by Tim Tigner
Part of her wanted to stand there for as long as it took to be safe, but of course that was impossible. What should she do next? The panic room was equipped to support her for a month. She could literally live there quite comfortably, safe as an eaglet high up in a tree.
To some that would have sounded like salvation, but to her the thought was not appealing. That was a retreat, whereas her nature was to advance. Aria Eiffel lived by making the world bend to her demands, not by caving. Add to that the fact that she’d go stir crazy locked in a concrete cage with no one but ghosts to keep her company, and she rejected that option outright.
But what if Tory didn’t answer? Not later tonight, not tomorrow. Then again, what if he did? Lisa had tried to disappear, and somehow she’d been killed en route. Murdered in her own plane. How did you kill just one person on a plane—and get away with it? Surely everyone aboard would be suspect? Was there a way to get the details? Of course there was. She could travel to San Clemente and splash some money around. But would it make her feel better, knowing that the killer had once again outwitted everyone? No, it would not.
What would make her feel better?
She turned off the shower and dried herself with a thick white towel from the warming rack. It was a wonderful luxury, caressing your wet body with warm organic cotton. The little things.
Aria knew she wouldn’t feel better until she had a definitive plan of action. She’d always been like that. Why would it be different now? But how could she devise a definitive plan when she couldn’t leave her house or confide in anyone who wasn’t potentially the killer?
From the bathroom, she walked into her huge closet. She went straight to the back, where she parted the hangers on a rack of lingerie. Silk slips and nighties and other lightweight items. She grabbed the bared bar hard with her right hand and gave it a twist. Once. Twice. When she heard the click she backed away, the clothes bar still in her grasp.
The closet moved with her, as if that entire section of the wall were a door. Once she’d swept it aside, she walked around to the exposed vault entrance and pressed her palm against an adjacent reader. The thick stainless steel responded favorably, sweeping open with a satisfying swoosh.
She walked inside.
The eight-by-ten room looked like Aladdin’s cave. Thick shelves were packed high with stacks of currency and weighted down with bars of gold. Glass-topped drawers protected important documents and displayed precious jewels.
Aria ignored the treasure trove and went straight for the gray metal box resting atop a pedestal that had once supported a marble bust. Lifting the lid, she removed the lone item lying on sponge padding. Her Ruger LC9.
As her warm, soft fingers took hold of the cold, hard steel, the elusive answer popped into her head. Just like that, she had it. Not foolproof. Not perfect. But a comfortable, convenient, workable plan.
63
Balanced Account
MIAMI WAS PACKED with funeral homes. I shouldn’t have been surprised given the demographics of the retirement state. But I was. I’d never noticed them before.
Tory had told us how he picked his partner establishments. “Most funeral homes belong to regional or national chains. I ignore those. Among the independents, I disregard the ones claiming 24-hour service, as I don’t want anyone around. From the remainder, I focus on those with the worst Yelp ratings, as they’re likely the hungriest. Then I go by location.”
We picked one for Tory to use in the demonstration that would confirm his entire story, and he made a couple of calls. The first was to offer Murdoch a fee in exchange for a reference. There was some risk in letting Tory talk to an accomplice, but I did the dialing, and Skylar had the omelet pan heated and ready throughout.
The second call, placed two hours later, went to their target operation, the Flowers Funeral Home. It proceeded as Tory had predicted. But then a call was just a call. Skylar and I wouldn’t have proof positive until we found the light left on above an unlocked door.
The three of us pulled into Flowers’ parking lot just after midnight. Skylar drove while I sat in back with my Sig pressed to Tory’s ribs.
“Not a car in the lot. No sign of police on the surrounding blocks. Are you satisfied?” Tory asked, his tone strained.
I didn’t have to guess why his voice was starting to give. The Finnish assassin’s face was cooked-lobster red, and the boils that covered it were turning crusty yellow. It was painful just to look at him, particularly his left eye. “We’ll call the police from inside. Our presence will add credibility.”
It was obvious that Tory didn’t like my plan.
I knew why.
He was banking on the accusations against him sounding absurd. No doubt he had concocted a tale of assault that made him the victim. Something that sounded more credible than talk of elaborate cons to replace anonymous clients.
But apparently he was also too tired to argue.
I didn’t know what technique the assassin was employing, but beyond being remarkable it had to be draining. Tory hadn’t screamed or wailed once. He hadn’t shed a single tear. Maintaining that discipline had to be depleting his secret reservoir.
Once we parked, I went around to pull our captive out onto the pavement. His ankles were still bound, but I had added a link between the straps so he could hobble. With the hotel room tai chi performance fresh in my mind, I had tripled-up on the zip ties for both ankles and hands.
We stood in silence for a second, the moon shining down, the city asleep. All of us aware of our surreal circumstance.
“This is so déjà vu,” Skylar said, looking my way. “I’m glad you’re beside me rather than five minutes behind.”
The Flowers Funeral Home didn’t have a covered glass walkway leading to its outbuilding. The crematory stood separate, like a garage with its own entrance.
I tried the door. It was unlocked.
“Satisfied?” Tory asked, taking his final shot.
I ignored the question and looked inside. The lights were on and the inner door was ajar. “No metal detector.”
“As I told you, Murdoch was an exceptionally cautious man.”
We hobbled inside.
I glanced at Skylar as the door closed behind us.
She nodded.
I turned back to Tory, looked him in his one functioning eye, and stuck a needle in his thigh. I didn’t push the plunger. I waited for him to register what was going on.
The eye told me that he understood. His lips followed. “Go ahead.”
I shook my head. “What will you give me to push the plunger?”
Tory’s iris widened.
“I know you haven’t told me everything. Not even close. I’ll give you two minutes to fill in the blanks. Otherwise, you’re going in the oven without the needle.”
“Which is exactly what you deserve,” Skylar added.
Tory leaned his head back as if recoiling in disgust, then he launched his forehead at my nose like a catapulted rock.
I was expecting a big loogie of spittle rather than a physical attack, but in any case my reflexes were primed and prepared. I pushed back hard and I pushed back fast, pressing my left palm against the center of my adversary’s chest while my legs sprang into action.
The head-butt missed with an inch to spare.
Tory, hobbled and unbalanced, fell on his hindquarters and bound wrists. I kicked the falling thug under his chin, sending him flat onto his back. Then I rolled him over onto his belly, and tried to force his ankles into the small of his back.
He resisted, knowing the hog-tie was coming.
I rose and kicked him twice where his ribs met his waist, hard enough to splinter bone.
He still resisted.
I pictured Lars as Tory pushed him into the oven, then I kicked again. That did the trick.
With Tory trussed up like a pig, I studied the syringe on the floor. It was still full, but the needle was missing. “It’s your lucky day, Tory. I’ve got another syringe, if you’d like to ear
n it.”
When our captive spoke, his voice was unexpectedly calm and even. Apparently he’d summoned the last of his reserves. “I’m Tory Lago, son of Aaro Lago, and I’m a Viking. I have no interest in fading away. Much better to go out in a blaze of glory.”
Even coming from Mr. Tai Chi, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This wasn’t a theoretical discussion. “There is no glory. This is punishment for what you’ve done, pure and simple.”
“No glory?” This time Tory spit the words. “Could you do it?” Tory swiveled his neck in Skylar’s direction. “Could you, Miss Fawkes? I think not. I think you lack both the strength and the discipline.”
I hoisted the Viking into a cardboard coffin, then slid it onto the casket bearer. While Tory struggled to see me over his shoulder and the rim, I raised the platform level with the mouth of the cremation retort.
Tory remained passive throughout. Dignified some might say.
“Last chance,” I offered.
“Get on with it. I’m eager to see the other side.”
Skylar looked at me.
I nodded.
She stuck Tory with the second syringe, but he jerked violently and again broke off the needle before any of the antipsychotic was administered.
We didn’t bother with the third and final syringe. I slid the assassin into the open oven—but didn’t hit the button.
Tory had walked away once when Skylar and I were on the ground. Now, we would be even.
64
Forward Momentum
THE NORTH PALM BEACH executive aviation facility where Aria kept her jet and tiltrotor looked more like a Southern estate than a suburban airport. With a full frontal colonnaded porch and matching balcony above, Pierce half expected to be met by a maid in an apron as he walked into reception.
He was greeted by a concierge resembling a soldier instead. A bulky uniformed man holding two paper shopping bags. “Mr. DuBois, if you’ll come with me please. Mr. Hume is already here.”
So David would be flying with him.
When Aria called to invite him to her island fortress, she had insisted on arranging travel from the mainland. Pierce had timed his flight from Whitefish accordingly. Apparently, David had been told to arrive at the same time.
The soldierly concierge escorted Pierce to a private lounge, where he found his traveling companion reading an old green book. As Pierce walked in, David closed it, exposing the cover. An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding. The landmark book by his namesake. “Feeling philosophical?” Pierce asked, holding out his hand.
David rose and they shook. “If not now, then when?”
The concierge stepped forward and handed each Immortal a bag. “Please change into these, and place everything you’re wearing now into the bag, including watches, shoes, and your tighty-whities.” He retreated to stand with his back to the door.
“You’re planning on watching us change?” Pierce asked.
“I take Ms. Eiffel’s security very seriously.”
“I can see that,” Pierce said.
He looked at David, who shrugged. “A sensible precaution.”
Their new wardrobes consisted of khaki shorts with pockets sewn shut, white polo shirts, and sandals.
“I’ll store your clothes and personal items here.”
As David returned his full bag, the concierge held it out and open. “You’ll need to leave the book.”
David dropped it into the bag. “Probably not the first time it’s been banned.”
Satisfied, the concierge opened the door, revealing another large man in similar soldierly attire. The first handed the second their bags and then led them back through reception and out onto the tarmac where Aria’s AW609 was waiting.
The tiltrotor aircraft looked like a standard small private jet, except that it had two 26-foot triple-bladed propellers instead of twin jet engines. At the moment, those propellers faced the sky like helicopter rotors. “Flight time’s just twenty minutes,” the concierge said, noting their stares. “Four times faster than a regular bird.”
They boarded and took the two rear seats, which were of the standard small private jet sort. Plush cream-colored leather with lots of buttons.
The concierge boarded too. He sat facing them.
“You don’t think we’re keeping eyes on each other?” David asked.
“How do I know you’re not working together?”
Pierce hadn’t considered that possibility. All of their discussions had focused on identifying an individual. What if the killer was a team? Could David and Aria be working together? Had they fallen in love? Did they want to start the ruling family? Eos had made them infertile, but what if David had devised a workaround? Was that what he’d been up to the past twenty years?
Pierce looked over at David. “Is this flight the beginning or the end?”
“I was just thinking the same thing. It’s got to be one or the other. I assume you received the same call I did? Aria asking to sequester us together until we devise a solution.”
“I did. And I have to admit, it seems like a sensible plan.”
The propellers revved to full speed and the aircraft lifted straight up. The feel was slightly different from a helicopter. A bit more stable. And with twice the engine, there was twice the noise. They could still speak since they were seated close together, but only with raised voices.
The pilot took them about a thousand feet straight up, then paused and started flying horizontally. Pierce watched through the window while the propeller housings rotated to face straight forward. The transition was a smooth and seamless experience for the user. Once the blades were locked perpendicular to the ground, the aircraft accelerated. He watched the bulkhead readout zip past 300 mph. They began doing double the best speed that his helicopter could muster.
Pierce inclined his head toward David and spoke so that the soldier couldn’t overhear. “It’s turned out like everything else, don’t you think?”
The vague non sequitur didn’t tax David’s mind. “Immortality?”
“Yeah. It looks like the solution to all your problems, the thing that will bring you everlasting happiness. Until you get it. Then your mind adapts and resets, and you find yourself faced with a new and equally compelling set of wants and wishes.”
“I see I’m not the only one feeling philosophical.”
“As you said, this has to be either the beginning or the end.”
Pierce began playing with the seat buttons, adjusting the footrest and lumbar support. “Even putting our current predicament aside, it’s been disappointing. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t give it up. In fact, I’d do anything to keep it. But after the first few years…” He shrugged.
“I know what you mean.”
“It’s not different for you?”
“Why would it be?”
“Eos was your creation. Your achievement. I’d think that would bring a whole other set of emotions into play. You didn’t get the fame, but you’re still the first man to walk on the moon, so to speak. That has to be profoundly gratifying.”
“You’re comparing me to Armstrong. At the time, I might have agreed with you. But to your earlier point, a better comparison might be Oppenheimer or Nobel.”
Pierce hadn’t considered that potential perspective. It introduced a whole new calculus. A change in engine hum indicated that he’d have to work the math later.
The aircraft slowed.
Pierce watched out the window as the props rotated upward until they resembled helicopter blades. Then the AW609 began to descend. He couldn’t see Seven Star, as it was directly below them and they were still flying at considerable height.
For a few tense seconds, Pierce feared an explosion. The eruption of the great ball of flame that would engulf him and David along with their aircraft, leaving Aria the sole survivor. But the blast never came, and the tiltrotor touched down.
As he disembarked behind David, Pierce felt the strongest sensation that he’d never leave. He
paused right there, his feet still on the steps. What would happen if he turned around, if he insisted on returning to the mainland? The answer was obvious. He’d be exactly where he was before, in an untenable position. No, there was only one sensible direction. Forward.
Like Neil Armstrong, he took a figurative leap by putting one foot on the ground.
65
Spicy
IT TOOK SKYLAR AND CHASE a while to figure out how to place a tracer on an email. They tried doing a simple lookup using a paid service, but it just directed them back to the software provider’s headquarters in Buffalo, New York. In the end, they subscribed to a commercial service used by companies to track promotional campaigns. It promised to tell them when and where their email was opened.
They composed and sent the email as a one-recipient campaign from [email protected]. The program then opened up what it called Worldview, a global map where opens and clicks would populate with color-coded pins.
Skylar leaned back in her chair. If the email wasn’t opened immediately, she figured it could easily be hours. Maybe even days. But she was hopeful, since Tory had primed Aria with his call.
They were back in a chain hotel room. This one further from the water, thanks to the prices on Miami Beach. Chase’s card had been rejected—over his limit he was sure—so it had gone on hers. She added money to her growing list of problems, but without bitterness.
Justice had been served.
Chase had shocked her three times when suggesting his plan for Tory. First with the capture, then with the interrogation, and finally with the payback. Crash! Bam! Boom! They were the three most violent events of her life.
Except for her own near-cremation.
And that, of course, was the point. Fighting fire with fire.
“There are times when ideology should reign supreme, and times when you have to drop to their level to win. Do you want to win?” Chase had asked, sincerely giving her the choice.