by Rose, Karen
What had he done? Sam drew a deep breath and came to his feet. It was time he found out.
He made his way down the basement stairs, past his mother’s laundry room, his steps unerring even in the pitch black. He’d walked this path enough times in his life to know the way by heart. He stopped at the old crawl space his family used for storage. Somewhere, in all the boxes, were memories of better times. Photographs of Sam as a baby, as a toddler, as a kindergartner. All taken before his father had become an addict.
The boxes in the crawl space were empty of anything valuable. His dad had scavenged the boxes for years, hocking the family’s belongings to buy drugs.
Sam hadn’t been exempt. His baseball card collection had disappeared from one of these boxes, along with the pocket watch he’d inherited from his maternal grandfather. His father had even stolen the jar of cash he’d earned mowing lawns. Bitter, Sam had become inventive.
He moved between the boxes in a crouch, feeling his way along the bricks that formed the back wall of the crawl space. Tugging at the fourteenth brick, he pulled it out from the wall and carefully set it on the floor. Four bricks joined the first, revealing the small hole he’d dug in the dirt at age thirteen, determined his father would steal from him no more.
His father had never found this hiding place. Neither had anyone else.
The metal box was cold to his fingertips as Sam drew it out. It was heavy, filling him with both dread and relief. Taking out his cell phone, Sam shone its light on the box’s lid as he carefully lifted it and looked inside. Wrapped in newspaper was a revolver, its six chambers empty. The four bullets he’d found loaded were in a small baggie, also in the box.
A rookie cop at the time, he’d checked the daily police reports avidly for weeks after waking in that hotel room for any incidences of gunshot wounds in which the weapon hadn’t been found, but nothing had come up. He’d finally concluded that the gun hadn’t shot anyone.
But now, with the timing of this delivery . . . He had to wonder if he’d concluded correctly.
He’d hated his father so much back then. His secret fear had always been that he’d killed the sonofabitch in a drunken rage. And if you did? Will you tell your mother? Will you tell anyone?
Sam let out a breath. Yes. No. Hell, I don’t know.
He didn’t know the answer to any of those questions. Right now he needed one specific answer – what, if any, crimes had been perpetrated by this specific firearm.
He made his way up the stairs and outside to his car, storing the metal box in his trunk. Tomorrow he’d start the wheels in motion. He prayed the outcome wouldn’t ruin his life.
Saturday, March 15, 11.30 P.M.
Teeth gritted, Henderson focused on the dull painting of a landscape on the hotel room wall and managed not to scream. ‘Dammit. That needle hurts.’
Fletcher looked up with a grimace that was both harried and angry. ‘You want painless, go to a hospital. You called me to stitch you up, remember?’
Because Henderson hadn’t known who else to call. ‘I’m surprised you showed up at all.’
Fletcher was focused on Henderson’s shoulder, and if the expression on Robinette’s lead chemist’s face was any indication of prognosis, it didn’t look good. ‘I guess once a doctor, always a chump,’ Fletch muttered. ‘You put me in a shitty spot by calling me.’
‘I couldn’t get Robinette to answer my calls. I was getting desperate. I tried to get to my apartment, but there was a fire nearby. Too many emergency vehicles to risk getting closer.’
‘Robbie went to an awards dinner. It ran late.’
‘Oh. I forgot about that. Anyway, I figured you still knew how to sew a straight seam. You stitched us all up more than once.’ Being confined to the medical tent was one of Henderson’s better memories of the war. The pain had been horrific, but the tent had offered . . . sanctuary. A little peace, some time to regroup before picking up their weapons and going back out again.
‘And look where it got me,’ came Fletcher’s icy reply.
Fletcher was one of the casualties of the war – but the kind the brass liked to sweep under the rug. After putting too many torn bodies back together, Fletch had suffered a mental breakdown. A bad one. The kind that came with a medical discharge for ‘mental disorder’, keeping Fletch from practicing medicine as a civilian for years, maybe forever.
‘I didn’t think the boss would appreciate me skipping into a hospital,’ Henderson said, changing the subject when Fletcher began to stitch again. ‘They’d have to report the bullet hole.’
Fletcher’s chin came up, their eyes met. And Henderson’s gut twisted in a knot.
‘What?’ Henderson demanded. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
Fletcher’s gaze dropped, again intent on the stitching. ‘Robinette was very angry with your . . . execution of his orders.’
‘How angry?’
‘You’re . . . you’re out.’
‘Out. Like . . . out of rotation? That sucks.’
Fletcher didn’t look up. ‘No, out. Fired. He assigned Westmoreland to Mazzetti.’
Henderson jerked and Fletch’s needle poked a nerve, sending pain radiating everywhere. ‘What the hell? He fired me?’ Nobody had been fired from the organization before. Nobody. ‘I clean up Robinette’s messes every goddamn day and I make one mistake and he fires me?’
‘You didn’t make one mistake, Henderson. You made two really big ones. Both made the news. Both made enemies out of the cops. And both left behind evidence.’
‘Those bullets aren’t traceable and you know it.’
Fletcher’s shoulders lifted in a noncommittal shrug. ‘Anything’s traceable if you’re smart enough. What about this wound? You had to have left a trail of blood all the way in here.’
‘I didn’t. I dressed it myself, then I disposed of the car. Nobody will find a drop of blood they can use against me. He can’t fire me.’
‘He told the guard shack that you’d never been an employee. He wiped your clearance to the facility. If you try to initiate contact, he’ll give you up as a vet he once knew, but who now is mentally imbalanced. Any and all shots you took today are your full responsibility. And . . . the fire near your apartment? That was your apartment. He gave the order to have it burned down.’
Henderson’s jaw dropped in shock. ‘Who set the fire?’
‘Probably Westmoreland. You’ve always known the price of failure,’ Fletcher added gently. ‘None of this should come as any surprise.’
‘I did what he told me to do.’
‘You fired on a crowded restaurant.’
‘He told me to go there.’
‘To wait for her. To follow her to someplace secluded and kill her there. Not to follow her to her front yard and shoot her in front of four witnesses. Five, if you include her kid.’
‘He wasn’t specific. He wanted her dead. Lots of people were shooting at her. I thought a public display would fit with the other attempted hits.’
‘They might have, except that the cops know you were hit. They have a BOLO out on you at all area hospitals and clinics.’
‘On me, specifically?’ Fletcher’s hand was cool against Henderson’s forehead. ‘Or a general Be-On-the-Lookout?’
‘A general one for any suspicious GSWs. They don’t know your name.’ Fletch frowned. ‘You’re burning up. This wound is infected. I don’t have any medicine to treat it.’
It was true. Henderson’s shoulder was on fire. ‘Can you get me something?’
‘Only the vodka I brought you from my own liquor cabinet. I’m not even supposed to be here.’ Fletcher looked up, frustrated. ‘Robinette forbade anyone to help you. You’re out.’
Out of a job. Out of the only family Henderson had ever known. ‘Then why are you here?’
Fletcher tied o
ff the final suture, then bandaged the wound. ‘Because I’m bat-shit crazy?’
‘Only in the most medical of terms,’ Henderson said wryly and Fletcher laughed.
‘I’ll miss you, Henderson.’ The ex-doc made fast work of packing up the used supplies.
‘I’m serious. Why did you risk coming to help me?’
Fletcher looked away. ‘Because he was wrong to cut you loose. Robinette forgot the cardinal rule – we don’t leave anyone behind. I wonder if he’s starting to believe his own—’
‘His own what?’
A shake of the head punctuated the next words. ‘No. I’m not going there.’
‘His own press? That maybe Brenda Lee did too good of a PR job, rehabilitating his image? That maybe he’s starting to believe he really is a good guy? Is that what you were going to say?’
‘Leave it, Henderson.’
‘I can’t. It’s not like I can get a job anywhere else, you know. Or antibiotics, for that matter. This isn’t right, Fletch, and we both know it.’
‘I’m leaving now.’
Henderson turned to watch Fletcher heading for the hotel room’s door. ‘And Lisa? Did she enter into your decision at all?’
Fletcher turned, eyes cold and narrowed. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Come on. A fool could see how you feel about Robinette. And Lisa.’
‘He is my boss. Lisa is his wife.’
Wife was said with enough bitterness to confirm Henderson’s suspicions. If Fletcher became angry enough, Henderson might be able to make the former doctor an ally on the inside. ‘He went to that black-tie dinner to honor his “philanthropy” tonight with Lisa clinging to his arm, draped in her daddy’s jewels. She’s rich, accomplished, gets him running in all the right circles. He’s proud to wear her on his arm. And I hear she’s a tiger in the sack, too.’
Fletcher flinched, growing pale. ‘You ungrateful piece of shit. I took a big risk in coming here, and this is how you repay me?’
Shit. Too late Henderson realized the mistake in pushing Fletcher’s buttons. ‘I’m sorry, Fletch. I’m upset and I lashed out.’
A cool nod. ‘I’ll attribute your remarks to the fever that’s unfortunately not likely to kill you. But I can still hope it’s painful as hell.’
‘That’s fair. And so you know, it is painful as hell. Are you going to tell anyone I’m here?’
‘No. Because you’re right. Robinette will never take our relationship public. He’s not that kind of a man. If I stay with him, it’s with full knowledge of that fact.’ Fletcher’s brows lifted. ‘And because I’m about to make him a shitload of money, twenty percent of which is mine. I’m not giving up the money, no matter whose ass I have to kiss. Keep those sutures dry. If you can get your hands on penicillin, take it. If you can’t, keep the wound clean and use peroxide when you change your bandages.’
Henderson blew out a breath when the hotel door quietly closed. Fletch was in love with Robinette. Henderson wondered if the boss knew.
Ex-boss. Because I’ve been tossed aside. Henderson bitterly wondered if a clean hit on Mazzetti might fix things with Robinette. But would I go back?
Shamefully the answer was yes. Partly because Henderson wasn’t sure if anyone else was hiring personal assassins and if so, where to apply. Partly because Robinette had been the boss so long that Henderson couldn’t yet think about working for anyone else. Partly because the debt Henderson owed Robinette went far deeper than simple gratitude. He saved my life once. Saved me from a court-martial.
But mostly for the cash. Fletcher was getting twenty percent of whatever the lab had been developing for the past year. Henderson had risked life and limb delivering Robinette’s extremely illegal and dangerous goods into the dirtiest, most God-forsaken corners of the earth for the last seven years. I was never offered twenty percent. I just got straight pay.
If I went back, it would be as a partner. Which would require an act of God. Or really good blackmail. Not for the first time, Henderson wondered at the scandal that had plagued his boss eight years before.
Can I use it against Robinette? Can I make him cut me in for a percentage? Can I ever trust him again? That last one was a big fat no. But going back with eyes wide open offered some appeal. The least of which was revenge.
Cut me out of a job, my ass. Wipe me from the records like I never watched his back through two hell-on-earth tours of duty? I’ll see him dead before I let him toss me aside like this.
But the thought of Robinette dead . . . No. I can’t do that. As much as I hate him, I can’t kill him in cold blood. Which was odd, Henderson had to admit. As the head of Robinette’s cleanup crew, Henderson had murdered in cold blood in the past. But that didn’t include Robinette.
If he pointed a gun at me, maybe I could kill him. But otherwise? No. I can’t do that.
Lying down on the bed, Henderson pushed all the questions, the fury, and the confusion aside. Drowned all that roiling emotion in the high-quality vodka Fletcher had left behind.
There would be time to plan tomorrow. Tonight was for sleep.
Wight’s Landing, Maryland, Saturday, March 15, 11.45 P.M.
The two-story beach house looked like many of the others they’d passed. Except for the six-foot wrought iron fence surrounding it. None of the other houses had a fence like this one.
Secure, Clay had promised. He’d certainly delivered. Stevie’s feeling of well-being ratcheted up another notch. Along with her admiration of the man at the wheel. She hadn’t wanted to be so impressed with him. So grateful to him. But I am, on both counts.
The driveway was blocked by a massive gate, which swung open when Clay activated a remote control. He pulled inside the compound and waited for the gate to close before raising the garage door, revealing a large, empty space occupied by a single late model sedan.
The red SUV that had followed them all the way from Baltimore came to a stop outside the gate, parking diagonally, blocking the driveway. Stevie turned around in her seat to see the two special agents who worked for Joseph emerge, rifles in hand, to begin sweeping the property.
Then the garage door came down and Clay switched off the ignition.
In the quiet, Cordelia sighed. ‘Are we finally here?’
‘We are,’ Clay answered. ‘Just in time for a little girl’s bedtime. Come on in. My father should have everything ready for you.’
‘He’s got a bathroom, right?’ Cordelia asked. ‘Because I gotta go, real bad.’
‘He’s got three bathrooms,’ Clay said, helping her from the vehicle.
Stevie gathered her backpack and her cane, prepared to open her door, but Clay beat her to it, opening Emma’s door first, then her own.
Emma slid from the front seat with a wince. ‘I hope one of those bathrooms has a tub. I’d sell my soul for a hot bath.’ She hurried into the house, leaving the two of them alone.
Stevie looked at the hand he held out, debating the wisdom of touching him.
‘It’s a hand down,’ he said, impatience sharpening his tone. ‘Not a marriage proposal.’
She braced herself and took his hand, managing to stifle her indrawn breath, but not the shiver that raced down her spine. His hand was warm. Suddenly, so was she. She was unsurprised by her response to him. It happened every time she touched him.
As soon as her feet were steady on the concrete floor, he released her, stepping back. ‘I’ll show you where you’ll sleep.’ He turned for the door, taking his warmth with him.
She shivered again, this time from the chill – both from the temperature in the garage and the cold shoulder he’d presented. ‘I’d like to stay with Cordelia,’ she said to his back. ‘Please.’
‘I figured you would. It’s arranged.’ He held the door to the house open for her. ‘Can you manage these stairs by yourself?’
There were two steps going up into the house and no railing for her to hold on to. She blew out a frustrated breath. ‘Not tonight,’ she admitted. ‘I’m too tired.’
Before she could blink, he’d wound his arm around her waist, effortlessly lifted her up the two stairs, and released her. Again he stepped back, gesturing for her to proceed. ‘After you.’
She’d taken a few clumsy steps when she heard the sound of multiple dead bolts. But when she looked over her shoulder, he was flipping the only bolt on the door. The curved handle was the only other piece of hardware visible. ‘What did you do?’
‘Security door,’ he said succinctly, demonstrating. ‘Yank the handle up and bars extend vertically from the top and bottom of the door. They lock into the jamb, which is four inches of steel. The bolt extends bars horizontally. Breaking through this door requires a jackhammer.’
Wow. ‘Are all the doors like this?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the windows?’
‘Bullet-resistant, up to and including high velocity rifle fire. Nobody’s coming in this house. You can sleep tonight, Stevie. I promised you and Cordelia would be safe. Here, you will be.’
Her shoulders sagged. ‘Thank you.’ Then her heart lifted at the sound of Cordelia’s laughter. It had been a long time since she’d heard that sound. Too long.
She hurried through a large kitchen as fast as her leg would allow, pausing only long enough to sniff the aroma coming from the bubbling pot on the stove. ‘God, that smells good.’
‘Beef stew,’ Clay said. ‘Dad figured you’d be hungry.’
‘He figured right.’ She pushed open the swinging door and found herself in a great room with soaring ceilings and a giant plate glass window that looked out on the Chesapeake Bay. She imagined the views would be incredible when the sun came up.
She wondered how much bullet-resistant glass had cost on a window that size. And why Clay Maynard’s father’s beach house had bullet-resistant glass and was fitted out like Fort Knox. But at the moment, she didn’t really care why. She was just grateful it was.