The Perfect Lie

by Dinah McCall

  He cupped her chin, then tilted it upward until she was forced to meet his gaze.

  “No. It happened because I wanted to make love to you. I’ve wanted to ever since I saw you standing outside my apartment, but it’s been hard for me to separate my anger at your sister and father from what I’ve been feeling for you.”

  Macie’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh, Jonah, I—”

  “Slade, we need to go,” Sugarman said. “Ruger just called. He wants us to take you two back to the house. Now.”

  Jonah turned abruptly. “Is it Evan? Have they found him?”

  Sugarman frowned. “I don’t think so or he would have said. It’s something else.”

  Jonah’s hopes fell. There were only two other things serious enough to warrant an order this direct. Either he had intel that Macie’s life was in danger again or Calderone’s people were making a move.

  “What’s going on?” Macie asked as Jonah grabbed her hand and started with her toward the stairs, with the two Federal agents leading the way. “Why aren’t we taking the elevator?”

  “Too predictable.”

  “Oh, my God,” Macie muttered as they started down the stairs.

  “It’s okay, Miss Blaine. This is just a precaution,” Carter said.

  “No, this is a nightmare,” Macie said, then felt Jonah’s hand on her shoulder.

  “But you’re not alone,” he said softly. “Not anymore.”

  Evan sat on the side of his bed, staring at a spot on the opposite wall without really seeing it. Something was going on outside the room where he was being kept. The attitude of the guard who’d been begging him to eat had changed to one of disrespect. And while he hadn’t expected any smiles or pats on the back that he’d begun to eat the food they were leaving, he could tell the mood of his captors was growing darker by the hour. It was frightening to think he might not live to see another day, although he’d been expecting to die ever since the day of his abduction.

  He stared down at his hands, trying to curl his fingers into fists, then winced as pus oozed out from under one nail. He heard scratching in the corner of the room and turned just as the rat came out of the hole in the floor.

  “Hey, Harold. How’s it hangin’?”

  The absurdity of what he’d just said suddenly hit him, and he started to grin. When the rat moved to the food tray on the floor near the door and began sniffing around an empty can of tuna, Evan chuckled.

  “Sorry, Harold, nothing left. As you can see, you’re now rooming with a pig.” Then he lifted an arm and smelled under his own armpit. “I even smell like a pig,” he mumbled, then barked out a short laugh. “At least, I guess I smell like a pig. To tell you the truth, Harold, I’ve never smelled a pig. Have you?”

  The whole conversation struck Evan as funny, and he started to laugh in earnest. Moments later, he fell back onto the bed in weary hysterics.

  The rat sat up on its hind legs and stared at Evan, as if trying to figure out whether to stay or run.

  Outside, the guard heard the sounds and came running. When he opened the door, he saw the boy lying on the bed and laughing like a crazy man.

  “You! Shut up now!” the guard yelled.

  The rat dove for cover.

  Evan rolled over on his side, gasping for breath.

  “Hey, smiley…what do you think?”

  “About what?” the guard muttered.

  “Do I smell like a pig? Harold thinks I do. What’s your vote on the subject?”

  The guard swerved, his gun aimed toward the bathroom.

  “Who’s this Harold?”

  “I thought he was your brother. But if you don’t know him, then I must have been mistaken.”

  The guard glared.

  Evan collapsed into hysterics again. Every time he looked at the guard, he laughed even harder.

  “This time tomorrow, you will not laugh,” the guard yelled, then kicked the bed frame as he left the room, slamming the door hard behind him.

  Evan’s laughter ended on the next breath.

  Tomorrow. He said it would be tomorrow. Then he rolled over on his side in the bed and shoved the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing himself not to cry. He remembered reading a book once in which the hero said that tomorrow never comes. Obviously his captors had not read the same book.

  The media that had been camped out a few blocks from the gate to the estate was noticeably absent.

  “What the hell?” Sugarman muttered, as Carter sped past the place where they’d been gathered.

  “I guess we’re old news,” Macie said. “Can’t say I’m sorry.”

  Jonah frowned. There was no such thing as old news until something was over, and this was far from over. He figured Ruger had had them removed, but if so, then something bad was going down. He couldn’t bring himself to think of the ramifications of the missing journalists, because if they’d left on their own, it could only be because the news regarding Evan Blaine’s abduction had moved to a new location. But if that was so, then it would be because either he’d been found alive or his body had been recovered.

  He said a quick prayer, making himself concentrate on the facts instead of the maybes. But as they pulled up to the front of the house, his stomach rolled.

  God, please don’t let my son die.

  12

  Last night had been the first night in a week that the Snowman had been able to sleep without waking up in a cold sweat. It wasn’t as if he’d never been threatened before. That came with the line of work he was in. But failing to satisfy Miguel Calderone was dangerous, especially when it involved revenge. He’d been toying with the idea of a new address and identity when he’d gotten the call from Calderone. If Slade hadn’t been there, that might have been his only option. But Slade had been there. Where else would he have gone?

  After letting Calderone’s people know, the relief of having done what he’d been ordered to do put him in a very good mood. As he rolled through a yellow light, his stomach growled, reminding him that it had been a while since he’d had a good meal. His association with the Colombians had given him a taste for south-of-the-border cuisine, so he began cruising the area for a good place to eat.

  Later, as he sat at his table in the Casa Paloma, waiting for his drink, he gave himself up to a brief moment of regret for the decisions he’d made in life. When he let himself think about it, which was rarely, he didn’t relish living on both the just and the unjust sides of life. If he could choose and still have the money the criminal life was bringing him, he would of course choose to be righteous. But the Snowman was greedy, and he’d gotten too accustomed to the money accruing in his numbered Swiss account to stop now.

  As he took his first sip of margarita, he had to admit that there was a part of him that empathized with Slade’s situation. Truthfully, he had nothing against Jonah Slade. In fact, he admired the man. And he wouldn’t wish Miguel Calderone’s wrath on his worst enemy, but this was just a matter of business. Besides, Slade was a big boy. He knew what was at stake. Whatever happened after this was out of the Snowman’s hands and off his conscience.

  He smiled at the members of the passing Mariachi band and toasted their music with another sip of margarita. When the waitress finally brought his food, he leaned over the plate and inhaled slowly, savoring the spicy aromas wafting up his nose. Then he forked a bite of tamale on his plate, shoved it through the chili and then popped it into his mouth, groaning with satisfaction as the spicy Mexican food hit his palate. As he chewed, he glanced up at the night sky through the palm trees on the patio behind his table. The sky was clear, the night warm and balmy. Although he’d grown up in Michigan, he’d long ago become addicted to the warmer countries.

  The pretty little waitress who’d brought him his food had already smiled at him much more than necessary. If he wanted, he knew he could go to bed with more than a full stomach tonight. He started to order a second margarita, then thought of the drive he had to make before getting to bed tonight. He finished his
food, tossed a handful of bills onto the table, winked at the waitress and made his way to the door. Just as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he was jostled by a man passing by.

  “Hey, look out,” he said sharply, then felt the bulge of an unfamiliar object that had suddenly appeared in his jacket.

  He thrust his hand into the pocket, felt the outline of an envelope and a knife that hadn’t been there before, and yanked his hand out as if he’d been burned. He looked around for the man, but he was nowhere in sight.

  “Son of a bitch. This was supposed to be over,” he muttered, then hurried to his car and got in, quickly locking the door before taking the envelope out of his pocket. The switchblade was symbolic of what Calderone would do if he did not adhere to the message. He opened the note with trepidation, wondering what was in store for him now.

  The snake is on its way out. Be ready.

  The meaning was clear. The note referred to the tattoo Calderone’s people wore. The snake was Calderone. But he was in a Federal lockup in Lompoc. There was no such thing as a jail break at a Federal prison.

  He leaned back in the seat, his stomach churning. The tamales he’d just eaten were threatening to come up.

  “Son of a bitch. I want out of this game. Why can’t the little bastard stay where he’s put?”

  Disgusted that Calderone was still calling the shots on his time and his life, he tossed the note out the window, put the knife in the glove box and headed out of East L.A.

  Meanwhile, the “little bastard,” as the Snowman had referred to Calderone, had no intention of staying put in Lompoc Federal Correctional Institution or, for that matter, in California. He dreamed of cutting out Evan Blaine’s heart and laying it at Jonah Slade’s feet, right before he cut out Slade’s tongue. As soon as he had the satisfaction of watching Slade drown in his own blood, he was going back to the South American jungles. There were places there to hide that no white man had ever seen, and he knew every one of them.

  But first, he had to die.

  Calderone ran a hand through his hair, cursing the disheveled style and remembering the perfection of his appearance prior to being arrested. The lack of amenities in Lompoc was but another reason that kept his hate of Slade alive. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since Alejandro’s death, and when he did sleep, he dreamed of revenge. He wanted to see Slade’s face—wanted to hear his cries for mercy as he plunged the knife into the chest of Slade’s son. He thought about it night and day—of the way the knife would feel as it sliced through bone and muscle. The boy would shriek and writhe, and Slade would beg and beg, but it wouldn’t change a thing. He already had the boy. Within a matter of a day or so, he would have Slade, as well. Now all he had to do was get out from behind the walls of this prison.

  The events that would help make this happen were already in motion. His woman, Elena, was coming again today, still masquerading as a nun. The prison doctor was going to play a key role in setting him free, although he’d had to do a little extra persuading, taking the doctor’s wife to a nice hotel until the doctor had complied. Abraham Hollister was already in a conference room, awaiting Calderone’s arrival. All Calderone had to do now was wait for a guard to come and get him.

  He dug his hands through his hair, mussing it even more to give himself a harried appearance, then pinched himself on the face several times so that it would appear flushed. After a quick look through the bars to make sure he was still alone, he took his Bible from the shelf—the Bible that Elena had brought to him on from a previous visit—then sat down on the edge of his bunk. Using his thumbnail, he picked at the inside cover flap until it started to come loose. When it did, he pulled, peeling it up all the way to the spine, and there, nestled within the folds of the spine, was a tiny plastic tube no larger in circumference than a piece of yarn. He lifted it out, taking care not to break it, then held it up to the light. The needle resting inside was thin and fine, hardly larger than the filament from a lightbulb. It looked innocent enough, but Calderone knew that even the smallest prick from that needle and he was going to be closer to hell than he’d ever wanted to be. However, it was his only chance to get out of this place.

  Just then he heard the footsteps of approaching guards and slipped the minute tube into the pocket of his shirt. He shut the Bible, laid it back on the shelf beneath a small stack of paperback books and hurried to the sink. He splashed some water carefully about his face and neck and around the edges of his hair, making it appear as if he were perspiring, then sat back on the cot and slumped forward.

  “Calderone, you have a visitor,” one of the guards said.

  Calderone stood, swaying slightly as he did.

  “Step back,” the guard ordered.

  Again Calderone did as he was told, taking a step away from the door, then waiting for it to open.

  As the cell door slid open, the other guard held out a pair of handcuffs.

  “Step forward and hold out your hands.”

  Calderone pretended to stumble.

  “What’s wrong with you?” the guard asked, as he locked the cuffs around Calderone’s wrists.

  Calderone’s heartbeat fluttered, but he remained outwardly calm. It wouldn’t do to show any kind of emotion, although this would be the last time he would be fettered in such a demeaning way.

  “Nothing is wrong,” he said shortly, then pretended to wheeze slightly.

  The guards looked at Calderone, then at each other, and shrugged.

  “Walk,” one of them said.

  Calderone walked, and it was all he could do not to laugh. This time tomorrow, he would be free. After he’d dealt with Slade and his son, it would be back to his beloved Colombia.

  Sitting still had never been one of Abraham Hollister’s strong suits, but now was not the time to let his Adult Attention Deficit Disorder get the better of him. He needed to play it cool to make what was going to happen in the next few minutes look legitimate. He also knew that what he was doing was called aiding and abetting, and that he could do time if he was ever found out. However, once today’s mess with Calderone was behind him, Hollister had made up his mind to retire. Three years earlier he had established a home and a new identity in Switzerland, in anticipation of just such an event. Working for Calderone had made him a rich man, but he had trouble sleeping at night. What good would the money be if he wasn’t free to spend it?

  Mindful of his part in what was about to happen, he took that morning’s paper from his briefcase, opened it to the stock market section and started to read. He was frowning over an item on the NASDAQ when the door to the conference room opened. He folded up the paper and then stood. He’d been coached as to what to expect, and still he was shocked by Calderone’s appearance as he entered the room. There was no acting involved as he expressed his dismay to the guards.

  “What’s wrong with this man? Why haven’t you taken him to the infirmary?” Then he reached toward Calderone. “Mr. Calderone?”

  Calderone took two staggering steps into the room, grabbing his chest as he swayed. The tiny vial that had been so carefully removed from the bible broke beneath the impact of his fists. He clutched at the shirt fabric, accidentally ripping the pocket of his shirt as he cried out in agony. To the onlooker, it appeared that he was in the throes of great pain, when in reality he was making certain that the tiny wire in the capsule was piercing his flesh.

  The impact was minuscule and brief. He barely felt the twinge of pain against his palm, but he knew it had happened, because the muscles in his body began to stiffen, and he imagined he could feel his vital organs shutting down one by one. Mentally he’d known what was going to happen, but experiencing it was something for which he could never have prepared. For the first time in his life, he knew terror. He was dying, and if his people failed him, then this was it.

  “Help me,” he groaned, gazing at Hollister with a look of disbelief on his face.

  Hollister dropped to his knees by his client, cradling his head in his hands as he shouted to t
he guards, who were just starting to react.

  “Get a doctor! Fast!” he shouted. “He has a bad heart.”

  Immediately one guard was on his two-way, while the other started toward them.

  “Water!” Hollister yelled. “Get me some water.”

  The guard hurried to a small table in the corner of the room. While he was pouring water into a small plastic cup, Hollister wrapped up the bits of broken vial and the tiny, insignificant looking wire in his own handkerchief, then quickly put it in his pocket. He’d already been searched before coming in, and there was no reason for anyone to suspect he would be taking evidence out. He had to admit it was a marvelous plan. The only thing yet to be seen was if Calderone could be resurrected.

  Moments later, a half-dozen guards appeared, carrying a stretcher, although, in Hollister’s opinion, it was already too late. He watched as Calderone was loaded onto the stretcher and whisked out of sight.

  “Where are you taking him?” Hollister asked.

  “To the prison hospital.”

  “May I go with him?”

  “No,” the guard said. “Wait here.”

  Hollister blustered, asserting his presence as Calderone’s lawyer, as they would have expected him to do.

  “As his representative, I demand to—”

  “Someone will let you know his condition,” the guard said, then hurried from the room.

  Once again, Hollister found himself alone in the conference room, only this time, the anxiety he’d been suffering from earlier was gone. Just a few more moves to be made and he would be gone. It was now up to the doctor Calderone had coerced. Whether Calderone succeeded or failed, Hollister was through with this rat race. His plane ticket was in his car, as was a small suitcase. It was time to put an end to this life and begin another.

  Ralph Foster had been a doctor for more than twenty-seven years, and he’d been doctoring at Lompoc for nearly six. During that time, he’d seen just about everything one man could do to another. He considered himself immune to shock.

  Still, he had not been prepared for the proposition put forth to him three days ago to help break a man out of Lompoc. He’d laughed in the woman’s face and, of course, refused. Then, yesterday evening, his wife had not come home from the real estate office where she worked. Just as he was about to call the police, a knock had sounded on his door. Thinking it would be Patricia, who must have lost her key, he’d rushed to the door and found a strange man instead. He’d handed him a note and his wife’s wallet, then walked away without uttering a word.