MORTAL COILS (90 page)

Eliot’s
heart beat in his throat. Robert or Louis or whoever that was . . . he was
going to die to give Eliot a chance to escape. He had to help, play his violin,
or even use the car as a battering ram against those men.

But
Robert stood up, unharmed. And the three men he had taken down remained down.

Eliot
ran for the car. He’d get away—from both the bar patrons and the thing
masquerading as Robert—then he’d call Uncle Henry or Grandmother and get back
here to rescue Fiona.

He
skidded to a stop at the driver’s-side door. It was unlocked. Eliot slid
inside, inserted the key just as he had seen Robert do, and turned it.

The
Lincoln’s engine coughed to life.

Eliot
glanced back at Robert. He looked different now: his hair long and streaked
gray, his face angled to a point. More like . . .

Louis.

The
other men in the mob backed off a few paces. The half-Robert/half-Louis waggled
a finger at them and smiled. His smile faded into a snarl, however, as more men
ran out of the tavern’s entrance. He laughed and it sounded deep and dark . . .
not human at all.

Eliot
felt that something very wrong was about to happen, and part of him wanted to
stay and watch the carnage. His hands grasped the steering wheel until the
knuckles popped.

He
gritted his teeth, banished the alien bloodlust, and stomped on the
accelerator.

The
Lincoln Town Car jumped out of the parking lot. Eliot whipped the wheel around
and fishtailed onto the road.

69

THE
FATE OF THE REAL ROBERT FARMINGTON

Robert
sat cross-legged in the corner, crying.

He
thought he’d gotten past this. He hadn’t cried since he was little kid back
when his mom and dad were still together. Funny, he could hardly remember what
Dad looked like. Mom always said Robert looked like him.

He
laughed and wiped his tears. He couldn’t even remember what had made him bawl
like a baby. Then again, he had his pick of reasons.

He
pounded the smooth metal walls. He had to get a grip on himself and keep sane
for one more day.

Just
for one more day . . . so he could go through this again.

The
Council had sentenced him to this isolation cell for fifty years. At least as
far as he could remember, that’s what had happened. He’d blacked out during
that last meeting, woken up here, and hadn’t seen anyone since.

How
many months had passed? Twenty? Thirty? He’d lost track.

Maybe
that was the point of this place: to blur your sense of time, make you forget
who you were, and slowly lose your marbles.

Robert
had tried to mark the time, but the cell’s walls were brushed steel, and there
was nothing to scratch the surface.

His
cell was ten by ten paces. The ceiling stretched up five times his height.
There was a tiny window that he couldn’t reach, but he heard the surf crashing
beyond. Never a voice, though. Not even a gull’s cry to keep him company.

The
light changed; that’s how he kept track of day and night. Sometimes rain fell
through the window: his only taste of freedom and his only reminder that there
was an outside world.

He’d
gone through a time where he wanted to end this. No easy way to do that,
though.

He
wore a plasticized paper jumpsuit that was impossible to rip. The toilet and
sink in the corner didn’t hold enough water to drown in. No blankets for a
noose, either—just a soft spot on the floor and a pillow. They had thought of
everything. Couldn’t let a little inconvenient suicide end his torture, right?

That
bad time had only lasted a few days. Robert was ashamed to think of it now.
He’d never considered himself one of those pansies that took the easy way out.

In
self-defense he did the only rational thing: he checked out. He had all the
freedom he wanted in his head. He was never any good at daydreaming, so that
left him with his memories.

At
first, he remembered all the bad stuff: the series of Mom’s boyfriends and
stepdads, then the criminals he’d hung out with as he worked his way across
Europe, and the long nights when he found himself alone.

But
he forced himself to remember the good things, too: Marcus and the Driver
training sessions they had at Thunderhills Raceway; riding his Harley down the
Mexican coastline; and Fiona and how she looked and smelled and felt that last
night in Nevada when he had held her.

He
wondered if Fiona even remembered him.

A
knock reverberated on the metal door.

Robert
froze. His heart pounded in his throat.

Another
hallucination? He’d heard voices before in the cell. Robert had to sing to
crowd them out . . . and they had eventually left him alone.

A
voice outside said, “Hello, Robert? Do you mind if I come in?”

It
was a human voice, but it’d been so long that Robert hardly recognized the
sound.

He
struggled to stand and straightened his jumpsuit. “Y—” He cleared his throat.
“Yeah, sure.”

The
vaultlike door cracked open, and the last person Robert expected to ever see
again entered: Mr. Mimes.

Beyond
being surprised, however, Robert noted with keen interest that the door had not
been closed—freedom was just a few steps away.

Mr.
Mimes wore black slacks and a tuxedo dress shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons.
His silver hair was slicked back, although one curl had escaped and fell over
his forehead. He smelled of cigars and a woman’s citrusy perfume.

“Pardon
my appearance. I’ve been dancing all night. Had to keep up pretenses, mind you.
I hope you hadn’t thought I’d forgotten you, Robert.”

“Forgotten
me . . . ?” Robert’s hands itched to wrap around Mr. Mimes’s throat, and Robert
took a tiny step forward.

He
hesitated. What he longed for was company, someone, anyone to talk to, even the
person who had put him here. So he’d let him talk for a few minutes . . . then
he’d strangle him.

“Really,
Robert. No theatrics, please. I came to make peace.” Mr. Mimes glanced about
the cell and grimaced. “I remember these walls very keenly.”

“You
were locked in here?”

“Another
story, for another time. I recall, though, how distressing this place can be. I
hope you are well?”

“You
mean, have I lost my mind?” Robert considered carefully. It was a fair
question. “I don’t think so. I mean, I think I’m okay . . . as long as you’re
real.”

Mr.
Mimes fished out a slender mahogany case and plucked out a cigarette. “Do you
mind?”

“Yeah,
actually I do. Besides being bad for your health, I can’t stand the stink of
those things.”

Mr.
Mimes shot Robert a quizzical look and smiled. “Quite right.” He flicked the
unlit cigarette away. “A disgusting habit, I often forget.” He then found a hip
flask, uncorked it, took a sip, and offered the silver container to Robert.
“Peace offering, my boy. Go on. Take it.”

Robert
wanted to take it, all right—take it and throw it in his face.

He
grabbed it, though, and tilted the contents down his throat.

It
wasn’t brandy or whiskey or bourbon. It was luxurious velvet in liquid form,
and its heat exploded through Robert’s chest and shot through his limbs. Smoke
curled through his thoughts . . . and cleared.

Everything
cleared. His mind. His eyes.

He
inhaled. It felt like his first breath.

“Nothing
like a little soma to get things started, yes?” Mr. Mimes retrieved his flask.
“But no need to overdo things.”

Robert
licked his lips, tasting the last drops of the stuff. It crackled with static
electricity, champagne bubbles, and the whisper brush of the last time he had
kissed Fiona.

Fiona.
Where was she now? And, more important, what had the Council done to her while
he had been locked away?

“How
long?” Robert asked. “It couldn’t have already been fifty years.”

Mr.
Mimes nodded as if he understood the torture Robert had endured. He glanced at
his watch, counted on his fingers, and said, “Eleven hours.”

It
took all of Robert’s strength to remain standing. He struggled to fit those
words with his reality. He felt as if he had been in this place for months . .
. maybe years.

He
touched his face. It was smooth. If he had been here that long, he would’ve
grown a beard. There wasn’t even stubble.

“Imagine
what a year would’ve done to your mind,” Mr. Mimes whispered. “Let alone
fifty.”

Robert
wanted to scream, bolt for the open door, and get out before it shut again.
Instead, he somehow found his lost cool, crossed his arms, and leaned against
the wall. “What’s the deal, then? Come to rub it in? Or say you’re sorry for
stabbing me in the back?”

Mr.
Mimes snorted a laugh, took another sip from his flask, then tucked it back
into his pocket. “Nothing of the sort, my boy. I came to help you escape.”

Robert
chewed this over. Why would Mr. Mimes get him fired and locked away in this
place, then spring him?

A
setup? Robert could only imagine what the Council would do if they caught him
trying to escape. That didn’t make any sense, though. If Mr. Mimes had wanted
him dead, he could have arranged that—especially since the Council had wanted
Robert’s throat cut at that last meeting.

The
Council. They were the key.

Robert
remembered everything now from that last Council meeting. There was a lot of
talk about that treaty between them and the Infernal clans, the Pactum Pax
Immortalis. Not only didn’t the League want to help Eliot and Fiona, but they
legally couldn’t interfere with the Infernals’ plans.

And
as long as Robert worked for Mr. Mimes, neither could he.

Mr.
Mimes consulted his watch. “Have you got it yet? Or must I connect all the
dots?”

“I
got it. I can help them now.”

A
smile flashed over Mr. Mimes’s lips and vanished just as quick. “I have no idea
what you’re talking about.”

Every
bit of anger Robert had for Mr. Mimes evaporated. He had to give the guy
credit—he was thinking three steps ahead of everyone else.

“Where
are my things?”

Mr.
Mimes ducked outside and retrieved a small doctor’s bag. “I took the liberty of
procuring your clothes and a few other items.”

Robert
dug through the bag. Inside was his leather jacket, a clean T-shirt, neatly
pressed jeans, and his boots. He wriggled out of the paper jumpsuit and into
real clothes. He almost felt human again.

Also
in the bag was his Glock 29 handgun, three clips of ammunition, a cell phone,
the keys to his bike, his wallet, a stack of cash, and a set of brass knuckles
that he’d never before seen. Robert slipped the knuckles on.

“Something
I thought you might find a use for.”

Power
surged through the metal, warming Robert’s hand and arm. “Might come in handy.
Thanks.”

Robert’s
phone buzzed, startling him so much he almost dropped it. “You didn’t tell
anyone . . .”