Now You See It (17 page)

Chicago had been like another planet. He still remembered how
hard it was to fit in, how strange even to have to think about fitting in. Up
Home—he still to this day thought of Nova Scotia as “home,” probably always
would—he had just
been
. Now suddenly he had to worry
about manners and which clothes to wear and what people would think. His dad had
seen him through it all, explaining with a wry smile that yes, it was silly, but
it was what a man had to do. It had been their secret, that shared smile, and it
had made everything a lot easier to deal with.

* * *

Brady had moved out of her range of vision, but even
though Gemma couldn’t see or hear him, she could smell the
sunshine-and-warm-male scent of his skin, the aroma of the softener sheet he’d
put into the clothes locker.

Release it,
he’d said.
Let it go. Easier said than done
, she thought in a
burst of irritation she recognized as frustrated sexual need. The rock drew her
attention. White. Small, maybe an inch-and-a-half long and an inch wide. A
jagged peak rose near its center like a mountain in miniature. The light struck
glints from dozens of tiny crystalline surfaces. Streaks of variegated
gray-to-black wove through it, like veins beside a roadbed, like streams of
water. Streams of fog. The beauty of it washed through her, captivating,
absorbing.

The muscles in the small of her back released emphatically
enough to catch her attention and pull her focus back from the small white world
that had held her enchanted.

Her gaze went straight to Brady where he sat against a tree,
looking deceptively relaxed. “Is everything still here?” she asked.

He grinned. “Oh, yes.” He held out a strong brown hand toward
her as he rose. She stood and moved to take it into her own.

The contact this time was more than electric. A soft, glowing
stream of power and need burst in her—desire so powerful and complete it needed
no name, no definition. She gasped as it surged through the core of her, and she
moved with him into the shelter of the tent.

This was new. This was amazing. Slow, deep and inexorable as a
mighty river. Their mouths met, tasting, drinking each other without thought or
intent, borne on that powerful surge of emotion. Blending, merging, without need
for haste or hesitation. Moving together, mouths locked, hands seeking, finding,
revering. She felt his hands/her hands unfastening, unbuttoning her blouse, and
his lips and tongue moved down her throat toward the softness of her breast. She
rose toward him, shrugged her blouse off her shoulders even as she buried her
face in his hair, breathing deeply his scent, feeling his hair strong and soft
against her lips.

No thought, no words, just formless longing and excitement that
moved from her skin to her core and back to where his mouth and his warm breath
raised goose bumps along the outer curve of her breast. His hand slipped beneath
the knitted cotton and closed over her, brushing lightly over her nipple, then
more firmly. She unhooked the front release of her bra and he brushed the fabric
aside with his hands and lips, teasing her already aching nipple with his tongue
and teeth. She lifted her hips hard against him as the pull grew into thirst.
Need. She strained against him, her hands moving under his shirt, forcing it
away, pressing skin to skin as they rocked together.

Without surprise she felt her own skin beneath her hands/his
hands. His skin so smooth, golden, warm, her own skin softer, cooler—the rest of
their clothes brushed away, his scent/her scent, mingled yet still separate,
changing, deepening. Their tongues danced together, exploring, teasing until she
could no longer tell her taste from his. He kissed her deeply and kept their
mouths joined as he tore open a foil packet. The condom was a cool slither as he
covered himself. He cupped her and she was aware of her own slippery wetness as
his fingers moved inside her, and the gripping/gripped sensation as her muscles
closed around him. She rose over him and took him in, sliding down until he was
lodged deeply, deeply, lost in the mingled sensations that pulled so powerfully,
centering, centering, bursting as she came. Immediately, the deep pulsing as
Brady shattered inside her, the astonishing sense of sharing what he felt, set
off another orgasm and she shuddered and broke under the amazing crest of
pleasure.

Slowly, her awareness dropped away from his, separating into
two souls again. She nuzzled his shoulder and he tightened his arms around her,
cradling her head against him, his lips now in her hair, his heart against her
breasts, slowing, slowing to normal, his skin damp and cooling. She had no words
for what had just happened—no experience for comparison or context.

“Well,” she said with a glance at the small white stone she had
let fall after her ‘training’ session, “if nothing else, falling into a rock
makes for great sex.”

Chapter Thirteen

Gemma wandered along the dusty road toward their
campsite lugging a gallon thermos filled with sweet, cold water from a
pump-handled faucet. A hundred feet from the turn-in she lifted her face,
watching empty white cumulus clouds steam past against a sky made bluer by the
green tops of pines and the cottonwoods that grew beside the rivers. The heat
here on the eastern slope of the Cascades was different—dryer than in Seattle,
redolent with pine and hot dust and the ancient, magical essence of the
mountains.

She rounded a curve in the road and froze at the sight of a
strange car pulled into their campsite’s access path. Cold adrenaline washed
through her. Should she keep going? Turn back? Pretend to hear someone
calling?

Before she could decide, Brady stepped out of a little stand of
pine trees and looked toward her with a slight smile, and she knew it was safe.
A few steps further on, she recognized Mike’s red hair as he pulled grocery bags
and a file box out of the back seat. He must have rented a car before driving
up.

Gemma set the water beside the picnic table and hugged her
brother.

“How you doing, Brat?”

“Better. How’s Nikki?”

Mike laughed. “She’s happy as a clam. I found a really good
kennel where they’ll walk her fractious, fluffy butt a couple times a day. I
wouldn’t mind staying there myself.”

“Any more news?” Brady asked.

“You mean since three this morning? Just more police—arson this
time. Tran called with your coordinates. He may have the beginnings of a thread
to all this, in a bigger case he and his Task Force are working. Wanted to know
whether you want back in, if they are related.”

Brady shook his head once.

“In any case, he’s keeping himself informed. Don’t ask me
how.”

That brought a smile. “I don’t want to know,” Brady said.

“It’s interesting to watch the various jurisdictions jockeying
for position. I think they’re getting it all worked out, and I think the Pierce
County detectives are in charge. At least until the Task Force moves in, if they
do.”

“What’s the link? Did Tran say?” Gemma asked.

“Sex trafficking,” Mike said. “Maybe. If it’s all related, then
Ned is a new element, and they’re not sure where he fits, or who’s responsible
for his death, or any of the rest of the mayhem. Their syndicate likes to keep a
low profile, as a rule.”

Mike looked around the campground. “Nice place.”

“I forgot how much I love camping.” Gemma took a deep breath of
the pine-fragrant mountain air.

“Well, I brought some things to make you love it even
more.”

With a light laugh she checked out the plastic grocery bags on
the table. “Steak? Oh, Perfect. And corn!”

“Fresh picked today in Everson.”

“Everson?” The little town five miles from the Canadian border
was famous for its corn and blueberries, but it was a two-hundred-mile
round-trip from Seattle. “You went to Everson?”

“Marysville. I rented a car, got some groceries. Used my card.
I don’t expect anyone to be tracking my movements, but on the wild chance, it
will look as if I’m heading north.”

“Old habits still there?” Brady said.

“It comes back fast.”

“You talk like a field agent, not an Intel Weenie,” Gemma
teased.

“‘Booger Eater,’” Brady corrected her.

“Eew!” Gemma said with a grimace.

“And damned proud of it,” Mike said. “Besides, it was all that
hanging with Brady and the Black-Hearted Bastards that corrupted this pure Irish
soul.”

Mike dug back into the bags. A propane stove followed the food.
“Gotta have some way to cook all this, with fires verboten up here. And last,
but nowhere even close to least—” he produced a bottle of brandy and a fifth of
Irish whiskey.

“What’s in the box?” Brady asked.

“Stuff Ned gave his attorney. Sam Dawkins called Mark Taylor
when he saw the news about Ned. Said he was holding some of Ned’s things, and
since the divorce was never filed, he sent it all back to Mark—who strolled in a
few mornings back and plopped it on my desk. With the break-ins, and Sam’s
death, and the memorial and all, there hasn’t been a good time to bring it back.
I can’t believe the stuff he’s got in here. Did you know Ned took all the
documents on the house, the cars, a lot of investments, birth certificates—yours
and his—your marriage certificate, even your passport?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. If I’d known what was in here, I would have made it a
point to get it to you sooner.”

“It was probably some kind of control thing. He was really big
on control. I’ve given up trying to understand all the crazy things he did, the
son of a bitch.”

“I don’t know about you two,” Mike said, letting her comment
slide, “but I’m starving. Somebody wrap corn, and would somebody please pour me
a drink if I’m going to be slaving over a hot stove?”

* * *

Justin loved paydays. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t
touch the nest egg building up from his dot.com, and things got a little tight
between the first of the month and the fifteenth, sometimes. Most times.

They would probably get a lot worse, now somebody had killed
off his source of ideas.

It was so great, though, to be able to order fresh pizza, and
finally throw out the dried, curling remains of two-week-old pepperoni special.
He leaned over the kitchen sink as he bit into a slice of almost-hot Meat
Maniac, letting the oily juices drip near the drain as he used his tongue to
capture the strings of molten mozzarella. He should have eaten before he
changed, but some days, no matter how hungry or tired he was, he couldn’t wait
to get out of his work clothes and into something comfortable.

Tonight it was black jeans, frayed at the hems and white over
the seams from wear, and a black T-shirt with a diagram of a caffeine molecule
stenciled in white on the front.

His gaze drifted to the small window above the sink that gave a
view of the “green belt” across the parking lot. He could see it from the eating
area and from the small balcony where he chained his bike. Most days he biked or
rode the bus to work, stretching his gas as long as he could.

He’d been looking forward all week to filling his tank all the
way up and driving around, just to see what he could see. Maybe he’d see that
redhead, again, just maybe get a glimpse of her. Just to look. She didn’t always
close her curtains, and maybe tonight again she’d be working out on this
stair-treadmill, and she wore this leotard that showed almost everything. He had
to stop going there. He was going to get caught, again, but he couldn’t resist.
He’d just have to be careful.

All the time he was telling himself he couldn’t keep watching,
he was getting ready to go. It was as if his body and mind were two separate
guys—his mind all cautious and law-abiding, and his body just going ahead and
doing what it needed to do. He wasn’t crazy. Couldn’t be. He knew what he was
doing, what he shouldn’t do. He just couldn’t make his body listen.

Maybe Doug Carrow had been the same way. He winced away from
that one. Besides, Carrow had liked to do things to all the women he wrote
about. That wasn’t the same thing at all as just watching and dreaming. Not
even.

Justin raised his arms and sniffed for a quick pit-check—you
could never be too careful. Especially since he’d worn this shirt a few days ago
and hadn’t washed it yet.

He tapped a medicated concealer onto his zits, grabbed his
keys, and launched himself into the night, cruising slowly through the streets.
Turning off the main thoroughfares, he headed into residential areas, through
Capitol Hill into the U District, where coeds and young up-and-comers rented
apartments or houses and sometimes did things in front of their uncurtained
windows.

Sometimes, a trip down an alley or two was all it took to find
a woman changing clothes, all lit up and everything. Probably bathroom windows,
since they tended to be small and high up, but they were plenty big enough to
give him a prime view of women in lingerie, or even naked boobs as they got
ready for a shower or for bed.

Boobs were the best. He loved them all. Big boobs, small boobs,
droopy, perky, flat—he really didn’t care. And no matter what shape or size they
were, he got the same delicious tugging and tingling feeling in his dick
whenever he saw them.

It was what he lived for. He’d pull over in the darkness, turn
off the car lights, unzip himself, and watch the lovely dancing boobs as he
stroked, harder, faster, until he came, biting his lips to keep from making
noise.

Tonight he was in luck. The woman with the stair climber was
there, in full view, and she was already sweating, he could tell, because her
leotard stuck to her boobs, showing the outline and even the little buds on her
nipples. She was pretty with long red hair, and tonight she’d tied it back into
a pony tail that flipped around as she worked out. She looked kind of like Ned
Carrow’s wife, only taller, and younger. It was Mrs. Carrow—she’d asked him to
call her Gemma, when he met her at the Christmas party last winter—Gemma he saw
in his mind as he wrung the last drop from his pulsing dick. She’d be alone,
too, now that her husband was gone.

He let his fantasies grow into a vision of her standing in
front of him—

A sudden sharp light in his eyes and a rap on the window
brought him crashing into humiliating reality.

The beam of the flashlight moved pointedly from Justin’s eyes
to his exposed crotch, to his hand still sticky with warm fluid fumbling
desperately to cover himself.

As he rolled down the window to face the cop’s disgusted
expression, Justin knew he’d fucked up major this time. Ned Carrow wasn’t going
to come blasting out of the grave to bail him out for public lewdness or
whatever they were going to hang on him. And as for Wheeler—he’d rather let
Justin burn at the stake than risk his political reputation by associating with
a—what did the cops call him last time? Oh yeah,
weenie
wagger
. Not that Justin could blame his boss. Wheeler had warned him
one more arrest, and he was taillights.

With the light shining steadily in his eyes, he couldn’t see
the cops at all. Just get a sense of their presence. He put up a hand to shield
his eyes.

“Don’t do that.” The voice was low, authoritative, cold.

Great voice for an Avatar of Evil, Justin thought, filing it
away in his mental drawer of ideas for gaming characters. It didn’t really hit
him, until he heard the metallic
thunk
, looked down
and saw the muzzle of the automatic resting in the window.

“Whatever it is I did, officer, I promise I won’t do it again,”
he babbled. The opening in the gun wasn’t very big, but he was sure it was big
enough.

The man laughed. He sounded really amused. “You think we’re
cops? You’ll wish we were, if you don’t pay attention.”

“Okay.” Justin’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Where do you get your information for the little stories you
write?”

“Um—” Justin couldn’t think. The light was blinding him, and
how did they know it was him? “What stories?”

The man sighed. Justin relaxed as the gun disappeared, and then
thought he’d swallow his heart as it was replaced by a very efficient-looking
knife blade. “We already know you’re stupid, kid. You don’t have to prove it by
trying to lie to us. Now, Where. Did. You. Get. Your. Material?” The knife slid
a little closer until he could feel the point on his throat.

“My boss. My boss’s email.”

“Good boy.” The knife didn’t move. “You’re going to close up
your little side business. Tonight. You’re going to disappear from the Web,
‘Zabinder7,
’ or Justin Falco is going to
disappear from this earth, a little piece at a time. Just the way Carrow did. Do
you understand?”

Justin was frozen. His lungs wouldn’t move, and his throat was
paralyzed. They knew his screen name, they knew about Carrow.
Ohgodohgodohgod...

“Too scared to say anything?”

Justin nodded rapidly, more like a vibration of his head.

“Okay. Nod once if you understand. Just—once.”

He managed to control the tremor in his neck long enough to
force his head up and down.

“Good. Good boy. Now, I want to make sure you remember, so—

Justin jumped as a knife blade stabbed into the seat beside his
head and ripped down nearly to the level of his shoulder.

The light snapped off. By the time the afterimage had faded,
the men were gone.

When the police car pulled up behind him a few minutes later,
Justin nearly had his breathing under control. He hadn’t managed to zip his
pants back up, but they let him take care of that before they snapped the cuffs
on and arrested him for lewd conduct.

* * *

The long Northern twilight had darkened to mauve by the
time they finished dinner and cleared the plates and food away. While Mike
poured brandy into clear plastic glasses and Brady took the garbage the hundred
yards or so to the dumpster, Gemma lifted a handful of documents and envelopes
out of the file box and flipped through them. “I didn’t know he had this stuff.
My baptismal certificate? For Pete’s sake! And what’s this?”

Mike looked up. “What is it?”

“A statement from a bank I didn’t know he used.”

“How’s the balance?”

“Flush. Amazing. Judas Priest, I really am rich.”

“When the death certificate comes through, you’ll be able to
get the money out.”

“There’s so much. I had no idea he was so successful. I mean,
Doug told me, but I didn’t really get it. It didn’t sink in.” She dropped the
paper back into the box.

“The key’s in there. Two of ’em.”

“Two?”

“The one you found—and I think you’re right. It does look like
it’s for one of those small padlocks. The other one was in with all the papers,
and it’s for a safety deposit box. The number’s engraved on it, but we don’t
know which bank.”