The Skill of Our Hands--A Novel Read online

Ren nodded, tearless and grave. “I’m not letting Phil shade,” she said. “No way in hell.” She closed her eyes to graze.

  That Ren did not realize yet the futility of the task Ramon had set her was, he knew, its only utility. But before he had time to examine this, Oskar rounded on Irina. “I demand to know,” he said, “why you gave Phil’s stub to Frio. Without vetting him adequately. Without anyone’s review. Without anyone’s consent.”

  “Especially now,” Takamatsu agreed. “That was extraordinarily, uncharacteristically careless, Irina.”

  Irina’s face was burning. “I vetted him more thoroughly than you know.”

  Oskar nearly exploded. “Fucking someone can’t tell you everything about him.”

  “It can tell me quite a lot, Oskar.”

  Takamatsu noted the forced calm of Irina’s voice held low. He watched her pulse throb in her throat.

  “What do you want to know?” she asked.

  Oskar didn’t put a hand on Irina, but he didn’t move back. “Why you spiked Frio.”

  “He was the right choice.”

  “Obviously not.” Oskar flung an angry arm in the direction of Frio’s body, wrecked on the bed. “It almost killed him.”

  “He could have helped us make things better.”

  Oskar started to say something, but Takamatsu didn’t give him the chance. “How would an ex-SWAT cop have helped us do that, Irina?”

  Irina sat back down, and Takamatsu saw how close to complete disintegration she was. She was carrying more weight in secrets and fear than she had the strength to bear.

  “You have no idea how bad things are getting.” Irina’s voice broke. She was telling the truth. “The Phoenix police are an army. They just are. They wear commando uniforms, carry military-grade weapons, operate tanks, Humvees, and drones. They train and think like soldiers. Nominally soldiers in the war on drugs or terror or illegal immigration, but you know what happens when the differences between the army and police get fuzzy. We all know where this goes. And how it ends.”

  “You’re in Arizona because this is where it is at its worst?” Takamatsu asked.

  Irina’s nod was part shrug.

  “I still don’t see how having an ex-cop as Phil’s Second would be useful,” Oskar said.

  “He’s not an ex-cop.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Takamatsu waited. He could see Irina had nothing left to lie with.

  “He’s undercover,” Irina said. “Still. The resignation was a sham. I didn’t know until last night.”

  Oskar went pale, even for him. “And you spiked Phil into him anyway? Jesus Christ, Irina.”

  “It’s why I spiked him,” Irina said. “Phil has a protective soul, and that’s exactly what the police are supposed to be. In Frio’s body, he could have worked from inside the force to change the culture. He’s as brave as Snowden or Manning, and would be as well-positioned to show the country what’s really going on in their local precincts.”

  “No wonder Phil rejected the Second.” Oskar sat heavily on the bed’s edge.

  “Is there any chance Frio was wearing a wire?” Takamatsu asked.

  Irina gave him a look. “I frisked him pretty thoroughly.”

  “If he was working undercover,” Takamatsu said, “he’ll be expected to make regular touch points. The first time he misses one, if he hasn’t already, they will send people for him. We should assume they can track his car. If it’s parked outside, we should prepare for company.”

  “Ramon?” Oskar looked over to him. “Can we move him?”

  “No.”

  Oskar’s fists clenched, then relaxed. “All right,” he said. “Irina, let’s go—”

  “No chance in hell,” she said. “I’m staying right here.”

  “Are you afraid to even talk to me?”

  “I’m not going to let you—”

  “No!” said Jimmy. “Stop it, both of you. Leave, or be quiet.”

  “Goddammit!” Oskar raged, but he walked over to the window and stared out it, then he turned to Irina again, who was, probably unconsciously, standing behind Jimmy. Takamatsu heard a sharp intake of breath from Ramon, which was what passed for swearing for him, and thought he was about to intervene with Oskar. “He’s already waking up,” Ramon said, his lips pressed together, his eyes focused on the bed.

  Frio’s eyes fluttered open. His face was white, and he seemed to be breathing hard.

  Ramon went over to the side table and started digging through his kit, and Takamatsu could almost feel the pattern recentering.

  Frio looked around at the room, at each of them, and he said, “I don’t—what happened? Was I shot? Where is Brown? My head—”

  Irina walked over to him and even Oskar didn’t stop her. “Frio?” she said. “Are you all right?”

  Grouped around the bed, Irina, Ramon, and Jimmy reminded Takamatsu of the Pittsburgh apartment Jimmy had showed them in Phil’s dust ritual, the same three all watching Phil with the same intensity. The same three, plus Celeste where now there was Ren. The pattern similar but not the same.

  Frio shook his head. “Do I know you, miss?” he asked Irina.

  Irina was lonely now, as she had been then, but with a new kind of pride. Takamatsu watched her. It reminded him of Celeste’s pride in what she and Phil had endured at each other’s hands, in how she had changed him, and how much he had not changed her.

  “My name is Carter,” Frio said. “What happened to me?”

  It was one of the best questions Takamatsu had ever heard.

  * * *

  Kate hauled herself to standing. Daniel got out of the minivan, yanked open the back door, and retrieved her bag. “You told me yesterday that married people flirt for different reasons than single people.” Daniel put Kate’s bag on the ground by her feet. “That for you, it’s not the opening gambit of a long game.”

  Kate nodded.

  Daniel put his hands on either side of her face, and bent down to her mouth. His lips were sincere as his eyes, and more convincing, and they stirred more than embers in Kate. She didn’t even kiss him back, just let his lips paint ambition and will and passion over hers in delicious, consuming currents. He kissed youth into her with a thoroughness and patience that wasn’t young at all.

  “Go to work now,” he said.

  Kate nodded, her face still cradled in Daniel’s damaged hands. She wasn’t tired anymore.

  “Kate,” he said. “You said you need Phil back.”

  “Yeah,” she said, surprised by the bubble of tears in her throat. “We really do.”

  “You should use my body.”

  “We couldn’t be sure—”

  “What if you could?”

  Kate closed her eyes.

  “I won’t fight him.” Daniel’s mouth was so close to Kate’s she could feel the breath of his words on her lips. “If that’s what you and your people need.”

  Kate might live through a hundred Seconds and she’d never forget Daniel’s eyes when he made her that promise. If that’s what you and your people need, he’d said. She wanted to hoard him for pleasure and protect herself from grief. This game won nothing she wanted, and staked everything she feared.

  It would do all kinds of harm.

  “Okay,” Kate said, knowing she would never give Dan to the Incrementalists. “Come upstairs with me.” And she kissed him again, just like Judas.

  * * *

  Ren opened her eyes. Oskar, Matsu, Ramon, Jimmy, and Irina were all keenly focused on Frio, but the voice that had brought Ren back from the Garden didn’t belong to any of them. Not even to Frio.

  Ren stood up with great care. “Phil?”

  “I’m Carter, miss.” Frio frowned kindly at Ren and all the heat flushed out of her. She knelt or fell beside the bed.

  “Carter!” Jimmy said, low and under his breath, as if trying to convince himself. He opened his mouth to say something to Ren, then closed it again and shook his head.

  “What’s going on?” Ren
fought to speak coherently, to line up her thoughts like toy soldiers. “Why doesn’t he know me? Who’s Carter? Oskar, who’s Carter?”

  Oskar’s answer was low, almost a monotone. “The name Phil used until about a hundred and fifty years ago,” he said.

  Ren looked from Oskar back to Frio. “Phil, it’s Ren. Can you remember?”

  Ramon spoke slowly and clearly, his voice as calm as it always was. “There must be some of the stub here, if he thinks he’s Carter. But perhaps not all.” His brows were drawn together.

  “Why would that happen?” Ren was on her feet, spinning to glare at Irina, and dizzy from it. “What the fuck did you do?”

  Frio said, “I don’t—” then he broke off, biting his lip. He looked at Ren. “You’re one of us, aren’t you?” Before she could answer, he said, “God! My head! Does anyone have morphine? Or, Christ, ether?”

  “Yes.” Ren sat on the bed. “I’m one of you. I’m yours. I’m—”

  Oskar was still speaking to Irina. “Ren wants to know what you did.”

  Ren turned her head to Oskar long enough to say, “Shut up,” then returned her attention to Frio.

  Ramon spoke to Frio, his tone precise as it had been before, and, weirdly, sounding perfectly natural coming from the throat of this woman he now inhabited. “I can knock you out again, Carter,” he said. “Until your head feels better.”

  “No!” Ren couldn’t lose him again. Not yet.

  Frio looked at her, his expression more eloquent than words could have been. Then he said, “Was I just spiked again? I remember being shot. Did something go wrong with the spike?”

  “You could say that,” said Oskar dryly.

  “What if we lose him again?” Ren asked Ramon. She turned back to Frio. “Phil, can you hang on? I’ll get you some water. Advil?” She knew she was being selfish, clinging, but she couldn’t help herself.

  Frio ignored her and looked over at Oskar, and for just an instant, Ren saw a glimpse of the Phil she loved. “You?” he said.

  “I’m Oskar.”

  Phil laughed. “Nice Second, you toad. I suppose you have to beat the girls off with a stick. Oh, god, my head hurts. Why are you calling me Phil?”

  “It’s what you’ve been calling yourself lately,” said Ramon.

  “You changed it,” said Jimmy. “Another form of Cartophilus. I’m Jimmy.”

  “I should have guessed,” said Frio, and laughed again, then winced, then groaned. Ren saw the ebb and flow of the pain as it swept through him, and she knew the worst of it must be such that he was hard-pressed not to scream. Her hands argued with themselves needing to touch him, not willing to hurt him. She looked at Jimmy. “I don’t know how to look for him in the Garden. Do you know dates? When did he change names?”

  “I don’t remember. Mid nineteenth century, in general. Maybe around 1855 or ’60.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Carter or Frio, not Phil, asked, fear mixing into his pain.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ren whispered, bending over him. “We’ll figure it out. It’s … some time has passed. You’ve had Seconds you aren’t remembering right now.” Frio’s eyes closed and Ren turned to Ramon. “Why would he not remember them? Is it like what happened with me when I forgot Celeste? Is the rest of him loose in the Garden like she was? Jesus. Is he with her? Is she trapping him there?”

  “Stop it, Ren.” Ramon crouched next to her, glaring into her eyes.

  Irina whispered, “Blood and pomander.”

  “I just—” Ren clawed back to calm. “Okay,” she told Ramon.

  He nodded and reached past her to put a hand on Frio’s shoulder. “There has been an unexpected event in the Garden, Carter, which we are working to correct.”

  Frio’s eyes opened. “You must be Ramon. You look lovely, Ramon, but you’re dressed like a whore.”

  Ren laughed—probably a little too much. She looked past Ramon to Irina. “Don’t you move.”

  Irina had been inching toward the door. She shrugged and stood still.

  “Irina?” said Frio. “Well, hello there. Where is Celeste? My head. God. Am I in a brothel? You’re all dressed like—Christ, my head.”

  Ren worked on swallowing.

  “Ask Oskar,” Irina said.

  Oskar opened his mouth.

  “Is Oskar my titan?” Frio asked. “Why don’t I remember this Second? Who was he? Or she?” He put a hand on his chest. “He.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Ren. “We’ll figure it out. Right, Ramon? You have a theory? Where’s the rest of him?”

  “Ramon, please,” said Frio, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “Do you have ether? Anything? Please.”

  “I’ll get the Advil,” said Ren, standing.

  Ramon nodded to Frio. “I’m going to give you another shot, see if I can help you sleep for a while. You should still be out.”

  Ren started to argue, but stopped herself. She nodded.

  Ramon came to stand next to the bed, a hypo in his hand. “When you wake up, we’ll see if we can solve this. With luck, you’ll have nothing more than the usual headache.”

  “Is it safe to give him that much?” Ren asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ramon told her.

  “Please,” said Frio, and Ren just gave up and let herself cry.

  Matsu walked over, nodded to Frio, and said, “My name is Takamatsu. We haven’t met. I can help.”

  “Takamatsu?” said Frio. “From the Japans?”

  Matsu nodded, and then he put a hand up under Frio’s jawline and sent him to sleep.

  TWENTY

  Closer, Closer

  Something about how Ren stood up from the edge of Frio’s bed, the discipline of her rigid, straight spine contrasting with the tears running hugger-mugger down her face, nearly broke Irina. She felt terrible for Ren, whose pain set an uncomfortable prickle of guilt along the soles of Irina’s feet. She had never meant for it to go so hard for Ren. Phil’s stub and Second should have been a test to prove Ren’s strength, not a trial too much for even Irina to bear. Everything was fucked.

  But it wasn’t her fault. Irina was certain of that now.

  * * *

  I’m still not.

  —Oskar

  * * *

  Irina had been ruthlessly honest with herself about her motivations. Yes, her reasons for calling Frio last night might be, if not suspect, perhaps not pure, after Menzie had blown her off, and Jimmy didn’t answer his phone, and Oskar—well Oskar wouldn’t get a second chance to turn her down.

  * * *

  Heh!

  —O

  * * *

  But since then, after the sex, Irina had been selfless pragmatism incarnate. Frio was the Incrementalists’ best hope, and the ideal recruit for Phil’s stub. Nothing in America needed meddling with more than the police. Laws are how free people agree to organize and govern themselves. The mere availability of martial strength to law’s enforcers means the people no longer agree, or are not still free. Surely they’d learned that much from Cambodia.

  * * *

  She’s right about that.

  —O

  * * *

  And Frio was the perfect vehicle for that work —practically a golden unicorn. He and Ren had clearly had some chemistry between them. Also, he was an idealistic, altruistic, fully informed and well-connected policeman. That the combination was an inherent contradiction, and that Frio had realized it and sacrificed his livelihood on those grounds, proved he met the Incrementalist primary criterion.

  * * *

  Horseshit.

  —O

  * * *

  Irina was blameless in that regard at least. She scanned the floor for any of her clothes. Frio had thrown himself on the grenade of Phil’s stub to save Sam, after all. And no one could have predicted whatever the hell it was that had happened when she’d spiked Phil into him.

  “I think it’s encouraging that nothing we’ve seen or heard contradicts Ramon’s explanation for the ano
malous spike,” Matsu said. “And that it’s as benign as Phil rejecting the Second. We can take some comfort there.”

  Ren did not look comforted.

  She looked from Matsu to Jimmy to Oskar, and if Irina hadn’t been exhausted, bruised by Frio’s flailing, and emotionally way overextended, she would have smiled. This was what she’d been hoping for all along: Ren, forced to act without Phil, turning to her fellow Incrementalists for help.

  * * *

  It wasn’t worth it. Not everyone has to be as loved by everyone as Irina wants to be.

  —O

  * * *

  “Matsu?” Ren asked. She was trusting and being trusted, bonding with her fellow Incrementalists, albeit not yet over the cause of de-escalating the militarization of the police, but still no longer allowing her loss of Celeste’s memories to hold her apart. Irina would have been pleased if she could have felt anything at all anymore.

  Matsu met Ren’s eyes, then Oskar’s and Jimmy’s, with nary an aphorism between them.

  * * *

  For once.

  —O

  * * *

  “Should I go back to looking for Phil’s stub?” Ren asked.

  Ramon took Frio’s wrist and looked at his watch—a man’s watch on one of those men’s irritating, arm-hair-pinching old metal bands too big for his new woman’s wrist—and counted heartbeats or seconds. “It is a nearly impossible thing—find one point in a field of billions.”

  “Ramon,” Matsu began.

  “But at least now we have some idea where to look,” Ramon added almost as an afterthought. “Mid 1800s. The Second’s name was, ah, Jimmy?”

  “Henry something,” Irina volunteered, happy to know something she could add. “Wouldn’t let anyone call him Hank. I was his titan,” she explained, but her voice cracked—exhaustion and maybe tears welling up at the edges. She felt Oskar’s eyes inventorying her neck and shoulders, arms, hands, and chest. She turned away, pointing her face at the window.