Russell Andrews - Hades

She began to realize that she was far, far from heaven. And even enveloped by the pain and the darkness and the jumble that her senses had become, she understood that heaven was not a reality for her. Not now. Now she was being dropped straight down into hell.

Li Ling knew what her instructions were. And she had no real problem carrying them out. Togo had left the killing to her, knowing how much pleasure it usually gave her. But this time she did not feel the glow that normally accompanied a kill. She felt a touch of sadness that such a strong woman was disappearing. Ling could tell the woman was struggling to live. She had no chance, of course-it was a battle she could not win; one that Ling could not let her win-but still Ling felt she deserved the chance to fight and to die on her own terms. She put her two fingers on the pulse that was beating ever so faintly in the woman's neck, but she didn't press down and still the pulse. She kept her fingers there until she felt the pulse begin to slow naturally. Then she turned and walked away.

There was no need to make the kill.

The unattractive woman with the will of steel would be dead in seconds anyway.

There was no noise at all now, nothing at all really, no sense of movement around her, no warmth or even cold. She couldn't tell for sure, but she felt as if she were alone. As if she were the only person left in whatever world she was in.

She didn't know if she was able to move, but she thought that perhaps she could. She felt some connection to her arm and to her fingers. She tried moving her hand, and it seemed to work.

It also brought the pain back.

It was so strong, so overwhelming, that she almost willed herself to die on the spot. She understood where she was now. It made perfect sense. And she understood, too, that she did not have long to remain on earth and that it seemed so much easier to die without all the pain.

But she knew there was something she could do before she died.

No, not could do. Had to do.

She had to make things right. That was what was important to her. Finishing her job. And making things right.

This thing especially.

Her hand moved enough to touch her own chest. She almost passed out from the sharp stabs that seemed to plunge themselves into her arm. But the pain didn't matter; she understood that now. Living was important. Dying was important. Pain was something in between that ended and was forgotten. She knew that her pain was very close to being over. So she forced her arm and her hand to move and that's when she realized she was naked. That was okay, she thought. It didn't matter. She could make things right using her nakedness. Her eyes opened now, just a slit of an opening-it was all she could manage. It wasn't really relevant anyway; she couldn't really see. The pain was already disappearing; she could feel it fading the way she could feel the life fading from inside her. Her hand moved to the ground again, felt around. She needed something. Something sharp. She didn't know if she could even tell the sensation of sharp anymore. Then she felt it. Something with an edge. She pressed her finger against it and there was a different warmth than she'd felt from whatever had been touching her body. This warmth was not as pleasant. But it made her happy, happy enough to move her lips into a simple and glorious smile.

Yes, she could do this, she was positive. She could make things right.

She would make things right.

And then, she hoped, if she was lucky, she'd die with the smile still on her face.

The OGM on Abigail Harmon's cell phone was the same as the one on the answering machine in her New York City apartment. Neither was in Abby's voice. Justin could assume only that a housekeeper had either been recruited for the task or had taken it upon herself to make sure that the message was singular rather than plural, or at least no longer made reference to the deceased Mr. Harmon: "You've reached the Harmon residence. Please leave a message and your call will be returned as soon as it's convenient."

Justin left the same message on both machines: "I'm in Providence. I'm just making sure you're okay. Nothing much to report… just checking in."

He hung up, feeling unsatisfied. He had a discomforting feeling that it might not be convenient for his message to be returned for quite a while.

Glancing at his watch, he looked up at the ten- or twelve-story glass building he was now facing. He had a few minutes yet before he had to be at his appointment. He decided to loiter and make believe he was savoring a smoke. That lasted thirty seconds or so before he decided his imagination was not what it should be. Pretending didn't provide much satisfaction.

He hoped the meeting he was about to have would provide a bit more.

In keeping with the safe and conservative personality that Victoria LaSalle had extolled, her husband's company was simply named the LaSalle Group. The name held no promises of riches or glory. No sense even of what services the company provided. Unfortunately, it also held no key as to why its founder and president had been murdered.

Justin appeared exactly on time and was ushered into a small conference room by Ronald's assistant, an attractive but grim-faced woman wearing a conservative gray skirt suit and white shirt and who appeared to be in her late twenties. They were quickly joined by two men, also seemingly in their late twenties or early thirties and also dressed in crisp gray suits with white shirts. Justin was only a few years older than they were, but they all made him feel old and tired and out of shape and somewhat soiled.

Justin thanked them for coming into the office. It was Saturday, and already six-thirty in the evening, but Justin had wanted to meet there, to get a feel for the surroundings. He also was expecting them to provide material and information that might be available only in the office files or on the office computers. He didn't want to wait to get that information. They all murmured that it was no problem, that they'd like to help in any way possible, that they often worked late and on weekends anyway. They said they'd all spoken to Victoria and she had instructed them to give Justin absolutely anything he needed. He thanked them again, then he did his best to tell them what he needed. He began by explaining what he was looking for and why.

One of the men-his name was Harry Behr and Justin took him to be the highest up of the three-explained how Ronald LaSalle had operated his business.

"He was a good teacher," Harry said. "He believed in discipline and intellectual… I'm not sure of the exact word I'm looking for here…"

"Integrity," the woman said. Her name was Ellen Loache.

"Yes," Harry said, and looked pleased. "He believed in intellectual integrity. One of the reasons he started his own company was that he said he always felt that when he worked at a large firm he was letting external sources control his time and his thinking. He didn't think that was the best way to get the right results."

The other man nodded and spoke up now. His name was Stan Solomon. "Ronald liked the freedom this place gave him. He said he used to spend his mornings taking phone calls, his lunchtimes listening to other people telling him what they thought he should do, and his afternoons meeting with analysts and strategists who did nothing but talk at him."

"What he used to drum into us," Harry said, "was that he wanted us to give him facts, not opinions. He didn't really care if we saw anyone or talked to other people; he wanted us to read newspapers, trade publications, magazines, corporate reports, legitimate financial analyses. He wanted to ignore the junk-and there's a lot of junk in this business-and try to dig for the reality. Ronald always said you couldn't really trust people but you could trust ideas and facts."