The job was easy. The most demanding aspects were keeping in top physical condition, learning to deploy the latest in high tech weapons, security systems, and surveillance equipment, and being anywhere around Marco Camponello.
Dalton called him the man without a soul. Dalton's old Southern Baptist mother would call Marco demon possessed, but Lewis knew that the devil had sucked out Marco's soul a long time ago. Marco Camponello was a walking motel for every demon in hell.
Dalton swallowed again. He could feel the beads of perspiration forming on his upper lip and he resisted the temptation to wipe the moisture off. He had rehearsed the lie a thousand times that morning and prayed that Alex and Marco would return before Wolfe asked about them. It was almost four o'clock and neither had showed up. Dalton had begun to worry around noon and now his stomach was filled with churning bile that threatened to burn holes clear through to his knotted intestines.
He had never before seen Marco so tense. This morning had been the first time that Wolfe's chief of security seemed out of sorts and anxious. Dalton was on guard duty in the surveillance room early in the morning, watching the monitors and tracking screens when Marco had silently come up behind him and put the knife to his throat.
Marco made Dalton turn off the tracking device to one of the Cadillacs. "You turn it on before I get back and this will be the last day you draw breath," Marco had whispered quietly in black man's ear. "Wolfe asks you anything, you tell him I went to find Alex. You got it?"
Dalton nodded and the knife slipped away from his throat. Before Dalton could turn to ask Marco about a problem with one of the outside cameras, Marco had already disappeared from the room without so much as a whisper of a sound. Dalton had no doubt that Marco's was no idle threat. He had seen Marco knife a man on a dark and narrow Columbian street for refusing to hurry along with his basket laden bicycle, and slash a woman's throat for refusing to kiss him in a cantina in La Paz. Killing was as second nature to Marco as eating and sex.
"Where is Marco?" Wolfe repeated and Dalton stiffened. If he did not lie for Marco, he was dead. Wolfe's eyes glared up at him and they were wild with an unsettled anger. They bore right through to Dalton's soul and knew he had to tell Wolfe the truth. He could not escape death from Morgan Wolfe. With his cunning and experience from years in the gangs and in prison, there was a slight chance that he could escape Marco's vengeance.
"I don't know where he went, Mister Wolfe," he started haltingly. "This morning Marco ordered me to turn off the transceiver and the screen on the number two black Cady. Told me if you were to ask, he was out looking for Alex Rogers."
"Did you do what he told you?" Wolfe asked.
"Yes, sir," Dalton admitted. "He put a knife to my throat. After he left, I got a little curious. Seemed a strange order and even stranger that he seemed real uptight. I punched up the GPS screen and the street map overlay on the computer."
"Where did he go?"
"Downtown," said Dalton, relieved to be free of the burden. "Signal was weak because of the storm. We lost him after he got off the freeway at Western Avenue."
Wolfe was silent for a long moment as he stared at the guard. Dalton could barely stand under the intense scrutiny. Then he realized that it was not at him that Wolfe's concentration was focused, but at some inward problem.
"As soon as Marco gets back I want to see him," Wolfe ordered. "Send two men to Virginia Essex's condo. Search it and let me know if anything has been disturbed. Search the area and find the Cadillac Alex was driving. I want a thorough search of his apartment. Keep trying to get through to Marco on his cell phone. I want him back here immediately or he's a dead man. Then take....."
The phone interrupted Wolfe and he reached for it. He listened quietly without saying a word. The only hint that it was not good news was the slight tightening of his jaw. When he did speak, his voice was taut as a stressed wire.
"You're positive?" he said. "I see." The fax machine on the credenza behind him rang three times and began to crank out a sheet of paper. "Yes, it's coming in now. Of course. I'll see to it you get your usual fee."
Wolfe hung up the phone and turned to the fax machine. His hand trembled only slightly as he tore the sheet of paper from it and turned back to Dalton. He handed the guard the sheet and Dalton's eyes went wide in surprise.
"A cop?" was all Dalton's dry throat could spit out.
"Not just any cop," Wolfe replied. "A Centac agent."
"What is that?" Dalton asked.
"They started as a special unit of the DEA," Wolfe explained. "They work just outside of the government. Now, they're an assortment of specialty agents from the IRS, Customs, other federal agencies, and some foreign police, state and local cops, you name it. They track and destroy the operations of the world's top criminals. Drug lords, mostly. And now me."
"What are you going to do?"
"Take every man you need. Do what I told you. Find Alex Rogers. When you do, eliminate him."
"Yes, sir." Dalton opened the double den door ready to leave.
"Dalton?" Wolfe stopped him. "This is priority. If Rogers leaks information back to his superiors at Centac, we're all as good as dead."
Dalton unconsciously rubbed at the gnawing pain in his stomach. "Yes, Mister Wolfe," was all he could think to say."
Clarissa woke in Randy's room, on his cot. The room was empty with only the sound of the storm outside. A small desk lamp burned on the brick bookshelf.
"Randy?" Clarissa called as she struggled to sit up. Movement was tortuous, every muscle seemed bruised and stiff with pain. Her neck was stiff and sore and she tried to massage away the knot. Suddenly, a door slammed somewhere in the basement followed by a heavy thud. Clarissa thought she heard a sharp cry, but the sound was not repeated. She went to the door and pressed her ear against its rough wood panels. The basement was once again still. There was no further noise.
Clarissa eased herself back down on the cot and held her head in her hands. It throbbed like a jack hammer. Her shoulder and side ached and her throat felt tight and dry. She wanted only to lay down and sleep. Every part of her seemed bruised and battered, turned inside out, and slammed against a brick wall.
She had been drugged, that much she realized. By who or just how it was done, she could only guess. It could have been the donut and coffee or Dotty's soup. Dotty! The missionary was supposed to bring her car around to the back of the building and pick Clarissa up after her errand next door.
How long ago had that been? Was she still waiting? Clarissa gritted her teeth against the pain, pulled herself up off the cot, and stumbled to the high window above the sink. She could see little except that it was nearly dark and that it was still raining out but not the downpour it had been earlier. She dragged a wooden crate over to the sink and climbed up onto the counter. She wiped the condensation off the glass with the sleeve of her shirt. Randy's room faced the alley. Through the spattered pane, Clarissa could make out what looked like a small white foreign car parked at the end of the alley near the hotel's rear door. The headlights were on and the engine was running.
Dotty was still waiting. In her elation and excitement she nearly fell off the counter, banged her knee sharply, and knocked some of the items off the bookshelf. She replaced the fallen envelopes, the model race car, and what looked to her like a knife handle missing the blade. As she was putting it back on the shelf, her thumb pressed the spring and the blade snapped in place. It startled her and she almost dropped it. Curiously, she pressed the spring again and the blade retracted.
Clarissa shoved past the pain in her head to remember. Marco, coming down the stairs, his hands on her throat, the axe, Marco falling toward her. The carving knife. Clarissa spun toward the dish drainer, knowing what she would find there. Randy's knife was gone. Marco's switchblade was here in his room. Marco was dead. Had to be. It was safer out there now, with only Alex Rogers between her and Dotty's waiting car. She would make it. She had to.
She slipped the knife in the pocke
t of her jeans. A long handled flash light had rolled under the cot and Clarissa reached for it and tested the light. The strong beam cut a swatch of yellow light through the darkness. Clarissa flicked the light off and eased open Randy's door. The basement beyond was dark and there was no noise or movement. She steeled herself against the fear and stepped out into the blackness.
Clarissa could made out the stairs just ahead of her. She said a silent prayer that Dotty would wait for her. The spot where Marco's body lay was illuminated by a pool of fading light from a high window. The body was still there, the light glinting off the bone hilt of the carving knife in Marco's back. There was a grim comfort in his death. His evil was no longer a fearful threat. The small black eyes could no longer rape her soul with their foul promise. Yet, there was the urge to avoid the body, to skirt wide the gray pool of light. She feared that Marco's quick reflexes would spring to life and grab at her, drawing her into that same cold death.
Clarissa tensed as she scanned the shadows. There was no sound, nothing. It was as if the cellar held its breath and watch her with unseen eyes. The peril of death clung to the damp cold air and Clarissa's skin prickled with its touch.
Where was Randy? Clarissa could not accept that the mute photographer was capable of murder, but would he save her life? She wanted to believe that. Had someone else taken the knife? The band of pressure squeezing her skull aborted any further thought. She had to concentrate all of her energies to get out of the basement, past Alex Rogers, to Dotty's waiting car.
She took one cautious step. The ground crunched of glass shards under her foot, popping like gunfire in her ears. She held her breath and listened, then eased her other foot forward carefully.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by the slow creaking of the basement door. A widening shaft of light illuminated the wooden risers. Clarissa's sharp intake of breath was muted by the thud of heavy boots descending the stairs. She doused the light and backed into the narrow crevasse under the stairs. The boots came into view through the gap in the risers and paused on the step level with Clarissa's eyes.
In the light from the hallway above, the black boots on the stairs were weathered and worn, run down in the heels and badly scuffed. They were men's boots by their size and Clarissa's hopes that it was Dotty was crushed. They were not Randy's black running shoes, Rowland's shoddy loafers, or Dusty's ancient wing tips.
The boots continued down the stairs, then stopped as if searching. The light reflected off the magnum revolver the man held at his side in his right hand. He moved furtively to the pool of light where Marco's body laid. His back to Clarissa, he bent down to investigate, placing his finger tips on Marco's neck to feel for a pulse. She recognized the sleeveless denim jacket and the baseball cap at once. Alex Rogers, still dressed as the drunk. Clarissa watched as he ran his finger through a moist spot on the floor, examined it closely, and rubbed it with his thumb.
A car motor revved anxiously outside. Clarissa heard it and a renewed surge of panic swept her. Dotty would not wait forever. If Clarissa was going to get out of the hotel tonight, it had to be now. She gripped the handle of the flashlight tight in both of her hands and willed her reluctant feet to move. She covered the distance between her and Alex in a couple of quick steps. He heard the crunch of the glass on the floor behind him and, still crouched, he turned his head.
Clarissa held the flashlight poised above her head. She was inches from him, his brow a clear target. Alex threw up his arm in a reflex action and knocked off the baseball cap. Clarissa froze, jolted by Alex Roger's wide eyes staring up at her.
"Clarissa!" Alex cried. "What...no...I'm..."
She swung hard and fast before he could bring the gun around to bear on her. Her first blow glanced off his arm and he swore. He reached out and grabbed her leg, jerked it out from under her. She swung again as she fell, the blow hitting Alex's shoulder, knocking him off balance. The gun went sliding across the cement floor. Alex grabbed Clarissa's wrist and tried to stand. His boot slipped in the pool of blood on the floor and he fell forward.
"Clarissa, wait," he shouted. "Listen to me. I'm not what you think. You've got to..."
His words were cut off with a sharp cry as the flashlight cracked down on his temple. He fell limp, face down, across Marco's body.
Clarissa dropped the flashlight next to Alex's inert form and backed away toward the stairs. Suddenly, the basement door slammed shut.
"No," she yelled and ran up the stairs. She twisted and pushed on the door knob. It was either stuck or locked from the hallway. "Dusty?" she cried. "Dusty, the door is stuck. Dusty!" She banged with both fists. There was no response. "Dusty, somebody, please, open the door. Please!"
Clarissa peered down into the dark basement for another way out. There were only the high windows. Somewhere there had to be a ladder or something she could stand on. From the bottom of the stairs, Alex stirred and moaned. Clarissa slapped the door with her open palms. "Help me!" she screamed. "Please, somebody help me! Open the basement door."
She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears and leaned her forehead against the door. "Please, Dotty, don't leave me! Please!" Frustration and failure settled about her and she slumped to the top step. "Damn you, Morgan Wolfe," she cursed him angrily. "Damn you to hell."
A streak of lightning from the receding storm lit the rain spattered window in the front corner of the basement. Below it, were piled crates and boxes, bulging plastic garbage bags, battered suitcases, and old steamer trunks. Clarissa made her way carefully down the stairs. She stood on the bottom step, waiting for Alex to move or moan again. He lay still and silent. Clarissa knew it would not be for long. She probably had only a few minutes to escape the basement and get into the alley.
Much to her relief, Alex did not stir or make any other sound. Clarissa ran to the corner and began to throw the garbage bags off of the pile of crates. She dragged the first steamer truck under the window and eased herself up. Even standing on tiptoe she could not reach the window latch. Her head snapped around when she thought she heard Alex moan again.
The two other trunks were too heavy to budge and the pain in her shoulder slowed her efforts. She found an empty wooden crate and piled it up on top of the trunk. A second climb toward the window and she was able to just reach the latch but not get her finger around it to get a firm grasp. Alex groaned and tried to move. Clarissa stiffened and almost fell as she watched him try to pull himself to his knees and then collapse back to the floor. She eased herself down and managed to drag two suitcases under the window. With painful effort she hoisted them up on top of the crate. Carefully, she climbed back up and gave the window latch a hard wrench. It snapped open and Clarissa pulled the glass pane toward her. The cool, wet air caressed her face. She could see the street and the alley but the window was toward the front of the hotel so she could not see Dotty's car. Neither was she high enough to crawl through to freedom. Her make-shift ladder needed to be a foot or so higher.
There was one old suitcase left that she thought was small enough for her to lift. It was next to a plastic tarp-wrapped bundle. Clarissa took hold of the suitcase handle and pulled. It was heavier than she thought. Then she saw that it was wedged tightly between a wooden crate and the bundle. She braced her legs and, with all her strength, she tugged at the suitcase. It came free with a jerk and Clarissa sprawled backward and landed painfully on her backside. She could not get out of the way in time as the tarp-wrapped bundle fell toward her. One end landed between her legs with a heavy thud and the loosely tied tarp split wide open. Dotty Warren's cold dead eyes stared up into Clarissa's horrified face.
Clarissa could not move. No sound would come from her constricted throat. The silent scream swelled within her, threatening to burst her lungs. Her hands balled into fists as she strained to scream. The flood of paralyzing anguish distended until her body trembled uncontrollably. A crack of thunder loosed the shriek from the depths of Clarissa's soul. It freed her paralyzed nerves and she propelled herself backwa
rd, crab-like on hands and knees, away from Dotty's corpse.
She scrambled to her feet and started to turn to run. She bumped into something behind her. Clarissa whirled catlike and screamed. Randy stood there, holding a shovel in his hands.
"Randy!" Clarissa gasped.
The mute young man stared at her and for the first time there was anger in his eyes. He raised the shovel just slightly, and started toward Clarissa. She backed away from him but there was not much room, nowhere to go.
"Randy, no, please," she pleaded.
Her heel touched the corpse on the floor and Clarissa jumped, losing her balance. Randy reached out and grabbed her arm. He pulled her away from the body and thrust her toward the stairs.
"Did you kill her, Randy?" Clarissa screamed at him in an uncontrolled, hysterical torrent. "Did you? Did you stab Marco? That was your knife. Damn it, what's going on?"
"The social worker was in the way." The voice was soft and female, with an edge of no nonsense seriousness. The dark figure stood on the stairs. Clarissa knew the old fedora and the jacket but the voice was all wrong. The figure moved into the pool of light where Alex and Marco lay. She stepped over them as if they were not there. Clarissa could only stare in shocked silence.
Graciella Santos held a silenced revolver pointed at Clarissa. She was no longer the old and bent Mexican woman, and her Spanish accent had all but disappeared. Her dark hair was concealed under the fedora, the man's jacket and slacks hid her slim figure.
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