Round Trip Fare Page 10

  “The war was over when you were twelve.”

  She looked straight into those eagle eyes. “Not if I was twelve in 1972.”

  He blinked. Said nothing.

  She closed her eyes briefly and saw Harry’s body, blood soaking the golden hair and covering the hand resting on the little kaleidoscope. But her voice was flat and impersonal as she continued. “There was another attack when I was sixteen. Our guardian was killed, along with many of our friends and trainers. Marley was one of our teachers, and she escaped with us. But my brother…disappeared.”

  His eyes flickered at Marley’s name, but he didn’t speak.

  She took another even breath and continued. “Marley and I hid for the better part of the next year. Thanks to Har—to my guardian, we had a little money, and we tried to use it to find my brother. Marley wanted me to go to college. But I heard about the Accords forming an academy to train new Wardens, and I thought that training would help in our search. I’m sorry, sir. The truth is that I never intended to become a full-time Warden. After graduation, I took the external Warden commission, and Marley and I set up our little business. We take referral jobs from Accords, mostly ARC searches. And we use every penny we can spare to keep looking for my brother.”

  She didn’t tell him about the Accords searches. After all, he probably knew more about them than she did. When the Accords were signed, the official story was that the atrocities committed on both sides were actually the work of mysterious and sinister outside forces. And, to a degree, that was probably true. But there were so many others, committed along a spectrum of need that went from protecting families, to revenge, to flat out greed and evil. Those motivations didn’t all disappear because a paper was signed in 1998.

  That was where the Wardens came in. Initially formed of soldiers from both sides to help research claims of atrocities, they rapidly evolved into a police force with an impossible task. After millennia of hiding, those with special gifts and abilities had spent the past century being transformed into warriors. Now the Wardens had to put that genie back in the bottle. Those who didn’t play nice were given two choices: keep the human world from learning about their special gifts, or be sent to Null City where their abilities would disappear within the first twenty-four hours, and they could live normal human lives.

  Most residents in Null City were offered an Amnesty Day once a year where they had the option to return to the regular world. But those sentenced by the Accords had to serve their assigned number of years before any chance of Amnesty Day was earned. The Agency had a Metro pass for transporting prisoners, but those sentenced had to pay their own fare on the Metro Train, the only way in or out of Null City. And the Metro set its own ticket prices, often collected in blood or memories.

  Carey cleared her throat and continued. “Because it’s the connection point for the Metro to Null City, Seattle has always been a magnet for people with special gifts. So the Seattle Office is perpetually understaffed with Wardens. That’s where our little company, Bainbridge Solutions, comes in. Ninety percent of our searches are done on the computer. Marley tracks the ones who use their gifts to commit crimes, or just fail to keep their gifts hidden from the human world. And then I bring them in. The other ten percent that Marley’s computers can’t find?” She thought she saw him blink at her grin. Definitely going to have to work on that feral look. “Well, those searches belong to me.”

  “If I help you find Connor…” The Director didn’t miss her sudden freeze. “I’m assuming it’s your brother Connor because we know he was with you until the massacre on the St. Helens Ranch.” His smile was even scarier than hers. “Remember who taught you how to do searches.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As I was saying, I will help you search for your brother. In exchange I will ask you for one year of service as Warden at one of the Accords offices.”

  There was no point in hesitating, but she had learned a few things from him. “If your information leads me to my brother, I promise you a year of Warden’s service.”

  He reached his hand across the desk, and she held her own hand to his. Clasping her hand in his firm grasp, he looked her in the eyes. “But this doesn’t mean I’m forgetting about the cow incident.” She met his eyes and nodded. Crap!

  Leaning back in her chair, she asked him again. “Did you send that man to my office?”

  “Description?”

  “About six-four, early to mid-thirties, at least two hundred pounds. Dark everything, hair, eyes, mustache, beard. Could be Hispanic or Middle Eastern descent, but he spoke with absolutely no trace of accent. Fancy suit and tie, but he looked more like someone who spends lots of time outdoors, probably with women hanging off him. Complicated tattoo on his neck.”

  “No, I did not send anyone like that.” He shook his head, and her heart fell. “But I might know who it is.” He hesitated, then pushed the intercom button on his desk phone. “Claire, would you ask the Austin office to send a picture of former Warden Zahavi? Thank you.”

  Carey shook her head. “He’s a Warden?”

  “He was. One of our best. But now…it’s complicated. Would you like a cup of tea while we wait? Perhaps you could tell me how Marley is doing?”

  And there it is. Carey agreed absently that Marley was fine, but she was pulling connections at the same time. First Marley. Then Director Jeffers. The game board blazed a connection, but the other figure wasn’t the shadowy assailant. No, in this one Marley…and Director Jeffers…were together. Very together and they were—

  “Aaagh!” He stared as she stood up. “Um, would you excuse me for a moment, sir? I have to—” Bleach my brain. “—step out for just a moment. Could you tell me where the—”

  “End of the hall on the left.”

  Carey sat in the little stall pressing the speed dial on her cellphone. Marley’s voice said, “Bainbridge Solutions,” and Carey hissed. “Marley! Are you…and Director Jeffers— What do the two of you—”

  Marley sounded cautious. “What did Kurt tell you?”

  “Aaagh!” Carey wailed again in a whisper. “No Kurt. His first name is Director. He was Director of the Academy, and he’s Director of Accords here in Seattle.”

  Marley’s voice sounded a little choked. Was she laughing? “Carey, don’t worry. It was while you were in the Academy, and we were very discreet. Then he was assigned to the Seattle office two months ago. I haven’t— But he’s been leaving messages— And I’m thinking of—”

  “Stop! TMI. We must never discuss this. Oh, and if he brings up the cow incident, it wasn’t my fault. Harry never told us they can go up steps but can’t go back down. That is all. We will never talk about this again. Bye.”

  Carey splashed water on her face and looked up to meet her own eyes in the little mirror above the sink. The twenty-five-year-old woman who stared back didn’t look that much different from the sixteen-year-old who’d left her guardian’s body under a purple quilt and then said good-bye to her only brother. The years had filled out the skinny frame that led her brother to call her Midget, curving her face, breasts, and hips. But her eyes were still cold, her smile bleak. She remembered her sister Gaby teasing her out of a tantrum by telling her that her face would freeze that way. Well, Gaby—looks like you were right again.

  As she stepped out of the little washroom, she almost bumped into the man standing in the hall. The automatic apology froze on her lips. Tony Montari’s pale eyes stared back. Her first partner pretended to ignore her, and Carey was about to do the same when her gaze moved down the hall to Director Jeffers’ door. “What are you doing here?”

  She thought he might refuse to speak to her—an arrangement that had worked just fine for the past several years—but then he stopped. Smirking, he spoke so quietly she had to lean forward to hear. “You aren’t the only one with important friends. My new office is just down the hall. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

  His smirk slipped as she just stared. Finally, with a shooing motion a
nd a dismissive, “Whatever,” she moved past him, almost running down the man hurrying down the hall.

  “Carey Parker!” Jim Anderson’s round face broke into a delighted smile, until he looked beyond her to see Montari’s door shut. He looked concerned and reached for her arm. “Is he bothering you? Because I could…” His voice trailed off, and she thought his cheeks were a little red. At Beer Tuesday once, Laurel claimed the middle-aged Anderson had a thing for Carey, but as Claire pointed out, Anderson liked everyone. And Carey…didn’t.

  “Thanks, Jim. But I’m fine. Tony and I understand each other.” She looked down at the hand on her arm, and he stepped back.

  “Sure. Well…if you ever need anything, just let me know.” She thought he might be sucking in his stomach, and tried not to grin as the shorter man nodded and scurried down the hall.

  Carey was definitely not smiling as she reentered Director Jeffers’ office. “Um…Marley is fine. She says to tell you hello.” She wondered if her own face was still red as Claire came in with a paper in her hand.

  He looked at the paper for a moment before holding it out to her. “Is this your visitor?” Standing behind his chair, Claire pointed to the paper and face-fanned with both hands. Following Carey’s glare, Director Jeffers turned an inquiring look on an innocent-faced Claire. The second his eyes were turned away, Carey stuck out her tongue. He whipped his head back to see Carey scanning the paper while Claire made her escape. He sighed.

  The full-length photo showed a man wearing a black T-shirt with an Accords logo, plus dark jeans and boots. He didn’t have a beard or mustache, and his hair was a bit too long. His neck, she noticed, was bare. The neck art must be more recent ink. But his eyes were the same. The caption below the photo read, “Warden Iax Zahavi. Assigned: Accords Divisional Office, Austin, Texas. Discharge date: March 10, 2003. Whereabouts: unknown.”

  March 10. Three weeks before the attack at St. Helens Ranch.

  She sipped her tea, the paper on the desk between them.

  Director Jeffers absently pulled off his loosened tie, staring at it as if he couldn’t imagine how it had gotten there, before flinging it into a drawer already full of neckties. The familiar gesture took her back to Academy days, where his business tie never lasted more than a few minutes after whatever meeting had required him to don one. Now he leaned back, opening the top buttons on his shirt and sighing in relief. He flung one arm over the back of his chair, his booted feet resting on the open drawer.

  Well, I had to learn it somewhere.

  He waited until she set down the cup and looked up. “How can a name only have one consonant?”

  “Iax was the best we had.” He pronounced it Ee-yosh. “Sure, he was a kid. But a kid who grew up fast in the war when older soldiers were getting themselves killed. By the time Accords were signed, Iax could outfight and outthink old farts like me. He was my personal pick as second-in-command at Academy. And then one day I got a phone call telling me that he was sorry, but he had to leave. We found his Warden ID on his desk, and none of us ever saw his face again.”

  She nodded. Should I say it? Well, hell, he was the one who taught me. “Never saw his face? How about heard his voice? Got his email or texts?”

  “You’re going to make a great Warden.” He was still laughing as he reached into his desk. “Yeah, he’s been in touch. I won’t tell you what he’s been working on all these years. But probably I don’t have to.” He handed her a slip of paper with a phone number. “This is only going to be good for another day. You know what to do.”

  “Memorize and then eat it?”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  As she stood to leave, he surprised her by walking her to the door. “You know, don’t you, that Harry and I worked together.”

  Which Harry? Rock star, warrior, angel? Did you spar with him, see that golden hair flying and that grin on his face? She nodded. There were no words.

  He jerked his chin. “I miss him too. But he told me a long time ago: how long you live doesn’t matter.”

  Carey tipped her chin back at him. “It’s what you live for that counts. Yeah, he told me that too.” She held out her hand. A brief, firm shake, and then the door was closing behind her.

  In the outside office, Leigh Ann looked up. “So, is that hot Warden in the picture your boyfriend? How come they didn’t send him after me? Hey, do you two—”

  “That does it.” Claire picked up her trash can and placed it on the floor in front of the younger girl. “I warned you about my gag spell.” By the time Carey reached the door, a retching Leigh Ann was hunched over the trash can. Claire held up a hand, thumb and pinkie splayed toward ear and mouth. Call me?

  Carey nodded and escaped.

  Chapter Ten

  March 2011: Seattle

  Marley frowned at the scrap of paper sitting in the glass dish on Carey’s desk. “I still don’t get why you don’t just call the number.”

  Carey sighed. “We’ve been over this. It doesn’t work that way. I sent a text saying we got his advert, and asking if they still delivered pizza. Now the ball’s in his court.”

  As the afternoon wore on, both women tried to ignore the little dish. Several other calls came in, including two from Claire with ARC gigs and questions about her “new boyfriend.” Carey worked on her term paper. Marley mentioned it was almost seven o’clock, and she was getting hungry. Carey kept typing.

  Her cellphone rang, and she glanced at the caller ID. Yes! She picked up the receiver but didn’t speak.

  The deep voice at the other end said, “Post Alley Pies calling to confirm your order. Two extra large with anchovies?”

  “One extra large,” Carey corrected. “What do we owe you?”

  “That brings your total to nine thirty-five tonight. Unless there are any extras?”

  Carey glanced at her watch. “No, that should do it.”

  “Are you still at 1919 Solo?”

  “Yep. See you soon.”

  Carey rolled up the scrap of paper and lit one end with the lighter in her desk drawer, holding it until the flame caught before dropping it back into the glass dish. Without looking up, she translated for Marley. “Meeting with one person at nine thirty-five tonight at 1919 Post Alley, and come alone.” When the scrap was completely burned a minute later, she poured water into the dish, stirred, and poured the ashes into the trash.

  Marley watched as she went to the coat closet at the far end of the room, sweeping aside the coats neither ever wore. Carey pressed a finger over a nail hole hiding a fingerprint scanner, popping open what Marley called the toy store. A hinged pegboard held a few guns and several knives, her sword and crossbow, spare shuriken, ammunition, combat gear, and—holding pride of place at the top—a small Ruger L69 with a purple frame. She swung the pegboard out to reveal a shelf with a row of wigs in a variety of lengths and colors. Hooks under the shelf held about a dozen opaque garment bags, the front one labeled Work Clothes.

  Stripping down to bare skin, she opened the bag and donned a matte black one-piece bodysuit that covered her from neck to ankles and zipped up the front. The hanger also held clear plastic bags with high leather boots and a thigh-holster, plus an adhesive-back holster which she considered but left on the hanger. She stepped into soft-soled knee-high leather boots and checked the knives in each before zipping the boots up to the top and tightening the straps fitting each boot to her leg like a glove.

  “Cheerleader, Soccer Mom, Librarian…” Carey muttered to herself as she flipped through the remaining garment bags. “Ah. Party Girl. That works.” Donning the contents of the Party bag, she considered herself in front of the mirror. A glittery orange and green scarf fluttered around her neck and a purple patent leather purse belted the waist of her tiny orange skirt. “I just wish I could figure out a way to carry my sword.”

  She frowned, and pulled the front zipper down several inches from the neckline of the black bodysuit. Shuriken went onto mounts along each arm like fancifully shaped jewelry. Bra
celets of mounted dart-shaped shuriken covering each wrist like gauntlets masqueraded as artisan jewelry.

  “Torture time,” sang Marley. Carey groaned, but obediently sat in front of the lighted makeup mirror.

  Minutes later, a girl stood ready to hit the clubs, her skintight top and gauzy skirt flirting above long legs in tall leather boots. Her lips were glossy scarlet, pouting beneath smoky eyes and thick lashes. Tomato-red hair was a brilliant blue at the tips, swirling around her face on one side, while the other was caught up with those blue ends fanned high, mixed with a few beaded feathers. She pulled on a little lime green jacket and curtseyed to Marley.

  Marley nodded approval, but tugged the zipper up a few inches. “All people will remember are the hair and the wild colors of your outfit.”

  She led Carey to the door but stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Carey…”

  “I know. I’m always careful. Tonight won’t be any different.”

  “That’s what worries me.” She surprised Carey with a hug before pulling back quickly. “Well, I’m going to take Bain home and order a pizza. Don’t expect me to wait up for you.” Carey got the distinct impression that wasn’t what Marley had been about to say.

  »»•««

  It was close enough to walk, but Carey took her old jeep. You never knew when you might want to leave the party quickly. She drove to the heart of Seattle’s tourist district, Pike Place Market, and circled the block a few times until a car pulled out about a block up from the adjoining Post Alley. Perfect. Not too close, but she could probably get back fast if things went south.

  She sat in her car, waiting. Fifteen minutes passed before she spotted what she was watching for. Hopping out, she went up to the two women giggling their way down the sidewalk. “I wonder if you would like to make a quick fifty dollars? I think my boyfriend might be cheating on me, and I just want to do a little discreet peeking.” Handing each woman a piece of gum, she started chewing her own.

  Two minutes later, three laughing women joined the tourists and locals strolling the shadowed pedestrian stretch of Post Alley, passing The Brasserie at 1919 and continuing up down the street. They stopped before the Gum Wall, joining a wedding party in full formal gowns and tuxes, a quartet of goth teens of indeterminate gender, and a mystified group of Japanese tourists, all adding their contributions to the thousands of colorful blobs. After recaffeinating at a coffee shop halfway down the narrow lane, they meandered back up the street. Lattes in hand, they paused to take a seat on the bench across from Brasserie 1919. A quick check of her phone said it was nine thirty.