Blood Trust - Eric van Lustbader [44]
“The police have issued a warrant for my niece’s arrest in connection with this disaster,” he said without preamble.
Jenkins looked like he’d just lost his beloved pet dog. “Hank—”
Carson held up a hand. “I want you two to find Alli before the police do.”
“Hank, this is inadvisable,” the attorney said. “Inserting yourself into a second—”
Carson glared at him. “What did I tell you?”
“You pay me to protect you.”
“I’m thinking of Alli now,” Carson snapped.
“When we find her,” Naomi said, “then what?”
“Call me,” Carson said. “I’ll tell you where to bring her.”
“Hank, I’m an officer of the court,” Jenkins protested. “I can’t be a part of what is most certainly a felony crime, and I can’t allow you to be part of it, either.”
“I can’t hear you, Counselor. You’re not here.” Carson cocked his head. “In fact, I’m quite certain I just heard you drive away.” He addressed the two Secret Service agents. “Harrison Jenkins isn’t here, is he?”
“No, sir,” Naomi said.
McKinsey shook his head.
“Christ on a crutch.” Shaking his head, Jenkins took his leave, picking his way back to where his car was parked.
“Now then,” Carson said, taking a deep breath.
“Sir, with all due respect,” McKinsey interjected, “we’re Secret Service.”
“My niece is still Edward Carson’s daughter, all that’s left of the former First Family,” Carson said shortly. Then he waved a hand dismissively. “Besides, I cleared it with your boss. For the time being, you report to me and to me alone. Is that clear?”
“Yessir,” they said more or less simultaneously.
“Then what are you still doing here? Get to it.”
* * *
ALLI, COCOONED in a blanket Jack kept in the trunk of his car, smiled up at him, then fell back to sleep. Jack bent over her, kissed her lightly on the forehead, adjusted the blanket slighty, then tiptoed out of the room.
He found Thatë down the hall, listening to Kid Cudi on his iPod, a pair of cheap earbuds cutting him off from the rest of the world. Jack pulled the cord and as the buds popped out of the teenager’s ear, said, “Everything’s going to sound like crap with those.”
Thatë shrugged. “It’s supposed to sound like crap. That’s the point.”
Jack wanted to tell him how ignorant he sounded, but instead, sat down in a chair opposite the kid and said, “Take a listen with these.” He handed him the Monster Copper earbuds he had bought to listen to the music on Emma’s iPod, an essential part of her he was never without.
Thatë shrugged, supremely indifferent, as he plugged in the earbuds and fit them into his ears. Three seconds after he pressed Play, his eyes opened wide, and he turned to Jack and mouthed, “Fuck me!”
Jack watched him listening to music he’d never really heard before. They were in a kitchen-cum–living room, tattered and gloomy in an all too authentic way that would make most young Goths cream in their tight black trousers.
Thatë lived in a bombed-out building in a section of Southeast Washington that could have been Beirut. The neighborhood was as desolate as a creaking old tree in winter. Out on the pocked and pitted street, trash held a special position of reverence. It was used as clothing, housing, shelter from a storm. The endless inventiveness of the destitute was forever on display. Inside, bare bulbs hung from lengths of wire, though at any given moment the electricity might or might not work. In one corner, the ceiling plaster was distended like a pregnant woman’s nine-month belly, sopping with moisture, as if she had just broken her water. In the tiny, airless bathroom, there was a plastic bucket of water beside the toilet to ensure flushing. The apartment smelled of old pizza and pot. Forget dust; soot was everywhere, greasily ingrained on every horizontal surface. Occasionally, small sounds came from inside the walls, as if creatures were scuttling through the tenement’s arteries and veins.
As for Thatë, he seemed perfectly at home in a place that had the impermanence of