Dancing on the Wind (51 page)

while shaving—sometimes on purpose just to watch the cut close almost instantly and

sometimes just to feel the slight tinge of pain the blade brought. It was the only thing he

felt within the numb cocoon in which he’d been wrapped.

Leaning closer to the mirror over the vanity, he looked at his bloodshot eyes,

surprised his hellion hadn’t eliminated them. Not that he gave a rat’s ass. He felt as

though he had sand particles beneath his eyelids and his mouth tasted brutally of iron.

What was a thread or two of broken whatevers in his fucking eyeballs?

“You should be dead, Fallon,” he told his reflection. He cocked his head to one side.

“
Why
aren’t you dead?”

He felt dead, he thought as he turned from the mirror and limped over to the bed to

pick up his suit coat. As he bent over, he realized he hadn’t put on either a belt or his

shoes. It seemed like too much, too hard a thing to do, so he plopped down on the

mattress and just stared at his stocking feet, wiggling the toes on his left foot then

wincing when he wiggled the toes on his right.

“It’s not right,” he mumbled. “Just not right. I should not be here.”

Sometime during the early morning—he’d been woken by loud thunder and some

deadly serious shrieks of lightning. He’d wedged his eyes open, blinked, and wondered

how the hell he’d come to be in his room at the Exchange wearing only a pair of boxer

shorts. The last thing he remembered was sitting at Mike’s Bar in Grinnell, and he was

pretty fucking sure he’d been wearing more than a pair of boxers that smelled

suspiciously rank. Not that Mike had a dress code but even so…

He lifted his head and stared at the dragon head’s cane he had decided to use

instead of the godawful crutches. The thing had been in the back of his closet for years

and he’d had to rummage for it before taking his shower that morning. There was only

one thing wrong with the cane—he had to be careful with it for in its tip was a razor-

sharp blade. It was an assassin’s tool and he’d only used it once. He hadn’t been

helpless then as he was now.

“Helpless and hopeless and useless,” he said aloud.

Sighing deeply, he got to his feet and made his way to the closet to retrieve a pair of

black loafers. There was no way he could tie a pair of dress shoes on his swollen right

foot. The loafers would have to do. Keenan would understand.

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Dancing on the Wind

Just the thought of her name was enough to make him want to throw himself on the

bed and bawl like a baby. He was barely holding it together as it was and he was afraid

the funeral was going to pitch him right over the edge. Thankfully she had left

instructions in the living will on file at the Exchange that she wanted no wake, no

rosary said. Organs harvested if possible, and if not, a simple graveside service and

quick burial in a plain oaken casket. She wanted no pomp and circumstance, no gaudy

show of grief, no casket open for viewing, no frills.

“Celebrate my life,” they told him she’d said. “Don’t mourn my death.”

“Ain’t gonna happen,
lhiannan
,” he said. “I’ll mourn you ’til the day I die.”

Moaning as he bent over to pick up his shoes, he had to grab the closet door to keep

from pitching headfirst into it. He pivoted and unearthly pain ripped through his knee.

He sucked in his breath and nearly heaved up the two containers of Sustenance he’d

forced himself to drink. The tenerse was slowly curing the hangover, but it hadn’t done

anything to alleviate the bitching headache.

Straightening took some effort, but he finally got both legs to lock and grunted his

way over to the bed to sit down again.

He needed help. God, how he needed help, but there was no one to ask.

“I need you so much, baby,” he said, and tears welled in his eyes—tears he

viciously wiped away.

Forcing his feet into the shoes, twisting his right ankle savagely and reveling in the

shooting pain that flared up his thigh, he stood, plucked the belt from where it hung

over the footboard of his bed and thrust it through the loops of his suit pants, cursing

the entire time, fumbling with the buckle.

“Fucking fingers!” he shouted. “Why don’t you work?”

He held his hands up and stared at them. They were trembling like an old drunk’s.

“Shit,” he spat, and snatched his coat from the bed and swung it around his

shoulders, staggering a little as he almost lost his balance. With his jaw tight, he limped

over and retrieved the cane and—leaning heavily upon it—left the only sanctuary he’d

ever known.

* * * * *

She was there already seated in the front row with her black dress, tidy little

fashionable hat with a black veil. Now and again she lifted a black-gloved hand to push

a lace handkerchief beneath the veil. She nodded politely to those who came to speak to

her, touched the hands of those who offered and smiled graciously as though she had

every right to be the center of attention at her daughter’s funeral.

Goddamn bitch
, Fallon thought as he stared at the back of Lily McCullough’s head.

She turned—no doubt feeling his hatred—and gave him a withering look. Her

green eyes were as frigid as the tundra of Siberia. She made it clear she hated him, but

he already knew that. He hated her even more.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

At least Lily hadn’t gotten her way concerning where Keenan would be buried.

Among the dozens of forms Keenan had filled out upon coming to work with the

Exchange had been one designating the disposal of her remains should she die while on

duty. She had been given a choice of cremation, body donated to science, cryogenic

preservation or place of burial. She had checked Iowa and her wishes had been fulfilled.

Why she’d chosen Iowa instead of her native Georgia would go to the grave with her.

“Would you like to sit with us?” the Supervisor asked.

“No,” Fallon replied, shaking his head. “I’ll stand.”

“You’d be more comfortable sitting, Misha,” the Supervisor tried again. “I’ll sit

between you and her mother.”

“I’d rather stand.”

And so he had.

After that, everything passed in a blur—all leading up to the moment he found

himself facedown on the Terrazzo floor with security agents bending over him—cuffing

him—and the startling words he heard coming out of his own mouth.

“She’s alive!
She’s alive
!”

* * * * *

The Supervisor’s assistant gave Fallon a pitying look as he handed the Reaper a

glass of Irish whiskey. As quietly as he’d entered the Supervisor’s office, the little man

left, closing the door very gently behind him.

Fallon slugged back the whiskey as though it were water then set the glass on the

edge of the Supervisor’s desk. He used the back of his hand to wipe his lips. The man

was sitting with his fingers steepled, studying his operative with a stony look that said

he thought serious intervention might be in order.

“She’s alive,” Fallon repeated.

“What makes you think so?” the Supervisor asked softly.

“Because I know she’s not dead.”

The answer brought a fierce scowl to the Supervisor’s face. “Not good enough.

You’re asking me to exhume a body we just buried because you didn’t feel Keenan

McCullough die, though you do admit to feeling a sharp pain. I need a better reason

than that.”

Fallon was battling with himself, striving to remain calm even as he wanted to

scream, to shout and to punch the man across the desk in his face to get him to

understand. He had already been brought to his knees with his hands shackled behind

him and a doctor threatening to shoot him full of tenerse if he didn’t calm down. He

didn’t need any more of that if he wanted to be taken seriously. Even though every

instinct shrieked at him to get in a car, go to the cemetery and dig the casket up with his

bare hands, he forced himself to sit like a civilized man and explain himself rationally.

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Dancing on the Wind

“Matty Groves is missing,” he told the Supervisor.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“And I’ll be willing to bet if you call down to the forensics, you’ll find out Dr. P. has

left the building. Permanently.”

The Supervisor blinked. “And she would do this why exactly?”

“Because it is her signature on the death certificate identifying the body on the

Island as being Keenan’s when it isn’t.” Fallon sat forward eagerly and had to remind

himself to go slowly, not to sound like a raving lunatic. “No one other than the

mortician handled that body. Dr. P. wouldn’t let anyone near it down on the Island.

What better way to hide the corpse’s real identity. She is also Groves’ lover.”

The Supervisor ignored the last comment. “What is the real identity, Misha?”

Fallon shook his head in exasperation. “How the hell would I know? Some woman

with the right body build, hair and eye color as Keenan.”

“And who just happens to be McCullough’s identical twin?”

“No, not her twin, but a woman with Keenan’s face,” Fallon stated. “A face built

from Keenan’s DNA. A face constructed by a man who is a talented plastic surgeon and

biogenetics engineer.”

“Do you know how farfetched that sounds, Fallon?” the Supervisor challenged.

“Groves bragged about it!” Fallon said. “He told Keenan and me that he was

working up a facial replica. He called it a living mask. He hinted he had used Keenan’s

blood and tissue for the model
.”
He put his clenched hand on the Supervisor’s desk.

“You can’t tell me you don’t already have cybots or clones or whatever the fuck you call

them working here. I know goddamned well you do!”

The Supervisor narrowed his eyes. “You know nothing of the sort.”

“Call Dr. P.,” Fallon insisted. “See if she’s here.”

The Supervisor said nothing for a moment then swiveled his chair slightly, his

fingertips still pressed together. “She left for her vacation this morning.”

“Convenient, huh? You’ve seen the last of her. She won’t be back,” Fallon said, eyes

bright. “She’s on her way to meet Groves.”

“And where
is
Groves?”

A tight smile that did not reach his eyes tugged at Fallon’s face. “I don’t know right

offhand but…” He held up a hand when his boss would have interrupted. “But the

place was christened St. Brisa by Keenan’s mother although Keenan says it is under

another name on maps of the region.”

“Which is where?”

“Along the Brazilian coast,” Fallon replied. “Somewhere below Salvador

International is my guess.”

“Why do you think that’s where Groves is?”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“That’s where Keenan is too,” Fallon declared. “And where her mother is headed. It

is an island with mountains on which there are mounted cannons. Keenan called it a

modern-day pirate stronghold. She said it had as much security as the Island. I’m also

guessing that island would be rich in iron ore and that would aid in helping block

efforts to locate Matty and Roland.”

“Your mother believes they are wearing some kind of suppression collar,” the

Supervisor said.

“They probably are, but the iron ore in those mountains would be an additional

benefit to keep anyone with psi powers from locking in on their target.”

Lacing his fingers together, the Supervisor stared at Fallon a long time then took a

deep breath, released it slowly. He leaned forward to depress the button on the

intercom.

“Yes sir?” Jonas Cobb immediately asked.

“Get a forensic team out to the cemetery and have them exhume the casket we

buried this morning. Tell them Agent Fallon and I are on our way out there and they

are not—I repeat—they are not to unseal the casket until we arrive.”

“Yes sir!”

“Is Agent McCullough’s mother still here?”

“No sir. She left for the airfield in Newton as soon as the dinner was over.”

“Call the airfield and tell them I want to see a copy of the flight plan filed by her

pilot.”

“Right away, sir!”

“And call research. Tell them I want the name and location of any land owned by

Lilith McCullough among the islands off the coast of South America, specifically

Brazil.”

The Supervisor released the intercom button then pushed his chair back. “All right,

Fallon. Let’s see if what you’re surmising has any basis in fact or if I’m going to be

forced to put your ass in the mental ward!”

* * * * *

“Open it,” the Supervisor said.

It didn’t take long for the forensics team to break the seal on the casket. A slight pop

and a low hiss sounded then the upper lid was lifted and laid back.

Fallon swallowed hard then stepped closer. He had not been allowed to get that

good a look at the body on the bed, but the resemblance to Keenan had been strong

enough that he had accepted—if not believed—that the body was hers. The devastation

caused by what Dr. P. had reported was a 9 mm hollow-point bullet to the back of the

victim’s head had done so much damage that it was that destruction that caught the eye

and imprinted itself on the brain.

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“What are we looking for, sir?” one of the forensic men asked. He was shivering,

his hair plastered to his cheeks, lips trembling.