The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [60]
Who are you? [Enter]
> A friend.
> Make that a secret friend.
Again the reply came quickly, but somehow these words were not comforting.
If you're a friend, where can I find you? [Enter]
> Look out your window, Miss Falling Hawk.
Dread spilled into Deirdre's chest. Her body seemed to move of its own volition as she rose from the chair and moved to the window. Outside, full night had fallen. A few cars passed down the quiet side street; a cat ran along the sidewalk. Then she saw it across the way: a dark figure standing just on the edge of a pool of light beneath a streetlamp. The figure moved. Had it nodded? There was something in its hands.
“Why are you watching me?” she whispered. “What do you want?”
A chime sounded behind her. She turned and glanced at the computer screen.
> I want the same thing you do.
> To understand.
So the other was listening as well as watching. Later she would tear the flat apart and find the bug. Now she kept her back to the window. “I don't believe you,” she said, the words sharp and angry this time.
More words scrolled across the computer screen.
> He's coming.
> You should be careful of what other eyes see.
A knock sounded at the door. Deirdre had to bite her tongue to keep from letting out a cry. At the same moment, the computer screen flickered; the words vanished, and the results of Deirdre's previous searches reappeared—the keystone and the DNA analysis. She glanced again out the window. The pool of light beneath the streetlamp was empty.
Another knock sounded at the door, this one more impatient than the last.
“Coming!” Deirdre called out. She slammed the computer shut, then headed for the door. Her hands were shaking, and she fumbled with the dead bolt before jerking the door open.
A man she had never seen before stood in the hallway. At first she wondered if he was the one she had glimpsed beneath the streetlamp. But she had seen the other just seconds before the knock came at her door; he couldn't have gotten all the way up to her third-floor flat so quickly. Besides, the dark silhouette she had seen had been tall and slender, almost willowy.
In contrast, the man before her was not particularly tall and anything but willowy. The elegant lines of his Italian suit were mostly defeated by the muscles that bulged beneath, straining the fabric. His white-blond hair was cropped close to his head; nor was its color natural, given his short, dark beard. His eyes were shockingly blue above craggy, pitted cheeks.
Deirdre was too startled to say anything but, “Can I help you?”
The man smiled, his blue eyes crinkling. The effect was quite riveting.
“I'm Anders,” he said in a voice at once gravelly and offensively cheerful. She couldn't quite place the accent. New Zealand? Australia? “I'm sure Nakamura told you about me. I blew into town earlier than I expected. You weren't at the office, so I thought I'd stop by.”
Deirdre tried to comprehend these words but failed utterly. “Excuse me, but who the hell are you?”
Still smiling, he held out a large hand.
“Come now, Deirdre. That's no way to greet your new partner.”
16.
If Travis had thought returning to Denver would be like coming home again, then he was wrong. All of those thoughts and feelings that might occur to one when considering the word home—things like warmth and comfort and safety—were only shadows here. They were thin and vaporous things, haunting every street corner, fogging every bright shop window: reminders of what was lost and could never be regained. No, this was not his home, and he was anything but safe.
Travis shoved raw hands into the pockets of his battered parka as he trudged down Sixteenth Street. He kept watch out of the corners of his eyes, glancing left and right, staying vigilant as he always must. The sky was as gray as the cement beneath his duct-taped sneakers, and hard bits of ice fell from above like shards of glass. He hunched his shoulders toward his ears. The kindly Chinook