Part 15 (1/2)

”Oh!” she exclaimed, smile deepening as her short nails tapped the keyboard. ”I like him. But it's not either of those numbers. He's in 610.”

”Thank you so much,” I said, and began to turn away. She stopped me, though, and dashed into a small room on her right. She was gone just for a moment, and when she returned there was a slender FedEx envelope in her hand, which she slid across the counter to me.

”This arrived for Ernie. And...could you tell him hi for me?” A pretty flush stained her cheeks, maybe because I was staring at her. ”There was a...guest who was rude to me last night, just when Ernie was checking in, and he...you know, took up for me. I appreciated that.”

I smiled, throat aching. ”Yes. He's a...good man. He'll be glad to hear from you.”

She beamed, which took years off her already young face, and made her look twelve years old; a kid who needed a hug and pigtails. Made me hurt for her, that Ernie was dead-made me hurt for Ernie, too, who seemed to have been a decent man.

I took the elevator up to the sixth floor, and found the hall quiet and still. The door to his room opened as I approached. Aaz peered out, giving me a toothy grin. A do not disturb sign hung on the bra.s.s k.n.o.b.

There was nothing extraordinary about the room I entered, except that it was nicely decorated with cherry accents and a king-sized bed dressed in pale sunset-orange canopies. Covers rumpled, unmade. Curtains closed, all the lamps turned on, though the light felt stifled, strangled; like most hotel rooms. I had never been in one that felt truly well lit.

A briefcase lay on the desk. Behind me, the boys were prowling. Sniffing the floor and sheets, peering into the bathroom. I glanced over my shoulder and found Raw eating a bar of soap. I cleared my throat and he shrugged, also taking a bite out of the chrome dish it had been sitting in. He gave the rest to Aaz, who swallowed the metal without chewing, and licked his lips with a sigh.

”Maxine,” Zee rasped, poking at the contents of a small carry-on suitcase. He dragged out a stuffed black sock, which he sliced open with one claw. Several wads of cash tumbled out, each one as thick as my wrist. Nothing but one-hundred-dollar bills.

It was a tremendous amount of money. After some thought, I scooped up the rolled wads and tossed them into the canvas tote bag I had brought with me. I did not need the cash, but it was Ernie's and if he had family somewhere, then they deserved to have the money sent back to them.

”You must know what this is about,” I said to Zee.

The spines of the little demon's hair flexed, and he glanced at Raw and Aaz, now sprawled on the bed, rubbing their round little tummies. ”Old hunt. Old work from our old mother.”

Old mother. My grandmother. I gave them all a hard look, and focused on the briefcase. It was an antique but well-made, and the locks were crafted from solid bra.s.s. Dek slithered from my hair, humming to himself, his snakelike body coiled around my upper arm while his small furred head tilted in careful scrutiny. He touched his long black tongue to the lock, and it began sizzling from the acid in his saliva.

I had the briefcase open in moments, and found files inside. I flipped through them, noting yellowed pieces of paper covered in handwritten notes, along with typed doc.u.ments: telegrams, letters, lists of numbers and codes that made no sense. In a large manila envelope I found black-and-white photographs. One caught my eye, and sent my heart scattering into a hard ache.

It was of my grandmother, a night shot. I knew because her arms were bare, and there were no tattoos on her skin. She was wearing a chi pao chi pao, a slender silk dress with a high collar and slit up her thigh that exposed a long trim leg. Her hair was down, her face very young. She looked just like me, but no older than eighteen. Zee and the others crowded close to stare at the photo, and made small choking sounds.

A little boy stood under her arm with a big grin on his face. He was skinny, with badly cut dark hair, and held a soccer ball under his bony arm. He might have been ten years old. No dates had been written on the photo, no identifying information, but it had to be Ernie. I recognized his eyes.

Another photograph caught my eye. It was my grandmother again, but just her face; less than a portrait, and more like someone's attempt to be artful. I saw the edge of an alley behind her, blurred laundry hanging from lines. A day shot. She wore a high collar and sweat beaded her brow. She was so young. Painfully new, but with the beginning of that hard edge in her eyes that I knew so well. Because it was in my eyes.

There were b.u.mps in the image, and I turned it over. Found a message typewritten into the yellowing paper. Started reading, and my knees buckled. I sat down hard, missed the edge of the bed, and landed awkwardly on the floor. I hardly noticed.

Maxine, I read, in that small cla.s.sic typeset. I read, in that small cla.s.sic typeset. If you get this, save Ernie. Save them all, if you can. I can't do any more here. She's If you get this, save Ernie. Save them all, if you can. I can't do any more here. She's But the sentence went unfinished. She's She's...and nothing. She's dead, She's dead, I thought, I thought, She's alive, she's a demon, she's- She's alive, she's a demon, she's- Spots of light flickered in my vision. I blinked hard, and reached out to grab Zee by the scruff of his neck. I felt dizzy. The wig was suddenly too hot. Sweat trickled down my back.

”My name,” I hissed. ”This note is addressed to me by name by name. Just like Ernie Ernie knew my name.” knew my name.”

Zee quivered. I released him and stood awkwardly, knees still weak. After a few short steadying breaths, I threw the entire contents of the briefcase into the tote bag, including a box of bullets, and the unopened container of a new disposable cell phone.

On my way out, I stopped at the front desk again. ”Quick question. My grandfather wants to make sure he's paid up for the next day or two. Did he use cash or a credit card?”

The young woman did not need to check the computer. She tilted her head, thinking. ”Cash. He said he was old-fas.h.i.+oned that way. I think he paid for the entire week, so he doesn't need to worry.”

I nodded, and left at a quick trot. The police would not track Ernie Bernstein to this hotel for a while yet, and if he had been as careful as I thought, then perhaps not at all. The man had not wanted to be discovered; in fact, he'd been paranoid about it if he had eschewed the use of a credit card. Or maybe he really was old-fas.h.i.+oned.

But somehow I didn't think so. Ernie had known he was being hunted. And the hunter had caught up.

Now it was time for me to do the same.

3.

”SHANGHAI was a refuge for Jews during World War Two,” Grant said, over an early breakfast. ”It was the only place in the world that didn't require a visa, so thousands of Jewish refugees went there to escape the n.a.z.is.” was a refuge for Jews during World War Two,” Grant said, over an early breakfast. ”It was the only place in the world that didn't require a visa, so thousands of Jewish refugees went there to escape the n.a.z.is.”

Long night. Almost dawn. I could feel it in my bones as I chewed on a piece of bacon, eyes burning with weariness-or so I kept telling myself. ”But the j.a.panese occupied the city, and they were allied with Hitler.”

”Allied, maybe, but they basically left the Jews alone. Forced them to live in a particular neighborhood, required pa.s.ses to move around the city...a hard life, but compared to what was going on in Europe, it was nothing.”

I finished the bacon, rubbed my hands on a napkin, and leaned over to stare at the files spread on the table between us. I still felt shaken by the message on the back of the photo. I should have been used to strange things by now, but my tolerance for the bizarre, apparently, was not that strong when it involved my family.

Raw and Aaz were on the floor by the television, watching an old Yogi Bear episode while fis.h.i.+ng into a box of razor blades, eating them like potato chips. Zee had a laptop in front of him, delicately tapping the keys with his claws while his little brow wrinkled into a frown. My credit card and a copy of the New York Times New York Times were beside him, open to the financial section. Dek and Mal coiled over his shoulder, peering at the screen, occasionally whispering in his ear. Grant followed my gaze. ”Stock broker now?” were beside him, open to the financial section. Dek and Mal coiled over his shoulder, peering at the screen, occasionally whispering in his ear. Grant followed my gaze. ”Stock broker now?”

I grunted, sipping coffee. ”I'm not sure I want to know.”

Grant picked up the picture of my grandmother. He had said very little about the message, but the line between his eyes had not yet smoothed away. ”Remarkable resemblance. Have you spoken with Jack yet?”

”All the women in my family look the same.” I reached for the FedEx envelope, already torn open. ”And no. He's disappeared again.”

Jack Meddle. My grandfather. A respected archaeologist and intellectual, who on the surface seemed like nothing more than a cheerful, dapper, eccentric old man who lived above an art gallery in downtown Seattle. But he was even less human than Grant or me-though I was no longer certain if humanity could be judged so simply.

There was very little in the FedEx envelope-which I had ripped into as soon as I left the hotel and gotten into the car. Contents minimal-just a handwritten letter, read for the first time in the dark, and now here, again, at the kitchen table.

E. I hope this reaches you in time. Be careful. Don't do anything stupid. And don't get your hopes up. She's not Jean. She won't understand what we went through together. How could she? How could anyone? I don't care what Jean told you. That was more than sixty years ago. Grandmothers are not their granddaughters, and the dead don't speak for the living. I hope this reaches you in time. Be careful. Don't do anything stupid. And don't get your hopes up. She's not Jean. She won't understand what we went through together. How could she? How could anyone? I don't care what Jean told you. That was more than sixty years ago. Grandmothers are not their granddaughters, and the dead don't speak for the living. Nor do the living ever listen. Nor do the living ever listen. Best, Best, Winnie As before, the words had a hypnotic effect. I could not stop staring at them. One, in particular.

Jean.

Strange, seeing my grandmother's name written in someone else's hand.

Almost as strange as seeing my my name typewritten on the back of her photograph. name typewritten on the back of her photograph.

I reluctantly gave the letter to Grant. While he read, I twisted in my chair to look at Zee. ”I want the story. I want to know what happened. These children who knew my grandmother. Why?”

Raw and Aaz stopped chewing razor blades. Zee sighed. ”Double eyes, double life. Old mother worked undercover.”

”Undercover,” I echoed. ”Undercover? Are you saying she was a...a spy?” Are you saying she was a...a spy?”

Dek made a t.i.ttering sound. Zee held his little hand like a gun and blew on his finger. ”Kiss. Jean Jean Kiss.” Kiss.”

I slumped in my chair, drumming my fingers on the table. ”For which country?”

Mal began humming the melody of ”America the Beautiful.” Grant coughed, but it sounded suspiciously like laughter. I tried giving him a dirty look, but it was difficult.

My grandmother, the spy. Of course.