Out of the Box 7 - Sea Change (42 page)

“Yeah,” I said, still feeling tense. “Why, what did—”

“The guy,” Phillips said, “Brock. He resisted arrest. Got killed in the attempt.”

I sat in silence for a moment, still tense. Not fully certain, but my buttcheeks might have creased the cop car’s hood. “He did what?”

“He pulled a Sienna,” Phillips said, not sounding sarcastic in tone but damned sure being it. “Buchanan Brock is dead. I guess the guy took a shot at the LAPD detective who was accompanying Friday on the arrest.”

“Why do you call him Friday if you know his real name?” I asked, rubbing my head.

“Because I’m talking to you and that’s what you call him.”

“Don’t pander to me,” I said, sighing. “So … the only living witness to the scheme is dead. Nice wrap-up of that particular loose end.”

“Big shooter like that,” Phillips said, “his lawyers would have had him out of jail in an hour. He’d never have seen the inside of a cell.”

“Someone said the same thing about Edward Cavanagh,” I recalled. “Funny how that ended up being true, too, though he at least went out via a stroke.”

“You have a strange definition for what constitutes funny,” Phillips said, “but then again, you did just burn a man to death, so we’ll all chalk it up to PTSD and move on.”

“You know what else is funny?” I asked.

“In your current state of mind, probably
Paul Blart: Mall Cop 8
.”

I ignored that rather malicious piece of character assassination. “Cavanagh and Brock had something in common—both of them were pretty big donors to President Harmon’s campaign.”

“I don’t find that very funny.”

“Really?” I asked. “Because unlike
Paul Blart 8
, I think it’s hilarious.”

“You’d probably find it less funny if you pulled yourself away from searching for yourself on YouTube and looked for Buchanan Brock,” Phillips said. He sounded a little too satisfied for anyone’s own good.

“Why?” I asked. “What would I find?”

“You lacking an internet connection?” he snarked.

“Yeah, this shitty government cell phone plan has the worst service,” I volleyed back. “What am I missing?”

“A video that’s not nearly as appealing to your sensibilities,” Phillips said, “as the one you recorded today. It’s footage of a verbal altercation in which President Harmon ripped Buchanan Brock a new one at that fundraiser you were at the other night.”

“The one that ended in tears and death and explosions?” I asked, my brow furrowing all on its own. Brock and the president had a public falling out?

“As all parties that you attend seem to, yes.”

That hurt because it was true. “Well, isn’t that convenient,” I said, frowning.

“It was posted days ago,” Phillips said. “Stop jumping to conclusions.”

“Pffft,” I said. “I have no need to jump to conclusions. I can fly.”

“Yeah, well,” Phillips said, “your business in LA is concluded, so why don’t you fly on home? And stay away from the press.”

“Fine,” I said, jaded. Like there was any danger of me talking to the press about anything, ever.

“You realize what you’ve done?” Phillips asked, and I could tell he was winding things up.

“Well, I made a big mess.” Again.

“You executed a terrorist who had murdered hundreds, a man no one else could stop.” Phillips didn’t sound pleased. Ever. And he didn’t sound pleased now, either, but …

He did sound less pissed than usual.

“You probably just won President Harmon re-election,” Phillips finished. “You validated the faith he placed in you. Good job. Hurry home.” And of course, then he hung up.

“Shit,” I said to no one in particular. I looked around the scene one last time, pocketed my cell phone, and rocketed off into the sky.

It took her a few hours to disentangle herself from the press. She didn’t want to leave them, and they didn’t want her to leave until they’d asked, “one more question!” She took a lot of “one more questions,” but finally, they reached their end, and so did she, heading home in the back of a police cruiser that dropped her off in front of her rented mansion.

She walked up the drive after vaulting the gate because she couldn’t remember the code. Dan the driver always opened it for her, but he hadn’t shown up to collect her, and she hadn’t bothered to call—not that she knew his number anyway.

The SUV was parked on the driveway up by the house. Sprinklers were going on the lawn, watering the lush, green grass, the spritzing sound in the quiet evening.

Kat stood out front for a few minutes and just looked at the house. It was all glorious architecture and curves and arches; it could have been transplanted from Italy straight to southern California. It was beautiful, there was no doubt. But as she stood there, she had to ask …

Is this what you really want?

She took a breath of the cool night air, feeling just a hint of humidity. She walked across the grass, still barefoot, and felt its caress, dancing across the soles of her feet. She could feel the carpet of greenery all the way to its roots, kept artificially alive by desperate measures in this place that hadn’t seen a genuine rainfall in forever.

She opened the front door and found it unlocked. She stepped inside and there was silence.

No camera crews.

No fans.

No one excited to see her.

“There you are,” Taggert said, stepping around the corner into the entry, face radiating fury.

“Here I am,” Kat said, standing in the entryway on the hard tile, the bottoms of her feet already missing the grass she’d left behind.

“You wrecked my car.” He said it in silent accusation, but with hints of utter disgust, like she’d done the most horrible thing imaginable.

“Yeah,” she said, and it came out in a pleased, exultant rush, pulling a smile. “Well, I mean, technically, I’d blame it on Redbeard, but … yeah.” She couldn’t control the smile.

Taggert towered over her, and he loomed closer, the smell of liquor wafting off him. “Do you have any idea how much that car cost?”

“As many times as you’ve bragged about it, I should,” she said, her smile turning to one of hard satisfaction at his reaction.

“You silly little bitch,” he said, eyes darkening. “It’s worth more than you are.”

“I’ve made you enough to buy several of them,” she said, feeling her own face darken in response. “Don’t be overly dramatic, Aaron. It’s why you don’t do ‘on-camera.’ You’re such a ham.”

“How’s this for ham?” he asked and raised a hand to hit her. He brought it down swiftly, aimed right at her cheek in a hard slap.

She caught it, spun him around, and slung him headfirst into a wall. With a crash, he broke through the plaster, and lodged there up to his shoulders, his body stuck in place. She kicked him lightly in the ass and he jumped, his body jerking with his head still buried in the wall.

“I don’t like you, Aaron,” she said, as though she were just deciding this for herself. “I don’t like being called ‘Kitten.’ I don’t like being used. And I don’t like what I’ve let you turn me into.” She kicked him in the ass again, relatively lightly—hard enough to bruise but not to break bones. “So … screw you. And to hell with this town.”

“Where are you going?” he asked, trying to pull himself out of the hole.

“Away,” she said, heading for her bedroom. It took her less than three minutes to pack everything she wanted to take with her.

By the time she got back, Taggert had just gotten his head out of the wall. He had blood running down his neck where the studs had eaten into the skin behind his ears, and his face was flushed under the plaster dust that coated it like he’d stuck his head in a bowl of coke. “You silly little … you’re nothing without me, you know that?”

“I was a person long before I met you,” she said, a little rush of rebellion giving her strength. “But since I’ve known you, I haven’t been a very good one.” She made a face. “Good luck, Aaron. I’m sure you’ll do just fine without me.”

“You’ll be a nobody without me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said coyly. “I was thinking of writing a tell-all book describing our time together.” She grinned nastily. “I think there might be a few people who’d be interested in hearing that story, don’t you? Maybe a few … sexual harassment lawyers?”

His face paled under the layer of plaster dust. “You wouldn’t.”

She paused, dropping the suitcase at the door and tracing her steps back to him—perfectly poised, like walking the catwalk, never breaking eye contact with him the whole way. She smiled dangerously, and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I would. I could. And more than that … I just put your head through a wall and kicked your ass not even trying.” She pulled back so she could look him straight in the eye. “If you push me … I’ll do worse than just sue you. You’ll be walking next a tree one day and it’ll just … strangle you. Oops.”

He adjusted his tie-less collar. “You think you can threaten me? You’ve been hanging out with Sienna Nealon too long. It’s like you’re adopting the worst personality traits of that psychotic lunatic. You’re gonna go follow her? Well, go on then. Good riddance. You’ll probably be just like her in a year.”

Kat looked straight at him and didn’t blink until he did. “I’ve been called worse,” she said, and picked up her suitcase before walking out the door. She never did look back.

He sat on the beach as the sun faded into the west. The wind whipped quietly around him, the taste of the salt air so strong he could practically taste it on his tongue. The sky was a bright orange, the yellow disc of the sun slipping below the horizon as he watched it go, wondering what the night would bring.

“So?” a voice asked as he felt someone sit down next to him. He turned his head to see his own face, his own self standing there next to him. “What now?”

“I don’t know,” he told himself and stared off into the sunset. “I just … don’t know.”

I found my house still standing when I got home, which was always a good sign. Ariadne wasn’t home when I landed in the back yard, but I had a hidden key, and so all was good. I showered and cooled off and relaxed for a little bit, watching some news coverage to wind down at the end of my day.

When the knock came at the door a few hours later, I assumed it was Ariadne coming back.

It wasn’t.

“Hey,” Kat said, breezing in with a suitcase in her messed-up dress that she had been wearing for who-knew-how-many hours at this point. She just came right on in and I didn’t stop her, because … well, because I was too busy being stunned.

“Kat,” I said as she plopped down on my loveseat, “what are you doing here?”

“I left LA,” she said, positioning herself next to me like she was giving a confessional-booth interview to a cameraman. “You know, the time had just come for me to realize that as a person, I wasn’t making headway there. You know, that fame really wasn’t what I wanted.”

“Uhm …” I stared at her. “What … do you want?” Dammit, I played right into interviewing her.

“I want to work on not being a shitty person,” she said, looking right at me. “Like you are!”

I tried really hard to take that as a compliment. “Thanks.” I looked down and realized … why was her suitcase in my living room? I pointed at it. “Uhh … you’re not here to—”

“No,” she said with a shake of the head, a little trace of pity for poor me, “I’ve got a room at the Marquette, but since your house is right on the way from the airport …” She probably wasn’t trying to be haughty, but it sure came out that way. She straightened up in her seat. “I wanted to talk to you.”

I closed the door, since it appeared she wasn’t going to be leaving immediately. “About …?” I waited, and could tell she was struggling with what she wanted to say. “If it’s about me being a shitty person, you kind of already dropped that bomb.”

“It’s about what you did to Scott,” she said, and she looked right at me. Right through me, really, and I felt like I’d been caught red-handed.

“What about … it?” I asked, feeling distinctly gobsmacked, my knees a little weak.

“What did you do to him?” she asked, green eyes shining in the dim light of my living room.

“I, uh …” I took a couple wooden steps away from my front door and made my way toward the couch. This was a heavy topic, one that made my knees feel a little weak and weary. “That’s kind of personal, Kat, and—no offense, but last time I spilled my guts about personal feelings to you, I got slam-hammered for months afterward about it.”

“‘Slam-hammered’ is not a thing,” she said. She lowered her voice. “And there’s no phones here. No cameras. No recordings.” She sounded soft and sincere. “Just you and me.”

I wavered, not sure what to say. I had never truly confessed what happened with Scott before. Oh, people knew. Reed knew—at least the net result, when it was all said and done, and some of the edges around the thing. He knew enough to think less of me and with some reason. But that wasn’t the story.

Zollers knew exactly what had happened, because he’d read it out of my head. But he hadn’t had to ask, and I hadn’t had to speak it aloud.

Never.

I sat down heavily, the couch absorbing my fall. I stared into the distance, wondering exactly what the hell I was thinking. “No phones?” I asked. “No cameras?”

She pulled out her phone and lit it up, hitting the power button. It went dark. “Just you and me,” she said again, “and I get the feeling … maybe you need to tell someone about this.”

This was the thing that reporters—and America, actually—loved about Kat. When she wasn’t being a self-centered cow, she could be the warmest person ever, someone who, when her attention was focused on you, seemed to bring life to a cold and empty room.

“We …” I started and stopped, trying to figure out how to say what I needed to say. “It didn’t go well, Scott and I,” I finally decided to say, like that was a news flash to anyone. Kat, to her credit, didn’t say anything; she just kept those big green eyes on me and kept listening. “Okay, it didn’t only not go well … it went … horribly, after you left.”

“I figured,” she said, in a voice of pure understanding. “What happened?”