Sleight of Hand Read Online Free PDF Page B

Tiley’s is the building at the end.”
    “Ah, thanks! I’ve been looking for ages.” He pushed his glasses futilely back up his sweaty nose. “Sorry if I gave you a scare with the car. You did kind of surprise me.”
    He drove off with a wave to where I had pointed. I watched him follow my instructions. It’s as if men are welded to the car seat. Why can’t they just get out and ask someone?
    I made it back to the office without being attacked by any more nearsighted drivers.
     
    Tullah had gone off to her classes at college. That was part of the deal we had cut, that she would only be here when she could. Sometimes her mother came in for her. She was an impressive woman, Mary Autplumes. A full blood Arapaho, she was married to my Kung Fu teacher, Master Liu Leung, hence the train crash of last names that left Tullah calling herself Autplumes-Leung.
    Between Mary and Liu, I wasn’t sure which one of them scared me most, but their daughter was a joy.
    Except for her last name, the mixture had worked well for Tullah. She had a fresh-faced look with exotic, half-Chinese eyes and long dark hair. She was always cheerful. She was good for me and the office. I didn’t look forward to her graduating and getting a real job.
    Right on cue as I sat down, the cell bleeped at me. I peered at the caller ID and flipped it open.
    “Colonel,” I said.
    “Sergeant.” We weren’t big on formalities or small talk. “Tomorrow afternoon, fourteen hundred, your office?”
    “Okay,” I said and the line went dead.
    I logged in and marked it on the calendar, more for Tullah than me. I didn’t forget meetings with Colonel Laine.
    At that point, I finally got the opportunity to sit back and feel pissed off.
    It wasn’t that I had a problem with Jennifer Kingslund herself. I liked her as a person. Her story was a bit vague and she wasn’t telling me everything, but I’m used to that. No, the first thing that was getting to me about taking this job was that I couldn’t afford to turn it down. I hated being in that position.
    Then there was the ‘weird’ stuff. There are whole days when I forget and act as if I’m a normal person. But I’m not, and there are things out there that aren’t either.
    Weird stuff had gotten close to killing me. The fewer people who could link me to weird stuff, the safer I would be. I should have run a mile. Instead, I was dying to get into the case. It would stop me from going out and doing safe, well-paid surveillance on some cheating spouse. Adrenaline is addictive.
    The weird stuff started a couple of years ago. I was doing a job I loved in the army, in special operations, a covert battalion called Ops 4-10. I had a clear role and well-understood objectives in a unit I respected. I had colleagues to watch my back, friends and more. And it had all changed in one blinding, terrifying night in the South American jungle.
    My hand unconsciously touched my throat. There was nothing to see now, not even scars, but still, a phantom sensation tingled the ends of my fingers, as if I could feel the wounds. According to the medic in the relief squad, half my throat had been torn out. I’d healed in five days. There were some benefits to what had happened. Among the not-benefits was waking up in an isolation cell.
    I got the mirror from the desk drawer and looked at myself, touching my face, as if I expected it to feel different today. I checked my canines. Normal. No sign of the ticking time bomb in my blood.
    My desk was clear except for my photos. They were there to give me inspiration when I needed it.
    “Guys, I need it now,” I whispered.
    I picked up the picture of my Dad, Blane Farrell. He’s standing in Wash Park, midway through explaining the way the latest toy works. It’s some water powered rocket whose sole purpose seems to be to get everyone wet. His hair, always unruly, is having a bad day and sticks out at all angles, but on him it looks good. His handsome face is serious, because, well,