UnDivided
Page 64
“You’ve been the subject of much discussion,” Dandrich says, “and we’ve decided that your greatest potential lies in our fund-raising division.”
“Fund-raising?”
“There are people who would like to get to know you on a close, personal level,” he says. “Important people. Some very wealthy, some very powerful.”
“So . . . you’re going to introduce me to these people?”
“Not personally, but I assure you, you will be in good hands.” He opens the door, where two more beefy men in suits await. “My associates here will escort you to your new assignment.” Then he shakes Starkey’s hand. “Thank you for all you’ve done. I’m glad that our paths crossed, and that, for a time, our objectives complemented each other. Take care, Mason.” And then he leaves Starkey with the two burly men, who lead him back to the elevator.
“Where am I going, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asks the more intelligent-looking of the two guards as the elevator rises toward the rooftop heliport.
“Uh . . . from what I understand, you’re going lots of places.”
Which is fine with Starkey. He could get used to traveling in style.
31 • Grace
There are simply too many envelopes to mail for this to be a single postal excursion. Grace decides to make three trips—and not all to the same place. She plans multiple trips to multiple zip codes and finds an oversize unmarked shopping bag to carry them in—big enough and sturdy enough to get it done in three trips.
“Less suspicious this way,” she tells Sonia. “So’s if the postmaster general or something gets it into his head to trace all these letters back to a single place, they won’t know where to look ’cept Akron in general, and Akron in general is big—not New York big, but big enough.”
Sonia waves her hand. “Just get it done and don’t talk my ear off.” Which is fine with Grace, who likes being left to her own devices, as long as those devices don’t have too much electronics, like that organ printer. She knows it will take her all day, but that’s okay. It’s something to do, something important, and it gets her out of the basement for a whole day.
Her first two sets of drops go off without a hitch. It’s Sunday, so post offices are closed, but that hasn’t stopped her from paying visits to various mailboxes in strategically random locations. By dusk, she’s hit twelve mailboxes in three different zip codes.
It’s while on her way back to empty out the trunk and mail the last batch of letters that things take a turn. It’s already dusk, closer to the night side than the day, and she begins to think that the third batch will have to wait until tomorrow. The streetlights come on, making the dusk plunge into night—and there beneath a streetlight at the corner, just a few doors away from Sonia’s shop, stands someone who looks familiar. Very familiar. She can see only his profile, but it’s enough.
“Argie?” she says, before she can stop herself. “Argie, is that you?”
At first she’s excited, but then she remembers how things were when she last saw her brother. He won’t have forgiven her. Argent is not the forgiving type. As she gets closer, she can sense that there’s something off about him. Something different in the way he carries himself, like it’s not Argent at all . . . and yet clearly it’s him. She only has to look at his face to know. . . .
Then he turns to her and smiles. “Hello, Grace.”
And she begins to scream. Not because of what she sees but because of what she doesn’t. She doesn’t even feel the tranq dart hit her, because she’s so committed to the scream. She’s still screaming as her legs buckle beneath her and she hits the pavement. Still screaming as her peripheral vision fades. Still screaming as the tranqs drag her down into unconsciousness.
Because when he turned to look at her, Grace didn’t see the other half of Argent’s face. That other half was someone else entirely.
32 • Sonia
She’s absorbed with her favorite playlist of prewar rock, and doesn’t hear Grace’s screams from just twenty yards down the street.
It’s one song later—just after dark—that a man comes into the shop. Sonia takes out her earphones, immediately sizing up the man as a strange one. Strange in an unpleasant sort of way. She’s been repositioning paintings so that they don’t topple over every time some fool customer brushes up against them, and finds herself at a disadvantage being so far from her sales counter. She keeps a revolver beneath that counter. She only had to use it once, when a low-life thug demanded the cash in her register. She pulled out the revolver, and he headed for the hills. She didn’t even have to use it. Right now, the man is standing between her and that revolver.
Putting down the picture she’s holding, she tries to stand as straight as she can, considering her aggravated hip. “Can I help you?”
As he approaches, and comes into clearer focus, she sees what it is about him that’s so disturbing. The left side of his face is that of a middle-aged man. But the right, from just above the jawline, is someone else’s. Someone younger. Facial grafts are not entirely uncommon, but rarely do they preserve the integrity of the donor face. For whatever reason, this man intentionally took not just the skin, but the underlying bone structure of the donor as well. The sight of him is deeply unnerving, which was clearly his intent.
“I hope you can help me,” he says, continuing to saunter toward her. “I’m looking for a very specific chair to complete a set. Solid frame, but a bit unbalanced. Firm, but overstuffed. That is to say, a little full of itself.”
“Fund-raising?”
“There are people who would like to get to know you on a close, personal level,” he says. “Important people. Some very wealthy, some very powerful.”
“So . . . you’re going to introduce me to these people?”
“Not personally, but I assure you, you will be in good hands.” He opens the door, where two more beefy men in suits await. “My associates here will escort you to your new assignment.” Then he shakes Starkey’s hand. “Thank you for all you’ve done. I’m glad that our paths crossed, and that, for a time, our objectives complemented each other. Take care, Mason.” And then he leaves Starkey with the two burly men, who lead him back to the elevator.
“Where am I going, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asks the more intelligent-looking of the two guards as the elevator rises toward the rooftop heliport.
“Uh . . . from what I understand, you’re going lots of places.”
Which is fine with Starkey. He could get used to traveling in style.
31 • Grace
There are simply too many envelopes to mail for this to be a single postal excursion. Grace decides to make three trips—and not all to the same place. She plans multiple trips to multiple zip codes and finds an oversize unmarked shopping bag to carry them in—big enough and sturdy enough to get it done in three trips.
“Less suspicious this way,” she tells Sonia. “So’s if the postmaster general or something gets it into his head to trace all these letters back to a single place, they won’t know where to look ’cept Akron in general, and Akron in general is big—not New York big, but big enough.”
Sonia waves her hand. “Just get it done and don’t talk my ear off.” Which is fine with Grace, who likes being left to her own devices, as long as those devices don’t have too much electronics, like that organ printer. She knows it will take her all day, but that’s okay. It’s something to do, something important, and it gets her out of the basement for a whole day.
Her first two sets of drops go off without a hitch. It’s Sunday, so post offices are closed, but that hasn’t stopped her from paying visits to various mailboxes in strategically random locations. By dusk, she’s hit twelve mailboxes in three different zip codes.
It’s while on her way back to empty out the trunk and mail the last batch of letters that things take a turn. It’s already dusk, closer to the night side than the day, and she begins to think that the third batch will have to wait until tomorrow. The streetlights come on, making the dusk plunge into night—and there beneath a streetlight at the corner, just a few doors away from Sonia’s shop, stands someone who looks familiar. Very familiar. She can see only his profile, but it’s enough.
“Argie?” she says, before she can stop herself. “Argie, is that you?”
At first she’s excited, but then she remembers how things were when she last saw her brother. He won’t have forgiven her. Argent is not the forgiving type. As she gets closer, she can sense that there’s something off about him. Something different in the way he carries himself, like it’s not Argent at all . . . and yet clearly it’s him. She only has to look at his face to know. . . .
Then he turns to her and smiles. “Hello, Grace.”
And she begins to scream. Not because of what she sees but because of what she doesn’t. She doesn’t even feel the tranq dart hit her, because she’s so committed to the scream. She’s still screaming as her legs buckle beneath her and she hits the pavement. Still screaming as her peripheral vision fades. Still screaming as the tranqs drag her down into unconsciousness.
Because when he turned to look at her, Grace didn’t see the other half of Argent’s face. That other half was someone else entirely.
32 • Sonia
She’s absorbed with her favorite playlist of prewar rock, and doesn’t hear Grace’s screams from just twenty yards down the street.
It’s one song later—just after dark—that a man comes into the shop. Sonia takes out her earphones, immediately sizing up the man as a strange one. Strange in an unpleasant sort of way. She’s been repositioning paintings so that they don’t topple over every time some fool customer brushes up against them, and finds herself at a disadvantage being so far from her sales counter. She keeps a revolver beneath that counter. She only had to use it once, when a low-life thug demanded the cash in her register. She pulled out the revolver, and he headed for the hills. She didn’t even have to use it. Right now, the man is standing between her and that revolver.
Putting down the picture she’s holding, she tries to stand as straight as she can, considering her aggravated hip. “Can I help you?”
As he approaches, and comes into clearer focus, she sees what it is about him that’s so disturbing. The left side of his face is that of a middle-aged man. But the right, from just above the jawline, is someone else’s. Someone younger. Facial grafts are not entirely uncommon, but rarely do they preserve the integrity of the donor face. For whatever reason, this man intentionally took not just the skin, but the underlying bone structure of the donor as well. The sight of him is deeply unnerving, which was clearly his intent.
“I hope you can help me,” he says, continuing to saunter toward her. “I’m looking for a very specific chair to complete a set. Solid frame, but a bit unbalanced. Firm, but overstuffed. That is to say, a little full of itself.”
