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Something different, she thought again. Smiled and smiled. Something creative.
She slipped the scalpel back in place, took out the fresh marker, its backup. She wasn’t sure what she’d say this time, not like the first when she’d written so many drafts in her journal first. This time, she’d let it come to her, after the work was done.
And this time, once she was clear, she’d send a message directly to Eve from one of the false front accounts she’d been collecting.
You hurt me, she composed in her head, putting another over me who has been your loyal and unselfish friend. You came after me as if I were a common thief, a mad dog, a criminal. True justice calls for balance, so I must hurt you for us to regain our even ground. For us to understand true mutual respect.
It’s for your sake I’ve done this as the constant attention, the glory and fame has, I fear, distracted you from your calling.
To serve justice, you must be pure. I see now that you can’t be pure again until the author of this fame and attention is eliminated. It’s for the best, Eve. All that I’ve done, all that I will do, is always with your best interest in my heart.
I remain,
Your one true friend.
Yes, that was what needed to be said. Maybe she should draft it out now, while it was fresh in her mind. The work tended to cloud things. Or did it clarify them?
She’d wait. The work came first. Eve came first.
• • •
Cozy in her flannel pants covered with fluffy kittens—something she wore only when alone—Nadine read another batch of reader/viewer mail. She’d already had a couple of assistants separate it into correspondence that dealt with her weekly news show, Now, correspondence about the vid, correspondence about the book, and correspondence that mixed some of those together.
She had a selection of news channels running on her screen muted, and music blaring to keep the energy pumping. If anything caught her eye on screen, she’d mute the music, unmute the screen.
She had a pot of coffee—real coffee now that she could afford it, thanks to The Icove Agenda. Which meant thanks to Dallas.
Or thanks to the Icoves—or the clones who’d killed them.
Was it strange to be grateful to a mad scientist and his selfish son—or more accurately to be grateful they’d been murdered?
Something to ponder another time, but she knew she secretly hoped one of the clones would eventually contact her, agree to a one-on-one.
Of course, she got contacts constantly from people claiming to be an Icove clone, but so far, not a single one had checked out. Attention-seekers, she thought now. Or crazies.
But one day, just maybe.
What was it like knowing you’d been created in a secret lab, programmed from inception to look a certain way, to have certain skills, to fulfill specific purposes?
How many of them had survived, and now lived lives with their secret? Working, sleeping, eating, having sex.
She’d wondered if one of the clones, out of a weird sense of gratitude and connection, was the killer Dallas hunted. But it didn’t fly, or not high enough. To really fly she’d have found some correspondence that clicked with Dallas’s from the killer.
And while that could be an interesting follow-up, she didn’t want to spend all her time and energies on the Icove business. She’d moved on. What she should be doing, she thought, as she lit an herbal, let some stress slide out with the smoke, was working on the draft of her true follow-up. The Red Horse Conspiracy.
Not sure about the title, she thought. Maybe Legacy would be better. The Red Horse Legacy, as it had proven to be just that.
She’d think about it, she told herself while she brought up the next e-mail. The title would be important, of course, but the story, that was the real winner. Mass murders brought on by delusions. The virus created by an Urban War cult leader, and brought into the here and now by his ambitious sociopath of a grandson.
Yes, maybe legacy said it better.
She still needed to pin Dallas down, shoehorn more details out of her, but she had more than enough for the first draft. And she’d get back to it once she’d gone through another hour—tops—of correspondence.
Of course, she should still be basking in the sun—or starlight—warmed by island breezes and Bruno. But work came first.
She and Dallas had that in common. Work ethic—maybe workaholism, she admitted—and a bone-deep belief in truth, in justice, had formed their friendship.
Would this killer really understand that? She doubted it. Like the Red Horse victims, this woman ran on delusion.
