Hidden Things (16 page)

“Sure. That's why
you're
the one that slammed
him
against the wall.”

He scowled. “You manage to make your worth to me questionable through the simple act of speaking.”

“It's a talent.” She stood and crossed her arms. “Prove you can do the stuff you're talking about.”

Faegos glanced at his companion. “You certainly don't expect me to follow through on my side of the arrangement when you cannot do likewise; goods neither seen nor inspected make a poor payment.”

Calliope shook her head, her movements slow and deliberate. “No. Prove you can even do it at all. Doesn't have to be Joshua, just do it.” She pointed, without looking, at Vikous's still form. “Fix that.”

Like Calliope, Faegos did not so much as glance in the direction she was pointing. “You must be joking.”

Calliope merely raised an eyebrow.

Faegos shook his head. “What you ask is essentially the benefit of my largesse twice for a single cost to yourself.” He shook his finger again. “I think you are trying to trick me.”

“You're getting your money's worth out of this.”

He leaned back and folded his hands on his lap. “Explain to me how this is.”

“This is how you convince me not to spite you,” Calliope said. Her eyes and voice were clear. “You said you wouldn't let me out of here if I didn't agree to the deal.” She leaned forward slightly, as if she were talking to a child. “I don't need Josh alive if I'm dead, do I?”

Faegos watched her for some time without moving; except for the wetness of his eyes, he might have been a dead thing left sitting in the blasted café for an age, long since dried to a husk. Finally he shifted, destroying the illusion with the ease of his movements as he dropped to the floor and wandered into the corner where Vikous lay.

“Such a petulant request, my dear,” Faegos said, affecting the air of a disappointed teacher. He seemed distracted for a moment, as though listening to a fainter sound in the distance, then turned back to her. “We would have an agreement then? Provided, of course, I can prove myself to your satisfaction?”

Calliope shoved her doubts to the back of her mind. “Sure, yeah. I can't miss what I've never had, right?”

Faegos's toothless mouth curved into a smile that could never have been comforting or friendly. “As you say,” he murmured, then: “Never mention this to your truculent companion.”

“Why not?” Calliope asked.

 

“Why not what?” Vikous said from his side of their booth.

Calliope could only stare. Finally, her eyes still wide, she managed to force out a reply. “Umm. Nothing. Daydreaming.”

Vikous watched her for a moment, his eyes narrowed, then turned to look over the sparsely populated diner. “I'm starving. Where's the food?”

Calliope tensed, but nothing happened.

Eventually, the waitress brought their orders. Calliope ate in silence.

Joshua White pulls on his jacket as he exits a downtown skyscraper. The sun is bright, and he fumbles for his sunglasses with one hand, his cell phone with the other.

He will be dead in six days.

“Calli? This is Josh. You don't need to call me when you get this, I just wanted to let you know that I'm going out of town for a few days on a case, so if you need to get hold of me, call. My signal might be crap most of the time, though, so leave a message if you don't get me and we'll play phone tag.” He glances over his shoulder and up at the building looming behind, wondering if the man he has just spoken to is watching the street. “I'll call and let Lauren know what's going on so we don't have a repeat of the Seattle thing. See you soon. Be safe.”

He looks back up at the glass and steel of the skyscraper. There is no question in his mind that he is being watched, or by whom.

There is also no doubt as to why, but Joshua tries very, very hard not to think about that.

“Red rover, red rover,” he murmurs, “send Joshua on over . . .”

11

“I'M GOING TO
make you a deal,” Vikous said.

Calliope flinched at the words. The morning light shone through the frost-crusted glass of the front windshield, burning at her gritty eyes as she sat in the driver's seat and waited for the gas to finish pumping. They had spent what was left of the night in a (different) cheap motel in (different) double-bed rooms. Calliope's night hadn't been either long or restful, and she still felt edgy and tense. She glared at Vikous's puzzled look. “What?”

He continued staring at her, then shook his head and let his gaze drop. “Nothing . . . you just . . . nothing.” He cleared his throat. “So . . . I have a deal to make with you.”

“I don't like deals much right now.”

“You'll probably like this one.”

“What is it?”

Vikous pulled back his hood, revealing the pasty skin of his face in the morning light in order to make eye-to-shiny-black-eye contact. “Give us about five hours of driving and we can crash in a decent place for the rest of the day and night.”

Calliope automatically opened her mouth to protest, then paused and conceded, “That . . . actually sounds pretty good.”

Vikous nodded. “I know someone who can help us out a little.”

“We won't be making ourselves late or something?”

Vikous laid a hand on his chest. “Trust the guide.”

Calliope jerked her head in agreement. “Okay, we can—” She cut herself off and peered at Vikous. “Wait, what's the other part?”

Vikous blinked, his eyes wide, which in no way lent him an air of innocence. “Whaddaya mean?”

“ ‘Deal' means I have to do something in return.”

“You won't mind. It's easy.”

Calliope's bloodshot eyes did not suggest trust.

“It's something we need to do anyway; I just want you to get some rest, all right?” Vikous started to pull his hood back up, but paused halfway. “All right? Trust the guide?”

The pump handle release
thumped
from outside the cab and the electronic display began to beep faintly. Calliope looked over her shoulder at the pump, then back to Vikous.

“Fine.” She pushed open the door and swung out of the seat. “As long as I can sleep for a while.”

“You and Mr. White both work in the same detective agency, Ms. Jenkins?”

Calliope is sitting in a chair in Lauren's office again, the glare through the office window turning both men into silhouettes. Only Special Agent Walker's eyes stand out—shining like lozenges of silver.

“Yes.”

“I see. Do you know the nature of this case?”

“Josh handled this one from the beginning. I only knew he was flying out of town, not where, and I knew when he thought he'd get back. I can check the office for records but I think he had all of them with him when he left.”

“You're familiar with the area Mr. White was found in.”

“Yes.”

“Was Mr. White?”

“ . . . not really.”

“Had he been in the region before?”

“When he was a kid, with his younger brother, yeah. Then once, later.”

Don't ask don't ask don't ask don't—

“What was the nature of that later visit?”

. . .

“Miss Jenkins?”

“He . . . I took him there.”

“For a case?”

“No. It was personal.”

“You took him to meet your family.”

“Yes.”

“Did they like him?”

“No.”

“Did they like you?”

Walker is smiling now, and his teeth glitter out of the darkness of the office.

“What?”

“Does your family like you? They don't, do they, Miss Jenkins?”

“No. Yes.”

“Which is it?”

“They don't like . . . some things. Didn't. Don't. I don't know.”

“Are they going to like your new boyfriend? The clown?”

“He's not my boyfriend, he's—”

“Will they like him?”

“They don't know him.”

“But you do. You've known the clown a long time, haven't you?”

“No.”

“Haven't you?”

 

She is standing at the very top of the blocky jungle gym. It's her favorite place to stand because she can see so much of the playground and everyone can see her. She's standing at the very top, on the little block of bars that sits on top of a larger block.

Joshua is at the other end of the playground, playing Red Rover with the other ki—

That's not right; Josh can't be here. We didn't know each other.

—she's singing. It's her favorite thing to do and she likes it very much. It makes her feel good and strong and warm. She can see Joshua is climbing up the jungle gym to her. He's shouting something at her, but Calliope just sings louder so that she doesn't have to hear it. Josh keeps climbing, keeps getting closer, and finally Calliope can hear him shouting to stop, to stop singing, to let someone else on top of the jungle gym.

Calliope gets mad. She wants to keep singing. It's the only thing she

has

wants to do. She reaches out with her foot and shoves and Josh falls back away from her.

Too far. Right out over the edge of the big block and down to the ground. He lands funny and when Calliope looks down, she can see a big sharp white thing poking out of his arm, and the skin curls back on both sides of the white thing like sheets of old paper.

That must be a bone,
Calliope thinks, but she keeps singing—keeps singing and doesn't come down until a teacher pulls her right off the jungle gym and carries her back into the school.

Across the playground, outside the fence, Calliope sees a man watching her be carried away, and it makes her feel bad. He looks familiar, so very familiar. Calliope is sure she would know who he was if his hood wasn't up. She can still see his shiny eyes, though—shining out of the hood, the same way Walker's shine in the dim of Lauren's office.

So familiar.

 

“You see, Miss Jenkins? You've known the clown a long time.”

“No.”

“Haven't you?”

“No. That wasn't
me
. That didn't happen to me.”

“It happened.”

“But it wasn't me. Someone
told
me about that happening. The pushing, the falling . . . all of that.”

“Really?”

“It was . . .” She frowns. She can almost remember. “It wasn't me.”

 

Calliope jerked awake.

“Calliope?” A knock on the door. “Calliope?”

She looked around the room, wide-eyed and trying to make sense of the strange, nonmotel surroundings.

“Calliope?”

“Yeah.” Her mouth tasted like something evil had died inside it. “Yeah, I'm up.”

“I thought we could go do this thing in a little bit.”

Calliope blinked, still groggy. “What thing?” she called back.

“The deal, remember the deal?” Vikous sounded as though he was at least trying to be patient.

“Right,” she said to herself, then called, louder, “Right. Give me a few.” She sat up on the edge of a twin bed Vikous's friend had made up for her.

So familiar . . .
The thought clung to the back of her mind, but Calliope couldn't remember why.

 

“You, ehh, you sleep all right? You get, ehh, a good, ahh, nap?”

Calliope smiled across the small table at their host. He was only a few inches taller than Faegos, but when it came to the man Vikous had introduced as Gerschon, all similarities to the vicious old man from the diner ended there. Their host moved around the room like a duck that had swallowed a bowling ball. His dark olive complexion was leathery, and his body sprouted tufts of wiry gray hair from any number of unlikely places. When he spoke in his worn and crackling voice, he paused frequently, struggling to think of the correct word and waving one or both of his hands around in random patterns, as if the perfect phrase were a mosquito he could swat out of the air and quickly pop into his mouth.

“I slept very well, thank you.” Calliope smiled and lied with equal ease. “I'm glad that Vikous knew someone nearby who was so caring and helpful.”

“Oh, heh heh, you are . . . ehh, kind, I think.” The older man chuckled, obviously pleased, and reached back for a steaming pot on the stove, lifting it by its bare wire handle and carrying it over to the table. “I, ahh, make the coffee? You?” He raised the pot by way of an offer.

Calliope smiled and meant it this time. “Yes, please.”

He chuckled. “You kids and your coffee, eh? Always
go go go
.” He poured. The powerful scent washed over Calliope as she raised the cup.

“It smells strong.” She took a careful drink and grimaced, though she tried not to. “It
is
strong.” She smiled at his concerned look. “It's all right. I like it strong.”

Gerschon smiled. “Ahh, tha's good. Vikous wanted you . . . ehh, bright-eyed for the . . . ehh, visit my club, no?”

Calliope took another sip from the cup. “I guess so.”

Gerschon nodded, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. “He, ahh, Vikous”—his thick accent turned the name into
Vee-koosh
—“he is a good—” Gerschon said some word Calliope couldn't quite understand. “You are lucky, ehh, I think.”

Calliope shook her head. “I'm sorry, I don't know that word. Gregory? Gree-
gor-
ie? Is that his name? Another nickname for him?”

Gerschon waved his hand as though to brush aside a fly. “Oh, not ‘Gregory' . . . Is . . . is old word, I use.” He paused for a second. “Is also
wrong
word, made by people who did not understand . . . eh . . . things. But is almost not
too
wrong. Means . . .” He frowned, staring into the middle distance, as though trying to read the word he wanted from the wall behind Calliope.

“A guide?” she suggested.

He turned back to her and smiled broadly. “Ahh, guide. Is . . .” He tapped the table soundly with one hairy knuckle. “Is . . . close enough, I think.” He glanced at the clock. “And . . . I think we have to get going.” Gerschon turned back to her, peering at her face. “Lemme as' you something.” He leaned in. “You are . . . ehh, okay with this? The club?”

Calliope raised an eyebrow. “Well, it's not a strip club or something, is it?”

Gerschon's eyes opened wide. After a moment's silence, he sat back in his chair, laughing and waving his hands back and forth. Calliope would have sworn he was blushing. “A, ehh, a strip club? With the . . . ahh, I . . . no.” He chuckled again. “No. No strip club, not for Gerschon. Not . . . ahh . . . anymore.”

Calliope smiled. “Then I guess I'm fine with it.”

Gerschon searched her face, then slapped his hands against the tabletop and pushed himself upright. “Oh-kay,” he said, and smiled. Calliope returned the smile and stood up, finishing the coffee in one bitter gulp. Gerschon had continued talking. “We . . . ahh, we get the coat . . . here you are. Would you like help wi— No, you got it. Ladies today get the coats . . . and Gerschon gets . . . ehh . . .
my
coat.” He chuckled to himself and moved to the door that led out the back of the kitchen and into the side yard of his small house. “And . . . we have the door, which . . . ehh, you will have to let Gerschon get, because I am old-fashioned . . . And out we go . . . going to the club.” He flipped off the kitchen lights and turned on the yard light for Calliope to see by. “And we will get to . . . ehh, hear you sing and . . . ehh, then we see what—”

“Excuse me.” Calliope turned fully around on the steps that led down from the door. “Hear me what?”