Rogue Oracle Page 7

  “Does he know about the marauding librarians?”

  “Not yet. But I hope one of them steals that fucking projector.”

  Tara smirked. She was certain Veriss meant well, but she knew from experience that Harry had little respect for esoteric methods until they produced results. She suspected that applied to differential equations as much as it applied to Tarot cards.

  The forensics department was a partitioned-off corner of the former archive. Steel curtains and fume hoods kept the chemicals away from the rest of the unit, but the concrete floors were still the same. When Tara had been an agent, they’d had to send most of their evidence out to the DOJ labs. She was impressed that Special Projects now had their own gas spectrometer and electron telescopes, perched on stainless steel counters. In the back, she heard the muffled report of guns, suggesting that they’d acquired their own ballistics tank, too. Swanky.

  “Agent Li, Dr. Sheridan.” Anderson, the tech Tara recognized from Lena’s house, greeted them. “I’ve got bad news.”

  Harry passed his hands over his eyes. “Please tell me that no one fucked up the evidence.”

  “I can’t say that, sir. As you know, the evidence was compromised by the time we got there …”

  “Just show me what you’ve got.”

  Anderson flipped over pages in her clipboard. “The stain that Dr. Sheridan found was indeed blood. Blood pattern analysis indicates that it’s a drip stain. Based on the positioning, our best guess is that it dripped from the victim’s mouth. Problem is, we can’t identify it.”

  “It’s not Lena Ivanova’s blood?”

  “It is. And it isn’t,” Anderson said. “We did find her DNA in the blood. But we also found three other sets of DNA. One unknown. One matched Carl Starkweather. And the other matched Carrie Kirkman.”

  “How the hell is that possible?” Harry’s brow wrinkled. “Did a group of ex-spooks show up to kidnap Lena?”

  “Without cross-contamination, it’s not really possible. I’m sorry—”

  “Wait a minute.” Tara shook her head. Her mind rifled through the possibilities. Had Carl shown up and convinced Lena to come away with him after a night of passion? It didn’t quite ring true to her, but she couldn’t say why. “The blood cells in the sample. Can you tell how fresh they are? Have they degraded?”

  Anderson nodded. “We did perform an HPLC analysis on the blood. It’s all the same age. We don’t think it’s a case of a stain of one type of blood drying on another stain.” She blew out her breath in frustration. “It’s bizarre. An extraction from one part of the slide shows one set of DNA, and another set in another part of the slide. That just doesn’t occur in nature, except in chimeras.”

  Tara thought of the Pythia’s warning: Beware the Chimera.

  Harry blinked. “What do mythological beasts have to do with this?”

  “In mythology, the chimera was a combination of a lion, a goat, and a snake,” Tara said. “But, in genetics, a chimera has two or more sets of DNA.”

  “But that’s exceptionally rare,” said Anderson. “In humans, a chimera occurs when one fraternal twin fuses with another in utero. In that case, the subject may have, say, a liver with one set of DNA, and skin with another.”

  “We know that Lena, Carl, and Carrie weren’t chimeras,” Harry said. “Their CIA physicals would have shown that, right?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Anderson’s mouth twisted in thought. “Most chimeras have no idea. And it’s extremely statistically improbable. But we could find out. Carl had children, and we might be able to trace DNA abnormalities through them. Lena also left traces of her DNA around … hairbrushes, old blood tests for CIA. We might not be able to say with one hundred percent authority, but we could get close to finding out if one of them was genetically abnormal.”

  “Or, perhaps it’s our assailant who’s abnormal,” Tara said.

  “We’ll get a geneticist in here and tear those samples apart, molecule from molecule,” Anderson promised. “If there’s a scientific reason why, we’ll find it.”

  Tara nodded, but she wasn’t quite ready to place her full faith in science.

  “AN ORACLE MUST NOT ONLY BE PREPARED TO SEE THE future. She must also know how to fight it.”

  Cassie stared skeptically at the Pythia. The Pythia stood out in the field behind the farmhouse, a shotgun planted on her hip. The weapon looked vaguely ridiculous next to the petite woman wearing a red peasant dress. Two of the other Daughters of Delphi ranged around, holding guns, hearing protectors, and boxes of ammunition. They were in jeans and T-shirts; slightly less incongruous, but this still wasn’t a hobby Cassie had imagined for them. Soap-making, maybe growing a little pot, but not weaponry.

  “I thought the Daughters of Delphi were women of peace,” Cassie said.

  “We are. And we prefer to work behind the scenes to positively influence the destiny of humankind. But we must also know how to defend ourselves and protect what is ours.”

  Four scarecrows made of straw and baling wire were assembled across from them, ten yards distant. They looked pretty limp and defenseless to Cassie.

  “Your gift is astrology,” said the Pythia. “While it’s a useful talent, it won’t help you to defend yourself. At least, not at this time. All our gifts evolve over time, and we will see where yours unfold.”

  “I thought the point in being able to see the future was being able to head danger off at the pass.” Cassie stared down at her feet in the tall grasses, hoping she wasn’t going to be eaten alive by ticks.

  The Pythia smiled. “Sometimes, the future unfolds too quickly for you to stop it.”

  She turned and blew a kiss at one of the scarecrows. When she brought her hand to her mouth, a spark fell from her lips, and was exhaled across her fingertips. Cassie felt the heat of it against her face. She involuntarily stepped back. The fire rushed across the distance to the scarecrows, flashed over the first one in a plume of orange. Straw crackled and smoked. The scarecrow went up like a dry Christmas tree. The other two Daughters of Delphi dragged a garden hose to the scarecrow and began to put it out.

  Cassie swallowed. She knew that the Pythia’s talent was pyromancy—seeing the future in fire. She didn’t know that fire would respond to her whim like that.

  The Pythia smiled in satisfaction at the damage. “This is what I mean by evolution of your gifts. I couldn’t control fire at your age. And there’s no telling how your talents will develop. But for now, you must learn more practical ways to protect yourself.”

  The Pythia gestured to the guns arranged on a weathered picnic table. “Pick your weapon.”

  Cassie leaned over the table. Most of the guns looked quite complicated; a couple were machine guns. Cassie chose the simplest-looking gun in the group: a revolver.

  “Good. Pick it up.”

  Cassie picked the gun up by the wood grips, awkwardly.

  “That’s a Smith & Wesson Model sixty-six.” The Pythia reached behind her, popped out the revolver barrel to show Cassie. “It holds six shots, either thirty-eight or three fifty-seven.”

  “It looks like a Dirty Harry gun,” Cassie said.

  “No. Clint Eastwood had a Model twenty-nine. I’ll show you how to load it.” The Pythia plucked bullets from a brick-shaped box and handed them to Cassie. “Put one in at a time. Keep it pointed downrange, or at the ground.”

  Cassie fitted the bullets into place. “Okay. Now what?”

  “This gun is double-action. That means that you can shoot it by pulling the trigger, or by cocking the hammer and then pulling the trigger. There’s no safety.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Takes less force to pull the trigger after you’ve cocked it. I’ll show you.”

  The Pythia put her hearing protection ear guards over her head and fitted Cassie’s over her ears. They were like giant stereo headphones that muffled the outside sound, but amplified the sound of Cassie’s breathing.

  “First, make sure there’s no one down
range,” the Pythia told her. The rest of Delphi’s Daughters had put out the fire and milled behind them. “Next, hold the gun before you.”

  Cassie did as she was told, but the Pythia shook her head. “Spread your feet about shoulder-width apart. Good. Lift the gun to shoulder level, and straighten your arms. No. Don’t lock them.” The Pythia fussed over her stance. “Now put the heels of your hands together on the back of the grips. That will absorb the shock.”

  The Pythia stood on tiptoe to look over Cassie’s shoulder. “Now, sight in. See those two orange marks? Line those up just at your target … lower … there.”

  Cassie swallowed. This felt very foreign to her.

  “Good. Now, breathe out so that you don’t shake your aim. Take your first shot when you’re ready.”

  Cassie squinted over the sight and squeezed the trigger.

  She’d expected it to be like firing a water pistol. But the gun had a mind of its own. When she squeezed the trigger, the gun bucked in her hands with a loud report, kicking her arms up over her head. Cassie managed to hold on to the gun, but the sound and movement rattled her.

  She opened her eyes. “Did I hit anything?”

  The Pythia laughed. “You missed. Try again.”

  Cassie set her jaw, took aim, and fired again. This time, she was better prepared for the reaction. A bit of straw was knocked from the arm of the scarecrow.

  “Good. Try again.”

  Bang.

  “Again.”

  Bang.

  “Again.”

  Cassie shot until the gun clicked empty.

  “Very good,” said the Pythia. “You didn’t flinch when you ran out of bullets.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means you’re not afraid of the gun.” The Pythia took the gun back to the picnic table and reloaded it. Cassie wiped her hands on her jeans. They were sweaty and smelled like gunpowder.

  “This is what we will show you how to do today.” She gestured with her chin at one of Delphi’s Daughters, who now had the shotgun aimed at the straw man Cassie had been plinking away at.

  The woman took aim with the shotgun and fired. The gun reported so loudly that Cassie jumped. The woman advanced upon the straw man, ejecting shells and rapid-firing thunder until the straw man was sheared in half. His ragged head and torso bowed in front of the woman.

  “Wow,” said Cassie, thunder still ringing in her ears. “I don’t think I can do that.” It scarcely seemed the other Daughter had time to aim, but she’d destroyed the scarecrow in seconds.

  The Pythia shook her head. “You will.”

  Cassie swallowed. She didn’t think she had much choice in the matter.

  GALEN SAT ON THE STEPS OF THE LINCOLN MEMORIAL, watching the tourists mill around the reflecting pond. A hazy blue summer sky shimmered in the pool, and sun beat down on the visitors with their summer clothes and cameras.

  Galen leaned back in the shade. He wore jeans, sunglasses, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. He’d mostly healed from devouring Lena, but didn’t want to call attention to the fading assimilation marks in his skin. He understood that this look wouldn’t draw undue attention; it was simply considered “emo” in America. His close-cropped hair had begun to grow back over his smooth skull. There was nothing remarkable about his face any longer. It was symmetrical, as near-perfect as it had ever been.

  Another man sat down beside him. He was not “emo.” He was more what Americans would consider to be a “yuppie”: he was dressed in chinos and a collared shirt, with a blue sport coat and flashy watch. He unwrapped a sandwich, began eating it.

  “What kind of sandwich is that?” Galen asked. As much as he tried to lose the accent, a trace of Russian still crept in.

  “It’s a turkey club.”

  “Ah. I prefer pastrami.”

  “You can get the best pastrami in Oradea, in the old country.”

  “So I’ve heard.” The buyer had given the correct code word. Galen bent down to unzip the backpack at his feet and pulled out a spiral-bound notebook to hand to the buyer.

  The buyer dusted crumbs from his fingers. Galen studied the buyer as he paged through the book. He didn’t know who the buyer worked for. It could be Iran. It could be China. Or Pakistan. He didn’t really care. Truth be told, he didn’t care much about the money, either.

  The buyer nodded. “Latitudes and longitudes. Exactly as described.”

  Galen didn’t say anything. From Lena’s memory, he’d just given this man directions to a buried cache of degrading weapons-grade uranium.

  The buyer pulled out his BlackBerry, began punching buttons. “I’ll make the transfer now.”

  Galen nodded. Within seconds, his own phone in his jeans pocket began to vibrate. He took it out, peered at the screen. The alert confirmed to him a bank transfer of two million U.S. dollars to an offshore account. “Got it.”

  “Good doing business with you.” The buyer tucked the notebook under his arm, stood, and walked away with his sandwich in hand. He disappeared quickly in the throng of tourists.

  Galen leaned back in the shade, feeling a stab of satisfaction at his accomplishment. Whoever had purchased the information would doubtlessly manage to stir up some chaos with it.

  And chaos was his primary goal. It was as close as he could get to getting even with a world that had chewed him up and spat him out, molecule by molecule.

  He was a monster, he knew it.

  And he would make sure the world suffered for it.

  Chapter Six

  I’D LIKE the number 185.”

  Harry handed the menu back to the waiter at China Palace. The waiter looked over his notepad. “Sha Cha Beef?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The waiter lifted his eyebrow, scribbled down the order, and walked away.

  Harry shrugged at Tara. “Wait until you see the look I get when I ask for a fork.”

  Tara rested her chin in her hand. Soft red light from paper lanterns made translucent circles on the white tablecloth, and a breeze slid through wind chimes on the patio. Harry was jealously transfixed by a strand of hair that had wound free of her chignon and tickled the scar on her shoulder. “Pops never taught you to use chopsticks?”

  “Nope. And I don’t speak a bit of Chinese. It’s occasionally socially awkward.”

  “Do you think you missed out?”

  “Probably.” Harry poked at the chopsticks on his place mat. “I missed out on a lot. Probably as much as you did when you lost your mom.”

  Tara’s mouth thinned. “Yeah. Though I had her long enough to learn a lot from her. About the Tarot. About life.”

  “You said that she belonged to Delphi’s Daughters.”

  “She did. She was the right hand of the Pythia. And the Pythia wasn’t happy when I left them. I blamed them for her death, but …” Tara sighed. “It was just cancer. There’s really no blame there.”

  “Yeah. I spent most of my teens blaming everyone in sight for the car crash that killed my parents. But I was lucky. I had Pops to look after me.”

  “Your Pops is a helluva man.” Tara had met Harry’s adoptive father months ago. She wished she’d had a man like that in her life, growing up: warm, wise, and brave.

  “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without him. He’s …” Harry sighed, looked away down the street. The isolation he felt was hard to articulate. “… he’s one of the few people I feel at home with.”

  Tara nodded. “I guess home is wherever we find ourselves.” Her gaze was faraway, and Harry wondered where home was for her.

  The waiter returned with their food. Without Harry asking, he brought forks.

  Harry raised his glass. “To orphans.”

  Tara clinked hers against his. “To orphans.”

  Harry pushed his food around with his fork. “Speaking of orphans … how long are you going to stay at the farm with Cassie?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t like leaving her alone there.”

  �
��You still don’t trust the Pythia?”

  “No.” Tara savagely sliced a piece of pepper in half. “The Pythia is never what she seems. She serves her own purposes.”

  “And you’ve said that the Pythia has plans for her.”

  “Yeah. She wants Cassie to be her successor, the next Pythia. And I don’t want to see Cassie turning out like that.”

  “Cassie will be her own girl,” Harry said. “She’s stronger than you think. Don’t underestimate the kid.”

  Tara’s shoulders slumped. “I know. I just … feel like I should be protecting her. When I was her age, I had my mother to ask about being an oracle. She deserves someone who will tell her the good and the bad.”

  “And you will.”

  Tara shoved her rice around. “I wish my mother was still around. God knows I still have questions.”

  “Questions about being an oracle? I thought you already had that down pat.” Harry looked at her quizzically. Tara was the most self-possessed person he knew.

  “Yeah. It’s not like someone hits you with a wand one day and—boom—you’re an oracle.” Tara shook her head. “It evolves. It changes. And now that my deck has changed, I’m … renegotiating my relationship with those cards.”

  Harry frowned. “Look, if they’re not working out, I won’t be hurt if you want to get another set …” When Tara had lost her mother’s deck, it had seemed only right that he replaced it. Now, he felt like he’d fucked up. Given her a chopstick when she needed a fork.

  Tara shook her head. She reached across the table and grabbed his hand. “No. I love this deck.” Her voice was impassioned, and she blushed, pulling away. But Harry trapped her hand with his.

  “How about I show you where I got them?” Harry said. “They came from a bookstore just a few blocks from here.”

  Tara hesitated. “I’m keeping the deck, but …”

  “But?”

  Curiosity glittered in her blue eyes. “You know, I would really like to see where they came from.”

  “HOW DID YOU FIND THIS PLACE?”

  Tara stared up at the façade of the colonial brick row house that had been converted into a shop. The front store window was crowded with a display of books, and a wooden sign above the front door depicted a black cat and a moon, bearing the legend: ARIADNE’s WEB OF BOOKS. Red geraniums bloomed in window boxes, beside a pair of concrete lions. Tara’s hand lingered on a lion, still warm from the day. Darkness had fallen, and stray fireflies swam through an evergreen hedge, trying to hide from the threat of rain.