Part V—Arctic Fish

WHATEVER ERIC Christiansen—not his real name—had been thinking when he'd stopped to help the angelic young man with the flat tire, this moment had not been included.

He thought he'd been prepared for almost anything as he followed the borderline personality and the clairvoyant—for that, surely, must have been what the young man with the dark hair and the deep blue eyes had been. Christiansen had encountered a few psychics in his time. Even killed one whose brain had been crawling with spiders. He recognized the blown pupils, the particular twitch of the shoulders, the absolute global understanding when he touched the flesh of somebody who understood him.

So, he'd thought, the clairvoyant is the leader. This surprised him. They often weren't—so much of their minds were invested… elsewhere.

But then the young psychic had taken his orders from someone else.

So Christiansen had followed him, thinking, This is it. I'm going to meet the gang. The pit of assassins that has been taking out everybody from drug dealers to mob kingpins to petty criminals in this barren stretch of land . He was accustomed to snake pits. He figured he'd be fine in this one. All he had to do was reveal his resumé and voila! Everybody would be so impressed by him—or so in need of his services—that he could indulge himself in some much-needed rest.

But he was trying to quit, dammit!

That had been the entire point of taking the contract on Rivers and Cramer. The money… oh, the money had been choice . But more than that had been the chaos! He wasn't fond of chaos as a whole. His recreational vehicle was luxuriously appointed and very clean. The cabinets were real wood, the bed had the finest of mattresses, the sheets were 500-count cotton.

Even his cat beds were luxe, and the bathroom was big enough to accommodate a large man—or, well, two. Two large men.

Because while he wasn't fond of chaos, he'd craved the cover that chaos would have given him to get out of this highly lucrative, highly soulless life.

Backing out of the Rivers/Cramer contract had cost him dearly—and not just the money he'd lost. He'd… he'd been so infatuated with Jules. The boy had been pretty, old European aristocracy, and he'd had this swagger. Eric loved a little bit of swagger.

Unfortunately that swagger had translated into cockiness and disrespect, and one little hint of that, and not only was Eric's reputation destroyed , but Eric's life was probably not worth much either. Everybody would have been gunning for him. Everyone . Eric had made that clear in their last discussion, and Jules? He'd… shrugged.

"Everyone dies. What matters is if we get paid for it," he'd said, with such cavalier certainty that Eric felt in his bones the wrongness of their profession. Eric had always tried to maintain certain standards. No innocent lives. He lived by it. He researched to make sure he wasn't blindly killing random people but performing an important public service. Certainly people were flawed. A cheating spouse deserved karma , not a bullet. But a hard-core abuser who would inevitably kill his wife and children? That man could have a serious personality revision with a well-timed shot of insulin and no sugar in sight.

"Please don't take this contract," Eric had asked him simply. "It would be a shame if that were true."

He'd known. He'd known the Snowman would venture out into the cold for the lawyer and his fascinating PI friend. So he'd done what he'd needed to do, unmindful of the moments flashing behind his eyes of Jules's supple, muscular body writhing beneath his own, or the gleeful smile gracing those boyish features when Jules had been breathless and dripping come from his mouth, his asshole, his cock, the excitement of sex all the high he seemed to need.

Eric didn't regret that kill so much as he regretted losing the companion. The companion—and the sex—had been fun and intense and invigorating.

But he'd also hated cats, a thing he'd let Eric know when Eric had arrived in his condo with the two kittens currently curled up in the pet bed Eric had been keeping under the table of the RV. He'd made an entire little haven down there, with food and water dispensers (the better not to spill) in a plastic tray. Their litter box was down there too—it had a cover with air freshener, although he cleaned it every time he stopped. He'd thought to put it in the bathroom, but he soon realized the kittens were not very active, and when their bodies hurt, it was hard to get to the bathroom. So yes. He'd sacrificed his tiny but very classy kitchen to two special-needs kittens that he frequently put on the passenger seat of his vehicle because, while Oliver with the polydactyl feet could gambol, Katie with the hip deformity could mostly roll from one place to the next, and she'd stay put.

Particularly if he put yet another cat bed on the seat.

Yes, he'd spent the last month spoiling these kittens as he'd planned to spoil Jules—his only regret was in not recognizing sooner that kittens were a better return on his emotional investment.

But he tried not to be bitter.

What he was now, as he sat idling behind the vehicle he'd been following as the men by the side of the road had a conference, was intrigued. They'd been allowed past a military roadblock to be here. A military roadblock .

Eric had no idea how that came to be, but there'd been a bad ten minutes of sitting behind the idling sedan and feeling his testicles creep up inside his body for warmth as he contemplated how much he did not want to confront whatever covert ops division was currently blocking the road. "Military" was a blanket term—if there was no Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine insignia to be seen anywhere on the uniforms, well, Eric was in the presence of greatness.

And then that "greatness" simply waved the ancient, battered sedan with its two unusual occupants through. And then they'd waved Eric to follow them.

Who were these people?

A couple of miles down the road, Eric had seen what the roadblock had been for, a pretty grisly sight. The vehicle was still burning, and Eric's trained eye was keen enough to note the crispy remains in the driver's seat. In the distance he could see the remnant of a battered sedan—much like the one he was following, he thought, but a different make—lying upside down in front of a boulder.

Given his profession, his first thought was "Where are the bodies?"

There should have been another body—at the least —near that sedan. But no. Not even any footsteps leading away. No blood, no battered victim, no human .

The more he thought about it, the more it unnerved him.

And still the sedan kept driving, but not quickly. As though the young man behind the wheel was looking for somebody: The driver of the wrecked vehicle, perhaps?

He saw the two figures striding down the road a moment later. Briefly he thought one of them was quite small. Until the sedan came close and Eric had some scale. The dark-haired one—excruciatingly handsome—was tall enough, but the man striding next to him was at least six feet, six inches if not bigger.

The dark-haired man leaned forward and talked—intensely—to the passenger, the whippet-thin blond man, Sonny, whom his friend had described as displaying borderline personality tendencies. He gave the Winnebago and Eric a couple of neutral glances before doing the most extraordinary thing.

He leaned forward and kissed the little psychopath on the lips.

Eric stared at them, more stunned than he'd have been if one of them had pulled a gun. The open display of affection hit him so hard he could barely breathe. Then the dark-haired man straightened, gave an affectionate smile to his lover inside, squared his shoulders, and turned toward Eric.

Eric straightened his own spine and glanced toward Katie and Oliver, curled up in the passenger seat. "Look sharp," he told them. "Company is coming."

At that moment there was a rap at the door to the Winnebago, and he hit the lock to let them in.

ACE STOOD up straight in the Winnebago, pleased that he could, although he suspected Jai might have to stoop a bit.

"This is real nice," he said, surprised. "I mean—oh! And look! Jai, he's got a little haven for the kittens."

"You may put them down there if you like," said the driver, and Ace got a good gander at him.

He looked like a European prince, Ace thought—his hair was cut just so, his features were clean-cut, his nose a bit Roman, his eyes a crystalline blue. His whole demeanor was like one of those silhouettes that could be drawn with mostly triangles, and his collection of triangles should be holding a gun.

"I'll sit back here," Jai said, and Ace watched the driver's eyebrows rise at the thick accent. "Give me the kittens." His voice dropped. "I do love kittens."

Ace cackled. "Your boyfriend and his roommate have two, and that's enough." He picked the cat bed up carefully and deposited it on the table as Jai backed into the bench, stretching his long legs in front of him so as not to disturb the little shelter underneath.

"Da. But other people's kittens are cute, and you do not have to clean up their crap," Jai agreed.

Ace cackled and sat in the swiveling passenger seat before doing his seat belt. "I'm in," he said. "Follow Ernie there. I think we're meeting at the garage." He grimaced. "I hope you don't mind. Our house is a little small. We can put our dog in a crate in our room, but you may have to sit on the floor to eat. We didn't expect to ever know so many people when we bought it."

Jai chuckled warmly behind him. "It was all you could afford," he said. "Do not apologize to this man. Your home is an honor."

Ace grimaced and turned toward… oh. He saw it now. The stone-cold sociopath in the man. Maybe it was kin recognizing kin? Maybe it was just the arctic cold vibrating off him. He could see why Ernie left it up to him and Jai now. This was a very dangerous man.

"So," he said. "You're…."

"Eric Christiansen," said the man, and his voice—yeah. His voice sounded uppity East Coast yada yada, but what would Ace know?

"Sure it is," Ace replied dryly.

Those mercilessly cold blue eyes gave him a sideways glance. "You don't believe me?"

Ace gave a humorless laugh. "We… we know some things about names that aren't what we were born with. Me, my name is Jasper Anderson Atchison. People call me Ace. Behind me is Jai. His last name changes. You already met Ernie, Sonny, and Cotton. You get us to where we're going, you'll meet a few more people. Thing is, if you want to get to where we're going, you gotta convince me you got more in common with my friends than a name you weren't born with and an official ID that's worth more than a way to escape."

He heard the intake of breath. "If I… get to where you're going?" the man asked, and Ace knew he'd heard exactly what Ace had meant.

"Listen," Ace said. "I got no doubt you're good at what you do. Probably better'n any of us. But if you'd wanted to kill us, you coulda. You coulda attacked Ernie and Sonny, or Cotton. I don't think you're a serial killer—I think you're a professional, and you got standards and criteria and such. So what I want to know is, since that thing in you that says killing is wrong has been fundamentally broke, how do I know you're not gonna hurt someone I care about?"

God, he was tired. This man could have probably pulled off what he and Jai had done and been ready to drive up to NorCal or to Texas for all he knew, but killing was a rough business, and Ace was ready for a sandwich and some TV and a nap.

Which is why, perhaps, the man's next words hit him so hard, vibrating in his absolute core with a chord he knew to his bones.

"I… I want out," said "Eric Christiansen."

Ace glanced back at Jai, who was busy waving his fingers for the adolescent kittens to bat at. Jai caught his eyes and shrugged.

"Why?" Ace asked, fighting off the absurd urge to cry. "You look like you're doin' okay for yourself."

He heard Christiansen swallow. "I want to kiss my boyfriend through a car window and wave to him and know I didn't just put a price on his head."

Ace hmm ed. "That's a good wish," he admitted. "Why do you think we'd have anything to do with that?"

"Nobody comes here," said Christiansen, almost desperately. "This part of the desert used to be a free passageway. Mobsters whizzed through, meth dealers. But in the last three years, those people have disappeared . I don't know why. One of the biggest meth suppliers in Las Vegas blew up a couple months ago, before the storm, and they were located near here . This little nothing place called Victoriana. I figured there had to be an outfit here. I'll do what you want. I'll take whatever contract you need." He sighed. "I want to not have to look over my shoulder all the time."

Ace snorted. "Oh please. We can do our own killing. We don't need no cold fish in a Winnebago to do it for us."

Suddenly their friend straightened, some of the desperation easing off his shoulders. "Wait," he said. " You did that? The deputy's vehicle? How did you do that? There were no footprints away from the other car. How did you manage that?"

"What makes you think we were even in that accident?" Ace asked. "We were a quarter of a mile away when that shit went down."

Christiansen's eyes went wide. "Remote control?" he asked a little wildly.

"Son, we got all our possessions in our pockets. Please, we got no trade secrets you probably can't figure out for yourself, so if that was your plan—"

"No!" said their driver. "I just…." He let out a grunt. "I was curious, that's all. I mean, I am a professional, as you said."

Ace snorted. "What we were doing today is not your concern—"

"But it is," said Christiansen. "I need to know why. Why did that man have to die?"

"Because he was a fucking pedophile," Ace snapped. "And he used his badge to let his brother rape babies so they could share porn."

There was a shocked silence, and Ace heard Jai's comfort grunt from behind him.

"Sorry," Ace muttered. "I understand you're a professional, but us amateurs have difficulty compartmentalizing."

"I could help with things like that," said Christiansen hopefully. "I'm very good. I could kill the brother—"

" I killed the brother," Ace said, shuddering. "Wasn't my finest moment."

"You left DNA?" Christiansen asked, like it was only professional courtesy.

"Probably not," Ace said.

"Somebody heard you?"

"Nope."

"Cameras?"

"Oh my God, do we look stupid?" Ace snapped. "No, no, and no. It's like that… whatyacallit. Hamlet. Hamlet didn't want to kill his uncle in a church 'cause he was afraid his uncle would be all clean and confessed and shit and go to heaven. Well, this guy was a preacher. I don't think he's going to heaven, but I think his bloody death with his wiener out is gonna hurt a lotta people who truly believe, and I am not okay with that. But it had to be done."

There was a shocked gasp. "You… you are good people!" Christiansen said. Then with more humility than Ace could imagine in another person, "Please. Please let me come to your home and eat with you. You don't even have to let me stay, just…." He took a breath that Ace could swear broke in his chest. "I had a conversation with somebody who had gotten a convicted felon a deal. The man wanted a prison with a view. That was all. Twenty-five to life, this guy wanted someplace with an ocean view, just so he could smell it and dream. And I asked the guy how much the convict had given up to get that. The guy said not much—they were only treating him like a human being. Now I know that guy. He was a scumbag, but he also had some standards. Didn't hurt kids. Didn't do jobs high. So I know he deserved prison—as do I—but the thought that someone, even his lawyers, would treat him with dignity? That's all I want."

Ace heard a couple of things. He heard the snotty East Coast accent slipping to hard-core working class, much like Ace's broke-assed-central Cali couldn't be curb stomped and forced to disappear. And Ace heard some warmth break through. Some honesty.

He heard the deep breaths that came when safety was only a heartbeat away.

"Keep going on this road," Ace said. "It ain't much. You'll see one of those hanging traffic lights, indicating someone coming crosswise, and you'll see a Subway and a gas station on the right and a garage on the left. Pull your Winnie there into the drive for the garage. It's small. It's dusty. It's probably not nearly as great as you're making it out to be. But you can have dinner there tonight, talk to some people." He glanced back again to where Jai was busy falling in love with the kittens. "There's not much at the garage, but we might have a line on some hookups for your power and water. We'll see."

He heard the indrawn breath next to him and peered at Eric Christiansen's face. It was… eerie, as the man put his composure back on, one facial muscle at a time. But Ace hadn't been mistaken; he was certain of it.

For a moment he'd seen the real Eric Christiansen.

And he was very, very lonely.