“Well, he had a guy who used to do a lot of his dirty work.”
“You mean, like murder?”
“Yes. His name was Sanjay Lohar. He came from Mumbai, which was still officially called Bombay in the mid-seventies. Sanjay disappeared in Pakistan around 1975. The belief is Vincent had him killed, or killed him himself.”
“But he’s for sure dead?”
“It’s most likely.”
Carter searches his grandfather’s face, and feels a tiny twinge of disappointment. His gramps is not going to share more with him.
“And no other accomplices?”
“He did have a partner. A woman. Aline-Claire Lavoie from Quebec in Canada. She went by the name Veronique when she was with him. She helped lure his victims. She was a good cover for him.”
The wind gusts suddenly. It’s cooler, tastes of salt.
“What happened to her?”
“She was killed in a terrorist attack on a train that she was traveling in. In Pakistan. The train derailed and her body was found near thetracks. She’d been flung from one of the cars. There were big tensions between Pakistan and India at the time.”
Carter studies his granddad for several more moments. He looks different suddenly. Older. Not as grandfatherly. Maybe it’s the gathering darkness, or the shift in temperature. Or maybe it’s because Carter feels he’s lying to him. He saw the crime board.
He saw the question mark next to “SJ’s” photo. He saw the wordsno proof.He saw the picture from theBlack Orchidbrochure. He knows his grandfather isn’t sure SJ is dead. Suddenly everything feels less fun. Less friendly. Darker.
Poppy
Poppy studies Lillith closely as they ride up to Deck 14 in the elevator. The seventy-four-year-old looks graceful in flowing palazzo pants with a matching off-white top. Her fragility is offset with the stark black eye patch and ornate cane. She leans heavily on it, moving much more slowly tonight. Even her breathing seems labored.
Poppy’s gaze drops to Lillith’s hand gripping the cane. The old injury was caused by an explosion when Lillith was covering the Mozambican civil war in 1977. The vehicle she was traveling in hit an IED on a dirt road. Shrapnel from the blast also took her eye. Poppy’s mind goes back to the archival photo they plan to use for her memoir—a man in khaki clothing carrying a limp-and-bleeding Lillith toward a jeep.
Lillith claims her injuries are worsening with age, but Poppy now figures it’s more a case of being amplified by ALS.
Compassion suddenly wells through her chest, and the emotion catches her sharply off guard. She inhales slowly at the shock of the overwhelming sensation, and her gaze goes to Lillith’s face.
Lillith smiles wanly. Poppy’s eyes water in response. She clears her throat.
“That necklace is pretty,” she says, trying to deflect from her obvious emotion.
Lillith’s hand goes to the little gold serpent hanging from a chain around her neck—the necklace from the box next to her bed.
“Thank you,” she says simply.
Poppy waits for further explanation. She saw the words on the card.
If you are wearing this when you arrive
I will know your answer.
Forever yours. Forever mine.
Locked together.
A.G.
But Lillith offers nothing more.
“I—I guess there’s a lot of symbolism in a serpent,” Poppy prods, even more curious now. “Both positive and negative.”
