Mind Games (31 page)

Equally dizzying are the beautiful patrons who flow around us in their gowns and tuxedoes. They are so far beyond even the fancy crowd that used to shop at Le Toile that I find it impossible to believe they dwell in Midcity.

I turn to Helmut, who looks smart in his black silk tuxedo.

He squeezes my arm. “You’ll do fine.”

I take a deep breath and we ascend to the third level; Helmut confers with an usher who points us toward the end of the corridor. To Chief Sanchez’s opera box.

I adjust my velvet wrap around my cold, bare shoulders. My strapless black silk gown features cut obsidian beads sewn into the center of the very snug bodice, creating a darkly glittering diamond that extends from between my breasts down to my belly button, and the
skirt twists all the way to my shoes, which were beaded to match. It is currently the most beautiful outfit I own, which doesn’t do much for my nerves. All I can think about is that poor eyes-gouged man. I tighten my hold on Helmut’s arm, feeling like my stomach might float clear up into my throat.

“I often feel nervous with the Engineer, too,” Helmut whispers. “Just concentrate.”

“If I concentrate any harder they’ll think I’m a zombie.”

Helmut frowns. He’s shaved a crisp line along his cheek that’s lowered his beard. It looks good. “Justine, Otto’s vulnerable to you.”

“That’s what they said about the Alchemist.”

“And they were right, weren’t they?”

The chimes sound. I take a deep breath. “If the Alchemist had been any smarter, I’d be dead. This guy
is
smarter.”

“If you aren’t ready, we turn back now.”

“No.” I close my eyes and count to five. “Okay.” I look at Helmut. “Do I look okay?”

“Ravishing.”

I pat my updo, the black jeweled clip holding it in place. “Hair?”

“Perfect.”

Onward to the door. Helmut opens it, and we enter a small ornate box that overhangs the glittering gold and red velvet expanse of the opera house below. Chief Otto Sanchez rises from his seat, beaming at us. He’s taller and larger than he looks on TV—well over six feet.

“Welcome, friends!” He shakes hands with Helmut, and they clap each other’s shoulders.

A redheaded woman in the corner stays calm, cool, and seated. Sophia, the personal assistant. Clearly she would’ve preferred to be alone with Otto tonight.

“Thank you again for this generous invitation, Otto.
It’s such a treat, especially for my niece,” Helmut says. “Justine, allow me to introduce Chief Otto Sanchez.”

Chief Otto Sanchez, a.k.a. the Engineer, turns his dark, generous features to me. His elegant tuxedo matches his large velvet cap—a sort of oversized beret that should look wrong on a man. It doesn’t look wrong on him.

Don’t let those ridiculously foppish outfits fool you
, Packard has told me.
He dresses like a poodle, but he attacks like a pit bull
.

Otto clasps my hands in two of his. I’m so nervous, I can’t even pull it together enough to touch his energy dimension.

“Enchanté,”
he says. There’s a dark, ancient elegance about him. “The niece arrives in black. In deference, perhaps, to our poor doomed heroine.”

I almost choke on the doomed heroine comment. “I’m so excited,” I manage to say. “I don’t know if Helmut told you, Chief Sanchez, but this is my first live opera.”

Otto lights up. “Your very first! Well, then, the treat is all mine.” He tightens his hands around mine. “And please, call me Otto.”

“Otto,” I say breathlessly.

Redhead Sophia decides to join us now. “Otto adores the opera,” she says. You can see swaths of creamy skin through her sexy silk-and-lace gown. Otto introduces us, and she slinks her hand from mine to Helmut’s and quickly back to Otto’s waist.

Otto gestures toward velvet chairs arranged around a petite marble table that holds a wine bucket, crystal stemware, and ornate dishes of nuts and figs. “Justine, Helmut.” He shows where he’d have us sit, placing himself between Sophia and me. Helmut’s next to me on the very end. Otto pours the wine. “A fine Brunello. Fitting, I always think, for such a performance.” He seems to be
directing this statement toward me, so I nod, striving to hold my hand steady as the four of us clink glasses.

The lights dim.

“Are you familiar with the story of
Tosca?”
Otto whispers.

“Only vaguely, I’m afraid.”

He gives a quick overview that would be quite helpful if I didn’t already know the story. The curtains part on a chapel stage set where weary fugitive Angelotti hides. The painter Cavaradossi enters and begins to sing. I sneak a look at Otto, who watches, rapt. Black velvet piping runs along the lapels of his tux, and he wears a black silk vest underneath. He really is a splendid human being, but this just makes me loathe him all the more. What is in a person’s soul, to kill like that?

Between acts one and two, Otto relates tidbits about the historical basis for the villain’s character. I ask him to pass me a napkin and touch his arm, grazing his energy dimension. It’s cool, weighty, and not altogether unpleasant. I should have no problem zinging him. A huge relief.

I excuse myself to go to the restroom, where I duck into a stall, close my eyes, and concentrate on stoking up some fear. I don’t need to use an article for it anymore; it just comes when I call—a quivering, uncomfortable mass of health anxiety that mixes with my paranoia about Otto being a great detective. And there was that doomed heroine comment, too. Is it possible he’s already toying with me? I think about how, back before I knew the Engineer was Otto, I’d imagined I’d pump him for information on the Henji/Packard history. That will definitely not be happening. There is no screwing around with this one.

I emerge shaky and disoriented. Too much fear. I grasp the makeup mirror ledge and close my eyes, taking a centering breath, then another. When I open
them I see Sophia, watching me from across the room. Quickly I look away, which only makes me seem nervous.

She smiles broadly and comes over. “Everything all right?”

“Yup.”

Our mutual silence makes me more anxious. Quite stupidly, I say, “That’s a beautiful gown.”

She waits a few beats, just to let me know she doesn’t trust the likes of me; then she gives me a gracious smile, followed by a thank-you, a snap of the purse, and an efficient exit. Sophia’s a potential problem; she obviously polices Otto’s waters more closely than Helmut understands.

   “Helmut told me you worked as a nurse in neuro-surgery down in Dallas,” Otto says upon my return to the box. “In a research hospital.”

“Yes,” I say. “People were flown in from all over to get treated there.” I take my seat next to him. “We did a lot of brain surgery.”

“Brain surgery?” He looks at me hard, big brown eyes flecked with gold. “What kind?”

“Vascular repair, mostly. It’s a very demanding area.” I’m unsure how to touch him and make it seem natural, but I need to dump this fear. “Very, very demanding.”

“What drew you to neurosurgery? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Well, my mother died of vein star syndrome when I was thirteen, and I guess …” I can’t believe I blurted out the truth about my mother’s death like this. It shows how nervous I am. “That’s all. That’s why,” I say quietly.

He looks at me with convincing warmth. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s okay. It’s a natural question.”

“Vein star syndrome is a terrible, terrible thing,” he says. “I’m so sorry.” He can’t take his eyes from me. There’s nothing worse than hearing about vein star deaths when that’s your main health worry. “It must’ve been …”

I put my hand on his arm, trying not to tremble. “It’s okay.” I push my awareness out into my energy dimension. “She was alone when it happened; that’s what gets me. Nobody to hold her hand or, you know …” I need more time, so I keep going. “She called the ambulance; then she called Dad”—I lower my voice—“Uncle Helmut’s brother—at work, and she told him that she loved him, and for him to tell us she loved us. My brother and I were at school.” I focus on burning the hole; my finger heats. “By the time the ambulance arrived, she was gone.” My fear
whooshes
into him.

Otto lowers his eyes and swallows. “Jesus.”

I breathe in the sweet, cool air, drenched with serenity.

He regards me with caring concern; I’m frankly impressed with his ability to cover. I wouldn’t know he was consumed with vein star terror if I hadn’t just channeled it into him.

“I shouldn’t have gone into it like that,” I say, removing my impossibly airy hand.

“No,” Otto says. “Don’t apologize.”

The phone call part of the story isn’t actually true. I lifted it from an old article. It’s one of the most awful health stories I’ve ever come across.

Casually I turn to Helmut and ask him if he’s finished his book on medieval households. Helmut knows what I need. He launches into a highly detailed explanation of something called consortial lineages while I get my post-zing euphoria under control.

“Sounds like an excellent read,” Otto says from the other side of me. His stony expression tells me the zing took. I can practically feel my fear animating his. Good.

Helmut goes on about consortial lineages as I sip my wine, which tastes fantastic now that I’m glorying. Eventually I sit back, allowing Helmut and Otto to talk across me. All I have to do is enjoy the opera, and I’m sure I will, considering I’ve channeled every last bit of my negative emotional content into the man next to me. Just then I glance over and find Sophia eyeing me. I turn away, determined not to let her degrade my pure and perfect state of being. Instead, I contemplate the opera. I’m enchanted with the story, and full of hopes and worries for Tosca and Cavaradossi.

It doesn’t even bother me when I find Otto watching me.

“I know they die at the end,” I whisper, putting my hand to my chest. “Still, I hope!” I laugh, because this sums up my feeling precisely. “It’s crazy. I know it doesn’t turn out—you say so, the program says so—and I’m still hoping it will!”

He regards me with an air of discovery, as though he’s only now realizing something about me. “I feel the same way,” he whispers. “My hopes rise with Tosca’s every time.” The center of his upper lip is subtly bowed, like the top of a heart, I notice. They’re large, classic lips. “It’s never crazy to hope,” he continues somewhat fervently. “Never. I’m so pleased you’re enjoying it.”

I’m surprised. It’s unusual for somebody who’s just been zinged to be interested in how other people feel. The Alchemist and the Silver Widow pretty much collapsed in on themselves. This man is a survivor, I think. He’s a victor. I’m going to have to be careful.

The lights dim and he turns his attention to the stage as the curtains part. His features are somewhat exotic; his nose has an elegant curve to it, and his cheekbones are strong and proud. And then with those dark, thick waves and those classic lips, I’m sure a portrait painter would enjoy painting Chief Otto Sanchez. What’s more,
there’s this incredible contrast between his ornate outfit and the sense of brute strength that radiates from him. His strength is like a scent that calls to something deep inside you, makes you want to put your nose to him, makes you want to press your body to him.

I marvel at how delicate the crystal wineglass looks in his large, intricately muscled hands. I force myself to focus on his large thumb and imagine him plunging it into another man’s eye.

This ends my Otto appreciation session. Otto won’t come down easy, but he will come down; I’ll make sure of it. And in fact, every once in a while during this act, he touches his head through his beret. That’s a start. Sometimes he touches the golden rail in front of us, too, and the ledge below it, like he’s communing with its smoothness, drawing solace. Sort of an odd thing to do, really.

The tragedy follows its heart-wrenching spin, and finally Tosca throws herself to her death. I sit still after it’s all over, stunned. I’ve never seen anything so spectacular and moving. The four of us rise once the clapping subsides.

As if his outfit isn’t outrageous enough already, the Engineer swings a velvet cape over his shoulders. I think about the clever and amusing things Packard will say when I tell him about the cape, but actually Otto looks fantastic in it. Like a villainy rogue from another era.

It’s a kick to walk through the opera house lobby with him, too, because everybody looks at him and admires him. The four of us are waylaid down in the main lobby by a handful of autograph seekers and people congratulating him on the capture of the Brick Slinger. Midcity’s lieutenant mayor, currently the acting mayor, recently gave Otto a medal.

Untouchable, I think, as he scribbles on people’s opera programs. Nobody would dare cross the Engineer.
Except the disillusionists. I think again about that poor man with the gouged eyes. How do you do that to another human being?

There’s some talk of the four of us going to the Engineer’s private club for a nightcap, but I notice Sophia building a case for an end to the night; she and Otto argue quietly, just out of earshot, as Otto rubs his head. I know exactly what he’s doing: that thing I used to do where you try to determine if the sensation you’re experiencing is inside the brain, or if it’s related to the musculature surrounding the scalp. If you can move the pain, that suggests it’s muscular, which is what you hope.

“I don’t want Sophia as an enemy,” I whisper to Helmut.

Helmut looks away, replies under his breath, “Nothing to be done.”

I nod.

In spite of my glorying, I do feel guilty about using Mom’s condition. Talking about her reminds me of all the ways I miss her, all the things I wish I could tell her. She alone would understand how I got mixed up in all this. She would understand perfectly.

“Helmut, is the client for Sanchez the widow of the gouged-eyes man?”

“Client’s anonymous.”

“Here, too?”

Helmut nods. “But since this one started so long ago, I didn’t feel it related to the cases we discussed before,” he whispers. “You can see why the client would be anonymous—imagine the danger of an enraged Otto Sanchez.”

I nod. “Right.”