UnDivided (14 page)

“So Divan hunts?” Argent asks the butler as they descend a grand staircase into the expansive living room.

The man turns up his nose, offended. “Hardly. He
collects
.”

There are other staff members to round out the crew. A maid who seems to endlessly dust, and a chef about as intimidating as an executioner, but who prepares a dinner for them that tastes better than anything Argent has ever eaten. Never in his life has he experienced this kind of first-class treatment or seen this kind of wealth. He concludes that for Divan, business must be very good.

•  •  •

They are given the white-glove treatment for four days.

Four days of leisurely living with no sign of the master of the house. Nelson, who has, by and large, been able to avoid contact with Argent except for meals, now becomes increasingly impatient. Maybe even a little bit nervous.

“He knows I was coming—he's never kept me waiting for this long,” Nelson comments over lunch. He's barely able to sit for the meal, pacing, looking out of the windows at the windswept lake.

“Maybe he's just busy. A guy like him's gotta prioritize, right?” But Argent knows what Nelson is thinking. Divan is punishing him for showing up without Connor Lassiter.
Well,
thinks Argent,
if hanging here is punishment, then make me suffer!

Divan finally arrives later that day by seaplane. Argent watches through a window as the small craft pulls up to the simple wooden dock that extends from the base of the bluff. Like the outward appearance of the cabin, the plane is neither ostentatious nor extreme. It's similar to other seaplanes Argent has seen traversing the lake. Apparently the only conspicuous show of extravagance Divan allows himself is the fleet of cars, which he keeps parked in an underground garage—but even then, they're all Porsches, playing into his cover story.

Argent hurries off to brush his hair and change into some of the fresh clothes that have been supplied for him—dark slacks and starched button-down shirts. Not his style, but maybe his style needs some changing.

He returns to find himself late for Divan's entrance. Nelson stands in the grand living room already talking to him. The man has jet-black hair, a toned physique, and wears an expensive silk suit that seems not to have a single wrinkle from his travels. He is impressive, and Argent now wishes he'd had the good sense to put on a tie.

“Ah,” says Divan when he sees him, “this must be the
young man you've been telling me about.” Like most of his employees, there is something European in his accent that's not easy to place, although Divan's English is much better.

“Y . . . you've been talking about me?” Argent doesn't want to imagine what Nelson might have said. Divan holds out his hand to Argent, and Argent reaches out his own to shake—but Divan shifts his hand at the last instant, and Argent grabs it wrong, making the handshake awkward, and making Argent somehow feel less than worthy of the greeting. Divan does not seem like a man who does anything by mistake, and Argent wonders if Divan created the awkward grasp intentionally to keep him off-balance.

“I understand you helped to catch several AWOLs.”

“Yes, sir,” Argent says. “Actually, I didn't
help
catch them, I caught them, period.” He glances at Nelson almost involuntarily, and Nelson gives him a lukewarm
no comment
sort of gaze.

“I'm learning quickly,” Argent says, and, assessing that some brown-nosing might be in order, he adds, “I've got a good teacher.”

“The best,” Divan says, nodding toward Nelson. “Even if the Akron AWOL still eludes him.” Divan takes a moment to let that sink in, and to size them both up. Then he says to Nelson, “Can I assume there's a story to the wounds on the left half of your face, and the right half of the boy's?”

“Two different stories,” Argent chimes in, “but Connor Lassiter plays into both of them.”

Nelson cracks his neck. Argent suspects that if Divan were not here, Nelson would tranq him for talking out of turn. “The only story that Divan needs to hear,” says Nelson, “is the one about your sister's tracking chip.”

Divan smiles. “It sounds like a story worth hearing.”

But apparently he has no interest in hearing it now. Instead he goes off to freshen up for dinner, leaving Argent alone with
Nelson. Argent braces for some sort of verbal abuse.

“That went well, right?” says Argent. He figures Nelson will ignore him at best, but instead Nelson smiles.

“It will only get better.”

And although Argent can deal with Nelson's frowns and reprimands, he finds Nelson's smile as disconcerting as his botched handshake with Divan.

•  •  •

For dinner there are lamb chops as large as rib eye steaks.

“Neoteny lamb,” Divan explains, “genetically altered to grow as large as sheep while maintaining their early characteristics. The meat is flavorful and tender because although the lambs grow, they don't grow up.” He digs a knife into a bloody-rare filet. “Much the opposite of your friend Lev,” he says to Nelson. “Who I understand will age but not grow.”

The mention of Lev's name has the desired effect. Nelson becomes stiff and prickly. Argent takes some pleasure in seeing Nelson under someone else's thumb.

“After I capture Lassiter,” Nelson says, “I intend to find Lev Calder as well.”

“One prize at a time, Jasper.”

Argent waits to be asked about the tracking chip. He has resolved not to volunteer the information until he's asked, and even then he won't give it up without getting something substantial in return. After all, it's his only bargaining chip. They don't ask him at dinner, though. Not Divan, not Nelson. Then, after a creamy desert that Argent can't pronounce, Divan goes off with Nelson to discuss business.

“We'll talk later,” Divan tells Argent. “Until then, feel free to entertain yourself. Have you discovered the game room?”

“It's like my second home.”

Divan seems pleased. “It's there for you to enjoy. I built it for my nephews, but they do not visit.” And then a heavy
sigh. “Alas, my family and I are a bit estranged.”

“Because of . . . what you do?” Argent can't help but ask.

“No. Because of what I choose
not
to do. I've taken a path of greater integrity than they would prefer.” And although Argent can't imagine what could possibly have less integrity than Divan's current profession, he explains no further, and Nelson's glare makes it clear it's better not to ask.

•  •  •

True to his word, Divan calls for Argent an hour later. They meet in his garden, a glass atrium attached to the cabin. It's surrounded by dense privet hedges to hide it from the outside world, and is temperature-controlled to protect the exotic plants contained within. Apparently Divan collects living things in addition to the dead ones that hang on the walls of his home. Argent imagines the plants must be vibrant and colorful during the day, but are now subdued by the deepening twilight.

“Come sit. I hope you like espresso.”

A servant pours coffee as black as tar from a silver pot into small porcelain cups as Argent sits across from Divan. Argent knows it will keep him up all night, but he won't refuse anything Divan offers him.

“Congratulations are in order,” Divan says. “I've been informed that the AWOLs you caught are top specimens. Bringing six Unwinds in one trip is a nice haul.”

“Five—but next time it'll be at least six.”

Divan rubs a bit of lemon rind around the outside of his cup. Argent does the same, just so he doesn't appear uncultured. The man takes his time then, discussing the subtle differences in espresso roasts and the best conditions for the beans' growth. He not so much beats around the bush as avoids it entirely, as if they have nothing more important to talk about. Argent's anxiety builds with every moment the subject of his sister is not broached. But he still will not be the one to broach it.

“My garden here is a bit of a paradox,” Divan says. “I come here for peace and solitude, and yet in this garden, one is never alone.”

Argent looks to see that the servant has left, so, in fact, they are alone. He assumes Divan is speaking in a philosophical way.

“So . . . ,” Argent prompts, getting more anxious as their coffee talk meanders on, “is there something we're here to talk about?”

“The unintended consequences of our actions,” Divan responds, as if he was patiently waiting to be asked the question. “Take, for example, the specimens in my garden. While many are natural cuttings taken from around the world, there are others that have a different origin.” He pauses to take a slow sip from his small cup. “There was a rather nasty Internet hoax before the Heartland War—you might have heard of it. A thing called ‘bonsai cats.' A website presented a method of potting a live cat in a jar, effectively turning it into a houseplant. According to the website, the poor creature would grow within the constraints of the jar, becoming accustomed to its peculiar circumstance. People, of course were outraged at the suggestion, and rightly so.”

“Wait a second,” says Argent, feeling as if he'd been asked a trick question. “I thought bonsai cats were real.”

“Ah,” says Divan. “That's the interesting part. You see, the concept was so thoroughly thought-out, and the instructions so precise, that people were intrigued—and what began as a sick joke became all too real.” He finishes his espresso, puts the cup down on the saucer with a delicate
clink
, and zeroes his eyes on Argent in a way that makes him want to squirm. “That hideous practice of growing potted felines—do you know where it first took root as a commercial endeavor?”

“No.”

“Burma,” Divan tells him. “And as the black-market business grew, it shifted to something more profitable. The organization began to dabble in the illicit sale of human flesh.”

Argent finally connects the dots. “The Burmese Dah Zey!”

“Precisely,” says Divan.

Argent has been intrigued by the Burmese flesh market since he was a child. Their unwinding practices make everything else look tame. There are stories of how anesthesia is rarely used, if ever. Stories of how they only sell a part of you at a time. Today they'll take your hands, tomorrow your feet, the next day a lung, keeping you alive through all of it, down to the moment the last part of you, whatever it happens to be, is sold and shipped out. To be unwound on the Burmese Dah Zey is to die a hundred times before death truly takes root.

“And so,” continues Divan, “what began as one man's Internet hoax not only became real, but evolved into the most heinous organization in the world. Here is a lesson to be learned: We must always be careful of the actions we take, for there are always unintended consequences. Sometimes they are serendipitous, other times they are appalling, but those consequences are always there. We must tread lightly in this world, Argent, until we are sure of foot.”

“Are you sure of foot, sir?”

“Very.”

Then he touches a button on a remote, bringing up the lights in the atrium. As the space illuminates, the plants grow bright and beautiful. Truly breathtaking. And there in the corners stand four large ceramic vases about five feet high. Argent noticed them before, but not what they contained. Protruding from the tops of the ceramic jars are four human heads. It only takes a moment for Argent to realize that they are alive, and the rest of their bodies are trapped within the ceramic vases, which taper so that the openings are like tight
collars around the prisoners' necks. Argent gasps, both horrified and amazed.

Divan rises and gestures for Argent to do so as well. “Don't be afraid, they won't hurt you.”

They are all male, with bronze skin and Asian features. Argent tentatively approaches the nearest one. The man eyes Argent with a sort of dull disinterest, a look that must be the residue of evaporated hope.

“These men were sent by the Dah Zey to kill me.” Divan explains. “You see, I am the Dah Zey's only real competition, and so if they take me out, they control the world's black-market flesh supply. Once I caught these assassins, I followed the Dah Zey's own bonsai process as best I could with grown men, and sent the Dah Zey a nice thank-you note.”

Then he grabs a bowl of small brown cubes from the table. Argent had thought they were sugar cubes. “Nutritional chews,” Divan tells him. “I hired a dietitian to make sure I could provide them a healthy diet, appropriate for their unique condition.” He brings a cube toward the potted assassin, and the man opens his mouth, allowing himself to be hand-fed by Divan. “They put up a fuss at first, but they adapted, as people do. There's a Zen-like peace to them now, don't you think? Like monks in perpetual meditation.”

Divan goes from vase to vase. He talks to them gently as one might talk to a beloved pet. The men don't speak at all; they just wait to be fed. Argent wonders whether their vocal cords have been removed, or if it is simply that when you've been turned into a houseplant, you've got nothing left to say. Argent is relieved that Divan doesn't ask him to help feed the bonsai men.

“I have relatives who believe I should join with the Dah Zey,” Divan says, with more than a little bitterness, “but I refuse to ever become the kind of monster who would subject
children to the inhumane practices of the Dah Zey. Their way is not, nor will it ever be, my way.” He keeps feeding his prize “plants” until the bowl of chews is empty. Argent finds his legs shaky and has to sit down. “This is a business, yes, but it must be humane,” Divan insists. “More humane, even, than your Juvenile Authority, or the European Jugenpol, or the Chinese Láng-FÃ¥. This is my wish. It is, I believe, a battle worth fighting for.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”