Another long swallow. “The implication, of course, is dire, Grace.”
“More rocks to turn over.”
He turned and stared. “Rocks that don’t want to be turned over.”
Grace shrugged. “On the other other hand, perhaps there were only four of them and that made them puny media-fodder in the post-Manson-and-Jim-Jones age.”
“Anything’s possible,” said Wayne. “The hell of it is we simply don’t know, do we, dear?”
Grace didn’t answer.
He returned to his drink, stirring, staring into a tiny crystalline universe. “You step back into my life and I’m more anxious than I’ve been in a long time.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Not your fault, it is what it is — sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
Grace touched his hand. “Wayne, I deeply appreciate everything you’re doing but there’s no need for concern. All I need is information.”
He laughed. “There you go, I feel so much better knowing you’re off tilting at who-knows-what.”
Grace said, “My contacting you proves I’ll be okay.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Not only am I self-protective, I know how to ask for help.”
He scowled, drank. “I suppose I appreciate it.”
“Appreciate what?”
“Your coming to me. Because Lord knows I could’ve done a helluva lot more back when you were a kid.”
“Wayne, of all the people—”
He waved her off. “What did I really do for you other than delegate responsibility?”
“Ramona was—”
“The best alternative, granted. But as soon as I punted to her, I washed my hands. Of you, of everyone, of the entire system. Sure, I can rationalize it as burnout, but what does that say about my character?”
“I think your character is beyond—”
“When Ramona called to tell me she thought your IQ was through the roof, I kissed her off, darling. How did I know she’d take care of it optimally? How would it have hurt me to spend some time researching curricula? And please don’t tell me everything worked out fine. The issue isn’t outcome, Grace, it’s process.”
Grace exerted gentle pressure on his hand. His skin seemed to ping, as if electrified. “Please, Wayne, do not excoriate yourself. You and Ramona were the only people in the system who made a difference. A significant difference.”
“Whatever... so what did I sell out for? Another system equally amoral — worse than amoral, Grace. Venal, I’m an extremely well-paid attack dog.” He finished the second martini. Smiled. “Of course I do get to wear Brioni.”
Xavier started from across the room. Wayne shooed him away. “Grace, please reconsider this quest of yours. There has to be a better way.”
Grace squeezed his fingers. “I’m no martyr, Wayne, but there’s really no choice, we both know that knowledge is power.”
Dropping her hand into her purse, she ran a fingertip against the small envelope.
The resulting sound — doll’s nails on a toy chalkboard — caused Wayne to jump. He pulled his hand away from Grace’s. “Look at it after I leave, Grace. And please, not here.”
“Absolutely, Wayne. And I swear, you’ll never be connected to this.”
“Well...,” he said. Instead of finishing the sentence he slid clumsily out of the booth. “Pressing social event in Pasadena at eight and I’m sure you’d rather be... doing what it is you plan to do, rather than jawing uselessly with an old fart.”
Removing several bills from a gold clasp, he placed them gently on the table and was gone.
Grace got to the restaurant parking lot in time to see him tooling away in a silver Jaguar sedan. The valet counted out what looked like a generous tip.
She drove two blocks south, parked on a quiet residential block, slit the tiny envelope open with a fingernail.
Inside was a flimsy square of paper folded in half. The kind of cheap stock you’d find on a memo pad headed From the Desk of... if the person with the desk was low on the corporate totem pole. He’d probably lifted it from a gofer’s cubicle.
She unfolded and read three typed lines.
Samael Coyote Roi
Typhon Dagon Roi
Lilith Lamia Roi
Something on the flip side, as welclass="underline"
Lilith: to Howell and Ruthann McCoy, Bell Gardens, Ca.
Typhon: to Theodore and Jane Van Cortlandt, Santa Monica, Ca.
Samaeclass="underline" to Roger and Agnes Wetter, Oakland, Ca.
No dates for any of the adoptions. For all Wayne’s filth and lucre, a nervous leaker had been unwilling to hand over hard copy.
But Wayne had listed the three names twice. On the outer page, more likely to be seen first, just the names. First and middle.
He wanted Grace to focus on the names.
She reread them. Weird-sounding monikers, she’d check them out. But what snagged her attention was a change in sequence. On the outer page, the list went oldest to youngest, but when listing the adoptions, Wayne had reversed the sequence.
Because that was the actual chronological order? Nonthreatening, silent, querulous little “Lily” finding a permanent home first?
Mild-mannered, quiet Typhon lucking out next.
Leaving firstborn Samael, despite belief in his own charisma, to wait. Maybe in the hellhole Grace had experienced...
The real surprise, Grace supposed, was that he’d been adopted at all, given his age. Most adoptive parents craved warm and cuddly, not postpubescent and strong-willed.
So maybe interesting people, Roger and Agnes Wetter.
Of Oakland, California.
Right next to Berkeley.
She drove to an Internet café a few blocks west. Figuring out the theme behind the names was a couple of clicks away.
Samael, Hebrew for “God’s venom,” was a favored tag for seriously dark-minded Satanists. Coyote — who knew? — evoked an American Indian devil.
Typhon: a Greek devil. Dagon, a Philistine sea demon.
Lilith, according to myth, had been Adam’s first wife, a lusty, disobedient wench who’d been eliminated in favor of compliant, fruit-loving Eve. Despite being adopted as an icon in some feminist circles, she was also part of the satanic pantheon.
Last but not least, Lamia. A night-prowling Greek devil who preyed on children.
Charming.
So crazy, power-mad Arundel Roi had embraced the dark side. So what else was new?
There had to be more... maybe emphasizing the names was Wayne’s way of letting her know not to waste her time, they’d been changed.
Or he was seriously freaked out and still trying to deter her.
If so, sorry, Uncle.
She got on the 405 South and drove to an Enterprise rental lot in Redondo Beach, where she exchanged the Jeep for a Ford Escape (how appropriate). The story she’d prepared — preferring something smaller — remained an unspoken lie. The clerk never asked, challenged by paperwork and eager to get back to texting.
Redondo was a pretty beach town but too low-rise and open, the vacation feel all wrong. Heading east to its utilitarian neighbor, Torrance, she booked herself into a Courtyard by Marriott, ended up with a room that was close to a Xerox of her digs at the Hilton Garden.
The comfort of familiarity. Grace had guided countless patients in that direction.
But setting up her laptop and connecting to blessed business-hotel WiFi, she warned herself not to get too familiar with anything.
For someone like her, no point to it. Nothing lasted.