Devil's Due

Ma

Ma

"You scare me sometimes."

"Yeah, that's what Jazz says, too. But I've never been robbed."

"I'll bet."

Ma

That made Lucia smile, thinking of Ma

"Where are we going?" she asked. The door opened, and on the other side was an openwork metal staircase. For a man who'd been buried alive, Ma

"The office."

"Is Jazz there?"

"No."

Two flights of stairs, another key-coded door, and she was in another world. The office was a big, spacious place, all windows on one side, with thick, off-white carpeting.

Modern art hung on the walls, and she could tell instantly that it wasn't lithography; those were originals. He seemed particularly partial to the cool logic and simplicity of Mondrian, but he was eclectic. She spotted a Kandinsky, then a Miro. The colors glowed in the soft natural light.

Gradually, she realized that there was furniture, as well—all pale, spare, unobtrusive. A desk with two chairs on either side. A huge expanse of pale oak cabinets.

"Wow." It was all she could manage. Why was Ma

How in the hell did Ma

Ma

"Sit," he said. His green eyes were level on her as she silently obeyed. "Do you have a fever?"

It wasn't what she expected. Again. "What…? No. No, of course I don't."

He stood up, took a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocked a desk drawer. She couldn't quite see what he'd palmed. He walked over and, with deceptive quickness, slapped his hand over her forehead. For a ludicrous instant she thought, That's it, he's gone insane, he thinks he's a faith healer, and then he took his hand away and stared at her forehead intently. She reached up and touched plastic.

"Thermometer," he said. "Disposable."

Oh. She put her hands in her lap and waited, wondering idly what the thing was saying. Ma

He reached down and peeled it off and mutely turned it to show her. The red line had reached a marker that read 100.2 degrees.

"No?" he asked.

Her reflex was to snap back I'm fine, but that was stupid, and it was rooted in fear. She swallowed, closed her eyes for a few seconds and considered. She felt hot, but not really sick. Tired. Had a slight ache in the back of her throat.

"All right," she said calmly. "I have a fever. Some muscle aches. I could sleep for a week. But Ma

He nodded, dropped the thermometer in the trash and returned to the safety of his chair. He leaned back, still watching her.

"You need to rest," he said. "Let the antibiotics work. And go see your doctor, today."

"You have the results of the tests?"

"The culture's still cooking."

"If it's anthrax, what are my chances?"

"Excellent. You got on antibiotics right away. You just need to take care of yourself."

She took in a slow breath. "Does Pansy have a fever?"

He shook his head, and the tension gathering in her stomach lessened a little.

"No symptoms at all?"

"Nothing. I'm watching over her," he said, and went quiet again for a few seconds. "I want to talk to you about Ben McCarthy."

Of course. Ma

"You can't trust him."

She sat back, surprised. It clearly cost him to say that; his expression was deeply unhappy.

"Don't get me wrong," he added quickly. "Ben…Ben means a lot to me. I mean, he's— I wouldn't be here if it weren't for Ben. I wouldn't be anywhere. But—" She watched him struggle for words, with no impulse to help him along. "He manipulates people. Women."

She smiled slowly. "Ma

"No, I mean…" He ran his hand through his curling dark hair and left it looking just a bit mad-scientist. "I don't think he's telling us everything. There's something wrong here, Lucia. Jazz doesn't think so, but I do. You should watch out."

"It's all right if you just don't like him," Lucia said. "You don't have to, you know. You can owe him your life and still not like him."

Something flickered over Ma

"I died," he said quietly, and curled his hands into loose fists on the wooden top of his desk, as if he wanted to keep them from doing anything foolish. "Seemed like I died, anyway. I was down there in the dark, all that dirt on top of me, ru

"Oh, no, Ma

"Over forty hours. You know what it's like to run out of air? You get a headache. It just gets worse until it kills you, until you can't breathe, until you're nothing but a gagging animal. And when I tried to struggle, the rope was like his hands, like his hands around my throat." He swallowed hard and wiped his forehead. "All my life I thought I was smart, but he showed me that when you're down in that hole, smart doesn't mean shit. You need someone else. Someone else. Anyone else."

"Ma

"Ben dug with his bare hands, you know. With his bare hands, while the other cop went to get shovels. I was dead. He gave me mouth-to-mouth to bring me back. I'm alive because he dug me up and made me live." Ma

He was angry. She'd never really seen him angry before—scared, sure, but this was different. He stood up, and she did, too, feeling a little worried. But he stalked over to the door and jerked it open. Made a jerky after-you gesture, head bent. She went to the stairs and walked down them, aware of his bulk behind her. There were no code panels on this side of the barriers. Ma