Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(46)

“You got back. You’re here now.”

“Am I? Sometimes I wonder, Paulie. I saw my life there, saw it from end to end. An’ it was so damn small. But all around it, there was this, this bigness, an’ I thought, if I could just get to that, an’ . . . Ah, shit.” She turned to him. “See, now? I nearly forgot, an’ then you make me think about it all again. Ah, Paulie—” and she was laughing, suddenly, sobs of laughter breaking out of her, and she ground her fists against her face, and I said, “OK, that’s it,” and she dropped her cigarettes and we all bent down to help her pick them up.



“I wish she’d gone to a hotel,” I said.

“She wants to be with friends,” said Angel. “You can’t blame her.”

I looked round at our own hotel room. Blinds, the huge bed, a dresser that might have come straight from Transylvania, huge and gothic and ornate.

I wondered what the hell we were doing there. What we were getting into.

“Think she’ll be all right?” I said.

She shrugged. “Don’t know any of us are all right. Not anymore.”

“You feeling OK?”

“I feel—yeah. I think so.”

I reached out to her, put my arm around her.

I said, “It’s got to be Registry, though, hasn’t it? All these—powders. Unless it’s foreign import, Eastern Europe, maybe, or . . . Jesus. I wish we could just sort this out and get it over with.”

“Chris . . .”

“And the Ballingtons, they’ve got a god? We’ve no records of that. So where’s that from, eh?”

“I think they’re lying. Ballington Senior, he’s full of it. Likes his name in the news. He told Fox News he’d flown around the world, single-handed. Not true, it turns out. And a stack of other stuff like that. Folks believe it, though. He wants people to think he’s got a god.”

“In that case, nothing to worry about.”

“What are you not telling me?”

She could read me. It was eerie, sometimes. And a bit unsettling, too. I wasn’t used to having to be open with someone this way. It was habit, always to keep something back.

I said, “I put in a report on Eddie-boy. Registry says, go and take a look. You wanna come?”

“Shit, I dunno . . .”

She pursed her lips.

“Don’t have to,” I said.

“I think . . .” She moved away from me, slipping out of my embrace. “I think I’d like some downtime, you know? On my own. Just for a few hours. Yeah?”

“Of course.”

But I didn’t mean of course. I meant, why? and, what’s wrong? and more than anything, is it me?

And because I didn’t want the answer to that last one, I said nothing, and pretended to be busy, channel-hopping on the TV.

“You get some rest,” I told her. “Then we’ll go out, big meal, just relax, yeah? Sound good?”

I couldn’t keep my secrets. But I thought, just for the moment, I’d let her keep her own.





Chapter 40

Gate Keepers




I dialed the number on Eddie’s card. I got straight through. We set up a meeting. Easy as that. Whatever he was after, he was keen. I drove south, but I stopped to call Angel. She told me she was looking for a keyboard.

“What kind of keyboard?”

“Piano would be good. I thought a church hall, maybe. I just want to play a while. I had this . . . I dunno. Kind of a tune or something. Running through my head. More . . . more like a tone, you know, like a specific sound? Saxes and flute, maybe. In fourths, or maybe fourths and seconds, and . . .” She paused. “This isn’t making sense to you, is it?”

“I don’t know. If I understood I’d tell you whether it made sense.”

“Ha ha. I told Paul I’d see him tonight. He’s off, filming with Stella today. She’s taking him to meet her friends.”

“The next unfinished masterpiece.”

“Yeah, well. He needs organizing. He needs a woman’s touch.”

“Hey! Don’t even think about it.”

“Is that a hint of jealousy there, Mr. Copeland? Really?”

“Course not.”

“No. Much too English for all that, I suppose.”

“Hey,” I said. “I love you.”

“And I love you. And I want you to be jealous, too.”

“Why?”

“Obvious,” she said.

“I do love you, you know.”

“Oh, I know. I know . . .”



The Ballington Estate was not exactly shy. I followed big signs on the highway, and once I hit the minor roads my route ran parallel to a concrete wall, topped by razor wire and an occasional security camera. After a while I spotted an entrance and pulled over. The gates were big, solid, dark wood bossed with knobs of iron, like something from a medieval dungeon. There was no buzzer and no intercom. I waved at the security camera and pointed to the door. Nothing happened, so I got my phone and I called Eddie.

“Chris,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re doing out there, but you just follow the signs, OK, and we’ll meet up by the south door of the House. Got that?” I said I had, and he said, “I’ll be waiting, buddy.”