionate. “So, I'll tell you this. Your deepest fear hasn't been exposed yet.”

She raised the hand, blocking the view of her face. “Remember, whom gods would destroy, they would first indulge.”

Hatcher opened his mouth to speak, but a thought flitted through his mind, distracting him. He chased it, withdrawing into himself, searching all over, combing memories.

Within seconds, he was exhausted. Something wasn't right. He couldn't remember the thought, or why he'd been chasing it. He realized his eyes were closed. That definitely wasn't good. He needed to open them, and quick. His life might depend on it, on raising his lids, on snapping himself awake.

He decided to lie down instead.

WHEN HATCHER WOKE, HE WAS SITTING IN VIVIAN'S RENTAL. Shafts of early morning light were beaming in through the windshield. The car was where he'd left it, parked near the library. He checked his pockets. His cell phone was gone. So was the mini-gun.

He drove back to his place. He needed a shower. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out, but he needed more sleep, too.

The lurking car wasn't there when he got back to his place. He'd almost forgotten about it, the conspicuous surveillance of his rented room. The guy going around asking questions, sounding like a cop. But it had flashed to mind just as he pulled onto his street and parked. The guy's car was nowhere to be seen. That was an instant relief.

Stepping up to the landing of his apartment, he noticed an envelope taped to the door. The envelope had a pair of last names connected by an ampersand in a stylized logo atop a New York return address. Stamped below his name were the words
Personal and confidential
. He opened the envelope as soon as he got inside.

The letter asked that he contact the law firm of Jensen and Powers as soon as possible, and provided a name and number. It used the term “urgent” more than once.

He still had an unopened TracFone and unused prepaid card. He initialized the phone and made the call, flopping down on his bed.

The call lasted several minutes. At first he spoke to a paralegal, who transferred him to an attorney. The attorney was frustrating to deal with, but Hatcher could tell he felt the same way. The point of the conversation was finally revealed, and Hatcher wasn't sure how to react. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, long after the other side had hung up.

Three knocks rapped on his door. His landlord, he presumed. He tried to ignore it, but the person knocked again. He pulled himself off the bed. His arms ached, the deep gouges in them still stinging. The possibility someone might be showing up to cause trouble was annoying, but part of him was hoping that's exactly what it was. Just to get it over with.

He yanked the door open, started to bark,
“What?”
only to cut himself off.

The woman in the doorway sighed, her shoulders sagging as if she'd been holding her breath.

“Thank God! You're okay!”

“Amy . . .” was all he could manage.

Amy Wright rushed forward and threw her arms over his shoulders, stepped up on her toes to press her lips against his. They stood there like that for a long moment, then he put an arm around her waist and picked her up. He took a step back and closed the door.

Their lips separated, and he let her slide back to the floor.

“It's Valentine! And I think Isaac may not be dead!”

“I know. But how did you figure that out?”

She explained to him about the death certificate, the signature. Her frantic attempts to get ahold of him.

“But . . . you're here?” he said. “How? I don't understand—”

“What's to understand? I got on a plane. I couldn't stand worrying about you, about you facing . . . them again.
Him
again. Not alone. There was no one I could call, certainly no law enforcement agency that would be willing to listen. When I couldn't reach you, I couldn't simply stay put, on the other side of the country. I had to do something.”

In some ways, what he was hearing was harder to understand than anything that he'd been though. She'd dropped everything, he realized. Just to be there for him. After all those unreturned letters, after the way he'd just called out of the blue and asked her to use her resources at the department.

“How did you know where I live?”

“You told me where you worked. Your boss is a pretty loyal guy. I finally had to plead with him that I was your friend, trying to help. He really didn't want to give you up.”

Hatcher said nothing. Denny was a good guy, and another person he'd treated like crap. He'd have to make it up to him. After explaining how he'd lost the mini-gun.

A long breath puffing his cheeks, he ran a hand through his hair and gestured vaguely toward the interior of the room.

“You're hurt,” she said, reaching for his arm and gently touching the wounds.

“I'm fine. Just a little tired.”

She gave him a skeptical look, then took a few steps and glanced around the room.

“I know you'll object,” she said, turning back to him. “But I want to help. Let me help you. That's why I'm here.”

“It's over,” he said, shaking his head.

“Over. Are you sure?”

“For now.” He rocked his head noncommittally, almost nodding. “Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Hatcher shrugged. “I'm not a hundred percent certain.”

“You look like you've been in a war.”

“Wouldn't be the first.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” She placed a hand on his cheek, peered up into his eyes. “Do you need me to get you anything? Do you want me to leave so you can get some sleep?”

He shook his head. “I need to lie down, but I won't be able to sleep for a while.”

Amy let her hand drop and stood watching him. She appraised him with eyes that ran from one side of his face to the other and back.

“I'm saying I want you to stay,” he said.

That seemed to be what she wanted to hear. She smiled with her cheeks, set her purse on the tiny dining table. “I can't tell you how worried I was. I still am. Are you really sure it's over?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Is it something you want to talk about?”

No, he thought. It's not. “I'm not sure where to start.”

“Start at the beginning.”

He reached for the letter on the bed. “Maybe I can tell you on the plane.”

“The plane?”

“I need to go to New York,” he said, handing it to her.

“What's this?”

“It's from a law firm in Manhattan. They specialize in probate.”

Her brow furrowed, a hint of confusion, a hint of concern. “Somebody died?”

“Sort of. I just got off the phone with them. They were a little tight-lipped, wanting me to fly out there without telling me much. I finally shook it out of them.”

Amy held his eyes, waiting for him to finish.

“According to them, they need a blood test. I've been identified as a relative of Valentine. The way his will was set up, if things check out I'm supposed to inherit what's left of his estate. After creditors and taxes, they estimated that one percent or so would come to me.”

“One percent?”

“Yes.”

“Wait, wasn't he, like, a billionaire?”

Hatcher didn't answer.

“Are you saying—”

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “They're telling me I'm about to come into twenty million dollars.”

Amy blinked once, her mouth and jaw loosening. Even as she struggled to digest the information, the machinations were easy to make out. Hastily, silently, she was trying to determine how this would affect them, whether this meant they had a shot. Looking at her, he couldn't help wondering the same thing. Vivian had always been a substitute. Now, the real thing, the woman he'd imagined a hundred times showing up at his door, the one he'd kept willing himself not to think about, was right in front of him.

Vivian, in Hell. Amy, right here.

Deborah's last words began to loop in his head.

He sucked in air until his lungs were full and let himself topple onto the bed.

Amy's voice caught in her throat and she had to clear it before she spoke. “That's really what they said? Twenty million dollars?”

Hatcher nodded, staring at the ceiling. “Give or take a million,” he said.

HANK SCHWAEBLE is a practicing attorney and former Air Force officer and military special agent. A graduate of the University of Florida and Vanderbilt Law School, he lives and works in Houston. His debut novel,
Damnable
, won the Bram Stoker Award for Best First Novel.