Free Father Night by Eric Van Lustbader Page A

Sex was all pretense anyway, so why not ride the wave? The Syrian had desired her, but that was very likely as much because she had been of exceptional use to him. Needs often got confused, especially during the sex act. During her time with the Syrian, she had become a master at identifying and manipulating the confusion. It was a distinct relief not to have to do that with Number Eleven. That was the only designation by which she knew him; she had no desire to know his name and every reason not to want to know it.
    Number Eleven stood perfectly still as she approached. She clicked open a stiletto switchblade, using it to slice open his clothes layer by layer. She was as careful, as precise as a surgeon slicing through skin, fascia, and muscle, down to the bone, which, in Number Eleven’s case, was his softly pearled flesh.
    When they were both standing naked in front of each other, she threw the knife across the room. “Now,” she said, “take me.”
    This he did, with singular strength and grace. The first time, he had tried to kiss her. Don’t, she had said, turning her head. No kisses on the lips. Even the thought of it frightened her, as if a kiss were an intimacy she could not tolerate, as if in exhaling into his mouth she would lose a part of herself that she could never get back.
    Number Eleven possessed extraordinary staying power, giving her time to climax five times, at the end of which she would allow him to abandon himself to her. Midway through this, the chime on her laptop rang. Without a word, she rose, ignoring him as he slipped out of her. Picking her way across the room, she leaned over her laptop, her skin pink with friction, glistening with their mingled secretions.
    A Cheshire Cat smile stole across her lips. Her software had completed its scouring of the Web and had found the perpetrator of the Web site, despite a dizzying trip through servers around the globe that wound in concentric circles.
    *   *   *
    W HEN N ONA Heroe exited Bishop’s house just after dawn, she saw tendrils of smoke seeping out of a car window cracked open. As she crossed the street, her heart sank when she recognized the vehicle. The driver’s-side window slid down as she neared.
    “I know you must be tired,” her boss said, “but get the fuck in here anyway.”
    Sighing, Nona went around the front, hauled open the passenger’s door, and slid inside. Alan Fraine fired the ignition and pulled out into the deserted street, rolling away from what he must surely think of as the scene of the crime. For her part, Nona was sick to her stomach. What with the smell of cigarettes mixed with Bugles and Fritos, it was all she could do not to vomit.
    “Nona—”
    “I wish you would keep quiet,” she said.
    “Sorry, no can do.” He made a left turn. “Now you’re in the confessional, it’s time to unburden yourself.”
    “You unholy little shit, you followed me.”
    “True enough”—Fraine nodded—“except for the ‘unholy little shit’ part.”
    She grunted, folding her arms across her breasts. “You didn’t even give me the benefit of the doubt.” She turned to him. “Where did the trust between us go?”
    He thought about this a moment. It was a crucial question. “It’s not you I don’t trust, Nona. It’s everyone else.”
    “That’s what my daddy used to tell me when he was teaching me how to drive.”
    “Nothing ever changes, does it?”
    She leaned her head against the window, staring out at the street. The garbage pileup was staggering. She thought she saw a rat running between the black plastic bags.
    “How’s Frankie?” Fraine said. He knew that Nona tried to visit her brother every day. Occasionally he went with her.
    “The same.”
    “He know you were there?”
    “My heart says he did.”
    Fraine made another turn. They were in a seedy part of D.C. “How about some breakfast?” He shot her a quick glance. “If your stomach’s up for it. You look a little green around the