Damnable Page 4

  “How did you get that red mark on your forehead?”

  Hatcher thought about how to answer that, couldn’t come up with anything. “I’m not sure you want to know, Colonel.”

  “I figured as much,” Owens said. “Look, Gillis is an asshole. But he’s our asshole, so I have to make do. The harsh truth is, this kind of job needs assholes. By the way, do you know why you piss him off? Why he’s got such a hard-on for you?”

  “You mean, besides the shoulder?”

  Owens waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, besides that. I know all about what happened there. I’ve got plenty of people who’ll give me the scoop on things. The fact that he had it coming is the only reason you didn’t tack on a few years. I was talking about before that.”

  Hatcher had asked himself the same questions. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I have an idea.”

  Hatcher said nothing, waiting for Owens to continue. He was actually starting to like the man. He couldn’t imagine that lasting long.

  “You scare him,” Owens said, picking up a file from his desk. “Evidently, you scare a lot of people. He’s just the latest one. SF, insertion teams. Quite a résumé. You were a Kitten, weren’t you?”

  Hatcher held the man’s gaze, trying not to show any reaction. That information could not have been in his file.

  “Relax. I have an old ROTC buddy who’s at Langley now. I had him do some digging. I know a dummy personnel record when I see one. Just like I know a bullshit charge.”

  “Why am I here, Colonel?”

  Owens slid his chair closer to the desk, clasped his hands, and rested them on his blotter. His pleasant expression dissolved into an austere frown of concern. “Yesterday we received a priority message from the Red Cross. I had to have CID look into it before I told you. I’m sorry to say, it all checked out. Son, there’s no easy way to say this. Your brother Garrett is dead. Killed in a traffic accident in New York a few days ago. I’m sorry.”

  “My brother?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid so.” Owens picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and held it out. Hatcher leaned forward out of his chair and took it. “Your mother contacted the Red Cross. From what I’ve been told, she didn’t know you were in here.”

  Hatcher looked at the message. It was a humanitarian application for an emergency hardship release. It requested that Jacob R. Hatcher, Prisoner, be granted leave from custody to attend the funeral of his brother Garrett E. Hatcher, aka Garrett E. Nolan, Deceased, at the behest of his mother, Karen P. Woodard, fka Karen P. Hatcher, Applicant, and to be given additional time to assist with related family matters. It included contact information for his mother, the funeral home, and the Red Cross.

  “Since you’re only eight weeks or so from finishing your sentence, I ran it by the provost. On my recommendation, he decided to grant the request.”

  “But, I don’t understand. This can’t be . . .”

  “I know it’s hard. It always is. I don’t grant these things often. I’m approving you for thirty days. You’ll still be considered in custody, but you’ll be free to travel to tend to your family. At the end of thirty days, I expect you to report back in. If you do, and you’ve kept your nose clean, I’m inclined to out-process you for an additional release. It will take a couple of days, but I have the authority to approve it. That would be terminal.”

  “Colonel, I really don’t . . . Are you saying you’re letting me go?”

  “You’ll still be considered a prisoner, but yes. A thirty-day hardship release. And like I said, if things go well, I’m willing to allow you to out-process upon your return.”

  “Forgive me, Colonel, but this . . . Why are you doing this?”

  “Part of it is because I know what happened to you over there. Maybe not the whole story, but I know the forces that put you here. Normally, it’s not my concern. But when there’s been a tragedy like this, well, let’s just say this is a chance to do something right. Lord knows, we don’t get many.”

  “You said that was part of it.”

  “Frankly, the other part is Gillis. I’m not sure he knows what he’s messing with in a guy like you. Turns out your psych evals were missing from your Pentagon file. Can’t prove it, of course, but I’m pretty sure that was his doing. It’s obvious he’s become obsessed with you, as much as he tries to hide it. I don’t want any scandals on my watch. If either of you turns up dead or crippled, well, it wouldn’t help my bid for full bird, now, would it?”

  Something weird was going on, but Hatcher was too confused to figure out what and his head hurt from even trying. Owens had called him a Kitten. Coercive Interrogation Tactician. Very few people knew about that, that such a thing even existed. It was both the reason he was prosecuted, and the reason he only got twelve months confinement rather than life. His initial thought was the army was setting him up. But Hatcher trusted his ability to read people, honed through years of experience in extracting information, and Owens seemed to be putting his cards on the table. He appeared genuinely sympathetic and was likely telling the truth about his contact with the spooks. Probably was one of the guys who thought torturing the enemy was acceptable and that prosecuting GIs for trying to win the damn war wasn’t. Whatever this was about, Hatcher was confident it didn’t involve Owens. Somewhat confident.

  Which was good, because he was the one apparently about to let Hatcher go.

  “My secretary is preparing the necessary forms, and you’ll have to out-process through admin, but it shouldn’t take too long. Photo, exit prints, and lots of signatures. A couple of hours at the most. A driver will take you to the local Red Cross office. They’ll help arrange for a set of civilian clothes and a plane ticket.”

  “I’m not sure what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Again, I’m sorry.”

  Hatcher stared at Owens for several seconds before dropping his eyes and rereading the message. “Would it be possible for me to make a phone call? In private, that is.”

  The colonel considered it, then nodded. “Yes. You can use my phone.” He slid a large phone with a bank of buttons running down the length of it toward Hatcher. “Use line two. Dial nine for an outside line. I’ll be back in five minutes. I’m bending the rules here. Don’t make me regret it.”

  Hatcher picked up the handset and waited for Owens to leave the room. Phone calls from the RCF were expensive and monitored, so the colonel really was doing him a favor. He waited for a standard dial tone before keying in the number contained in the message. Someone picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Hello?”

  He took in a breath, tilted his head back. “Mom. It’s Jake.”

  “Jacob? Jacob, is that really you? It’s so good to hear your voice! Are you okay?”

  The tinny voice on the line had an alien familiarity to it. It was the voice in his memory, but not the one he remembered. Twelve years was a long time.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “All things considered.”

  “I couldn’t believe it when they told me. I thought I was getting in touch with your unit. I almost cried when they said you were in jail.”

  “Look, Mom—”

  “Are they . . . letting you out? I mean, the Red Cross said they were going to request that. Are they going to let you out for the funeral?”

  “Yes. But listen—”

  “I feel horrible you had to find out this way. Jake, your father is very ill. Garrett dying . . . I don’t think he’s handling it well. I know this must all come as a shock. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

  Hatcher sighed. “Yes, Mom, you are.”

  “I’m sorry, I just get a little excited, that’s all. You must have a lot of questions.”

  “You got that right. Like, for starters”—he looked down at the message, scanned the text about Garrett Hatcher’s death—“since when do I have a brother?”

  CHAPTER 2

  LINDSAY WAS THINKING SHE HAD NEVER SEEN AN APART
MENT so mansionlike or a view of Central Park so sprawling when it occurred to her she had never set foot in a penthouse before. Maybe they were all this way.

  She was starting to sense this gig had serious potential. She’d just been offered a brandy. Not a beer or a joint or—God help her—a Spanish fly. A brandy. It was practically something out of a movie. And to top it off, the guy wasn’t even bad-looking. Reasonably tall, lean, and clean-shaven. Maybe an old thirty or a young forty, maybe somewhere in between. Nice head of hair, brown and wavy. And those eyes. Intense didn’t begin to describe them. Like a pair of emerald lasers. Guy like that who wasn’t gay was probably married, but she figured that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. She’d always heard married guys made the best regulars.

  He held out a large glass with a wide, bulbous bottom. She felt obliged to hold it the same way he did, fingers curled beneath it, stem slid between her middle fingers. The small amount of liquor swishing around the bottom had a strong aroma. She took a sip. It sent a tingle through her tongue. The taste was unusual. Unusual and expensive.

  “It’s sweet,” she said, letting out a giggle that was half genuine. “It’s warming my belly already.”

  “Please, have a seat.”

  She settled onto a leather sofa. It was a deep chocolate brown with a hint of red, almost a burgundy. The cushion gave and she felt the smooth material compress around her.

  “So,” she said. “With a name like Valentine, you must steal all the girls’ hearts.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  She wanted badly to use his first name, to set that familiar tone. What the hell was it again? Christ, he had just told her, not five minutes ago. She was always doing that, letting names drop from her head. Why couldn’t she just have them stick? Something-something Valentine. Artemis? Artemis Valentine? Could be.

  Valentine took a seat across from her in a chair with dark wooden legs shaped like paws and a broad oval back. She thought he looked quite distinguished in his navy blazer against the lavender of the crushed velvet.

  “Do you live here alone?”

  “Lucas has a room.”

  She raised an eyebrow, cocked her head slightly. The guy who had picked her up was big, muscular. Bald, with a mustache that curved down and swooped up into sideburns. She’d been scared to go with him at first, but he was driving that limo, and had pulled out that wad. Besides, that voice of his, squeaky for such a giant, convinced her he was harmless.

  Valentine gave a dismissive wag of his chin. “Servant’s quarters.”

  “Servant’s quarters? Is he, like, your chauffeur? Or butler? I didn’t know people actually had servants. Not anymore, I mean. Does that make you his master?”

  “More like an assistant, but yes, technically he’s my servant. He has his own apartment, but stays here when convenient. Other than that, it’s just me. Unless you count pets.”

  “Oh, I love animals,” she said. She watched him watch her over the edge of his glass as he took a sip. She could tell he wanted to check her out, so she gave him the chance, letting her eyes wander the room. It was a spacious study, paneled in deep walnut with bookshelves running from the floor to the vaulted ceiling, a huge glass desk set atop the curved tips of scrimshawed elephant tusks, and a walk-in fireplace with an enormous mantel of green marble. But it was that stunning penthouse view she kept going back to. All those leafy treetops, round and lush like rows of broccoli, a vast body of rough green water shimmering in the breeze. The skyline of the east side formed the opposite bank, steel and glass and cement in all its metropolitan glory. She could only imagine what it looked like at night.

  “I’m sure they love you, too.”

  She spread her lips into a thin, mischievous smile. “And what about you? Do I bring out the animal in you?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Well, Artemis—”

  “Demetrius.”

  Damn. “Demetrius.” She settled back, inclining a bit. She ran a French-manicured finger around the rim of her glass. “In that case, I take it you like what you see?”

  Valentine hitched his shoulders, spread his hands. The jigger of brandy sloshed in his snifter. “What’s not to like?”

  He was right about that, she thought. She had it going on, no doubt. The mirror didn’t lie if you wanted the truth out of it. All the pieces were in place; she’d spent a good deal of time seeing to it. Blonde hair in a Cleopatra cut. Creamy tan from hours stretched out between fluorescent bulbs. Curvy in the breasts and ass, but not too loose in the abs. Nice calves. She was proud of her calves.

  She shifted in her seat, hiking up a bit of her skirt. Proud of those thighs, too. No cottage cheese. That was what iPods and treadmills were for.

  “It will cost you six hundred. Animal-style included. That doesn’t count the two hundred your man-slave paid me to come.”

  He frowned, swirling his brandy in a tight circle, obviously contemplating her words. “He’s not a man-slave. And that’s a lot of money.”

  “Not to the guy who chills out in this room it isn’t,” she said, swiveling her head and indicating their surroundings with her eyes.

  Valentine nodded, then raised his glass before taking a sip. “Touché.”

  Lindsay worried she may have been too flip. Perhaps man-slave wasn’t the smartest thing to say. She had to learn to be more careful with her jokes. People could be so sensitive. Never knew who you might offend, or why.

  “What do you do?” she asked.

  “I created a search engine.”

  “Is that, like, Internet stuff?”

  “Yes,” Valentine said, smiling wryly. “I sold it to a large dot-com for a lot of money.”

  “Neat. Well, what do you think, Demetrius?” She ran the tip of her tongue across her upper lip, still caressing the rim of her glass, careful not to overdo it. “Would you like me to get friendly with you?”

  “I have to warn you. My tastes are a bit unorthodox.”

  Lindsay allowed herself a grin. What was it with rich guys? Get some money in the bank, and a fuck and a blow job suddenly wasn’t as interesting as getting pissed on or lashed with a cat-o’-nine-tails.

  “It might cost a bit more, depending on what you had in mind.” She had already decided she’d go without a condom if he asked. Swallow, too. Rich guys didn’t have AIDS or herpes. Hollywood types, maybe, but not guys like this. She was bucking for the repeat business.

  “How do you feel about . . . bondage?” he asked.

  “Kinky fellow, huh? Sorry, I’m not really into S and M. Not my thing.”

  “I take that to mean it’s a matter of price.”

  She shook her head, thinking, You can tie me up and shove a gag ball in my mouth twice a week for six hundred bucks a go. “I’m really not interested.”

  Valentine reached behind the lapel of his navy blazer and produced a long, flat leather breast secretary. He removed a series of bills from it and set them on the edge of the coffee table, one at a time.

  “That’s a thousand.”

  Lindsay uncrossed her legs and tilted forward, inclining her head and examining the money. Her knees were touching and her ankles were splayed, heels turned out. Guys always seemed to like that kind of pose, vulnerable and sexy. Schoolgirl sexy. Made them think she was letting her guard down, looking hot without trying.

  She held the glass across her lap, tapped a finger against her chin. Easy money was the stuff dreams were made of, and this guy was a dream come true.

  “The more you lay out there, the more interested I might become.”

  “I think that’s enough,” Valentine said. “Wouldn’t want you to lose respect for me.”

  “A thousand, huh?” She did a mental count again, making sure there were ten, looking forward to that new Coach purse. This would be more than she had ever made for one time. A lot more. “I suppose I could do it for that. Consider it an introductory price. If you like it, maybe we can do this again sometime.”

  Valentine leaned forwar
d. “Who knows, maybe I’ll steal your heart and not have to pay you anything.”

  Lindsay crinkled her nose, laughing with him, and then reached across the table to gather the money. She was still laughing when she put it in her clutch. He didn’t stop her. She decided this Demetrius guy was all right. If by some miracle he was the one John in a thousand who wasn’t lousy in bed, hell, the mood she was in she might not even have to fake one.

  She set the clutch down on the cushion and circled the coffee table. She took his brandy and placed it next to hers, then eased herself onto his lap and laid her arms over his shoulders.

  “Are you ready to show me your bedroom?” She slid a hand down his tie, lifting it out away from his shirt. It was a deep scarlet, soft but so thick it felt stiff. “Or are you going to tie me up right here?”

  He didn’t move as she brushed her lips against his and rested her forehead against his brow, bringing a finger up to touch his mouth.

  “I had something more specialized in mind,” he said.

  She felt his weight shift forward and she pushed herself off his lap as he stood. He held out his hand and led her to the wall of shelving behind his desk. So many books, with titles she didn’t recognize or couldn’t read, a lot of them almost falling apart, cracked and flaking. More books than she could imagine a person reading. And not a paperback among them.

  He gestured for her to stay where she was as he stepped forward and pulled on one of the spines. A section of books popped open on a hinge, a solid façade, revealing a small black plate. Valentine pressed his thumb against the plate, causing a glowing light to glide down from inside it. A click, then the sound of gears engaging, and the wall of shelving split down the middle and opened outward, divided into two equal sections.

  Behind the wall was a room about twenty feet wide. A queen-size bed sat in the middle, a metal bar with angled ends suspended above it, hanging by two heavy-duty chains. A pair of leather cuffs was attached to the bar, and an assortment of straps hung limply from the center. Just behind the bed a curtain of red velvet draped in folds and puddled in sections along the tiled floor, a pelmet with theatrical ruffles and golden fringes running along the length of it near the ceiling.