The others stare at me in shock. It is as if they sense my pain, or else they feel exactly what I feel. It’s possible the horror is not confined to the phone, nor has anything to do with the words I hear. She speaks so softly I doubt even Matt can pick up her voice.
I swallow thickly. “Go to hell,” I whisper.
The voice quietly laughs; it mocks me.
“Yes,” she replies. “It’s as good a place as any to meet.”
The line goes dead and the cell phone drops from my hand onto the floor. The others stare at me, stricken. Matt is the only one capable of speech.
“Who was that?” he asks.
I hesitate. “The enemy.”
“What does he want?”
I shake my head, unable to answer. How can I say the words? They would sound foolish, so childish. Yet true, yes, it’s obvious what he—or she—wants. To make a deal. For our souls.
No, not exactly. She chose her words carefully.
With me it will be another deal.
God help me, I can’t remember the first one.
FOUR
As a group we vote to leave the motel. Brutran is the only one who is against the plan. But when we’re on the road, heading toward nearby Las Vegas, she mentions that she has a safety deposit box loaded with cash and fake IDs in the City of Sin.
“Why did you hide the dough in Vegas?” Seymour asks.
Brutran continues to work on her laptop. “I have drop boxes all over the world. So do your two friends.”
“How do you know the Vegas drop box isn’t being watched?” Matt asks. He is driving our SUV, being careful not to speed. I sit up front with him; the others are in the back.
“There’s no way the box can be traced to me,” Brutran replies.
“Do we need so much cash?” Seymour asks.
“Cash is always handy when you’re on the run,” Brutran says. “It will allow us to do things without creating a fuss. Like buy a plane.”
“That’s a huge purchase,” Seymour says, doubtful. “It might draw attention to us.”
“Sita?” Brutran says, wanting me to explain.
“Our own plane will be safer than flying commercial,” I say. “Once in the air, we can choose to move between small airports, where there are fewer restrictions. Right now, we have no idea how long it will take to find Harrah and Ralph Levine’s grandchildren.” I pause. “Which reminds me. Brutran, check your databases. Look for phone numbers of any Levines living in Clearglade, North Carolina.”
“Why that town?” Brutran asks.
“It’s a long shot but the terrain in the picture reminds me of that place. It’s a small town, just east of Chapel Hill.”
“The couple in question probably have a different last name from Levine,” Brutran says as she types rapidly on her computer. “Remember, they’re at least two marriages removed from your World War Two friends.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” I say. “But I know that your software, along with your countless IIC files, is sophisticated enough to trace Harrah and Ralph’s descendants.”
“If we hadn’t kept such records, we would never have found you,” Brutran says. “We wouldn’t be together now.”
“I should feel grateful?” I reply, letting a chill enter my tone. Brutran knows that I can kill her in an instant, that she is only alive because we need her. She answers my unspoken thought.
“We’re stronger together,” she says.
“Find them,” I order.
Twenty minutes later, as the mass of hotels comes into view beneath the glare of the afternoon sun, Brutran hands me a slip of paper with a name and address. Mrs. Sarah Goodwin, 134 Tree Leaf Lane, Clearglade, North Carolina. She’s confident that’s the woman in Shanti’s photo.
I try calling Sarah. There’s no answer but I get a machine. I don’t dare leave a message.
I’ve been to Las Vegas a few times in the last sixty years but have never stayed long. Gambling doesn’t excite me, although I can win as much as I want as long I’m allowed to throw the dice at the craps tables. I haven’t been to the city since the turn of the century and it’s impressive how much it has grown.
Brutran steers us away from the Strip and the fancy hotels. Her drop box is located in a small private bank downtown—one, she assures us, that is very discreet. She takes Matt and her daughter with her as she enters the building, leaving me alone with Seymour in a run-down parking lot that looks like it was last paved when Las Vegas was born.
“I think she has a thing for him,” Seymour observes.
“She’s not his type.”
“Too old?”
“Are you forgetting that Matt was born in the Middle Ages?”
“Well, he still has his boyish good looks.” Seymour pauses. “Are you his type?”
“Do you ask because I resemble Teri?” I ask, referring to Matt’s recently deceased girlfriend and a descendant of mine.
“That’s one reason,” Seymour says, waiting.
“There’s no reason to be jealous.”
“You slept with him.”
“I was in another body. It doesn’t count.”
“That’s such an old excuse,” he says.
I smile as I turn and look at him. “You are jealous. How cute.”
“Never tell a guy he’s cute.”
“Are you jealous because you want to have sex with me?”
“What guy wouldn’t want to have sex with you?”
My smile wavers. “Matt’s not over Teri. I don’t know if he’ll ever get over her.”
Seymour is sympathetic. “She was a wonderful girl.”
“The best.” I add quietly, “But I know she’s in a good place.”
He sees how serious I am. “You know because of what happened to you at IIC headquarters?”
“There, and last night, at the motel. After . . .”
“After you dealt with Shanti,” he finishes for me.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what happened to you when you died?”
I hesitate. “Everything.”
Seymour sucks in a breath and leans forward to where I can feel his breath on my cheek. “Did you see Krishna?” he asks.
I have to close my eyes a moment. Just the thought of Krishna, his bewitching smile, his enchanting voice, the love I felt when he said my name, his dark blue eyes, in whose depths all the stars in all the galaxies shone . . .