I Shot You Babe

  Mum watched me eat without saying a word. She knew something was up. She also knew that I wouldn’t talk before I was ready. I felt like a stubborn child, but was in no way interested in a conversation about how Veronica Gale played me for an idiot.

  So my mother chattered on about my cousins, Dad and the weather. I took in the information but it never registered.

  “Why don’t you let us take care of your vic?” Mum’s words caught me up short. “You look like you could use a break.”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s my job. I just need to get some sleep. I’ll take care of him tomorrow.”

  She nodded, patted my hand and left. I finished up and, after liberating a bottle of twenty-five-year-old scotch from the bar, headed up to my room.

  As I mentioned, the Bombay family has their own island. This is where the council stays most of the time and runs the actual family business. My cousin Missi and her sons live here year-round. The island is our home base. We have family reunions here every five years where we get to hang out, have our evaluations and sometimes take a turn on the ropes course.

  Santa Muerta is virtually invisible to the rest of the world. The main rule is that everyone goes inside between four p.m. and six p.m. to avoid notice from the various spy satellites overhead at that time. The island resembles a resort, with a main building where every Bombay has his or her own suite of rooms.

  My room was just as I’d left it less than one year ago at the last reunion. Bookshelves covered the walls, full of well-worn books. The furniture was overstuffed leather—perfect for curling up and contemplating the mysteries of life.

  I took a glass and two ice cubes with the bottle of scotch out onto the terrace. There was a great view of the ocean. The scotch was an Islay single-malt. It went down smooth to mend my frayed nerves. But it did little to ease my mind. How in the name of Immanuel Kant did I get mixed up with Veronica Gale? I thought I had her all figured out. Boy, was I wrong. The irony of this thought was not lost on me, but I was too upset to be rational. Was her whole “poor little orphan girl” thing some kind of con? If so, why me? And who the hell was Drew?

  Thinking back to the first day I met her didn’t help. All it did was give me goose bumps. I pictured her and remembered what she said. But there was no clue—nothing that made her seem other than how I’d pegged her.

  My thoughts reeled back to Miami and how we met there. But no matter how many times I replayed the scenes, I found nothing that tipped me off. Mongolia swam into view, but the memories were too fresh. I felt nothing but pain and embarrassment when I remembered the month there with her.

  My scotch went dry as I contemplated how I could have done things differently. The surf crashed against the rocks, and I sympathized. Those rocks were taking the same beating I did. Veronica had gotten under my skin in a way no woman had since Frannie Smith.

  I poured another glass, wincing at the name of the first woman who’d played me for a fool. I guessed that all those years my subconscious controlled my desire for a relationship to protect me. And I blew it by falling for Ronnie.

  Damn. Did I really just think that? I turned the idea over in my mind, searching for holes. But no, it was too late. I had fallen in love with her. And she made me look like an idiot. I pictured her even now sitting with the handsome Drew, laughing at how she’d played me. Would she tell him that she slept with me? Probably not. The woman was a liar. And I’d saved her life.

  Then again, she’d been in danger in the first place only because of her connection to me. I couldn’t really blame her for that. My thoughts turned to my prisoner three floors below. Chances were the staff had fed him. For a moment, I felt kind of friendly toward him. I had no idea why.

  The sun set on my gloomy mood, and I nursed the bottle as the sky changed from turquoise to navy. No matter what I did, I still felt worse than stupid. And as I drank, my mood darkened.

  Various thoughts popped into my head over the course of the evening. I thought of looking up Drew and killing him, but he wasn’t the real culprit. Isn’t it strange how your mind plays tricks on you? I imagined him making love to her and ended up hurling my bottle into the sea. That sucked, because I didn’t like littering. Veronica Gale had made me look like an idiot, and she made me litter. I hated her for that.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Samuel: Your resume is quite impressive. Sixteen years of military experience, extensive counterterrorism work. I’m surprised anyone could afford you. What’s the catch?

  Creasy: I drink.

  —MAN ON FIRE

  “Are you going to kill me or what?” a tired and bored Arje Dekker asked me an hour later. I sat across from him in the holding room. He was chained to the wall in a way that allowed him to move around a cot, chair and toilet. I was perfectly safe. A little drunk, but okay.

  “I just don’t get it,” I droned on for the fortieth time. “How did I miss it?”

  Dekker rubbed his eyes. “I’ve told you, I don’t know. I thought she was this naive little schoolgirl too.”

  I sat up. “I never thought she was naive.” I poured Arje another paper cup half-full of scotch and withdrew to a safe distance.

  He drained it in one gulp. That made me sad inside. It was no way to treat such a good single-malt.

  “Look, Bombay, what does it matter in the grand scheme of things? We’re men of action.”

  I giggled at his words and he smirked.

  “Men like us don’t get used by women. We use women.”

  “I don’t use women, Dekker.”

  An ugly smile crossed his face. “Oh, no? Ronnie said you had all kinds of rich-housewife carney groupies. Are you telling me you weren’t taking advantage of their fantasies to get laid?”

  “You know,” I said a little too slowly, “your English is really good for a Dutch mercenary.”

  “If you aren’t going to take this seriously, then just leave so I can get some sleep before I’m killed.”

  I shook my head. “Extra sleep isn’t going to help, my friend.”

  “And drinking yourself into a stupor over that little bitch isn’t helping you either.”

  “Hey! Don’t call her that!” I rose to my feet to…to do what? I sat back down.

  We didn’t speak for a moment. I did refill his cup. To his credit, he drank slower this time.

  “I don’t know why you are talking to me about this,” Dekker said quietly. “I’ve got no experience with feelings toward a woman.”

  I lifted my glass to the light and turned it slowly, examining the amber fluid. “Well, I guess I just needed someone to talk to.”

  He snorted. “And you thought that someone was me? I am surprised. After all, you see me as some kind of genocidal monster.”

  I was a little defensive. “I’ve seen your file, Arje. I’ve seen what you have done to women and children. Just for fun.”

  Dekker shook his head. “Back to that, are we?”

  “Are you denying it?”

  That would be stupid. I don’t believe everything I read. But the Bombay network has always been completely accurate. Why would the council lie about Dekker’s history?

  “Yes. I am denying it.”

  “Well, that’s damned convenient,” I shouted. “Now that you face your death, I’m not surprised that you’d recant.”

  “How can I recant something I never said in the first place?” Arje said quietly. “You are the one with the faulty source, not me.”

  I started to pour more scotch, but stopped myself. “Let’s drop it. I shouldn’t have come down here.” I stood and collected my bottle.

  He looked me in the eyes, causing me to sit back down. “I guess if I was to have any regrets, that might be the big one.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “It would’ve been nice to be in love. You got that over me.”

  I snorted. “Yeah. And I really picked a good one.”

  Arje Dekker got up from his chair, walked over to his cot and lay down on it. “Turn out the lights when you go.
I need to get my beauty rest for the execution to come.”

  I didn’t want to go. I wanted to talk more. But I did as he asked and left him. I took the bottle of scotch with me. I’m not a total idiot.

  Sartre’s shrieks woke me from a dream where Dekker and I were in the Brazilian jungle fighting off a tribe of Amazonian women who all resembled Veronica Gale. Staggering from my bed, I pulled some fruit from the basket on the table and broke it up, tossing it inside her cage. While she jumped greedily on the mango, I had the distinct impression she was pissed off at me for my lack of presentation.

  A knock at the door revealed my mother and father holding a platter of scrambled eggs, sausage and biscuits. I wearily let them in. After all, it had been a long time since I’d had eggs. There weren’t many chickens in Mongolia.

  “That’s my boy.” Dad smacked me on the back, launching my hangover into overdrive. I excused myself to clean up a bit. One shower later I was clean. Hungover, but clean.

  “Your mum says you aren’t yourself,” Dad said with a grin. “She thinks it’s because of some lady friend in Mongolia.”

  “I’m all right,” I managed as I finished my second helping of eggs. The food was giving me a little strength. “It’s nothing.”

  My parents looked at each other. They’d always been able to read me. I’d been lucky in that they never once questioned anything I did. They seemed just as proud of my decision to become a carney as they were when I got my Ph.D. from Yale. This prying into my emotional affairs was something new.

  “Squidge,” Mum started, “I’m a little worried about you.”

  “Why?” I’d given them no reason to worry. How did they know?

  Mum handed half an orange to Sartre, who was our living centerpiece, before continuing. “You haven’t killed your vic yet. That’s not like you.”

  Oh. This was pretty unusual for a Bombay. There had been rare occasions when one of us would drag a live one home, or there wouldn’t be holding cells on the property. But keeping one alive so I could get relationship advice from him must have seemed a bit strange.

  “I saw the surveillance tapes and know you went in there, but we’re having some difficulty with the sound.” Mum frowned. “I don’t know what we were thinking, sending Missi off on assignment. Nothing works here without her.”

  “You were spying on me?” I asked.

  Dad nodded and my mother shot him a deadly look, causing him to dive into another helping of sausage.

  “I was worried about you. Is there something you are trying to get out of him before you take him out?”

  That sounded good. “Yes. He has some information I need and he’s not coughing it up.” She would believe that. Obviously a vic wasn’t going to spill his guts before we literally spilled his guts. He’d try to keep any information he had to prolong his life span.

  “Oh. Okay.” Mum looked distracted. “So, when will you do it then?”

  I sighed and leaned back from the table. “Soon. I promise. I just have to do a little research first. That’s all.”

  We finished breakfast and, after kicking my parents out of my rooms, I hit my laptop. There were a couple of things I wanted to look up before I did anything else.

  The next two days were a blur. I spent a lot of time online and calling in favors to get some information. My mother made frequent visits to see when I was going to clear my assignment. I didn’t see the other members of the council, but I knew she was getting pressure on this.

  The hardest part was forcing myself not to find out who Drew was. It wasn’t easy, but I was so torn up about Veronica’s admission that I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Drew seemed like a nice guy. Who was I to say otherwise? Besides, cyberstalking him would probably just make me mad. And I might find out he’s a better man than me. That would suck big-time.

  “So, what do you think?” I said to Dekker on one of my late-night visits to his cell. I made sure to permanently disable the sound on the surveillance cameras. It was just enough to confuse the council but not enough to incur Missi’s wrath when she returned.

  Dekker rubbed his face. “Jesus, Cy. Will you just end it already? I swear that your drama is making me want to kill myself.”

  “Come on, just one more answer.” He was right: This was beyond weird. I was the first to admit it. But something about these midnight sessions made me feel a little better. I thought that Dekker should be happy he was helping in some minor way. Apparently, he wasn’t.

  “Okay, okay. I think you should just confront her.”

  “What? You’ve been telling me all this time that I should forget about her! How can you flip-flop like that?”

  “You obviously need closure.” He held out his hand. “Now can I please have my cyanide pill?”

  “You want to die now?” That was a shock.

  “No. But this is beyond annoying. You are keeping me alive to be your analyst. And after all this time, you still haven’t asked me about the truth.”

  I shook my head. “Not this again. Everyone on death row says they’re innocent. And more than likely they’re not. Why should I believe you?”

  Dekker spread his hands wide. “I’m not going to beg. I’ve done some bad stuff in my career. But you keep accusing me of genocide and torture. And while I’m guilty of many things, those two are not on the list.”

  I cocked my head to the side, feeling a little like a spaniel who thought he might have heard the word treat but wasn’t sure. “Look. My evidence is credible. And you admit you’ve committed acts of evil. Why should I believe you?” Seriously, this saw was getting dull.

  “Why do you insist on pigeonholing me?” he said quietly, and the words shook me.

  “What…what did you say?”

  “You heard me, Bombay.” Dekker steepled his fingers. “I have killed a lot of men. Most of them were armed. I’ve given orders for torture to retrieve information. But I’ve never directly participated in it, nor have I ordered the torture of civilians. I’ve been paid handsomely for my work. But I’ve never tolerated the torture or murder of women or children.” He punctuated his monologue with a shrug.

  I stared at Arje Dekker for a long time. His words wormed their way through my brain and froze there. They caused just enough doubt…just enough to make me stop and think. Oh, there was no doubt when it came to the fact that Dekker was a gun for hire. There was no doubt that he’d chosen to work for whoever paid him most, good or bad. But the fact that some of what he said made me question my beliefs was important. Dekker might, indeed, be innocent of the gravest offenses—the ones that would make me want to kill him.

  “You’re right,” I said finally. “I did pigeonhole you.” His expression did not change as I continued. “And maybe that makes you right about other things too.” I stood, gave him a brief nod, and left Arje Dekker alive.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Dignon: Just hear me out. It’s called Hinckley Cold Storage. Here are just a few of the key ingredients; dynamite, pole-vaulting, laughing gas, choppers—can you see how incredible this is gonna be? Hang gliding, come on!

  —BOTTLE ROCKET

  I knocked on the door and stepped back to await an answer. Nothing. I rapped a little more firmly. Still nothing. It was two o’clock on a sunny afternoon. I decided to wait it out on the swing on the porch.

  A few neighbors gave me odd glances as they came and went, but no one said anything. It was a hot day, but I sat in the shade and there was a slight breeze. My quarry would be home soon enough. And then I would have the answers I needed to send me back to my RV. I might even be able to hook up with a few county fairs before state fair season. The thought of that made me smile.

  “Cy?” Ronnie seemed shocked as she came up the sidewalk. She looked around furtively. “What are you doing here?”

  I rose from my seat and said nothing as she approached. I didn’t owe her anything more than what I had in my hands. I’d fulfilled my promise. That was all that was important.

  What I’d
underestimated was the effect seeing her again would have on me. My stomach shrank and my heart skipped several beats, no matter how calm I tried to appear. I hoped she wouldn’t notice.

  The sun illuminated her light blonde hair. The pale skin that had made me shiver in Mongolia had been replaced by a bronzed glow. It took everything I had not to scoop her up and carry her up to her bed. Until I remembered that it wasn’t just her bed, but Drew’s as well. The lust was instantly replaced with anger. Anger was good. I could handle anger.

  “Don’t worry,” I said as nonchalantly as I could (which was considerably less nonchalantly than I’d hoped). “I just had to drop something off.”

  She looked around. “Did you talk to Drew?”

  “Again, don’t worry. I have nothing to tell him. What happened in Mongolia stays in Mongolia.” She started to speak, but I didn’t want to hear it. “Besides, I’m just fulfilling my promise to you.” I handed her the envelope I had brought with me and turned and walked away.

  “You are an arrogant idiot,” she shouted after me, but I didn’t give her the satisfaction of turning around. Mostly because she was right about the idiot part. I didn’t need anyone to remind me of that.

  “Quit running away from your problems and talk to me, dammit!” Ronnie shouted.

  I turned and stormed back to her. “You are not my problem. I am my problem. The fact that I fell in love with you on the steppes of Mongolia is my problem. But you don’t love me. You told me that last time I was here.”

  “I never said I didn’t love you,” she said quietly.

  “You said you loved Drew. That was enough.” I left out the other complications, mainly that she would never fit into my world and her mere existence would constantly remind me of my faults. I could never tell her that.

  “Why do you want to walk away?” she asked.