Archie sat on the stone steps of the Tudor mansion, feeling pleasantly high. He remembered this now. The shudder of warmth under his skin; the way his bones seemed to soften; that feeling of wet cotton lining his skull. All the small discomforts to which he’d grown accustomed—the stiffness in his ribs, the prickly sensations of his scars, the burn of acid in his throat, the stab of pain when he inhaled deeply—all melted away to something peripheral. He didn’t even mind the itch in his throat anymore. It was amazing what two little pills could do. A few years ago, it would have taken a handful to reach the same effect. His tolerance had changed.

He reached up and touched his head, winced, and then looked at the gritty dry blood on his dirty fingertips. Too late for stitches. He’d have another scar.

Now he just had to find out how he’d gotten it.

The front door opened and Jack Reynolds came out and sat down next to Archie on the step. Jack had a round red ceramic mug of coffee in each hand, and he held one out to Archie. Archie took it. The hot mug reminded him how cold he was. He took a sip and let the steam coming off the coffee warm his face. The Vicodin made his tongue feel thick.

“I remembered that you take it black,” Jack said.

“Yep,” Archie said.

The orange glow of daybreak had given way to a blindingly blue morning. Archie liked the sound of dawn, the way that every noise seemed bright after the hush that had settled overnight. The grass glistened with dew. The trees were ablaze with fall colors.

“Are you planning on spending all day on my stoop?” Jack asked.

Archie took another sip of coffee. “I’m not leaving until I see Leo.”

Jack frowned over his coffee cup. “I have houseguests.”

The Russians. Archie had been counting on that.

“I know,” Archie said.

Jack looked at Archie for a long time. His eyes were attentive, thoughtful, but beyond that Archie had a hard time reading them. Jack was a handsome man. Even Archie, who knew he could be obtuse about such things, couldn’t miss that. As Archie aged, he saw himself fade and slacken in the mirror. As Jack aged, he only got better-looking—distinguished, people called it. His face was chiseled, his temples gray; he had that square-jawed sitcom father from the fifties look. Just your friendly drug kingpin next door.

Archie felt a ripple of relaxation move up his spine to that wet cotton in his skull.

Jack took a sip of coffee. He squinted at Archie, the picture of conviviality. If he knew something violent had happened at his house, he was doing a good job of hiding it.

“Take a shower,” Jack said. “You can join us for breakfast.”

Chapter 18

CHAPTER

18