Final Sins

by Michael Prescott

  She heard nothing, sensed nothing.

  The penlight was still in her pocket. She took it out and held it in her left hand, her arm extended well away from her body, and turned it on.

  The pencil-thin beam cut the blackness. If Faust were here, he would fire at the beam, with any luck missing her main body mass.

  But no shots were fired. She played the beam around the room and saw only blank walls and the mirroriike glass panels of the holographic plates.

  In one of the plates, movement. A figure, reflected, emerging from the back room.

  Abby spun and almost fired, realizing only at the last moment that the figure was Tess.

  She lowered the gun.

  By now she was convinced Faust was gone. Had he been present he would never have passed up this opportunity to take down both of them at once.

  “You okay?” Abby whispered.

  Tess was holding one hand with the other. “Hanging in there. He tried to KO me. Took me a few minutes to shake it off and get free of the gag. And some more time to untie myself.” She smiled. “I thought you never wanted to see me again.”

  “I decided one more time wouldn’t hurt.” She looked closer and saw blood on Tess’s left arm. “You’re cut.”

  “It’s nothing. Where’s Faust?”

  Abby heard a low tinkle of breaking glass. It came from below.

  “The cellar,” Abby said. “He’s getting out.”

  * * *

  Faust had not wanted to retreat from the field of combat, but he knew he could not best Sinclair in a gunfight. His only chance had been to shut off the overhead lights, then escape into the cellar.

  Narrow windows lined the rear cellar wall, looking out on the alley. The windows were protected by the alarm system, but the system was off.

  It was easy enough to find a monkey wrench among the janitor’s tools, smash one of the windows, sweep away the shards. He hoisted himself up and climbed through.

  Sinclair would be after him, of course. She would have heard the shatter of glass.

  He thought of crouching in the alley and gunning her down when she emerged from the building, but somehow he knew she would anticipate this maneuver. He could not outwit her in this arena. He must flee. There was no shame in it. He would save himself, and live to fight under more opportune circumstances.

  The FBI sedan was blocked in by Sinclair’s Miata. That was all right. He smashed the sports car’s window with his elbow, unlocked the door, and used his knife to pry open the nest of wires under the steering column. It took him only seconds to hear the motor rev.

  When he looked up from behind the wheel, Sinclair was there, already in the alley, McCallum at her side.

  He could get them both.

  He stamped on the gas pedal and the Miata blew forward, tires screaming. Sinclair turned, saw him, but did not run. She stood with feet planted wide apart, the gun in both hands. He ducked low as the first bullet cracked the windshield, then the second.

  He risked a look. She was yards away. Still not fleeing. McCallum still beside her.

  He braced for the double thump of impact.

  But McCallum was too quick. She grabbed Sinclair and pulled her back, the two of them sprawling onto the asphalt, the car missing them by mere inches.

  He half considered throwing the Miata into reverse. The snap of a gunshot from behind made him think better of it.

  He accelerated out of the alley, fishtailing onto the street, gunning the motor as he raced away.

  They would live, it seemed.

  For now.

  * * *

  “Damn,” Abby said, lowering the gun. “I really wanted to nail that guy.”

  Tess got up slowly, holding her left hand high to reduce blood loss. “Not long ago you wanted to nail me.”

  Abby saw that she had wound some fabric around the hand, but it was already soaked through with red. “Who says I still don’t? It’s not like we’re pals again. And by the way, Vic Wyatt is dead.”

  Tess lowered her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Everybody keeps saying that like it’s their fault. Oh, wait. In your case, it is.”

  “I never meant for anything like that to happen. And I want to thank you for coming here. With everything that’s gone on, I never thought ...” Tess looked away. “I just never thought you’d do that.”

  “Kind of took me by surprise, myself.”

  “You saved my life.”

  “I guess you returned the favor a few seconds ago. Would’ve been kinda ironic if I’d been run down by my own car. For a second there, I wasn’t thinking too clearly. Just wanted to keep shooting until I hit him.”

  “Or until he hit you.”

  “Yeah, well, that was the downside of my strategy.” She stared down the alley toward the street where the Miata had disappeared. “So what do we do now?”

  Tess shrugged wearily. “He’s gone, Abby.”

  “You’re telling me he gets away? After all this, we just let him go?”

  “Give me your phone and I’ll call it in. Maybe the police can pick him up. There aren’t too many vehicles on the street yet. But I think ...”

  “What?”

  “He had some sort of escape plan in mind. Something he had already arranged. He seemed very confident about it.”

  “Meaning the cops won’t catch him.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Damn.” Abby thrust her hands into her pockets. “We have to do something.”

  “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Yes, there is. There’s always something. Always.”

  “Not this time,” Tess said.

  Abby didn’t answer. She was staring into the night.

  49

  It was noon when Tess finally got out of the last debriefing at the federal building.

  She had spent three hours at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center having her head injuries examined and the wounds on her left hand cleaned, sutured, and bandaged. Then another four hours in an interview room in the field office, telling and retelling the story of her captivity and escape. She would have taken some small comfort from the thought that Abby was being similarly detained—but before the feds had arrived at the art gallery in response to Tess’s phone call, Abby had vanished into the night.

  Tess had no idea where she had gone or how she had made tracks without her car. She wasn’t at home, that was for sure; Michaelson had agents watching the Wilshire Royal. Not that Abby was in any sort of trouble, but she had to be interviewed, if only to satisfy the ruthless demands of Bureau procedure.

  The media knew about the ongoing manhunt for Faust, though Tess’s role in the case had not been publicized. A crowd of reporters occupied the lobby of the federal building. Not wanting them to see her, Tess requisitioned a Bureau car and took the elevator directly to the parking garage. A Protective Services employee raised the gate for her, and she drove out of the garage and onto the street.

  What she needed was a shower, long and hot, followed by sleep, hours of it. She had been up for more than twenty-four hours, and she wasn’t feeling her best. Not looking her best either, she assessed as she glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. Deep circles bruised her eyes, and her face was pale and drawn.

  On the other hand, she looked a lot better than she would have if Faust’s knife had continued its work on her. She had Abby to thank for saving her. If only she knew where the hell Abby was.

  It occurred to her that Abby might have tried calling. Her smashed cell phone had been replaced by an identical unit, programmed with her existing phone number. She’d had the new phone turned off all morning. Any calls would have been shunted to voice mail.

  She reviewed her messages as she headed west on Wilshire Boulevard toward the MiraMist Hotel in Santa Monica, her usual destination when in town. There were no calls from Abby, but three from Josh.

  She wondered if he’d heard what happened. He wasn’t supposed to know. Her abduction remained a closely held secret. Then again, Mark
Brody’s death had been kept secret too, but he had known about that.

  She called his work number and reached him at his desk. She tried to sound casual. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, but this Faust thing has been making us crazy.”

  “Yeah, I think I may have heard a little something about that.” He chuckled. “So how come the big news only happens when you’re in L.A.? We could use some of that media attention around here, you know. The Denver field office likes to make headlines, too.”

  It sounded as though he wasn’t in the loop, after all. “There aren’t as many crazies in Denver. Besides, I really didn’t have much to do with this one.”

  “No, huh? So you just happened to be there when all this stuff went down?”

  “I may have made a minor contribution. But I’m only a bit player this time.”

  “I noticed Michaelson didn’t mention you in his news conference. He was in his element, though, really soaking it up. You sure he wasn’t stealing your glory?”

  “There’s no glory to steal. It’s his turf and his case. His people did everything that counts. They deserve the credit.”

  “Sure, I guess.” Josh paused. “I mean, all you did was find the secret room where Faust was hiding his current victim ... then get yourself kidnapped ... then manage to escape. No big deal.”

  She shut her eyes. “Gary Palumbo?” she said, remembering his pal in the D.C. office.

  “This year I need to send him something really nice for Christmas. So why were you holding out on me?”

  “We’re trying to keep my involvement low-profile.”

  “Whose idea was that?”

  “Michaelson’s.”

  “And you’re letting him get away with it?”

  “Yeah, I guess I am. He’s been pretty reasonable about ... well, about a lot of things.”

  “Am I hearing you right? Have you made peace with the Nose?”

  “I wouldn’t call it peace. More like a temporary cessation of hostilities.”

  His tone changed, his jocularity fading. “How bad was it, Tess?”

  She glanced at her bandaged hand. Prescription painkillers, antibiotics, and a tetanus shot had minimized the aftereffects. Doctors did not believe there was any permanent damage to nerves or tendons, and did not expect any loss of motor control. There would be a scar, of course. A jagged shape like a lightning bolt—the beginnings of a wolfsangel.

  “It could have been worse,” she said.

  “That’s not exactly an answer.”

  “It was bad. Scary. But I’m all right now.”

  “I heard there was ... torture.”

  “He inflicted a few cuts on my left hand. They’re healing. That’s all.”

  “I hope we find that cocksucker. I hope—” He pulled in a ragged breath. “Sorry. But I’d like to be alone with him—just for a few minutes.”

  Tess felt a chill. She knew there was a chance Josh’s hope would come true, and not in the way he meant.

  “How’d you get away?” he asked.

  He didn’t know about Abby, it seemed. That part of the story hadn’t made its way through the grapevine. “It’s complicated. I’ve related my exploits too many times already.”

  “Then I’ll wait till you get back to hear the details.”

  “Okay.”

  He wouldn’t hear all the details, though. She might or might not tell him about Abby—that was an open question at this point—but she would not tell him about Faust’s threat. Not yet, anyway.

  So far she had told no one. She had said not a word about it in any of her debriefings. She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to remain silent. Perhaps because revealing the threat against Josh would inevitably reveal their relationship.

  But there was more to it than that. She didn’t want Josh to know that his association with her might have put him in danger. She didn’t want to be Typhoid Mary, spreading fear and death to anyone she touched.

  For the moment she could afford to stay quiet. Faust presently had higher priorities than going after Josh. With any luck he would be captured before too much time passed.

  If not, she would have to speak up. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  “When you do get back,” Josh said, “we ought to do something to celebrate your safe return.”

  “Have anything specific in mind?”

  “We could get married.”

  She had to tighten her grip on the wheel to avoid steering off the road. “What?”

  “Us. Me and you. Husband and wife. To love, honor, and obey. Well, maybe not obey. They don’t usually say that anymore.”

  “Are you making a joke?”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “We can’t get married. We can’t even let anyone know we’re dating. Remember?”

  “Because of the wrath of the almighty Bureau?”

  “Well ... yes.”

  “But don’t you get it? That’s the whole point. They can’t touch you now, Tess. You’re the one who took down Peter Faust. You’re golden.”

  “Nobody knows that.”

  “The Bureau knows it. D.C. knows it. That’s all that matters.”

  She considered this. “Maybe ...” she said slowly.

  “No maybe about it. You’ve never known how to use your status. You never really capitalized on Mobius or the Rain Man or Medea.”

  “I never wanted to capitalize on any of that.”

  “I understand. But sometimes you have to play the game. And right now you can cop to any violation of policy, and they can’t do a damn thing about it. Tell them you’ve been taking J. Edgar’s skirts out of storage and wearing them to parties. What are they gonna do?”

  “Hoover wasn’t a cross-dresser. That’s an urban legend.”

  “I think you’re missing the bigger picture here.” He hesitated. “Unless you’re trying to change the subject. In which case I’ll drop it ...”

  “No. Don’t drop it. I’m just a little ... rattled, that’s all. I never thought ... It never occurred to me that the two of us could have a future. This kind of future. You know what I mean.”

  “We can have it. But the window of opportunity won’t stay open long. A month from now the shine will start to wear off, and you won’t be so golden anymore.”

  “It’s now or never. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Not that I’m trying to put you under any pressure.”

  Tess stopped at a red light. She let herself forget the traffic and the night with Faust and how tired she felt. She let herself just imagine it—no more sneaking around, no more lies, no more doubts. A life together. A real life.

  “Tess? You still there?”

  She smiled. “You know, when you ask for a lady’s hand, it’s customary to go down on one knee.”

  “I’m kneeling. Really.”

  “Now that’s a bad sign.”

  “What is?”

  “Starting off our marriage with an obvious lie.”

  “Did you say our marriage?”

  “Yes, Josh. That’s what I said.”

  * * *

  Tess was pulling into the parking lot of the MiraMist when her cell phone chirped. Had to be Josh again. Their conversation had ended only moments ago.

  “Think of a few more declarations of love you want to recite?” she teased.

  “Gee, Tess”—Abby’s voice—“I didn’t know you cared.”

  Her mood switched instantly from elation to annoyance. Abby’s phone calls had a way of doing that.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she asked. “In case you don’t know, there are a lot of important people who have questions for you.”

  “Those important people will get to ask their important questions eventually. Meanwhile, remember the Boiler Room?”

  Tess wrinkled her nose. “That greasy spoon in Santa Monica?”

  “The spoons aren’t greasy, just naturally shiny. Can you meet me there?”

  The place was only a few blocks from the hotel. Still, T
ess was reluctant. “I was hoping to get some sleep.”

  “You can sleep when you’re dead. Which you already would be, if not for me.”

  “Is that your subtle way of saying I owe you?”

  “I didn’t think it was subtle. Fifteen minutes?”

  “Right,” Tess said with a sigh. Her long, hot shower would have to wait.

  50

  Tess found Abby in a booth away from the windows. She slipped into the faux-leather bench seat on the opposite side of the table.

  “You look like hell,” Abby observed.

  “You, too.”

  “We’re both operating on zero sleep. Adrenaline can carry a girl only so far. Hungry?”

  Tess realized she was. There had been some sort of tasteless breakfast pastries at the field office, but she’d hardly touched them, and she’d had no dinner last night. “As I recall, hamburgers are the house specialty.”

  “They are. And I already ordered some for both of us.”

  “Kind of presumptuous of you.”

  “Tess, by now surely you’ve learned how cocksure I am. Hey, I like that word—cocksure. Conjures up an interesting mental picture, doesn’t it? How’s the left paw?”

  “Throbbing. I’m due for another dose of painkiller.”

  “Industrial-strength Tylenol?”

  “Something stronger. The hand’s okay. I can still move my fingers.”

  “But can you give somebody the finger?”

  Tess tried it. The middle finger of her left hand saluted Abby. “Nothing personal,” she said.

  Abby grinned. “You sure about that?”

  “I must say, you seem a lot less stressed than when I last saw you.”

  “It’s a by-product of sleep deprivation. I’m so zoned out, I’m giddy.”

  The febrile gleam in her eyes seemed to confirm this. “Then I think,” Tess said slowly, “you should get some sleep,”

  “Later. First we talk. Then we eat. Then we sleep.”

  “All right. Where have you been, anyway?”

  “Wyatt’s place.”

  Abby said it so casually that it took Tess a moment to hear, really hear, the words. “Wyatt ... ?”

  “I have a key. And he has—had—a computer with an Internet connection. I do, too, of course, but I figured if I went back to my condo, I’d end up in long, pointless conversations with boring men in suits.”