John Hawks - The Dark River

“Vicki?”

“I’m here.”

Maya pulled back one of the tarps and found Victory From Sin Fraser sitting on a cot, counting currency from several different countries. In Los Angeles, Vicki had been a modestly dressed member of the Divine Church of Isaac T. Jones. Now she was wearing what she called her artist costume-embroidered blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a Balinese necklace. Her hair was braided and there was a bead at the end of each strand.

Vicki glanced up from the stacks of money and smiled. “Another shipment arrived at the Brooklyn apartment. I wanted to check our current total.”

The women’s clothes were stored in cardboard boxes or hung from a dress rack that Hollis had bought on Seventh Avenue. Maya pulled off her overcoat and slipped it onto a plastic hanger.

“What happened when you met the Russian? Hollis said he probably wanted to sell you another handgun.”

“He offered me a special weapon, but it’s expensive.” Maya sat down on her folding cot and briefly described the ceramic gun.

“Seed to sapling,” Vicki said as she slipped a rubber band on a packet of hundred-dollar bills.

By now, Maya was familiar with a variety of phrases from the collected letters of Isaac Jones, the founder of Vicki’s church. Seed to sapling, sapling to tree meant that you should always consider the possible consequences of your actions.

“We have the money, but it’s a dangerous weapon,” Vicki continued. “If criminals got control of it, they could use it to hurt innocent people.”

“It’s the same with any weapon.”

“Will you promise to destroy it when we’re finally in a safe place?”

Harlekine versprechen nichts , Maya thought in German. Harlequins don’t promise . It was like hearing her father’s voice. “I will consider destroying it,” she told Vicki. “That’s all I can say.”

As Vicki continued counting the money, Maya changed her clothes. If she was meeting Aronov near the concert halls at Lincoln Center, then she had to look as if she were going out for a social evening. That meant ankle boots, black dress pants, a blue sweater, and a wool peacoat. Because of the money involved, she decided to carry a handgun: a short-barreled.357 Magnum revolver with an aluminum frame. The pants were loose enough to conceal an ankle holster.

Maya’s throwing knife was held with an elastic bandage on her right arm while a push knife was worn on her left arm, close to the wrist. The push knife had a sharp triangular blade with a T-shaped handle. Holding the handle in your fist, you punched at your target with all your strength.

Vicki had stopped counting the money. She looked shy and a little embarrassed. “I have a problem, Maya. I thought-maybe-we could talk about it.”

“Go on…”

“I’m getting close to Hollis. And I don’t know what to do about it. He’s had a lot of girlfriends, and I’m not very experienced.” She shook her head. “In fact, I’m not experienced at all.”

Maya had watched the growing attraction between Hollis and Vicki. It was the first time she had ever noticed the evolution of two people who were falling in love. At first, their eyes followed each other when one of them got up from the table. Then they leaned forward slightly when the other person was talking. When they were apart, they spoke about the other person in a bubbly, foolish manner. The whole experience made Maya realize that her father and her mother had never been in love. They respected each other and had a strong commitment to the alliance of their marriage. But that wasn’t love. Harlequins weren’t interested in that emotion.

Maya slipped the revolver into the ankle holster. She made sure that the Velcro safety strap was fastened, and then pulled her pant leg down so that the cuff touched the top of her boot. “You’re talking to the wrong person,” she said to Vicki. “I can’t give you any advice.”

The Harlequin took nine thousand dollars off the cot and headed for the door. She felt strong at that moment-ready for combat-but the familiar surroundings reminded her of Vicki’s help during her recovery. Vicki had fed Maya, changed her bandages, and sat on the couch beside her when she was in pain. She was a friend.

Damn friends , Maya thought. Harlequins acknowledged obligations to one another, but friendship with citizens was regarded as a waste of time. During her brief attempt to live a normal life in London, Maya had dated men and socialized with the women who worked with her at a design studio. But none of these people were her friends. They could never understand the peculiar way she saw the world; that she was always hunted-always ready to attack.

Her hand touched the latch, but she didn’t open the door. Look at the facts , she told herself. Cut your heart open and dissect your feelings. You’re jealous of Vicki. That’s all. Jealous of someone else’s happiness .

She returned to the sleeping area. “I’m sorry I said that, Vicki. There are a lot of things going on right now.”

“I know. It was wrong of me to bring this up.”

“I respect you and Hollis. I want you both to be happy. Let’s talk about it when I get back tonight.”

“Okay.” Vicki relaxed and smiled. “We can do that.”

Maya felt better when she finally got out of the building. Her favorite hour was approaching: the transition between day and night. Before the streetlights went on, the air seemed to be filled with little black specks of darkness. Shadows lost their sharp edges and boundaries faded away. Like a knife blade, sharp and clean, she passed through the gaps in the crowd and cut through the city.

Maya walked north from the alleyways of Chinatown to the broad avenues of Midtown Manhattan. This was the visible city, where the Vast Machine asserted its control. But Maya knew there was an intricate world beneath the pavement, a labyrinth of subway lines, railroad tracks, forgotten passageways, and utility tunnels lined with electric cables. Half of New York was hidden from sight, burrowed deep within the bedrock that supported the tenements in Spanish Harlem as well as the glass towers on Park Avenue. And there was a parallel world of humanity that was hidden as well, different groups of heretics and true believers, illegal immigrants with false papers and respectable citizens with secret lives.

An hour later she was standing on the marble steps that led to the Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts. The theater and concert buildings were on the perimeter of a large plaza with a lighted fountain at the center. Most of the performances hadn’t started yet, but musicians wearing black clothes and carrying instrument cases hurried up the steps and cut across the plaza to different concert halls. Maya shifted the money to a zippered pocket inside her jacket, then glanced over her shoulder. There were two surveillance cameras in clear view, but they were aimed at crowds near the fountain.

A taxi pulled up to the arrival area. Aronov was sitting in the back. When he gestured with his hand, Maya came down the steps and got in beside the Russian.

“Good evening, Miss Strand. How pleasant to see you again.”

“The gun has to work or no sale.”

“Of course.” Aronov gave directions to the driver, a young man with a spiky haircut, and they pulled back onto the street. Within a few blocks, they were on Ninth Avenue, heading south.

“You brought the money?” he asked.

“No more than we discussed.”

“You are a very suspicious person, Miss Strand. Perhaps I should hire you as an assistant.”

As they crossed Forty-second Street, Aronov took a ballpoint pen and a leather-bound notebook out of his pocket as if he were about to write a memo. The Russian began to talk about his favorite nightclub in Staten Island and the exotic dancer there who had once been a member of the Moscow Ballet. It was meaningless chatter, something a car salesman would say as he guided you around the lot. Maya wondered if the ceramic gun was a fake and if Aronov was planning to steal the money. Or maybe it was nothing. He knows I’m carrying a handgun , Maya thought. He sold it to me .