IX
Emmett, to no one's surprise, did not return. Connor was serious; he
wanted Rachel out of town. Until she could get packed and off to the
beachhouse, she was never without an immortal escort. Guarding her
hampered their hunt for Emmett, Rachel knew, and she tried to get her
affairs handled so as not to delay them more than necessary. Burning to
*do* something, Connor asked her to finish her preparations at the store,
so he could spar with his cousin in his personal dojo, with her safe under
the same roof, and near the "call" button. Rachel agreed with relief; with
never a private moment, she had had no opportunity to try calling Michael.
She was not to get the opportunity that day, either. She had just finished
arranging delivery to the Lansing-Holmes's and was dialing Michael's
number, when the thugs came to visit. Two well-built men in polyester
leisure suits swaggered into the store like studs entering a bar. They
looked around with disdain, then flanked Rachel at the desk.
"We wanna talk to Mr. Nash," said the man with flaming red hair and
freckles. His open, boyish features didn't suit Rachel's stereotype, but
the other man, darker and weaselly, did. He was holding a shabby,
familiar-looking coat. Both men had conspicuous lumps under their arms.
She smiled and pressed the button. "Mr. Nash will be delighted to see
you," she said with complete sincerity. She stood and began serenely
moving the more breakable items in the store to safer locations, while the
dark man watched with dead eyes. The red-haired man showed no curiosity,
either.
Connor entered alone, wearing his long coat over his sweat clothes. He
took in the two thugs, the coat, and Rachel's precautions impassively.
Then he smiled broadly. Rachel winced with a wicked surge of pleasure, and
wondered where Duncan was lurking.
"What can I do for you gentlemen?" Connor slid into the room, ever closer
to the two men. Slightly shorter and lighter than either of them, Connor
looked nothing like the threat he was.
"You Nash?" demanded the darker man.
Still smiling, Connor said, apparently to Rachel, "Mary, would you take
Cupid and Psyche to the back?"
Rachel tried not to look startled at her new alias, and hefted the statue
of the god of love and his mortal lover. She knew Connor meant to remove
her, and possibly the statue, to safety, so instead of going to the back,
she headed for the elevator.
None of the men said anything while she went. The elevator door swished
shut behind her, and Rachel left the two thugs to their fate.
With nothing in particular to do during the downstairs mayhem, Rachel found
herself in the guest room. Emmett's few possessions were not in much
order. She suspected by the disarray that Connor, not Duncan, had
inspected the room. She found the green plaque on the floor. Rachel sat
on the bed, holding the plaque, and let dread for Emmett fill her. Those
thugs had had his coat. At least it wasn't a body part, she comforted
herself. Of course, that could come next.
And it could be a con Emmett was in on, a treacherous voice said in her
head. She sighed and set the plaque aside.
Under a pile of clothes which looked like they had been pulled from the
dresser drawer, Rachel found a paper tablet. It seemed familiar to her in
some way, so she reseated herself on the bed to inspect it.
The familiarity, she realized as she flipped through it, stemmed from
simple nostalgia. She held an old ledger such as accountants would have
used in her youth. It sometimes disturbed her how many ordinary items from
her childhood were now antiques, though this ledger was far too ordinary,
not to mention worn, to have any value.
The company the ledger was from was called National Linen Supply, and had
an address in St. Louis, Missouri. The dates of the entries were from 1947
to 1952. She studied the entries closely, spurred by vague mental
associations with the mafia and dirty bookkeeping. Before long she was
convinced that this ledger did, indeed contain hints of criminal activity.
Some entries were detailed and specific, while some entries, both for
credits and for debits, were extremely large and vaguely labeled.
A gunshot exploded on the floor below. Rachel closed the ledger and
pressed her lips together. Two highly trained immortals against two thugs,
and they couldn't manage to get their business done without shooting in the
house? She shook her head and tsked.
She wandered the loft, uneasy. She knew better than to go downstairs
before she was given the all-clear, but the gunshot worried her more than
she liked to admit.
After what seemed like a very long time, she heard the elevator start up.
Native caution made her position herself out of view of whomever would exit
the lift, but, after it stopped, she heard Duncan's voice.
"Rachel?"
"Here," she replied, coming around the corner.
Duncan was shirtless, and wearing only the white pants of a martial arts
dogi. Rachel caught her breath and blinked.
Duncan smiled. "Everything's all right," he assured her, "but wait a bit
while Connor questions them. I'm going to put on a shirt and shoes." With
that, he padded up the stairs to the top of the loft, Rachel watching,
speechless. When he was out of sight, she gave her head a shake and
sighed.
He returned wearing black trousers and a blue sweater. "Connor's got them
tied up downstairs," he told her. "But they're not telling us much."
"Duncan, what are you going to do? We can't keep them prisoner. And we
can't ... you're not going to ..."
"Of course not." But his voice wavered at the end, as if he wasn't sure.
Rachel's heart beat faster. "Shouldn't you be down there with him?"
"We're playing good cop/bad cop."
"What does that mean?"
Duncan gave her a curious look. "You don't watch much TV, do you? One of
us tries to encourage them to talk by being nice; the other one uses ...
intimidation."
"Which one is Dad?" An ancient dread was seeping into her stomach.
Duncan sighed. "He never lets me be bad cop. I'm sure I could do it," he
whined, looking comically pitiful.
Rachel was not amused. "So right now he's down there ..." She headed for
the elevator. "What's he doing to them?"
"Rachel," Duncan hooked her elbow with his hand. "I know he doesn't want
you there." The jokester in Duncan was gone.
"What about you?" she demanded, turning to face him.
"I don't really want to be there, either," he admitted.
Rachel's dread peaked. Even Duncan knew. She went cold and hard.
"Duncan, you get down there right now and make sure he doesn't do anything
permanent to them."
"I'm sure he wouldn't do anything like that," he soothed.
"Then I know him better than you do," she bit at him. "You go, or I'm
going."
Duncan also hardened, and spoke quietly. "You know I can't let you do
that."
Time to try a different tack.
"Duncan," she pleaded. "I've seen ... known of too much torture in this
world. No more, please." Her voice quavered.
She saw sympathy and indecision on his face.
"Honeybee," he used a childhood endearment, "some people deserve it."
"I don't care. Not in my house. Duncan, please."
"All right," Duncan gave in, too gracious to point out that it wasn't her
house. "But you stay here."
She nodded her promise, and watched him go down in the lift. When he was
out of sight, she turned unhappily to the large windows and looked out at
the grey city. Being somewhat past the prime of her beauty, she reflected
with grim disgust, had not weakened her powers of manipulation. But no
self-loathing could erode her resolution.
*Whatever it takes.*
X
When Rachel was allowed in the store again, she learned that Connor had
released the thugs.
"I sent them with a message for Lucky," said Connor, looking pleased with
himself. "Also known as Luigi Fortunata."
She looked around the store. Shattered glass from the remains of the
dagger case lay strewn on the floor.
"You couldn't keep them from shooting the cases? Do you know how much we
laid out for that?"
Connor refused to accept her accusation. He met her gaze and smiled.
"Well, it freed up some weapons."
"The dagger!" Rachel's mental inventory came up wanting. "Where's the
Ching dynasty?"
"Right after the Ming, I think," supplied Connor unhelpfully, a far too
cheerful expression on his face. He has leads now, Rachel realized.
Having something to do had always improved her father's disposition.
Duncan snorted and Rachel scowled at him. Duncan made a placating motion
with his hands. "It's all right. It may need some cleaning; that's all."
Rachel decided she didn't want to know more. Not about the dagger, anyway.
"So," she looked from one man to the other, "do they have Emmett?"
Connor's eyes held a mischievous glint. "They wanted me to think so." He
nodded to the coat, which lay crumpled by the desk. "They actually got
that off of a homeless guy."
Duncan stooped to pluck up the coat, and Rachel moved to his side in order
to finger its familiar fleece.
"But this is Emmett's," she said, puzzled.
"Emmett gave them the slip," Duncan explained. "He put his coat on someone
else to throw them off."
"Pretty smart," Connor judged.
Rachel was a little shocked. "Kind of hard on the homeless man," she
protested. "Why do they want Emmett?"
"Apparently he embezzled from them," supplied Duncan.
"Oh, no!"
"He may not have known he was working for the mob. It was some front
company in St. Louis."
"National Linen Supply?" Rachel brought out the ledger, and explained
where she'd found it.
"Interesting," Connor mused, flipping the pages. "But why would Emmett
keep evidence of his crime?"
"Guilty conscience?" guessed Duncan.
"But this was all 30 years ago," protested Rachel.
"Why should that matter to Luigi Fortunata?" Connor asked. He held the
ledger in both hands and tipped his head toward Duncan. "He can hold a
grudge for centuries."
"You're a fine one to talk," retorted his kinsman.
"I" Connor replied, haughtily, "am the soul of Christian forgiveness.
Rachel, are you finally packed? Good, because I've called you a cab. I'm
expecting a revenge attack." The gleam in Connor's eyes was positively
predatory. "Take the book with you," he added. "Put it in a safe deposit
box when you get there."
"I'm going," she sighed, donning her coat and gloves and accepting the
ledger. "But, I've been thinking about this ledger."
"What?"
Rachel clicked open her suitcase and slid it in on top. "I don't think
it's evidence of Emmett's crime. I think it's evidence of National Linen
Supply's crimes."
Duncan snapped his fingers. "Emmett kept it as insurance," he concluded.
"But what I don't understand," Rachel complained, "is where Emmett's been
for thirty years."
Neither immortal could answer her.
