66 A PHONE CALL

66

A PHONE CALL

Whether the visitor was Azrael, angel of death, or an avatar of Rhadamanthus, judge of souls in the underworld, or nothing more than an albino mountain lion in a mellow and curious mood, Regis wants his mug of black coffee to be spiked with the strongest spirits in Vida's modest collection of alcoholic beverages. Having gone without sleep the previous night, he needs a steady input of caffeine. In addition, now that he has revealed so much to Wendy, is preparing to betray Boschvark in order to win this radiant woman's approval, and has been visited by a four-legged omen of death, he also requires a courage-boosting double shot of whisky.

Wendy pours the Scotch into the coffee and brings the mug to him, where he sits at the kitchen table, and he says, "I know you probably disapprove."

"No, not at all," she says with evident sincerity. "Morally, you've come such a long way in a short time. For what lies ahead, it's understandable you'd want a bit of confidence from a bottle. When we've been together long enough, I'll be all the fortification you'll need."

Regis wants to get up and take her in his arms and kiss her with all the passion he can muster, which is more passion than anyone would think when judging by the look of him. However, his stress level is so high that he's afraid he might have one of his Vesuvian nosebleeds. He dreads the thought of their first kiss being ruined by a volcanic eruption of blood.

His burner phone rings. Only Boschvark has the number.

Grimacing, he retrieves the phone from an inner pocket of his sport coat.

Wendy says, "What's wrong?"

"It's him. I have to answer it. Answering it is required."

"So answer it," she says.

"This won't be anything good."

"You won't know until you answer it."

"It's never anything good."

"Then don't answer it."

"He probably knows what I've told you."

"How could he know?"

"He knows everything."

"Ask him the name of the judge of souls in the underworld."

"Why would I ask him that?"

"To prove to yourself that he doesn't know everything."

"God help me," Regis says, and he takes the call.

Terrence Boschvark's manner of speech is as ingratiating and full of false earnestness as that of any third-rate lounge singer coddling his audience, although even at his most oleaginous he is unable to fully repress a sinister undertone. "May I ask to whom I am speaking?"

"This is Edgar Allan Poe," says Regis. "May I ask who's calling?"

"Good morning, Mr. Poe. This is H. G. Wells," Boschvark replies.

Although when properly purchased and activated, burner phones can't be traced to their owners, though the risk of conversations being tapped and recorded is virtually nil, the billionaire insists that every call begin with this charade and then be conducted in an absurd improvisational code.

As required, Regis replies, "I much enjoyed your novel The War of the Worlds ," though it annoys him that the real Edgar Allan Poe died forty-nine years before that story of a Martian invasion was published.

"Are you alone?" Boschvark asks.

"Yes, I'm alone," Regis lies. He glances guiltily at Wendy, but she smiles to assure him that this is a justifiable untruth.

"Are you where I think you are?"

"I'm where you wanted me to be."

"I never doubted you were. Your reliability is of great comfort to me. You saw them off?"

"I saw them off."

"And none of them has returned?"

"None of them."

"I don't mind saying I'm greatly concerned. You know how much the well-being of my associates matters to me. Something's very wrong. They have come to a prolonged stop."

Both Vector and Rackman are carrying GPS trackers.

"A stop?" Regis asks.

"A full stop. Most concerning. Zero movement. The bird isn't moving, either."

"The bird?"

"The lovely bird. The bird is carrying four eggs."

"Eggs?"

"The kind of eggs that sing. Am I not making myself clear? The bird with four eggs isn't moving."

Regis decides that the eggs are four of the sticky tracking devices that they intended to drop on Vida when they located her. He also decides that Terrence Boschvark, in spite of all his wealth and power and animal cunning, is in some ways an idiot. "I understand now."

Boschvark says, "We're about to send a swarm of bees out there to scout the situation. Gather some pollen, so to speak."

"Bees," Regis says, and he wonders about his own capacity for idiocy when he at once translates the word to drones .

"We have underestimated the songbird before," Boschvark says.

Regis thinks, "Songbird" equals Vida.

"What if we underestimated the bird again?" Boschvark worries. "Maybe what we have here is less a songbird than a bird of prey. Maybe our bird laid the four eggs and flew away, while the hawks are still there but, you know, all of them with broken wings."

In frustration, Regis dares to say, "Can we stop with the birds and eggs, and just talk straight?"

"No. The thing is—maybe the bird is coming back to the nest. If so, you need to be ready to cage her."

"All those hawks have broken wings, and I'm supposed to cage the songbird that broke them? I'm grateful for the job you've given me, everything you've done for me, but bird caging isn't in my skill set."

"My apologies for being so blunt, Mr. Poe, but your skill set is whatever I say it is. Considering how agreeable our relationship has always been and the fatherly affection I feel for you, I hope you will hold no animus against me for reminding you of the breadth of your responsibilities."

If Regis is going to change his wicked ways for Wendy (which he is), if he's going to terminate his long association with Boschvark (which he must), if he is going to be required to testify against his employer (which seems inevitable), he must never forget that he knows too much. His life won't be worth spit the moment that the billionaire has any doubt about his loyalty. Given Boschvark's deep and mutually beneficial ties to the shadow state, elements within the FBI and the CIA and the ISA and the NSA and the EPA and the National Endowment for the Arts (for starters) will engage in a bidding war for the right to contract a hit on Regis and win the undying gratitude of the man who is at the moment posing as H. G. Wells.

Consequently, Regis says, "No animus. In fact, Mr. Wells, I'm grateful that you have clarified my thinking in such a graceful but impactful way. If the songbird does return to its nest, you can count on me to cage it harder than any bird has ever been caged."

"I'm delighted to hear that."

"I'm pleased that you're delighted."

"Now I'll order those bees to launch from their hive," says Boschvark, and he terminates the call.

Wendy says, "I assume you just lied to him."

"Sorry you had to hear it. But, yeah, the only bird I'm ever going to cage is him, when eventually I testify in court."

If this were a séance, no spirit would be needed to levitate the table. The power of Wendy's smile alone would do the job.

Regis drinks the remainder of his spiked coffee in two long swallows and rises from his chair. "The boss is sending drones to see what's happened to the search party."

"Sounds like what happened is what should have happened."

"Considering the fleet of drones he controls, the skies around here will soon be busy. Better leave before his people ID your SUV."

Getting to her feet, she says, "Meet me at my place."

"I'm going with you now. I don't dare take my Lexus. It's a company car, and they can track it wherever it goes."

Her SUV is of a humble make that Regis can't identify, but it isn't as poky as it appears to be. By the time Wendy speeds out to the county road and turns toward Kettleton, no drone has yet snarled into sight.

"I might have to hide out for a while," he says.

"Seems as if my wicked brothers won't be coming home."

"Seems so. I'm sorry."

"Oh, like I said, I'm done with those bad boys. They exhausted my grief for them a long while ago. You'll be safe at my place until all this is settled."

"Thank you."

"You'll have your own bedroom. I hope that doesn't disappoint."

"I wouldn't expect it to be any other way."

"Separate rooms won't be a permanent arrangement," she says, and Regis could glide forever on the promise of her smile.