Grant came to see me at my office a couple of weeks after. He’d spent time in Montana recuperating and was on his way to Vegas to return to his magic show. Another middle finger to the bad guys. When he sat down in the chair across from my desk, he moved slowly. He still looked ill, which was disconcerting. He was one of the strongest people I knew, but his face sagged, shadows marking his eyes. He sat unevenly, favoring his left, injured side.
We studied each other for a long moment. Hunting for the nonvisible scars.
“Well,” I said. “We made it.”
Ducking his gaze, he hid a smile. “I admit, I had some doubts for a while.”
“Naw, I never did,” I said, grinning and lying.
“How are you holding up?” he said, when I should have been the one asking.
I sighed. “I’m very, very angry. And I think Anastasia’s right. There’s a war brewing.”
“But Roman wasn’t involved with this.”
“Maybe not directly. Maybe not literally. But I think they’re both symptoms of the same thing,” I said.
“Good versus evil?” he said, brow raised.
I shrugged. “Let’s say order versus chaos. Kindness versus fear. No, never mind. False dichotomies, all of them.”
His smile quirked. “You’re learning.”
“Anastasia wanted you to have her card.” I handed him the copy I’d made of it.
He didn’t look at it but folded the page with scarred hands and tucked it in a pocket. “So Roman is recruiting his alliance, and Anastasia is recruiting hers. Do you wonder where this is all going to end?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think it will. I think this same damn thing’s been going on for thousands of years. It’s just our turn to play the game now.”
“Well, then. Until next time.” He stood to leave, I stood to see him out. With anyone else, I’d have stepped forward for a hug, but that wry smile was all I was going to get from him. After he left, I sat at my desk, staring at his empty chair for a long time, ignoring the nervous knot in my stomach.
Cañon City was a small town in the foothills between the prairie and the Rocky Mountains. It was also, at least to people living in Colorado, synonymous with the several prison complexes that occupied a good chunk of land here, marked by miles of tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire and clusters of concrete institutional buildings. The Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility was in town, right off the highway. That was where we stopped. The late-summer sun baked off the blacktop and concrete, and I squinted against the glare of it. The whole prison area shone like its own little nightmare.
I was pacing by the car. Ben leaned against the hood, trying not to pace, but he had his arms tightly crossed and was tapping his foot. We were both fidgeting.
“Is it time yet?” I said.
“There’s still ten minutes.” He didn’t even have to look at his watch, which led me to think he’d been all but watching it since we arrived ten minutes ago. We’d gotten here early because we didn’t want to be late. The last thing we wanted was to have Cormac get out and not have anyone here waiting. We owed it to him not to fail on that little thing.
I paced because I kept thinking about how I almost wasn’t here at all.
Finally, Ben uncrossed his arms and straightened from the car.
“It’s time?” I said.
He just smiled and started walking toward the first of the chain-link fences. I rushed to join him, grabbing his hand. We squeezed tightly and walked on together.
Ben knew where to go, and I realized he’d probably done this before with clients. I’d come here dozens of times to visit Cormac over the last couple of years, but this was a different gate, a different part of the complex. It felt like a new start. Maybe that was the idea.
Just inside the gate in the fence here was a white plank-board guardhouse. Beyond that looked like three more stages of chain-link fence, forming a series of cages that led to the first of the cinderblock buildings. The idea of cages made my hair stand on end. I wanted to start pacing again.
A guy in a uniform stepped out of the guardhouse and started unlocking one of the interior gates. Another guard emerged from the building and did the same.
“The suspense is killing me,” I hissed. Ben didn’t say anything but just kept watching.
Then a tall, lanky man in a pair of faded jeans and a gray T-shirt stepped out of the building. He had brown hair and a trimmed mustache and carried a canvas duffel bag over his shoulder. He shook hands with the guard by the building, who locked the gate behind him as he walked on.
God, that was a really long walk.
It probably wasn’t more than thirty yards, but when you were waiting on the other side, it took forever. Especially when Cormac couldn’t seem to be bothered to speed up his usual calm saunter. But I recognized Cormac by that walk.
At the gatehouse, he stopped and signed something on a clipboard offered to him by the guard there. Then they shook hands.
“Time off for good behavior,” Ben said to me. “You can always tell because the guards actually look happy for him.”
I had started bouncing a little.
Then the last gate opened, and Cormac was standing outside.
He paused for a long time. Tipped his head back, looking into the sky, just breathing. The gate wheeled shut behind him, and he didn’t move. I resisted an urge to run forward and instead gave him time.
He seemed to shake himself free of the introspective moment. Then he looked like Cormac again, calm and watchful. Then we went forward to meet him.
Ben reached him
