TWENTY-SEVEN
After breaking the phone and scattering the pieces in various trash bins, I go back to the mall and wander through the clothing stores. Most of them carry natural fabrics, locally sourced materials, indigenous designs, hand-woven textiles—the very sort of commercial products that give me hope for humanity—and most of it is too casual for evening wear.
I don't buy Mere a dress because I feel guilt for what I just did, but because she asked me to. This is what I tell myself as I look through racks of long dresses. I'm not the type to taunt my opponent—that was more Aeneas's style—but I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to get an idea of what sort of man he was.
He's not an idiot. He was waiting in the parking garage for me to show up. When his men spotted me in the elevator, they didn't wait until the end of their shift to check in. They called immediately and Belfast left them in position. He set them up as bait, to see what I would do.
And I showed him.
He could have had a dozen men at Eden Park. The pair who had left when I arrived at the asylum had been pulled off their detail by him. To make it easier for me to get Mere out. She had the chip in her. He wanted me to break her out. He wanted me to take her wherever we were going to go next, which was why we didn't have any trouble getting out of Australia.
We led him to Hyacinth, but Hyacinth had already anticipated our arrival. I don't know who the laptop had been left for, but it didn't really matter. The real message was that both Secutores and I were fumbling around in the dark. We had no real idea the scope of the game, and I was starting to wonder if Callis was equally in the dark.
The more I tried to put the pieces together, the more it seemed like I was working on a tiny corner of a much larger puzzle. Mere was right about distractions too. As long as we kept butting heads with Secutores, we weren't going to have a chance to focus on the bigger picture.
So why am I buying a dress for Mere and thinking about taking her out for dinner?
Because I want to.
I watched her for six months and she never knew I was out there. If I hadn't stopped Kirkov, she would be dead; all I would have of her would be memories of my surveillance. How long would I keep those? Would Mother take them from me when I went into her embrace next? You don't need these; let me ease your burden.
For the first time in centuries, I'm making decisions that aren't based on mission parameters. My priorities are my own, and I'm starting to wonder what we gave up when we accepted Mother's gift.
“What do you think?” she asks, executing a slow turn. Her hair is up, wound around a mother of pearl hair stick topped with a lacquered pink flower, though mussed enough to make it appear as if she's just come from either a rollercoaster ride or a serious romp in the sack. The dress clings to her body and shows off her neck, shoulders, and arms. It is covered with black and dark blue and white streaks, patterns that look like a cross between Jackson Pollack art and a jumble of bird feathers. I found a simple necklace of citrine stones—tiny stones dangling from silver studs—that highlights the hollow of her throat. Matching earrings that shine like chips of ice.
It's her shoes, though, that make my throat tighten and my tongue tap against my teeth.
They are sleek pumps that looked good in the store, but when she puts them on, the clever design of the cutaway sides becomes apparent. White satin finish, overlaid with a myriad of monarch butterflies, the colors of which are not found in nature, but that doesn't matter. Not in the slightest.
“So?” she prompts me.
“You look fantastic,” I say, looking away.
“Good,” she says as she steps close and rests a finger on my chest. “Now, let's go some place where I can show you what happens when you put a woman like me in a dress like this.” She curls her finger as she walks toward the door of the room, beckoning me to follow her.
I do, watching her as we walk the length of the hall. There is none of the clumsiness in her gait that I saw on the boat, even though she's wearing much less sensible shoes. I've walked in heels before—Louis XIV insisted courtiers wear red-heeled shoes—but it was never a fashion statement I cared much for. Possibly because I kept snapping heels off my shoes.
The elevator arrives and Mere walks in, pivoting smoothly and placing her back against the wall of the elevator car. In the warm light reflecting off the gold paneling, she appears to float, suspended off the floor by a host of butterflies swarming around her toes.
I push the button for the ground floor, and spend the ride down staring at the yellow shards of fire that lie around the base of her neck. She watches the numbers descend on the elevator readout, her lips curving into a tiny smile.
The cab drops us off at the edge of a sculpted square, complete with a fancy fountain and decorative hedges that glisten from water saturation. Our destination is a tall building that starts with a rose-colored marble facade at the street level and transforms into a spire of glittering glass and steel as it goes up several dozen floors. Intricate patterns are engraved in the marble—Pre-Columbian, probably Incan or Aztec in origin.
A well-proportioned bouncer gets the door for us, his eyes lingering on Mere as she passes, and she gets the same treatment from the pair in the spacious lobby. The reliance on marble continues inside, huge blocks that create a veritable maze. The stone is sculpted with more of the same symbols as the exterior, though figures start breaking up the endless mosaics. Incan, I decide, idly wondering about the design choice. Santiago seems a little south of the heart of the Incan empire.
We follow a wide, winding staircase that takes us to a mezzanine that looks down on the marble display. Mere leaves me to look at the sculpture while she talks to the hostess who is standing behind a podium beside a marble archway.
Distantly, I hear the thump-thump of an electronic beat, dance music drifting down through layers of sound-proofing. How convenient. Dinner and dancing at the same location.
One of the two security guards in the lobby is looking up at me. His hand is pulling at his lapel and his lips are moving.
Who's he talking to?
I hear my name being called and I look away from the security guard. Mere gestures for me to join her. I'm less smitten than I was five minutes ago, and I appraise her more coldly as I walk across the mezzanine. What is she up to?
The hostess takes us through the arch and into the restaurant. The ambient thunder of the dance club upstairs fades to a distant echo beneath the melodic etude coming from the white grand piano set up in the center of the room. A dozen stage lights are trained on the piano, and the reflected light provides most of the illumination in the room. The rest comes from small mushroom-shaped lamps that sit in the center of each table, shedding just enough illumination for the diners to see their plates and each other, if they lean close. On my left, lines of blue light illuminate the bottles on the shelves behind the bar.
The hostess takes us to a small booth that is neither in the center nor near the walls. Each booth is separate from its neighbors, a rounded three-quarter shell of plush leather around a lacquered table. Mere slides halfway around the booth and I slip in next to her. She leans over after the hostess leaves, her shoulder bumping mine. “It's rated as the most romantic restaurant in all of Santiago,” she says.
“I can't imagine why,” I say, looking at her. I nod toward the ceiling. “Let me guess: the hottest dance club is upstairs?”
She smiles, showing me her teeth. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“How did you know I was going to bring back a dress?”
“Not only am I psychic, but I have mad powers of autosuggestion,” she says. Her eyes dart toward my mouth. “If you hadn't, I would have been forced to take you shopping.”
“I'm sure I would have survived.”
“It's better this way.”
“Why is that?”
“Now I know what you like to see me wearing.”
“You can't give me a heart attack,” I tell her.
“Says you.” She bumps my shoulder with hers as she moves away a little. That smile is back, and she busies herself with the menu.
I do the same, knowing this is how the game is played. I'm out of practice, but she makes it easy.
The food is startlingly good. At first, I write off the overly elegant descriptions on the menu as simply the efforts of a very experienced copy writer, as I start with a shaved radish and fennel salad, topped with Thai basil, thin slices of Asian pear, and a hint of coriander in the lemon-infused olive oil dressing. Mere has the carrot, leek, and rosemary soup, and the carrots are Imperators—Gold Pak, most likely, as they are well suited for soup.
“Good?” Mere asks when I don't give the spoon back right away.
“There's no chemical taste,” I say.
“Hence the claim of being organic,” she says.
“It's rare that there isn't some taint. You can't always control what gets into the soil and root vegetables—carrots, especially—suck up whatever they find. It's not just the vegetables themselves that are pure, though, it's the soil they were grown in too. I haven't tasted anything this clean since…”
And then it hits me: what's been bothering me about this place. It's too comfortable; it fits an Arcadian temperament too readily. And the food is so pure that it has to be drawn from an Arcadian garden.
“What?” she asks.
“Who owns this restaurant?”
She gets that look in her eye, the one that says she knows more than I do. “Alberto Montoya,” she says. “He owns the building. Probably the whole block. He's quite the celebrity in Santiago. Devilishly handsome, educated in Spain, very single, and a constant topic of gossip tweeting. He's next in line to run the family business.”
“Which is?” I don't like where this is heading.
“It's a private investment company. Supposedly. The trail gets murky. It's old money. Goes back a long time.”
“What are you doing, Mere? Why did you bring us here?”
“I don't know, Silas. Why don't you tell me?” She's watching me carefully. “I spent all day doing research, and the whole time I'm wondering why it is that I'm wasting my time on the Internet when I should just be asking you. You claim to have been there, on Easter Island, but you can't remember anything useful. That seems awfully convenient. And then I start wondering what this convenient forgetfulness might be masking. What are you hiding?”
“I told you. There are holes in my memory.”
“Yeah, there's a name for it. Lacunar amnesia. An hour's worth of research into the causes of amnesia makes me little more than an informed idiot, but I learned enough to know that whatever is going on in your brain is probably due to either some sort of psychological conditioning or chemical imbalance—a lack of chemicals, even. Sure, you have holes, but you never want to talk about why you have holes.”
She gestures around the restaurant. “The other thing I learned? Amnesiacs know. They may not be able to remember everything consciously, but the data is there. They've just forgotten how to access it, and I've seen how you remember things when confronted with familiar things—places, people, objects.”
“You brought me here hoping it would jar something loose out of my head?”
“Yes, I did,” she says, “because whoever is running Hyacinth remembers you, and until you get your shit squared away, you're not going to see them coming.”
I want to be furious with her, but she's right. I haven't told her the truth, mainly because I haven't been able to face it. I'm already uprooted from all that I know; I can't deal with the idea that what I knew might be a lie.
I close my eyes and sink back against the booth, trying to calm my thoughts. The memory shards are moving too quickly; they're trying to force themselves into patterns, some of which don't work. But it doesn't matter. My brain wants order. It wants clarity.
A laugh slowly works its way up my chest and I let it tumble out of my mouth. “I called Belfast this afternoon,” I chuckle. “Even though you said it was a dumb idea. I did it anyway.”
Mere colors slightly and looks down at the table.
“But you went one better, didn't you? Montoya's firm runs Hyacinth, doesn't it? Beneath all the corporate confusion, that's the simple truth. Montoya is Hyacinth, and you brought us to their favorite restaurant.”
“So now you know who they are,” she says.
“Mere, they're Arcadians.”