Bone Music (Burning Girl #1)(79)

“It will help me make a determination about the potential next steps. How’s that?”

“The problem, Cole, is that I’m not just giving it to you. I’m giving it to Charlotte Rowe, about whom I know nothing other than she can stop a truck with one arm and kick over a small tree with one foot.”

“I brought you a file. It’s interesting reading.”

“I’m sure, but will any of it tell me whether or not she can be trusted with my most valuable piece of technology?”

“No.”

“Then the answer’s no.”

“Four willing test subjects failed miserably. And apparently another one Dylan tested on his own, a woman. So gender isn’t the deciding factor. But for some reason, it’s working like clockwork in Charlotte Rowe, and we’re not sure why.”

“Dylan knows. Why did he pick her?”

“He has a theory, but that’s all. And he’s got some clear biases around her that will become evident once you read her file. We need a closer look, Julia.”

“Bring her in.”

“If we bring her in, we take ownership of her. We take ownership of Dylan’s problems and his mistakes. Right now we should watch, support, and learn.”

“This isn’t just about surveillance, is it?” she asks. “This is about showing her what you’re capable of. You want to impress this girl with my invention.”

“Dylan and I are working two different angles. He used a lot of vinegar. I plan to use more honey.”

“TruGlass isn’t a party favor.”

“That is not the honey to which I’m referring.”

“And if she takes my invention and runs to the press with it?”

“I’ll stop her,” Cole says. “Quickly.”

She taps her fingers on the folder, as if the mere act of opening it now will constitute an unacceptable surrender to Cole’s request. “This is giving me a headache. I hate headaches. I’d rather be stabbed in the stomach than have a headache.”

“You’d prefer Dylan to be out in the wild on this? On his own? Honestly, I’m not just assessing how we might all benefit from this. I’m also containing it.”

“There’s nothing connecting any of us to what he’s done with this woman. Maybe it should stay that way.”

“Or maybe Zypraxon finally works. And this really is what we’ve been waiting for.”

He’s got her. He can tell from the long, unbroken stare she gives him.

“I’ll give you two pairs,” she finally says.

“That’s generous.” And unnecessary, he thinks, which means there’s a catch.

“One’s for her; the other’s for Dylan. He’s to wear it at all times. The minute he takes it off, I’ll blow this whole thing apart.”

He knows better than to ask what blow this whole thing apart means. He’s already relieved she didn’t propose another alternative—to wipe the slate clean.

“I’m sure that will be fine,” he says.

“Make sure. So we can be confident this isn’t a waste of our time.”

“I will,” he says.

She nods, opens the file on Charlotte Rowe, and stands.

As much as he hates being dismissed like this, his father also taught him that one of the keys to good salesmanship was also one of the keys to good negotiation. Never sell through the close.

“Cole?” Julia calls when he reaches the door.

He gives her his full attention again.

“No matter what this turns into,” she says, “make sure Dylan has no exit plan this time.”





28

The expansive view from the redwood deck Marty’s attached to his trailer relaxes Luke a little, helps him take his first real deep breaths since the moment Charley decided to stop traffic outside the library.

There aren’t a lot of houses in the grassy hills on the eastern side of the valley, so he’s not used to gazing down at his hometown from this angle. The town below looks like a tiny circuit board floating in a sea of ink, and across the valley, the mountains are coal black. Their peaks, which usually appear gentle and sloping, are etched against the darkening blue of the western sky. At their base, the street he lives on now is a slender fringe of lights.

By the time Marty emerges from the front door of his trailer, promised cup of coffee in hand, Luke’s reasonably confident he might be able to form a coherent sentence again. But when he takes the heavy ceramic mug from Marty’s grip, his hands shake.

He drinks from it too fast to catch the odor of whatever Marty’s spiked it with.

“Whiskey?” Luke asks after a few swallows. “You?”

“Always keep a bottle around to deal with newbies,” Marty says. “Big Book of AA recommends it. DTs are a bitch—sometimes there’s no other way. And not everyone can afford a fancy detox or rehab. Sometimes they gotta make do with Uncle Marty’s sofa.”

Love seat’s more like it, Luke thinks. He got a glimpse inside the trailer when he used the bathroom earlier. The place is immaculate, not quite as cramped as it seemed from the outside. His own vices have never reduced him to wedging himself onto another man’s love seat for a night or two or seven. Not yet anyway. But what are his vices? Anger? Regret? Arrogance? Do those even count? Or should he be more worried about his tortilla chip intake?