SURVIVORS: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 2) (9 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN / Sunday, 7:09 PM

“I have cat allergies,” Sloane said. “I can’t be around that thing. It’s bad enough in here, just the dander it leaves behind. But I would never let Argon get rid of it.”

She was sitting at the little round table that spanned the kitchen and edge of the living room. Brendan was leaning against the inlaid shelves by the flat screen TV, his arms folded across his chest.

He felt no closer to knowing how Argon had died, or what secrets he might have possessed that Taber was so hot about. He needed to crank things up a notch. He needed to talk to Argon’s sister. He wanted to try Carrera again, too. Above all, he needed to be doing what he had come here for, what Taber had tasked him with, and find the crucial information which Argon had squirreled away. He needed to check those boxes he’d hauled out of Argon’s closet, look through Argon’s small office, and search the basement.

The house, he suddenly decided – Argon’s whole house was just like the man himself. Simple, unadorned on the surface, somewhat outdated, but with a basement potentially filled with deeper truths.

For now, he was fascinated by this young woman, and felt he needed to listen to whatever insights she might possess. It would be rude to just push her aside and go about the rest of his business.

“Ok,” he said, offering a smile. “The cat’s outside. She can’t do any more damage.”

Sloane looked back for a moment and a flicker of something crossed her features, like she was hurt by his remark. But then she smiled back. “Just let my antihistamines kick in.”

She was really something else. That droop of her mouth. The strange, atonal quality of her voice, her penetrating eyes. She was unconventional, but he realized he found her beautiful.

“I’ll let her back in on my way out. It was nice to meet you. Weird, but nice.”

She started to get up.

He uncrossed his arms and stepped forward. “Hey, hold up.”

She remained poised at the table, looking over at him. His mind shuffled through his options.

“Would you stay for dinner? Russell and I were supposed to get pizza, but we never did. All I’ve got in my stomach is that awful coffee from Holy Rosary. I’d like to make us some dinner. Would you eat?”

She was watchful, sitting with her arms out on the table ready to push herself up and out.

He took a step closer. “I don’t know my way around Argon’s kitchen, either. You could help.”

She considered this. In the end, maybe it was the chance to be around Argon’s things a little longer that swayed her. She seemed like the type. “Alright. I’m pretty hungry.”

“Good.”

He took off his suit jacket and saw that she was observing him. He folded the jacket over his forearm, and then set it down on the couch next to the TV. He looked at her quizzically.

“Everything alright?”

“You seem like you’re okay,” she said, almost to herself. “A little overdressed, but possibly okay.”

He paused and looked down, as though taking himself in. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Nothing happened. Then Sloane stood up and opened one of the kitchen cabinets.

“This is where the big pots are,” she said.

* * *

They decided to make spaghetti. Sloane was at the stove, salting the boiling water and about to drop the pasta in. She had tied one of Argon’s aprons around her waist.

With her back to Brendan, she asked, “Have you been to see Mena yet?”

“Mena?”

Sloane glanced over her shoulder. Brendan was chopping tomatoes by the sink. The fact that the tomatoes were still fresh was not lost on him. The idea of Argon planning to cook a meal like this and then suddenly not being around to do it, was, for some reason, the saddest thing.

“Philomena. Argon’s sister.”

“Oh,” he said, dropping the diced tomatoes into a pot on the counter. “No, I haven’t.”

Sloane eyed him while she stirred the spaghetti around in the boiling water. “You did know Argon had a sister.”

“Yeah,” he said, with a trace of defensiveness.

I found out a few hours ago.

“I’m just surprised she hasn’t shown up.”

Sloane turned around. She wiped her hands on the apron, then placed her palms behind her on the counter, bracing herself that way. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m not looking to pass judgment. But, you know, it’s been a while since the accident, and . . .”

“That’s interesting.”

“Why? What’s interesting?”

“Well, Mena can’t really talk, for one thing. At least, nothing that most people can understand. I can, but I have an ear for that sort of thing. You may have noticed I sound a little funny myself.”

“She can’t talk? Why can’t she talk?”

“Same reason she can’t really move around, either. She had a stroke. She lost control of her, you know . . .” Sloane lifted a hand off the counter and gestured up and down, from her face to her thighs. “Her muscles. She’s in a wheelchair.”

Brendan fell silent for a moment. He was holding the vegetable knife in one hand and leaning against the sink.

“You’re just staring into space,” Sloane then said. “You alright? What are you thinking?”

Brendan looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. It was strange, really strange, these random people popping up, and then him spending time with them. What he realized though, was that this was all because of Argon’s death. People passing away brought others together.

“Sorry.”

He needed to let her in. He couldn’t really talk to Cushing, Taber was worrying him, and he didn’t completely trust Russell Gide. No one else at the AA meeting seemed to have been more than an acquaintance of Argon’s, considering him a good guy, and then going on with their rhapsodies on addiction and rants about taxation. Except maybe Santos, who had hinted at more.

He passed her the pot. “It needs the tomato paste.”

She turned quickly – she moved like a cat herself – and grabbed a can from the counter beside her, next to the stove. It was tomato paste, already opened and ready to go. He grinned and stood back while she added it.

“You realize we’re doing this totally backwards,” she said, stirring.

Brendan’s grin faltered. He wasn’t sure what she meant.

“We should have had the sauce on the stove a while ago. The spaghetti’s going to be ready before it’s done, and we’ll be so hungry we’ll just eat it with butter.”

“Fine by me.”

She was still stirring. She took a taste of it. Who was this girl? With this spritely demeanor, this strange way of forming her words, this unknowable
something
about her. Who was she?

Steam rose from the boiling spaghetti, and from the sauce, too. He watched her sprinkle in basil, oregano, salt and pepper.

“I’m going to go see her tomorrow,” he said.

“Me too. That’s why I’m here. There’s a picture Argon showed me once of the two of them. It’s like the only normal-looking picture I ever saw of him and Mena.”

“Right.”

“Well, when you see Mena’s room, you’ll understand her place needs a little brightening up. I wanted to grab that picture before the cops got their paws on it, or whoever. So, you going to come with me?”

* * *

They drank milk from pint glasses. Sloane had also whipped together a garden salad. It was going on eight in the evening, and they ate after patiently waiting for the sauce. Sloane was acting the perfectionist and complaining about every bite, about how you had to cook a sauce all day. Argon was like that, she said. Always had to do everything from scratch.

“How did you meet him?” Brendan asked.

He took a bite. The sauce tasted fine to him. It was all he could do to not wolf the thing down as fast as he could, noodles slapping his chin and sauce splattering his shirt.

Her eyes clouded over for the first time since he’d met this strange, seemingly guileless girl.

“Is that a bad subject?”

“No. No, not at all. This is all just sad, you know?”

She looked around the house then, as if suddenly feeling guilty that they were sitting there enjoying a dinner in Argon’s home. A man who had given them both quite a lot, of that Brendan was sure – Sloane had benefitted from Argon’s no-nonsense ways, his tough love, too.

He tried to give her some time, which was growing more difficult with each passing moment. He needed to get back focused on what he’d come to do. Since arriving in Westchester County that afternoon, he’d only scratched the surface.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed something a little different about me,” she said.

Brendan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Not so much because of awkwardness – over the years you learned to deal with people’s differences, their infirmities, their personalities, their opinions; you did your best to take it all at face value – but because of some diffuse fear he had, something she might say.

“I did,” he said. “You like to cook spaghetti in reverse.”

She attempted a smile. Her gaze dropped to her plate. She gently set down her fork and spoon, and picked up one of the paper towels (no napkins for Argon) and blotted her mouth with it.

“So, I’m an abortion survivor.” She said it almost casually. Probably she had said that same phrase many times, to people like Brendan, who snuck furtive looks at her and wondered.

He tried not to get too heavy, but the subject felt instantly oppressive. “How does that work?”

Her eyes flipped up and cut into him, searching for any trace of disrespect. Her gaze revealed a different person. The young woman who had made spaghetti with him was playful, maybe even a little naïve-seeming. The one looking at him now would have no trouble jamming that spaghetti fork into his hand, he thought. Or maybe his head.

“I mean, I don’t understand.”

“A non-medically assisted abortion. It means I was fished out of a storm drain after my mother induced in an alley. I was four to five weeks premature. At least she didn’t try to flush me down a toilet, I guess. Like that Japanese baby.”

Brendan fell silent. The image of an infant – a still gestating infant – being pulled from a storm drain, covered with rainwater and muck had him fully occupied. He did his best to dispel the horrible vision. He didn’t know where to look. He met her gaze at last, and he saw that the hardness he had witnessed in her was gone.

“Sorry,” she said. “Trust me, I know that’s a lot to dump on someone. I’ve never gotten very good at it. You sure you want to hear this?”

“Yes. Was it Argon who pulled you out? Who found you?”

She nodded, and took a sip of milk. It left the faintest trace on her upper lip. Somehow that was a comforting sight, and Brendan felt his pulse easing.

“He did. It was his last year as a cop in White Plains.”

“Where he spent six years before transferring up here.” Brendan felt good about at least knowing this. And he knew that Argon and Lawrence Taber had first met and become friends in White Plains – Taber was barely twenty at the time, quite a bit younger than Argon. But Brendan had never heard anything about Argon rescuing an infant. Jesus, the man was turning into something of a legend.

She was nodding. “And he stayed with me – or I mean, he came to visit until I was healthy, and in foster care. Then, you know, we sort of lost touch.” She laughed at this, revealing her teeth, which were charmingly imperfect, featuring bicuspids that stuck out more than the others.

“I was adopted quite young, and I had a good childhood; all that shit. My parents are older though? You know? They’re already in their sixties. Late sixties. And, so, whatever, you know, I got a little bit older and I started to question things. I’d forgotten about Argon. It’s not like my parents didn’t want him around, or he didn’t want to come around, but, you know what I mean? It would have been tough to do that, and they wanted to keep me protected from it all. Pretty understandable, I guess. Whatever. But I knew something was up. Something they weren’t telling me. I started going through their things. I was up in the attic – we have a nice big house, the attic is filled with clothes, beyond belief, boxes stacked to the peak of the roof. Really raises my histamines, being up there. My parents save everything. I knew if I looked long enough I would find it.”

The story reminded Brendan of his current situation. Argon wasn’t exactly a pack rat – still, he hoped the man had kept whatever Taber was expecting to find and it wasn’t buried under ten years of taxes or deep in a closet full of bag pipes, discarded exercise gear, and Playboy magazines.

“And I did. I found this news story, right? About a cop. Cop that pulled a baby out of a storm drain in White Plains. And there was Argon, you know, much skinnier, a lot skinnier, with this big, bushy moustache.”

She laughed again. He liked her laugh.

Then she grew still. She shrugged.

“So, that’s how I knew. And I was angry with my parents, you know, anyway. ‘You kept this from me!’ All that business. I took the hurt I felt towards my biological mother, and I transferred it right onto them. I guess it had to go somewhere. But things just got worse from there. I started going out late. Typical teenage stuff, but then I had this extra edge. I just didn’t care about anything. And in the middle of it all, I met him again.”