Mr. Real (Code of Shadows #1) (13 page)

Paul knocked on Tonio’s door. “She’s in the office, serving coffee,” he called through the crack when Tonio grunted. Tonio would want to know that she was there—he’d spent a good part of the night thinking of excuses to go talk to her. “I’m going into town.”

Paul jumped in Tonio’s car and headed up the road. Not a half-mile from the motel, Paul spotted the Red Owl. This was downtown Malcolmsberg? It was nothing but a few buildings across from the river. Paul parked and got out. Such a small town, but he liked how well-cared-for it was, with flowering plants hanging from old-fashioned light fixtures. The shops were tidy. The attitude of the place comforted him. A lot of the fighters in the league were into chaos music and horror movies and graffiti art, but he found carelessness and disorder of that sort disturbing and even threatening.

No big mystery—it was because of his mother’s carelessness that he found himself at the mercy of deranged stepbrothers day after day. She’d never even noticed his injuries. After his real dad died, all she’d ever noticed was the bottle. Guys who loved chaos and disorder didn’t get what a luxury order was, and how loving disorder usually meant they’d been safe as kids.

The shops had wooden signs instead of modern neon ones. It was nice, this place. He spotted a coffee shop just up the way. Bean Central. He’d go there first. They’d have real coffee, unlike the motel.

The boy behind the counter beamed at Paul. “Good morning, Sir Kendall!”

Adrenaline shot through Paul. His mouth went dry.

Let it be,
he told himself.

The boy cocked his head. “Sir Kendall?”

“I’m not Sir Kendall,” Paul snapped.

“But you—”

Paul’s pulse raced.
“Sir Kendall is a made-up character. He doesn’t exist.”

The boy looked frightened. “Oh…”

“Never mind.” Paul spun and headed back out into the sunshine, raging at himself. The boy had probably been to Australia and seen the commercials. He was just being friendly. He grabbed onto a little tree growing out of an ornate grate in the sidewalk and leaned his forehead against its rough bark. Christ, he was no better than a lab rat! A lab rat conditioned by psychos.

You’re okay
, he told himself. But he wasn’t okay.

So often when he heard that name—especially if he wasn’t expecting it—he’d find himself re-experiencing the terror of his childhood. He’d be right back there, a small asthmatic boy tied to a tree in the woods by Gene and Gary, kicked or shocked with their science kit stuff, forced to say
old chap
and other Sir Kendallisms. He’d be that helpless kid left bound and frightened in the woods, sometimes for the whole night. Mosquitoes biting him. Animals scrabbling nearby in the dark.

He could defeat the fiercest fighters on the planet, but he couldn’t seem to fight the effect of that name on him. How it plunged him into darkness.

Old Master Veecha would roll in his grave if he could see what had become of his star pupil.

Use it,
Master Veecha would often say.
Use it all.
That meant taking everything that happened in life as a lesson to better yourself. But how was he supposed to use incidents like this?

Paul pushed away from the tree, disgusted. He turned and walked the length of the town, up and back, to calm himself. Church bells rang out under a warm sunny sky, and banners for a river festival fluttered from old-fashioned lamps. He’d gotten through worse things.

When he felt sufficiently calmed, he went to the Red Owl. The produce section was pathetic compared to the grocery stores in Los Angeles. Paul grabbed veggies, raw nuts, and a dozen eggs.

On the way back to the car, he noticed a chalkboard sign outside the local tavern advertising catfish sandwiches. Probably just caught from the Mississippi. Tonio was huge on catfish. Would they prepare the sandwiches to go? Tonio would be psyched.

The place was dark and empty inside, save for an old man hunched at the far end of the bar, and a bartender bent over a sink.

“Hey there,” Paul called to him. “Do you make those catfish sandwiches to go?”

The bartender straightened up and smiled. “Sir Kendall! Hey! How’s about a Denali?” He laughed and set up a glass. “Hair of the dog that bit you. What d’ya say, old chap?”

Paul stiffened, quelling the impulse to fly over the bar and go at the man to stop him from talking.

Calm
, Paul whispered to himself.
Settle. You’re okay, you’re okay.

“Sir Kendall?”

He was dimly aware that he was crushing his grocery bag.
They’re not here,
he whispered to himself.
You’re okay now.

He was far from okay. Had the whole damn town been overseas to see the ad? Was some local Sir Kendall fan getting everyone interested in it? Could they be watching it on YouTube?

The bartender raised his hands now, seeming to sense Paul’s state of mind. Bartenders sensed these things. “It’s cool, man,” the bartender said. “No Denali. It’s cool.”

No, it wasn’t
cool
. The bottom of the bag felt slick. Eggs. He turned and got out, bee-lining down the sidewalk to the car. He needed to get out of Malcolmsberg. He slung what was left of the groceries into the trunk and slammed it with killing force.

It is never easy to slay your dragons,
Master Veecha used to say.
Never easy, always necessary.
Paul squeezed his eyes shut tight. How could he slay a dragon he couldn’t even see?

A voice: “Sir Kendall! Sir Kendall!”

Paul turned to see a middle-aged man rushing toward him, carrying a shirt draped in plastic. A dry-cleaning bag.

“What a coincidence, Sir Kendall, I’d just stopped into the shop to grab something and I looked out and saw you here. Save you a trip tomorrow. See here, I replaced all the buttons. I think you’ll find this garment as pristine as the day it was made.”

The man lifted the printed plastic to show him a dark blue shirt.

“Now, if the little lady can’t stop ripping off your shirt, I might have to suggest you go to Velcro instead of buttons.” The man winked.

Paul spoke through gritted teeth. “Is this some kind of a joke? ‘Cause I’m not laughing.”

“What?” The dry cleaner looked bewildered. “But…”

The man thought he was Sir Kendall. It was here that Paul recalled how the bartender had used the phrase “hair of the dog” —as if Paul had recently been in there drinking.

Paul’s gaze fell onto the paper slip stapled to the plastic bag, where he saw a familiar name. “What the hell?” He yanked the shirt from the man’s hands. The slip read,
Sir Kendall Nicholas III, N3158 Highway KE.
“There’s a Sir Kendall in town?”

The drycleaner stared at him.

“Is there a man in this town who says he’s Sir Kendall? And he looks like me? Is that what you’re telling me, here?”

“Yes, you—I mean, Sir Kendall…”

“A man calling himself Sir Kendall dropped off this shirt?”

The man backed away. Jesus, Paul was scaring him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Paul said.

The man spun around and strode off as fast as his legs would carry him.

“It’s all right!” Paul gestured toward the shirt. “Thank you. Thank you for the shirt.”

Okay, Paul sounded crazy now. He
felt
crazy.

He swung into the car and gunned the engine, all thoughts of green smoothies and peaceful river walks gone. It was as if he’d descended into some blazing, maddening pit of hell.

And the devil lived just up the road—at N3158 Highway KE.

He sped off.

A good man wouldn’t pursue this; it could only turn out poorly. But on he drove, noting the numbers on the mailboxes.

He thought about the baleful Mexican music Tonio sometimes played, music that bled with pain and longing and melancholy. When Paul had asked about it, Tonio had called it
cardenche
, a style of song that took its name from a cactus pricker lodged painfully under the skin.

That was Sir Kendall—a pricker lodged painfully under Paul’s skin, impossible to ignore, driving him on and on. He just needed some kind of relief.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sir Kendall grasped the handcuffs tightly in his fists to keep them from clinking as he leaned in the entryway, regarding the back of Alix’s head. She lounged, as though unaware of him, on the conveniently sturdy, slat-and-framework faux Mission couch, reading the Sunday paper.

This morning she’d had another one of her heated conversations with the person named Karen, who seemed to have some authority over Alix. A superior? She’d taken the phone out into the back yard, thinking he wouldn’t hear, but he’d caught a good bit of it. Something had changed. It sounded like Alix was keen on taking responsibility for some sort of mistake. To Hyko? Did she think she could reason with Hyko? Christ, did she know nothing of the kind of man Hyko was?

Sir Kendall figured he could extract maybe 70% of the information he wanted before Alix realized she was being interrogated in any real way, mostly because she wouldn’t know she was giving him information. In the past two days, he’d catalogued her every expression, down to the nuance. Pleasure tightened a small muscle in her upper cheeks. Relief caused a slight lift in the direction of her gaze. She nodded repeatedly when something made her uncomfortable. She’d make an almost imperceptible adjustment to her neck when surprised, and tension hiked her shoulders. When she got an idea or had something to tell, her eyes would widen, as though she was looking for an opening. When she withheld information, she’d close her lips—a classic tell—and the outer corners of her eyelids would push in just a hair, faintly changing the shape of her eyes.

Of course she wore the ‘withholding’ expression whenever he spoke of his mission or of the future—no surprise—and he seemed to detect a bit of guilt in the set of her mouth as well. Conflicted agent. If he had more time he’d pull the information from her with more finesse. Or more to the point, if
she
had more time. Hyko wouldn’t leave her swinging free for long.

He stopped behind her and kissed the top of her head.

“Hey!” She glanced up at him, then back to the local section.

“Anything of note?”

“Nah.” She turned a page, bracelets jingling. Those infernal bracelets!

Lindy looked up from her doggie bed by the fireplace. Lindy had enjoyed a juicy steak bone this morning, courtesy of Sir Kendall.

He smoothed a hand down Alix’s shoulder, her arm. “Give me your hand.”

She turned up to him and smiled. “How am I supposed to hold the paper if I give you my hand?”

“I have something better than the paper.”

She gave him a saucy look. “Something better to hold than the paper?”

“Put out your hand, my dear.” He touched the back of the couch near where he wanted her to put it. She let one side of the paper fall to her lap and put out her hand, palm up.

Gently he grasped her wrist, removed the bracelets, and set them aside. Then he kissed her palm and extended her arm out a bit more.

“What’re you doing?”

He slapped on the cuff, closing the other bracelet around the end of the couch frame.

“Hey!” She yanked on the handcuff, laughing. “What are you doing?”

“One guess.” Still behind the couch, he moved to the other side, pointed to a spot there. “Other hand.” If he were in her position, he’d claim to be uncomfortable with handcuff play. Most spies would avoid having both hands cuffed. One hand you could get free; two got tricky. He’d have to cajole her, maybe even force her, but he hoped to stay in the gray area for as long as possible.

She narrowed her eyes, smiling. “
Somebody
has some big ideas.” She tugged on the cuffed hand. She could probably tear through the smaller vertical slats, but not the frame itself. “I don’t know,” she demurred, looking at the other spot he’d indicated.

He could hardly believe it—she intended to allow it. “The other hand, my dear,” he said, in the stern tone she seemed to respond to best.

Suspicious smile again. “Give me one good reason.”

“Because I want you immobilized for what I’m about to do. Because it will be much more intense. And exquisite. And I will take you places you’ve never been.” He dangled the remaining cuff from one hand. “Have you ever?”

Her breath shallowed. “No.”

She appeared truthful in this. Could it be? “But you’ve thought about it.”

She cast her eyes playfully up to the ceiling, giving him a big shrug.

He strolled around to stand in front of her, drew the paper gently from her hand. Stunning. It was only a matter of time now before she positioned her hand for him. Yes, she was something of a hedonist. When it came to sex, she enjoyed both pushing and being pushed—but to allow this!

Nobody was lurking outside to come in and save her; he’d been monitoring the grounds for hours. He’d assured himself of the absence of transmitting devices the day he’d arrived and again last night. Was she that confident? Or just that stupid?

He’d do whatever it took to find out now.

In the past days he’d felt vulnerable, felt a vague revulsion for hurting and killing others.

No more.

Just as bits of the most devastating diseases were the keys to making protective vaccines, he’d allowed those dangerously soft feelings to inoculate him, to make him harder, colder, crueler.

After she’d gone to sleep last night, he’d sat up in his room, meditating on the detachment that had once come so easily to him—remembering the way it felt and the way it worked in his mind. He watched as these new impulses toward kindness or softness arose in him, and he practiced pushing them away. Detachment was a matter of disconnected perspective. It was a matter of allowing things to become remote, like looking through the wrong end of a telescope.

In this way he’d gained his old attitude back. For the moment, anyhow.

He kneeled, slid his hands onto her thighs, up, up, up over a vertical rip in her jeans and beyond. She inhaled softly as he pressed his thumbs gently onto her aroused center, wanting him to keep on. Instead he stood, pointed to the place on the back of the couch where he wanted that hand.