Part 5 (1/2)

A stream of liquid ran from beneath the truck, splas.h.i.+ng black against the street. Tanya waved at the anonymous bulk of the driver. Across the street, Pa.s.sion was screaming What the f.u.c.k is that noise?

Cody s.n.a.t.c.hed the helmet off. Her heart felt like it had melted into her arteries, a pounding starfish in her chest. Oh no, oh no. She stared at the looming shapes of furniture in the dimly-lit room. She hadn't remembered the truck in years and years. Maybe it had felt too dangerous to remember. Oh G.o.d, ohJesus. Her palms were sweating.

Just a few seconds after the truck had pa.s.sed her eyes had started burning. She ran into the house and threw up. Pa.s.sion was screaming outside, shooting his gun. Cody lay on the broken tiles of the bathroom floor and cried, she felt so sick, until mama came home and moved her into bed. She didn't say anything about the truck and its stinky pee, because she should never have been out on the sidewalk.

Carefully, Cody lay the helmet on the cus.h.i.+on beside her. Wade was snoring softly in the bedroom. The antique clock on the mantle was ticking, ticking.

What had gone into the street that night? And on other nights, what had spilled from the kitchen drug labs? From the ubiquitous activity of auto repair? From the city's fights against rats and roaches? What had trickled through the soil, into the ground water, returning through the faucet of the kitchen sink?

Splash of clear water into a plastic cup held in a little girl's hands; the dry tang of chlorine in her throat.

There had been toxins in her body that killed her daughter. Cody had always a.s.sumed it was her fault, that she'd been incautious on a job, that somehow she had poisoned herself; but what if it wasn't so?

Her lips pressed together in a hard line. Any hazardous substance report generated by the cleanup of Victoria Glen would be kept confidential by the redevelopment company. She'd be able to gain access only if she could offer compelling evidence of on-site injury, and that was doubtful. She'd only lived there until she was ten, until Mama got her the scholars.h.i.+p to Prescott Academy. Cody had left for boarding school and never had come back.

So there was only one way to learn what ten years on Victoria Street had done to her. She would have to take on the job herself.

IX.

Rajban was up early. Michael found her in the kitchen when he woke, peeking into cabinets with all the stealth and caution of a kid looking for treasure but expecting to find a tiger. ”Good morning,” Michael said. She jumped, and the cabinet door banged shut. Her hands were already soiled with the gray dirt of the courtyard. Michael sighed. She certainly had an affinity for gardening.

Ignoring her fright, he beckoned to her to come to the sink, where he showed her how to slide her hands under the soap dispenser. The sensor popped a spray of soap onto her palm. She lathered it, carefully imitating Michael's every gesture. Water came from the tap in a tepid spray, like a stolen column of soft rain. Michael dried his hands, Rajban dried hers, then together they made a breakfast of papayas, bread, and yogurt.

After they ate, Rajban disappeared into the garden while Michael readied himself for work. Last of all, he picked up his shades. The Terrace glyph waited for him, surrounded by a pink query circle. He linked through. ”Anybody there?” No one answered. He left the link open, confident someone would check back before long. Next he put a call through to m.u.t.h.aye, but she didn't pick up either. A moment later, the house announced a visitor at the door.

”Ooh, company,” Ryan said, as the line to the Terrace went green.

Etsuko sounded puzzled. ”Who is that?”

”No ID,” Ryan muttered. ”Pupils dilated, skin temperature slightly elevated. He's nervous.”

”Or angry,” Etsuko said. ”Be careful, Michael.”

”Hey,” Michael said as the house repeated its announcement, this time in Hindi. ”Good morning and all that. Back again, huh?”

”Been waiting all morning for your shades to activate,” Ryan agreed. ”You have to understand-your life is so much more interesting than ours. Now hurry up. Go find out what he wants before my next appointment.”

Michael summoned an image of the visitor into his shades. ”So I guess it's not m.u.t.h.aye at the door?”

”No, mate. No such luck. A local gentleman, I should think. Looks a little stiff, if you ask me.”

Etsuko snorted. ”By your standards, Ryan, anyone could look stiff.”

Rajban slipped in through the French doors. Michael sighed to see that her hands were dirty again. Some of the dirt had gotten on her face. Still, she looked at Michael with eyes that were brighter, fuller than they had been only yesterday. Then she looked at the door ... hoping it was m.u.t.h.aye too? Come back to visit her as promised.

”Say,” Ryan said. ”Maybe she knows the guy.”

”Right.” After all, someone had to be looking for Rajban, regardless of what m.u.t.h.aye said. A brother, perhaps? Someone who cared. Michael slipped the shades off and handed them to Rajban, motioning that she should put them on. Tentatively, she obeyed. For several seconds she stared at the scene, while her mouth twisted in a small hard knot. Then she yanked the shades off, shoved them into Michael's hands, and ran for the courtyard.

Ryan said, ”Women react that way to me too, from time to time.”

No one laughed.

Michael stared after Rajban, dread gnawing like a rat at his chest. Despite m.u.t.h.aye's words, he had envisioned only a happy reunion for her. What would his role become, if her family demanded her back, and she refused to go?

Stop guessing.

He slipped the shades back on and went to the front door. ”Hark. Open it.”

The stranger in the alcove was tall and lean, like a slice taken off a fuller man, then smoked until ithardened. His black hair was neatly cut and combed. His dark eyes were stern. They remained fixed on Michael through a slow, formal bow. ”Namaste.”

”Namaste,” Michael murmured, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise. There was something about this man that set him on edge. The intense stare, perhaps. The unsmiling face. The stiffness of his carriage.

Smoked and hardened.

”I am Mr. Gharia,” the stranger said, in lilting but well-p.r.o.nounced English. ”And you, I have been told, are Mr. Fielding. I have come to inquire about the woman.”

Michael felt stubborness descend into his spine, a quiet, steely resistance learned from the heroes of a hundred old cowboy movies. ”Have you?”

Vaguely, he was aware of Etsuko muttering, ”Gharia? Which Gharia? There are dozens in the census, approximate height and age ...”

Mr. Gharia apparently had a stubborness of his own. He raised his chin, and though his head came barely to Michael's shoulder, he seemed tall. ”It is improper for this woman to be residing within your house.”

Michael had never taken well to instructions on propriety. Remembering the look of fear and distaste on Rajban's face as she fled to the courtyard, he ventured a guess, and dressed it up as certainty, ”This is not your woman.”

Mr. Gharia looked taken aback at this discourteous response; perhaps a little confused, but by his reply Michael knew that his guess had been correct. ”I am a friend of the family, sir.”

When Michael didn't respond to this, Gharia's tone rose. ”Sir, a widow deserves respect. This woman must be returned immediately to her family.”

A widow. So her husband was dead. m.u.t.h.aye had said he'd left home a full year ago. Michael had a.s.sumed he'd gone for treatment, yet now he was dead. Did Rajban know? Had anyone bothered to tell her? Thinking about it, Michael felt an anger as cool, as austere, as shadows under desert rock. ”This woman has no family.”

”Sir, you are mistaken.”

”The family that she had cast her out like useless rubbish.”

”I have come to inquire about her, to be sure she is the woman being sought.”

”She is not that woman,” Michael said. ”She is a different woman altogether.”

”Sir-”

”You would not have me put her on display, would you? Now sir, good day.” He stepped back, allowing the door to close.

Gharia saw what he was about. ”It doesn't matter who she is!” he said quickly. ”Any Hindu woman must be shamed to be kept as a wh.o.r.e. It is intolerable! It-” The door sealed, cutting off Gharia's tirade with the abruptness of a toggled switch. ”Christ,” Michael muttered.

”Nice show,” Ryan agreed, but his voice was somber. ”Michael, this isn't a game you want to play.