He hovered on the threshold and glanced behind her, eyeing Dag nervously.
“No. Oy, no, not at all. Come in.” She stepped back and waved her friend inside, nudging the Guardian back with a (mostly) gentle nudge (kick) to his shin. “Are you hungry? We ordered Chinese, and I think there’s enough to actually feed China. Let me get you a plate.”
Vic hung back near the front door while Dag glowered. “I don’t want to intrude. I mean, I really should have called first, but—”
“Don’t be silly. It’s so cool to see you.” Kylie marched over to her friend and linked her elbow with his to drag him toward the living room. “That big menace in the corner is Dag, by the way. Ignore him. He’s just grumpy because the restaurant didn’t send enough duck sauce.”
The grump in question protested his label with a snarl, because that was effective. Then he trailed after them, continuing to loom while Kylie introduced her friend to the group. Somehow, meeting Knox didn’t seem to make him any more comfortable.
“Come on. Sit.” Kylie urged him to a spot on the sofa opposite Knox and turned for the kitchen. “Just let me run and get you a plate. Be right back.”
Vic jumped to his feet like someone had just goosed his ass. “No!” He seemed to hear the panic in his own shout and cleared his throat before repeating much more calmly, “No, really, Kylie. I—I can’t stay.” He pulled a hand out of his pocket and held out a small red thumb drive. “Here. I cleaned up your image and saved it on here. Although next time I see you, you’re going to explain how you came across such crappy footage of Richard Foye-Carver at some kind of a candlelit social.”
Kylie had reached out to take the drive, but when she heard his joking words, her fingertips went numb. “Richard Foye-Carver?” she repeated dully.
“Yeah, not exactly his usual photo op.” Vic eased toward the hallway, keeping wary eyes on both Dag and Knox. “So, um, give me a call this weekend if you’ve got time for, you know, coffee or something. I’m speaking Sunday morning, but otherwise I’m pretty open.”
In the corner, Kylie could see Dag’s glowering expression and hear the subtle rumble of his muffled growl, but frankly, everything had sort of faded into the background with Vic’s news. Her mind kept trying to wrap around it as she walked her friend to the door, but every time she thought she had it, the slippery nugget of information would slide away.
Pasting on a poor imitation of a smile, she waved to Vic as he jogged down the steps and out into the night. Then she closed the front door, reset the alarm with trembling fingers, and slowly made her way back into the living room.
Wynn was the first to voice her thoughts. “Did that kid seriously just say the video is of Richard Foye-Carver? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Oh, if only, Kylie thought, sinking back to her seat and gazing down at the small device in her hand. This opened an entirely different can of worms than the one she had been prepared for.
Richard Foye-Carver was a name most of the developed world would have recognized if they heard it. The scion of a wealthy family, Carver grew up in the world of international business and high finance, evolving over the years from young playboy to wealthy-in-his-own-right tycoon, to renowned philanthropist and human rights activist. He appeared regularly in news reports from one third-world location or another, shedding light on the sad plights of the world’s poor and persecuted.
And Kylie was supposed to accuse him of leading a cult of demon worshippers who were attempting to bring about the end of the world.
She could hear her bubbeh’s voice. A mensch tracht und Gott lacht. Man plans, and God laughs.
But really, did He have to make everything quite such a comedy?
From the sofa, Knox scowled. “This name holds meaning for you.”
Wynn snorted. “Yeah, a little bit. The guy is a famous international figure, known as being a champion of the little guy and an all-around pseudosaint.” She gave a brief potted biography of the man, ending with the thoughts that had already run through Kylie’s mind. “Not only would no one believe a word anyone spoke against the man, but getting near enough to stop him ourselves would be next to impossible. The man has his own private security team that’s probably better trained and certainly better equipped than the U.S. Army, and he never goes anywhere that the press doesn’t follow and film everything he does, darn near up to using the toilet.”