by Sandra Brown
At Timmy’s insistence, they’d eschewed the sleek, swift elevator and boarded one lined with quilted furniture pads that the building’s maintenance personnel used. Timmy had asked him what level of the parking garage his car was on. He pushed the bright orange button designating the second level. The elevator began its creaking descent. Nate had feared that when they reached bottom, he would be DOA, cocooned in one of the furniture pads.
But he’d still been alive when Timmy prodded him through the deserted garage to his car and told him to drive. Timmy had gotten in on the passenger side, giving a long wolf whistle in appreciation of the Jag’s interior.
Nate had driven from the garage as instructed, and thus the worst hours of his life had begun to unfold.
Occasionally consulting a map on his phone, Timmy had given him directions. Driving conditions couldn’t have been worse. They drove through downpours that caused Nate to hydroplane. The only advantage to the inclement weather was that traffic was minimal, enabling Nate to keep half his attention on the jackal in his passenger seat.
He’d kept his panic at bay only by telling himself that if Timmy had wanted him dead, he would have bled out by now on his living room floor. Or he’d have been a splatter on the sidewalk below his twenty-second-story window. Or he’d be gasping for his last breath in the trunk of his car.
Timmy wouldn’t have had him dress up if he was going to kill him.
Or had he just been making him casket-ready?
Gruesome thoughts such as that had compelled him to do exactly as Timmy had ordered, without argument, every mile of the journey, the destination of which had eventually become apparent.
Knoxville, Tennessee.
The rain had been relentless, and the farther north they went, the harder it fell. The topography turned hillier. The forested summits wore cowls of rain clouds and fog. They’d been a half hour out of Knoxville when Timmy had yawned, stretched, and scratched his crotch.
“Next exit has a Mickey D’s. I’m hungry.”
Nate had taken the exit, arrived at the McDonald’s, and pulled into the drive-through lane as told. Timmy had ordered a breakfast sandwich and coffee. Nate had declined food, and the last thing his nerves needed was caffeine. He’d ordered an orange juice, which, for some reason, Timmy had thought funny.
After picking up their order at the window, Timmy had told him to pull over and park. He’d done so. Timmy had devoured the sandwich with the dining manners of a hyena and had just relaxed against the seat to savor his coffee when his cell phone broadcast that auditory assault.
Now, having learned that it was Delores calling, Nate didn’t know if that was a good thing or bad. Should he feel elation and relief, or dread and fear? Should he shout out a plea for help? Or would that incite Timmy to slit his throat then and there?
Cowardice won out. He said nothing, only sagged a little deeper into the driver’s seat and listened to the one-sided conversation.
“Goliad?” Timmy said. “No, why? Huh. Well, ma’am, I can’t tell you. He dropped me off at my apartment last night, told me to take a pain pill and rest, that he would contact me on an as-needed basis. Haven’t heard from him since.” There was a pause, then, “Dr. Lambert? Oh, now him I can help you with. I’m looking at him.”
Nate heard Delores’s exclamation of surprise, heard her passing the information along, presumably to Richard.
“Where are we?” Timmy said, repeating her question for Nate’s benefit. “A half hour or so from Knoxville, noshing some chow, killing a little time, don’t want to get there too early.”
Delores rattled on for about thirty seconds, but she was talking too fast for Nate to catch what she was saying. When she ran out of breath, Timmy said, “If you’ll allow me, I’ll explain, Mrs. Hunt. See, after I got home last night, I didn’t go straight to bed like Goliad advised.
“No, I started thinking this situation through, and it was like a light bulb came on above my head. You know, like in a cartoon? Or maybe it was a vision from God. Anyway, it occurred to me where that sick little girl—the one I saw on TV with you and the senator? Well, I figured out where she fit into this big picture. She’s in competition with you to get whatever it is that Dr. O’Neal made off with. Tell me if I’m wrong.”
There was silence at the other end of the call. Or, if Delores had spoken, her response had been too softly spoken for Nate to hear.
Timmy continued in a breezy manner. “I got to thinking that shuttling her out of state just wasn’t far enough. You and the senator stopped short. If the lady doctor took a mind to drive up here like we did, and there was no longer any competition for whatever she’s got that you want, then…” He paused, but there was nothing but silence at the other end of the call.
“If you’re as smart a lady as I think you are, Mrs. Hunt, you’re catching my meaning. The only sure way to win this race is to rub out the competition, wouldn’t you say?”
Nate’s stomach heaved. Gorge filled the back of his throat with a citrus sting.
Although he hadn’t heard either Delores or Richard speak a word, Timmy said, “You can thank me later. Oh. On the outside chance I hear from Goliad, I’ll tell him you’re waiting on him to call you.”
With that, he disconnected and laid his phone aside. “Man, my ass is sore from sitting too long.” He arched his back, rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles. “Pull back around to the drive-through. I’m gonna have one of those breakfast parfaits.”
Nate stayed as he was, gaping at him. “Are you insane?”
“They’re good. Honest. Crunchy granola. You ought to try one.”
Nate’s chest was so tight with desperation, he could barely push sufficient air across his vocal cords. “You’re going to ‘rub out the competition’? You’re going to kill that child?”
“No!” Timmy laughed, and then laughed harder. “Hell, no. Is that what you thought? No, I’m not going to.” The obscene laughter stopped abruptly. Timmy leveled soulless eyes on Nate. “You are.”
Violet
It’s morning and it’s raining.
I had to get up early on account of it’s my special day, and Mom said we needed to get a move on.
I can’t have a regular bath because of my IV. I get bed baths. Most times nurses give them, but this morning it was Mom. I’m wearing my favorite gown. It’s pink and has a sparkly crown like a princess on the front.
Daddy stayed home from work because it’s my special day.
My brothers had to get up early, too, and they’re mad because they have to wear church clothes, and my oldest brother said he shouldn’t have to because it wasn’t his special day, and Daddy told them to cut out the whining.
I don’t blame my brothers a bit for being mad, and nobody asked me if I wanted a “special day.”
The nurse who spent the night left and another one came to take her place. Her name is Jill. She has a thousand braids with a thousand beads in them. She’s young. Her sneakers have flashing lights around the bottoms, and she said that if I played my cards right, she might get me some like them. My older brother said she was cool, and I think so, too.
I got a present. It’s a new iPad Mini. My brothers tried to hog it.
The doctor came. He’s nicer than Dr. Lambert, but not as nice as Dr. O’Neal.
Dr. O’Neal’s mom died when she was little. That’s what made her want to become a doctor. She doesn’t have a husband or kids. I asked her how come, and she said she’s been too busy trying to make people well. What that really means is that she hasn’t found the right man to marry. I’m sure glad she doesn’t want to marry Dr. Lambert. Gross.
One time she told me she needs my help to cure a lot of people with the same cancer as me. I told her I hoped I didn’t let her down. She gave me a fist bump, and then an extra long hug.
I’ll know when she comes because I can see the whole front yard through the window in my bedroom. But the only people out there now are the TV people. They’re sitting in their vans because of
the rain.
If Dr. O’Neal is the surprise for my special day, she hasn’t got here yet.
Chapter 31
6:32 a.m.
Rye woke up, unwound himself from Brynn, and eased out of bed. He went directly to the window and looked out. “Brynn.”
She didn’t stir.
“Brynn.”
“Hmm?”
“The police car’s gone.”
She sat up and pushed hair off her face. Any other time, he would have paused to admire how adorable she looked, but he was hastily pulling on his clothes. “He’s gone,” he repeated. “Maybe it was just some poor underpaid cop sleeping through his shift. Get dressed. I’ll get coffee.”
He pulled on his jacket, then leaned down and gave her a quick kiss.
“Milk, no sugar,” she called after him.
None of the vending machines on the seventh floor dispensed coffee, so he took the main elevator down. It emptied him into the jam-packed lobby. Travelers initially held up by the fog had been further delayed by the successive bands of torrential rain.
People were sleeping on any surface they could stake claim to, some sitting with their backs to the wall, heads drooping. A young mother, looking frazzled and at wits’ end, was trying to shush her mewling infant.
The dawn was gray, and with almost an hour to go until sunrise, the lobby remained in semi-darkness, making it difficult for Rye to avoid the prone forms on the floor. He made it to the adjacent dining room without stepping on anyone. Kitchen staff were setting up the breakfast buffet. He was relieved to see that the coffee bar was already in service.
He was filling a disposable cup from an urn when a young man shuffled up beside him. Rye’s glance caught him in mid-yawn. His clothes were rumpled. He was unshaven and bleary-eyed. Which was why Rye was surprised when he perked up upon seeing him and said, “Mr. Dewitt, good morning.”
Rye now recognized him as the harried clerk who had checked him in yesterday. He hadn’t thought the young man would remember him. “Morning.” Not wanting to engage, Rye concentrated on filling a second cup from the dribbling spigot.
“Did your rifle turn up?”
Rifle? What was he talking about? Rye couldn’t fathom. But the guy had addressed him by Dash’s name, so he hadn’t mistaken him for someone else. Rye played along. “Uh, yeah.”
“Wasn’t stolen, then?”
“No, I’d left it. At my in-laws’ house.”
“Glad to hear it. We don’t like property to go missing off our parking lot.”
“No worry. All good.”
Rye, mind churning, moved aside to place lids over the two cups of coffee. The young man took his place at the urn. He said, “The policeman must’ve been relieved to hear that. These days, any lost weapon is cause for alarm.”
“Got that right.”
“I’m sure that’s why he didn’t want to wait for morning to talk to you. Gotta commend his diligence. What time was it last night when he went up to your room?”
“I don’t remember exactly.”
“Around one, one-thirty, wasn’t it?”
“In that neighborhood.”
The clerk’s unwitting revelations were starting to take the shape of a disturbing scenario. Rye carried on conversationally, so it wouldn’t sound like fishing. “Surprised me that he came up to the room unannounced.”
“Really? He said you were expecting him. He’d just forgotten your room number.” Looking worried now, the young man said, “I hope you weren’t already in bed.”
“No. I was up.” Rye gave him a quick grin and raised a coffee cup in each hand. “Getting cold. Have a good one.”
“You’re only booked for one night. Checking out today?”
“Immediately.”
This time, Rye didn’t carefully pick his way across the littered lobby. He walked quickly and with purpose, chucking the two cups of coffee into the trash can at the elevator. He and Brynn wouldn’t have time to drink them.
6:44 a.m.
The slamming door brought Brynn running from the bathroom. She took one look at Rye and asked, “What?”
“You ready?”
“Boots.”
He pulled his flight bag from the floor of the closet and tossed it onto the side of the bed. “Someone—a cop—told the desk clerk a story about Mr. Dewitt’s missing rifle. I think—”
“Who’s Mr. Dewitt?” Responding to the haste with which he was gathering up his belongings from the bedside table and dumping them into the duffel, she crammed her feet into her boots.
“Dash. Somebody smart got his name and used it to track us here. Doesn’t sound like Wilson and Rawlins. They would have knocked and announced themselves.”
“So the policeman—”
“Was probably working for the other faction, keeping an eye out for us.”
Boots on, she yanked her coat from a hanger in the closet. “Where is he now?”
“Don’t know. But I’m not waiting around to ask.” He shouldered his flight bag, went to the door, and put his hand on the knob. But there he paused, reached for her hand, and pressed Wes’s key ring into it. “Listen. I don’t know what we might encounter on our way out. But whatever happens, you get away from here. Drive like a bat out of hell. Understand?”
“Do you think—”
“I don’t know, but if I’m detained, for any reason, in any way, you run to Wes’s car and head for Tennessee.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“You can. You will. You’ve got to get to Violet. If you don’t, everything we’ve been through won’t count for shit. You’ve got to make it, Brynn.”
A protest was forming on her lips. He stopped it with a quick but potent kiss, then repeated, “You’ve got to make it.”
Gazing into his eyes, she nodded with full understanding.
He checked the peephole, then opened the door, and, pulling her along behind him, turned to his left.
He ran smack into Goliad. Rather, into the bore of Goliad’s pistol.
6:47 a.m.
The man had to have been hiding in the recess between the door of their room and the one next to it. He was alone. Rye asked, “Where’s your buddy? The one who kept vigil?”
“I sent him on his way, figuring you wouldn’t come out as long as he was there.”
“Smart.” Then, in as droll a tone as Rye could muster, he said, “You had just as well put the gun away. You’re not going to shoot me.”
“I’d be doing the world a huge favor.”
Rye chuckled. “Couldn’t agree with you more. But you don’t know which one of us has what you came after.”
That gave Goliad pause.
Rye cocked his eyebrow. “See? You shoot one of us and grab the other, you may be grabbing the wrong one. In which case, you’ve got a body that you have to take time to search, while whichever one of us you didn’t shoot is raising a hue and cry. In a hotel overflowing with potential witnesses. Security cameras all over the place.”
Rye shook his head. “Outcome of that scenario is capture and life in prison for you. It’s the same dilemma you faced in the cabin, except that this is more problematic. You don’t have your sidekick, and there are seven stories between you and escape. No, Goliad, you’re too smart and careful to do something dumb like that.
“You would be identified within minutes. In no time, your connection to the Hunts would be discovered, and then you’d really be screwed in any number of ways, and I can think of a dozen without even trying very hard. But the first of them is that killing me won’t guarantee that you’ll obtain the life-extending elixir for the senator, which is what they sent you to do, and I don’t think they would forgive a fuckup of that scope.”
Rye eyed him steadily. Goliad’s obsidian eyes didn’t blink. Rye said, “The real reason I know that you won’t shoot either of us? If you were going to, you would have by now.”
He knew better than to credit himself with talking Goliad out of shooting him. Goliad had realized the diff
iculties involved even before Rye had rattled them off to him. So, no, he didn’t fire the pistol, but neither did he pack it away.
He turned it on Brynn. “Where’s the stuff?”
Before she could answer, Rye said, “One more thing. Another deterrent that you should think about.”
Goliad looked at him.
All glibness gone, Rye said, “If you hurt her, I will kill you, and I don’t care how many witnesses there are.”
Goliad’s eyes narrowed fractionally, but he shifted his gaze back to Brynn. “Your boyfriend here, I had just as soon see dead. But I don’t want this to end badly for you, because you seem like a caring lady, and I admire that.”
“Thank you.”
“Just give me the drug, I leave, you go on about your business.”
“The drug is my business.”
“And this is mine,” he said, tightening his grip on the pistol.
She drew a steadying breath. “You know that Senator Hunt has much more time. The progression of his cancer—”
“I don’t make these choices.”
“But you should,” she stressed. “Did you watch the news story about Violet? If so, you saw how temporary she is. This is her only hope.”
“Give me the drug.”
He spoke with the slow, precise emphasis that Rye associated with him. The Hunts’ stranglehold on him was unassailable. It superseded compassion and human decency, perhaps even his own moral convictions. Regardless of how passionate and persuasive Brynn’s appeal, this man wasn’t going to be swayed.
She looked at Rye as though asking what she should do. He blinked in a way that said, Better hand it over.
To Goliad she said, “It’s in my coat pocket. Don’t shoot me for reaching for it.”
He gave a nod, then held up a hand to halt her. “You,” he said to Rye, “move back ten feet, put your bag on the floor, turn around and raise your jacket and shirttail.”
“You think I’m carrying? What would be the point? I haven’t replaced the clip you took.”