Mortal Sins wotl-5 Page 7

  “So the cap will close properly,” she’d said, “which is amazingly unimportant to many people.”

  Toby squinched up his nose. “But you think it matters?”

  “I’m anal about this sort of thing.”

  “Anal” was a fancy word for asshole, which he wasn’t allowed to say, and he didn’t see why Lily would call herself that. She was pretty much okay, even if she was around Dad all the time, which was a big change. Dad’s other women had been like Toby’s mom—people Dad liked but didn’t want to stay with. But the mate bond made things different.

  Toby had warned Lily not to tell Grammy about cleaning the top of a toothpaste tube, not wanting that added to the list of things well-brought-up boys were supposed to do. But thinking about Grammy and lists and the unmade bed reminded him, so he dashed back to his room and yanked the covers up over his pillow real quick.

  One of Grammy’s big rules was to make the bed as soon as he got out of it. It was a sucky rule, but he wanted her to see that she’d raised him right, like she always said she was trying to do, and not worry that he’d be all uncivilized when he wasn’t here with her anymore.

  Thinking of Grammy made his stomach hurt in a different way. He hesitated, wondering if maybe he should get dressed before he went downstairs. But that was a school-time rule and it was summer, so she might not know he was doing it for her, and besides, he hated getting dressed before he even had breakfast.

  At Clanhome, he could go around naked if he wanted. At least some of the time.

  He grinned, then went to his bed and folded back the bedspread so he could fix the pillow the way Grammy liked, with the spread tucked in neatly. Now when she saw his bed, she’d know what he meant.

  He hit the stairs at a run.

  Dad and Grammy were in the kitchen, which smelled like coffee and bacon and eggs. Dad was sitting, but Grammy was on her feet by the stove. She claimed her leg was fine now, and besides, the muscles wouldn’t get strong again if she babied it all the time. But he knew it still hurt sometimes. He had warned Dad not to fuss over her. She hated fussing unless she was the one doing it.

  They were wearing grim faces, and stopped talking the moment he came in. Grammy made up a smile. “Good morning, bright eyes. You ready for some eggs?”

  “Sure.” He looked back and forth between them. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why, nothing.” Grammy moved to the refrigerator to get the eggs, putting her back to him. “We left you some bacon. It’s there on the table.”

  He hated it when she said nothing was wrong when something obviously was. “Dad?”

  “When I went for my run last night, I found the bodies of—”

  “Rule.” Grammy turned, egg carton in one hand, her face tight the way it got when she was trying not to be mad. “I told you I didn’t want him upset.”

  Dad nodded. He was always calm and respectful with Grammy, and Grammy was always polite with him, but Toby wasn’t sure if they really liked each other. “Yes, and I understand your feelings. I disagree with your conclusion, however, as I said. Toby is already aware of the killings.”

  “Those kids?” Toby’s feet got into the act along with his mouth, and he moved up to his dad. “You found the bodies of those kids who were killed with their mom?”

  Rule laid his hands on Toby’s shoulders. “I did. I told Lily, and she’s investigating, as it seems there was magic involved. This creates some complications for us with the hearing so close.”

  “Why? I didn’t know them.” Toby immediately felt bad. “I mean, it’s awful that they died and all, but what does that have to do with the hearing?” It was supposed to be a formality, Grammy said. That meant that they had to go do legal stuff, but no one was arguing, so the judge ought to just let him go with Dad.

  “Reporters.” Grammy whipped the fork through the eggs as if they’d talked back to her. “Some are already here, and your father thinks more will be coming.” Her voice dropped, like she didn’t really want them to hear the rest. “Bunch of busybodies, always poking their noses into other people’s business.”

  Toby looked at her in surprise. He knew why he hated reporters: they interfered with everything. Because of reporters, he’d never been able to do a bunch of stuff with Dad, who’d wanted to keep the press from knowing about him. Of course, Mom was a reporter, and Toby used to blame her job for her never being around, but that was when he was too little to admit the truth. She didn’t want to be around.

  But Grammy never said bad stuff about reporters. Or about Mom, either. He was pretty sure she got mad at Mom sometimes, but she never said so. “How come you’re mad at the reporters? Can they make the judge do things different than he’s supposed to?”

  Grammy gave him another of those tight smiles, the ones that meant she didn’t feel like smiling, but she wanted him to know her mad wasn’t about him. “She. The judge for our hearing is a she, not a he. And what reporters say ought not to make a difference, but there’s a deal of space between ‘ought not’ and ‘won’t.’ ”

  “A good judge won’t let the presence of the press interfere,” Dad said, “but she may take more care, go more slowly. More to the point, though, is that once the press knows about you, they’ll bother your grandmother’s friends and neighbors. They’ll bother us, too, asking a great many questions, many of them insulting, and probably misquote us if we answer.”

  Toby nodded. He’d watched reporters asking his dad questions on TV, so he knew what kind of stupid questions they asked. “And you can’t punch them or anything, ’cause that makes it worse.”

  “Exactly. They’ll raise questions about my fitness to be a parent, of course. I’m expecting that. But since some of them are more interested in speculation and scandal than fact, they may also insinuate unpleasant things about your grandmother and your mother.”

  “But that’s gonna happen anyway, isn’t it?” Toby reached for a piece of bacon. “You told me they’d hear about the custody deal and we wouldn’t like some of the stuff they said. It’s just happening before the hearing instead of after.”

  Dad and Grammy shared one of those looks grown-ups give each other when they’re not telling you something. Grammy turned to the stove and poured the eggs in the pan. “There’s a plate for that bacon. Sit down to eat it, please.”

  Toby sighed and did as he was told, pulling out a chair.

  His dad said, “After the hearing, you’ll be at Clanhome. Reporters can’t bother you there.”

  Toby chewed on that along with his bacon. “They can bother you and Grammy, though. And the neighbors and all.”

  “Dealing with reporters is part of my job,” Rule said. “I wish I could offer your grandmother better protection from their harassment.”

  Grammy sniffed. “I can deal with a few nosy reporters if I have to. So can Connie. Eat your eggs, now.” She brought the pan over and slid a bunch of eggs onto Toby’s plate.

  Connie was Mrs. Milligan, their next-door neighbor to the west, and she knew all about Toby being lupus. She and Grammy had been friends forever, since back when they were nurses together, before Grammy decided to retire and take care of him. Grammy had told her the truth when Toby’s mom was expecting him, before he was even born. Mrs. Milligan had kept the secret for all the nine years since, and Toby figured Grammy was right. She and Mrs. Milligan could deal with nosy reporters just fine.

  Probably they’d give those reporters cookies and coffee and make ’em wash their hands first and say, “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am.” Toby grinned.

  “More coffee?” Grammy said, picking up the pot as Toby tucked into his eggs. Dad agreed that he’d like some, and thanked her.

  Of course, Mrs. Milligan wasn’t the only one who knew Toby’s secret, but Justin was Toby’s best friend in the whole world. He wouldn’t tell the reporters anything. His sister wouldn’t, either, because Talia had her own big secret, which Toby knew because it was only fair for Justin to tell him after she eavesdropped on them. She wouldn’t wa
nt anyone telling her secret, so she’d be quiet, too.

  But Toby thought old Mr. Hodge on the corner had his suspicions. After Grammy broke her leg, Dad and Lily had come here twice, making sure she was doing okay with the nurse Dad hired. Which she had, though at first Toby thought they wouldn’t get along, because Grammy knew more about nursing than ’most anyone and didn’t much like being a patient, but the hired nurse had let Grammy boss her around, so it had turned out okay. Ever since then, though, old Mr. Hodge had been looking at Toby funny. But he was one as kept to himself, like Grammy said, so he probably hadn’t told anyone.

  Dad was talking to Grammy. “Are you sure you don’t want to go—”

  “No. No, I’m not being run out of my home, but thank you for offering.”

  If a bunch of reporters came around bothering old Mr. Hodge, he’d probably chase them off with his shotgun. He didn’t ever load it, but they wouldn’t know that. Toby grinned around a mouthful of eggs. He’d like to see that.

  “Very well, then. I’ll get Lily’s things together.”

  “Huh? Why?” Belatedly, Toby remembered to swallow.

  “If I’m here, the reporters will be, too. So Lily will move to the hotel—she can’t leave Halo with an investigation under way—and you and I will go to Leidolf’s clanhome.”

  “Leidolf? But they—” He broke off, darting a glance at Grammy. He wasn’t sure what he could say around her about clan stuff.

  She sighed. “I can see you two need to discuss this privately. If you think Ms. Yu wouldn’t mind, I’ll go pack for her.” Grammy’s mouth twitched in the first real smile he’d seen on her face this morning. “I suspect she’d like my methods better than yours. She’s a very tidy person.”

  Dad smiled slightly. “Thank you. I suspect you’re right. Finish your eggs, Toby. We’ll discuss this out back.”

  TEN

  IN an old house on a quiet street, a fractured being was exploring its temporary structure. After the bliss at having skin and breath subsided, it had realized that its new warmth was different from the other one. Some of the parts didn’t work well. It didn’t understand the problem at first, for though the warmth’s memories were available, the thoughts were not. Not exactly.

  Finally it located the reason the knees and back ached: Old knees, old back, old brain, old man. Jesus H. Christ, I hate being old.

  That was a thought, yes, but a thought played so often it had worn its own groove in the memories. Unfortunately, it made this discovery after telling its warmth to hurry. This had caused the warmth to rush too much, and fall.

  That’s when it rediscovered pain.

  Bright and hot, pain absorbed it for a time, fascinating in its vividness, its familiarity. It had known pain before. Pain was not as welcome as breath and memories, but the familiarity was dear.

  For a time it hoped it would truly remember.

  That didn’t happen, but being in the warmth stabilized it, so despair didn’t shake bits of it loose, and The Voice was silenced.

  Fortunately, its warmth wasn’t too damaged by the fall; once it woke from its contemplation of pain and told the warmth to stand up, he did so without great trouble. A few moments later, though, it noticed something disturbing. Something was wrong with the warmth. What?

  It had the warmth touch his face. Wet. Blood? It remembered blood . . . no, not blood. The problem wasn’t with the warmth’s body. The warmth was sad, terribly sad. The wetness was tears.

  It didn’t want its warmth to be sad. It tried to comfort the old man, but telling him to feel better didn’t work. It pondered that, wondering why one instruction was accepted and the other was not, as its warmth hunted through the chest of drawers, as ordered, for shotgun shells.

  THIRTY minutes after the explosive interview with her witness, Lily had made one quick phone call, Deacon had his prisoner back in his cell, and the four of them—federal agent, public defender, district attorney, and sheriff—were once more in Deacon’s office.

  Kessenblaum had been embarrassed by her panicked reaction to her client’s freak-out. Embarrassment, like so much else, turned the woman belligerent.

  “You see?” Kessenblaum said, jabbing her finger in Farquhar’s general direction. “You see he—Mr. Meacham—he’s not stable. Not competent. You can’t continue to hold him here. It’s—”

  “Give it a rest,” Farquhar said wearily. “You aren’t doing Meacham any favors by yelling at us.”

  “At least I’m on his side. At least I care. You just care about the media coverage, the election, and what—”

  Lily was out of patience. “Ms. Kessenblaum, shut up.”

  After one second’s startled silence, the woman sneered. “You’re as bad as she is, determined to make your reputation on the backs of those without power, without voices. But I can tell you now, Mr. Meacham isn’t alone. I won’t let him be ground up by the system.”

  Oh, God, that was it. That explained the inappropriate clothes. Kessenblaum wanted to be a hippie, but had been born a generation too late. “You want to stage a sit-in or you want to help your client?” Lily asked.

  Kessenblaum rolled her eyes. “Oh, isn’t that just like a cop? Shove me into a comfortable little cliché so you can ignore what I’m saying!”

  “Talk’s cheap. What have you done other than bitch? Why hasn’t Meacham been seen by someone with plenty of alphabet soup after his name who could put some weight behind your claims?”

  “I don’t have money for that! If you knew what a joke the budget for the public defender’s office is around here—”

  “Get it pro bono,” she snapped. “Quit whining and start calling around. But do it elsewhere. The grown-ups need to get some work done.”

  Kessenblaum’s face went white, then red. “You don’t—you can’t talk to me that way.”

  “Think she just did,” Deacon said. His eyes held a glint of humor. “Come on, Crystal. You must have better things to do than badger your godmother, and God knows I’ve got better things to do than supervise the fireworks. Besides,” he added, moving to hold the door for her in a broad hint, “you don’t want to make the FBI agent mad. She’ll clean your clock.”

  After one fuming, frustrated moment, Kessenblaum stomped out. Deacon closed the door gently behind her.

  Lily looked at Farquhar, one eyebrow lifted. “Godmother?”

  Farquhar’s eyes twinkled. “I hope you’re shocked that a woman my age could have a goddaughter Crystal’s age.”

  “I am. She’s what—thirty or so? And you can’t be much more than forty.” With children young enough to need to be driven to school, Lily remembered.

  Marcia Farquhar patted Lily’s hand. “Bless you. Crystal’s thirty-three, and I’ve a bit more mileage than those forty years you tactfully mentioned. I started my family quite late—scandalously so, according to some, who were more upset at my delaying pregnancy so long than at Crystal’s mother giving birth when she was sixteen.” She exchanged a wry look with Deacon. “Her mother and I were close growing up, being among the few Catholics in Halo. As a result, I might have become a mother late in life, but I became a godmother quite young.”

  “Hmm.” Lily had noticed that people in the South often found a way to let you know their religious affiliation, pretty much the same way they’d bring up their favorite football team. It disconcerted her.

  Farquhar shrugged. “Her mother and I have drifted apart over the years, but I still have a soft spot for Crystal, which results in giving her advice. Which, as you’ve noticed, she does not appreciate.”

  “She’s like a puppy,” Deacon said. “Chews up your shoes, gets underfoot, then doesn’t understand why you’re mad. Means well, I guess. Never saw an underdog she didn’t want to champion.” He gave Lily a smile that held a hint of a taunt. “Poor Crystal’s probably got the same problem with you she does with me. I’m black, which oughta make me an underdog, but this badge makes me one of the oppressors.”

  Lily’s eyebrows lifted. “I can’t imag
ine why someone would mistake me for an underdog.” Underdog, to Lily, meant victim. She’d been one once, when she was nine. Not since.

  “Not you so much, maybe. That weer you’re hooked up with. Crystal’s big cause these days is werewolf rights.”

  To Lily’s surprise, it was Farquhar who corrected him. “Lupus, Jay. We don’t call them werewolves now. Agent Yu.” She flicked a glance at her wrist, where a dainty gold watch rested. “I’ve got a great deal to do before the arraignment.”

  And Lily had allowed herself to be distracted, taking out some of her feelings on the ineffectual Kessenblaum. Maybe that was just as well. She’d been pretty pissed. “There won’t be an arraignment.”

  Farquhar’s eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Kessenblaum is annoying, but she’s right. Meacham isn’t competent. He doesn’t belong in a jail cell, and he isn’t guilty.”

  Farquhar’s voice dropped into the freezer. “I’ve got more than enough evidence to prove that he is.”

  “He hasn’t got a Gift, not the tiniest trace of one. He can’t use magic. Magic was used in the deaths of Becky Meacham and her children. He was used.”

  “Oh, come on, now. You aren’t claiming he was possessed.”

  Deacon scowled. “You said he wasn’t. When I asked, you said there were no traces of demon on the bodies.”

  “I don’t know what was done to Meacham. I don’t know who did it or how. But Roy Don Meacham, like his wife and children, has traces of death magic clinging to him, and there’s no way he could have put it there. Someone else did, and that’s our perp.”

  “You’re babbling,” Farquhar snapped as she started for the door. “If that’s all you wanted to discuss—”