The Innocent: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel (24 page)

“Even if he’s not, I can call him,” Bradford said. “I got him set up with a cell phone.”

She ran a finger around the rim of her water glass. “Invite him to join us, will you?”

He nodded and stood. “Let me find some quiet,” he said. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

When he returned, he said, “He’s on his way. Half an hour, maybe,” and Munroe let loose the grin she’d been holding back for the last half hour.

“There are women making eyes at you,” she said. And teasing, “Why don’t you dance?”

Bradford paused a moment, and he followed her line of sight down the room to a table of three single women. His expression morphed into a slow smirk, and with a sly glance back toward Munroe, said, “Maybe I will.”

She hadn’t expected that he would take her up on the dare, but without a hint of hesitation, he locked eyes with a long-haired brunette, and ticked his head upward in
cabezazo
, the way locals did. The
woman smiled, nodded in return, and Bradford stood and made his way to her.

Munroe had observed the woman over the course of the evening, had seen her level of skill, and was certain that Bradford had as well. She wondered how the mixture would blend, how much embarrassment would ensue—but only as long as it took for Bradford to reach the center floor.

And then her jaw dropped, if only slightly, at the unexpected poetry in motion. The man could
dance
and displayed dramatic flair that she’d never before seen in this soldier of casual confidence.

The set ended, Bradford conversed with his lady friend long enough to be polite, the pain of broken English and broken Spanish etched on both their faces, and finally, catching Munroe’s eye, returned to the table, grinning.

“Ah,” he said, arms stretching, knuckles cracking, “that was good.”

“What I don’t understand,” she said, “is why I’m even surprised.”

“I don’t know why either,” he said. He held his hand out to her. “Dance with me?”

She raised an eyebrow, and he continued holding his hand in her direction.

“After that performance?” she said.

“I’ll make you look good,” he said, “I promise.” And he motioned his fingers toward himself, as if to say “come here.”

She was still smiling but shook her head.

“Oh, come on,” he said, his tone wheedling and cajoling. “You, the woman who’s not afraid of anything, hesitate to dance with me?”

“I’m not afraid,” she said.

“Then let’s have at it.” The playfulness had gone out of his voice, his eyes were locked onto her, and he stood, undeterred, waiting.

She reached out her hand, and when their fingers connected, the warmth and the electricity of the moment transferred skin to skin.

In the center of the room, Bradford first led slowly, the motions of teacher to student, until realizing she was less a stranger to tango
than he; he pushed livelier, harder, as the dance became magic, beat to angry beat, upper bodies taut, hips fluid and sensual, each touch alive and expressing far more than words ever could, coupled, heated and sweaty, until Munroe caught sight of Logan in the back of the room, and the spell was broken.

She nodded in his direction, and Bradford, following her line of sight, waited until the music paused and then led the return to the table.

Logan joined them a moment later. He’d been watching for a while, which was written on the cloud across his face, as if tonight’s snapshot of play was somehow indicative of how Munroe had thus far spent her time in Buenos Aires.

She reached over the table and pinched his cheek, the way she would a little boy. Her gesture was an instant icebreaker, and Logan batted her away. She laughed, ignored his silent accusations, offered him a drink and antipasti, and then went straight to business.

“I got the information you wanted about Gideon,” Logan said. “It might help to clarify his motives here.”

Munroe nodded, motioned for him to continue.

“So, apparently, he lived in Argentina when he was fourteen and fifteen. Seems like when he first got here—right after he turned fourteen—there was a guy living in the Haven—single guy, American—don’t know his name.” Logan took a breath, paused long, and then continued. “He sodomized Gideon,” he said. “It was a pretty frequent thing.”

With Logan’s words, the air split, and Munroe, drawn away from the evening, from the distraction of Bradford and the music, stood on the edge of a precipice, staring down at molten depths. Her pulse quickened. She pulled her hands from the table and placed them on her lap, where no one would see the destructive anger that worked itself out in her knuckled grasp. Logan spoke, and with the description came the flood of fire from the depths. Images. Helplessness. Hatred. Violence.

Not the events of today, but from long before.

“It went on for about a year,” Logan said, “and then Gideon was moved to a different Haven, and it was shortly after that when they kicked him out.”

“Why’d they kick him out?” she asked. Her words were calm. Hollow. Echoes in her ears.

“He started having emotional problems, behavioral issues; they said he was demon-possessed.”

Munroe was silent for a moment, working past the rage, through to calm. She understood Gideon’s anger, the passion that drove him, and the hostility with which he faced her and faced the world. She knew it. Felt it. Lived it. He and she were more alike than either would want to admit. To Logan she said, “I thought homosexuality was forbidden in The Chosen—excommunicable, you said.”

“Well, sure,” Logan replied, “but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It just wasn’t out in the open like all the other abuse was.”

“And nobody ever stopped to think that some of these behavior issues might be trauma-related?”

“That’s not the way they think, Michael. The problem is never the doctrine, never the leader, never The Chosen. The problem never has an external source. The problem, no matter what it is, is you. So they get rid of the problem.”

Munroe nodded. She was running scenarios. Damage control. Not only on the project but also on her own emotions, which were charging blind like a team of bolting horses. “Why Argentina?” she said. “It’s been what? Seventeen years? Nineteen? People in The Chosen move around so often, if the guy is even still part of them, there’s no way that he’s stayed here all these years—Gideon’s got to know that.”

Logan shrugged. “Maybe he has to start somewhere. Or maybe things have come full circle. Seems like he got wind of something, some piece of news worth moving on, like maybe the guy had come back here or something like that.”

“Who’s your source,” Munroe said.

“Charity.”

“She knew all of this and didn’t tell you?”

“Yeah. It’s personal stuff, Michael, not exactly something a guy like Gideon goes around confiding in everyone. I only dragged it out of her because I told her that if she didn’t let me know, she’d quite possibly never see her daughter again.”

Munroe said nothing.

“I also told her that you were getting really close and that if Gideon found out that you were looking into his past, you’d walk off the project.”

Munroe gave Logan an appreciative nod. He knew the look. It wasn’t gratitude, it was admiration. “You did good, Logan,” she said. More than good, because she now had what she needed to neutralize any threat from Gideon.

“So here’s the thing,” she said. “We’ve located Hannah.”

Logan blinked, inexpressive, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. The music set ended, and in the volume drop the table was ensconced in a bubble of impenetrable silence. Logan’s mouth opened, as if his mind couldn’t process the words from head to vocal cords. He paused another moment and then said, “What happens next?”

“That’s what we were discussing tonight,” Munroe said. “I’m torn, really torn about letting you in on this. I can’t work with you stressing around me, and the last thing I need is to be worried about you getting hurt, but I feel you have a right to know. So you are to stay away, far away, you got it?”

Logan nodded.

“And whatever you hear tonight stays with the three of us, okay? If I want Gideon and Heidi to know, I’ll tell them myself.”

M
unroe sat on the floor, back to the wall, a blade in each hand. The only light was that which slivered in from under the door, and for the third time in the past few minutes the light had flickered with the shadows of footsteps on the other side
.

They would come for her eventually, and when they did, she would be ready. There was nothing they could do to her that had not already been done, and whatever they wanted they were welcome to try to take
.

She was in no hurry; time was all she had
.

The ship rose and fell with the steady rhythm of the water. Reverberations from the diesel engines shuddered through the hull and into the base of her skull
.

There was another flicker under the door and then the hush of whispered voices. She estimated four or five on the other side and willed them in. Expectation of the fight made her hands tingle. The adrenaline built a slow pressure that would culminate in a savage ecstasy when blood was spilled
.

She flipped the knives and played them along her fingers in a pattern; the blades were her friends, they brought reassurance and continuity to a world that had otherwise been shredded
.

The sliver of light went out
.

In a fluid movement, Munroe shifted upright, coiled and tense
beside the door. The handle clicked and the door inched open. She sensed a presence before she saw the penlight searching the mattress. The body was fully in the room now. She heaved her weight against the door, slamming it shut, throwing the bolt
.

The room went from dark to black
.

The body was big and burly and stank of sweat and alcohol. Working off instinct, she lunged forward, plowing into his stomach. The speed and direction of attack knocked him off his feet. His head slammed into the wall. He fell. She plunged her right knee into his midsection; heard the expulsion of breath. He began to pull up. She leaned hard against his chest, one knife at his throat and the other to his groin
.

And then she heard the pounding, to which, until now, she’d been oblivious. The door smashed inward, and with the light came a piercing blindness. Disoriented, she braced for what was to come
.

Munroe gasped, her back arched, and she drew in air, as if coming up from a water trap. She opened her eyes and, seeing the hotel ceiling, almost laughed in relief.

The replay had ended short; without the guilt and pain, without Logan dead in her arms again; without the horror. Bradford was staring at her. There was concern in his eyes, though none of the panic that had been there the last two times.

“Did I try to kill you?” she said. Her voice was raspy, and she winced at the forced whisper.

“No,” he said. “Not this time.”

“You didn’t wake me.”

“I didn’t want to make it worse,” he said, “and you weren’t hurting anything or anyone.”

She nodded and closed her eyes. Her heart was still working double time, and it would take awhile for the adrenaline to run its course.

“Who are they?” Bradford said. “The ones you see when you dream.”

“My kills,” she said.

“You relive them?”

“Over and over. But in the end, it’s always someone I love who’s dead.”

“How long has this been going on?”

She allowed a moment to pass before she answered. “It started a couple of months ago,” she said.

“Why now, after all these years?”

She shrugged.

“Africa?”

“I really don’t know,” she said.

“They haunt you?”

“Every single day.” She paused, turned her head toward his; studied his face. “What does it feel like when you kill?” she said.

He was quiet for a moment, staring down at her, as if trying to decipher a true meaning or draw the hidden message from her words. He said, “I’m a soldier, Michael. Killing is part of war.”

“Do they ever haunt you? The ones you’ve killed?”

“There’s a lot that haunts me,” he said, “the brutality, the children, the women, the innocent casualties—unspeakable things—holding my friends bleeding and dying in my arms, feeling them take that last breath, wondering why them and not me. I still hear the grinding of machinery, I smell the fireworks and blood and the stench of fear.”

“But not your kills?”

His eyes wandered to the far wall. “I remember every face. Call me calloused, but I’ve no pity for them—they weren’t very good people to begin with. It’s the ones I couldn’t protect, they’re the ones who haunt me.” His eyes cut back to hers. “A mechanic fixes cars, a soldier kills people, it’s not pretty, but that’s what we’re trained for—it doesn’t make me any less human.”

She sighed and turned her gaze back to the ceiling. “If only it were that easy to stay human. My kills consume me,” she said. “I stare into their eyes, lust for blood, take life, and bask in the rush of triumph.”

She turned from the ceiling to his eyes, which watched her, absorbing, nonaccusatory, accepting. “And then it’s over and reality creeps in like a rising dawn: I’ve done it again. It feels unfair, unjust. I can take
so easily, so fast, and they are so weak—fragile playthings that fall and bleed and die. How is it,” she said, “that I can hate killing so much, and yet at the same time desire it, and it comes to me so naturally?”

“In honesty,” he said, “have you ever killed an innocent?”

“It’s always been in defense of myself or someone else,” she said, “except for the first, but that one was a long time coming, and the only one toward whom I feel nothing.”

“Maybe that’s your problem,” he said, “the guilt.”

She chuckled humorlessly. “It works well in the comics and graphic novels, doesn’t it?” She paused, shifted so that she sat cross-legged on the bed and faced him directly.

“Superheroes defend what’s good and destroy evil,” she said. “They mete out justice, and everybody cheers. Nobody ever talks about what it feels like to kill.” She turned her palms upward and stared at them. “They don’t discuss the rush, the savage ecstasy of bloodlust, the sense of satisfaction when it’s finished.” Her eyes cut to his. “Superheroes are glorified serial killers, Miles. Sure, they only kill bad guys, but aside from the moral labels, what makes them any different from the madmen?”