Max vaulted through the broken window, more bullets chewing the wall around her, wood and plaster fragments flying. She dropped to the ground next to the fallen Maurer, jumped up, on the run. The night was alive with the yells and screams of Sterling’s guests, alarmed by the gunfire.
But by the time the guards were able to add any more gunfire to the merriment, snouts of weapons blossoming out the window, Max was long since out of range.
She couldn’t risk the ferry, and didn’t have a boat, so she kicked off those damn shoes and dived into the cold water. As she swam, she wondered why she’d hesitated when she’d had the chance to kill Kafelnikov.
It wasn’t like her, and it certainly wasn’t like her training — though the decision had some strategic merit, since the Russian was the link to Lydecker’s role in the Mann’s massacre...
She thought about Kendra, Original Cindy, and the other “normal” people who’d come into her life... Normal included; maybe hanging with all these real folks all the time was making her more human.
And then she wondered whether or not being more human, more normal, was a good thing.
When she got back to her squatter’s pad, dripping wet, Kendra’s frock ruined, Max was thinking of the boy who must be Seth. Now she not only needed to find him for herself, but for him, too.
Seth was in danger, and she didn’t know how to warn him; but she’d have to find a way.
Chapter eleven
F is for fake
Going over the John Singer Sargent painting with a small, handheld ultraviolet device, Pepe Henderson — an art expert friend of Logan’s from the Seattle Art Museum — pored over the canvas like a criminalist seeking clues. In his early forties, with a middle-aged spread courtesy of a desk job and too many fast-food lunches, Henderson was an unprepossessing professional, dark hair thinning, with thick black-frame glasses riding a round face, a button-down white shirt challenged at the belly, and black slacks that kept slipping down, revealing the kind of cleavage people do not crane their necks to see.
In a pullover sweater and jeans, apparently relaxed and centered, Logan Cale sat back in one of the two chairs that bracketed his brown sofa, the anxiety pulsing in his stomach a secret.
Three of the paintings Seth had stolen from Engidyne were spread out on the cushions of the sofa, while the other three were smoothed out on the area rug. Unstretched, the canvases had a loose quality, like animal skins, that was somehow disconcerting. The lights were low, to aid the expert in his ultraviolet testing. Logan still couldn’t believe the quality of the art arrayed on and around his couch — N. C. Wyeth, John Singer Sargent, Jackson Pollock, Norman Rockwell, Charles M. Russell, and Frederic Remington... an amazing collection.
In his black leather jacket, blue jeans, and a gray T-shirt that said LEXX (a reference lost on Logan), sullen Seth paced the hardwood floor just beyond the conversation area. As twitchy, as itchy, as a drug addict (Logan even wondered if the boy was low on tryptophan), Seth watched the art expert’s examination of his paintings like an expectant father who’d cheerfully brought his video cam into the delivery room, only to run into a bloody C-section...
“No question,” Henderson said, rising, hitching up his trousers, mercifully.
“I told you they were the real deal,” Seth said, coming around the sofa, cockily.
Henderson raised a hand, like an embarrassed traffic cop. “No — I’m sorry, son... No question it’s a forgery.”
Eyes blazing, Seth stormed over to the seated Logan, loomed ominously over him. “What the hell... what kinda scam?... You told him to say that!”
Logan shook his head. “No, Seth... I didn’t. Frankly, I don’t need to scam you out of money — I have money.” He sighed. “But I admit I was afraid they might be forgeries.”
Seth pointed at the Sargent as if he wanted to shoot it. “Just ’cause that piece of shit’s a fake, doesn’t mean the others are, too!”
“That’s true,” Logan said, calming; but then added: “Still, Seth — it’s hardly a good sign. Don’t get your hopes up.”
The art expert ambled over and joined the conversation. “Don’t get me wrong, boys — it’s a good job.” Henderson shook his head admiringly. “As good a forgery as I’ve ever seen... but fake is fake.”
“Is fake,” Logan said with a nod.
“Well, what about the others?” Seth seethed.
“I’ll need a few minutes,” the expert said, and returned to his work.
Logan stood and placed a hand on Seth’s shoulder; that the boy did not brush it off was a small miracle.
“Come on,” Logan said, smiling a little. “We’ll go into the kitchen. Get out of Pepe’s hair.”
“What there is of it,” Henderson said good-naturedly.
“Are you high, Logan?” Now Seth did brush off the hand. “I’m staying right here — your buddy could switch paintings on us.”
“What with?” Logan asked savagely, gesturing all around, suddenly fed up with Seth’s paranoia. “The only thing Pepe brought with him was a small case with his machine. Where do you think he would put six more fake paintings?”
“He... he could have ’em rolled up his pant legs!”
Henderson glanced over. “Fellas, I’ll check your paintings for you, and be happy, too — but if you think I’m gonna drop trou, you got another thing—”
Logan held up a hand. “No, that’s okay, Pepe... please get back to work.” He looked at Seth, an eyebrow raised. “You ready to come back to Planet Earth?”
Seth, embarrassed, turned toward the art expert. “Listen — I didn’t mean anything... You think they’re all fake?”
Bending over a canvas, sharing his ass-crack, Henderson said, “The way this works is, I don’t have any preconceptions. Some pretty sophisticated collectors can get fooled by fakes... sometimes a collection can have a forgery hanging right next to the real thing... Bottom line, till I do my thing, we’re all just flappin’ our gums.”
Logan took Seth gently by the arm. “Let’s go have something to drink... We’ll talk.”
Reluctantly, Seth followed Logan, who poured them cups of coffee in the kitchen, where they sat across from each other on stools separated by a high butcher-block counter.
His anger simmering into frustration, Seth said, “God damn it! Here I thought I was finally going to catch a break, for a change, have something go right, in this screwed-up life of mine.”
Logan sipped his coffee and allowed the young man time to vent.
The stool couldn’t hold Seth long, and soon the boy was pacing around the kitchen, pissing and moaning. Modern and airy, the room was a study in stainless steel and natural wood, with plenty of cupboard space. Logan, a neatness freak, kept this room as meticulous as the rest of his condo — reordering the chaos of the world might be beyond his control, but his living space sure as hell would do as he told it.
“I can’t believe this,” Seth was saying. “All that work for nothing.”
“It was hardly for nothing,” Logan said quietly.
“What in hell makes you think so?”
Taking a long pull from the coffee cup, Logan considered the question a moment before answering. “Think it through, Seth — Manticore gave you more than just superior warrior skills... you have an exceptional mind. Use it.”
“Blow me.”
“I’ll pass,” Logan said, “but thanks for the offer... Look, there’s only two reasons for a collector to hang fake paintings on the wall.”