Undertow (The UnderCity Chronicles) (11 page)

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Moore. I didn’t mean any offense.”

Dee’s dark eyes glittered like obsidian. “None taken, Miss Sterling. All I ask is that you enjoy it, okay?”

“I will, Mrs. Moore. Thank you.”

Together they carefully folded the jacket into Lindsay’s backpack, making space by removing several items that Lindsay gifted to Dee including most of her food packs and a large box of matches. Part of her felt guilty, exchanging such mundane items for a beautiful work of art, yet she got the impression that the mayor’s wife was feeling much the same thing. To her the jacket was a useless hobby project, for which Lindsay was foolishly trading valuable commodities.

They had just finished when the tent door opened, and Jack stuck his head inside. “One of the runners was able to confirm that Seline was hanging around with APs in Grand Central, though whether she knew who they were is doubtful.”

Lindsay gripped the handle of her backpack. What this news good or bad? “Then we have a lead?”

“I guess you could call it that. Let’s get back to Grand Central. We’re a long way from finding her yet.”

The Moores and a good portion of Sumptown’s residents came to see them off, and with a final wave goodbye, Lindsay and Jack exited over the floating bridge. When they had ventured a ways into the tunnels he motioned for her to follow him into a narrow fissure between two huge, mineral-stained pipes. Their fronts were nearly touching and their mouths inches apart. Close enough to kiss. He talked, in a low, rushed voice.

“This is the way it is: the people of Sumptown don’t like the APs. They consider them spies and enemies.”

“Why?” Lindsay asked, matching his decibel level.

“APs don’t normally socialize with those outside their clique. Even here in the underground their relations with others are very limited. That’s why the runner noticed when he saw them talking to Seline. It was very unusual.”

“So you think they kidnapped her?” The thought of her niece in the hands of a bunch of crazy people chilled Lindsay to the marrow.

“Perhaps. I don’t know,” he acknowledged. “I do know that trying to talk to their members down here is going to be useless at best and dangerous at worst. The APs won’t tell us a thing, and the people of Sumptown wouldn’t be pleased to know we were dealing with them.”

“So what do we do?”

“I am going to have to go and have a chat with their
representative
.” He spat out the last word. “They have a person who serves as an ambassador to the underground communities and street homeless.”

“You know where to find him?”

“Her, actually. Her name is MacMurphy. Randa MacMurphy.” Jack spoke with distaste.

“I take it she’s not one of your favorite people.”

Jack shook his head. “She’s what people down here call a dark angel. Someone who fucks with your head. Not exactly what I need right now.”

She opened her mouth but it was covered by his gloved hand. “Not by her. And not by you, Linds.”

She twisted her mouth underneath the rough fibers of his glove. “We’re still in the tunnels,” he said. “The rules still apply.”

She stopped and glared at him, hoping her eyes conveyed her opinion of the rules. He didn’t move his hand away. “You think if you ask enough questions you’ll figure me out and fix me. Only what happens if you can’t? You’ll have taken me apart and left me in pieces, and I’m already broken enough without you making more of a mess. Considering you couldn’t be bothered to stay friends with me, or even have the courtesy to tell me you didn’t want me in our life, excuse me if I lack confidence in your ability. So how about you back off? Right. Now.”

No, Jack, no. I’m not making the same mistake twice
. Now was not the time to fight him. She nodded underneath his glove. His mouth thinned. He didn’t believe her. She nodded again and mumbled “Okay” under his glove.

He dropped his hand and turned away, and she had to scramble to keep up.

* * *

It was nearly eleven at night when they got back, and Lindsay couldn’t remember ever feeling that physically tired. Her legs were wobbly, her lower back ached and her shoulders from the backpack felt as if a dull knife had sawed away at them. Jack went up the ladder first, and tapped his flashlight on the manhole cover without stop until there came a muffled voice, its accent distinctly Arabic. “Who’s that?”

“Cole.”

The locks clunked open, and Jack hoisted himself through the hole. He stayed in a squat position and reached for Lindsay. As he lifted her clear, he eclipsed his body between her and the overhead lights, casting her in his shadow. “It takes a bit for the eyes to adjust.”

Lindsay’s gaze lined up with the front of his chest, where the first couple buttons of his shirt beneath his jacket were undone, leaving the dim hollow of his throat inches from her. She took in the roughened texture of his skin, his unshaven jaw, the cords of his throat. He smelled of the tunnel, but also of him. Even a little of sweat, something she was drenched in, given the Olympic pace he’d set during their return.

All at once she felt a tug on her head and her hair tumbled free of the knit hat. She glanced up at Jack who had his eyes on her hair. “There, that’s better,” he said, with the satisfied concentration her hairstylist assumed when he’d finished with her.

Static from the hat had electrified her fine strands and Jack began smoothing them down with his hand. His touch was comforting and gentle. It also transmitted an unsettling current that tingled her every sex nerve.

Lindsay couldn’t bring herself to break the contact, so she compromised by saying to his bare throat, “I think you need a shaggy pet.”

His hand stopped and he stepped back, leaving her squinting into the lights. “That was unnecessary.”

Lindsay, bereft again from another of his withdrawals, blinked at him. “What? I was only joking—”

“Exactly,” he cut her off. Jack switched his attention to the tall Arabic man, who was discreetly standing a few paces away. “Najib, this is Lindsay Sterling. Lindsay, this is Najib Gupta, former mayor of the Burbs.”

The man inclined his head. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Sterling.”

Though still annoyed with Jack, her emotions eased under the man’s gentle manner. She gave him a genuine smile. “Likewise.”

As Jack turned to go, the gatekeeper raised a hand. “Excuse me, Reggie said to tell you that he’s going to use the apartment tonight. His lady friend is back in town.”

Jack blew out a gusty breath. “Fine. When Reggie shows tomorrow, could you tell him that I’ve gone to the Mission?”

Lindsay scowled. That made no sense. “You’re going to a homeless shelter?”

Jack gave her a look as if she were a junior officer speaking out of line. “Reggie’s girlfriend only comes into town once every couple of months. I told him he could use my place. It’s not a big deal.”

“Why don’t you just get a hotel?”

“No identification.”

“What? How can you not have any ID?”

“I lost it when I was down in the tunnels. Haven’t bothered to replace any of it yet.”

Wasn’t that a full year ago? He was deliberately keeping himself off the radar. She thought of Mr. Moore’s warrant for murder—what had Jack done to make him hide from the world?

Lindsay trailed down the hallway after him, and they emerged through the door, her eyes watering from the lights overhanging the platform. Jack headed for the exit, not bothering to see if she was following or not.

She pressed her lips into a thin, determined line. She had said nothing wrong as far as she was concerned, and she wasn’t about to indulge his moodiness any further. The rules didn’t apply here.

She stuck her thumbs under the shoulder straps of the pack to ease its weight, and hurried to catch up, matching his long, quick strides with hers, despite her thigh muscles screaming for her to slow down. “Boy, those seem bright,” she said conversationally, as if there’d been no sharp words between them.

Jack didn’t say anything and she assumed that he was ignoring her, then he replied quietly.

“Live underground a few weeks and they’re unbearable. That’s part of the reason the people in the communities stay there. After a while you can’t handle bright lights, let alone sunshine.”

“It must have been hell on you after two years underground,” she said, still keeping it light.

“Yes. It was.” He bit out, then faced her, his eyes a warm, deep copper. “That’s why your hair is no joke to me, Lindsay. There was a time not so long ago when I could never have stood to look at something so bright. I don’t take it for granted.”

He didn’t touch her hair this time, but the way he focused on it seemed as immediate and real as his hand.

On impulse she asked, “Why don’t you stay with me tonight?” Jack’s expression slid into wariness, and she rushed to explain. “I mean, you can come crash on my couch. The shelter must be full in this weather anyway.”

“You don’t need to go to the trouble.”

“Jack. I don’t have to
make
the couch. It’s there ready and waiting. How about it?”

His jaw went solid and she could see the stubborn ass was about to refuse again. “However, if you’re into a communal mattress in a room with fifty other—”

“Dammit, Linds.
Fine
.”

Lindsay suppressed a smile and they caught a cab. When she gave the driver her address in Chelsea, Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Posh area. You must be doing well.”

Lindsay gave a noncommittal shrug. He’d already made it clear what he thought of her wealth. “More luck than money. There was a foreclosure sale that I got wind of through my business. As it is, I’ve got a ridiculous mortgage. Still, it’s a good investment, and the neighborhood is amazing.”

“I know. I used to live on 24
^th
Street. Remember?"

Lindsay recalled the small apartment he'd shared with his father. They lived like two stereotypical bachelors where everything was thrown but never out. It was a complete three-sixty from the way he lived now, though she didn’t like his present circumstances either. He needed the proverbial woman’s touch. On his apartment anyway. "So…what did you do after university in Paris?”

He shrugged. “Travelled around, got my doctorate at Oxford.”

“Dr. Cole, huh?”

He gave her a dirty look. She persisted. “I heard you went on to explore all those cities, just like you told me you would when we were kids.”

Jack turned to stare out his window. “My father loved to build tunnels. I loved to study them. There’s nothing more.” He shifted his head to look at the patch of seat between them. “Listen, Linds, I’m sorry to hear about your family. I was an asshole about it, and”—he lifted his dark gold eyes to her—“that was a hell of a responsibility you took on.”

His unexpected tenderness sent her lips vibrating from emotion. Before she lost it, she spoke, “They were on their way to my graduation ceremony. They decided to all come in the same car. Seline was on a sleepover, so it was going to be a fun day. My brother told me that they were going to make it in the nick of time so when they didn’t show I was more disappointed than worried. Afterwards when the caps and gowns were with their families, the police made their way through the crowd to me.

“A semi blew a tire changing lanes and plowed straight into the car. My Mom and Dad and my brother’s wife were already gone, and my brother was barely alive. He lived long enough to have our family friend Janice arrange to have guardianship changed from my parents to me. Looking out for his family right to the end.”

She let out a long steadying breath. “Long story short, Jack, it wasn’t a responsibility. I needed my niece back then, just as much as she needed me. I still do." She shook herself free of the memories. “Ah, well. Sometimes that’s what life is like, right? What about your dad?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on her, searching. For what, she’d no idea. She was about to call him on it when he said, “He’s living in London. Consults for the Department of Transport there, or at least he did when I last talked to him. It’s been awhile.”

“How long?”

This time, it was him who blew out his breath. “About a month after I came out of the tunnels.”

Another question was forming on Lindsay’s lips when the cab driver halted in front of her apartment block. Before Lindsay could rummage through her backpack for her wallet, Jack lifted his butt off the seat and pulled out a wad of bills from his front jeans pocket, paying the cabbie along with a generous tip, though Lindsay could see it almost cleaned him out. She’d make it up to him, whether or not he knew it.

Lindsay waved to the doorman who looked uncertainly at their scruffiness, until he recognized her. Then he looked very curious. Inside the mirror-paneled elevator, she inspected her face.

“My God! There’s even dirt on my eyelashes.”

Jack didn’t look at his reflection.

After passing down a corridor of rich woods, they reached her door. As she inserted her key, she said in sudden nervousness, “You’ll have to excuse the mess. I do my own cleaning, and I’ve kind of let it go the past week.”

Jack said with utmost seriousness, “I think I can handle it.”

Once in the tiled foyer, Lindsay dropped her pack and hung up her jacket. She took a hanger from the hall closet and reached for Jack’s coat. He skittered a look at her leathers and neat row of painful footwear, and sent his parka wordlessly to the floor, his boots soon following. Lindsay grimly returned the empty hanger to the closet rod, determined not to let his opinion of her things get to her.

“Come on in. Make yourself at home.” She led the way into the living room, making a wide, hospitable gesture. He stood at the entrance to the room in his sock feet, his amber eyes scanning her place in silence. She switched on a few lights, including the Christmas tree, casting her home in a soft glow. As she turned to face him, he was watching her with a strange focus. “Your husband die?”

Lindsay felt her jaw drop open. What business was it of his? “No, we’re divorced.”

“Why?”

She was about to tell him that her failed relationship was out-of-bounds when the irony hit her. If she wanted him to open up, maybe she should start with herself. “Dan and I never had one argument. Not even about our decision to break up. That was why we divorced. Our best conversation was when we admitted that we didn’t love each other.”