American Craftsmen (8 page)

“Good. He’ll just appear more insane.”

“Are we strong enough?” she asked, but only for her commander’s benefit.

“Yes,” he said.

As she ended the call, Sakakawea found herself standing near the simple stone and plaque of the H. P. Lovecraft memorial. She chuckled to herself, and loped back to the car.

*   *   *

A warm hand touched my forehead. I opened my eyes, and saw the perfect face of the Persian American woman peering back at me. Did I mention she was beautiful? For the first time since my last mission, the voices in my mind were completely quiet, though I was extremely focused.

She stepped away from me. In her other hand, she held a dripping gray cloth, which must have been meant for my brow. I felt the weight of my gun in my jacket. Good, she hadn’t taken it.

I assessed my position. I was seated in the detritus-filled part of a restaurant kitchen that no customer should witness. In the kitchen proper, a Persian-looking man with a wrinkled face and dark hair chopped vegetables with a large knife and almost preternatural speed. His sins were many and familiar. A woman of similar age (his wife?) discreetly tossed some seeds into a gas flame. Their little popping noises distracted the younger woman; she said, “No need for that,
Madar
.”

I assumed the seeds were protection against the evil eye. I couldn’t fault
Madar
’s perspicacity, but nobody besides me in this room radiated craft, so any problems should be mundane.

The young woman tossed the cloth into a sink and stood off to the side. She seemed a little embarrassed and concerned, but with nothing to occupy her hands, she folded her arms. In the club next door, a double-bass drum pounded a sound check.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Why were you saying those things in Persian?” said the woman.

The old man tutted. “Manners, Scherie.”

“OK,” said the woman, eyes a little wider at the incongruity. “My name is Scherezade Rezvani. This is my mother.” Mrs. Rezvani turned away. “And my father.”

I stood up, wobbly. “I’m Dale Morton. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

“No, please, wait,” said Scherie, stepping forward, open palm out. “Something very bad happened to you, and it happened in Persian.”

“What did I say?”

“Nothing important,” said Scherie. “But the way you spoke reminded me…” Her dark eyes drooped. “Some people I know were hurt under the Shah or under the current regime. So I think evil things were done to you, and not so long ago.”

Mr. Rezvani glanced at the fire door like these words were chasing him, so I peeked at his sins. Yes, he had done some of those evil things to others, but his sins had the fuzzy quality of old crimes in another country.

Mrs. Rezvani shook her fists. “Those thugs in Tehran cannot last. America should bomb them.”

“
Madar
,” Scherie clucked. “He doesn’t want to hear us weep over lost Persia.”

“My daughter wants to go back and change things,” said Mr. Rezvani, ignoring Scherie’s admonition. “She’s modest, but I teach her this and that.” He picked up a large carving knife and made it twirl and dance. Then he tossed it toward Scherie, who snagged the handle in midair. Scherie averted her skillful yet embarrassed eyes.

I shook my head. “What happened to me … wasn’t anything important.”

“I understand,” said Mr. Rezvani. “I still meet with men, they know other men who work for a certain Company.”

A man who met men who knew men—too many degrees of separation for me to wrap my brain around. But this family wasn’t a security risk to me, and I didn’t need to entangle them in my problems.

“Thank you,” I said. “I should be going.”

“Come back soon,” said Mr. Rezvani. “We’ll show you real Persian cooking.” I had forgotten about the food smells; they didn’t seem to be bothering me now.

*   *   *

Scherie insisted on driving me back to the House. As little as I liked that idea, I agreed, because I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t black out again. “Nice car,” she said. She drove the T-Bird, while I called for a taxi to meet us.

As we approached the House, I remembered that she might have trouble seeing it. When it wasn’t hostile, the House liked to be inconspicuous. “It’s kind of hidden behind the other houses.”

“What, it’s behind the big old creepy mansion?”

She could see the House clearly, which meant that the House wanted her to see it. Strange. She pulled up to the main gate. “I love old houses. Can I see?”

Again I hesitated, not because of the folklore injunction against inviting a stranger across the threshold. She couldn’t damage me, but the House might damage her. But the taxi wasn’t here yet, and the House seemed to like her, so I chanced it.

Once inside, most guests instinctively kept away from the dark walls and strange objects, but Scherie touched everything. “This wood is warm, like someone’s arm in the sun.”

Now this was going too far. The House was flirting with her. Under my breath, I mumbled “
Stop it
.”

Then, of course, Grandpa appeared, hair slicked back and dressed like James Bond at Monaco. “And who is this exotic gem?” A craftless stranger like Scherie wouldn’t see or hear him, but he was annoying me.

My phone interrupted us: the cab calling, lost only a house away. “Just wait there, she’ll be out shortly,” I said. Then to Scherie, “You’ve been a lot kinder than I deserve.”

Renewed concern and embarrassed interest filled those large dark eyes. She handed me a card—a charming, old-fashioned gesture. “Give me a call if you want to talk.”

“I’m afraid you heard what kind of talker I am.”

“Call anyway,” she said. “We can go shoot stuff somewhere.”

“After what I said and did?”

“You seem … like someone I’ve known for years. That’s usually a good sign.” Her smile was a little crazy, and a lot beautiful.

Then she left, and the weight of the day came crashing down on me. I wouldn’t be dating Scherie. The Pentagon was a hair trigger away from shooting me, and my death was a certainty if I found and killed Sphinx. Any friends would be at risk. And sleeping with someone? Despite the assurances I had given Hutch, I had no idea what the voices in my head were going to do tonight. Though quiet now, they had screamed for Scherie’s blood when I had first seen her.

No, no dates. I had damage-control problems with my former employers. Even if the Gideons and the other agents reported the truth, it wouldn’t look good. I called Hutchinson. “We need to meet.”

“What the hell were you trying to pull?”

“Need to talk in person.” The House was more secure than any phone line. “Can you be here tomorrow?”

“To Providence? I should have you hauled back in.”

“You were going to come up here to check on me. Move it up.”

“Dale, what’s wrong?”

“Not over the phone, Hutch.”

Once I was off the phone, I could hear all the voices. The House moaned in the wind for Scherie like a three-hundred-year-old teenager. The voices in my head returned, vengeful at their banishment, unhappy how my focus on Scherie had freed me from them, if only for a little while.

The House kept my nighttime craft attacks contained, but the nightmare of the desert returned, and sleep felt like combat. Worse though was a soothing whisper from the subbasement, promising me an end to all my troubles, if I just set the Left-Hand spirits free.

*   *   *

In the cab back from Dale’s house, Scherie tapped her clenched fists against her thighs. She was angry at herself for so many reasons. She had practically thrown herself at a man who was return-to-sender damaged. Worse, he had given her the brush-off. Maybe it was an old-money thing—crazy and snobby at the same time.

It had felt so right with him though, standing together in that ancient mansion. The only thing that troubled her was that it looked like a haunted house in the movies. Scherie enjoyed science fiction and fantasy, but hated ghosts. She had seen too many of them as a child.

No one else in her family had seemed to notice them. They had thought the ghosts were her imaginary friends, but they were at least wrong about the friends part. Some of her childhood ghosts were uncles and aunts that she hadn’t seen before. They spoke mostly in Farsi, too fast and complicated, not like her parents had taught her. She told them to slow down, but that just made them upset.

The other ghosts were worse. Years later she mentioned the ghosts’ names to her father. He got angry, but not with her. He had done bad things for Iran’s ministry of intelligence. After the revolution, the Shah’s secret police changed their name, but not their personnel or methods. The names belonged to those tortured and killed by one side or another in the revolution and aftermath—executed relatives and her father’s many victims.

They had surrounded tiny Scherie, touched her, and she had felt the pain of their last moments. They had shrieked inside her and tried to crowd her out of her own mind, her family only slightly less brutal than Daddy’s work product.

They had made her wish she could flee her body. One former friend of her father’s was particularly good at this—a true ghoul. A nightmare, but the crazy-people house would have been even worse. So she had endured. She had known by her tormentors’ examples that killing herself would be no solution.

Finally, as innocently as she could, Scherie had asked her mother a question: “How can I make ghosts go away?”

Her mother had smiled. “All you have to do is tell the ghosts to go away, and they will.”

Scherie had taken her mother at her word, and more. She said, “Get the fuck out of my house and out of my life!”

And the ghosts had left, and had never come back. She had been very young, so eventually they had seemed like a long, bad dream. Now, that dream could only create a minor unease in a beautiful old house.

Despite her anger at herself for pursuing Dale, by the time she arrived at the mall, she was already hoping that he would call, and not just for a possible romance. She guessed that he had worked covertly in the Middle East, and might be an avenue for her to help her family’s homeland. Her father had given her plenty of military talk and some combat basics, but a veteran covert soldier like Dale might have higher-level skills and contacts to share. If he didn’t call, she might have to pursue him still harder. If she saw any ghosts, she would just tell them to go away.

*   *   *

The next day, while I was planning some means of getting to Sphinx, I felt a small uneasiness flow across the House’s ambient vibe, like the play of a summer breeze on my grandmother’s aeolian harp. It wasn’t the curse or the voice; more like the sense of a stare across a room, or across a continent. It was a foreboding of an attack that might lead to my death.
No shit, Nostradamus.

When Hutchinson entered the House, she cut right past our usual soldiers’ bull session. “Why were you trying to shake our tail on the highway?”

“What did the Gideons tell you?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking the questions?”

“OK, here’s what they probably reported. They tailed me from here with the assistance of two mundane agents. I got on the highway, but then it appeared that I spotted the mundanes, and exited to a nearby mall. When the Gideons arrived, I was threatening the mundanes, but then I collapsed for reasons unknown, and all agents were able to escape unharmed.”

“And that’s not what happened?”

“They were setting me up for early retirement.”

“You’re paranoid. Where were you going?”

OK, I needed at least one ally, and that meant Hutch or no one. “I’ve been thinking more about who called my last mission.”

“That kind of thinking is outside your pay grade, Morton. Which is
discharged
.”

“We’ve got a vermin in the Families.”

“A craft mole?” said Hutchinson. “High-heeled nonsense. And even if true, it’s not the person you’re thinking.”

“I was set up, and now they’re trying to finish the job.”

“That sorcerer was a damned good farseer,” said Hutchinson. “It happens.”

“Not like this. Hutch, I’d swear those three Gideons are in the mole’s pocket. If somebody wants me out of commission, it can’t be good for craft and country.”

Hutchinson closed her eyes and spoke quietly through clenched teeth. “If I say there’s a mole, they’ll say it’s you.”

“I’m willing to take that risk,” I said.

“I’m not,” she said. She pulled out a long case. “I’ve got something for you.”

I opened the case with dread. It was the Purple Heart. “But I’m not wounded.”

“Not where anyone can see.”

“By that criterion,” I said, “a lot of other soldiers should have gotten this.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Hutchinson, “Keep it for them.”

“Yeah. OK,” I said. “You can keep it when I’m gone.”

“When you’re gone? What the hell is eating you?”

“Nothing,” I said. I couldn’t say that I would likely perish when I took out the mole, so I told her the other reason. “I had a minor foreboding this morning.”

“Not from doing craft?”

“No, not intentionally.”

Hutchinson closed her eyes and shook her head. “Morton forebodings. Battlefield diaries with the last entry reading ‘Today I died.’ Wills with the date of decease. Taking a suicidal mission because the command post was going to be blown up anyway. And dreaming those damned Lincoln dreams.”

“What the fuck, Hutch? I’m a little edgy and you’ve got me on the Lincoln train, first class?”

“Easy.” She reached out a hand to just touch my arm. “Any time frame on this foreboding?”

“It feels like there’s still some time.”

“Then we’ll do this through channels,” said Hutchinson. “I’ll check out Sphinx and these Gideons. I’ll get the spooky spooks at the Peepshow on it. They’ll see if anyone’s painting your crafty ass.”

“You’re going to tell Sphinx?” I asked.

“I’ve got my own contacts there,” she said.

“You said it yourself,” I said. “They might hunt me instead.”

Hutchinson fixed her maternal stare on me. “These aren’t the days of Roderick and Madeline. You’re my responsibility, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”