Chapter Twelve
brICE LASTED UNTIL THEY REACHED the Bridge gates. As he got out of the pod that he, Bronson and two of the Bridge guards were using, he turned and vomited until stars danced in his vision and his back shrieked in pain.
He straightened and wiped his mouth. It didn’t surprise him to see that his hand was shaking.
Bronson patted his shoulder silently. The man looked ill, too. And he hadn’t smiled once since Zana had arrived only that morning to extort Brice into this.
“You have to go in there,” Bronson said. “You have to swear to the charges and sign it.”
Brice watched the guards manhandle Devar through the gates, a tight fist of muscle and weapons clenched around Luciana’s son.
The horror on Luciana’s face flashed through his mind once more. Her white face, her huge eyes. The way she had looked at him, waiting for him to do something, to make it all go away.
“When do we get to the end of this, Bronson?”
Bronson looked unhappy. “Don’t look too far ahead,” he said. “Just focus on getting through this moment in front of you. Go and sign and swear, then you can head home and recover.”
“I don’t think there will be any recovery. Not over this.”
Bronson shifted his feet so he was directly in front of Brice and staring him in the eye.
Bronson had taken up this position many times in the past, whenever Brice baulked at yet another public appearance.
Bronson was in coaching mode. “Every time you want to hesitate, remind yourself of what he did.” He pointed at the gates behind him.
“Fifty-three people, Brice. Just so he could make some money. Friends of ours. Association members. You were stuck under the building for a whole day! You broke your one good leg! Then there’s Jimmy and Elspeth, and Martine Grey. Loreena. Edmunson.”
Brice nodded. He knew the names. They were engraved on his brain. They had been friends.
“I don’t care who his family is, given that,” Bronson said, his tone a bit calmer. “Do you?”
Brice hesitated. Then, “No,” he said truthfully. “I don’t.”
Yet the image of Luciana’s face wouldn’t leave his mind. He would pay a price for today. He didn’t know what it would be, only from the way he was feeling, he was already starting to count the cost.
And it wouldn’t end here.
●
It was dark in the house. The sun lights had faded long ago. And still neither of them moved, until Caelen got up slowly and stiffly from the old armchair, and washed her face at the sink.
She moved over to the printer and programmed it with swift taps.
Luciana heard the food printing and caught the scent of hot chocolate.
And coffee.
Caelen moved over to the sofa where Luciana sat in the corner, her knees up against her chest. She held out a bowl of ice cream with hot fudge sauce that still steamed. “The sugar will help.” Her voice was hoarse.
Luciana shook her head. She wasn’t even remotely hungry. “I’ll take the coffee.” Her own voice was ragged, too.
Caelen put the ice cream on the arm of the chair she had been using, pulled the two mugs of coffee out of the printer maw, and handed one to Luciana. Then she ate the ice cream while Luciana drank.
“I have to ask,” Caelen said softly. “Brice…can he help in any way?”
Luciana’s heart squeezed. “He’s the one who filed the charges.” She didn’t have the courage to check the Forum because she knew the documents would be public by now. “He thinks Devar did it.”
“But why?” Caelen asked, with the same bewildered high note in her voice that had been there the first dozen times she had uttered this question.
“He didn’t do it,” Luciana said firmly. Fifty-three people dead.
Hundreds injured. No, Devar had not done that.
It was impossible to even consider the idea.
That anyone at all could deliberately do such a thing was a nearly overwhelming idea, all by itself.
She refused to associate Devar with such an act. It was ludicrous.
“So what do we do about it?” Caelen asked.
For the first time since the arrest, Luciana could feel her mind sluggishly stirring. Caelen’s question was prodding her, making her process it. What could they do about this?
“I think…first thing in the morning, we must go to the Bridge and ask questions. Find out why they think Devar did this. How he was supposed to do it.”
“It has to be a mistake,” Caelen said.
“Yes,” Luciana said firmly. “It is a mistake. A ghastly one. We will figure that out. Tomorrow.”
“I have to work tomorrow,” Caelen said, her tone diffident. “I failed to show up this afternoon…”
“Then you must work,” Luciana told her. “I can take the day to figure this out.” Yes. She would fight this, whatever it was.
The memory of Brice’s solid, unmoving features popped into her mind. She would fight him, too, if she had to. Brice had made it clear what side he was on.
Despite her determination and the rudiments of a plan, Luciana didn’t sleep at all that night. The bed was too big and too empty.
●
“I told you this morning to set up the next walk-and-talk for the day after tomorrow!” Brice said, while Cathi stood just inside the door of his office and shrunk in upon herself.
And that spineless shrinking of hers irritated him even more.
“Stop looking like that, and get out there and get it done. I want a full schedule on my desk before you leave tonight!”
Cathi slipped around the edge of the door and shut it.
Brice swore and went back to his desk. He had been standing at the window once more. From there, he could see the dark spots on the floor of the Aventine where the arena had once stood. All the rubble had gone.
They were talking about building an amphitheater there now.
Bronson stepped in and shut the door softly. “I heard what you told Cathi just now.”
“Was I talking too loudly? Sorry.” He slapped at the emitter that had switched off, re-generating the screen.
“You were shouting, Brice,” Bronson said.
Brice looked up. “I was? Then she deserved it. Everyone seems to have fallen asleep around here lately.”
“Is that how you see it?”
Brice frowned. He wasn’t in the mood for one of Bronson’s ‘let’s examine our feelings’ sessions. “Not now, Bronson.”
“Yes, now.” Bronson came closer to the desk. “Have you spoken to Luciana since the arrest?”
Brice flinched. “What do you think?”
“I think you have to find some way to deal with this. How are you sleeping?”
“Just fine,” Brice ground out.
“Hmm.” Bronson tilted his head. “You’re re-living the arena collapse, aren’t you?”
Brice stared down at the desk in front of him. At the little gouge that had appeared there a few days ago. He couldn’t remember how it had got there. No way was he was going to tell Bronson that he was starting to lose time, that there were moments in the day he couldn’t recall.
“You have to talk to Luciana,” Bronson said. “Get it out. Tell her what is going on.”
Brice lowered his head. “She won’t believe me. It’ll sound like I’m lying just to…to get her back. Not that she would come back, anyway. And I don’t blame her for that.”
“You’re showing every symptom of classic trauma syndrome, Brice,” Bronson said. “You have to deal with this.”
“I am dealing with it!” Brice roared.
Bronson studied him, his expression calm.
Brice held up his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”
“I know,” Bronson said. “That’s the shitty part.”
“That’s the shitty part?” Brice asked in disbelief. “There isn’t any part of this that isn’t shitty!”
Bronson just stood there. He didn’t agree or disagree. His understanding expression made Brice feel sub-human.
Brice rubbed at his temples. “Maybe…I should take a day or two.” It hurt to even say it, to admit that this was getting the better of him.
“In a couple of days, maybe you can,” Bronson said. “For now, Brice, I need you to brace yourself.”
Brice lowered his hands. “Why?” he asked suspiciously.
Bronson told him.