“Well, that’s a goddamn relief.”
“It is,” he agreed, “but it’s not an answer to our question. What is their play?”
We knocked theories back and forth but it was all speculation. I was just about to get up and go find Harcourt Bolton — half-sure I wanted to fawn on him because he’s my hero and half-sure I wanted to put two in the back of his head for invading my home turf — when Church’s phone rang. I swear sometimes you can tell it’s going to be bad news from the way the phone rings.
This was one of those times.
Church’s phone rang and he took the call and he stiffened with new tension. “Thank you, First Sergeant. Come back here as soon as you are able.”
He disconnected the call and told me about Top and Bunny.
INTERLUDE TWENTY-TWO
Oscar Bell set the phone down.
The sun was behind the trees and it threw somber brown shadows through the window. The sound of birds in the trees was wrong; they sounded like rude people talking in church. The house was still. Empty of children for years now, empty of wives old and new, empty of everyone except the live-in staff who knew not to make noise and not to be seen. The mansion was so big these days. Once, the sixteen bedrooms and eighteen baths, the formal and casual dining rooms, the kitchens, the sitting rooms and libraries and offices had all felt alive. Vibrant.
That was then.
It was different now and Bell could feel the change.
He could hear it. On evenings like these the wind came whispering off the ocean and found cracks in the walls and gaps in the windows, and it howled at him.
Like ghosts.
He wondered if one of those ghosts belonged to Prospero.
Was the boy dead? Or was he alive somewhere in the world, hating him, as Bell knew he deserved to be hated?
Was he even on this world?
Bell had no idea.
Such a loss.
He wondered about Prospero’s mother. Surrogate or not, she had loved the boy as much as a fractured mind like hers could love. As much as a broken heart like hers could love. When she killed herself it was an act of murder and it stole something from this place. From Bell, too. Even from him.
And now Corrine.
Gone.
“Suicide” is such a clinical word but it was safer than the truth. It was a buffer from the details.
Erskine had told him, though. He’d been happy to, the cold-hearted son of a bitch. He’d used the details like a knife to stab him.
“The silly bitch took off all her clothes and went walking out in the snow,” Erskine had said. “She’d shit herself, of course. But that was before she went outside. Stupid cow.”
Erskine had to know that Bell and Corrine were sleeping together. He was like that. He knew. And he had the God Machine. He had those dreamers.
Sadistic sick fuck of a bastard.
Telling him about Corrine was the knife, but it wasn’t the point of the call.
“The project is a failure, Oscar,” said Erskine. “After a careful review we can only conclude that you were aware of the unreliability of the machine. That you knew about the instability and chose not to inform us is nonfeasance. That you were informed by Major Sails of problems at our facility related to the device and still chose not to provide information is malfeasance. You have grossly violated the terms of our agreement and you are in further violation of the spirit as well as the word of the understanding between you and the Department of Defense. Our attorneys are filing actions against you and I have no doubt we will recover all fees paid to you and receive a judgment of penalties for damages.”
The words battered Bell, driving him down into his chair and almost onto the floor.
“Marcus… why are you doing this? We’re family, for Christ’s sake!”
“Family?” Erskine burst out laughing. “Even after all this you really don’t understand how the world works, Oscar.”
That had been the end of the call.
After that it was the lawyers and the process servers. The federal agents who came to seize the property and all his holdings. The bank officers who told him that his assets had been frozen. The IRS account managers who called to schedule audits.
It all came tumbling down.
Down, down, down.
And yet through all of it all he could do was think of Corrine Sails. That mind. That devious, lovely mind.
Gone.
His own mind, always cruel, conjured memories for him. The taste of the side of her throat. The feel of her nipples as they grew hard between his lips. The heat of her when he slipped inside. The sounds she made when she came. Guttural, primal. Ringing now in his ears.
Those memories were like knives to him.
Those memories were like swords.
There wasn’t enough scotch in all of Long Island to drown them away.
It was a terrible, terrible thing to realize that love is in the heart only after the heart itself is too badly broken to contain it.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Top and Bunny wouldn’t be back to the Pier for an hour, so I stumbled down to the office that had been commandeered by Harcourt Bolton. His secretary — one of his people, not one of mine — told me that he was out of the building. I left a request for a meeting when he got back.
“You’re Captain Ledger?” said the receptionist, a busty Nordic blonde with big plastic boobs, collagen lips, and merciless eyes. The name on her desk placard said MUFFY. There are so many jokes I might have made had it been a different day. “You used to run this place, as I understand.”
I wanted to yap at her like a kicked dog and tell her that I still ran the Pier, but I didn’t have the energy for a losing fight. Instead I slunk away with Ghost in tow.
On the elevator I looked down at him. “We are not having a good day, kiddo.”
He wagged his tail at me. So I gave him a dog cookie.
My office was where I left it, and I was thankful I hadn’t actually been evicted from the building. Small comforts are better than none.
“Can I get you anything?” Lydia-Rose asked after giving me a thorough up-and-down appraisal.
“Coffee.”
“Weren’t you finishing a big Starbucks when you got here?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have any of the coffee I put in the conference room?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t you think you’ve had too much already? Your hands are shaking.”
“Three things,” I told her. “First, there’s no such thing as too much coffee. Second, caffeine has nothing to do with my jitters. And third, there’s no such thing as too much coffee.”
She sighed and went over to the big Mr. Coffee and began making a fresh pot. I heard her say several things in back-alley Spanish that questioned my sanity, my parentage, and my personal hygiene. I went inside and slammed the door.
After a couple of tries I managed to get Bug on the line for a videoconference. When his face filled my laptop screen I saw that he was still trying to grow a goatee. A recent style choice that wasn’t working out all that well. Bug’s in his late twenties but puberty hasn’t completely unpacked its suitcase in his genes. His brown face was dusted with about nine black hairs.
“Looking good,” I told him.
“Oh… bite me,” he said. He wore a baggy gray sweatshirt with UNIVERSITY OF WAKANDA stenciled on the chest. “How are you doing, Joe?”