The Innocent: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel (11 page)

The Prophet also believed that working to earn money within the Void was the equivalent of serving Satan, and so The Chosen refused any form of work-for-hire that would enslave them to the world. What income the Havens did have was acquired, not through industry or providing any service to society, but rather by begging, by selling overpriced trinkets to the good-hearted under the guise of sponsoring humanitarian projects, or through donations.

But begging, although time-consuming, was not highly lucrative, and the resources required to feed and house so many far outstripped the supply. The solution to the disparity came by way of donated goods, clothing, shoes, and food—usually perishables too old and spotted to sell, and cartons or cans nearing or passed the date of expiration. There was a fine line between garbage and sustenance, and The Chosen walked it well.

Once a Haven acquired a donor, the members made a great effort to maintain a positive relationship in order to continue receiving the goods over the long term. Typically, donors knew little about The Chosen, often did not even know that it was to this group that they gave, but they knew the smiling faces that greeted them every week, knew the children who occasionally came to sing for them, and truly believed that by contributing they were, in a small way, making the world a better place.

A trip to visit a donor was a special occasion for the children; it
meant seeing life beyond the confines of the Haven, and special occasions created clearly formed memories.

Gideon suspected that at least some of the donors who had been giving while he had lived in Buenos Aires would still be doing so, and Munroe believed that with the donors they would find the map to the Havens—the magnet.

Instead of renting a car, they rented a taxi, and the simplicity of having a chauffeur was amplified by the boon of having a driver who knew the streets and the landmarks and understood, in place of addresses and clear directions, the general idea of where the children of The Chosen wanted to go.

Across the city, one district to the next, far past dusk and into early evening, they drove, up and down, gauging distances from familiar landmarks and comparing notes, locating first a supermarket, then a bakery, and finally, a midsize grocery store. With the vehicle idling and the cabdriver waiting, Gideon ran off the little he knew about the grocer, and then, having finished, he reached for the door handle, as if to get out of the car.

Munroe stopped him. “I’d prefer that we don’t make contact,” she said.

“I remember the owner,” Gideon replied. “I don’t know if he would remember me, but he would know if they still come around, and even if he’s not there, the employees will know.”

“I’m sure they would,” Munroe said. “But let this one go.”

He looked at her, doubt written across his face, and she said, “You hired me to do this job and you need to let me do it.”

Gideon’s reply was a barely perceptible nod. He removed his hand from the door, and for this Munroe was grateful. If another confrontation had been necessary to establish the order of things, she’d have done it, but at this juncture a face-off would be a waste of time and energy.

She had what she wanted.

T
he docks were deserted, and Munroe crept through the night, moving past security checkpoints and into the shadows that preceded the shelter that was currently home
.

Heavy machinery and conveyor equipment stretched out from the wharf like giant manacles onto the three ships that lay at port. Powerful lights illuminated the waterfront, creating lengthening darkness between the two- and three-story buildings that stood opposite
.

The knife attack came without warning, out of the shadows, as if the man who wielded it had been waiting a long, patient time, knowing she would eventually pass
.

He was strong. From behind he jerked her head back and forced her to the ground. Light crossed his face, and she recognized him from the dockyard. His skin was rough, scarred, making him look old, though she knew he wasn’t. His body was taut and muscular from the daily physical labor
.

He tightened his grip on her neck, kept the knife to her throat, and in microsecond gaps she calculated. Her vision shifted to gray. Adrenaline flowed, and the edges of desire crept toward her soul
.

She dropped a knife into a palm from a pocket in her sleeve; smiled; relaxed. In an unconscious response the man loosened his grip, and in that second of error she slashed his wrist. He screamed an obscenity, let go, stepped back out of her way, and blended into the darkness
.

Munroe closed her eyes. Other senses would guide her where sight failed
.

A scrape. A movement of air. He lunged
.

She sidestepped, and his blade missed widely
.

She pulled a second knife from the small of her back. Flipped it open
.

His breathing was heavy, and she followed the sound of it, knives in both hands, circling cautiously. The lust for blood was there, she could feel it welling up inside, a pounding in her head, in her chest, an overwhelming desire to kill
.

And she fought it
.

She was not to be a killer, an animal, a predator. She had fled to get away from this, to leave it behind
.

“There’s no need for this,” she said to the night. “Put away your weapon, I’ll put away mine, and we can walk away.”

The attacker taunted her with obscenities, and she understood then that he wanted her body and meant to take it by death if necessary. With his mocking, darkness flooded in. She smelled the rankness of his sweat, heard the rasp of scorn in his voice, knew the fear of the knife. Her heart raced, muscles contracted, and instinct washed over her
.

Survive.

Kill.

Light reflected off a blade
.

She rolled to the right
.

Instinct
.

Speed
.

She turned. Came from below. Plunged a knife upward, connected under his chin and thrust it deep. Euphoria flowed
.

The attacker dropped to his knees, eyes wide
.

Green eyes
.

Her stomach reacted violently
.

His face. Soft. Familiar. A shock of recognition ran through her
.

She gasped for air. Slumped forward and then, head tilted upward, with the primal shriek of rage and pain still rising, opened her eyes
.

Not to the midnight sky, but to the bland, off-white ceiling of the hotel room.

Heart pounding, Munroe slid her legs over the side of the bed and stood, looking down at the aftermath of slumber. The sheets and her clothes were drenched, the pillow beside her shredded. She rubbed her fingers, feeling tenderness where friction had burned them raw. For this she had purchased three hours of sleep out of the last forty-eight. So little rest invited trouble, and agitated as she was now, there would be no natural return to the slumber that she so desperately needed.

Munroe shuffled to her bag, pulled out a bottle, and tipped the contents into her mouth.

It was nearing nine in the morning, at the same corner place where Logan had followed Munroe yesterday, and the café was filled with morning traffic. He sat at the far end of the room, his back to the wall, listening to a language that he only half understood, observing the bustling crowd, and through the storefront window watched the passersby. Across the table Gideon sat dazed and sleepy-eyed, and the fragrance of coffee blended with the sweet scent of the pastries that filled the empty space between them.

Conversation was sparse, and any words spoken were only filler. They were both tired, having spent far too many hours during the night planning and then rehashing options, and if it weren’t for the prearrangement to meet Munroe and Heidi here for breakfast, Logan would have been happy to steal another hour or two under the covers.

He glanced again at his watch and took a sip of coffee. The girls were ten minutes late. He wasn’t familiar enough with Heidi’s patterns to know how many minutes past an appointment defined her version of tardy, but he knew Munroe. She was her own woman and worked her own schedule, but if she committed to be somewhere at a certain time, she would show—on time—always.

Logan took another sip and then another glance at his watch. Gideon, noticing the movement, chuckled. Logan ignored him and, his
face to the window, saw Heidi pass on the other side. She entered the café, eyes scanning the room, and seeing Logan, approached the table.

“Where’s Michael?” Logan said.

Heidi’s head turned puppy-dog sidewise. “I thought she was with you,” she said. And then in response to Logan’s deadpan expression, “I overslept—didn’t hear the alarm—I just figured she left without me.”

Logan blanched, and his heartbeat, fast and heavy, made it impossible to attempt conversation. To the others, Munroe’s absence would mean little—a stroll about the neighborhood or the desire to check out a lead—they would assume she would return in her own time. But he knew better.

Her promise to get Hannah repeated in his mind, a mantra that was the calm against his panic. Munroe had given her word—her
word
—but perhaps now, in her current state with the medicating—the drugs—her word meant little.

“Heidi, I need your key,” he said. She looked at him quizzically, and he remained silent, hand outstretched. Finally, after a moment, she pulled the room key from her purse and handed it to him.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

He left for the hostel at a near run.

The room was as he’d expected, with Heidi’s things on one side and most of Munroe’s few belongings on the other. Stacked neatly on the bedside table were the documents he had given her, and he could see from the way things were laid out why Heidi assumed that Munroe had simply gone ahead.

He browsed through the stack of papers, heart still pounding, until he came to the end and saw that those he’d held back, the ones he’d finally handed over yesterday, were missing. For that, there was hope.

Frustrated and sick to his stomach, Logan left the room to find a pay phone. He didn’t know what to expect, didn’t even know what he hoped to gain by the call, only knew that he had to make it, and that if there was anyone who knew what Munroe was up to, it would be Miles Bradford. Using a calling card, he dialed Capstone Consulting.

He asked for Bradford, the receptionist requested he hold the line,
and then, in less than a moment, Miles was on the phone. No transfers. No waits or stalls, no voice mail or notice of being out of the country, just the man himself, listening, while Logan ran anxiously through the reasons why he’d called.

When Logan had expended himself to the point of emotional emptiness, he paused, and in that space there was silence. Unsure if Bradford was still on the line, he was about to speak when Bradford broke the quiet.

“Michael left a message for you,” Bradford said.

Stunned, Logan made no reply. Munroe had known that he would go to Bradford—had made preparations based on it. Realizing, finally, that Bradford was waiting for a response of some kind, he said, “I’m listening.”

“She’s made you a promise,” Bradford said, “and intends to keep it. But she can’t work with the three of you hovering. You need to take a step back, stay out of her way, and trust that she knows what she’s doing.”

Logan paused and then said, “That’s it?”

“She wants you in Buenos Aires,” Bradford said. “She might even need you at some point, so stay where she can easily find you. Just don’t go anywhere near anything concerned with the assignment, okay? And Logan?” Bradford paused. “She means
anything.
”

Logan nodded to empty space. “All right,” he said. “If that’s what she wants.”

Courtesy of the bottle, Munroe slept, and in that sleep was peace from the living and peace from the dead. From sunrise around the clock to three in the morning she bathed in sweet oblivion, and when she woke, she checked the time and the day’s date to get her bearings, then set the alarm for eight.

When the hours passed and the buzzer sounded, her feet hit the floor before her hand found the stop. The bottle’s purpose had been served, and the go signal, like a checkered flag to a race-car driver,
launched her forward. Today she would begin to dredge the road toward bringing Hannah home.

She showered and left the hotel in search of a salon already open. As with every assignment, there was a role to play, and with any role, illusion was everything. The human subconscious filtered out that which was familiar, and to err in any detail, no matter how subtle, was to jar reality and place a role at risk.

To become and to blend required more than understanding the language or speaking as they did, more than mannerisms and walk and copying dress. To become was to synthesize completely, and this illusion meant that everything—from hairstyle to shoes, even imports—had to be acquired locally.

Hair shorn into a neutral gender look, Munroe took a cab to Paseo Alcorta, one of the city’s several upscale malls. She moved through stores and boutiques with the speed and efficiency of experience. Styles, colors, weights, and textures changed from country to country, but the concept of blending was the same. Suitcase, clothes, shoes, backpacks, jackets; several collections to fill the needs of the neutral gender, all of it on her own dollar.

The money Logan and the other survivors had paid, although an exorbitant sum by their own standards, didn’t even begin to cover expenses on a job of this nature. What the others would never know was that in order to pull this off, she was contributing more to the project than all of their payments combined.

Shopping finished, Munroe returned to the hotel long enough to drop off the day’s bounty, and took a cab to the airport. She had the driver wait while she left for the arrivals area to search out Miles Bradford, who by now should have cleared customs.