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“Because in spite of what you cost me with Starkey, I have nothing in my heart but admiration for you. Nelson may have had a vendetta against you, but I do not. In fact, were you not worth so many millions to me, I would seriously consider releasing you.”
The idea of Connor’s unwound parts being worth millions is so unimaginable to him that he glances at Divan to see if he’s making a joke. But Divan keeps a straight face as he lowers another piece of lobster to Connor’s mouth.
“You seem surprised. You shouldn’t be. You’re a worldwide folk hero. In fact, your auction has garnered almost twice what I thought it would.”
“So I’ve already been auctioned?”
“It was finalized an hour ago. And to buyers on every continent.” And then Divan smiles, “The sun will never set on you, Connor Lassiter. Few people can say such a thing.” Then he strokes Connor’s hair like a doting parent. Connor turns his head, but that doesn’t stop him.
“I said you could feed me. I didn’t say you could touch me.”
“Forgive me,” Divan says, feeding him some vegetables that are all texture and garlic. “I feel a closeness to my Unwinds that I don’t think you could understand. Do you know I occasionally sit beside them, comforting them as they’re brought into the unwinding chamber? Mostly they’re inconsolable. But once in a while they will look at me with eyes of acceptance and understanding. There are few things more gratifying.”
“What about the others you auctioned today? Will the sun set on them?”
“Every Unwind divides differently,” Divan explains. “There were five today, and all sold quickly.” Then he adds. “The boy before you sold piece by piece to only three buye
rs. They’ll be reselling, of course, but as long as they pay my price, what they do with the merchandise is their business.”
Connor takes a deep, shuddering breath. He hopes Divan doesn’t notice it. He doesn’t—he’s more interested in the meal, as he feeds Connor another chunk of chewy white pulp.
“How do you find the lobster?”
“Like shrimp with an attitude,” Connor says, then adds, “but in the end, in spite of all its airs, it’s nothing but a bottom-feeder.”
Divan blots Connor’s lips with a silk napkin. “Well, even we bottom-feeders have our place in the ecosystem.”
Logically, Connor knows the longer the meal takes, and the longer he keeps Divan talking, the longer it is until he’s unwound. Yet he finds his curiosity about Divan to be real. How can a man do what this man does and believe himself to be anything but Satan incarnate?
“I abhor violence, you know,” Divan says. “I grew up surrounded by it. I come from a family of arms dealers. But when it came my turn, I determined to rechannel my legacy, shifting away from the making of death to the sustaining of life.”
“You’re still an arms dealer,” says Connor. “And legs. And everything else.”
Divan nods, no doubt having heard it before. “I’m glad you’re able to keep your sense of humor in these penultimate moments.” He feeds Connor again, blots his mouth again, and then folds the napkin with compulsive precision. “I want you to know that you don’t have to worry about Risa. She will be well taken care of.”
“Taken care of,” Connor mocks. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you’re taking care of her?”
“There are worse things.”
To which Connor says, “Higher levels of hell are still hell.”
Divan looks to the tray and puts the fork down. “Congratulations, Connor. You’ve cleaned your plate. Your mother would be proud.”
Connor closes his eyes. My mother. How many yards was I from the front door before I was taken? How close did I come to knowing whether she’d see me with anything but shame? Now I’ll never know.
When he opens his eyes again, Divan is leaning closer, a strange hint of an Unwind’s desperation in his eyes. “I don’t want you to think ill of me, Connor.”
And of all the emotions Connor feels, anger is the one that rises to the surface. “Why would you care what I think? You’re about to tear me apart and sell me. Do you think if I forgive you—if any of us forgive you—it makes you worthy of forgiveness? Sorry, it doesn’t.”
Divan leans away, his veneer of aloof sophistication replaced with a despair as cold and empty as the air outside. Connor sees it only for a moment, but he sees it all the same—and in that moment, he realizes he has something that this man can only grasp at but can never capture: self-respect.
“We’re done here,” Connor says, realizing it will hasten the inevitable, but finding that he honestly doesn’t care anymore. “I’m tired of looking at you. Unwind me.”
As Divan stands, his perfect posture and larger-than-life presence seem hobbled. He looks away from Connor, not even able to hold his gaze. “As you wish.”
54 • Risa
An hour later, Risa sits before the Orgão Orgânico, with a Mozart étude playing in her head. Keeping her hands to her side, she clings to her last threads of hope, while behind her Divan reclines on a sofa, watching her. The plane shudders with a tremor of turbulence.
