by Tim Tigner
He brought the phone to his ear. “Hello.”
“It’s Pierce. Did you hear the news?”
Felix hadn’t heard any news, but then he didn’t watch much TV any more. He read The Wall Street Journal most days and usually leafed through Forbes and The Economist once or twice a month, but he tried to ignore the talking heads of network news. “Did you get the RNC’s endorsement?”
“Ries is dead.”
“What! How?”
“A climbing fall, but no accident. His rope was cut.”
Felix felt his throat turn dry.
Just then Holly appeared pushing a cart with two lobster salads and an iced bucket of Champagne. He pointed to the phone then held up the palm of his hand. The universal stop sign.
Felix coughed while responding. “That’s three in a row.”
“I agree. In this light it’s clear that Eric’s parachute didn’t fail by accident.”
Holly handed him a glass of water, then backed away. He gave her an appreciative nod and took a sip. “We have to assume the pattern will continue.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Someone was executing Immortals. But who? Why? If an outsider had somehow uncovered their special status, why not use that information to join them, rather than beat them? Murder made no sense. But then the alternative was even less likely. Why would one Immortal want to kill the others? There had been no serious conflicts. At least none that he had knowledge of, or had sensed. The disagreement over the Senate runs was their first split vote and only their second controversial one, after the decision to go with replacements.
With murder in mind, Felix ran through a quick mental evaluation of his five surviving peers. Which of them had it in him? Pierce would be his first guess, simply because he was an ambitious alpha male who’d been known to shoot dogs for barking too loud. David was the only other guy, and Felix didn’t see that at all. The good doctor was a tree-hugging philosophical vegetarian. Plus Eric and Ries had been his two best friends. Allison was equally absurd. She was ambitious, no doubt, but an artsy scientist much more likely to give a kidney to a homeless woman than pull a homicidal trigger. Among the women, Aria and Lisa were much closer to the murderous type. Both were ruthless and ambitious, but extremely practical. In his opinion, neither would act excessively without a solid logical reason. “I can’t think of a motive, can you?”
Pierce didn’t ask for clarification. “No. But clearly we have to try. I want to call an emergency meeting.”
“In Montana?”
“Sure. We won’t be disturbed.”
Felix had no intention of visiting a remote ranch anytime soon. Too many horror movies began with that setup.
“How about Seven Star Island instead? Aria has excellent security.”
“Fine with me. Anywhere but California. That appears to be the deathbed.”
Good point. That common element hadn’t occurred to Felix yet. “When?”
“Tomorrow, I hope. Shall we conference Aria into this call?”
Felix looked over at Holly. She looked the part of a professional hostess. Relaxed, discreet, sexy as hell. Let the games begin. “I’m sure you can handle it. Text me when you know, I’m about to be stuck in the middle of something.”
33
Lost Opportunity
AS TOM LEFT THE ROOM, I lunged for the Emergency Stop button, the big red bullseye that might, just might, save Skylar’s life.
The gas jets extinguished the instant I slapped the plastic, but the ventilator continued whirring away. As the door at the end slid open with a squeak, smoke struck my olfactory. Thick smoke. Black smoke. But exclusively of the cardboard kind.
Still struggling to regain an upright stance as my solar plexus recovered from Tom’s crippling blow, I lumbered toward the smoking hole and looked inside. I saw a long large cardboard box—on fire. It wasn’t blazing like a log in full flame. More like it was ringed with birthday cake candles, the pattern corresponding with the placement of the silenced gas jets.
I didn’t have time to look for tools or improvise gloves. I just reached in, grabbed the box by the hand-hole in the end, and tugged. Propelled by the momentum I put into it, the cardboard coffin slid out onto the casket bearer in a single swift motion. I used one hand to roll it away from the oven and the other to flip off the flaming lid.
Knowing that every second Skylar stayed inside would do damage, I then grabbed the casket by two fire-free edges and dumped it onto the floor. Her body fell with the limp thud of a fresh corpse.
Not a good sign.
Ignoring my growing sense of dread, I tossed the empty box over the casket bearer to get it out of the way. It landed atop the lid, inadvertently adding fresh fuel to that fire. I scanned the room for an extinguisher. How could there not be one? Surely there was a regulation?
Fearing a fire alarm, I abandoned Skylar long enough to toss the flaming box back into the oven. Fortunately, the incinerator’s exhaust fan was still spinning at full force, sucking smoke from the room.
With that emergency averted, I returned to Skylar’s side. I rolled her over with a silent prayer.
Her nose was bleeding.
It hadn’t been when I lifted the lid.
She must have smacked it when she fell.
I smiled. Not at my accidental handiwork—but because corpses don’t bleed. If there was no active pump, the most a body could do was ooze.
Bracing for the moment of truth, I pushed my fingers into the place where her jaw met her windpipe—and felt a pulse. A strong pulse.
She wasn’t dead.
She wasn’t dying.
She was sedated.
I ran my hands up and down her body, searching for smoldering fabric. I found a few holes and bands of scorched flesh, but nothing that caused me to panic. She was going to be fine. Sore, but fine. I’d be happy to share my pain pills—if I could get us out of there, still free and breathing.
Should the police show up now and catch me carrying Skylar’s drugged and damaged body, my explanation would sound insane. Even after Skylar awoke, she could only partly corroborate my story, given that she knew nothing about me.
It would get ugly.
We would suffer delays.
And all the while Tom would slip further away.
The police weren’t our only immediate threat. The mortician posed another. Virginia was a stand-your-ground state. If Murdoch was in on this, he could walk in and shoot us without legal consequence. For that matter, Tom could be sitting outside, waiting to shoot us as we walked out the door.
I discounted both threat scenarios.
Tom had exhibited exceptionally rational and detached behavior. A true professional in full control. He hadn’t bothered with a combination blow. He’d applied exactly the amount of force required to disable me and enable an easy escape. Nothing more. No gratuitous kick. No gruff threat. No action that made it personal. He had classified his operation as blown, and exfiltrated. Win some, lose some, on to the next target. I had worked with a few guys like that. Ice-cold pros.
I grabbed a couple of tissues from a dispenser on the counter and wiped the blood from Skylar’s nose. Once it was clean, I returned to the cabinet and found a first aid kit. Automotive size. I stuffed it into the small of my back, then bent over her unconscious body.
With some effort, I hoisted Skylar onto my shoulder and headed for the exit. Pausing in the archway of the metal detector, I reached up to retrieve my gun. My fingers found nothing. No, please no!
As my stomach dropped, I laid Skylar gently in the hallway, freeing my fingers for a closer inspection of the crevice. Everything was gone. My gun. My cell. My watch. My car key.
I closed my eyes, and exhaled. It could be worse. Much worse. For me and for Skylar.
Latching onto that positive energy, I resumed the fireman’s carry and barreled out into the cool Virginia night. There was no sense in moving slow. We were screwed in any case if someone was waiting.
All appeared q
uiet. Crickets were chirping and the Mercedes was missing. Alas, without my cell phone, I had no way to track it.
I couldn’t risk carrying Skylar all the way to my car, given where it was parked. If I was spotted by a patrolling cop or Second Amendment enthusiast, on the side of a rural road, in the dark, with an unconscious woman over my shoulder, I was screwed. Any reasonable person would assume it was an abduction. When Skylar awoke, she would likely confirm as much, given that she’d never met me.
Come to think of it, we couldn’t avoid an unthinkable, unforgettable, unbelievable discussion. One for the record books. One we’d be telling our grandchildren. Whenever and wherever she woke up, the following few minutes were going to be surreal.
I laid her on the grass behind a bush at the top of the drive. Ignoring the growing pain in my ankle and knee, I ran for my BMW.
Years back, I’d attached a hide-a-key behind the rear bumper in a place you had to really hunt to find. I hoped it was still there, with its battery still sparking. For that matter, I hoped my car was still there.
It was.
I hung my suit coat on the side view mirror, put the first aid kit on the roof, and wriggled beneath the back end. Even knowing it was there, the grimy black box took a bit of searching to find. Twenty seconds after sliding back its slippery lid and retrieving my other belongings, I shifted the transmission into drive.
Stopping beside the concealing bush, I put the car in park but left the engine running. I ran around back to open the rear door—then found Skylar sitting up. She was clearly still groggy. As I moved closer to the center of her visual field, she began crab-walking backward. First she mumbled, then she screamed.
34
Reorientation
SKYLAR HAD NEVER BEEN so disoriented in her life. She’d come close once, when her breathing apparatus malfunctioned during the Drew Street apartment fire and she’d had to hold her breath while carrying a kid down six flights of stairs. That was impossible, of course, so she’d sucked in smoke and scorched her lungs before exiting in delirium.
This was worse than that.
She had no idea where she was or why she was there. She was lying on the grass under a night sky rural enough to reveal constellations. Her head ached like she’d just been popped in the nose, and various parts of her body felt like they’d been burned. She looked down at her clothes, half expecting to see firefighting gear, but recognized her interview suit instead.
Then an unfamiliar man appeared. He was wearing a suit and black rimmed glasses. His hair was slicked back in a style that hadn’t been popular for decades. Had he punched her in the face? Knocked her to the ground? Was she about to be raped?
She heard screaming, and realized it was coming from her own mouth.
The man spoke as she silenced herself. “It’s okay, Skylar. It’s okay. You’re going to be all right. But you need to calm down, and we need to get out of here.”
His voice was imploring. His movements strained, as if he were recovering from a marathon and his joints were hurting.
“Stay away!”
“Okay, okay.” He stopped moving and held up empty palms, but he didn’t back away.
“Who are you and where are we?”
“My name’s Chase, Zachary Chase, and I just saved you from Tom. We’re outside the funeral home. Do you remember coming to the funeral home? He fooled you into believing it was a covert CIA location?”
She did remember.
Her hand went to her thigh as the memory returned. She suddenly felt very afraid. “Where is Tom?”
“I don’t know. But he might come back, or send someone else. We should leave.”
“Send someone else? Why are you here?”
“That’s a long story, and I look forward to telling it once we’re safe. We are in extreme danger here.”
He seemed genuinely wary and concerned, but she wasn’t sold. “Where do you intend to take me?”
“Someplace public where we can talk without fear. There’s a Denny’s a few miles from here off 60. We can be there in five minutes. Or there’s an IHOP two minutes further up the road.”
Skylar wasn’t one to get into cars with strangers, but if Zachary Chase had wanted to harm her, he could have done so already. And what was her alternative? Walk down the road with her thumb out? She had no phone. She’d left everything but her wallet in Tom’s trunk. “Conversation and coffee sounds good. Doesn’t matter to me where—so long as there are other people around.”
Chase closed the back door of his car and opened the passenger door instead. By way of explanation, he said, “I didn’t know how long you’d be out.”
The horror of her near-death experience sent another shiver up Skylar’s spine. “What did he give me? What did Tom inject into my thigh?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t see it happen.”
He tossed a suit coat from the passenger seat into the back, then handed her a white plastic box labeled First Aid in red letters. “I’m hoping there’s burn cream and bandages inside. I haven’t had a chance to check.”
The box did have antibiotic ointment along with both Band-Aids and gauze. It also held a decent pair of blunt-tipped scissors. The kind used to cut off casts and bandages. Even without points, they would add authority to her punch if slipped around her middle and ring fingers.
Having travelled alone to triathlons all over the world, Skylar knew how to take care of herself. Present circumstances notwithstanding.
She set the scissors on the right side of her seat, uncapped the tiny tube of ointment, and began examining her wounds through the burn holes in her clothes.
Chase U-turned the car and headed toward the highway.
The burns were in bands about twelve inches apart, with the first across her shoulder blades and the last on her calves. The worst were on her buttocks and shoulders.
She pictured the pattern in her mind. It reminded her of grill marks on a steak. Her mind flashed to the last place she’d been, and the last thing she’d seen. As the implication registered, her throat started closing and her flesh began to crawl. “Oh my God! Was I— Did he—” She couldn’t complete the questions.
Chase reached out a hand but stopped short of her thigh. Second-guessing himself, he withdrew it. “You’re okay now. It was a close call, but you’re safe. I’d try not to think about it if I were you.”
“What am I supposed to think about? How could I possibly think about anything else, knowing—”
“Where did Tom approach you? The first time? How did you meet?”
Skylar would never forget that encounter. “It was on a run. There’s a twenty-six–mile loop I do along Clearwater Beach, from Belleair to Treasure Island and back. He met me at the Treasure Island turnabout and kept pace. After a couple of miles by my side, he motioned for me to take out my earbuds so we could talk. Assuming he was about to hit on me, I complied.”
Chase gave her a look.
“He’s very athletic. I find that attractive. He pitched me from Madeira Beach to Indian Rocks. We were doing six-minute miles and yet he was talking as comfortably as I am now.”
Chase pulled into the restaurant parking lot, but made two laps before parking. On the first lap, she watched him inspect the parked cars. On the second lap, he studied the customers visible through the windows. The precaution put her at ease. As did the fact that he’d given her a choice of restaurant, come to think of it.
He slipped his suit coat over her shoulders as they approached the door. “Probably best if your burn holes aren’t on display.”
“Good thinking.”
They grabbed a corner booth and ordered coffee. On a whim she also asked for a short stack of pancakes. His mention of IHOP had triggered a craving for maple syrup. Not that the brown goo in the plastic bottle would have any relation to the sap of Canada’s national tree. What was the relation between high-fructose corn syrup and maple syrup? Something analogous to second cousins thrice removed? Why was she thinking about such silly stuff at
a time like this? She knew the answer. Her mind was spinning its tires, looking for traction on friendly ground.
With that priming behind her, Skylar met her patient savior’s eyes and noted that there were no lenses in the frames of his glasses. He was in disguise. She mapped a path to the door and plotted possible defensive moves. “How did you happen to save me?”
Chase deciphered her gaze and removed his glasses. “Part of a disguise. As is this ridiculous hairstyle.” He rolled his eyes.
Skylar immediately felt better, but was anxious to hear his explanation of what came next.
“I’m investigating the disappearance of my college roommate. I don’t know all the details because he, like you, must have been sworn to secrecy on pain of imprisonment. But I’m pretty certain he also got a pitch to join an elite group within the CIA.”
Her pancakes arrived. She requested more coffee without taking her eyes off Chase. “So what Tom was doing to me—it wasn’t his first time?”
“At the very least, it was his second.”
“But why? For what purpose. I don’t have money or any kind of influence.” She got an idea. “Was your college roommate male or female?”
“Lars de Kock was all man.”
“De Kock?” she repeated, looking for a bit of levity.
“It’s Dutch for The Cook, but you can imagine the grief he got. And before you ask, Tom didn’t do anything to you beyond the obvious. I wasn’t watching, but I know he had no time.”
“I almost wish he had,” Skylar muttered. “That would be terrible, of course, but I don’t remember it, and at least I’d know it was an extraordinary act of perversion. Now, well, I have no idea, and I don’t mind saying that it’s creeping me out. What do you think he was up to?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. But I’ll tell you this, I’m not going to stop investigating until I find out.”