For the second time that day, we pulled over to let police cars scream past on their way into the park. I didn’t start to breathe normally until we were back in traffic on Los Feliz and headed toward the freeway.
Night was falling, and I flicked on the van’s headlights as we merged onto the 5. Beside me, Tresting made a quick call to leave a message for Leena Kingsley—he told her he didn’t think she was in danger, but the stakes were going up and maybe she should get gone just in case—and tapped out a couple of text messages before taking the batteries out of both his smartphone and the burner phone we had used to call Finch’s boss. Smart man. My phone was already in pieces in my pocket, even though only Tresting, Checker, and Rio had the number. Less trackable was always better.
“Did you really tell Checker about Finch?” I asked.
“Asked him to check on the name for me; that’s all.”
I laughed. “Good show back there, then.”
“I’ll make sure he’s up to speed. Good insurance policy, sounds like, and Checker’s thorough. Won’t be easy for them to get around him.” He paused, and his voice became weighted. “Course, I don’t have the full story.”
I felt a little bad about that. “I took Courtney back to her place to pick up some cash,” I explained. “A bunch of men in suits were there searching for something. Two of them were Finch and our friend Steve.”
“They find what they were looking for?”
“I don’t think so. But it’s how I knew he wasn’t a Fed—none of it exactly struck me as FBI procedure. Plus, one of the guys was British, and Finch had some other accent, too. He only started to sound American when we saw him at Kingsley’s.”
“Yeah, I got that he wasn’t American,” said Tresting. “Kept using the word ‘mobile’ for his cell phone. Knew you were on the money with him from that.”
I frowned. “Is that strange? I say ‘mobile’ sometimes.”
“I noticed that,” said Tresting. He didn’t elaborate, however, instead switching topics entirely. “And Dawna Polk?”
Cards on the table, I supposed. Dawna Polk…even the thought of her name was enough to make my throat close bitterly, and for my stupid headache to begin throbbing again. I swallowed. “She mojo’d me the last time we talked. I told her exactly where I was headed next and didn’t even notice.”
“But you sussed it out later.”
“Yeah. It took a lot. Rio knew me well enough to see it and prod until I connected that something was wrong.” I hesitated, then added, “She did a number. She had me utterly convinced she was harmless.”
“You didn’t mention this before.”
“Well, yeah; it was embarrassing. I thought she had drugged me. I didn’t start to put it together any more than that until we were talking to Kingsley.”
“But you did put it together. Seems our new friends think that’s a touch improbable.”
I frowned, watching the road. “If what they say is true, I don’t know why I was able to. Or how. All I know is that resisting her seems to come with a nice side effect of chronic headaches.” I paused. “And that I definitely wouldn’t want to talk to her again.”
Tresting sat back and digested that. I felt like brooding myself. This whole thing was far beyond anything I usually dealt with. We had another global organization after us now—another one with tremendous resources and no compunction against violence. Not to mention the whole “Dawna Polk, Functioning Psychic” thing…
The twilight had nearly turned to full dark while we inched forward in traffic before Tresting spoke again. “Where you headed?”
“I keep a few places around the city in case I need to get off the grid, but I figured we’d drive around and swap cars a few times first,” I answered. Go Cas, ever prepared.
“Russell,” said Tresting, “I don’t think I can work with you.”
Dammit. Not this again. Maybe I could make him understand. “Look, I know you don’t like Rio—”
“No.” He rubbed his forehead with one hand, like someone with a migraine coming on. “Well, yeah, that’s an issue. But it ain’t him, Russell. It’s you.”
Something constricted inside me. “What does that mean?”
He took a deep breath. “Life is cheap to you.”
I started to get angry. “Those snipers had rifles pointed at us. It was self-defense.”
“Yeah, and why was that? Your little trick with the hunk of wood? Violence ain’t always the best choice, you know. If you didn’t—”
“We don’t know he was going to tell them to let us go,” I countered, bristling. “Maybe he was going to give the order to shoot on sight instead. Did you ever think of that?”
“Maybe,” said Tresting, “and maybe we could’ve got out of there without anyone hurt at all if we just walked away. Without anyone else dying. And without another dozen eyewitnesses fingering us for a crime.”
“You don’t know that,” I argued. “Any of it could have gone either way. And I did just save both our lives—again—so a little gratitude might be in order!”
“Gratitude?” He shifted in his seat to face me. “You caused the whole damn situation in the first place! And shooting off a bunch of rounds in a crowded park—what if you’d hit an innocent?”
“I knew I wouldn’t,” I tried to defend myself. “I’m really good at what I do—”
“Which is what?” challenged Tresting. “Killing people? Threatening people with guns? Punching them when they insult you? That what you so good at?”
I fumed in silence for a minute, revving the engine hard and then slamming on the brakes every time traffic moved a few inches.
“You got some good in you,” Tresting said quietly. “You do. But you also scare the shit out of me.”
Usually I enjoy scaring people, but for some reason, hearing Tresting say that gave me a crumpled feeling inside. I didn’t like it.
“And you’re a smart kid, shit, maybe brilliant, but for some reason your first solution is always to pull the trigger,” Tresting continued after a moment. “And I can’t work with that. I can’t.”
“I don’t go around killing innocent people,” I said stiffly.
“That guy just now, in the park,” said Tresting. “You went to shoot him.”
“Piece of crap gun misfired,” I said. “Look, he was trying to grab us or kill us, one of the two—”
“Yeah, and that’s another good reason to avoid that sort of fubared situation in the first place: what if you got a jam in the middle of capping those snipers? Or if there was more than four? But that ain’t my point. First you tried to shoot him, and then…I don’t know where you learned to fight, but you kicked him so hard…” He swallowed. “Shit. I was almost sick on the street right there.”
I thought back. I’d been in the throes of adrenaline at the time, but now I could remember the feeling of his face collapsing against my boot—I cut off that line of thought. “He was a threat,” I insisted stubbornly.