Finding Grace (11 page)

“Not even since the smoking ban?” He’d never forget
how Thorne reacted to cigarette smoke.

“Once, my twenty-first birthday. Went by
myself.”

“You celebrated your birthday all by yourself?
Christ, Thorne, that’s pitiful.” He could barely remember his own
twenty-first birthday. Of course, he’d been drunk as hell and it
had been a hundred years ago.

“There wasn’t anyone I cared to share it with.”
Thorne shrugged, but he could tell the kid was remembering
something more serious. “It didn’t end well.”

“Don’t tell me, you got beat up.” He smiled
sympathetically. It wasn’t hard to imagine.

“Something like that.”

The pause had been long enough and Thorne’s throaty
voice soft enough to make him think it had been bad. “Sorry.” He
heard himself not only say it, but mean it.

“Yeah. Too bad you weren’t there, huh?” Thorne’s
laugh was dry, even for Thorne. “See ’ya Monday, Jack.”

* * * *

Thorne closed the door behind her and leaned against
it. She’d been wrong about Jack Daggery. She
should
be
afraid of him. He was the very worst kind of dangerous—he made her
feel safe.

He made her want to do things, too, the least of
which was continuing to work at Blackridge just to be with him on
the rides home. Those rides made all the other risks worthwhile,
even if she’d just now recognized that they were the biggest risk
of all. She was already looking forward to Monday night, for God’s
sake.

She wondered if Paul had sensed how close she’d come
to packing up for good when he’d threatened to make her ride with
Farley, even if he hadn’t meant it. He was just insecure,
struggling with his guilt and doubt. She felt a little bad for him,
but not bad enough to set foot in a bar for him. At least not
yet.

Thorne shivered and dug out a pair of chopsticks.
She’d have to do it eventually, if she stayed at Blackridge.
Really, though, that was a minor problem compared to the other.

Munching on Tron’s Friday special, she considered
her options.

She’d never been good with feelings, had learned
early on their capacity to inflict misery. It had always seemed
best to just avoid them. If you didn’t care, then no one could hurt
you; pretty simple math. So what was the formula now, when she
dangled on the uncontrollable variable? What to do now that she did
care?

And it wasn’t just her emotions that concerned her.
Her body was sending her signals that she had no idea what to do
with, either. Signals it had no business sending her, responses
from places inside and out that she’d never been so acutely aware
of, in spite—or maybe because—of everything that had happened to
her.

* * * *

O’Leary’s was a workingman’s bar in a faded part of
town. Its denizens were a motley collection of mostly men of all
ages who wouldn’t be caught dead in a techno club or any bar with
plants and suits. Even so, Dagger’s entrance rippled uncomfortably
throughout the place. Heads raised and turned.

He shrugged it off. The welcoming smiles of the team
and the beer someone handed him took the edge off, but there had
never been a real cure for the way he always felt like he was
outside some proverbial window, looking in on everyone who
belonged
.

Sure, Paul was his friend and the rest of the team
were good men, but he was most comfortable when he was alone. He
figured Thorne probably felt the same way he did, if the single
chair at the kitchen table in the dinky apartment was any
indication. The idea that they were alike at all didn’t sit well.
He’d been feeling different ever since he’d met the damn kid, and
he was starting to wonder what was wrong with him.

“Hey Dagger, where’s Thorne? Couldn’t talk him into
coming?” Markham looked disappointed.

“What’s the matter, Miss Daisy think he’s too good
for us?” Mills smirked.

“Funny, Thorne used the same expression first time I
gave him a ride.” He grinned, remembering.

“Does he really not know how to drive? Who the hell
doesn’t know how to drive?” asked one of the men who hadn’t met
Thorne yet. “I heard he won’t carry a cell phone, either. What kind
of tech geek—”

“C’mon man, you spend more time with Thorne than any
of us. Is he a fag or what? Has he made a pass at you yet? He sure
does like to check out your ass,” Mills teased.

“But what if Thorne’s a girl? I mean, the grip was
firm and all, but the hand was awful small. It’d be easier to tell
without those fingerless gloves. Thorne always wear those?” Markham
asked. “Paul, you know, right?”

All eyes turned to Paul, including his, but Paul
only shrugged and said, “Don’t ask me.”

“Hmm, that voice would sure be sexy if it was a
woman’s,” Farley added thoughtfully.

“You know, now that I think about it, Thorne
does
always wear those things,” Dagger said. “Except that
day in jail. Must not have had time to put them on before they
nabbed him.”

“Jail?” Hawks frowned.

Markham set his beer down. “Yeah, remember? Farley
told us about it. Thorne’s vision. That’s why you hired him, right,
Paul?”

Paul was frowning now. “Hell no. Thorne tipped us
off on that kidnapping, yes, but…” He shook his head and tilted it
back to drain the last of his beer. “Thorne was hired for Thorne’s
exceptional computer and electronic skills, which my friend Luke at
SPD learned about after he picked Thorne up for questioning.”

“So what was Thorne busted for, then, exactly? You
never did tell us,” Farley pushed.

“Decked the cop who picked him up. Pretty good too.”
He didn’t know why he’d said it instead of Paul, except that Paul
hadn’t exactly being forthcoming about Thorne, and Dagger felt
obligated to defend the kid.

“So not a girl, then. Damn.” Farley sighed.

Mills pushed back his chair. “I’m with Paul. I don’t
buy this vision shit, neither. That damn faggot must have been
connected to the kidnappin’ somehow. Bet he had somethin’ to do
with whatever really happened over there to Hawks and Markham
too.”

“What do you know, Mills? You weren’t there either
time. Me, I’m a believer.” Dagger finished his beer and motioned to
the bartender for another.

Paul would never believe it. Everything was black
and white to his friend. Dagger had learned about the gray on his
first undercover mission. Over time, he’d learned to accept more
things he couldn’t explain.

Mills broke into his thoughts. “You wanna believe in
that shit, you go right ahead. Thorne ain’t got no respect for
authority, that’s for sure. And what about the little faggot’s
anti-American attitude?”

He felt Paul watching him, but his partner continued
to be anything but helpful.

Dagger sipped his beer and told them, in as few
words as possible, about Jefferson and what he’d learned at Tron’s
that night.

Mills spat out. “Well then, sounds to me like that
Jefferson must be another fag. Whole bunch of ’em is fags. It’s
contagious, I tell you.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Mills? If you’re
really that goddamn slow, I’ll spell it out for you nice and clear.
Thorne’s all right. One of the team. So back the fuck off already.”
Dagger knew he shouldn’t be getting so worked up, but the
conversation was poking him somewhere he didn’t want to look.

“What’s the matter, Dagger, you thinkin’ about
switchin’ sides on us?” Mills asked it in a lilting voice, holding
a limp wrist in the air.

Dagger pushed his chair back slowly and heard the
anger in his voice, even if he kept it low. “If there’s anyone here
who
really
wants to go there with me, we can step outside
right now.”

The whole place got real quiet.

The team’s conversation finally moved on to other
topics, but Dagger was thinking about Thorne sitting alone in that
tiny apartment. Of the two of them, who was more alone right now:
Thorne or himself? The more he thought about Thorne, the more he
drank. The food he’d eaten in the parking lot before he’d come in
wasn’t sitting as well as it usually did. Maybe he should have just
stuck with the Bo Sate.

Paul insisted on driving him home, said he wanted to
talk to him about something, but Dagger figured it was because his
friend thought he’d had too much to drink. Maybe he had, because
when Paul asked how Thorne was doing, Dagger heard something in his
voice that made him willing to confide, even though Paul hadn’t
done the same.

So he told Paul what Thorne had said about not going
to a bar since his twenty-first birthday because it hadn’t ended
well. Dagger added that, if he had to guess, he’d have said the kid
must have gotten beat up pretty bad.

He hadn’t had so much to drink that he didn’t notice
the funny, almost sick, look that had come over Paul’s face.

He heard a little slur in his own voice when he
turned to his friend and said, “What the fuck is it about Thorne,
anyway? You know, but you won’t say. You want me to protect
him—don’t tell me you don’t—but you won’t tell me why. What is it
about that little fucker? How did he get under your skin?”
How
the hell did he get under mine
? “What’s the damn story?”

Paul’s voice seemed to echo in his head. “You don’t
want to know, Dagger. You think you do, but you don’t. Trust me.”
He patted Dagger’s back. “I appreciate how you defended the kid
tonight, and the rides and all. It’s not fair to you and I know it.
Now get some sleep.”

* * * *

Dagger found himself whistling on the way into work
Monday morning, and smiling when the first sound that greeted his
ears was Thorne’s music. It was some classical piece, Russian,
probably. He’d noticed that Thorne seemed to have a thing for the
tortured tragic composers. It wasn’t until Farley smirked that
Dagger even realized he’d been smiling. He stopped and gave Farley
a glare sufficient to remove that smirk, then shrugged and went out
of his way to avoid Thorne the rest of the day.

But when Thorne showed up in the big office,
blanketed in the old parka and toting his backpack, Dagger realized
he’d been checking his watch, waiting for him. Maybe even looking
forward to seeing him. He pushed the realization away as soon as it
came.

The ride home was uneventful, except they couldn’t
find Jefferson. Thorne was worried. It was going to be a cold
night. When they reached his door, they were deep in conversation
about what was wrong with the country and how to fix it.

“Um, wanna come in and help me eat all this food?”
Thorne shifted from foot to foot, looking nervous and strangely
vulnerable. “C’mon, I won’t bite, Peaches. I won’t even touch you.
Scouts’ honor.” Thorne held up two fingers, grinning. “I don’t have
a microwave. What am I gonna do with it? And anyway, we’re not done
making the world safe for democracy.”

Dagger only hesitated a moment. Hell, it wasn’t like
he had anything better to do.

So they spent the next hour sitting on Thorne’s
floor, eating Vietnamese and laying out their respective, if
radically different, plans for the world. When they’d finished and
said good-night, Dagger walked back to the Escalade he liked to
drive Thorne home in because it offered a plug-in for both their
iPods. They had turned each other on to some really good music.

* * * *

They couldn’t find Jefferson on Thursday, either, so
Thorne decided to invite Jack in again. She’d been fighting the
urge all week and now she had a good excuse. She tried not to let
herself get too excited when he agreed.

After they’d finished eating, she pulled out her
needles and yarn.

“What’s up with the knitting, anyway? I mean, it’s
great that you make stuff people can use, but you seem…well, kind
of obsessed.”

She hoped she could explain it so he’d understand.
“Helps my brain, keeps it from obsessing, actually. Everything
flows more smoothly when I knit. And like I said at the funhouse,
beats basket weaving.”
And right now, it’s distracting me from
thinking about you being here all alone with me
.

“So, did your grandma teach you or something?”

“No, a nurse did, actually. I grew up in foster
homes.” She winced after she’d said it, afraid it was too much
information.

But Jack just went on. “Know anything about your
parents?”

What the hell. “Just that my mother forgot to take
care of me when I was a baby. Guess she was crazy or
something.”

“So it’s hereditary then?” She felt his warm laugh
rumble deep inside her and was glad she’d gone ahead and said it
until he followed it with, “God, Thorne, you answer a question and
two more come up.”

Thorne shifted and looked back down at her knitting.
“Yeah, I’m a real enigma all right. So are you. I guess neither one
of us likes to talk about ourselves very much. Especially the past.
I’ve talked more to you though, Jack, than I’ve talked to anyone in
a long time, maybe ever.” Shit, had she really just admitted that
to him? She needed to shut the hell up.

But Jack just nodded. He didn’t look uncomfortable
at all, empathetic more than anything. “So, tell me about the
nurse.”

Thorne wasn’t altogether sure she wanted to go
there, but Jack seemed genuinely interested and maybe she could
work it to her advantage.

“Okay, but if I show you mine, you have to show me
yours.”

She gave him a grin and a wink before she remembered
what they were talking about. “I was in the hospital for a while a
few years back. The knitting fixed me more than anything the
doctors did.”

“What kind of hospital? This have anything to do
with your padded cell here?” He gestured around, grinning, clearly
trying to keep it light.

She kept her eyes on her needles when she answered.
So much for light. “I was all kinds of broken. Maybe I still
am.”

Thorne heard the change in his voice. “Something
happen in one of those foster homes?”