Read Online Critical Space by Greg Rucka - Free Book Online

end, actively curious. "Really?"
    "It would be pointless. It's too late to keep the book from being released, so the only other reason to come after us would be revenge, and I don't believe that factors into her world."
    Havel considered, then sighed, leaning back once more. "There were a couple of times when I was writing, I got really scared. Working on a passage, and it would hit me that this was
real,
that I was writing about this secret, that she was out there, she and others... and I was afraid to go outside, I was afraid to stay indoors, I was afraid to be with people, I was afraid to be alone..."
    "Been there," I said.
    "Yeah, I'm sure you have."
    For a couple of seconds we shared a silent appreciation of fear.
    "I'm supposed to be working on the next one," Havel said. "My new book. They want it yesterday, kind of a sequel to the first one, something along the same lines. Another book about The Ten."
    "Good luck with the research," I said.
    "I was kind of hoping you could help me with that."
    I said nothing.
    Havel looked over at the wall of photographs. "I want to talk to her."
    I choked on a laugh.
    "Yeah, I know how it sounds," she said. "But she talked to you, a couple times, so it's not that outlandish an idea, is it?"
    "No, it is," I assured her. "Chris, you don't want to interview this woman, trust me on this. And come to think of it, I don't imagine she'll be all that willing to grant an interview."
    "Have you heard from her? Since the Pugh thing?"
    She said it like Drama was my ex-girlfriend, as if we'd parted amicably. "Are you nuts?" I asked curiously.
    "I was thinking that if you had, you know, then you could arrange it." She rose, looking at the wall, crossing back for a closer look at the photographs. "I'd be willing to pay her for her time."
    "You're not listening to me," I said. "I haven't talked to her. I don't
want
to talk to her. And honestly, neither do you."
    "No," Havel said. "Don't tell me what I want, Atticus. It would be an amazing interview, it would be an amazing book."
    "I can't help you."
    "Meaning you won't?"
    "Meaning I haven't heard from her, Chris. Leave it at that."
    She turned away from the wall, studying me at my desk. "She hasn't been in touch with you?"
    "You sound like the Feds. No."
    Her frown was brief, gone again when she asked, "Can you tell me how to contact her?"
    "I already said..."
    "That's not what I mean, I'm talking about like, if I wanted to hire her, you know? How would I do that?"
    I gave her a stare that was hopefully more eloquent than everything she'd been ignoring out of my mouth. She met it with a stare of her own, then shrugged and moved back to the couch, gathering up her book-bag.
    "I can figure it out, you know," she said. "Asking you was just the quick way."
    "Chris," I said. "You really don't want to do this. You start trolling for one of The Ten, they'll investigate before they even begin to make contact, and they'll find out who you are. This time, they'll know about the first book, and they'll see you coming a mile away. You'll be lucky if they simply ignore you."
    With her right hand, she adjusted the leather strap on her shoulder, giving me a smile. "Fear is not a reason to not do something."
    "Maybe you ought to examine the source of the fear. Self-preservation is a valid motive."
    "You don't get it, Atticus," Chris Havel said, heading for my door.
    "Chris..." I tried once more.
    "The name of the game is publish or perish," she said as she went out.
    "The nut file," I said, dropping the folder on Bridgett Logan's desk.
    "What does that look like to you?" she asked.
    "I beg your pardon?"
    Bridgett sighed and pointed up. We were in her office at Agra & Donnovan Investigations, and she was slumped in her chair behind her desk, ignoring me and focused on the light fixture that hung above. I followed the direction of her index finger, saw the bowl of frosted glass attached to the ceiling. A tarnished brass bolt secured the fixture in place.
    "A light