MORTAL COILS (10 page)

Eliot
grabbed the second paper bag. It was light and soft. It had to be clothes.

Cecilia
returned carrying a stack of extra napkins, and a long chef’s knife from the
butcher’s block. She set everything neatly on the table. She gazed lovingly at
Eliot and Fiona.

“Well,
go ahead,” Grandmother said to her, irritated at this delay, then raised her
camera to take another snapshot. “Cut the cake while the children—”

There
was a knock at the front door. Three strong raps.

Grandmother
frowned and the temperature in the apartment seemed to plummet ten degrees.

Cecilia
paused, knife held over the cake. “Should I get that?”

“No.”
Grandmother lowered the camera and slowly turned. “Whoever this is better have
an excellent reason for interrupting.”

Eliot
looked at Fiona, and she looked at him, shaking her head. Only one thing was
worse than provoking Grandmother’s anger, and that was finding her in a good
mood and then provoking her. Whoever was at the door . . . Eliot pitied the
poor guy.

6

TRAIL
OF BREAD CRUMBS

Marcus
Welmann thought the cinder-block apartment building was odd. Its second floor
was shorter than the first floor by two feet. He paused to catch his breath on
the stairwell landing and noticed the third story was shorter still, as if the
place were shrinking.

He
rubbed his face. He had to figure out why this Uri Crumble was so interested in
the Post kids . . . and what the connection was to the lady he was looking for:
Audrey Post.

The
building that matched the address in the lawyer’s file had been painted brown
to look like wood (it didn’t) and had a quaint Bavarian façade out front. Just
the kind of tacky you’d expect in a Californian wine-country tourist trap.

There
had been no Post on the mailboxes in the lobby, however, so he decided to try
the building manager to see if he could get a forwarding address.

Welmann
went up the steps and marched down the hallway to the manager’s apartment, 3A.

Digging
into his pocket, he grabbed his fake police shield. He then checked his Colt
Python in its holster. He paused to make himself presentable—as much as anyone
could in camo sweatpants and a black T-shirt. He zipped up his light polyester
jacket.

He
knocked, three times, hard, like a cop in a hurry.

Welmann
waited and shifted his weight.

He
hoped Robert made it back to the boss, and that the Mercedes was in one
unscratched piece.

The
kid had a good head, but there was too much “rebel” in Robert. He’d wash out of
Driver’s training, which might be a good thing. Sixteen-year-old boys ought to
worry about “kid” stuff: sex, drugs, and rock and roll . . . not becoming some
hero.

Welmann
heard footsteps and saw the peephole go dark. The door opened without the usual
unlocking of dead bolts and unlatching of security chains.

He
puffed up his chest and furrowed his brow. He’d need a good head of steam to
blow at this manager—impress upon him that withholding a forwarding address
would be obstructing justice. He looked up, fake shield in hand . . . but the
bluster stalled in his throat.

The
woman who answered was tall. How old? Fifty? Sixty? Hard to say. A mature
woman, but with looks like hers, she could have been on magazine covers. Her
cropped silver hair was elegant, and Welmann easily imagined her as the femme
fatale in his favorite noir flicks.

“Can
I help you?” she asked, studying him like a smear of dog poop on her boot.

Welmann
had that elevator-going-down feeling—just enough to throw off his equilibrium.

He
glanced into the apartment. There were a billion books: shelves on every
vertical surface and stacks that overflowed into neat piles. They were real
books, too, with leather and gilt letters; not a TV Guide in sight.

Whatever
was bugging him, he didn’t see it . . . but he felt it: his skin itched and he
fidgeted. There was something dangerous here.

“I’m
looking for—”

Then
he spotted them: at the end of the hall, sitting at a table, were Eliot and
Fiona Post. They blinked at him with the same deer-in-the-headlights look as in
their photographs.

The
uneasy elevator feeling in Welmann halted—as the elevator snapped, and his
stomach leapt into his throat.

He
connected the dots. The manager in 3A. Post kids in 3A. No Post on the
mailboxes because they were being hidden by the woman who stood in front of
him. The woman he’d been trying to track down: Audrey Post.

Welmann
looked into her gray eyes and only then really saw her.

He
couldn’t pull his gaze away. There was power there—not like the shadowy
illusion printed on Crumble’s business card, either. This was the roar of the
ocean surf, an inexorable tide that sucked him deeper.

He
was drowning. Couldn’t breathe.

“Looking
for what?” she asked. “Mister . . . ?”

His
trance broke and he found his voice. “Welmann,” he whispered, and cleared his
throat. “Marcus Welmann.” He gave her a slight bow, which was the jerkiest
thing he’d done in a long time. Somehow, though, it felt like the only thing to
do.

Her
gaze hardened and she opened the door wider. “Come in, Mr. Welmann.”

When
his boss had given Welmann this mission, he had been crystal clear: find Audrey
Post, report back, and do not under any circumstances engage.

Here
he was engaging.

Welmann
could sort this out—but he’d have to talk his way out of it . . . and that
wasn’t his best thing.

Audrey
Post led him inside.

He
smelled something baking and the overpowering scent from the molding pages of
all those books.

He
saw a very old woman in the dining room, hovering over the children. She wore
what might have been a costume from Gone with the Wind and looked ancient
enough to have worn it during a real Civil War cotillion. She glared at him.

The
boy and girl clutched books in their laps, and they stared at Wel-mann with
that mix of annoyance and curiosity that was pure teenager.

Behind
them, draped over the window, was a banner with HAPPY BIRTHDAY on it. Marcus
was interrupting in a big, awkward way.

Good
investigative technique—barging into the middle of these kids’ party. Nice and
inconspicuous, he thought. Still, better him than Crumble.

“Children,”
Audrey Post said, “this is Mr. Welmann, an old friend of the family.”

Welmann
slipped the fake police shield back into his pocket. So much for that dodge.
Audrey Post was playing another game, one where he didn’t understand the rules.
Best go along for now.

The
boy and girl exchanged looks and then stared at him. They were a year or two
younger than Robert.

“Friend
of the family?” Fiona leaned forward. “Did you know our parents, sir?”

“Shush,”
Audrey Post told her. “Go—you’re late for work, both of you.” Her voice
softened a bit and she added, “We’ll finish this later. I have business with
this gentleman.”

Both
kids glanced at some paper bags on the table, then said together, “Yes,
Grandmother.” They rose, nodded at Welmann, and retreated into the shadows of
the apartment.

So
Ms. Audrey Post was their grandmother. That made sense. Welmann listened, but
detected no one else in the apartment. Where were the kids’ mom and dad?
Parents normally didn’t miss birthdays. The girl, however, had asked him if he
had known her parents. As in past tense. As in dead now.

Audrey
Post turned to the old woman and said, “Cecilia, bring tea, please.”

The
older woman hesitated, opened her mouth as if to tell her something, but then
backed into the kitchen, all the time watching Welmann.

The
children reappeared and headed for the front door with lunch sacks. They each
gave their grandmother a polite kiss on the cheek.

“It
was nice to meet you, Mr. Welmann,” Fiona said.

“Nice
to meet you, too,” he said.

Sweet
kid. Polite. You didn’t see that much anymore today. All the more reason to
figure this out and move them somewhere safe from Crumble.

The
kids left and closed the apartment door behind them.

“Now,”
Audrey Post said, “we will talk.”

Welmann
felt his equilibrium shift a few degrees more . . . as if the entire room had
just tilted. He would have preferred a mano a mano with Mr. Uri Crumble. That
would have been a lot safer. Audrey Post had power; any person with a blink of
the sight could see that.

“You
were sent to find me?”

Welmann
wasn’t stupid enough to lie. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You
are a Driver, correct?”

She
could have picked up that cake, candles and all, and smashed it into his face,
and that would have been less of a surprise.

Welmann
felt an instinctual urge to take a few steps backward, but he held his ground,
steeled himself, and nodded.

If
she knew he was a Driver, and more important what a Driver was, then it
followed that she knew his boss and probably why he was interested in her . . .
which was more than he’d been told.

She
didn’t look the least bit worried about any of this, either. “What did they
tell you about me?” Her gray eyes narrowed a bit.

Welmann
swallowed, his throat bone-dry. So she didn’t know everything. Good. The
clairvoyant ones were always a pain in the ass.

“They
said not to talk to you.”

Audrey
Post cocked her head as if listening for something, then glanced out the window
to the street below. Marcus looked, too.

The
kids appeared on the sidewalk. She turned back to him. “Do you know who I am?”

Was
that a trick question? “Audrey Post,” he offered.

This
seemed to be the right thing because she smiled. It was a nice smile, and
Welmann found himself relaxing a notch. He shook off that creeping complacency.
He had to keep his guard up. This wasn’t a game.

She
eased into one of the seats at the dining table as gracefully as a lotus
blossom settling onto a reflecting pool.

“Please”—she
gestured to the opposite chair—“sit.”

Welmann,
far from being a gentleman, was no idiot. You didn’t stand when a lady of power
offered you a place at her table. He sat and the chair creaked from his
generous frame.

The
kitchen door swung inward, and the old woman backed into the dining room
holding a tray with tea service.

She
set it on the table and whispered, “Why are you talking to him?” She scowled at
Welmann, then made a throat-slitting motion.

Welmann
liked this full-of-venom little old lady. He quashed his chuckles, though; she
wasn’t kidding. Sweat trickled down his sides.

“The
tea will be all, Cecilia.”

Cecilia’s
gaze dropped to the floor. “Yes, yes, of course.” She stepped back into the
kitchen.