Red Glove (2) Page 5

  “Any leads on this case are going to point us directly at his killer,” Agent Hunt says, standing. “Just to show you we’re on the level, I want you to see what we’ve already got.” Reluctantly I follow him out into the hall and then through a door into the observation room behind the mirror. He presses a button on some video equipment.

  “This is sensitive material,” says Agent Jones, looking at me like he expects me to be impressed. “We’re going to need you to be a smart kid and keep this information under wraps.”

  On a small screen my brother’s condo complex comes to life in full color. It’s evening, the sun glowing from the edge of the building as it slips below the tops of the trees. I can see the heat shimmer on the asphalt of the driveway. I can’t quite see his unit, but I know it’s just to the right of the frame.

  “The complex put in these surveillance cams recently,” Agent Hunt says quietly. “There was a break-in or something. The angle’s terrible, but we were able to get this footage from last night.”

  A figure in a dark coat passes in front of the camera, too close and too fast for the film to register much. The camera is pointed too low to get a glimpse of the face, but a few thin fingers of a leather glove are visible at the hem of a billowing black coat sleeve. The glove is as red as newly spilled blood.

  “That’s all we have,” Agent Hunt says. “Nobody else in or out. It looks like a woman’s coat and a woman’s glove. If she’s Zacharov’s regular hatchet guy, shooting isn’t her usual method of killing. But lots of death workers turn to nonworker techniques after they lose too many body parts to blowback. That’s usually how they trip themselves up. Of course, she could be a new recruit Zacharov sent out blind, just someone to get a job done with no obvious connection to the organization.”

  “So you’ve basically got no idea,” I say.

  “We believe that the person responsible for the murders found out that Philip was going to finger him. Or her. When Philip came to us, asking to make a deal, we asked other informants about him. We know he had a falling-out with Zacharov and we know it had something to do with Zacharov’s daughter, Lila.”

  “Lila didn’t do this,” I say automatically. “Lila’s not a death worker.”

  Jones sits up straighter. “What kind of worker is she?”

  “I don’t know!” I say, which comes out sounding like the obvious lie that it is. Lila is a dream worker, a really powerful one. Powerful enough to make dreamers sleepwalk out of their own houses. Or dorm rooms.

  Hunt shakes his head. “All we know is that the last person to enter Philip’s apartment was a woman with red gloves. We need to find her. Let us focus on that. You can help by getting us the information that Philip died trying to impart. Don’t let your brother’s death be in vain. We are certain those disappearances and your brother’s death are linked.”

  It’s very moving, the speech. Like I’m really supposed to believe that Philip’s last wish was for me to square him with the Feds. But the vision of the woman entering his apartment haunts me.

  Agent Jones holds out some folders. “These are the names your brother gave us—the men he swore were killed and disposed of by Zacharov’s guy. Just look the pages over and see if anything jumps out at you. Something you might have overheard, someone you might have seen. Anything. And we’d appreciate it if you didn’t show these files to anyone else. It serves both our interests if this meeting never happened.”

  I stare at the tape where he’s paused it, like somehow I should recognize the person. But she’s just a blur of cloth and leather.

  “The school already knows I went for a ride with you,” I say. “Northcutt knows.”

  Agent Hunt smiles. “We don’t think that your head-mistress will be a problem.”

  A terrible thought occurs to me, but I quash it before I can even articulate it to myself. I would never hurt Philip.

  “Does this mean I’m working for you?” I ask, forcing myself to smirk.

  “Something like that,” Agent Jones says. “Do a good job, and we’ll recommend you to come aboard with Agent Yulikova. You’ll like her.”

  I doubt that. “What if I don’t want to go to this training program?”

  “We’re not like the Mafia,” Agent Hunt says. “You can get out any time you want.”

  I think of the locked door of the room, the locked car doors. “Yeah, sure.”

  They drive me to Wallingford, but by the time I am back on campus, classes are half over. I don’t bother going to lunch. I head to my room, tuck the folders under my mattress, and wait for the inevitable summons from the hall master.

  We’re so sorry, he’s going to say. We’re so sorry.

  But I’m sorriest of all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PHILIP’S FACE LOOKS LIKE it’s made of wax. Whatever they did to preserve it for the viewing gives his skin an odd sheen. When I go up to the casket to say my final good-byes, I realize they have painted the visible parts of him with some flesh-colored cosmetic. If I look closely, I can see traces of bloodless skin they missed—behind his ears, and in a stripe above his gloves below the cuff of his sleeves. He’s wearing a suit Mom picked out, along with a black silk tie. I don’t recall him wearing either one in life, but they must have come from his closet. His hair has been pulled back into a sleek ponytail. The high collar of his shirt mostly obscures the necklace of keloid scars that mark him as a gangster. Not that there’s anyone in this room who doesn’t know what his job was.

  I kneel in front of his body, but I have no words for Philip. I don’t want his forgiveness. I don’t forgive him.

  “Did they take out his eyes?” I ask Sam when I get back to my seat. The room is filling up fast. Men in dark suits, sipping from breast-pocket flasks; women in black dresses, their shoes as pointed as knives.

  Sam looks at me, surprised by the question. “Probably, yeah. They probably use glass.” He blanches a little. “And fill the body with disinfecting fluid.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Dude, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you that.”

  I shake my head. “I asked.”

  Sam is dressed a lot like Philip. I’m wearing my father’s suit, the one that had to be dry-cleaned to get rid of Anton’s blood. Morbid, I know. It was that or my school uniform.

  Daneca comes up to us, looking like she’s masquerading as her mother in a navy sheath and pearls.

  “Do I know you?” I ask.

  “Oh, shut up,” she says automatically. Then, “Sorry, I didn’t—”

  “Everyone has to stop saying they’re sorry,” I say, maybe a tiny bit too loudly.

  Sam looks around the room in a slightly panicked way. “Uh, I don’t know how to tell you this, but all these people are going to tell you that. That’s, like, pretty much the point of funerals.”

  The corner of my mouth lifts. Having them around makes everything a little better, even this.

  The funeral director comes in with another mountain of flowers, Mom trailing him. She’s crying, mascara bleeding down her face theatrically as she points to the spot where he’s allowed to put the arrangement. Then, seeing Philip’s body for about the tenth time, she lets out a small shriek and half-collapses into a chair, sobbing into her handkerchief. A small group of women rushes over to comfort her.

  “Is that your mother?” Daneca asks, fascinated.

  I’m not sure what to say. Mom’s putting on a show, but that doesn’t mean she’s not actually sad. It’s just that she isn’t letting her grief get in the way of her performance.

  “That’s our mom over there, all right,” a slightly bored voice says from behind me. “It’s kind of a miracle we weren’t knocking over drugstores in our diapers.”

  Daneca jumps like she’s been caught shoplifting.

  I don’t have to turn around. “Hello, Barron.”

  “Dani, right?” he says, giving Daneca a predatory smile as he takes a seat next to me. I find it a hopeful sign that he actually remembers her—maybe he’s b
een staying away from doing much memory work—but I also am suddenly conscious of the danger I have put Daneca and Sam in just by letting them come here. These people are not safe to be around.

  “I’m Sam Yu.” Sam extends his hand, leaning over so that he’s in front of Daneca.

  Barron shakes it. His suit is a lot nicer than mine, and his dark hair is clipped, short and tidy. He looks like the good boy he’s never been. “Any friends of my baby brother’s are friends of mine.”

  A minister walks up to the lectern off to one side and then says a couple of words to my mother. I don’t recognize him. Mom’s not exactly the religious type, but she hugs him like she’s ready to be baptized with the next bowl of water she comes across.

  A few moments later she yells loudly enough to be heard clearly above the pumped-in elevator music. I have no idea what set her off. “He was murdered! You tell them that! You put that in your sermon. You tell them there’s no justice in the world.”

  On cue, Zacharov sweeps into the room. He’s wearing another of his long black coats, this one draped over the shoulders of his suit. His fake Resurrection Diamond glints at his throat, the pin stabbed into the loop of his tie. His eyes are as hard and cold as the chip of glass.

  “I can’t believe he had the nerve to come here,” I say softly, standing. Barron touches my arm in warning.

  Beside Zacharov is Lila. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since our disastrous conversation in the hallway at Wallingford. Her hair is damp with rain and she’s all in black except for red lipstick so bright that the rest of her fades away. She’s all mouth.

  She sees me, and then her gaze goes to Barron. Stone-faced, she takes a seat.

  “Someone better tell that daughter of mine to pipe down,” Grandad says, pointing at my mother as if we might think he had some other daughter here. “I could hear her all the way to the street.” I didn’t notice him come in, but he’s here, shaking out his umbrella and frowning at Mom. I let out my breath all at once, I’m so relieved.

  He tousles my hair like I’m a little kid.

  The minister clears his throat at the lectern and everyone slowly moves to sit down. Mom is still moaning. As soon as the minister starts speaking, she begins to wail so loudly that I can’t hear most of his sermon.

  I wonder what Philip would think of his own funeral. He’d be sad that Maura couldn’t even bother to bring his son to see him for the last time. He’d be embarrassed by Mom and probably pissed that I’m even here.

  “Philip Sharpe was a soldier in God’s army,” says the minister. “Now he marches with the angels.”

  The words echo in my head unpleasantly.

  “Philip’s brother, Barron, will join me at the lectern and say a few words about his beloved departed sibling.”

  Barron walks to the front and begins telling a story about him and Philip climbing a mountain together and the various meaningful things they learned about each other along the way. It’s touching. It’s also completely plagiarized from a book we had when we were kids.

  I decide it’s time I swipe someone’s flask and go sit outside.

  I find a good spot on the stairs. Across the hall a different viewing is going on. I can just hear the blur of voices in the room, not quite as loud as Barron’s voice. I lean back and look up at the ceiling, at the twinkling lights of the crystal chandelier.

  This is the same funeral home where we had my dad’s viewing. I remember the mothball smell of it, the overly heavy brocade of the curtains, and the flocked wallpaper. I remember the funeral director who looked the other way when envelopes of ill-gotten cash were quietly passed to the grieving widow. The place is outside of the town of Carney—it’s the one that a lot of workers use. After we’re done here, we’ll go over to the Carney cemetery, where Dad and Grandma Singer are already resting. We’ll put some of the flowers on their graves. Maybe we’ll see whoever’s in the next room there too; curse working has a high mortality rate.

  My most vivid memory from Dad’s funeral is seeing Aunt Rose for the first time in years. As I stood in front of Dad’s casket, I answered her “How are you doing?” with “Good” before I even realized what she meant. It was just what you said to that question, automatic. I remember how her lip curled, though, like I was a terrible son.

  I felt like one.

  But I was a much better son than I was a brother.

  Zacharov walks out of the viewing, carefully closing the door behind him. For a moment Barron’s voice swells and I hear the words “we will always remember Philip’s unusual balloon animals and his skill with the longbow.”

  Zacharov has a small smile on his face, and his thick silver eyebrows are raised. “I am learning some very interesting things about your brother.”

  I stand. Maybe I have nothing good to say about Philip, maybe I have no apologies for him, but there is one thing I can do. The least I can do. I can hit the guy who killed him.

  Zacharov must notice the look on my face, because he holds up both his gloved hands in a gesture of peace. I don’t care. I keep coming.

  “We had a deal,” I say, lifting my fisted hand.

  “I didn’t murder your brother,” he says, stepping back, out of my range. “I came here to pay my respects to your family and to tell you I had nothing to do with this.”

  I walk toward him. It gives me dark pleasure to watch him flinch.

  “Don’t,” he says. “I had nothing to do with Philip’s death, and you’d realize it if you thought about it for more than a minute. You’re much more valuable to me than revenge on some underling. And you’re not stupid. You are well aware how valuable you are.”

  “You sure about that?” I ask.

  I hear the echo of Philip’s words from months back. You obviously didn’t grow out of stupid.

  “Tell me, how is it that your mother isn’t accusing me? Not even Barron. Not even your grandfather. Would they let me walk in here if they really thought I was responsible for Philip’s death?” I can see a muscle in his jaw jump, he’s clenching his teeth so hard. If I hit him right now, his stiffness would make the blow hurt worse. He obviously hasn’t been in a fistfight in a long time.

  My hand’s shaking with violence. I slam it into a vase sitting near the doorway. The vase shatters; thick chunks of pottery, water, and flowers rain on the carpet.

  “You’re not sorry Philip’s dead,” I say finally, breathing heavily with raw fury that’s only starting to abate. I don’t know what to think.

  “Neither are you,” Zacharov says, his voice steely. “Don’t tell me you’re not sleeping better at night with him gone.”

  In that moment I hate Zacharov more than I ever have. “You’re doing a really bad job of convincing me not to punch you.”

  “I want you to come work for me. Really work for me,” says Zacharov.

  “No deal,” I say, but it makes me realize that by losing Philip, Zacharov has lost half his hold over me. More, even, because if I can’t trust him to keep his promises, then all his future threats become hollow. If he tells me I’ve got to do something “or else” and the “or else” happens even if I go along with him, there’s not much motivation for me to do what he says. Philip’s death cost him leverage, and as I realize that, I start to believe he’s actually not responsible. I’m valuable to him; it’s not often that a crime lord gets a transformation worker practically dumped into his lap.

  Zacharov inclines his head toward a curtained alcove, one where people are supposed to go to hide their weeping. I follow him uncertainly. He sits down on the long bench. I stay standing.

  “You’re ruthless, and I don’t frighten you,” he says quietly. “Both these things I like, though I would like it more if the latter was tempered with a little respect. You are the best kind of killer, Cassel Sharpe, the kind that never has blood on his hands. The kind that never has to sicken at the sight of what he’s done, or come to like it too much.”

  I am chilled to the bone.

  “Come work for me, Cassel
, and you’ll have my protection. For your brother. For your mother. For your grandfather, although I consider him one of mine already. My protection and a very comfortable life.”

  “So you want me to—,” I start, but he cuts me off.

  “Philip’s death shouldn’t have happened. If I’d had people in place, watching over him, it wouldn’t have happened. Let me look out for you. Let your enemies become mine.”

  “Yeah, and vice versa. No, thanks.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to be a killer.”

  He smiles. “You may turn our colleagues into living things, if that helps you sleep at night. They will be just as effectively removed.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” I say, thinking of the white cat watching me with shining eyes.

  “It has happened. Maybe Barron made you forget what you did, but now you remember. You proved that when you undid one of your own curses.”

  “That was your daughter whose curse I undid,” I say.

  Zacharov takes a sharp breath, and then lets it out slow. “It happened, Cassel. You know how to work. And one of these days, you’re going to find yourself in a position where it’s going to be tempting. And then more than tempting; there’s going to be no other way out. Wake up. You’re one of us.”

  “Not yet,” I say. “Not quite.” Which is about all I can cling to.

  “You will think about my offer,” he says. “You’ll think about it when you realize there are people close to you that you will have to deal with eventually.”

  “You mean Barron,” I say, amazed. “You’re a son of a bitch to imply at one brother’s funeral that I would think about killing the other.”

  Zacharov rises and dusts off his pants. “I’m not the one who thought of him.” Then he smiles. “But you’re right—I’m a son of a bitch. And someday you’re going to need me.”

  Then he goes back in to the service.

  Lila finds me. I’m staring at the fabric of the bench, wondering how many people have wept on it. I’m wondering about whether the inside is crusted with salt, like a blanket that’s been soaking in seawater. I’m going a little crazy.