The Nowhere Man

44 Celebration

René stood before the picture window of the master bedroom, hands clasped at the small of his back, watching snow flurry against the pane. It occurred to him that it was a pose suited to a Cassaroy. Regal and imposing, spine held straight enough to disguise that two-inch deviation. An artist could come along and paint an oil of him planted here victoriously, an oil that would have been worthy to hang alongside portraits of Cassaroys past that sobered the grand halls of his childhood manor.

And yet.

He had a niggling sense that it wasn’t time to rest on his laurels. He’d prevailed in the battle, sure, but there was a greater war to be won.

He felt a stirring, the sensation he got when he was closing in on a financial trail, readying for the kill. He closed his eyes, sensed the data shifting, so many bits and pieces, a pattern almost discernible just beneath the surface.

Behind him David stirred in the silk sheets, exhausted from the day’s travails. “Are you coming to bed?”

“Our guest is clearly not who I thought he was,” René said, watching the snow shape-shift outside. “But I think he’s something even bigger than I imagined.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” René said, finally turning. The rungs of David’s stomach muscles stood out like something artificial, something poured from a mold. René was surprised by how little the sight aroused him. His office awaited. There were queries to be made, baited hooks to be tossed into the Deep Web. He walked past David, heading for the door. “But I’m going to start digging.”

The women’s bathroom in Mexico City International Airport smelled of disinfectant and Montezuma’s revenge. Candy wet a wad of paper towels in the sink and retreated behind a stall door. She peeled off her shirt and bra, the fabric clinging to her burn scars, then gingerly patted her weeping back with the damp towels. She allowed herself to grit her teeth but did not make a noise.

Relief was relative.

The pain was so constant that she sometimes forgot it was there. But not after an eighteen-hour flight spent leaning against a scratchy polyester seat cover.

Sitting next to Jaggers had only added to the agony. She hated everything about him. His stink. His jaundiced skin that under the yellow glow of the reading light looked like dried papaya. How he sucked his teeth after eating instead of using a toothpick.

The way he’d killed a beautiful young fawn of a Tatar girl who’d only walked into the alley to see if they needed help.

That the mission had proved to be a dead end only added to Candy’s frustration. They’d laid over in Amsterdam already and would now enter the U.S. from the south, a not-worth-noticing commuter flight from Mexico City to San Diego. She was willing to endure any amount of hellacious travel and the myriad discomforts that came with it as long as the journey held the faintest glimmer of hope for catching Orphan X. She’d forge through fire and brimstone to get a crack at his untarnished flesh.

That’s why she hated return flights. They spelled failure.

She finished patting down her back and let the paper towels drop to the floor. Hanging her head, she eased a breath through her teeth. The air cooled the moist skin, a momentary break from the itching, the burn.

Putting her shirt back on would be unpleasant. Gathering her will, she stared at the bra wrapped around her clenched fist.

All her training, and here she was nearly vanquished by a 34D in a bathroom stall.

A boarding announcement for her flight echoed through the bathroom. She readied herself to finish dressing.

A vibration in her jeans caught her attention, the punk rendition of “I’m Every Woman.”

Excitement licked up her spine.

She clicked TALK, held the phone to her cheek.

“I HAVE made YOUR next RESERVation.”

“Already?”

“You HAVE to EAT WHILE the meal IS HOT.”

“Gladly,” she said. “How hot is this particular meal?”

“PIPING.”

The lick of excitement turned to a tremor.

“PARTICULARS to follow,” spoke the chorus, and then Van Sciver clicked off.

Grinning, Candy slid the phone back into her pocket. She pulled on her shirt and shoved through the stall door. On her way out of the bathroom, she dumped her bra in the trash.

After all, this called for a celebration.