“I’m telling you”—he coughed, sputtered—“I don’t know where—”
Moroconi lowered Mario’s face back into the boiling caldron. Mario tried to keep his eyes clenched shut, to prevent the water from burning the skin off his eyeballs. All he could do was grit his teeth and wait.
He waited, but Moroconi didn’t raise his head out of the water. Perverted bastard. This was just a scare tactic. He wouldn’t—
Mario’s lungs began to ache. He needed oxygen—now! He thrashed from side to side, trying to lift his head above the surface of the water. It was no use. Moroconi held his head down firmly. With his hands tied, there was nothing, absolutely nothing Mario could do. He felt himself growing faint.
Desperate for air, his lips parted, and the scalding water poured inside. Mario felt it burning his mouth, his tongue, coursing through his lungs. For the first shattering moment he realized he was going to die—
And then Moroconi lifted his head out of the water.
Mario came up coughing and throwing up water. Vomit spewed down his cheeks into the hot tub.
Moroconi laughed. “Gotcha worried that time, didn’t I?”
“It’s under the blotter. On my desk,” Mario gasped, as soon as he was able to talk. “Jack’s new address.”
“Thank you, Mario. Most cooperative of you.” He released Mario’s head. It splashed back into the hot tub.
The hot water rose to the level of Mario’s cheekbones. “Wait a minute. You said you’d let me go if I gave you Jack!”
Moroconi shook his head. “I said no such thing. You assumed I would let you go.” He grinned. “You were wrong. Bye-bye, Mario. Hope you can hold your breath for a long time. Like forever.”
He laughed again, even louder than before, and strolled upstairs.
62
5:15 P.M.
TRAVIS AND CAVANAUGH APPROACHED the front door of the home of the Elcon president, Mario Catuara. It was an elegant house, obviously expensive, not far from Fort Worth, but very secluded. If they hadn’t known exactly where they were going, they never would have found it.
Travis stopped when he got to the porch steps. The front door was open.
“Something’s wrong,” Cavanaugh said.
“I agree,” Travis replied. “Someone got here before us.”
“Moroconi? Or that creep from the library?”
Travis shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Why would Moroconi be looking for Catuara?”
“I don’t know. But that envelope we found in his hotel room tells me they’re connected somehow. Why don’t you stay out here while I take a look inside?”
Cavanaugh grabbed Travis by the collar. “Spare me the chivalry. If Moroconi is in there, you’re going to need someone who’s capable of firing a gun.”
Cavanaugh pushed the front door the rest of the way open and entered. Frowning, Travis followed close behind.
They made a quick sweep of the ground level of the house. Marvelously well furnished, but beyond that, they found nothing of interest. They did discover a staircase—nineteen steps going up, twenty steps going down.
“Let’s cover both floors at once so he can’t slip away,” Cavanaugh whispered. “You take the basement. I’ll take the upstairs.”
Travis didn’t argue. He tiptoed quietly down the carpeted steps and soon realized he had gotten the easier assignment. There was only one room downstairs.
The door was partly open and the light was on. Travis took a deep breath, then stepped through. He hit the deck, just in case someone fired at him. No one did. He crawled into the room on his hands and knees, then slowly rose to his feet.
It was a rec room—a high-class, state-of-the-art playhouse. Travis eyed the sophisticated exercise equipment, feeling a wave of envy he couldn’t suppress. If he could afford to put gizmos like these in his apartment, maybe he could lose those extra pounds around his gut. Scanning the room, he saw a pool table, several pinball machines, and in the far corner—a hot tub.
There was something floating in the hot tub. Approaching, he saw it was a body—Catuara, unless Travis missed his guess. He was tied down in the tub, and his face was covered with water. He was not moving.
“Cavanaugh!” Travis yelled.
He reached into the water, then instinctively withdrew his hand. The water was blisteringly hot. He grabbed a towel from a nearby rack and wrapped it around his hand. Steeling himself, he reached into the hot tub and pulled the man’s head above the water.
The man’s eyes did not open, but Travis saw them move under the eyelids—a sign of life, however slight.
He cut the ropes with a pocketknife he’d picked up at the pawnshop. After the man was free, he hauled him out of the steaming water.
It was at just that moment, when Travis’s arms were wrapped around the body and there was nothing he could do to defend himself, that he heard quiet footsteps immediately behind him. He felt a heavy blow on the top of his head, and before he passed out, he had a brief sensation of his face plunging into scalding hot water.
63
5:30 P.M.
THE SHORTER, BEEFIER OF the two men checked his watch, then frowned. “I don’t think he’s coming.”
“He’ll come,” Staci said defiantly. “I know he will.”
“Just a few more hours till midnight.”
“Plenty of time.” Despite her outward show of strength, Staci was scared to death. Why was Travis taking so long? Why wasn’t he here yet?
They were in a crummy hotel room somewhere in Dallas—Staci and the two men who grabbed her outside Aunt Marnie’s house. There were two other men in an adjoining room who popped in from time to time. Staci didn’t know anything about any of them, except that they all looked like crooks and they were all carrying big guns.
After she had regained consciousness, she had found herself tied to a stiff-backed, uncomfortable chair. They hadn’t let her move since.
“Maybe he didn’t get the message,” Staci suggested.
“Unlikely. It was in the paper, right?”
The tall man with the long scar down the side of his face nodded. “My man at the newspaper never fails me.
“Maybe Travis doesn’t have time to read the papers,” Staci suggested. “He’s been real busy.”
“If I were gettin’ the press coverage he’s gettin’, I’d read the paper,” the shorter man said. “Wouldn’t you, Kramer?”
The tall man’s eyes widened. In one sudden, savage motion he clubbed the man on the side of his face.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “Jesus Christ! What was that for?”
“Names,” Kramer whispered under his breath.
“Oh, shit. I didn’t think.” He looked down at Staci.
“ ’Course, that isn’t his real name, you know. We all use aliases around here.”
Kramer rolled his eyes. “Unlike you, she ain’t a complete moron.” He cast his eyes down at the girl. “You just signed her death certificate.”
Staci only understood about a fourth of what the two men said, but she fully understood the import of that last remark. “What did he call you? I didn’t even hear it. And I wouldn’t remember it if I had. I’ve got a real short attention span. Really. It’s certified and everything.”
“It ain’t gonna make much difference, in the end,” Kramer said grimly. “Even if Byrne does show up—”
“He will. I know he will.”
Kramer raised an eyebrow. “Then what’s takin’ so long?”
“I don’t know, but I know there’s a reason.”
“I think Byrne has deserted you.”
“He has not!”
“Maybe I screwed up. Maybe he never cared about you.”
Staci’s face flushed. “You geekwad.”
The short man raised his fists eagerly. “She can’t talk to you like that, boss. Should I hit her?”
“Of course not. Idiot.” Kramer stepped forward and, just as suddenly as before, swung his fist into Staci’s face.
&nb
sp; Afterward he rubbed his hand and smiled. “Rank has its privileges.”
Staci began to cry. Her teeth and jaws ached; she had accidentally bitten her tongue.
“Stop bawlin’!” Kramer barked.
Staci tried, but she couldn’t. It hurt too bad.
“Fine. Gag her.” The short man stuffed a towel in Staci’s mouth.
The door to the adjoining room opened, and a third man leaned in. “Simmons just called in,” he said, looking at Kramer. “He’s been talking to Mario.”
Kramer’s eyebrows rose. “What does Mario want?”
“He wants you to come to his home immediately. Didn’t explain why. He left an address.”
“Wow!” the short man exclaimed. “I ain’t never been invited to his home. I didn’t think anyone got to go. What do you suppose happened?”
“I dunno,” Kramer murmured. “But it must be bad. He wouldn’t call me unless the whole operation was in trouble.” He grabbed his coat. “I’m leavin’.”
“Fine,” the short man said. “I’ll watch the girl.”
“No. Take her to the CEO.”
“Really?”
Kramer nodded. “You know where he lives?”
“Sure, but—why?”
“If Mario is in danger, our CEO also may be threatened. You will deliver this invaluable insurance policy to him.”
“Should I stay there with her?”
“No. She isn’t going anywhere. You’re needed here.”
“What if Byrne shows up and there’s no girl?”
Kramer made a steeple with his fingers. “What does it matter, really? We can kill him just as easily, whether she’s here or not.”
64
5:45 P.M.
WHEN TRAVIS AWOKE, HE was lying faceup, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure where he was. The only things he could be certain of were that he wasn’t in heaven and he wasn’t in the overheated hot tub.
He touched his face; it felt tender and raw. Probably swollen and burned, too, but at least all the parts still seemed to function.
He rolled slightly to one side, sending shooting pains up and down his abdomen. Never mind, he thought to himself. I’m not drowning, and I’m not being burned alive. Maybe I’ll just lie here for a moment.
He heard a soft rhythmic sound behind him—steady breathing. Twisting his head, he saw Cavanaugh hunched over the man he had dragged out of the hot tub. And—what the hell? She was kissing him!
He rolled his eyes to the back of his head. What an idiot he was sometimes. She wasn’t kissing him—she was giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. And it was working. Travis could see water spewing out of the man’s mouth, and could see his arms and legs beginning to move.
An intense aching radiated through Travis’s skull, reminding him that he’d been clubbed over the head. Cavanaugh must’ve hauled him out of the tub. Cavanaugh seemed to have everything under control. He’d just remain still and try to pull himself together. Who knew—maybe he could get some mouth-to-mouth for himself.
About half an hour later Mario sat on a beanbag chair in the rec room hunched over a half-filled brandy snifter. Travis pressed a fully filled ice pack to his forehead. Cavanaugh stood between them and listened.
“Moroconi hates me,” Mario murmured. He spoke in short, breathy bursts, a few syllables at a time. “He left me to die. Must’ve clubbed you on his way out.”
“What did he want?” Cavanaugh asked.
“He wanted an address. One he couldn’t find on the list.”
“There it is again,” Travis said. “That damn list that everyone wants. What is it?”
“It’s a list of squealers who were given new identities by the Federal Witness Relocation Program. Once the witnesses are relocated, there are supposed to be no traces of their former lives. No trail to be followed. But someone in Bureau 99 kept a list.”
“Why?”
Mario inhaled the brandy fumes. “Don’t ask me. Some overzealous bureaucrat, probably. Maybe it was necessary to forward payments, to make periodic checks. All I know is that the list exists. And Moroconi got it.”
“Why did he want it?”
“He’s looking for someone. Someone who turned state’s evidence four years ago. Jack.” He paused. “Moroconi wants revenge against Jack.”
“Wasn’t Jack on the list?”
“He was, but the information was incorrect.” Mario swirled the brandy around his mouth and down his throat, savoring the artificial comfort. “The FBI are not the only ones who know how to relocate.”
“Did Moroconi get the man’s address from you?”
Mario’s eyes lowered. “I had no choice.”
“Then give it to me, too,” Travis said. “I have to find him. It’s my only hope.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You gave it to Moroconi!”
“Because I had to. I don’t want to do any more damage than has already been done.”
“If you don’t give me the address,” Travis barked, “I won’t catch Moroconi. He’ll remain free.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink into Mario’s brain. “And when he finds out you’re still alive, he’ll be back here for you.”
This threat obviously caused Mario to reconsider, but he remained silent.
“Moreover, if you don’t give me the address right now,” Travis added, “I’m going to sink your fat butt back in the hot tub. And goose up the temperature. So talk!”
A shudder passed through Mario’s body. “The address is beneath the blotter on my desk in the den upstairs. He lives about a hundred miles from here, not too far from Austin. But you’ll never get in. He’s got guards posted who stop everyone who comes in or goes out. He’s got high-tech security equipment. And always a couple of bodyguards. At least.”
“One problem at a time,” Travis muttered. “Just give us—”
Travis was cut off by the ever-more-familiar sound of a bullet whistling overhead. He hadn’t heard the gun fire; that made it all the more disturbing. He grabbed Mario by the neck and slammed him down on the carpet. Cavanaugh followed suit. He heard another bullet sail past.
“Where is he?” Cavanaugh mouthed.
Travis shook his head. “Outside the door, I think.”
Travis pointed to their immediate right, and together they quickly crawled behind the pool table. Unfortunately, the table stood three feet off the ground. All the sniper had to do was crouch and—
Another whizzing sound. Travis heard a bullet smash into a leg of the pool table.
“This won’t cut it,” he whispered.
“What can we do?” Cavanaugh asked.
“Why are you asking me? I don’t know.”
“You’re the ex-cop. What would a cop do?”
Travis grimaced. He heard the soft patter of footsteps on the carpet. Whoever was firing at them was moving closer. “Follow my lead.” He rose up on his knees, pressed a shoulder against the pool table, and shoved. Good—the top separated from the legs, and the legs were screwed to the floor.
Cavanaugh lent her shoulder to the cause. Travis heaved and the tabletop fell forward off its base with a crash. Billiard balls and slate smashed onto the floor. The front legs propped the tabletop up at a forty-five-degree angle, creating a ten-foot-wide shield.
“How’s that for cover?” Travis murmured.
“Better,” Cavanaugh replied. “At least now he’ll have to move away from the door.”
“Unfortunately that doesn’t change the fundamental fact that he’s armed and I’m not. What happened to my gun?”
Cavanaugh shrugged. “I know I set mine down when I started mouth-to-mouth on Mario.”
“Great.”
Mario relaxed the expression of terror plastered across his face long enough to speak. “It’s by the hot tub.”
Travis stared at the hot tub—about twenty very exposed feet to his right. He didn’t see his multistrike weapon. Must be on the other side. The side closest to the door, natch.
“I’m going to make a dive for the hot tub, Cavanaugh. Cover me.”
“Cover you? With what?”
“Use your imagination.”
Cavanaugh clenched her teeth and mumbled something he couldn’t understand. He figured it was just as well. He crouched down near the end of the table and prepared to spring out.
He glanced back over his shoulder. “I’m ready.”
He was startled to see Cavanaugh grit her teeth and grab a billiard ball. “Take this, you sorry son of a bitch!” she shouted. She reared over the tabletop and hurled the ball toward the door.
Travis heard the projectile clatter and ricochet around some exercise equipment, and heard their assailant drop to the floor. Good enough. He dove away from the table and scrambled toward the hot tub. He landed on his hands and executed a somersault that brought him right beside his gun. Not bad for a fat ex-cop. He grabbed his gun and scrambled back to the safer side of the hot tub, hugging the carpet.
Travis heard another bullet zoom over his head, this one much closer than before. Much too close for comfort. He flattened himself and tried to figure out what he was going to do next.
He heard a mechanical grinding sound coming from the door. No bullets followed. Something was wrong with their assailant’s gun.
From his prone position, Travis saw Cavanaugh cautiously peer over the top of the pool table, “His gun is jammed!” she shouted. “Go!”
Travis took her at her word. He sprang to his feet, cocked the hammer back, aimed the barrel at the stocking-capped figure in the doorway, and …
And he could not pull the trigger.
“Goddamn it,” Cavanaugh yelled. “Fire!”
He couldn’t do it. His hands trembled, his fingers refused to move. He stared at the man in the doorway, fully aware that at any second he might clear the action and fire that gun. It didn’t help. He still couldn’t do it.
“Travis—do something!”
The man in the stocking cap threw down his gun, pulled a long, curved knife out of his belt, and ran toward Travis. Travis hurled his weapon at the man’s head. While the man ducked, Travis rushed him. Travis hit him around the waist and sent him careening backward. The man hit the wall, lurched away in the opposite direction, then tumbled backward into the boiling hot tub. He screamed.
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