The wrongness of it, the wrongness of his having worked for the group that was intending to kill his son, made bitter bile rise to his throat. But why should he care? Where did all this anguish come from? Hadn't he washed his hands of the boy five years ago?
Five years ago. Damn, the boy had only been sixteen. And Edward had ordered him out of the house. At gunpoint.
Edward had been walking along the road leading toward town. Not a pretty road—a place of warehouses and dilapidated motels—and it seemed to be making him things he'd never thought before. This was all wrong, these unexpected feelings, the sudden guilt over Tom. It was all very wrong. He'd been fine with this for five years. Why should it torment him now?
He was tired. That was all. He was very tired. He hadn't slept at all the night before, and now it was afternoon. He'd hail the first cab that came by. He would ask to be taken to the best hotel in town. He would go to sleep. When he woke up, he would feel much better about this. He would realize that Tom had made his own bed and now should damn well lie in it.
His briefcase was heavy, pulling down on his arm. And no cab came by. Heck, no car came by. He walked on, into the Colorado night.
He should have rented a car, only he didn't think it would take him this long to . . . To what? Make Tom give back whatever he had stolen, like a naughty boy caught with another kid's lunch box?
What did he know of Tom now, really? He would be twenty-one. How he had lived the last five years was beyond his father's knowledge and probably beyond his father's understanding. Who was he, this creature he'd seen growing up till the age of sixteen, and then let go and not seen again?
Tom worked nights in a diner, he could shift shapes into a dragon. And he had the affection—or at least the interest—of that exotic beauty who did not look like the type to be easily rolled by some patter. And Ormson should know that, he thought, with a rueful grin. I tried.
He'd walked a few blocks and was near an intersection when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the yellow glimmer of a taxi.
Waving frantically, he got the cabby's attention, and moments later was sitting on the backseat of an air-conditioned taxi heading downtown.
"Downtown?" he said. "Really."
"Oh, yes," the cabby said. "Spurs and Lace is the best hotel in town."
Edward leaned back against the cool upholstery and hoped they had room. He just needed to sleep. Just . . . sleep. And then all would be well.
* * *
"Kyrie," Tom called, and the sound of her name woke him from a nightmare of half-defined shapes and half-formed thoughts in which he'd been, seemingly stumbling without direction.
He didn't know what they had given him. He suspected it was supposed to be some form of truth serum. At least they had expected him to answer questions while under.
He suspected he hadn't. Part of it was because he had the feeling that he'd been touring random recesses of his mind, which, for some reason, featured not only an up-close and personal view of Kyrie's bared breast, but also repeated reruns of Keith's conversation about his problems at college.
And part of it was because, as he became aware of who he was, where he was, and what was happening around him, he heard the three . . . Oh, he must not call them the three stooges, not even mentally. The way he was feeling, it might come flying out of his mouth next thing, and, who knew, they might actually understand the reference. No. He heard the three geniuses arguing loudly in what he presumed was their native tongue. It didn't sound like an argument about which one would go for the Pearl and which one would wait until the order came to cut Tom's throat . . . or however they intended to dispatch him.
With a final scream, Two Dragons ran out the door. The other two shrugged, went to the corner, and came back with sandwiches and drinks.
The smell of food made Tom hungrier than ever. If it weren't for the fact that he was using all his concentration to keep himself from turning into a dragon, he might very well have broken down and told them where to find the Pearl.
* * *
The room was acceptable, though it was close to downtown and, from his fifth-floor window, Edward had a view of the area where Tom worked.
Standing there, looking out the window, he wondered if Tom had lived in one of those rectilineal streets that radiated from Fairfax Avenue and which were lined with tiny houses and apartment buildings. Probably, since Edward very much doubted that waiting at tables at night in a diner was a job that paid enough for a car. And then he realized he'd thought of Tom in the past tense.
Angry with himself, he took a shower, put his underwear back on, and got in bed. He was asleep before his head touched the pillow.