Page 15 of Salt Kiss
The glass doors open for us as we step inside, both of us nodding at Ms. Lim behind the desk, who is wearing the keys at her waist again.
“Some days will be twenty-four-hour days, Tristan, and I can’t help that. So enjoy the easy days when they come.” Mark presses the button for the elevator and we both get inside, me hitting the button for the third floor and then hitting the button for the top floor on his behalf. “Besides, I’m sure you have more moving and unpacking to do.”
I don’t, but confessing that feels a little pathetic. Who wants to admit that their entire life can fit into a stack of totes?
“Yes, sir.”
And when the doors open on my floor, I step off like I have something to do with my afternoon.
I do manageto fill a few hours. I unpack all the totes—clothes and books mostly—and take a good inventory of the kitchen, which is already stocked with utensils, small appliances, and even some food staples. As a club employee, I can order a meal from Lyonesse’s impressive kitchen whenever I want, but I’m too much of a soldier to crave butterfly salads that look like they bleed. I go to a grocery store instead and stock up on food that’s half teenage boy and half the kind of bullshit you eat when you want to stay in shape. My cupboards are now bursting with sugary cereal and macaroni and cheese, and my fridge is full of eggs, vegetables, and fruit.
My father calls just as the sun decides it’s done for the day, and I only hesitate a moment before I pick up the phone. “Hi, Dad,” I say, realizing that my free hand is gripping the polished concrete counter like I’m braced for battle. Which I am.
I make myself let go as he answers.
“Blanche is packing for the trip home, so I thought I’d take a moment and call.”
I don’t respond. If he wants to make this a fight, then he has to be the one to start it.
He’s smart enough to know what I’m doing, but he’s also the one who has a new wife he wants to keep happy and who might walk back in at any moment so he finally gives up and speaks. “Of all the jobs, Tristan. Of all the bosses.”
“I thought you’d be happy that I’m working with family,” I say.
“You know I’m not. First of all, he owns thatbusiness.” My father has a gift for keeping his voice inflectionless and still managing to convey layers of meaning inside a single word. “Secondly, you know what he used to be.”
I do know. “It’s not my job to approve of his résumé.”
“His résumé.” My father does the thing again, the wordrésumécoming out evenly but still carrying with it a wealth of disapproval. “We are soldiers, Tristan. We fight fair fights.Hisrésumé is a résumé of death.”
“It’s in the past.”
“Hardly in the past for the families of those he’s murdered. You’ve heard about Chi?inau?”
I suddenly feel like I’m at a congressional hearing. Which is not uncommon with Brigadier General Thomas. “I don’t think so.”
“He located a nest of Carpathian terrorists in an apartment. He was supposed to bring their leader in, arrest him formally, and instead every single one of those men went missing. There was nothing there for our Moldovan military partners to find, not even blood spatter. They just vanished into the darkness. The next month, we’re all suddenly privy to a huge packet of intelligence on terrorist cells in Eastern Europe.”
“That’s hardly proof of—”
“And Brussels? Three diplomats found dead in their beds on the same morning, all three of apparent heart attacks, all three of them set to vote on a crucial EU bill that next day?”
“You can’t know—”
“Rome, the month before he left. They found a priest torn apart in his own sacristy. A priest, Tristan. I was told they had to rip out the floor and the walls because the blood had soaked the grout and stained all the plaster.”
“Dad, stop.” I’m gripping the counter again. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re protecting a man who murdered people, tortured them, priests and politicians and people that deserved a fair trial at least. And that’s who Iknowabout—Tristan, there’s a reason most of what Mark did was never written down.”
“I’m not apologizing for what he’s done, or condoning it. But I need a job, and this is something I can do,” I say.
There’s a pause, and I know what’s coming. I know what’s coming because it’s come before.
“If you hadn’t left the army—” my father starts.
And for a minute, all I can see is Aaron Sims, standing in front of me, his gun aimed at my head, his eyes desperate and pleading. Sims hadn’t wanted to kill me.
I think...I think maybe he wouldn’t have.
