evasive or simply hang up. 'I am sure you know any financial information that isn't a matter
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of public record is confidential. I can refer you to our press secretary. I am sure he can—'
—brush me off as well as anyone in the campaign, Nohar thought. 'No, you don't understand. I don't want specifics.'' A lie, Nohar thought, but there's little chance of getting specifics out of you, right? Right. 'I was just wondering how thorough Young was in torching the records.'
Harrison looked pained. 'I am afraid I can't discuss Young. We are still dealing with the police on-that matter.'
Probably true. Trying to cover things up, no doubt. 'Your headquarters was closed down last week. I suppose Young just waltzed in and took what he wanted?'
From Harrison's expression, Young fozrfjust walked in. It also looked like Young had done a lot of damage. 'How many years back, five? Ten? Fifteen?'
From Harrison's face, fifteen.
'How much were you able to salvage?'
Harrison looked puzzled. 'Salvage?'
Binder wasn't the one with the trucks. Nohar supposed there was little harm in telling the lawyer, and it might jar something loose. 'I was under the impression you were in charge of the trucks that carted away the remains of the fire.'
That got Harrison. 'I am sorry. I really must go—'
/ bet you must, Nohar thought to himself. He wondered exactly what kind of illegal crap was in those records that could turn Harrison that white.
Harrison regained his composure. 'I should tell you. Stay out of this—it doesn't involve you, or your kind.' *
As the connection broke, Nohar said, 'But it does. More than you know, you little pink bottom feeder.'
If he could pick up that much from Harrison's face, Nohar decided the lawyer would never win a jury trial.
There was a snore, and Nohar saw that Angel had fallen asleep on top of the filing cabinet. Instead of FORESTS OF THE NIGHT 127
waking her up and leaving, he leaned against the wall and thought.
All that talk—well, all his talk—about Young had shaken loose a doubt. He was missing something, a big something.
Young's motivation.
It just wasn't your standard grief reaction to torch the finance records of your employer. Nohar could, even with Stephie's doubts, believe Young blew himself up over lost love. But why the records?
Slowly, it began to dawn on Nohar that he was missing the obvious.
True, Johnson and Young had been lovers, fifteen years, above average for any relationship, pink or otherwise. Young saw Johnson's killer—the morey canine Nugoya called Hassan—he probably saw Johnson get shot. But Young never called the cops.
Not only didn't he call the cops, but Young actually covered for the missing Johnson. Stephie said Young had mentioned Johnson was out with 'some bigwig contributor.''
Then, after a few weeks, he blows himself up.
Someone very purposefully removed almost every trace of the records Young had torched. If the motive for Johnson's assassination was in those records, the odds were they had been carted away by the people responsible for Johnson's death. There were four ways they could have known what Young had been trying to destroy. Binder's people, Young himself, or the cops could have told them. All unlikely.
Or, they told Young to destroy the records.
'You're not going to do me like you did Derry.'
Fear. Young was scared when he said that. He was talking paranoid. 'You're all with them.' Moreys, he was talking moreys and—something else. Franks? MLI? Whoever they were, they were in charge of Johnson's death— and Young.
Young was afraid of them. Young was also pathological about Daryl Johnson taking the fall for something.
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'Derry didn't know he was helping them—what they were. When he found out he was going to stop. . . . People will say he was working for them.''
Why that fear for Johnson's rep? If Young cared that much, why wasn't he at the funeral?
Guilt.
Nohar triggered Young's suicide: 'You're the finance chairman. Why didn't you figure it out first?'
Then, blam.
Of course Young knew what was in the finance records. Nohar felt like an idiot for not realizing sooner. Young was the one to let in the canine assassin with the Levitt Mark II. Young was in a conspiracy with them. Somewhere there was a trail in the records. Johnson had found it and had confronted Young with it. The two of them were close, but Johnson was going to put a stop to it, whatever it was. Young couldn't let that happen—no, not quite right, they couldn't let that happen. They hired the morey. They killed Johnson. They probably just told Young to turn off the security and leave the door open so they could explain things to Johnson. When Young blew up, they made sure the records vanished.
No way Young could call the cops. Whoever was handling Young must have forced him to go on, business as usual. Go into work, go back to his shadow house.
All the while, guilt ate Young up. He felt responsible for Johnson's death.
The whole charade of blowing out the picture window was to cover Young's tracks. To give Young an alibi.
It was working so well—up to the point Young torched the records.
That seemed an act of desperation, and not just Young's desperation—
Nohar had a bad thought.
Thomson had mentioned Johnson's executive assistant, Stephie, as having the same access to the finan- FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
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cial records as the gang of four. That was obviously just the 'official' slant on things. After all, Stephie described herself as window dressing. What if they didn't know that?
That worried Nohar.
What if they thought Johnson's executive assistant knew something, and just weren't sure enough to go to the lengths they went with Johnson?
What if she was being watched?
Could it be a coincidence Young went ballistic the day after Nohar talked to her?
Could it be a coincidence that the white rat's—Term's— 'Finger of God' seemed to have lifted?
He called Stephie. No answer.
It was ten-thirty, an hour and a half before he was to meet her. Damn. Nohar clutched the filing cabinet and started deep breathing exercises. His concern had triggered the fight-or-flight reflex, the adrenaline was pumping. He
wanted to fight something. It was still too soon after those Ziphead rodents behind the bus. Something inside him was responding to the pulse, the adrenaline, the stress-He fought it off.
Nohar couldn't let his control slip like that.
He had barely brought himself back under control, when the comm buzzed.
Nohar told the comm. 'Got it.'
The comm responded.
Smith had the video on. He was as eldritch as ever. The glassy eyes still stared out of a flat, expressionless face in the center of a pear-shaped head. Moisture glistened on the rubbery-white skin. On the monitor, Nohar got a
