happened to him.”
Osborne stared straight ahead. When he spoke, his voice was an octave higher than usual. “The police say he was killed in a drug deal.”
“Yes, that's what the police thought, it's what they were supposed to think, but I asked you what you fucking knew.”
Osborne didn't answer. And that was answer enough.
His head throbbed harder. This piece of shit knew what it was about. He knew they were going to kill Alex. Which was the same as if he'd tried to kill Alex himself.
A part of him marveled at his own inconsistency. A couple of hours earlier, he'd wanted to kill Alex himself, had on some level longed to do it. But that was different. Alex was his brother. Maybe that was a paradox, maybe it was screwed up, but there it was.
He tried to think whether Osborne presented any further exposure. If taking him off the board would improve the state of play, he would do it. But he couldn't think of anything. He didn't know how to feel about that. Part of him wanted to do it anyway. And in fact, killing Osborne was exactly what he'd had mind when he'd forced him out to this deserted spot. But watching him grip the steering wheel, seeing and even smelling the man's fear, he found himself reluctant. He'd killed a lot of people-in combat, in self-defense, in cold blood. But he'd never killed someone when it wasn't sanctioned, or when it wasn't necessary. He'd crossed a lot of lines over the course of his life, and he was surprised to realize he didn't want to cross this one.
He looked at Osborne. “Get out of the car. Leave the door open.”
Osborne glanced back at him, his eyes pleading. “Don't. Please don't.”
“If that's what I was going to do, asshole, I would have done it already. And you wouldn't have seen it coming.”
They both got out. Osborne raised his hands in front of him, half plea, half stick-'em-up.
“Put your keys and your phone on the seat,” Ben said.
Osborne complied.
“Now move away from the car. You'll be able to find it back in your parking lot. Have a nice walk.”
He drove back to Sullivan, Greenwald, parked the car, and got into his own. He wanted to trust Hort. He always had. It made him sick that now he had doubts.
But maybe there was a way out of this. Maybe things could be straightened out. If he could sit down with Hort, hear what he had to say… Maybe there was an explanation. Maybe he could call off the dogs. Maybe.
But he needed to make sure Alex was on board first.
29 STING
Sarah took a taxi from the hotel to her apartment in the Mission. She was exhausted and felt strangely numb. The night before, with Ben
… it had been overwhelming. She didn't know whether anything more could come of it, whether she even wanted anything more to come of it, but something had happened between them, and even in the midst of all the craziness, it had affected her profoundly. And then the next morning, he had walked out with about as much regard for her as for a comfortable chair he'd enjoyed sitting in. Because, what, he had a fight with his brother? That made her trash, to be just thrown away?
Or maybe the fight with Alex was just his excuse. She'd known he was damaged from the moment she met him, and she should never have done anything other than keep him at a sensible distance. She was as furious at herself for her ridiculous lapse of judgment as she was at Ben for treating her like she was some disposable thing.
Alex. She hadn't meant to hurt him. She hadn't even known she could. What was it going to be like now, when they saw each other in the office? Would he still want to work with her? Or would he blackball her somehow?
She realized the corporate and even the romantic concerns were mundane, probably her mind's attempt to ignore the real difficulty she was in. Because the people who wanted Obsidian were still out there. If she was in danger before, most likely she still was. But she didn't know what to do about it, so she was fretting about things that were far less consequential.
The cab stopped on Lexington Street in front of her apartment, a basement unit in one of the narrow, detached, tree-shaded houses that lined the street. She liked Lexington because it was only four blocks long and so attracted little traffic. Its sidewalks were menaced more by the Big Wheels and bicycles of the numerous children who lived in the neighborhood than they were by cars or trucks.
She paid the driver and got out. She'd been gone only, what, twenty-four hours? And yet the comfort and familiarity of the setting felt surreal to her.
She started up the flagstone walk toward the front door. A man called out from her right. “Excuse me, miss?”
She turned, surprised, because she hadn't noticed anyone there when she'd gotten out of the cab. The surprise turned to alarm. What if they'd found out where she lived? Ben said it would be easy. Maybe they were waiting for her here.
But the man, a slim Asian in shades and a green fleece pullover, was keeping a respectful distance. He said, “If I wanted to get from here to San Jose, would I be better off taking 101, or 280?”
By reflex, her mind started working the problem, considering variables, imagining possibilities. “Well,” she said, “it would depend on where you're going in San Jose.”
Something suddenly felt wrong to her. Why would a pedestrian ask a question like that?
Because of the way it's calculated to momentarily engage your mind. It would distract you from Something stung her in the neck from behind. She clapped a hand to the spot and cried out. Something was stuck in her neck. She tried to turn, but strong hands gripped her shoulders. She struggled and the world seemed to lurch. From somewhere she heard a door-a van door?-slide open, and the last thing she saw before everything grayed out was the man in the sunglasses and fleece pullover moving quickly and purposefully toward her.
30
YOU ALWAYS HAVE
Alex was home in bed, but his eyes were wide open. Ordinarily, he wasn't prone to napping, but he hadn't slept at all at the hotel and he badly needed a few hours right now.
He'd walked all around the house looking for a sign of what had happened the night before. And he'd found it, in the backyard: the woodpile was knocked over, and a short distance away, the grass was trampled down and slick with something dark and sticky he immediately knew was blood. A trail of flattened grass led to the fence, and he imagined Ben dragging a body. It had really happened. Ben had really killed someone right in their backyard. The violence was done, but the signs of its occurrence terrified him. He'd restacked the woodpile and hosed down the bloody grass, imagining how he would explain it to Gamez when he was back in that windowless room for questioning. “Blood? I didn't see any blood. The grass just needed watering. Sure, there are sprinklers, but I sometimes water it by hand.”
Finally, his exhaustion began to overwhelm his imagination. His eyes fluttered closed. He was in the backyard again, but he was a kid now, watching his dad water the garden. Katie was throwing a Frisbee to Arlo. A telephone was ringing somewhere…
He jerked awake. The phone. It wasn't a dream. Shit, he should have taken the damn thing off the hook. He picked up the handset. “Hello?”
“Alex, it's me.”
Ben. A sickening surge of adrenaline coursed through him. He paused, then said, “Leave me alone.”
