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The bitch.
That soulless bucket of bolts. Damn her to whatever hell existed for beings of her kind.
Caleb Smith slumped against the solid glass door that would never open again, and contemplated his fate. He’d helped Nathan Bateman’s female-presenting AI, Ava, escape his compound by circumventing the Internet mogul’s military-grade security. In thanks, Ava overrode the system to trap Caleb in the house. Sealed him in a tomb worthy of an Architectural Digest spread. Left him there while she walked away to live her best “life.”
All because he fell for a pretty face. Sweet as cream and equally cold.
Damn Ava for betraying his kindness.
Damn him for falling hook, line, and sinker.
Caleb sat cross-legged by the door. His feet had numbed from lack of movement, and the glass felt cool against his cheek. The sensation spread across his shoulders and slowly down his arms. Maybe he’d pissed himself, maybe not. Like he gave a damn anymore.
He hoped the chill gradually taking over his body signaled his impending death. Nothing in the space he could access in Bateman’s home proved helpful in a bid for suicide. The only plausible option open to him was strangulation with his clothes. He might never be found, but the idea of looping his briefs around his neck didn’t appeal to him too much. His luck, he’d finish the deed and expire an hour before some government agency raided the place. Photos of Caleb choked by his underwear, passed around at the Pentagon. What a legacy.
So Caleb waited, and fixed his blurring gaze on the late Nathan Bateman lying in the hallway on the other side of the door. The lucky bastard. Nathan sort of went quickly after Ava and the other AI, Kyoto, stabbed him. Caleb stared down his lifeless, lidded eyes in the hope that death transferred in good time.
“Come on,” he urged the Reaper. The words came out in a hoarse whisper. Caleb’s throat was dry, his feet lacked circulation, and his mind came close to atrophy. Everything in his line of vision wriggled and spotted. As he understood it, eyesight was usually the first thing to shut down. Once the world turned black, he needed only to welcome the death rattle in his throat.
Which was why Caleb thought it odd when white dust rained from the ceiling of Bateman’s deathbed hallway. It resembled snow, and Caleb expected the flakes to overtake the macabre scene before him. He waited for the clouds to turn opaque, seep through the cracks of his prison and suffocate him.
Odder still was the sight of the hallway ceiling collapsing under the weight of a white-gray figure in a cape. The figure touched the ground hard, kneeling with a fist pressed to the floor before they slowly straightened. They appeared wrapped in bandages, like a mummy with glowing white eyes, menacing in a hood with a prominent widow’s peak in front.
Caleb stared. Had he any voice left, he’d scream for help. Mercy. His life. Then again, he was likely witnessing one final hallucination before death, so he didn’t see the point in appealing to this comic convention outlier.
The super-mummy stomped toward Caleb’s door, pausing a moment before Nathan and Kyoko’s bodies. It took three seconds to determine they were beyond help, and the being now eyed Caleb.
“Stand back,” they ordered. “I’ll get you out.” What a powerful voice. Deep and harsh. Commanding. It might have turned Caleb on if he still had feelings.
Caleb shook his head. He lacked the strength to explain his inability to move. His legs were pretzel-twisted rubber underneath him. He tried to send the message telepathically, but the super-mummy just tilted their head.
“I won’t hurt him.”
Caleb blinked, his eyes dry. It looked as though the being was talking to somebody else besides him. It’s beginning, he thought. His mind was dying first before everything else. As a farewell gift, it conjured the image of a comic book character he’d never read.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get him out of there,” the super-mummy said, studying the security glass protecting Caleb. Bandage-wrapped fingers reached out to brush a spot far from where Caleb sat. “You can introduce yourself later. Yeah, I know he’s cute.”
What? Okay, that inspired questions. Caleb struggled to find his voice, but no sound came when the mummy punched a hole through the supposedly impenetrable glass. Caleb saw the bandaged fist breach his side of the wall and he immediately passed out.
The Reaper had come for him after all.
~*~
“Excuse me? Hullo there.”
The afterlife was warm and full of light. Birds chirped and the grass smelled sweet. Caleb even welcomed the irritating ringing noise in his ears, though he thought it curious that tinnitus would carry over into death.
“Wakey, wakey,” said the voice.
Caleb opened his eyes. The Reaper was gorgeous with his wavy dark hair and golden skin. Wide eyes and a bright smile. Hands could use some moisturizer. Caleb winced at the sensation of callused fingers lifting him to a sitting position. A water bottle was brought to his lips. He took in the cool, wet sensation and drank. It restored life to his body.
“How’s your head?” the Reaper asked, taking the bottle. “You went down rather quickly there. It was a bit scary, but at least the glass didn’t scratch you.”
“I’m fine,” Caleb said. Was he, really? He inhaled, so his lungs worked. He looked past his savior–escort to the underworld, guardian angel–at the stretch of grass before him and the mountain chain in the distance. He saw the river, and slowly his memory returned.
He’d been left to die, and someone, something, fell from the sky and liberated him. Caleb snapped his fingers and pinched his nose in futile attempts to wake up from his death thrall.
“I’m alive,” he said, not in question. “This is real. This happened.”
“It is. My name’s Steven, by the way,” said the Reaper, extending his hand. “Steven Grant.”
Caleb shook it and introduced himself, even though the Reaper should have known his name.
“We were quite shocked to find you, and Mr. Bateman in… that way.” Steven’s voice lowered at that, but he didn’t shrink away from Caleb. He seemed to dodge an obvious question, and Caleb figured he ought to cooperate in order to get more help.
“I didn’t kill him,” Caleb said.
“You’re sure about that?”
Caleb glared at him. Steven offered an apologetic smile.
“That is to say,” Steven gave a nervous laugh, “maybe… things happened and you blacked out and don’t recall. It occurs more often than you think.”
“Nathan Bateman was murdered by his own creations,” Caleb said, his tone cold. “One of them trapped me inside and left me to die. She was called Ava…”
He trailed off. Steve had said we earlier. “That… person in the white suit and cape. Are they still here?”
“Yes, he is. That’s a bit complicated, though.” This time Steven pulled away. Caleb now registered the small campsite set up behind them. A one-person tent blocked the field where the helicopter had dropped off Caleb, and Steven had set up a few chairs and a cooking station. Caleb currently sat on a large beach towel. A breeze caressed the loose flap entrance of the tent, and Caleb saw only one sleeping bag laid out. Interesting.
“I have time,” Caleb said. “Are you with the government?”
Steven chuckled. “Oh, gosh no. I work for a museum,” he said, then muttered, “when I do go to work, that is.”
Since when did museum workers fulfill rescue missions? “Where’s your plane? Helicopter?” Caleb asked.
“We didn’t bring one.” Steven immediately cringed after saying it, like he’d spilled a secret. Probably true.
Caleb gave a nervous laugh. “So, what? You flew here on your own? With all that camping gear on your back?”
“Had a bit of help. Hard to explain all that without getting into a whole…thing.” Steven nodded, not meeting Caleb’s eyes. “What’s important is that you’re alive and out of danger, for now. The rest will all fall into place, maybe. Are you hungry?”
Famished. Caleb had lost all track of time in Bateman’s house of horrors. He’d found a few protein bars stashed in the rooms where Ava had trapped him, and he’d nibbled them down to crumbs. He watched Steven pull a few pouches of freeze-dried camping meals from a backpack. Hell, even that looked appetizing.
“So, on tonight’s menu we have your choice of beef Stroganoff or curried chicken and rice.” Steven inspected each label and grimaced. “I can’t really recommend one over the other,” he said. “They both look disgusting to me. I realize it’s no help to a starving man.”
Caleb wanted to laugh. At this point he’d roll over and graze on the field. “Whichever one you’re having is fine with me.”
“I’m a vegan, actually. I didn’t pack this bag.” Steven dropped the meal pouches and searched the rest of his portable pantry. “There is a box of plain pasta in here–”
“Sold.”
Steven grinned at him. “Right.” He set the squat box of half-cut spaghetti by the miniature camp stove and grabbed a small pot. “I’ll go fill this up then.”
~*~
Why didn’t you ask him what the hell he was doing in Bateman’s house? With Bateman dead on the other side of his door?
“Uh, excuse me,” Steven said. “That poor man was trapped and wasting away when we found him. He’s obviously suffered, so let’s give him a bit to recover before we go all Dragnet on him, okay?”
Dragnet? Really? How old is that reference? You couldn’t have said Law & Order?
“I don’t watch Law & Order.” Steven glanced over his shoulder. Caleb was resting, lying on his back with his face tilted toward the sun. The faintest of smiles brought light to his countenance. Probably hadn’t seen the actual sun in days, maybe longer. Steven shuddered to think how long Caleb languished in his prison.
He turned back to the river and sought out his rippling reflection. Not really his, but that of Marc Spector scowling back at him. Marc had agreed to step aside after Caleb passed out in the house. Steven insisted the man see a friendly face upon waking; the two hardly argued of late, but what followed after Steven’s suggestion was a verbal brawl for the ages.
What, I’m not friendly enough? Marc had demanded.
Not while you’re barking so loud. Ask Jake who ought to reach out to the man first.
Jake, their third, silently chose to abstain from voting and left Caleb Smith as their problem.
“I can’t stay here long,” Steven said to Marc. “He’ll want to know why it took forever to fill a simple pot.”
Tell him you had to piss.
“In the same river where I’m getting water to boil our food?”
Marc’s reflection rolled his eyes. Fill the pot first, Emeril. I want to talk to him. He might have seen what we’re looking for.
Steven doubted it. Just a gut feeling, and believed his intuition improved of late. “He should go to a proper hospital first. We need to call Layla to lift us out of here.”
We can do that through Khonshu. He got us the gear, right? But she probably won’t get here until tomorrow, Marc said. Do you think he’s concussed?
Steven hoped not, but recalled nothing in their rescue that suggested Caleb might have hit his head. “We don’t know how long he was trapped in that house,” he said. “He is most definitely malnourished, and possibly still dehydrated if he had little or no access to water. I need to make sure he drinks more. He’s lucky to be alive. We only have so much here.” Khonshu had been helpful with the supplies, but Steven wasn’t sure they had enough, especially if Layla got delayed.
Well, Marc’s reflection began to fade, there’s a way to find out. Seconds later, Steven felt that all-too familiar tug and cried out in protest.
~*~
“How you doin’, buddy?”
Caleb blinked, and silently regarded his savior for a few seconds. In the time it took to fetch water for pasta, Steven Grant had transformed from wilting and delicate to unsmiling and curt. A gruff voice replaced the soothing, high-pitched accent, and Caleb surmised the former had been an act. Had this man intended to rescue him all along, or was he currently revealing his true self because he perceived Caleb’s unwillingness to cooperate with his actual goal?
Whatever the man wanted, if Caleb was guaranteed a ride home he’d give it up. Not an ounce of pride remained in him, and every cell in his body screamed exhaustion. It wasn’t like he could fight the man off, anyway.
Speaking of tests of strength… Caleb rose to his feet and tried his legs. No, not a good idea. Knees like gelatin, arms flapping in the breeze. Caleb sank fast but missed touching grass with his face thanks to Steven’s stealth approach.
“Easy now.” Steven wrapped an arm around Caleb’s waist and lowered him to a comfortable sitting position. “Give your body some more time, okay? We’re not able to leave here until tomorrow, and I doubt there’s much to do around there except sit.”
Hiking, but Caleb preferred the indoors. Well, until recently. Choosing not to argue, he nodded and stretched out his legs. “Thanks, Steven.”
“Call me Marc.”
“Why?”
Steven/Marc had turned his back to check on the food. Caleb heard him cursing mildly before he turned with an attempt at a soft expression. “It’s, uh, my middle name. I prefer it, actually.”
“Okay.” Funny how he didn’t introduce himself as Marc earlier, but Caleb wrestled with fatigue and anxiety and a host of other issues. Steven, or Marc, acting undecided on his own name seemed the least of his concerns.
Of course, the man had to conjure up something new. Marc approached with two bowls of plain spaghetti and handed Caleb a tiny envelope of takeout Romano cheese. “I realize you’ve been through some trauma,” Marc began.
Some?
Marc sat across from Caleb on the grass rather than share the mat rolled out for him. He reached into his back pocket for a folded sheet of notebook paper. “We’ve been trying to reach Nathan Bateman for some time. We hadn’t anticipated… well, to find you trapped in his home next to his dead body.”
“We?” Caleb asked. He set aside the sprinkle cheese and dug into the noodles. Bland and boring and the best thing he’d eaten in some time. “You mean, you and the being in the mummy outfit who’s mysteriously disappeared. Unless you’re one and the same.” Caleb looked around the small camp for any signs of the costume. If Steven/Marc/whoever was his superhero savior, he hid the outfit well.
“First things first,” Marc said. “My good friend Layla is coming along sometime tomorrow to get you out of here. She’ll take you to the nearest hospital, get you checked out. From there, you can contact your family, your wife–”
“I have nobody.”
Marc’s expression darkened at that, and he flicked his gaze away for a few seconds. “Oh. Okay, well, wherever you want to go afterward, Layla will help. In the meantime, I’m hoping you pay the favor back in advance.”
He unfolded the notepaper to a crude drawing of… what? Caleb squinted in hopes it made sense. “It looks like a beetle.”
“It’s a scarab,” Marc said. “Solid gold, about the size of a silver dollar, last known in the possession of your friend Mr. Bateman.”
“Nathan Bateman was not my friend,” Caleb said quickly. “He was my boss, and had you and whoever not arrived he may as well have been my assassin.” Caleb sighed, and added, “Indirectly, anyway.”
Marc slouched a bit, and dropped his plastic fork in his bowl. “Intriguing. It sounds like a hell of a story to tell over wings and beer one day, but it’s kind of important that I know where to find this scarab,” he said. “It’s no secret Bateman was a bit eccentric.”
You have no fucking clue. And why would a vegan suggest going out for wings?
“Like any person of privilege with too much money and weird ideas, he collected things that no doubt serve better use elsewhere,” Marc continued. “This particular artifact was taken illegally from its home–”
“The museum,” Caleb interrupted, “where you work?”
Marc nodded. “Sure. Anyway, I understand the scarab was fashioned into a pendant, and seeing as how he wasn’t wearing it when he, ah, died–”
Caleb shook his head. He gripped his bowl, as though Marc might snatch back the food as punishment. “I don’t know anything about a scarab,” he said. “Bateman never wore such a thing during our acquaintance. If you’re thinking I took it, don’t. Unless that scarab had a hidden key inside, it was worthless to me in there.”
“It’s fine, buddy.” With a heavy sigh, Marc crossed his legs and pushed himself up to stand. “It may still be in the house.”
Caleb’s heart numbed. He hoped Marc wasn’t about to recruit him to search for it. All of Bateman’s net worth couldn’t convince Caleb to return to his would-be grave.
They finished their meal in silence, with Marc flicking the occasional glare at Caleb as they ate. The man’s expression ranged from pity to curiosity, at least in Caleb’s eyes. Marc tried to hold his gaze a few times, but would slip to pan the length of Caleb’s outstretched legs. It spoke of an attempt at X-ray vision, as though Marc wasn’t convinced Caleb told the truth about the scarab.
“Would you like to strip search me?”
The moment he said it, Caleb wanted to swallow back the words. What is wrong with me? He damn near barked at the man who saved his life–hardly a show of gratitude. Marc widened his eyes, but to Caleb’s relief did not react with anger or malice. The man actually chuckled, and twitched like struggling to stifle his response.
“I-I’m sorry,” Caleb said, softer now.
“It’s okay, buddy.”
Caleb shook his head. “It’s not. I’m the vulnerable one right now, and it’s not for me to behave so poorly.”
“You’ve been through hell,” Marc told him. “To tell you the truth, I’m surprised you’re this chill, but I suppose everybody processes trauma in their own way.”
Marc gathered up the dirty bowls into a large rucksack and cleaned up around the small camp. He asked if Caleb would be okay by himself for a while. “I need to do one more sweep of Bateman’s house before Layla arrives,” he said. “You should get some rest.”
The tent setup was small, enough to hold one person comfortably. Two uncomfortably, but Caleb supposed that depended on the people and the positions. To him it resembled a fabric coffin, and claustrophobia set in.
“I’d rather sleep outside, if that’s okay.”
Marc shrugged. “Yeah, I get it,” he said. His voice held a tincture of sympathy. “Feel free to use the sleeping bag if you like.” He reached into the tent and pulled out the long, thermal bag.
“What about you?”
Marc was already walking the slightly worn path to Bateman’s house. “I won’t be needing it,” he called over his shoulder. “Get some sleep. I’ll be back soon.”
“But what if–”
Marc kept walking, and didn’t turn to acknowledge him. Then again, Caleb’s truncated question had come out weak so he’d likely gone unheard. Fatigue claimed his voice first, then his body. He didn’t bother unzipping the bag, but laid out on the slippery outer shell and watched the sky gradually turn dark.
Caleb thought about his options after leaving this godforsaken place. He ought to get himself checked out by a doctor, yes. Also therapy, provided his insurance covered it. Fuck, do I still have a job? If Nathan Bateman had planned for Caleb to never leave his home, the man may have arranged for Caleb’s “dismissal” from Bluebook.
“Do I even want to go back there?” he murmured. If Caleb were honest with himself, he’d live happily for the rest of his life completely separated from technology. Bluebook controlled so much of it, anyway. He’d buy a burner phone just to have a number. Pour coffee in a diner for eight hours a day. Read print books instead of using his Bluebook reader app.
A rustling noise from his far left caught his attention, and Caleb turned his head. He hadn’t seen how far and fast Marc walked, and figured he’d see only a speck of a man. A gray-white figure stalked toward the forest, growing smaller until it suddenly sprang into the air. His flowing cape formed a rippling crescent shape against the dark blue sky, then quickly folded down the man’s body as he disappeared from sight.
Caleb blinked, certain he didn’t imagine it.
~*~
They tore apart every room in the house. Raided drawers, opened boxes and overturned contents. Lifted pictures from the walls, looking for safes. Tipped books off shelves on the possibility one of them was actually a hollowed-out hiding place. Marc was ready to take a blade to the mattresses when Steven’s reflection in the nearest mirror stopped him.
Marc.
Marc muttered to himself, ignoring Steven. “Where do weird rich people hide shit?” He walked up to one wall and tapped on it, presumably searching for a hollow spot.
Marc. Surely you’re not thinking about taking a sledgehammer to the walls.
“Don’t need one.” Marc made a fist.
We’ve looked everywhere. It’s not here. This house looks like every fraternity and rock group had a go at it. Steven wasn’t exaggerating, either. The aftermath of their thorough search resembled an insurance agent’s nightmare. They’d even checked the innards of the AI lying near Bateman’s body.
In fact, the only thing we haven’t done is dissect the man himself.
Slowly, Marc turned his gaze up to meet Steven’s reflection.
No.
“Worth a look, you think?” Marc asked. “People are always swallowing stuff to smuggle it through airports.”
You honestly think Nathan Bateman swallowed the scarab on purpose? To hide it, when he already lived so remotely. Does this place even have a ZIP code?
“Money breeds paranoia. Maybe–”
Steven shook his head. He almost ducked out of vision. Could we not, please? There has to be a better theory.
“What do you suggest?”
Well, Steven said, blinking at the mess sprawled out before them, Caleb mentioned another AI, called Ava. Said she was the one who stabbed Bateman and locked him in the house to perish.
Marc gave his full attention to the mirror holding Steven’s reflection, looking ready to punch it through the wall. “You’re saying this Ava might have taken it?” she asked.
It’s entirely possible, right? Steven shrugged. This house has military security. Bateman probably had the scarab out like a paperweight. He likely never anticipated a robber coming long distance, much less a robot uprising. Say she took it, thinking it might have monetary value to pawn.
The idea had merit. They had little intel on the goings-on in this house, but a witness was currently snoozing in the grass not far from here. Caleb Smith wouldn’t be able to tell them Ava’s current whereabouts, but maybe he’d somehow influenced her to travel to a certain place. It. Whatever.
After another quick survey of Bateman’s office, Marc found a Bluebook phone. He pressed Bateman’s fingers on the sensors until one triggered it to wake. It was loaded with proprietary apps, which they determined might prove useful in tracking Ava.
Marc altered the settings on the phone to respond to his passcodes and fingerprint, then summoned the suit for a quicker trip back to camp.
Marc, what are you planning?
“We’re going to have a heart-to-heart with our new friend.”
Marc, let me.
Marc was in the elevator. He noted Steven’s reflection in the glass, now dressed in his white tuxedo and full helmet.
He’s in a vulnerable state now, and we shouldn’t have left him alone so long. You go asking all sorts of questions and he’s liable to shut down.
“You have a point.” Caleb’s behavior had shifted slightly when Marc and Steven made the switch. Caleb seemed more receptive to Steven, but time wasn’t necessarily a luxury for them right now. Khonshu demanded the return of that artifact scarab, and if Bateman’s runaway AI had it, Caleb was their only link.
Let me. Steven begged again. Please.
They were on their way out of the house. “Fine,” Marc said. “Just remember to ditch your suit before he sees you in it. Good luck trying to explain it otherwise.”
~*~
For the first time since Ava’s departure, the dreams came softly and Caleb longed to stay there.
Fresh air helped. Caleb lay on his back, arms and legs spread as though offering himself to the night sky in gratitude. He floated on a wispy cloud that served as bed and blanket. Wide, comforting arms stretched out from his amorphous haven and caressed his face, throat, and torso. He saw no faces in his dream but sensed an invisible would-be lover watching him with sympathy and a desire to relieve his pain.
Caleb… Gentle whispers soothed any remaining apprehension. Caleb gave into the omnipresent solace. Gradually, the prickly sensations of cool air against his skin spread. His clothes disappeared. Hands formed from the clouds and stroked his chest and belly. One slid down to cup his groin and wake up his cock.
“Caleb.”
He jolted awake, the sensuality lost to stark reality. Caleb immediately curled upward on the sleeping bag, bringing his knees to tuck under his chin. Marc hovered over him, his countenance relaxed and his eyes wide with presumed worry. The mollifying accent had returned, confusing Caleb.
“Marc,” he said.
The address gave Marc some pause. Marc looked like he wanted to correct Caleb, but after a second sighed and settled down beside him. “We’ve had a complication arise,” he began.
“We.” Steven/Marc and himself? The royal we? The complication seemed more important than figuring out his companion’s phrasing. “So, your friend Layla isn’t coming then?” Caleb asked.
Marc grinned. “No, not that.” He crooked his head in the direction of Bateman’s house. “I’ve had a look around and the scarab isn’t there. This Ava you mentioned earlier… is it possible she might have taken it with her?”
The fuck should I know? “It would be the least of her crimes, I think,” Caleb said instead. An inanimate object managed to escape this place before him. Caleb never before envied a piece of jewelry.
He studied Marc’s face and realized the man hoped for a more concrete answer. “If she’s capable of murder, she’s capable of theft. I’ll say yes. Assuming the helicopter pilot who was to come for me at the end of my week here collected her instead, there’s your first lead.”
“Good to know.” Marc reclined his body along the length of the sleeping bag and Caleb, somewhat drawn into a sense of security by the movement, stretched out his legs. “How are you feeling, by the way?” he asked. “Anything I can get you? I mean, within reason, given we’re in the middle of nowhere… well, Mr. Bateman left quite a bit of stuff behind. If there’s anything in there you wanted to get out, anything that belonged to you–”
“No.” Caleb lay back on the bag. Stars began to appear and wink above them. To his upper right from his point of view, the full moon loomed. A romantic scene under any other circumstance. Caleb sought to find pleasure in it and not dwell on the past, if he could. “I don’t want anything from that house.”
“Fair enough,” Marc said. Caleb felt the man shuffle close and stiffened.
“Oh, sorry.” Marc gave a nervous laugh. “I ought to leave you to your sleep.”
Caleb turned on his side when Marc sat up. “Are you going into the tent?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I, well…” Marc lifted one ankle, “I have issues. With sleep. It probably wouldn’t have been trouble with just me here, but with you here…”
“Do you have bad dreams, Marc? Night terrors?” Caleb hadn’t suffered either himself, until recently.
“Please, call me Steven.”
~*~
Really?
What? What did I do?
We’ve given him two different names. It’s not enough to suffer Bateman’s house of horrors, but he’s going to think we are messing with him.
Sorry, then. I hadn’t realized you introduced yourself. I’ll just tell him I prefer Steven and apologize for yanking his chain.
Whatever.
~*~
Caleb just looked at him and groaned. “When you were punching through that glass wall to get me out,” he said, “did you hit your head? I mean, that had to be you in that Halloween costume, right?”
“I’m not pranking you, I promise.” Steven held up his hands in a placating gesture. “You know what? Call me anything you like, just know I’m here to help.”
It sounded to Caleb as though Steven/Marc might benefit from a checkup as well. He noticed cuts on the man’s hands, no doubt from his recent recon work. “No worries. Steven is a pleasant enough name. I’ll stick with that.”
Steven smiled and brushed some grass from his pants. “Good. Good,” he said. “Will you be all right to sleep then?”
“Will you?” If Steven wanted him dead, it would have happened in the house. Why go through the trouble of feeding him and clucking like a mother hen, especially since he was basically useless in the search for this scarab thing?
As though reading his mind, Steven pulled out a Bluebook phone; it wasn’t his. “This belonged to your boss, I think,” he said. “Could it be used to find Ava?”
Caleb glanced at the available apps, most foreign to him but decipherable if given time. “If Bateman implanted a tracking device in Ava, and assuming she hasn’t disabled or removed it, perhaps.”
“Would make my job easier.” The light extinguished as Steven pocketed the phone, putting them in increasing darkness. Soon they wouldn’t be able to see each other; neither one of them had bothered with a campfire or lantern.
Caleb called out for Steven, who apparently drifted closer to the tent without making a sound. “If it’s okay with you,” he said, and felt blindly for the zipper on the bag, “I’m happy to spread out the bag so we can both use it.”
“Oh.” It came out in a surprised tone, pleasant and not reluctant. Caleb heard the rustle of Steven’s approach, then the solid warmth of his body coming to rest next to his. A natural movement, no questions about big spoon little spoon, or was this awkward. It was clear each man required some level of comfort, and the proximity helped.
They both lay on their backs, arms folded behind their heads for pillows, and stared upward. “The moon’s so bright,” Caleb said. “I don’t think I’ll sleep much even if I wanted to.”
“I rather like the moon,” Steven said. “I read a lot of ancient history and mythology, you know. Part of my job, but I’ve been interested in it. The Egyptians, for example, viewed the moon as a symbol of rejuvenation.”
Caleb turned his head to the sound of Steven’s voice.
“In a way,” he continued, “it makes sense that it’s full tonight. You’re free, and I’m about to renew my search for something important.”
“So this is a harbinger of good news, maybe,” Caleb said. Steven agreed with a soft grunt.
Caleb settled his arm, next to Steven, at his side, and brushed Steven’s hip. “Tell me more?”