Chimera (The Korsak Brothers #1)(75)
South Carolina had been hit with an unlikely snowstorm. It seemed to be happening more frequently these days. Excessively bad winters, global warming messing with weather patterns; who knew? It didn’t matter. The result was a seventeen-year-old’s nose pressed nearly to the palm of his hand as he studied a melting snowflake.
“They really are all different.”
I leaned over his shoulder and took a look for myself. It was nearly gone, a victim of body heat. Only the barest tracings remained, a transparent filigree that disappeared as I watched. “So they are.” I hefted the snowball I held behind my back and then dumped it down the back of his shirt. “Here’s some more to study.”
By the time we were done, the empty lot behind the motel was witness to an epic battle, a hundred flying snowballs, and one lopsided snowman. It was fairly juvenile play for an ex-mobster and a kid who ate books on genetics as if they were Pop-Tarts, but it was one of the best hours I’d spent in years. Michael caught on quicker than I would’ve thought to the idea of rough-and-tumble. There were a few hesitations on his part, but those ended with one spectacular tackle that had me face flat. My brother’s weight on my back kept me sputtering in five inches of snow until my nose was in danger of frostbite.
The heat in the room took care of that quickly enough. As with all cheap motel rooms you could either freeze or swelter. Our thermostat was stuck firmly on swelter. I dumped my snow-covered jacket on the carpet and ran a hand over my wet hair. “Okay, track is out, but I’m thinking there’s a football scholarship in your future.”
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” In contrast to my sloth, Michael had carefully placed his jacket on the one rusty hanger in the shallow depression in the wall that passed for a closet. “Your side?”
He’d done a little forgetting himself. The fact I was in the state of delicate health shared by the rest of humanity had escaped him for a little while. “I’m okay, Misha.” I slapped my stomach lightly. “Healing up just fine.” It was true. The bullet wound had scabbed over and rarely ached.
He accepted the statement with only mild skepticism and went for the phone book. “Supreme or double pepperoni?”
“Whichever is cheaper.” We had about seventy dollars left after paying for the room. It was money I’d previously given Michael. If something happened to me, he would have enough to keep him safe and holed up until Saul could reach him. We were lucky Bonnie and Clyde hadn’t thrown him down and strip-searched him; if they had, up shit creek would’ve been more than a quaint little saying. It would’ve been our life. As it was, the money would barely be enough for gas and food to get us to our first destination. We were now facing not one but two detours on our way to North Carolina.
The first was necessary, but the second I had my qualms about. It was Michael’s idea and it was a good one, but I didn’t know whether we had the time. I had the instinct to go to ground, dig a hole, and pull it in behind us. And it was getting stronger all the time. The sooner we arrived at the house in North Carolina, the happier I would be. But Michael was right, as much as my gut hated to admit it. The more information we had about Jericho, the better. To that end, we were going to visit a Dr. Bellucci.
My brother had started to tell me about Marcos Bellucci seconds before we’d spotted our pregnant downfall at the side of the road. The man had been mentioned in several of the books we’d purchased. He had worked along the same lines as Jericho had, before Jericho’s theories had split away from the mainstream. He’d even coauthored a few papers with our favorite monster. But as their scientific outlook began to diverge, so had their professional relationship. Dr. Bellucci had spent a considerable amount of time refuting Jericho’s work after that. He kept it up for quite a while, even after his newly ordained rival dropped out of sight. Michael thought if anyone knew something that might help us, it would be Bellucci.
Like I said, he was a smart kid.
The scientist lived in St. Louis, about twenty hours from our first stop, which was Boston. As I had called number after number looking for Anatoly, I’d given serious thought about calling his allies in the business. Uncle Lev, Uncle Maksim, and others had popped in and out of my childhood for birthdays and special occasions. They weren’t related by blood, not my parent’s blood at any rate. Associates of my father, these uncles came and went like the tide. With vagaries of the business and shifts in loyalty, the faces changed, but the birthday presents showed up all the same. It wouldn’t do to show disrespect to Anatoly Korsak.
Calling the uncles about my father wasn’t too risky—not really. Anatoly might be on the run, but he still had a power with the older crew. It was fading the longer he was gone, but it still existed. They would be willing to give me any help they could in finding Anatoly. Unfortunately, the simple fact was they probably had no help to give. If Anatoly hadn’t given me concrete information on his location, he certainly hadn’t given it to them. But while they couldn’t point me in Anatoly’s direction, they could give me another kind of aid.
Money. They could give me money.
Uncle Lev was my father’s oldest friend, one of the few uncles who’d remained steadfastly present and mostly unshot throughout my childhood. He was also the only “uncle” who had felt like genuine family. If I could depend on anyone, it would be him. I didn’t bother to call ahead. His phones had been tapped since before I was born. It wasn’t as if I needed directions anyway. I’d been to his house once or twice for his daughter’s graduation and wedding. Point the car to the richest part of town and you were there. Easy. But deciding what I would tell him about Michael wasn’t so easy. Lev had been at Lukas’s first birthday and every one following until the kidnapping on the beach. He was godfather to both of us, and I knew he’d welcome my brother back with open arms. It might be good for Michael, seeing firsthand that someone besides me accepted him as family. Then again, it would raise a thousand questions, the majority of which I couldn’t answer, not even to Uncle Lev.