“Div.”
“If you like. And I think that’s where our friend in the pond probably started out. Some piece of something grown in a containment field. That’s my guess. Which means, Pastor Clear-eye’s very own pet god is Registry property, legally owned and waiting to be taken back. Of course, we could go through the courts, but the Registry’s impatient, sometimes.”
“If it’s yours.”
“We’ll know that when we’ve got it.”
“By which time, it’ll be yours anyway . . . ?”
“The Registry giveth, and the Registry taketh away.” I watched him taking all this in. “Doesn’t sound so Indiana Jones now, does it?”
Chapter 27
The Look of a Tall Man
It bothered me she’d come up with a plan. Bothered me more that it had a chance of success.
It was the kind of plan I’d probably have dreamed up, too.
So maybe we could do it on the battery. We’d have no margin for error, no safety net, but if things went well, the whole job would be done in minutes.
A water retrieval, though? Was it worth the risk?
And would I feel like this if I’d been training someone else? Someone I didn’t know, didn’t care about? And wasn’t sleeping with?
I wondered who to call up for advice. Fredericks, my old mentor, would have lots to say, I knew, a stack of stories and opinions. Then, at the end of the day, he’d hum and hah, and tell me, yes, it might work, if I chose to take the risk . . . And I’d be in the dark, just like before.
When you’re a kid, it feels like everything is either/or. You do your sums, you pass or fail. You’re good or bad. Then you grow up, and life’s not like that. Everything’s a chance. Everything’s a risk. The ground’s not solid any more, even if you wish it were.
So did that make me an adult, now? If so, it wasn’t something I enjoyed.
I had a vague idea, in the back of my mind, that I’d let Angel set the whole thing up, then, at the last minute, just before it all got dangerous, I’d step in and take over. Have her step back, out the way.
She’d give me hell for that, I knew. But like Silverman said: ask forgiveness, not permission.
Perhaps I’d get away with it.
We left the coffee shop, all this still running through my head. I scarcely even noticed when a car pulled up beside us. Not till I saw it was the limo from the Gemini. That was too much coincidence. The rear window came down and someone called out, “Mr. Copeland!”
I was wary, straightaway.
I’d assumed the limo must be Cleary’s. But it wasn’t his voice. The voice was big and cheery, with a southern twang. In the shadowy interior I saw a broad, tanned, cowboy’s face, and a grin as wide as his sunglasses.
There is no need for sunglasses in a car with tinted windows. No damn need at all.
“Now which of you fellers would that be? You, I’m guessing.” A big hand appeared, wagging a finger at me.
I said nothing.
“Yes? No? Mr. Christopher Copeland?”
I looked at Silverman. He shrugged.
“Oh, hey now.” The door swung open. “I’m forgetting my manners here.” The man who stepped out really should have been tall. He gave off that impression, anyway: it was there, in his rugged, film star looks, his cropped black hair, the stubble on his chin; the large head, big shoulders, the bodybuilder muscles in his arms and torso. It was in his stance, feet wide, arms at his side, ready for anything. It was in the clothes he wore: the faded jeans and denim shirt, though it was denim of a quality I had never seen before. The press-stud buttons were inlaid with pearl, and I had no doubt it was real.
Around his neck was a simple leather thong from which hung a large black talon, nestling in the hair that spilled out of his shirt-neck.
Like I say, the look of a tall man. Till he stood up.
He was about five-two, stocky—a result of all that bodybuilding—and a paunch was just starting to stretch his denim shirt. He made up for all this when he shook my hand, squeezing just a bit too hard, grinning just a bit too wide.
“And these guys.” He looked to Angel, to Silverman. “Let me see—Angel Farthing. Registry. Right?” He reached to take her hand, but she moved back. It was subtle, and it disconcerted him for maybe half a second. “Which makes you,” he said, turning to Paul, “Paul Silverman. Uh-huh?”
He caught my blank look.
“Edward Ballington. Eddie-boy Ballington, if you’d rather. Call me Eddie. Everyone does.”
He extended this as if it were an offer of great generosity.
My look grew no less blank.
“Now. You ready for lunch? You’re ready for a beer, at least, huh?”
“No. In fact we’re very busy now,” I said.
“Chris,” said Angel.
Silverman had the camera in the crook of his arm. I noticed that the light was on. He was filming.
“Chris, Chris,” said Eddie. “I told you my name. You know who my father is? Oh, hey. You’re a Brit, aren’t you?” He looked sad, as if he’d just found out I’d got some crippling illness. “You see the car, right?”