Extinction Machine

Chapter Thirty-two

Over Maryland airspace

Sunday, October 20, 7:25 a.m.

My cell rang seconds after the Black Hawk lifted off. I looked at the screen display and debated whether to let the call go to voice mail. Apparently of its own accord, my thumbnail hit the button.

“Joseph?” said a deliciously familiar voice.

DMS helicopters have pressurized cabins to allow for conference-quality silence. Violin’s voice was soft and hearing it filled me with a memory of her that was rich and immediate and intense. Nestled between her thighs, our hungry mouths speaking each other’s names through gasps and cries, the way her skin is always cool even at the height of passion, and how my heat seemed to flow into her and back into me as we soared over the brink.

“I’m sorry I had to leave you like that,” I said.

“Work,” she said, not pitching it as a question. She understood.

“Work,” I agreed.

“Speaking of which,” she said, “I saw a car outside as I was leaving. A black one. Crown Victoria, with federal plates. Friends of yours?” She described the men and gave me the plate number. It wasn’t one of the two cars that had boxed me.

“No idea,” I said, “but there’s a little trouble going on. I’ll call that in to my boss and they’ll send someone out to take a look.”

“Probably nothing, then,” she said.

I heard sounds behind her. People. “Where are you?”

“The airport. I caught a cab after you took off.”

“You’re leaving?”

Violin laughed. “I told you that I had a job.”

A job. A nice little euphemism for what she did for a living. When she went to work, someone died. No one I’d miss. No one the world would miss. Lately her work was focused on men who used to belong to the Red Order. And a few of the highly dangerous and incredibly creepy Red Knights. They kept trying to hide from Violin and her sisters in the group code-named Arklight. They tried, but Arklight is very good and very determined. Also, Mr. Church let them have some limited access to Mind Reader. It made Violin’s job easier.

“When will you be back?” I asked.

She was a long time answering.

“Violin?”

“Let’s not worry about when,” she said. “I’ll call you when I can, okay?”

I said that it was okay because it had to be okay. This was as close to an arrangement as we had. Probably as close to a real relationship as we would ever have. I tried hard to resent it, though. I tried hard not to let it feel like a convenience.

“Stay safe, Violin,” I told her.

“You, too, Joseph.”

She was not the kind of person to ever say I love you.

Maybe I wasn’t, either. Not anymore.

The line went dead.

I sighed. Then I called in the info on the guys outside my apartment. Bug’s assistant, Yoda, took the details and said he’d run it. Oh, and, yeah, Yoda was the kid’s name. His parents were Star Wars freaks and, much as I love a little pop culture craziness now and then, those bozos ought to be horsewhipped. Kid’s sister was Leia.

That done, I sat back against the cushions and stared at the walls on the inside of the helo and on the inside of my brain. Before I could sink too deeply into glum musings, my cell rang again. Rudy. The last time I saw him he was dressed in black socks and boxer shorts, covered in Silly String, and drunker than anyone I have ever even heard of. No, we didn’t trick him into any naughty intrigue with hookers, but we staged a bunch of faked photos to make him think we did. Those photos were on my cell, but I hadn’t yet found the right moment to send them to him.

“It lives!” I said into the phone.

Rudy gave me a deep, protracted groan that was equal parts shame, anguish, physical pain, and moral outrage. “Believe me when I say this, Cowboy, I will find a way to kill you.”

“Hold on, I’m about to faint from sheer terror. No … no, that was just gas.”

His next comment was in Spanish and it insinuated that my ancestors frequently and enthusiastically fornicated with livestock.

“Where are you?” I asked once his tirade wound down.

“On the toilet,” he said grumpily.

“You’re calling me from the toilet?”

“Over the last few hours I’ve become quite found of this toilet. We’ve shared so much. Now I seem to develop separation anxiety of a very unpleasant kind if I get too far away from it.”

I laughed so loud Ghost woke from a doze and barked at me.

“You are not a very nice man,” said Rudy.

“I don’t call people while I’m taking a deuce, Rude.”

He told me where to go and what to do when I got there. For a cultured man, he had a nasty gutter vocabulary.

“Circe home yet?” I asked.

“Not until Wednesday.”

Rudy and Circe shared a very nice place in the Bolton Hill section of Baltimore. Right now, though, Circe was at the end of a book tour for her latest bestseller, Saving Hope: The Seven Kings and the Face of Modern Terrorism. When she’d heard about the bachelor party, Circe extended her trip by a few days. I think she wanted to clearly separate herself from the indefensible antics of men she otherwise respected as professional colleagues. Rightly so. We were very, very bad.

“Wednesday, huh? Well, maybe you’ll be out of the bathroom by then.”

Rudy gave another groan. “Last night was…”

“Fun? A romp with the guys? A last blast for the single man?”

“An inexcusable descent into the worst kind of excess. My liver may never recover.”

“That’s only because you’re getting old. The old Rudy would have matched me Jell-O shot for Jell-O shot.”

“Believe me, this Rudy is very old.” He sighed. “Oh, with everything you inflicted on me, I never got to tell you about what happened when I met Mr. Church yesterday. You may not believe this, Joe, but it was the father-of-the-bride talk.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Sadly, no.”

“What did he say?”

And he told me …

Twenty-four hours ago

“Come in, Dr. Sanchez,” said Mr. Church. “Close the door behind you.”

Rudy Sanchez entered the conference room, closed the door, and looked around. The room was empty except for the two of them. Most of the lights were out except for a single table lamp with a green globe whose glow barely illuminated the cut-glass carafe of water, two elegant glasses, and the plate of cookies. The only other object was Mr. Church’s laptop, and as Rudy sat, Church consulted the screen, tapped a few keys, and closed the computer.

Church poured them each a glass of water and handed one to Rudy.

“I hear that Captain Ledger is throwing you a bachelor party,” said Church without preamble.

“That is my understanding,” said Rudy after only the slightest pause.

Church sipped his water and set his glass aside. Even in this gloom he wore tinted glasses.

There was no sound in the room. No clock ticked on the wall, no faucet dripped, no exterior sounds intruded. Rudy sat and waited.

After almost a full minute, Church selected a vanilla wafer, bit off a piece, munched it quietly, and set the rest of the cookie down atop his closed laptop.

“Doctor,” said Church, “you know that Circe is my only living relative.”

He made it a statement, but Rudy responded, “Yes, of course.”

“You know that I keep the nature of our relationship confidential.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

Then, “There are many people who would give a lot to have a lever they could use against me. If they knew that Circe was my daughter, then they would have that lever.”

“I—” Rudy began, but Church held up a finger. It was a small gesture, the index finger lifted an inch.

“In a different kind of world, Doctor, this would be the point where I, as the father, would have a frank and open discussion with the man who wanted to marry my daughter.”

“I suppose,” agreed Rudy. “Yes.”

“A discussion filled with advice and cautions.”

“Yes.”

Church picked up the cookie, tapped some crumbs off it, and ate it slowly. He had a sip of water. He ate another cookie. He had some more water. Seconds passed with infinite slowness. Then minutes.

Mr. Church ate a third cookie. He did it slowly, taking small bites, chewing thoroughly, washing it down with sips of water. Five minutes passed.

Ten.

In all that time there was no sound in the room except for the faint crunching of the cookies. Rudy did not move. He did not reach for a cookie. He sat and watched Mr. Church, who sat and looked at him. Behind the barrier of tinted lenses, Mr. Church’s eyes were almost invisible and totally unreadable.

After a dozen minutes had burned to cold ashes, Mr. Church stood up.

“I believe we understand each other,” he said.

And quietly walked out of the room.

Leaving Rudy there. Confused, bathed in sweat. More than a little terrified.

“Dios mío,” he breathed.

Now

I couldn’t stop laughing.

“It’s not funny,” insisted Rudy, but he was laughing, too.

Then we both got calls at almost the same time.

“Mr. Church is calling me,” said Rudy. “You don’t suppose he was listening?”

“No, you paranoid freak. Something’s up. He’ll fill you in. But Bug’s calling me. Catch you later, brother.”

Before Rudy disconnected he asked, “Is everything okay, Joe?”

“Is it ever?”