Page 35 of Legendary

“Hello,” I say, full of dread. If he’s calling this late. It’s not with good news.

“Laslo popped his head back up,” Cash says. “He blew up a small press in Louisville.”

“Was anyone hurt?” Jeb puts his hand on my back. I jump at his touch, and he pulls it back like it was burned.

“Eli,” he begins.

“Was anyone hurt, Cash?” I repeat, closing my eyes. His pause tells me the answer to my question.

“The blast killed the couple who ran the press. They lived in an apartment on-premise.”

I get up and head for my computer. “What are their names?”

“Akaash and Arjun Bahri. They were both retired from The State Department and ran a lifestyle blog and small press for new emigrants from India.”

“Why did Laslo target them?” I say, doing a quick search on the couple and finding nothing on the couple that could be in any way incendiary.

“I think he’s trying to get himself back in the good graces of Patriots Now,” Cash responds. “He was desperate and just hit out randomly.”

Randomly. There’s no such thing for someone like me, who’s an expert at mining data. Data will predict the future if you put in the right data sets. If you work hard enough and analyze patterns correctly. If, instead of screaming in pleasure with your cock down Jeb’s mouth, you were trying to track down a known dangerous sub who you knew was unstable.

“Let me talk to him,” I hear Johnny’s voice say as the phone changes hands. “Eli, don’t blame yourself for this.”

“There’s no one else to blame,” I reply truthfully. Akaash and Arjun Bahri are just two more people to add to the list of the people I’ve failed. The couple who had flights booked to go to Paris next month for their fiftieth wedding anniversary are just two more victims who’ve died on my watch.

I can name them all in alphabetical order. Chronological order, too, but that’s more painful because of the first three names on the list. It’s one of the curses of eidetic memory. I can’t forget the people I let be hurt because I carry them with me all the time. Especially the ones I share my name with.

If I start alphabetically, the Bahris will fall somewhere on the third page of the list. “Celia Aalia, Max Aames, Dalhia Abarsky, Lee Ainsley, Rohit Abrhi,” I say, reciting the names.

Jeb grabs the phone from me. “I’m gonna have to call you back.”

“But—” Johnny objects.

“Fuck off, Johnny. We have a situation here,” Jeb says and disconnects, letting the phone fall to the floor.

“Hey,” he says, kneeling down in front of me again. My body feels a shimmer of heat from the memory of the last time he did that. I try to kill the heat of that memory with the ice-cold reality that the indulgence cost people their lives. It robbed two people of their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Of seeing their great-grandchild for the first time, who is due to be born in less than four months from now.

“Cal Accilita. Brynn Adams. Ilya Addelson.”

“Come on, baby, you’re freaking me out here. You gotta stop whatever this is.”

“It’s the list of all the people I couldn’t save,” I admit, finally letting him see me for the failure that I am. I look up at him and expect to see horror in his eyes at the number of people I failed. Instead, his eyes look back at me with sadness.

I’ll show him sad. “Akaash and Arjun met in primary school,” I share with him, needing him to feel the tragedy of their loss. To know how culpable I am.

“Mort Afferti.”

“Stop, Eli. Stop.”

“Louis Ahamed. Trina Ajari. Tim Aker—”

“Where’s the other list, Eli?”

I stop, confused by his question. “What other list?”

“The list of the lives you saved. Where’s that list?”

I don’t know what he’s talking about. “Tim Akerman.”

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