Once again, Hevlaska took the time between the sound of the buzzer and her housekeeper showing a visitor upstairs to put papers away. She had a few different caches for them: a steel-lined desk drawer, a hidden safe, a decorative metal box that was bolted to a heavy table. Under no circumstances did they go into a filing cabinet, but these files were some of the most invasive she'd ever gathered. Not only did she have Allen's medical records and care files, she had adoption and police records as well, and she was still figuring out what to make of it all.
She expected her brothers at the door, either one of them or both, and she was nowhere near ready to share any of this. In fact, she was questioning her nagging feeling that she was obligated to do so. They would think so, of course, but they thought themselves magnanimous in giving her any role to play at all, especially now that she was too old to teach. At the time, she'd been grateful, but perhaps she'd been looking at the whole thing from the wrong point of view.
Then again, her point of view and theirs had been formed in the same womb. Separating herself from it was turning out to be surprisingly painful, like amputating a gangrenous limb with a rusty hacksaw, using a pint of Jim Beam for anesthetic.
"Your visitor, madame," her housekeeper said, and at the vague announcement, Hevlaska turned to look.
The figure that leaned on her doorframe was tall and fit, dressed in jeans, heavy boots, and a leather jacket with a soft white shirt underneath, his red hair pulled back into a loose ponytail mussed by traveling. When he saw her shock, his mouth widened into an evil grin made cock-eyed by the half-mask that covered the right side of his face. "Hello, Hevlaska," he said.
"You little shit!" she said in French, because it was her favorite language for that expletive. "You dreadful, horrible little shit!"
"Hevlaska," said Marian Cross, deliberately towering over her. "How dare you call me little!"
"I will call you whatever I see fit to call you," she said, resisting the impulse to shake her fist under his nose. "Where have you been?"
"Didn't Allen tell you?"
"He said everywhere."
"That about covers it. May I smoke?"
"No! Oh, never mind, it's not like I can stop you." She handed him a tiny porcelain cup she kept as an ashtray for guests. "Just don't make a mess of my carpet."
"You wound me," Cross said as he lit his cigarette, exhaling with obvious pleasure. "I would never leave a lady's rooms in that kind of disarray."
"No, you prefer a different kind of disarray," Hevlaska said.
"That could be arranged," Cross assured her.
"Oh, stop being disgusting and give me one of those things!" Hevlaska said irritably. She'd quit smoking years ago, after constant badgering by several physicians, but the occasion seemed to call for something to settle her nerves.
"Of course." Cross shook a cigarette out of the pack, handed it to her, then lit it from his own, steadying her hand with his. "Would you like a drink, too?"
"Yes, please," Hevlaska said, smothering her impulse to cough.
Cross went to a cabinet where Hevlaska kept a small but excellent selection of beverages for occasions that called for something stronger than tea or coffee. "My God," he said as he uncapped her best bourbon. "I feel like I'm corrupting an innocent."
"Oh shut up," Hevlaska said, taking a second pull on the cigarette. "Consider yourself lucky I didn't drop dead from a stroke or something."
"Are you quite sure you can have this?" Cross asked, holding a glass of bourbon just out of her reach.
"Of course I can't," Hevlaska said, "now give it to me."
"I have waited half my life to hear you say those words."
"They're about the booze, not you. Have a seat, you obnoxious reprobate, before I throw you out on your ear!" Hevlaska eased herself into a chair. "Three years without even an e-mail, then you dump poor Allen on us without a word of warning-to him as well as to us."
"I did send word," Cross said as he sat opposite her. "I e-mailed Komui."
"And you knew exactly what that would accomplish!"
"Not my fault Komui doesn't organize his inbox."
"Well, you could have warned Allen. The boy had no idea what he was getting into, and then you pop back here like some kind of jack-in-the-box. Did you even bother talking to him in China?"
"No time," Cross said. "I had a flight to catch."
"You could have booked a different one, you just didn't feel like it. So you weren't responsible for putting him in the hospital?"
"What?" That seemed to genuinely alarm Cross.
"Someone did. The ICD went off, and the resulting fall gave him a concussion. Allen refused to give any details about the incident, which immediately led me to think of you."
"What the hell was that little bastard thinking?" Cross said. "He knows he's supposed to avoid those shocks. What happened?"
"So it wasn't you," Hevlaska said. "All he would say was that something startled him."
"Don't worry," Cross said, "I'll get the truth out of him. How has he been otherwise?"
"Fine, but you knew that. You trained him. I don't suppose you bothered to watch him in China?"
"I did. He bit off a little more than he could chew with that piece, but he does that under pressure. Seems to think it makes him work harder."
"I've heard that theory before," she said. "Allen's a chip off the old block, only in all of the good ways, bless him. He doesn't seem to have picked up any of your less savory habits."
"I think I traumatized him for life," Cross said proudly.
"Undoubtedly," Hevlaska said. "No one has ever questioned your ability to traumatize people."
"Well, traumatized or not, he's a fine dancer," Cross said, "although I'll admit that wasn't entirely my doing."
"Yes, well." Hevlaska was starting to feel the effects of the nicotine and alcohol, old comforts long-missed. Sometimes she wondered if longevity was really worth it, especially considering that one spent an unpleasantly large portion of that time being old. "Tell me," she said, taking another sip from her glass, "is that boy who I think he is?"
"I don't know," Cross said, taking a deep drag on his cigarette and settling back in his chair as he blew it out. "That all depends on who you think he is."