Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(58)

The woman in the poncho went by, and now Angel saw her, too. Walking so as not to have to think, or feel. I knew what that was like.

I said, “How long?”

“The retrieval. Big Hollow.”

I tried to play it back, remembered she’d been closer than I’d wanted her to be. Closer; but not too close. Not so close that I’d been scared for her—no more than usual, anyway.

“Remember in Chicago?” I said. “How they change things, just from being near? The gods? How your thoughts change?”

“I want the music. I want to hear it and remember it. Why can’t I do that, Chris?”

She leaned against me. I put my arms around her, held her there, not knowing what to do or what to say; this strong, intelligent, talented woman, someone I had never thought would need my help in anything. And now she did, and I was lost.

I said, “You’re going to be all right. I promise you.”

“Can you promise that? Really?”

“Yes,” I told her. “Yes I can,” and I hoped I sounded much more certain than I felt.



We changed flights in Dallas. She slept, woke calmer, it seemed to me, but also, more preoccupied. She didn’t talk, she didn’t watch TV. She didn’t even notice when the steward came round with the coffee. I took her hand, holding it in both of mine, pressing it, stroking it, the way you’d try to rub the warmth back into someone frozen with exposure.

And that was how we headed west, over a country wild, and rugged, and then, increasingly, from everything I saw out of the window—empty.



Vegas was new to me, as ludicrous and stunning as I had always dreamed, with its monuments to kitsch that nonetheless would leave me awestruck in their scope and their audacity. No movie scene had ever done it justice. We took a cab to the hotel, checked in and sat around for an hour. I didn’t push her, didn’t try to make her talk. But I watched her, struggling to read her body language, gauge her mood. Presently, we went down to the gaming floor. The main entrance was closed for cleaning, so we detoured through a side exit, into an alley, flanked with builders’ hoardings. There were flyers plastered everywhere.

We took about three steps, and stopped.

“Chris.”

“I see them.”

Every flyer was the same, a crude cartoon in thick, black lines: a boy or young man looking back over his shoulder, an ugly grin across his face, a bitten apple in his hand.

Under the scene, in red and yellow letters: Second Eden.

People wandered by, oblivious.

“He can’t have known,” she said.

There were other posters further on: ads for shows and services and restaurants and girls; and then again: Second Eden Second Eden Second Eden.

“If he thought we’d be here. If he—”

I pulled her back against the wall, out of the stream of passersby.

“It’s advertising.”

“I know! But—”

“It’s not meant for us. We’re only seeing it ’cause everybody’s seeing it. I bet the whole town’s full of them.”

“It’s him, though, isn’t it? Right out in the open?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

She took her phone out, tapped in Second Eden. She chewed her lip.

Taking a breath, she read, “Casino. Hotel. Bars, restaurants. Off the Strip, like, two, three blocks. New—no. Reopened . . .”

“Makes sense.”

“It’s not even hidden! All this way, and it’s just out in public, right here, and—”

“I’m wondering if that isn’t what he wanted all along.”

“The guy’s a psycho, Chris. You heard what Stella said—”

“A psycho with a business plan.”

We walked on, eyeing the flyers as we went. I said, “First thing, he sells, builds up a stack of money, right? Then all that stuff with Stella. What do you call that? Market research? And what’s the picture for?” I gestured at the leering image. “It’s like the company logo or something. Don’t you think?”

“Kind of far-fetched, Chris.”

“Even the name. Think about it—Johnny Appleseed! That’s barely one step down from Uncle Sam, for God’s sake! And—”

“Chris—”

The traffic noise had thinned. There was nobody around. Something had changed, but I was too caught up to notice it.

“You couldn’t get a better name. The picture, it’s weird, but I’ll say this. It’s memorable. It sticks in your head, all right. If it was me, I’d maybe go for something else, but—”

“Chris!”

And then the ghosts came down.

They swept towards us, rolling, swarming, a great wave of flickering, unsteady light, like faulty neon: ghosts in bright Hawaiian shirts and slogan Ts, in Ray-Bans and Gucci shoes, in cowboy hats and jeweled turbans, swimsuits and old dinner jackets, and I stepped in front of Angel, and the first of them was on me. His white tuxedo shone and flashed, his mouth moved silently, so close that I could see the hairs on his upper lip, the burst veins in his cheek. He raised a hand as if in greeting, then, with sudden shock, passed through me. I felt my heart trip. My nerves shook. I stumbled, shivering, then someone grabbed me by the arms and pulled me back into a doorway.