Musings Of An Indie Writer| « |
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Saturday, May 12, 2007
Making It Right (Part 1)
Christopher Chase clutched his wife Maureen's hand and waited with all the patience he could muster. From his first days in uniform, through his SEAL training and his baptism of fire in the Middle East, to the day he'd asked Maureen for her hand, nothing had ever been harder. After half an eternity, a short, stocky blonde woman in a nondescript blue suit came out of the examining room, looked about, and headed directly for them. Chris rose, pulling Maureen with him.
"Mr. and Mrs. Chase? I'm Detective Sonia Petievich." She extended a hand, and Chris took it mechanically. "Let's do the most important part first. Apart from some bruising that will heal in a few days, your daughter is unharmed."
Maureen sighed and slumped in relief. Chris looked the policewoman levelly in the eyes. "Apart from some bruising, the loss of her virginity, and one hell of a sense of violation."
Petievich's face tightened. "Well, yes. But as far as the doctors can tell, she suffered no physical damage. There were no traces of disease organisms in the assay, no indications of septic contamination, and no damage to her internal organs. She'll certainly be able to bear children."
Chris kept silent with an effort. The usual activity of the hospital flowed around and past them, to all appearances unconcerned with their family's agony, but to Chris it seemed that every eye was riveted to their three-person tableau, every ear cocked to drink in the details of Amanda's gang rape.
Petievich noticed. She pitched her voice as low as she could. "Dr. Floyd says there's no reason she has to stay overnight. You can take her home when she's finished dressing. How early tomorrow can you have her at the precinct to make a statement?"
"It will be a while longer," Chris said, "before we know whether she's pregnant."
"Of course," Petievich said. "But the hospital can provide her with the 'morning-after pill,' if that's a great concern to you.
Maureen stiffened. Chris chafed her hand for a moment before turning back to the policewoman and fishing under his dress shirt for the crucifix pendant he always wore. He brandished the little cross at Petievich and scowled.
"We don't do that, Detective. Thanks for your time and concern."
"Just a moment --"
"Good night, Detective."
He pulled his wife past the policewoman and through the door behind which Amanda awaited them.
If one didn't peer too closely, Amanda looked no different. Her face was unchanged. She moved with her usual swift, staccato efficiency as she dressed and made ready to depart. Only the fires of Hell flickering deep behind her eyes testified to the savagery that had been visited upon her.
Her narrative was heartbreakingly concise. She had to go through it twice before Chris could form a reply. Despite all the troubles they'd had with vandalism and petty theft in the three years past, he could hardly believe such a thing could happen in a neighborhood as sleepy and intimate as theirs. When he did find his voice, he had few words upon which to exercise it.
"Did you recognize them?"
Amanda nodded.
"Did you tell the policewoman? Did you give their names?"
She shook her head.
Chris closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Good."
Maureen's eyes flared wide. She clutched at his hand. "Chris --"
He fixed her with a gaze utterly devoid of emotion, and she lapsed into silence.
"They're dead, Mo. They just haven't fallen over yet. Let it rest for tonight."
From the corner of his eye he saw Amanda's face empty of blood. He turned and looked directly into her eyes, and she flinched.
"Did you think I was going to leave it to the police, Mandy? The same police who can't tell us who's been breaking into our barn? That responded to three reports of cars stolen right out of our driveway by shrugging and saying 'boys will be boys?'"
"Chris," Maureen whispered, "you could land in the nick yourself."
He nodded. "That's the usual comeback to a citizen who's been abused. 'Let the police do their job,' they say. 'Stick to what you know best,' they say. 'It's safer that way.' Not this time, Mo. This time, they die."
His wife flinched and pulled away. He gripped her hand tightly and drew her back to him.
"Not tonight, Mo. But soon." He turned back to his violated stepdaughter. "Come on, Mandy. It's time to go home."
Amanda stood paralyzed, her canvas backpack dangling from her shoulder.
"Dad," she said, her words barely audible, "What if I see them at school?"
"You won't be going back to school for a few days, honey."
"But when I do...?"
Chris smiled ferally. "You can tell them that they're dead, honey. It won't matter at all."
As Chris turned into the driveway of their Foxwood home, his headlights revealed a large gray Ford sedan already parked in it. Instinct compelled him to reach past his wife, pop open the glove box and extract the loaded M1911 he kept with him at all times. He pulled his Suburban carefully alongside the Ford, and saw that Sonia Petievich sat behind the wheel. She emerged and strode toward the driver's side door as he killed his engine and set the parking brake.
He opened his door, forcing the detective backward, and stepped down from his truck. Before she could speak, he looked over his shoulder and said, "Go inside, ladies. I'll be in presently." Maureen's eyes opened a millimeter wider. After a moment she nodded, wrapped an arm around Amanda's shoulders and shepherded her toward the front door.
"Was there something else, Detective?" He thrust the Colt into his waistband and crossed his arms over his chest.
Petievich's eyes flicked imperceptibly toward the Colt's grip and back to Chris's face. "I assume you have a carry permit for that iron."
"No you don't," Chris returned. "You know I do. It's been more than an hour since we met at Onteora General. That's more than enough time for you to have learned everything public about me. You know I have a federal pistol permit." He smiled. "One that can't be overridden by any state or local ordinance."
Petievich nodded.
"So what more can I do for you, Detective? Or are you here to tell me something you can do for me?"
"Mr. Chase," the policewoman said haltingly, "is there any possibility your stepdaughter --"
"Her name is Amanda," Chris growled.
A spasm passed over Petievich's face. "Yes, of course. Is there any possibility Amanda might be willing to name her attackers, so that we can all see justice done?"
Chris tried to repress his wolflike grin and failed utterly. "Hmmm, let's see. Six rapists, one accuser. Just for the sake of a thought experiment, let's assume she could name them. What defense do you suppose they would mount in response?"
Petievich said nothing. The first fingers of predawn light were reaching over the eastern horizon. She looked once more at the gun he'd tucked into his pants.
On impulse, Chris pulled the weapon out of his waistband, removed the clip and offered it grip first to the policewoman. She accepted it with a grave expression, examined it with casual but professional interest, and handed it back.
"Service issue?"
Chris shook his head. "Private purchase. Custom sights and trigger. I can give you the name of the gunsmith, if you like."
"Not tonight. Do you keep a rating?"
"Why ask, Detective? It's filed at the same site as my federal permit."
Petievich scowled again. "I have to warn you about the hazards and likely consequences of vigilante action. If anything happens to those boys --"
"What boys?"
"The ones who raped your --"
Chris bared his teeth, and the detective fell silent.
"The ones who raped Amanda, Detective? Those boys? What are their names, pray tell? If you know them, why aren't they already in police custody, where nothing bad could happen to them? Apart from indictment and trial, that is."
"You must understand, Mr. Chase," Petievich said tightly, "that if anything were to happen to them outside the processes of the law, you would be the prime suspect. We'd be on your ass before you could get your dick back into your pants."
The sun poked its limb above the horizon, washing Sonia Petievich's blunt Slavic features with reddish dawnlight. Chris could see that her heart wasn't in the message she'd felt compelled to deliver. Given her evident youth, it seemed likely that she'd never faced a comparable duty before.
"I love your delicate way with imagery, Detective. But I have no more knowledge of Amanda's attackers than you. So they're about as safe from me as any worthless rape-minded scum in this county could be. I assume that if you learn who they are, you'll give us a courtesy notification that they've been captured, at least?"
Petievich closed her eyes and nodded.
Chris snorted and made for his door.
Chris was suspended halfway between the personnel report before him and the vengeance fantasy unrolling in his mind's eye when the ringing of his desk phone startled him away from both. He snatched at the handset in irritation and wedged it between his head and shoulder.
"Security."
"Chris, it's Todd. Do you have a few minutes for me?"
"Uh, sure, Todd. Be right up." Chris flipped the handset back into its cradle, rose and trotted for the stairs.
He found Todd Iverson in his usual posture, crouched over his desk, peering into his computer monitor as if he could read tomorrow's headlines from it. So spectacular and uninterrupted had Arcologics's rise been that no few of Iverson's competitors believed exactly that. Chris closed Iverson's office door quietly behind him, slipped into one of his leather guest chairs, and waited for the CEO to notice him.
Iverson thrust his mouse aside, tilted back in his chair and swung his feet up onto his desk. As always, he was wearing the high-heeled platform boots that had become one of his signature practices. They clunked woodenly against the surface of the desk.
From his first day at the company, Chris had wondered why Iverson was so sensitive about his height. Arcologics's owner and CEO was a polymathic genius. He'd steered his firm to the top of half a dozen different fields without apparent effort. He seemed ready, willing, and able to master any field at all, if the profit potential were sufficient. He treated his employees like beloved relatives, and they were unanimous in their adoration of him. His wife Jeanne, a petite blonde beauty who was also the company's benefits liaison and ombudsman, had hinted that he possessed powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men. "Don't ask," she'd giggled. "There are some things we'd rather keep to ourselves." Why so gifted a man would be insecure about his height was impossible to fathom.
Everyone is sensitive about something. Best to let it pass.
"You're planning to hit the vermin that raped Amanda, aren't you?" Iverson said without preliminary.
Chris started in his seat. "You knew?"
"Of course I knew," Iverson said. "And I'm a leeeetle concerned that my top cop might be about to go outside the law to avenge his daughter's honor."
So he has sources inside the Onteora police. Why does that surprise me?
Maybe because he's so fastidious.
"I can deal with it, Todd."
Iverson's eyes went flat. He shook his head once, very slowly.
"How did I find out, Chris? Do you really expect that any of those boys could even stub a toe without it being blamed on you?"
Chris grimaced. "Maybe so. But we both know the Onteora police aren't worth a damn any more. If Amanda's going to have justice --"
Iverson held up a hand, and Chris swallowed the rest of his sentence. The CEO rose from his chair and sauntered over to his office window. It was a strange view for the office of a multimillionaire; it overlooked the Arcologics parking lot, beyond which there were only trees.
"Is it justice you want?" he said softly.
Chris bit back his reflex response and briefly closed his eyes.
"Maybe a little more than that."
"Do you think that's what Amanda wants?"
"I haven't asked her."
Iverson turned to face him, brown eyes deep and brilliant.
"And why would that be?"
It stopped him cold.
Because you've made this into a personal contest between you and those young pricks, haven't you? Amanda is secondary to your need to prove that no one can abuse someone under your protection and get away with it.
His hands, which he'd unconsciously balled into fists, relaxed in his lap. He laid his palms along his thighs and said, "I assume you have a suggestion?"
Iverson looked at him critically a moment longer, then resumed his seat, boots up on the desk once again.
"Not a suggestion," Iverson said. "An offer, and a constraint. Until you get closure on this you'll be unable to concentrate, and I can't have that in my Director of Security. Also, I don't want to lose you. I know a little about the impulse to vengeance. A man can easily lose his perspective under that sort of stimulus. So I called you here to offer you a deal."
Chris drew a quick, sharp breath. "What sort of deal?"
Iverson grinned devilishly. "You can have the full resources of your department to use however you wish, including what's left of its operating budget for the year, so long as neither you nor anyone you hire or supervise lays the lightest finger on any of those gangbangers."
Chris's mouth fell open.
"Do you doubt my right, Chris? It is my company, you know."
"But --"
"That's the deal." Iverson spread his hands. "You want justice for Amanda? Use your department. Find a way to get it without inflicting violence on the scum that raped her. I don't want to have to bail you out of jail, and for sure I don't want to have to testify at your murder trial." He waved at the door. "Go chew on it for a while. You don't have to give me an explicit answer. I'll know."
Chris rose shakily. "I expect you will."
Iverson nodded. "Count on it."
Maureen laid her hand atop Chris's. "You're sure he's serious?"
Chris nodded. "Serious as cancer. He'd never make such an offer and not mean it."
She squeezed his hand, went to the stove, and filled their teakettle. Chris grinned. His wife's responses to stress were as regular as a metronome: make a pot of tea, change the curtains in the dining room, rummage through one of their closets for clothes to be given to the parish charity closet. Yet her regularity and serenity had tamed the wild man he'd once been: a creature to whom an even-money chance of being hacked to death by Muslim terrorists was the sort of moment he lived for.
Why me? Why did a widowed English nurse, seven years older than me and with a half-grown daughter to protect, take a chance on the ruffian I was? How did she know she could civilize me and why did I let her do it?
His hand went automatically to the small gold crucifix pendant she'd given him upon his baptism.
Does it matter? She and Mandy are the best things ever to happen to me. Thank you, Lord. I am truly blessed.
"It could be," Maureen said as she fiddled with the teapot, "that Todd meant exactly what he said. He usually does. But it could also be that he expects you to wear out your anger without ever bringing those hooligans to book. Maybe he expects that in two or three weeks you'll throw the whole thing up as a bad job and put your mind back on your work."
The notion was uncomfortable. Chris grimaced and tried to consider it dispassionately.
"Todd's a straight shooter, Mo. Plus, he's met Amanda. How could anyone who's met her not want to tear her rapists limb from limb?" The way I want to.
She looked back over her shoulder at him and nodded.
"Which would mean..." The kettle screamed, and Chris trailed off.
"What, dear?" Maureen brought the pot to the kettle, filled it carefully, and deposited it on the dinette table between them. She reached for Chris's hands, and he gave them to her.
"Which would mean he wants me to take it seriously...maybe so he won't take a hand in it himself."
Maureen's forehead wrinkled. "He's not a very physical person, though. Is he?"
"Not that I've seen."
Her eyes locked with his. "That you've seen."
"Right."
Chris tapped gently at Amanda's bedroom door. "Mandy, honey?"
There was no answer, but a moment later the door creaked open to reveal Amanda Harkness's pale, tear-streaked face. It was enough to call Chris back to his pitch of rage of the night before.
She's letting it out. It had to happen eventually.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?"
She nodded and beckoned him in. He sat on her bed and gestured for her to sit beside him. She did, and he settled an arm around her shoulders.
"I have a problem, honey." He drew a deep breath and did his best to settle himself. "I don't quite know what to do about...those boys."
She said nothing, only drew herself closer against him.
"Do you remember Todd? I mean, my boss?"
He felt her nod.
"He told me..." Chris swallowed. Now that he was at the point of doing so, the notion of asking Amanda what she would consider justice for her violation seemed absurd. But Iverson had plainly had something in mind...something he couldn't tell Chris directly, because he expected that the ex-SEAL would snort it aside.
"What, Dad?" Amanda's voice was feather-soft.
"He told me that I should ask you...what you think I should do. What would make things right. Well, as close to right as we can get it." He toyed with the idea of telling her of Iverson's offer, and rejected it.
"Dad, you can unscrew a light bulb --"
"But you can't unscrew a girl." He caressed her hair, and she snuggled closer yet. Not for the first time, he marveled that this delicate creature, who'd been reaved of her father, her friends, and her childhood home, could be so open and trusting. "I know, honey. But we have to do the best we can. I just want to know what you think."
"What about the police?" she murmured.
Yeah, what about them? What could I slip past them, now that they know about me? That Petievich broad seemed pretty sharp. For all I know, she might even be honest.
"I don't think we can count on them for anything, honey. This...sort of thing has been happening a lot lately. I haven't heard of any arrests being made for it."
"Wouldn't they try to stop you?" She looked up at him, doe-eyed, ready to accept whatever he might say.
He nodded. "They'd try. And if something really horrible happened to one of those boys -- say, if he fell down in front of a speeding truck -- and they thought I'd done it, things could get pretty bad for us." Again.
"Then you mustn't." Her arms went around his waist. "I'll be all right."
"I know you will, honey. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't do anything, does it? We can at least try to think of something clever, you and me." Something to fix their little red wagons permanently.
"It has to be really clever, then," she said. "Because the police can't know it was you, or things will get lots worse."
He nodded.
Something humiliating, that will leave them knowing they've been punished, but that they'd never dream of taking to the cops. Something they wouldn't even talk about among themselves.
"I might get an idea, honey. And I promise you that if I don't, I won't do anything that would mean any more trouble, either for you or for me."
"Do you think you can keep them from doing this to some other girl?" she said.
He caressed her hair again. "I might."
Her gaze was steady. He could feel her weighing his ingenuity against his rage, and her own need for justice against her fear of losing him.
"Then I'll tell you who they are."
"Mo?"
"Yes, love?" Maureen didn't turn from her sinkful of dishes.
"Do you think it's true that rape is about power?"
Maureen didn't answer. She fished a saucepan from the sudsy water and scrubbed it as if getting it perfectly clean were the only imperative of existence.
"Mo?"
The silence persisted. Chris rose from the table, went to his wife and put his hands to her waist. She rinsed the saucepan, deposited it in the drying rack and leaned back against him.
"It must be," she said. "Especially here in...in America. The girls are all so free with their favors. Why would anyone feel he needed to rape just to get a bit of tail?"
He slipped his arms further around her waist and hugged her to him. "Maybe I shouldn't say. I wouldn't want you to think any worse of us here in the colonies."
She chuckled and reached up to caress his face. "I have my wild colonial boy. What does it matter what I think of the rest of your lot?"
He squeezed her gently, and she let her head loll back against his chest.
It matters. I want you to be happy with your new homeland. I don't want you to grouse about having traded down-at-the-heels England for prosperous but wild-West America. Even if you never say a word, I'll know.
"You haven't been here that long, Mo," he said. "Actually, I haven't either. I'd been in the Navy for fourteen years when I met you, and I hadn't been back home in all that time."
She turned in his embrace and frowned at him. "You didn't use your leave to come stateside?"
"Mostly not. I spent most of them in the nearest fleshpot. Paris, Tokyo, Seoul, Taipei, Sydney." He smiled. "And London, of course. I did come back to America on two occasions. But what I meant was that I hadn't come back to Onteora. When you and I and Mandy arrived here, I could see at once that things had been moving in a new direction. One I didn't like." One I took you out of England to get you away from, and then found it waiting for us here.
He put his hands to the sides of her face and stroked gently.
"When I joined up, this was a safe, clean, peaceful place. Not exciting, and not particularly prosperous, but a good place for kids to grow up. A good place for people who mostly wanted to be left alone. We hadn't had but one capital crime in all the years I'd lived here, and I don't remember ever hearing about a rape. But things have changed. There's...a new element in the county, one you might remember from your troubles in London. It doesn't hold to the norms I was taught as a boy." Or the ones I honor as a man.
Maureen paled. He could almost read the memories unrolling behind her eyes.
"The same...element that killed Ernest?"
He nodded. "Younger, but the same." And Todd Iverson has forbidden me to deal with them in the way I know best. The way I followed for fourteen years in one hellhole after another.
"Chris, how could...your people have been so stupid, after everything they've heard about Britain and Europe, to let them in here?"
Christopher Chase, retired Navy SEAL who had lost count of the terrorists he'd killed in his years at arms, pulled his wife close and whispered into her ear.
"I don't know, Mo. But if it can be fixed, I'll fix it. At least here, now, for us."
Kevin Conway, the owner-operator of Integral Security, was a tall, broad-shouldered, pleasant-faced man in his forties with thick red-brown hair, keen hazel eyes, the manners of a diplomat, and the build of a professional brawler. He wore a plain khaki-green uniform with Integral embroidered over the breast pocket of his tunic. A short-barreled revolver was holstered at his right hip. He gestured Chris into a guest chair and sat at his desk. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Chase?" he said.
Chris's eyes roamed curiously around the little office. Conway had chosen accommodations even starker than Todd Iverson's. The room was about fifteen feet square, with walls of whitewashed cinder block. Its sole window looked down on an idle street. Conway's desk and bookcases were standard sheet-steel office gear. The wall behind him, where nearly any other executive, Iverson included, would have an "I love me" array festooned with awards, certificates, and testimonials, bore only his diploma from the University of Rochester and Integral's corporate license from the New York State Department of Commerce.
Well, a man best known for facing down the county and state governments isn't likely to need ego sops.
"Well, sir, I have a problem I can't solve myself, and I can't take to the police."
Conway squinted. "A security matter? You're Arcologics's security officer, aren't you?"
"No, sir, not exactly."
"Then what? Oh, you can drop the 'sir,' by the way. I'm Kevin to everyone."
"A crime." Chris breathed deeply and reminded himself to stay calm. "My...my daughter Amanda was gang-raped in Beregond Park the night before last. She was on her way home from gymnastics practice."
Conway said nothing. His sole reaction was a tightening of the muscles around his eyes.
"Todd -- Mr. Iverson has given me the full resources of my department to use in obtaining justice, but on a condition: he doesn't want any violence done to Amanda's attackers, by me or anyone I hire."
"And that," Conway said slowly, "puts the matter a little out of your line."
Chris nodded. "I was hoping for the benefit of your counsel."
"You have it, for what it's worth. But Chris -- may I call you Chris?"
"Of course."
"Thank you. Do you have a particular reason not to leave the matter to the police?"
Chris grinned despite himself. "You mean, apart from their corruption and general ineptitude?"
Conway grinned crookedly. "Yes, apart from that."
"As it happens, I do." Chris slid forward in his seat. "Amanda recognized her attackers, Kevin. She gave me six names, and assured me that she was in no doubt about any of them. They're boys at Foxwood High, where she goes." The point of no return was upon him. "If I give you their names, will you hold them in confidence?"
Conway hesitated, then nodded once.
"Tariq al-Malim," Chris said. "Heshayem Mohamed. Farooq ibn Azzam. Maroun Mazaram. Riyadh ibn Sharif. And Khalid Khaldoun."
Conway's face shed all expression. "Khalid Khaldoun, the eldest son of Hassan Khaldoun?"
Chris nodded. "The very same."
"Well, I can see why you don't want to involve the police. Does anyone know those names besides yourself and your daughter?"
"Only you, Kevin. Do you have any thoughts to share with me, or should I leave you to ponder the matter for awhile?"
Conway rose and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Only that one doesn't casually charge the apple of the deputy chief's eye with a major felony." He looked down at his desk. "Otherwise, I believe I will have to ponder this for a stretch. Would you like some coffee? Our cafeteria blend is excellent, if I do say so myself."
Chris rose. "Are there jelly doughnuts to go with it?"
"Of course. Fresh as of this morning."
"Then I'm buying."
Conway wiped his hands free of sugar and picked up his mug. "I see three major aspects to the problem." He held up a finger. "First, you want to punish the thugs who raped Amanda."
"That's absolute," Chris said.
Another finger. "Second, you want to stay out of jail yourself." Conway grinned. "At least, I would. And we can't assume that the police don't know who Amanda's rapists were, since one of them is the deputy chief's son." He raised a third finger. "Third and last, but not trivial even by comparison to the other points, you want to remain in your employer's good graces." The security chief's brow furrowed. "Actually, that might not be as hard as you think. Iverson specified that neither you nor anyone you hire or supervise was to lay a hand on those boys, correct?"
Chris nodded. "Close to his exact words."
"Okay, we'll come back to that." Conway sipped at his coffee and peered over the rim at Chris. "Do you have any constraints you want to lay on the solution, Chris?"
"Nothing you probably haven't thought of yourself," Chris said. "Protect my family from further violation, restore Amanda's sense of security, ensure that those bastards never hurt anyone else, get a brand-new Mercedes and a mansion in Chedwick..."
"Hm?"
"Well, as long as we're composing wish lists."
Conway chuckled. "Oh. Okay. What about time? Will you be able to keep calm if this should take a while?"
Chris tensed. He tried not to let it show. "How long a while?"
Conway didn't answer him at once. He pushed his chair a little way back from the cafeteria table and looked over at the knot of uniforms gathered around the pastries table. Chris assessed them soberly. Seven men, two women, of varying sizes and colors. All were fit and clean-cut, plainly at ease with their trade and its duties. Each wore a holstered short-barreled revolver at his right hip.
I might have been one of them, if the dice had fallen a little differently. I wonder if I'd have enjoyed it.
"It's a matter of priorities," Conway said. "If you're willing to skimp on some of the lesser priorities for the sake of a speedy resolution, we could get it done pretty quickly."
We?
"On the other hand," Conway continued, "if those lesser priorities really aren't that much less, and you're willing to take some time about the thing, perhaps we could satisfy them all. You said Amanda is a gymnast?"
Chris nodded. "A good one. Quick and graceful."
"Have you considered having her punish those boys herself?"
Chris opened his mouth, closed it again, and thought hard.
"Combat training?"
Conway nodded. His face was grave.
"I have a genius trainer on my staff. All my new hires have to pass muster with her before I'll put them on a detail. Are you familiar with the various schools of unarmed combat?"
Chris grinned. "You could say so."
Conway's eyes glinted. "Do you have a favorite? One at which you'd be willing to match your skills against anyone?"
Chris shrugged. "What I've studied doesn't really have a name. But it works well enough. I'd give you some references, but I'm afraid they're all dead."
Conway drained his coffee and stood. "Then it's time for you to meet Christine."
The statuesque brunette beauty who'd trounced Chris as if he were a boot camp newbie knelt beside him with a look of concern. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
Chris blinked away the swarming blue fireflies and squinted up at her. "No, it's okay, but would you do me a favor, please?"
"Sure, what?" She extended a hand and hauled him to his feet. He straightened up tentatively and heaved a sigh.
"Wrap your gi a little tighter? It's, ah, sort of a distraction."
Christine D'Alessandro glanced down at her exposed cleavage and giggled. "Sorry." She pulled her gi more closely around her and snugged the belt. "Look, you're pretty good, but your style is definitely a man's style. We ladies have to do things a little differently. How big did you say Amanda is?"
Chris glanced over at Kevin Conway, who sat in a folding metal chair at the edge of the mats. The security chief was watching without expression.
If he's serious about this, I'd be a fool to pass it up. This gal could take Chuck Norris, Jackie Chan, and Jet Li without working up a sweat.
But will Amanda go for it? Will Maureen?
"About the same size as her mother: five-five, a hundred ten pounds. That's not what she would say, of course."
Christine cocked an eyebrow. "Body image problems?"
Chris grinned. "No, metric-system problems. Mo and Mandy are Brits. To them, it's a hundred sixty-five centimeters and fifty kilos."
"Oh. Well, if you can get them here twice a week -- Tuesday and Friday afternoons okay, Kevin?" Conway nodded. "I can teach them anything they're willing to learn."
Chris reviewed his family's multiple schedules. "Could you stand to have them show up in the evenings?"
Christine shrugged. "Not a problem for me. In fact, if they're willing, I could have them here every evening of the week. Do you think they'll go for it?"
Chris forced himself to consider it carefully.
"It'll be a departure for both of them. They're very gentle. This country sort of frightens them."
"Do you frighten them, Chris?" Christine regarded him levelly.
"I did...at first." You don't want to know how we met or what I did right before their eyes, lady. Trust me on that.
"But not any more, right? So they're probably tougher than you give them credit for." As naturally as if they were friends of twenty years' standing, his conqueror wrapped an arm around his shoulders and shepherded him toward his host. Conway rose as they approached, his eyes a question focused not on Chris but on Christine. She nodded.
"He's got balls, Kevin. If his girls are half as solid, it'll be no problem at all."
Conway's eyes flicked at once to Chris's. "Would you come back upstairs with me for a bit, Chris? There are a few details I'd like to iron out before we proceed."
Chris nodded. Christine gave him a quick squeeze.
"I'll change and join you later."
"How are your small-arms skills, Chris?" Conway said.
Chris shrugged. "Making them, maintaining them, or using them?"
"Never mind." Conway pulled his revolver from his holster and passed it across the desk, grip first. "Safety's on." Chris took it and weighed it in his hand.
"Smith and Wesson thirty-eight, double action revolver. One of the most reliable wheelguns ever made. Two inch barrel, so don't get into it with a sniper." He passed it back. "I prefer a Colt automatic, but for close quarters work the Smith is as good as they come."
Conway returned the revolver to its place at his hip. "Would you be averse to carrying one?"
"Why? I have two M1911s and a Browning nine millimeter that suit me fine."
"Because all my men carry them."
"What? I didn't --"
"I did. I'm recruiting. You. Today. Right now."
Chris blinked and stared hard at Conway. The security chief seemed perfectly serious.
"You're aware that I have a job, right?"
Conway nodded. "Got a problem with having two?"
"But why?"
"I have my reasons. I hate to let a good man get away. Integral's customer list has been growing fast, and I don't doubt that it will continue to do so." Conway's mouth drew thin. "I might not need senior personnel at this very instant, but I'm sure in a year I'll have enough work to keep two more watch commanders fully occupied, so why not stock up now and avoid the rush?" Conway's grin turned naughty. "And there's this: if you work for me, then you didn't hire me, and you certainly don't supervise me. You'd go where I tell you and do as I order. Right, Lieutenant Chase?"
"Uh, yes, sir."
Conway rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. "There he goes with the 'sir' again. Look, Chris, whether you join my shop or not, I'm Kevin. Anyway, what I plan to do is lease you back to Iverson, to do exactly what you're doing for him now, for the next year at least. It'll cost him exactly the salary you're already getting, so he loses nothing. It'll cost me a few bucks, but I can stand it. Maybe not that much, considering that I can deduct the cost of your family's training and protection as a legitimate business expense. By the way, what does he pay you?"
"Seventy, plus four into my 401(K) every year."
"My watch commanders get eighty, and I match their 401(K) contributions dollar for dollar." Conway rose and stuck out his hand. "Don't worry, you'll earn it. Welcome aboard, Lieutenant."
Chris rose shakily and took it. "Thank you, si -- Kevin. Can I ask a question?"
"Shoot."
"The lady downstairs in the gym? Christine?"
"Yes?"
"Could she do that to you?"
"In her sleep, Chris. In her sleep." Conway gestured toward the door. "Come on, let's get you on the payroll and introduce you to the rest of the crew. Then comes the hard part."
"Hm?"
"Telling Todd Iverson that you've changed jobs." A cloud passed over Conway's face. "I'd better come with you for that. He won't like it, you know."
"No," Chris said. "He won't."
Todd Iverson was not pleased. He glared at Conway as if the two had a long history of unpleasantness. When he swung the glare to shine on Chris, it took a conscious effort not to flinch visibly.
"You were underpaying him, you know," Conway said.
"Not for what he was doing," Iverson growled.
Chris kept his lips clamped together. Every Navy man knew the hazards of inserting oneself into a pissing contest between brass hats. In a contest between superior officers, do your best imitation of wallpaper.
"Todd," Kevin said, "you can have him back for at least the next year, and for no more than you're paying him now." He showed no tension at all. "You just have to pay it to me. And you don't have to worry that his attention will be split. Arcologics will be his sole responsibility for at least one year from this date. You have my word."
Iverson appeared unmollified. "I'm supposed to use a contractor as my Director of Security? Someone whose ultimate loyalty is outside the corporation? Are you practicing your lunacy act, or is this some sort of very poorly conceived joke?"
Conway merely shrugged.
Iverson's brown eyes bored into Chris's own. "Do you realize," he said in a tone that sang with fury, "that you'll be the first Arcologics employee ever to leave my service? Do you have the slightest idea what that will say to the rest of my staff? To my personnel director? To my wife?"
"Todd," Chris said as quietly as he could, "I'm not really leaving. Not unless you want me to. Kevin is serious. I wouldn't have accepted his offer otherwise."
Iverson's expression didn't soften. "He's given me no guarantees I can trust."
"Now hold on a minute," Conway said. "Are you saying you don't think my word is good?"
Iverson glanced at him and sneered, as if there ought to be no need to reply to a statement that bizarre. For the first time, Chris saw blood rise into Conway's face.
"Todd, I asked you a question."
"I don't particularly care," Iverson said, "whether your word is good. I don't particularly care for you, or your company, or your easy way with my employees. I don't particularly care who your customers are, or how well you perform for them. To me you're just one more Irish thug, except that you've managed to turn your thuggery into a comfortable living. And I don't care whether hearing that makes you burst a blood vessel. In fact, I rather wish it would. You've made your pitch, and your score. You've ruptured my security and forced me to replace a man I thought I could rely on. But you'll do no more at my expense. Now get out of my office."
Anger crackled through the air. Chris regarded his former employer's set features and his new one's boiled-ham color and wondered whether it would fall to him to keep them from killing one another.
If we were anywhere but Todd's office, these two would be settling their differences the old-fashioned way.
Presently Conway said. "As you prefer, Mr. Iverson. We 'Irish thugs' might not all be geniuses, but we have our place in the world. Like as not you'll find that out the hard way."
"Are you threatening me, Conway?" Iverson screeched.
Conway shook his head. "No, Iverson, I'm doing something worse. I'm throwing you on your own resources. Lieutenant Chase is my responsibility now. I'm sure I'll find enough to keep him fully occupied." He bared his teeth. "Best of luck with your personnel search."
As they entered the stairwell, Chris murmured, "He's a very good man, Kevin."
Conway glanced at Chris without expression. "I've known better."
They descended the stairs, nodded to the security guard at the front desk, and walked straight into the waiting arms of Sonia Petievich, Hassan Khaldoun, and half the uniforms of the Onteora County First Precinct.
Hassan Khaldoun propped his enormous bulk on his knuckles and glared at Chris and Conway in turn. "You are aware," he said, "that it's a felony to conceal evidence of a felony."
Neither Chris nor Conway spoke.
"Well?" Khaldoun barked.
"Are you ready to charge us with something, Hassan?" Conway said pleasantly. "Because my patience with you is pretty close to bottoming out."
Alarm bells rang in Chris's head. They were in a basement interrogation room, with whitewashed cinderblock walls and a door that could only be unlocked from outside. They'd been disarmed upon apprehension; Khaldoun's sidearm was prominent at his hip. If Conway was about to make a play, he could hardly have picked a less promising situation.
Khaldoun's hot black eyes scraped across their faces like twin lasers. Chris could see his neck swelling. Badness was imminent.
"Do you think," Khaldoun said in a whisper that crackled with rage, "that I'd have any real trouble coming up with a reason to keep you as long as I wished?"
"Actually," Conway said, "I do." He pointed to the clock on the wall. "We've now been in your custody for two hours and thirty-five minutes. My last reported location was the Arcologics offices on Grand Street, where I spent a little more than an hour. My people expect me to call in no less frequently than once every four hours. So if you don't voluntarily release us pretty damned quick, you're going to have all of Integral Security climbing down your collar in about a discounted hour. They have standing orders to use all necessary force in defense of any one of their own. Not long ago, one of my new hires asked me what 'all necessary force' might entail. I told him it meant to go Biblical on whoever's on the other side. You know, slay and spare not. Are you ready for that, Deputy Chief Khaldoun?"
The policeman bared his teeth. Conway smiled broadly and slumped into a posture of arrogant disdain.
"Go ahead, asshole. Try me and see. The uniforms upstairs would love to have a bloodbath to blame on you. Especially since your co-religionists have been placed out of bounds for investigation, never mind actual law enforcement, ever since you made captain. Hell, they might even side with my guys."
The two men's gazes were so tightly locked that nothing could separate them. Conway merely smiled his superior, try-me smile. Khaldoun was edging near to apoplexy.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Khaldoun growled.
"You know it, Hassan." Conway rose from his seat and stretched elaborately. "So unless you want your personalized Armageddon delivered giftwrapped, C.O.D., and real soon now, speak a nice, unambiguous release order into that little mike on the wall behind you. Otherwise, I don't think you'll be able to avert it."
The contest of gazes went on for several seconds longer. Chris found himself wondering whether he was still ready, willing, and able to kill with his bare hands, in cold blood.
I still have the ability. Do I have the will? I'm in the hands of forces I once swore to defend with my life.
Khaldoun yielded. He muttered a release-without-conditions command into the mike mounted on the wall, waited for the door to open, and exited the room without another word.
Chris and Conway rose as a pair of uniforms entered. "Well, gentlemen?" Conway said. "Was there something else?"
One of them said, "We're here to escort you out of the building."
Conway frowned. "Nice of you, but we have to reclaim our property first."
"I'm afraid not, sir," the uniform said in a monotone. "We're under orders to convey you directly to the street, no stops in between." His hand drifted toward his sidearm.
Conway turned toward Chris with a wave and a look of exasperation. Chris barely caught the flicker of his left eyelid. He returned it.
Three seconds later, the two cops were coughing their lungs out on the floor at their feet. Conway hefted the German automatic he'd taken from his opponent, scowled, and said, "Trash. Guaranteed to jam when you need it most. Give me an S&W any day."
Chris nodded, pulled the clip from the gun he'd taken from his target, and flipped the gun into the far corner. Conway did the same.
"Shall we get back to work, Lieutenant?"
"Of course, si -- Kevin."
Conway flipped a mock salute at the two cops writhing on the floor as they departed.
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