Hawkeye, page 7
That made Kate’s ears perk. She stepped out of line very slightly to get a better look at the young man in question. Broad shoulders. Curly dark hair. Leather gloves—she recognized those gloves.
Well, well, it looked like she had been right after all. Where there was a book, Milo was bound to follow.
The bouncer was growing impatient. “I’m sorry, if you aren’t on the list—”
“He’s my guest,” Kate said loudly, and really hoped her plan worked. Milo gave a start and glanced over his shoulder—and suddenly paled. She gave him a look, hoping he got the hint to play along, and rushed up to him, curling her arm around his. “I am so sorry, we arrived separately. I should be on the list,” she went on, pointing to the data pad in the bouncer’s meaty hand.
There were scars on the bouncer’s hands, and calluses, too. He wasn’t just any hired help, but actual security. She also figured that, because he was stationed here, he must’ve had a knee problem or something to limit his mobility, but his talent still made him indispensable. And all of that told her one very, very bad thing—whoever owned Faust Auctions wasn’t messing around. And that meant security was going to be chokingly tight.
The bouncer asked, in a slightly Russian accent, “And you are?”
She smiled at him. “Susan Bishop, of Bishop Publishing,” she said smoothly. Everyone always said how she and her sister looked so much alike.
The man skimmed down his list. “Apologies, but I don’t see you, either.”
Kate feigned shock. “What? I’m sorry—did you say you don’t see me?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, that isn’t my problem, now is it? That’s your problem, and it seems you aren’t very good at what you do if you can’t even recognize Milo Albright, the grandson of the infamous author E. L. Albright! We were one of the first publishers to offer on his grandfather’s novel, actually, though he went elsewhere,” she added nobly, though it was all lies. She couldn’t remember who published the Immovable Castle series, but it didn’t look like Milo was moving to correct her about any of it. She hadn’t paid attention to her father’s legitimate business in years—and especially not since Susan took over as CEO. “It’s quite a lovely story.”
The man hesitated, looking down at his list of people, then back to the two of them. “I’ve . . . heard of you. . . .”
“Exactly. So, can we pass?”
“I might have to check with—”
Kate put a delicate hand on the top of his datapad and smiled up at him with her large doe eyes. “I can check for you, and at the same time mention how you are causing a rather embarrassing scene for both of us.” Then she motioned to the line forming behind them, all guests waiting to come in out of the rain.
Quickly, the man clicked on something on his datapad, either buying into the ruse or deciding that the trouble wasn’t in his pay grade. “My apologies, Mr. Albright, Miss Bishop. Please, go ahead. Enjoy the evening.”
“Thank you,” Kate replied, and together, with her arm curled through Milo’s, they went into the warehouse.
It was dark and cool, and Milo was stiff as a board beside her. She muttered out of the corner of her mouth, “Act natural.”
“You just lied to get in here,” he whispered.
“My sister won’t care.”
“Wait, you—you’re related to those Bishops? Really?”
In the dark, she couldn’t see his face, but she decided that he was being earnest, so she told him, “Sadly.”
At the end of the hall, there was another man passing out auction numbers, and he let them into the main warehouse. The koi pond beneath them spread out across the entire glass floor, which was set with steel beams, like a checkerboard. Beneath it, hundreds of fish, orange and white and speckled, swam in crystalline blue water. The floor of the fish tank glowed aqua, a good ten, maybe fifteen feet deep. Whoever this auction house belonged to, they had money.
She’d seen wall-sized aquariums before, but not ones under the floor.
Milo muttered, “Thank you. But why are you here?”
“Probably the same reason you are,” she replied, flicking her gaze across all the exits. Two emergency ones at the back, and then the front entrance. There was a stage to the left, lit up in slow-roaming purples and reds, and just beside it stood a door to what she remembered were private secured rooms where they stored the auction items. The book was back there. Though it looked like she would need a key card to access it.
“You want the book,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Sort of.” She turned in front of him and played with his tie to make it look like they were being intimate while she clocked the rest of the warehouse. In the low light, she could swear he was blushing. “I actually want some answers.” Then she wrapped his tie around her hand and gave a forceful tug. He made an uncomfortable grunt. “If you don’t mind, Milo.”
He swallowed. “What . . . kind of answers?”
“Of the book variety. I’m sure you understand.” She searched his eyes, but he wasn’t scared in the least. In fact, he looked a bit amused. Interesting.
“Kate, I’m not sure what you’re—”
She tugged a little harder, causing him to gasp.
He winced. “Fine—fine.”
“You said there are six books. How many are here?”
“Why would I—”
She tugged a little harder. “How many, Milo?” she repeated. A waiter passed, offering some expensive finger foods on a glistening glass tray.
“One—I think.”
“You think?”
“Yes, I think. Unless the person auctioning it off bailed at the last minute, or a buyer already got to it. Or Kingpin.”
“Why does Kingpin want the books so badly?” she asked, hoping Milo would tell her more than Misty had.
Milo looked away at the masses of rich people in their finest, showing off an opulence that most people in this city couldn’t even dream of. The mood lights on the ceiling of the warehouse, twenty feet above them, threw his face into long shadows of pinks and reds.
She set her jaw. “I saved your life—you owe me, Milo.”
“I realize,” he replied dryly. She wrapped his tie around her hand one more time, until her clenched hand met his throat. “My grandfather used to be—Someone’s coming over,” he said, his eyes flicking to a person behind her. His face pinched.
“So? Tell me now.”
“I promise, after the auction.”
“After this conversation,” she demanded.
He relented: “Okay.”
She begrudgingly unwound her hand from his tie and glanced over her shoulder at a couple coming toward them. The white man was tall, silvery-white hair cut short, a golden eyepatch across his left eye, and on his arm was a blond woman in an extravagant Dior dress and a kind smile. “Who are they?”
In reply, he shot her the exact same look she’d given him when they entered the auction—to play along—and took a champagne flute from a passing waiter to blend in. The glass was tinted red as well, the bubbles inside almost looking square behind the refracted crystal. “Gregory Maxwell,” Milo said in greeting.
The man in question threw out his hands. “Milo, my boy! It’s been ages. I am so sorry to hear about your grandfather,” he added somberly. “You must be bereft.”
The blond woman nodded, placing a gloved hand over her heart. The wedding ring on her fourth finger probably weighed more than a New York City cockroach. “I cried when I heard, Milo! He was such a wonderful man.”
Milo smiled, but it was as hollow as the look in his eyes. “It was . . . quite a terrible night, yes.”
What an understatement, Kate thought.
“Was he sick?” the wife asked. “You know, my book club last night said that perhaps he was murdered—”
“Cecelia,” the man interrupted, chastising her. “We don’t go spreading rumors.”
She looked stricken. “Oh my, I’m sorry. That was very rude of me.”
Kate wrapped her arm around Milo’s again, because she noticed that he’d gradually started to go rigid the longer they talked with this Gregory Maxwell and his wife. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” she said, changing the subject. “I’m Susan Bishop.”
The man gave a start. “Of Bishop Publishing? What do you know—I was just saying to my wife how we haven’t seen your dad in quite some time!” Of course not, he was on the West Coast being involved in some sort of nefarious villainy to become immortal, or another exhaustive Ponzi scheme. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask for a meeting with you to discuss your distribution model. How you’ve cut costs and managed to pull in a staggering profit since your father’s departure is quite a feat. I’m sorry, however, for your marriage.”
Kate’s smile was strained. “That’s quite all right, I should have listened to my sister. She didn’t like him anyway. And you are Gregory Maxwell . . . ?”
“Of Pegasus Publishing! CEO, Publisher, Thinker of Thoughts—the works. It’s so nice to finally meet a contemporary. I thought they were all in federal court for unwise hypothetical monopolies,” the silver-haired man said, touching his bejeweled bolo tie, an emerald set in gold, probably worth more than an entire city block. Both the man and his wife dripped with opulence. “This is my wife, Cecelia.”
“Pleasure,” Kate replied, also shaking his wife’s hand.
Milo said, “Gregory’s publishing company specializes in children’s literature.”
“Yes, and isn’t tonight such a fun occasion? There are literary collectors from all over the world here, and almost all of them are going to bid on Lot Sixty-Seven,” he added with a sly wink. “I know that’s why we’re here! Though I think they’re going to rob me of house and home with the price—it’s quite lucky for the auctioneer, though, since art is far more valuable with the artist dead than alive. I will probably lose, but I can’t help but try and bid for another piece for our private collection.”
“I hear your collection’s pretty extensive,” Milo commented dryly. “Don’t you have a first edition of Alice Through the Looking Glass?”
“I do!” Gregory laughed. “Though I probably wouldn’t even need to bid tonight if we hadn’t passed on your grandfather’s books ages ago. We’ve been kicking ourselves ever since,” he continued. “He would have made us millions.”
“Because that’s always what matters,” Milo said with a tight, hollow smile.
“It’s a business! It’s important. And if you let us, we can do wonders to your late grandfather’s brand,” he added, taking a business card out of his inside jacket pocket, grinning like a shark. He handed it to Milo, who took it without a glance. “We could ensure your grandfather’s legacy.”
Milo pursed his mouth into a thin line, trying to school his expression as though he’d just tasted something rotten. “I’ll give it a think.”
“You do that, my boy.”
Cecelia told her husband, “Sweetheart, I think I see Abbott with his husband. We should go say hello. We want to be on the guest list for his Christmas party. You know after the auction, you’ll want to go home to go straight to bed—he’s an early riser,” she added coyly to Kate and Milo, as if it was a secret.
“Ah, yes, yes. It was nice seeing you Milo, and Susan,” Gregory added with a nod, and turned to leave for another part of the warehouse. Kate expected to feel Milo unwind a little as they left, but he just seemed to grow more rigid with each step.
Until, suddenly, and—a bit peculiarly—he handed Kate his glass of untouched champagne and turned after the couple. “Gregory,” he called, and took off the glove on his right hand and held it out. He said something quietly to the man, though Kate was too far away to hear, and with his back turned to her she couldn’t read his lips.
Gregory glanced at Milo’s outstretched hand a moment before he accepted it with a strong shake. “It won’t be a problem,” she read on his lips.
Then Milo put his leather glove back on and returned to Kate. She glanced back at Gregory Maxwell, who rubbed his temples a little painfully, a frown pinching his face. His wife whispered something to him, he shook his head with a smile, and they disappeared into the crowd. Milo took his champagne back from her and downed it in a single gulp.
She quirked an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”
“Vultures, the lot of them,” he grumbled darkly, putting the empty glass on another passing waiter’s tray. The waiters shifted between people like shadows, and there were so many of them Kate had to figure that half of them were actually security detail, too. “Gregory Maxwell is one of the worst. He and his wife might look perfect, but rumors are they’re separated.”
“Give that man an Oscar,” she replied commendingly. “At least we know that the book is Lot Sixty-Seven now.”
“Now we just have to figure out how to get it,” he agreed, flitting his eyes about the room and then up to the balcony that surrounded the main floor.
A few shadowy people leaned against the railing, the lights catching in their expensive watches and earrings. Kate figured that was the VIP section of the auction house, where the ultra-wealthy distanced themselves from the moderately wealthy. Couldn’t have them mingling, after all.
Milo began to gravitate toward one of the tables, a glowing orb in the middle that pulsed a soft white, and gently tugged her along with him. They got to the table and staked out there, and Milo took another two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to her.
“So, we were at the part where you told me why these books are important,” Kate said, and he scrunched his nose as he remembered their deal.
“Right, right. Well, I doubt you’ll believe me.”
“Hit me with your best shot,” she replied, pretending to nurse her drink. If anyone knew about those mysterious deaths surrounding the Albright books, she figured it’d be Milo.
He swirled the champagne around in his glass, watching bubbles rise to the top. His face pinched. “Have you ever heard of Project Shiver?”
“Am I supposed to?”
“No, but it would’ve been easier if you had,” he said matter-of-factly. “The collection we’re after is a one-of-a-kind set my grandfather created to hide his research on Project Shiver. He used to work for S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he added, a little quieter. People shifted and moved around them and Kate kept a keen lookout as they did. There was something predatory about this crowd. Something that made her skin crawl. “Back in the eighties, he worked with defectors from the Montauk and Stargate government projects on Shiver; they created a way to trick the amygdala—the part of the human brain responsible for identifying potential threats and, as a result, nightmares—into what they called a ‘stop error.’”
Kate frowned. “Like a system crash on a computer?”
“Exactly,” he replied. “In short, they found a way for a person’s nightmares to, in fact, kill them, essentially scaring them to death in their sleep.”
She felt a chill crawl across her skin, remembering her own nightmare last night. Those kinds of deaths could be ruled natural causes—like Misty said. “So, these books have a hidden formula to some sort of toxin that triggers encephalopathy and psychosis. Am I close?”
“No.”
Huh. “Not psychosis, then?”
“Not a toxin,” he replied, and that was surprising, given all the evidence she had so far experienced. “A written language.”
“Well, that wasn’t on my bingo card.”
“That’s what makes it so deadly. My grandfather and his team believed that we, as humans, could harness psychological warfare. You know how hypnotists use those hypnosis spirals to hypnotize people? It’s close to a theory like that, but instead of a spiral, it’s a shape, a visual language—and Project Shiver was born. They believed through visual cues—subliminal messaging—a person could be hypnotized against their will to do whatever the visual cue specified. They only tested and perfected one visual cue, however, before the research was shut down.”
“The nightmare one,” Kate guessed, “and the person hypnotized wouldn’t be the wiser.”
“Not at first, no. Not until the hallucinations begin, and by then it’s just a matter of time before they die, or are driven to insanity.”
“Oh. That . . . could make assassinations very easy.”
He nodded. “It could have. My grandfather wanted to experiment on other sigils, other combinations—what else could they do? Did these sigils’ power stop at nightmares, or could you harness them for other purposes, too?” He gave a shrug. “S.H.I.E.L.D. shut the project down, but before they could, my grandfather stole all work relating to Project Shiver and destroyed all backup copies—and fled. He needed somewhere to hide his research, and what better place to put such dangerous secrets than in a children’s book?”
Kate muttered, “Clearly he underestimated a kid with an obsessive affinity for puzzles and a lot of free time.”
Milo snorted. “He underestimated a lot of people. He created a fake language—the Unword—based on the visual cues from Project Shiver and left clues to the translation across the book series. He put his work into the six rare volumes written only in a language that someone who had read the books and figured out the code could understand. And then”—he gave a shrug—“he destroyed his original work and gave the books away—a few to his friends, another he sold to a secondhand shop, and he donated another. He only kept one of them, and I had it for safekeeping. He’d heard that Kingpin had acquired one of them, so I was on my way to deliver the book to him when . . .”
“Our bags got mixed up,” Kate guessed.
Milo nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t realize you had the book until I was already at the bookstore, and . . . that’s when I found him. In the back. I heard someone leaving and went after them, and apparently you after me, and the rest is history.”
Kate leaned against the table. “That’s . . . a lot to take in.” And she still had questions, too, because if Milo was telling the truth, then why did Albright have the note on him that would’ve cursed his own grandson?
