King Acid

11- HOPELESS DIAMOND (PART 2)

                                             *****

Atticus was there, waiting, one hand on the steering wheel, the other hanging out the window with a Davidoff between his fingers, standing by with the pickup's motor still running. He could have sent someone, but there was much to tell and no time to lose, apart from the usual courtesy among old wolves who were also friends. Both stepped off the plane empty-handed, leaving the ramp open for attendants to take the luggage, and got in the vehicle quickly.

"Shall I drop you off somewhere, ladies?"

As soon as they got in, he put the car in gear and set out down the open airstrip toward the station. Along the way, Seiber, sitting in the passenger seat, spoke to him about the incident with Interpol.

"But how could this have happened?" asked Atticus.

"We don't know."

"You fly close to an airport or something?"

"Of course not."

"Then I can't make out a damn thing."

"Maybe it was because we took off so late. Someone must have seen us and tipped them off."

Atticus soon noticed that only two of them had left the aircraft.

"And Alkali? Where's Alkali?"

Seiber had to straighten up and hold his breath for a few seconds before answering. Alkali had also been his friend.

"Your brother told us he didn't make it."

Atticus stopped the car suddenly, and Seiber and Lockhart remained expectant, statuary. He held the cigar in his lips and, taking a long, serene drag, he rolled up his left sleeve, showing a long row of tiny scars in the shape of tally marks ridging his skin and spiraling up his forearm. He unsheathed his tactical knife silently and, wielding it with the same coldness he would use against an enemy, carved in his skin a diagonal mark that completed a group of five at the end of the row. While he did it, he manipulated his skin tissue mentally to taper the reaction threshold of his cutaneous nociceptors and release even more pain to his central nervous system, embracing it as an atonement. His stoic countenance, however, did not betray the slightest complaint, as if keeping his features anything other than stony meant disrespect to the memory of his friend. When he considered it appropriate, he put aside the blade and rolled his sleeve over the excess of oozing blood, letting the wound coagulate by itself.

For his part, Lockhart mourned the loss by taking a pill of clonazepam and lying down on the rear seat, putting a hand over his half-closed eyes. Seiber remained rigid in the front passenger seat. He wanted to think his seriousness was a demonstration of his earnest respect for Colt somehow.

Atticus came back to himself rapidly.

"You know how it happened?"

"There was an accident with the ambulance, something like that. Skyler was not specific."

No one said a single word again until they reached the station.

In the underground parking lot, Nadim and Skyler were awaiting their arrival, one with hypnotic boredom on his face, the other with hatred in his eyes. Atticus and Seiber acknowledged the hatred and waived any humorous comment when they left the car, waiting for what he had to say.

"May I ask, Seiber, why you didn't tell me both Wagner and Hinault were my brother?"

"What!" exclaimed Seiber, on the verge of catatonia.

"That was confidential, Skyler," drawled Atticus, throwing the cigar away with disdain.

Seiber turned to Nadim.