Free Final Sins by Michael Prescott Page A

Tess asked. Enemies?
    Not yet. But if you ever come back to my town and get mixed up in my business again—we will be.
    Recommending her to Faust was not exactly the same thing as getting mixed up in Abby’s business, but it was close enough to get her hackles up. Whatever hackles were. She didn’t know, but they were up, for sure.
    She was all frazzled and needed to calm down. Anger was a distraction, and she could not afford to be distracted when she was on the job. She willed herself to stop the chatter of her thoughts. There was a meditative technique she used, which involved the repetition of a simple mantra: Mind like water.
    That was what she needed. Her mind as clear and calm as still water. A reflecting pool, a liquid mirror. No worries, no anger, no ego. Only stillness and depth.
    Mind like water ...
    She allowed herself to relax into the cushioned softness of her armchair. After a few more repetitions of the mantra, she was calm. The left hemisphere of her brain, with its linear logic and obsessive verbalizing, had been silenced. The other half of her brain, the side that functioned wordlessly and holistically, had been activated. She could observe without judging, could act without doubt.
    She called Faust, using her landline and reaching him on his. This seemed to be the safest means of communication between them. There was no evidence his landline had been tapped.
    “It’s me,” she said when he answered.
    “My hired predator.”
    “Not really how I like to think of myself. Look, I think I’ve tracked down your mystery man—”
    “So soon? Miss Sinclair, you exceed even your considerable reputation.”
    Just what she wanted, compliments from a homicidal maniac. “I aim to please. Now I need to initiate contact.”
    “Where is he located?”
    “Huh?”
    “You said you had tracked him to his lair.”
    “I didn’t say lair .” And she was not giving Faust his address.
    “I would be most curious to know where it is he operates from.”
    “That’s not the way it works.”
    “I am paying your fee, am I not?”
    “Yeah—and I’m calling the shots. I don’t give out that kind of info to clients. I wouldn’t want any of them to take matters into their own hands.”
    “You believe I would do this?”
    “In a word, yes.”
    “You distrust me.”
    “Thought I’d made that clear. Try to keep up, okay?”
    “Well”—he sounded nettled—“if you will not oblige me in my small request, then what is it I can do for you?”
    “You can text-message Elise from your cell. Tell her to meet you someplace at eight o’clock.” That would be after dark. According to the Los Angeles Times , delivered to her door daily, sunset was at seven thirty p.m. “Where’s a spot you might go at night?”
    “There are many. We frequent alternative bookstores, underground clubs, experimental theater, poetry recitals—”
    “I get it. The classic bohemian lifestyle. Pick one. Not the poetry thing. Something less ... boring.”
    “Do art galleries bore you?”
    “Yeah, but I can handle it. What gallery?”
    “The Unblinking I, on Melrose. Tonight they’re showing the works of Piers Hoagland. Do you know him?”
    “Didn’t he play Screech on Saved by the Bell ?”
    Faust seemed to take the inquiry seriously. “I do not believe so.”
    “Then no.”
    “He is a native of my country. A holographic artist who specializes in images of death.”
    “Sounds peachy.”
    “Tonight is the opening of the exhibit. Elise and I had considered going.”
    “Don’t. I don’t want you there. I need to get to know this guy, and that won’t work if he’s tailing you. Just send the text message, stay put, and hope he takes the bait.”
    “You are the boss. Is there anything else you require of me?”
    Abby hesitated. “Where’d you get the branding iron?”
    “Why should this concern you?”
    “I’ve been reading your book. There’s a picture of the branding iron. I just wondered how a person acquires an item