Russell Andrews - Aphrodite

"Can't call out," he said to Deena. "These are for incoming calls only."

"What kind of office is this?" she asked.

Justin shook his head. He went around and checked all the machines. Not one of them showed that any messages were waiting to be picked up. He went to one of the machines, pressed the Menu button, and followed the instructions until he could play the outgoing message. A man's voice came on and announced, "You've reached Ed Marion. I'm not at home right now. Please leave a message after the tone and I'll return the call as soon as I can. Thank you." He did the same on each machine. Nine of them had the same message from Ed Marion, the man who'd said he was William Miller's nephew. Nine of the phone machines had identical messages but they weren't left by Marion, but by a woman, Helen Roag. Justin looked up, saw the question in Deena's eyes, shook his head again because that was the only answer he had. He took a deep breath, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed. In a few seconds, his call was connected.

"Gary, it's Westwood," he said, and before the cop at the other end of the phone could sputter his name or say anything at all, he added, firmly and loudly, knowing that the tone would stop Gary cold, at least for a few seconds, "Don't say anything. Don't let on who you're talking to. You understand?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Just listen to me. I'm going to ask you to do me a favor. It means you're going to have to trust me. And I'm going to have to trust you. I don't want you to say anything to Rollins or even to Jimmy."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't know who's involved in what. Or where there are leaks. And I don't want you to end up like your pal Brian."

There was a long pause after that. Then Gary said, "What makes you trust me?"

"What you saw and what I think that probably did to you." Justin then breathed out a faint laugh. "And you told me to stop smoking. It was a nice thing to say and you looked like you meant it. It's pretty thin but it's all I've got right now."

There was another long pause. Justin was certain that the images from Brian's living room were running through Gary's mind.

"What do you want?" the young cop asked. And from the way he lowered his voice Justin knew he was going to go along with him.

"I need more phone information. Similar to what you got for me before." He gave him Growth Industries' address and the names Ed Marion and Helen Roag. "There are eighteen phone lines coming into that office. I want the records of every incoming call on all of those numbers for the last three months. That's one thing. I also want you to find out who gets the bills and where they're sent. And I want you to get me as much information as you can on Marion and Roag. Check the tri-state area and Massachusetts, too. I want to get a home address and any phone numbers, including cells. I want anything you can get on them. I'm guessing on the spelling of Roag, but if you don't find anything, run through any variation that makes sense."

"Yeah," Gary said. "I got it."

"I meant what I said before, too."

"About what?"

"About keeping this quiet. And about staying alive."

"How do I get the stuff to you?"

"Take down my cell number. When you've got it, call me and we'll figure it out. Don't leave the number lying around, either. Don't let Agent Rollins see it. Or Jimmy either, for that matter. Try to be smart here."

"What's going on, Justin?" Gary said. And suddenly he didn't sound like a cop. He sounded like a scared twenty-four-year-old kid.

"I don't know," Justin told him. "But I appreciate the help. And the first day I can, I'll take you out for a drink as a little thank-you."

"I didn't know about you."

"What?"

"I didn't know all the stuff that's come out, that's been in the news. I mean, I didn't know what had happened to you."

"No," Justin said. "You wouldn't."

"Well, I read all about it. And Jimmy told me some stuff, too. Since it's out in the open now." When Justin didn't respond, Gary said, "I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago, I guess."

"They're pretty pissed off at you here. You watch yourself."

"Ditto," Justin said. "If they know you're doing this, they'll be pretty pissed off at you, too." And then he hung up.

"What now?" Deena asked.

Justin looked at Kendall, leaned down so they were eye to eye. "Is there one food your mommy doesn't like you to eat?"

"More than one," Kendall said. "She's a health nut, you know. Right, Mom?"

"That's right, sweetie. I'm definitely a health nut."

"Well, what's the worst?" Justin asked.

"A tie. Chocolate and french fries," the little girl said.

Justin stood up and stretched his arms. "I'm starving," he told his two traveling companions. "What say we go out and get some french fries and chocolate. I think we all deserve it."

The dream came again that night.

He shouldn't have been surprised. Even as he woke up, felt his shortness of breath, Justin knew that this dream wasn't merely a gut-wrenching reminder of the past. It was a warning about the future. About the violence and danger and death that were all around them.

His instincts had dulled but they had not completely disappeared. His nostrils were filled with the scent of fear. What he didn't know- what one never knows, he thought-was whether he would be strong enough to fight off the fear and make sure they all survived.

It's why the dream kept haunting him; he understood that. It wasn't just the losses he'd suffered. Nor was it the exposure to genuine malevolence. It was the despairing feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him he hadn't been strong enough-or quick enough, or smart enough, or tough enough or mean enough or caring enough-to protect the people he had loved.

It had been his fault, everything that had happened. His choices. His decisions. His stubbornness. His life.

Their deaths.

The dream was shorter tonight. It spared him the pleasure and brought him right to the pain. He woke up to the image of himself, lying on the floor, feeling the river of blood spread beneath him. He could feel himself turning and he could see the remarkably vacant eyes staring down at him. It was a new detail, these eyes, and it forced him to remember that they had not been hate-filled or vicious. They were the eyes of a sociopath, calm and unemotional. They were the eyes of someone doing his job. Doing what he had been bred to do.

The image of Lili's body was there, of course. Broken and crumpled. And he could see her eyes, too. Desperate and sad, in so much pain. Confused and pleading with him for help. In real life, there had been no pleading. Things had happened too fast. But in his dream, the sadness in her eyes lingered long after her life had ended.

Alicia's eyes were in the dream too. Large and round and brown. And accusing. Staring and accusing.

Then there was the final bang, the last shot. It filled his head like an explosion, and then he woke up to find himself sweating and afraid of the violence that was sure to come.

Justin heard a door swing open and suddenly the dream didn't matter. He hurled himself toward the bed table, grabbed his gun. His hands were shaking as he pointed it toward the door, toward the figure that was standing in the shadows. He exhaled a long and quivering breath when he heard a woman's voice say, in hushed tones, "Are you all right?"

Justin focused his eyes on Deena, peering at him from behind the door that linked their adjoining rooms. He put the gun down.

"You cried out," she said. "I heard you. I thought-"

"I'm fine," he told her.

"I got frightened."

He nodded. "Yeah. Me too, I guess."

"Did you have a bad dream?"

He thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Just the usual."