by Mike Lawson
“Who do you think the government would rather throw in jail?” Kelly countered. “From a political standpoint, I mean. Me and Nelson —a couple of hired guns—or a rich son of a bitch like Orson Mulray? And the government does this all the time with Mafia and drug guys. I’ve read about Mafia hit men who’ve killed dozens of people getting into Witness Protection because the government would rather have the bosses.”
“You got a point there,” DeMarco said. In fact, DeMarco personally knew a couple of Mafia killers who were now leading seminormal lives under the protection of federal marshals.
They sat there in silence for a moment, then DeMarco said, “Why did you do it, Kelly? I’ve seen your military record. How’d you go from what you once were to … I mean, Jesus! You killed a bunch of old people.”
Kelly didn’t say anything for a moment, then said, “Have you ever wanted anything so badly that you’d do anything to get it?”
“No,” DeMarco said—and he wasn’t being self-righteous. That was the truth.
DeMarco thought for a moment that Kelly was going to explain himself—make some attempt to rationalize what he’d done—but he didn’t. All he said was, “Well, good for you.”
Kelly stood up. “Give me a number where I can call you tomorrow. I’ll give you until noon to talk to the right people and set everything up. If you can’t do what I want and if Nelson gets killed in Wallens Ridge, I’m gonna kill you, DeMarco. And that’s a promise.”
And DeMarco believed him.
Earl Lee was standing behind a tree in front of DeMarco’s house holding his weapon in his hand, wondering how long Kelly was going to be inside the house. Fifteen minutes later, he smiled as Kelly walked out the door.
He waited until Kelly was halfway down DeMarco’s sidewalk before he stepped out from behind the tree, and as soon as he showed himself, Kelly reached for his gun. Lee couldn’t believe how fast Kelly was—the son of a bitch was so fast that he almost shot Lee before Lee could shoot him, and Lee already had his gun in his hand. But he beat him. He shot Kelly in the chest.
He walked over and looked down at Kelly and smiled. It had worked out just the way he wanted it: Kelly was still alive—but just barely—and his eyes were open.
“Surprise, ol’ buddy,” Lee said. That’s all he had wanted: for Kelly to know who had beat him. He had just raised his weapon to shoot Kelly in the head and end it, when Kelly shot him. Lee felt the bullet smack into the vest he was wearing—and he almost smiled again—but Kelly’s next shot hit him in the throat and the bullet blew through the side of his neck, taking out a chunk of his carotid artery.
DeMarco was on the phone with Emma, telling her about Kelly’s visit, when he heard the gunshots. “I’ll call you back,” he said, and ran to the window that was next to his front door and saw Kelly and another man lying on the sidewalk. Neither man was moving.
He opened the door and saw that the other man was still alive. He was making a horrible, choking sound and blood was spurting out of his neck with each pump of his heart. DeMarco ignored him, though, and ran to Kelly. He needed Kelly alive.
And Kelly was still alive, but just barely. His eyes were shut, and he was taking shallow, rapid breaths, and the front of his shirt was dark with blood.
“Hang in there,” DeMarco said. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
He moved over to the second man, a big guy with short blond hair. Blood was no longer pumping from his throat. The man was dead. DeMarco ran into the house, called 911, and came back out with a dish towel to press against the wound on Kelly’s chest.
But by then, Kelly was dead, too.
DeMarco spent the next four hours telling policemen of increasing rank the same story. He told the story so often that after a while he almost believed his own lies. He told the cops he had never met Kelly—which was almost true; he hadn’t met him until that night. He told them that he had been inside his house and when he heard gunshots, he looked out his window and saw two men lying on the sidewalk. Like a good citizen, he checked to see if the men were alive and called 911. He had no idea, he said, why these men came to his house and shot each other.
He didn’t tell the cops that he and Kelly had talked before Kelly was shot, because then he’d have to tell them what they’d talked about. He didn’t want to do that because as soon as Orson Mulray found out he’d talked to Kelly, he’d become worried that Kelly had told DeMarco something that could harm him—and then there was a good chance that Mulray would try to have DeMarco killed. Again. Why paint a bull’s-eye on his back?
The cops didn’t believe him, of course. They found it rather implausible that two men had coincidentally decided to kill each other four feet from DeMarco’s front door. But DeMarco stuck to his story, and they eventually let him go. Fortunately, the case was not a who-done-it; the forensic evidence made it clear that Kelly and Lee had shot each other. Their motives may have been unknown but there was no doubt about what had happened, so although DeMarco may have been an uncooperative witness, he wasn’t a murder suspect.
44
The waiter saw that René Lambert’s glass was empty, so he picked up the wine bottle to refill the glass, then realized the bottle was empty, too.
“Would monsieur like another bottle?” the waiter asked.
Lambert had chosen the restaurant because though the food was good, the wine list excellent, and the view of the Alps incredible, it was the sort of place where one could dress casually. He’d driven from Paris to Grenoble in casual clothes and hadn’t felt like driving up the mountain to the chalet and changing before dinner. And right now he was feeling so mellow he didn’t feel like leaving—but should he order another whole bottle of wine?
“Can I buy just a glass?” he asked the waiter.
“Not the Louis Jadot 2004, monsieur. We have a 2008 Maison Champy and a 2007 Meursault Rouge we sell by the glass.”
“I don’t think so,” Lambert said, his tone making it clear what he thought of the waiter’s suggestions. “Just bring me another bottle of the Jadot.”
It was such a relief to be out of Paris, the main reason being that his wife had discovered he was having an affair with his agent. She’d caught him in other affairs, and when she had she wasn’t happy about his infidelity, but she hadn’t gone crazy, either. This time she went crazy. He wondered if it was because she’d just turned forty and was feeling insecure. Whatever the case, she went berserk, throwing things, crying and screaming, and, of course, threatening to divorce him, which he was sure she would never do. And his daughters, who’d just turned eleven and twelve, and who were miniature versions of their mother both physically and emotionally, naturally took her side. So finally he’d just said, “Enough!” and that morning threw a suitcase into his car and left for Grenoble.
Since Mulray Pharma had repurchased the family chalet in Grenoble for him when he signed on with the company in 2006, he’d only used the place twice. His small-minded wife and ungrateful daughters had been there many times, but he’d been too busy running around the world with Lizzie Warwick. Poor Lizzie. He still couldn’t believe the silly woman had committed suicide. But his globe-trotting days were over, thank God. No more hellholes like Uganda. No more living in tents, showering once a week, eating food that wasn’t fit for animals. He’d endured five years of absolute misery, but, in hindsight, it had been worth it. He was out of debt, had a substantial amount of money in the bank, owned a hundred thousand shares of Mulray stock that was increasing in value daily, and was about to start writing his memoirs—which was how he met the agent.
He’d been approached by a publisher to write about his experiences with the Warwick Foundation and Mulray Pharma. The publisher said the book would be controversial—and controversial was always good. Some would see him as a humanitarian who sacrificed five years of his life aiding disaster victims while at the same time helping develop a drug that was going
to be the salvation of millions. Others, of course, would take the view of that diabolical reporter from the Washington Post and accuse him of taking advantage of poor, ignorant people. Yes, it would be controversial, and controversial was good.
And that’s when he’d contacted the agent. A friend had recommended her, and he’d had no idea how young and good-looking she was until he met her. The affair was inevitable. And not only was she lovely, she was bright. She was the one who suggested that in addition to writing the book, he needed to hit the lecture circuit while his name was still in the news. She was thinking at least five thousand euros a lecture, maybe ten, with the lectures drawing both critics and admirers. Appearances on television shows would certainly be in his future, and he’d probably be asked to debate softhearted liberals who wanted to rail about the evils of greedy pharmaceutical companies performing clinical trials in third world countries.
But he didn’t want to think about any of that right now. He wanted to spend a few days at the chalet, taking walks in the woods, sitting in the hot tub, simply relaxing without his wife’s shrill voice in his ear.
The waiter brought the bottle of wine to his table, and as he was uncorking it, Lambert heard a peal of laughter from a young lady at the bar. He looked over and saw two blondes in their early twenties. They were wearing snug-fitting T-shirts, shorts, and hiking boots. He thought they might be Germans, although he couldn’t have said why he thought so, other than the fact that they were blonde and Germans liked to hike in the mountains near Grenoble. The short one was a few kilos too heavy but had magnificent breasts. The tall one was almost too skinny but her legs were wonderful. He couldn’t help but think that if God had done His job properly, He would have made one girl out of the parts of these two. Nonetheless, they were young, attractive, and lively. And they weren’t his wife. He wondered if he might be able to talk them into joining him in the hot tub at the chalet, and if they chose not to … well, having a drink or two with them would still be fun.
He picked up the wine bottle and walked over to the bar.
45
Fiona was out of control—and Orson Mulray didn’t know what to do about the situation.
He didn’t disagree with her decision to have Hobson eliminated after he fled his post at the Warwick Foundation, but once again she had acted without his authorization. And now Kelly and Lee were dead, and he was certain she was behind that, too, although he couldn’t imagine how she got them to kill each other. What he didn’t like was that an investigation into the deaths of the two men might somehow lead back to Fiona, and from her to him. He didn’t see how that could happen, but the possibility certainly existed.
He also couldn’t understand why the two men shot each other outside DeMarco’s house. What were they both doing there? Had Fiona ordered Lee to kill DeMarco, and did Kelly for some reason—maybe some reason related to his efforts to free Nelson—try to stop Lee and that’s how they ended up shooting each other? Or maybe Lee had been ordered to kill Kelly and they’d killed each other, and it was just a coincidence the shooting took place at DeMarco’s house. That seemed unlikely, but he couldn’t come up with another explanation. All he knew for sure was that if Fiona didn’t stop killing people she was going to ruin everything. Maybe it was time to hire his own killer.
He called Fiona, ordered her to come to his office, and hung up before she could debate the directive.
When Fiona entered his office, Orson was on the phone talking to someone about actions needed to get Ballard’s drug approved in Europe. Based on Orson’s end of the conversation, it sounded to Fiona like the British were balking about something and Orson wanted the balkers out of the way. Whatever the problem, she was certain he’d deal with it. This was the sort of thing he was good at.
Orson hung up, grumbled a bit about government bureaucrats, foreign and domestic, then just sat there glaring at her. What the hell was his problem? Mulray Pharma’s stock had doubled in value, and Hobson and Kelly were out of their hair. He should have been doing cartwheels, but instead he was sitting there scowling at her.
“What were Kelly and Lee doing at DeMarco’s house?” he asked, making the question sound like an accusation.
“I don’t know. I told Lee to take care of Kelly the first chance he got and I know Lee was following him, so I’m guessing he followed him to DeMarco’s place. But I don’t know why Kelly went to DeMarco’s. I would assume he went there because of Nelson, that maybe Kelly was planning to kill DeMarco since it was DeMarco who put Nelson in Wallens Ridge. But I don’t know for sure. And what difference does it make, Orson? This worked out perfectly. I was trying to figure out what to do with Lee when all this was over, but now I don’t have to worry about that. And all the cops seem to know is that Kelly and Lee both worked for Lizzie Warwick—but they don’t have a clue as to why they shot each other.”
“Hmmm,” Orson said.
It just infuriated her when he did that, like he was fucking Yoda, pondering everything she told him, looking for flaws, when the truth was he rarely had an original idea to contribute.
“What are you planning to do about Nelson?” Orson asked.
“He’s going to die in prison before he goes to trial. I’m having Bernie—”
“Who’s Bernie?”
“My headhunter, the guy who does my research for me. Right now he’s looking into prison guards at Wallens Ridge to find one who needs money, then Nelson will shortly run afoul of some prison gang, and that will be that.”
Orson shook his head. “No, Fiona, I don’t want Nelson killed. At least not until we’re sure he poses a threat. Have his lawyer talk to him. Have the lawyer find out his state of mind.”
“He already poses a threat!” Fiona said. “He’s a cripple looking at a long prison sentence. I’m not going to take the chance of him making a deal.”
“But killing him poses a risk, too. You could make a mistake. This Bernie person or the guard might talk. And if you attempt to kill Nelson and fail, he’ll definitely talk. Just offer Nelson more money to keep his mouth shut. Promise him anything.”
That was enough of this shit! “Let’s get something straight here, Orson. Your job is selling Ballard’s drug to every senile old coot on the planet. My job is making sure that what we did doesn’t come back and bite us on the ass. So if I decide it’s necessary to get rid of Nelson, that’s what I’m going to do.” Then, before Orson could make an objection, she added, “And one other thing. As near as I can tell, Nelson’s the last problem I have to deal with, so I’m going to be quitting pretty soon, and I want the money you promised me five years ago when we started all this. Now, I realize it’s going to take a little time and it’s going to be complicated, so I want you to lay out a payment plan and show it to me this week.”
Complicated was an understatement. Orson didn’t have a billion dollars in cash on hand to pay her, but because Mulray Pharma’s stock had doubled in value since the day he told the world about Ballard’s drug, his net worth had also doubled. Furthermore, his bonus as CEO, which was tied to the company’s stock price, was going to be enormous this year—well over a hundred million—so what Orson had to do to pay her was either transfer some of his stock to her or sell some of his stock, and she wanted him to get moving on that. And she didn’t care what hoops he had to jump through with the SEC and the board; she was going to make sure that within a month, she had what he owed her.
She expected him to give her an argument about asking to be paid so soon, but he didn’t. She also expected that he might say how much he was going to miss her or maybe praise her for the fine job she’d done. She thought he might even beg her not to quit because he couldn’t operate the company without her. But he didn’t say any of those things. Instead he said, “What on earth are you going to do with yourself after you quit, Fiona?”
The question caught her by surprise, and it took a moment for her to respond, “I r
eally don’t know.”
And she didn’t. She had worked her whole life to reach this point—she’d killed to reach this point—and now she was finally there, about to become one of the richest women in America—and she didn’t have a clue as to what she was going to do with all the money.
But that was such a nice problem to have.
Fiona stepped into her car, a 2011 Jaguar, which still had that new-car smell. She figured that from this point forward, every car she owned would have that smell, because she’d buy a new one as soon as the odor faded from the current one. She turned on the radio, a device so complicated she still hadn’t figured out all its functions. It was tuned to a news-only channel, because Fiona had no interest in music or talk shows. The newscaster was going on about a typhoon in the Philippines that had killed a few hundred people, which made her think for a moment about Lizzie Warwick. She really couldn’t understand why the ditzy bitch had killed herself, but it was nice that she had, because now she didn’t have to worry about Lizzie suing Mulray Pharma.
Then the newscaster said, “Prominent French physician René Lambert died yesterday in a traffic accident near Grenoble, France. Alcohol was believed to have been a factor. Lambert was known internationally for his charitable work with the Warwick Foundation, but his reputation was somewhat tarnished by his role in testing the new Alzheimer’s drug developed by Mulray Pharma. He is survived by his wife and two daughters.”
Fiona turned off the radio, amazed at the news. She had given some thought to eliminating René sometime in the future, but she hadn’t considered him to be a major threat like Hobson or Nelson. Now, however, without her having to lift a finger, he was gone.
Just as she was reflecting on her good fortune, she noticed a billboard that said the Powerball lottery was up to three hundred forty million, which made her feel like stopping at the next convenience store and buying a thousand dollars’ worth of lotto tickets. The way her luck had been running lately, she was bound to win.