Dark Time: Mortal Path (16 page)

Maliha eyed the package uneasily.

“Oh.” The blood drained from the manager’s face as he picked up on the expression on her face.

“Oh. You weren’t expecting this package, were you? Shall I contact the bomb squad, Ms. Winters?”

M
aliha took the crudely wrapped box from the hotel manager. She’d rather have her steady hands holding it than his nervous ones. Plus, if the situation called for it, she could run a lot faster than he could to get the box away from the crowded hotel lobby.

“What did this man look like?”

“Tall, thin, mid-twenties, dressed…dressed casually for this area, if you get my drift. Actually, he looked like a bum. I assumed he was an undercover cop. He did flash a badge, though I didn’t get a good look at it. I wouldn’t have disturbed you otherwise.”

A homeless man had been hired to deliver the package. Maliha glanced around the lobby.

Too many cameras here for the stalker to show his face.

“It’s okay. I was expecting a package, but I thought it would be sent to my home. I was just surprised to see it here. Don’t worry about a thing.”

It sounded trumped up to her, but since it was exactly what the manager wanted to hear, he nodded.

Holding the package as casually as she dared, she asked the manager to have her car brought around.

She put the package carefully on the passenger seat, slipped behind the wheel, and eased out on to the street.

She drove to the parking lot of a beach in Chicago’s system of lakefront parks. Deserted at night but smaller than she would have liked, the park was her best prospect for getting away from crowds. She called the police and requested a bomb squad intervention. Her claim was credible since she was a literary celebrity, and she didn’t have long to wait.

The package was examined by a track-footed robot and determined to be harmless. A technician approached in full gear, despite the robot’s affirmations, and gently unwrapped the package. After a tense hour in the parking lot, Maliha was presented with an open box.

Inside was an index card with the now familiar
S
drawn boldly, and underneath it was a pair of her panties, skimpy, black, and lacy, with her initials embroidered on the band. She had a whole drawer full of them. The technician vacillated between amusement and annoyance at having been called out for a piece of underwear. Maliha muttered something about her boyfriend pulling a stupid trick and made a quick exit.

She drove with a steady hand, but inside she felt escalating anger and a horrible, chilling feeling of violation.

I might have been there when he came into the room. Sleeping like Ledger’s wife when I prowled
around her bedroom. I have to find this stalker and put an end to this.

She’d promised a late-night phone call to Randy, so she told her all about meeting Greg, and the outcome of the blind date, but didn’t mention the stalker’s unique way of communicating with her. She didn’t feel right hiding something from Randy, but Randy would insist on something inadvisable, like moving in with her until the bastard was caught.

“Is Greg handsome?”

“If you don’t look too deeply, yeah,” Maliha said, thinking of the nasty aura Greg had.

“Rich?”

“Enough. Besides, I don’t need any more.”

“Shut up! Nobody ever has enough money. Or things. What did he smell like?”

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2009-08-25 02:50

The question took Maliha by surprise. She had to go back over the moment she first met him and remember her impression. Her nostrils widened with the effort.

Cartier cologne, a sporty shampoo, something else…a trace of horsey scent, like a polo club.

“Like money.”

“You’re gonna end up in the sack.”

It’ll be a crowd. Him, me, and his aura.

“And when you do, I want a full report. But that’s just a little fling. Jake—he’s different. Wedding bells different.”

“How do you know that? You hardly know the guy.”

“All right, you wormed it out of me. It’s his horoscope. Astrology, baby! In fact, maybe you should dump Greg before anything heats up there. Clear the lanes for Jake, I mean. Now what is it that’s bothering you?”

“Um, nothing’s bothering me.”

“Uh-huh. This is Randy you’re talking to, girlfriend.”

Maliha said nothing.

“Gonna tough it out alone, huh? You’re not pregnant, are you? ’Cause if you are, we need to talk.”

“No, I’m not pregnant.”

“Greg didn’t get hinky on you, right?”

“No hinky stuff. Give me some time with this, okay?”

“You know I’m always here for you.”

She hung up without saying good-bye, a Randy trademark.

Lying in the dark, Maliha reviewed the jumble of recent events. Had Greg executed two coders and left their bodies in the alley near trash bins? Nothing in his aura precluded it, and Amaro was certain Nando and Hairy had worked for him.

Was it Greg covering his tracks on something he didn’t want common knowledge? The next
generation of control switches, ready to sweep the, uh, control-switch market? If the two coders had
gone behind Amaro’s back for lucrative contracts, why wouldn’t they betray ShaleTech corporate
secrets? Greg could easily have been suspicious.

The box with her panties in it kept drifting into her mind, but she pushed it firmly away.

Diane Harvey’s aura had revealed that she was ambitious, deceitful, and angry about the lawsuit.

Could she have ordered the deaths because the coders knew too much and millions of dollars were at
stake? Money is behind so many deaths. Corporate development secrets, damaging lawsuits. Take your
pick.

And then there was Jake. He was witty and nice to be around, in addition to radiating sex appeal like a supernova. Something else, too—she felt a real connection to him, and she couldn’t pinpoint why. She hadn’t examined his aura, and wasn’t sure if she wanted to. It might spoil the instant attraction she’d felt toward him.

Maliha finally gave in to thinking about the package she’d received, and what it meant—that some hand had pawed through her things, her
private
things. She wondered when it had happened.

Was I here when he came?

As an assassin, she’d used drugs to keep occupants of a home from being aware of her. Could she have been drugged and didn’t even remember it? She sat up and clicked on the lamp beside the bed. She was in her thirty-ninth-floor condo. She was relieved to see her knife on the nightstand.

What else could he have taken?

Once the thought came into her mind, she couldn’t let go of it. She turned on all the lights and searched the whole condo from top to bottom. Nothing was gone except one pair of black panties.

She’d dealt with stalkers in her long life, but there was something sinister about this one. She had a feeling she was being set up for something, but what?

Maliha slept uneasily and dreamed of one of Rabishu’s cages squeezing the life out of her, over and over.

2009-08-25 02:50

F
riday evening carried a touch of the winter to come. Only a couple of degrees kept the rain from being sleet, and a robust wind drove it nearly sideways. Maliha resisted the urge to run to Jake’s apartment in the McKinley Park neighborhood for the dinner date, and took a taxi instead.

Better to arrive dry when having dinner at a guy’s place. Saves awkward questions.

His place was on the second story of a four-flat building a couple of blocks from the neighborhood’s namesake park. She asked the taxi driver to let her off at the park.

“You sure, lady? Too dark for park.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Just in time for her arrival, the rain stopped and the clouds began breaking up. She had some time to kill and spent it walking through the park to the lagoon. Wet leaves glistened on the path and pale light danced on the water of the lagoon as the wind sent ripples across the surface.

She wondered how the evening at Jake’s would end.

Could be nothing but a dull meal and a peck on the cheek. We each take the off ramp.

Remembering the intensity of the kiss in Al’s Beef and the feel of his body pressing against hers, she didn’t think the night would end with a chaste kiss. She had a happy, almost giddy feeling thinking about his arms wrapped around her, and wondered if what she was feeling was love. It had been so long since she’d fallen in love with her husband, Nathan, that she wasn’t sure she’d recognize what it felt like.

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

Calm down. You’re starting to sound like a girl with her first crush.

As she walked the few blocks to Jake’s apartment, the rain picked up again and she pulled up the hood on her jacket. She wasn’t going to arrive dry after all. She found the streets to be quiet. No drug deals, no prostitutes, no gangs. Yet he’d warned her that his neighborhood wasn’t what she was used to.

The rain must be keeping people off the streets. Or crime has taken the night off.

Out of the corner of her eye, Maliha caught movement in an alley. Not all suspicious activity had been snuffed out by the rain. Her hand slid into her jacket pocket and cradled the round palm pistol she carried there. The seven-round turret revolver had been a gift from its French designer in the 1880s. It was an antique firearm now, but she’d kept it in its original condition and ordered custom-made ammunition for it. It had the stopping power of a peashooter, but she intended it only as a distraction until she could put some other weapon—or her bare hands—to use. The entire pistol could be concealed in her hand with the barrel barely projecting out. To fire it, she squeezed her hand. It had gained a reputation as an assassin’s gun, especially at close range. More than once Maliha had extended her hand in greeting with the barrel poked between her fingers.

In the bad old days.

Now, though, the pistol was strictly for defense, and was ideal for taking on a date that might end in taking off clothing. Most men wouldn’t consider a whip sword or knife sheaths or a shoulder holster as attractive feminine accessories.

The door opened to reveal Jake looking relaxed and pleased to see her. Delicious smells wafted out the door, luring her in with gustatory anticipation.

“Come on in,” Jake said warmly. “Jesus, you’re sopping wet. Get in here in front of the fireplace.”

She pulled the gift she’d brought out of the jacket pocket that didn’t contain the gun. It was a beautiful box of marzipan, a hand-painted fruit assortment from Italy. Jake wanted to sample the goods now.

“They’re for dessert.”

“Good, since I didn’t make any. Unless you consider a package of cookies from the local c-store as gourmet fare.”

“Are they Oreo Double Stufs?”

“Sadly, no.”

He hung up her jacket. The small extra weight of the palm pistol in its pocket didn’t draw his attention. He guided her to a comfortable sofa next to a crackling fire. His place had small, tidy rooms, a kitchen, dining room, and living room in sight and a hallway that presumably led to the bedroom area. The fireplace was a luxury in an otherwise utilitarian space. The neighborhood had working-class roots. The fireplaces in use in the mid–19th century for heating would probably have been walled over when radiators arrived on the scene. She was pleased that his fireplace had survived.

“It smells great in here,” she said. He’d tucked a throw around her legs. The throw felt nice and 55 z 138

2009-08-25 02:50

smelled even better, a combination of male scent and the smell of seasoned wood burning cleanly.

“Beef stroganoff. You’re not vegetarian, are you?”

“Nope.”

“It’s my mom’s recipe. Only thing I know how to cook that doesn’t come frozen or gets zapped in the microwave.”

The more relaxed Jake got, the handsomer he seemed to Maliha. When he was on the job, he probably wore his professionalism like a suit of armor. She didn’t blame him. She had her own armor, times three: the real steel kind, the protective sphere of her hand-to-hand combat skills, and the defensive shield around her heart.

Why him? After all these years of protecting myself from serious relationships, why do I feel I’m on
the verge of one here?

Jake chatted with her about everything from current politics to the new exhibit at the Art Institute as he worked in the kitchen. She fingered the jade cameo necklace she wore, her own profile carved in 18th-century China—a piece that would fit right in with the current exhibit. He shared her appreciation for fine things, even though he was limited to viewing them in museums rather than possessing them.

He’d go crazy if he saw my forty-eighth-floor collection. A chance to hold history in your hand.

“Jake, you don’t talk much about your job. How do you feel about it?”

Geez, that was subtle.

“I love my work. Remember the
Justice League
comics?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “I used to get them used. Never did get my hands on the 1960 debut. Anyway, I knew that’s what I wanted to be part of. I couldn’t be a superhero, but I could still bring the bad guys to justice. Sounds sappy, huh?”

She shook her head. “What’s sappy about saving lives?”

He pointed at her. “See, you get it. Lots of women out there don’t. Can’t cope with a guy whose life doesn’t revolve around them.”

Passionate about work—check.

He joined her on the sofa, bringing a glass of wine for each of them.

“About half an hour left until dinner. I thought we’d get an early start on the grape juice.”

Maliha rarely drank just for the hell of it, but she enjoyed wine with meals and an occasional Samuel Adams Irish Red or two.

He held his glass out toward hers for a toast. “Those who love deeply never grow old.”