Dancing on the Wind (2 page)

his license number and knew he was one of the Crew. She was afraid of him, afraid of

what he might do, not sure she could handle him on her own.

“Good afternoon, Officer,” he said.

“What’s the hurry, Mr. Fallon?” she asked, confirming she had already run his tag.

“No reason, ma’am,” he replied. “Just flat-out stupidity.”

“Do you know how fast you were going?”

“Not fast enough to slide in under your radar,” he said dryly, and heard her snort.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Not yet, but I was headed that way,” he replied honestly.

“You could have killed somebody driving like that,” she reminded him. “Or

yourself.”

He shrugged indifferently.

“Please take the key out of the ignition and give it to me,” she ordered.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Excuse me?” he said, surprise showing in his eyes.

“I ran your plate and was told to bring you down to the Exchange,” she replied. “So

please take the key out of the ignition and hand it over, sir.”

For a split second he almost balked at the order, but he didn’t want to cause the

trooper any problems. He did as he was told although it went against the grain and

made a muscle clench in his jaw.

“Now please follow me to my car,” she said after he had hit the button to raise the

window and she pocketed his keys. She stepped back to allow him to exit. “Be sure to

lock the doors. It would be a shame for someone to come along and steal a piece of

prime machinery like that.”

He couldn’t have cared less about the car. If it had been his bike he had taken to the

funeral, that was different, but he couldn’t ride the Harley VBSC with his leg torn up so

he’d been forced to take the Porsche. To him it was transportation—expensive

transportation but nothing more. It meant less to him than the splatters of mud on the

cuff of his trousers, but he leaned over to retrieve his cane, opened the door, engaged

the lock button and got out. It had stopped raining but the wind had picked up, tossing

his dark hair into his eyes as he limped behind her to the cruiser. He went around to the

passenger door and got in, holding the cane between his knees.

“They’ll have your car brought down to the Exchange, sir,” she said.

“That’s damned white of them,” he said.

“They take care of their own I hear,” she commented as she started the cruiser.

“Yep,” he agreed. “They even tuck us in bed at night.”

She smiled. “With warm milk and a cookie if you’ve been good?”

“Something like that,” he agreed, liking her sarcasm.

“Were you close to Miss McCullough?” she asked as she hung a U-ee and headed

back the way they’d come. Asking that question, he knew she’d been told where his

race had started.

“She was my partner,” he said softly, and clenched his hands so hard it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Yeah, so am I,” he agreed, and turned his head to look out the window beside him,

hoping she’d say nothing else, ask no more questions, make no more comments. To

ensure her silence, he leaned his head against the cool glass and closed his eyes. He

could feel her gaze on him but she remained quiet as she headed for the Exchange.

Ten minutes later they were passing the turnoff that led into the cemetery. He

didn’t look that way though he was aware of cars waiting in line to pull out on the

highway. The ceremony was over. The goodbyes had been said. The mourners were

going home, the wet earth being piled into Keenan McCullough’s grave. Once more the

debilitating pain shot through him and he wrapped his arms around himself to keep

from bellowing with rage.

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Dancing on the Wind

“I lost a partner when I was with Metro,” she said in an understanding voice. “It

gets better.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

The highway curved sharply to the left and suddenly in front of them was the mile

upon mile of electrified fence topped with razor wire, the hooked barbs glinting in the

sweep of the cruiser’s headlights. They passed five miles of the ultra-maximum security

barrier before the turnoff to the Exchange and the titanium-sheathed guard kiosk

bracketed by twin heavy-duty gates.

“This place has security as tight as Ft. Knox,” the trooper commented.

“Tighter,” Fallon mumbled.

“What exactly do you guys do out here?” she asked, cutting a side glance to him. “I

know its all top secret government stuff and all.” When he didn’t answer, she looked at

him again. “Black ops, maybe?”

Fallon returned her gaze. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

The trooper grinned, but when he didn’t echo the expression, she allowed it to fade.

“You’re not joking, are you?”

He looked away. “Nope.”

They were nearing the security kiosk and the trooper was slowing down. Through

the bullet-proof windows, he saw the four guards who controlled the entry and

departure from the Exchange staring out at them. Two heavily armed men came out of

the security kiosk as the trooper rolled down her window. One came to the driver side

while the other skirted the front of the cruiser and headed for the passenger side. In that

man’s hand was a small oval-shaped device.

“I’m bringing Mr. Fallon in,” she told the guard.

The guard did not reply as he leaned down to look at the trooper’s passenger.

“How’s it going, Mr. Fallon?” he asked.

“Just peachy,” came the bitter reply. He rolled down his window and turned to the

second guard.

It was a retinal scanner the guard held in his hand, and the device was placed to

Mikhail Fallon’s right eye for a few seconds then removed when three beeps sounded.

“Welcome back, sir,” the guards said, stepping back to escort a crisp salute.

“Yeah, home sweet home,” Fallon drawled. “May it be ever so humble.”

“Mr. Fallon will direct you to his quarters, Officer,” the guard beside the trooper’s

window stated as he raised a hand.

The security gate in front of the cruiser engaged with a dull clank and began to

slide back slowly.

“Thanks,” the trooper said. She drove into the sprawling compound with a look of

awe on her young face, glancing in the rearview mirror as the gate rolled shut behind

them. “Man, I’ve never been out here before.”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“You haven’t missed anything,” Fallon told her.

“Just the most secure installation on earth,” she said.

“That and a dollar will get you a cup of coffee,” he quipped, turning his head to

watch the mile or so of barren land by which they passed. For as far as the eye could see

there was not one tree, shrub or rock behind which a trespasser could hide. The

grounds were patrolled by armed guards with vicious security dogs and by flyovers at

odd times during the day and night. Over the compound was a no-fly zone that was

strictly enforced.

She did exactly as he expected she would when the main building came into view—

she whistled, eyes wide.

“Mother of God,” she muttered.

“Special, ain’t it?” he asked.

Situated in the center of a pristine white landscape of crushed marble, the black

glass three-story building resembled a crouching behemoth, its front legs curved

inward, paws not quite touching. On the top floor, two gleaming red lights pulsing off

and on gave the impression of blinking eyes glaring back at the viewer. Twin

communications obelisks in the center of the roofline looked like pointed ears and the

jutting gravity-defying extension pushing out from the middle floor could have passed

for a wicked snout, its twin windows the nostrils. In the gloom of the rain-washed day,

the Exchange looked as menacing as it had always felt to Fallon.

“That is something else,” the trooper marveled.

“It’s hell on earth,” Fallon said beneath his breath then lifted a hand to point to his

right. “Take that street.”

She took him to a building just beyond the Exchange. Curved into an arch, the four-

story dormitory faced the main compound, connected to the Exchange by an elevated

monorail system that ran through the back of the Exchange and then on to the

maintenance complex that was a mirror construction of the arched dorm building. The

twin buildings made Fallon think of an enormous egg that had been cracked open to

eject the monster that was the Exchange. The dark-red brick walkways that connected

the buildings were like bleeding arteries stretching out upon the stark white marble

stone.

Stopping the cruiser where he indicated, she turned toward him as he opened the

door with a gruff thanks for the lift. He had trouble getting out since his bad leg was

hurting like hell. He had to hang on to the top of the door for a moment before he could

straighten.

“Mr. Fallon?” she called out to him, and he bent over to look at her through the

opened door. “It does get better.”

He nodded then straightened, slammed the door, pivoted around carefully then

headed for the dorm. As he walked, he felt her watching him until he heard the growl

of the cruiser’s engine as she drove away. His shoulders relaxed. He’d never liked to be

watched—especially by someone he didn’t know.

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Dancing on the Wind

“Why am I still alive?” he muttered to himself as he neared the dorm entrance.

The doorkeeper of the dormitory from long acquaintance with Fallon did not greet

him. Nor did the man turn his head to watch when Fallon bypassed the elevator and

shoved the stairway door open. It was a given the stairs would be taken and not the

claustrophobic cage. No matter how much it hurt or how long it took, he would take the

stairs.

Fallon was in agony and winded by the time he reached the fourth floor and

snatched open the door. He took three steps to the right then stopped. For a long

moment he just stood there bracing himself on the cane with his head down then turned

around, limping along the east corridor and toward quarters that were not his own.

At this time of day, there should be no one lurking about the dorms. Those who

worked at the Exchange were over there or else on assignment. The mourners would be

going to the meal prepared for them at McCauley’s. Maid service would have already

finished for the day. He rationalized that he most likely had the entire floor to himself.

Getting into Keenan’s quarters wasn’t hard. He knew her personal code and

punched it in without a second thought. When the door shushed open, he stood just

beyond the threshold for a complete sweep of his watch’s second hand before finally

gathering up the courage to cross over into the great room. The door closed soundlessly

behind him, shutting him into a room that still bore the weight of her aura.

He was sweating, but it wasn’t from the pain or exertion that had carried him up

the stairs. Lifting a hand to scrub at his face, he realized it was shaking again. Instead,

he plowed it through his damp hair before lowering it to clench at his side, tightening

the other hand around the cane’s handle. His heart was pounding brutally, his blood

racing. A sour taste had risen in his throat to choke him and once again there was a hot

stinging behind his eyes. He shook his head to clear his thoughts then shrugged out of

the raincoat that seemed to be weighing him down. He let it drop to the floor, jamming

his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he swept his gaze around the room.

“Why?” he asked aloud. “Why am I alive?”

Everywhere he looked he saw her heart in the decoration of this space that had once

been so impersonal before she put her stamp of simple elegance to it. From the soft

white muslin curtains at the windows to the green-and-white-gingham upholstered

sofa and identical twin loveseats grouped around a low maple coffee table, the two

overstuffed dark green corduroy recliners flanking the gas fireplace, the country prints

on the walls and the pieces of occasional furniture done in the same rich maple wood,

the room was homey and comforting—a place to relax, unwind and recharge. The room

smelled of gardenia potpourri and lemon furniture polish, and the thick floral carpet

underfoot muffled his footsteps.

Going into the dining room, he wasn’t surprised that everything was in precise

order. That was the way she had liked it. Order reassured her. Clutter made her

nervous. Chaos disturbed her, offended her soul. The table was kept to a high sheen

with the floral arrangement precisely in the center and flanked by four crystal

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

candlesticks holding tall green tapers, the burgundy cushioned chairs sitting like

sentinels around it. Plain but expensive white china was housed in the chest cabinet and

upon the buffet were two tall candleholders with glass chimneys to either side of

another striking floral piece he knew she had created. The three pieces sat upon a long

lace doily she had purchased on a long-ago trip to Ireland. In one corner of the room

was a small antique cabinet with punched copper panels she used as a bar, and lining it

was exquisite crystal decanters in myriad styles and shapes. A little inlaid tray with a

rolled wicker edge held a Depression glass decanter filled with plum brandy and four

delicate snifters.

He looked up at the chandelier that hung over the table and half smiled. He’d been