Penny went into a crouch, started talking.
*****
Helene Steinbeck pushed through the door to the Spa and heard voices, one of them Ackerman’s. She held her Glock in both hands, the way she’d been taught to shoot—by her dad, by the flinty-eyed trainers at the police academy. She had not fired a weapon since that day in Taos, the crowded courtroom, all those spectators. The cops were frozen in place. Murdock created a diversion, giving the shot to Helene.
If you wanted to be a good shooter, you had to practice.
Twice a week, three times, or you lost the feel. Like swimming laps. Like practicing your serve in tennis.
Helene edged around the corner and saw exercise machines. At the other end of the room she saw a black massage table. She saw a woman in a baseball cap and gray overalls, squatting down. The woman was slender, with a narrow face. She held two weapons. Helene heard words spewing from her mouth—society whore, jilted, altar, fornicating prick ….
The woman in the overalls was half-turned away from Helene.
Then she was up, crouching, two weapons, no sound suppressors, aiming at Helene.
Helene was not a cop. She did not have to call out a warning.
This was not a TV show where an actor said Police-Freeze-Drop-Your-Weapon. This was real life, this moment, right now, and she was under contract to protect the body of Axel Ackerman. Helene trained her Glock on the woman. Lined her up in the Hex sights.
The woman fired. The bullet hit the wall with a splat.
Helene fired.
*****
Penny glanced to her left, saw the woman with the pistol in the mirror. Saw the woman’s eyes. Was she police? Police have to shout a warning. Police have to identify themselves as police. Who was this woman? Penny took cover behind the massage table and snapped a shot at the intruder.
Penny’s brain was racing. She was set to fire more shots, shoot to kill, get away, keep her date in the Caymans …. Then her world went dark. A wet splash of black across her vision. One of her pistols went off. One minute, she was crouching over Ackerman and his whore, the love of Penny’s tortured life. The next minute, Penny had lost her balance. She was falling; falling was her fate.
Her eyes fluttered, the tears clouding her vision. She crawled to the wall. She felt tired. Her eyes closed.
Chapter 64
Helene checked the shooter. No pulse, no air from the nose. The shooter was dead. Her once-red hair was turning pale, on its way to white.
Ackerman was sprawled atop Karla Kurtz. His eyes were closed. His feet were tangled in a sheet. There was blood on the sheet. Helene put her ear to Ackerman’s chest. The heart was beating, but not big time.
Karla Kurtz’s eyes fluttered. She pointed to herself, to Ackerman.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Helene, your teacher. Where are you hit?”
“That son-of-a-bitch,” Karla said. “He told her where I was. He’s a snake. He—”
“Who told her what?” Helene said.
Ackerman was unconscious. Karla was talking crazy. Helene got on the phone. “Where are the gurneys? We need a body bag.”
Karla was oozing blood. Helene opened a drawer, hunting for a clean towel, something to slow the bleeding, and saw Ackerman’s pistol, shiny with chrome-plate. When Steve Slattery arrived, he would confiscate weapons. Helene’s Glock, Bruno’s Ruger, whatever the shooter had used.
Helene took Ackerman’s .45, dumped it into her shoulder bag. The bag was good, thick leather, a gift from her dad.
Karla groaned, opened her eyes. Opened her mouth, but no words came out. Helene flashed on Karla’s writing, a story of two female killers, one named Sharleen. The other named Faith something. The door flew open and two EMTs entered, rolling a gurney. Helene moved to one side, watching the EMTs do triage. The lead guy made a phone call, nodding. They took Karla first. Helene looked at the dead shooter, slumped against the wall. This was no first-timer. The construction worker disguise had gotten her through the political crowd, past security, up the elevator. How had she known where to find Ackerman? What had Karla just said? A snake, a son-of-a-bitch—who was she talking about? Did the shooter know Karla?
Steve Slattery arrived, pushing a wheelchair. The gleam in his eye said he had questions that needed answers. Slattery said that Giselle was okay. Bruno had taken a bullet in the shoulder, close to an artery. Both of them were on the way to Cottonwood.
In the elevator going down, Helene briefed Slattery.
“Raul phoned with an alert,” Helene said. “Some crazy woman was after Ackerman. When I got up to the penthouse, I found Giselle and Bruno, both wounded, both bleeding. Bruno was out. His wound looked serious … nothing I could do. Giselle told me the woman was armed. In the Spa, Ackerman was on the floor, tangled in a sheet. Karla was under him. There was a woman in overalls and work boots. She had a gun. She fired at me; I returned fire.”
Slattery asked questions. Who was the woman shooter? Where did she come from? Did she say anything?
“She talked to Ackerman,” Helene said.
“What did she say?”
“Not sure,” Helene said, “but it sounded like they knew each other.”
Helene handed over her Glock. Slattery hefted the weapon and nodded. Two cops—they knew the drill.
Helene found Murdock on a gurney in the parking lot chatting with a pretty female EMT. There was a bandage on his shoulder. Helene touched his hand. The EMT walked off.
“Are you okay?”
“Needs more drugs,” Murdock said.
“Featherstone?”
“Connie shot him.”
“In the balls?” Helene said.
“Fish wants the hotel,” Murdock said. “He was gonna buy it from the—”
Before he could finish, an ambulance arrived, and the EMTs loaded Murdock in with Karla Kurtz. She looked pale. Connie Fremont walked up, said hi. Helene gave Connie a quick hug. Thanked her for saving Murdock. Connie climbed into the ambulance. The doors closed.
Helene had that weightless feeling, as if there was no one behind her eyes. Maybe that came from killing another human being. They train you. They send you out there. You react faster because of the training. But there was no training for after. If you were a cop, they might send you to a shrink. You could talk it out, take your time getting your groove back. But Helene was not a cop. She was alone. She had Murdock, maybe, but he was packed in with Connie in the ambulance.
Helene looked around, saw no sign of Iveta Macek. Maybe she had gone with Ackerman’s daughter. Helene saw ambulances, gurneys, cop cars, a fire engine, a big black limo. The limo’s rear door was down. A cop leaned in. Explanation time at Sedona Landing. The man in the limo was Senator Fish.
Ackerman rolled by on a gurney powered by two EMTs in blue jump suits. His eyes were still closed. A tube led from his arm to a plastic bottle hanging from a metal rod attached to the gurney. Slattery waved Helene over. He wanted her to ride in the ambulance with Ackerman.
Good. She needed orders. Someone to tell her what to do.
Chapter 65
Murdock lay on the gurney, feeling the ambulance rocking with the road. He estimated the speed at 52 mph. Eyes closed, he was listening to Connie Fremont question Karla Kurtz. His head felt fuzzy; that was the drugs working.
“How did you know the shooter?” Connie said.
“I didn’t know her.”
“She said something to you.”
“She was yelling at Mr. Ackerman,” Karla said, “not me.”
“How long have you been his masseuse?”
“Since the summer.”
“Are you licensed to do massages in Arizona?”
“Of course.”
“Do you perform sexual acts during the session?”
“And lose my license?”
“The shooter tried to kill you … do you know why?”
“Ask her, why don’t you.”
“She’s dead.”
“Is there more
painkiller? I really hurt bad.”
Listening, his eyes closed, Murdock could appreciate both combatants. Connie was guiding Karla Kurtz toward a trap. Karla was stonewalling the questions, dodging, feinting like a pro, making Connie work. When Karla asked for a lawyer, the questions stopped.
The ambulance went into a long curve. Murdock opened his eyes. Through the back window, he saw leafless trees planted along the road. They were approaching the Cottonwood Regional Medical Center. He counted up the wounded—Karla, Giselle, Bruno, Ackerman, himself, the shooter—a female in her late forties. Did she have red hair? Had she been with Ackerman and the Crew? No answers floated at him. He was too tired. As the ambulance slowed, he felt Connie’s hand on his arm.
“How are you holding up, big guy?”
“I could sleep for a week. Did you really have a date with Featherstone?”
“Almost,” Connie said.
*****
Helene Steinbeck rode in Ackerman’s ambulance. She kept seeing the woman in the Spa, disguised as a tile setter, a pistol in each hand, but not a trained shooter. Helene was a good shot. She always wondered about other shooters. Did they practice enough? The ambulance swerved, taking Helene’s stomach sideways, then leveled off again. She tuned in on Steve Slattery’s voice. He was asking questions, digging for motive.
“So, Mr. Ackerman, how are you feeling, sir?”
“Dead,” Ackerman said. “Crushed. Bruised. Assaulted. Maimed. Betrayed.”
“Tell me about the shooter,” Slattery said. “Charity Plum is the name on her driver’s license, issued by the state of Colorado, whereas she resides in Las Vegas. What alias did you know her by?”
“Penny Diamond,” Ackerman said.
“Awhile back, was it?”
“Thirty years.”
“What was the situation?”
“I had Miss Diamond under contract. She was brilliant. Her brain could hold a thousand spreadsheets. It was as if she inhaled rows of numbers. We had baby computers that filled rooms—remember QDOS, Quick and Dirty Operating System?”
“That was before my time, sir.”
“Well, that young woman was a walking, talking computer.”
“Was she easy on the eyes?” Slattery said.
Ackerman said, “If you’re gonna be working close for days, weeks, months, they should be easy on the eyes.”
“Did you bang her?” Slattery said.
“I’m the victim here,” Ackerman said. “I’m the target and your tone of voice, you’re treating me as a … suspect?”
Slattery said, “I got one corpse today, five people shot. This happened on my turf, on my watch, starting early Monday morning when I get this diver off Cathedral Rock, one of your Crew; then on Monday night we get a guy falling in Santa Fe—just happens to be one of your Crew. On Tuesday I get eight bodies piled up on Foxglove Lane, no connection to your Crew, I hope. Thursday we get the last Crew member dead at the Sedona Xanadu. Now it’s Thank-God-Friday and we are hoping to connect this Penny Diamond to the earlier kills—three of them out of my jurisdiction—and where you could not remember before, now you admit she’s really Penny Diamond, the numbers gal who looked real good back then, when you had her under contract. What I need from you is a reason for this Penny Diamond broad to wait thirty years to get even. What I need from you is how you got that massage gal to take a bullet meant for you. What I need … ah shit. Don’t go to sleep on me, goddamn you!”
Helene watched Ackerman close his eyes. He did that a lot. One minute he’d be alert, eyes open—that sharp look when he thought about money and numbers and profit—the next minute the eyes would be closed, as if he was floating away. Cagey old bird.
Slattery sat back, looked at Helene, and shook his head.
*****
Voices in the room, two females.
Murdock smelled antiseptic.
His brain floated away from his body.
Wings sprouted from his shoulders. His arms went wide.
He landed on the ground with Cypher, looking through a scope mounted on a bipod. Murdock was the spotter; he had the target in the crosshairs. He turned his head. Cypher wore a boonie hat, and camouflage hid his face. Murdock heard the chop of helicopter blades.
Helene’s voice: “Is our hero gonna live?”
“Your husband will be fine.”
“He is not my husband.”
Murdock looked around. They had him trapped in a cold white room with metal exam tables. Helene watched from a metal chair. A nurse pulled off the makeshift bandages. She hummed a Christmas carol. Murdock felt the sting of antiseptic.
“You got lucky,” she said. “You clot really fast. The bullet sailed through. We got threads out, from your shirt. Don’t want that stuff left inside. It could fester.”
“How about some drugs for the pain?” Murdock said.
“They’ll test your urine,” the nurse said. “You’ll lose your job, your position in the line-up.”
“I like that oxycodone stuff—inhale and take yourself a secret trip.”
The nurse turned to Helene. “Tell your husband he’s riding for a fall.”
“He never listens to me.”
“You’re that writer, aren’t you? I saw your photo. You shot that guy in Taos.”
“I’m trying to forget,” Helene said. “Trying to unstick myself from that time and especially that place.”
“Well,” the nurse said. “It sure lit up the Internet.”
The door opened and the doctor came in, a woman with black hair and a round face. Her name badge said DR. MENDOZA. She shook hands with Helene, grinned when the nurse mentioned drugs. She poked Murdock’s wound, making him grunt.
“If you were really hurt,” she said, “your reflexes would have shot you through the door like a cannonball.”
“I was hit by a cannonball,” Murdock said, “but not before I created a diversion, military-style, by the book. Let me tell you about—”
“Is he always this funny?” the doctor said.
“He’s under the delusion that he’s got hero genes,” Helene said.
“I got one like that at home,” the doctor said. “He wears the mask of male modesty.”
“So,” Murdock said. “In conclusion, no drugs are forthcoming to ease the hero’s pain and suffering? I am correct, no?”
“I gotta go,” Helene said. “Slattery’s briefing the big boys.”
Chapter 66
In the dream, Ackerman stands on a fire escape in the dark wearing a white bathrobe, surrounded by Christmas lights winking from little windows in small-town houses.
The fire escape is three stories up. The wind is cold, cutting. The bathrobe is asylum-thin.
Ackerman is holding hands with Joe Wilson, artist, craftsman, husband, father, fool. It’s Christmas Eve. Wilson wears a Santa Claus suit. Standing on the edge, wringing his hands. He grips Ackerman’s wrists. It’s confession time.
“Why did you bring that Diamond woman to my town?”
“To find the red ink,” Ackerman said.
“She stole my boy, my business, my life.”
“You wanted her too,” Ackerman said.
“Did not,” Wilson said.
“Every man wanted Penny Diamond,” Ackerman said.
The fire escape looks down on a school playground. Wilson’s grip is icy, fingers like cold claws.
Ackerman pries Wilson’s fingers off, too late. Wilson jumps, pulling Ackerman along, the snowy playground rushing up.
Ackerman felt a pain in his chest—fear, stress, guilt, his heart pounding. The death-smell assailed his nose.
The pain brought him awake.
He was in a white room with white walls.
No Joe Wilson here, no icy fire escape.
A tube ran from Ackerman’s arm to a plastic sack hanging from a metal IV stand.
A toilet flushed, a door opened, and Iveta Macek emerged. She wore green scrubs. Her hair was a mess; her face looked burnished. He hoped she had looked better o
nline, when Daniel first spotted her.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
“What are you doing here?”
“The ambulance,” she said. “I am with your daughter.”
“You know Lottie?” he said. “What the hell’s going on?”
“She is down the corridor,” she said. “I have something to tell you.”
“How do you know Lottie?” he said.
“Daniel is still sleeping,” she said. “We are to be married.”
“Welcome to the family,” Ackerman said.
She was standing close to the bed. She had something he needed to know, a little secret, she said. Her voice deepened, serious, a mature voice. How did a woman change so fast?
She raised the scrub shirt. Her skin was smooth, pale gold. The belly pooched out; he hadn’t noticed before. Inside his head a little bell went bong. She guided Ackerman’s hand to her belly. He smelled her scent, took a deep breath. What the hell? He felt life pulsing under his fingers. She was no longer the slinky girl-cat in the bikini, diving into the pool at Sedona Landing. She was a mother-to-be, Daniel’s genes, her womb. Ackerman felt warmth, strength, youth. He felt an erection.
“I carry Daniel’s baby,” she said. “If something happens to him, the baby is yours to protect.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ackerman said. “Danny didn’t say anything.”
“Daniel does not know.”
“Okay. You’re here, you’re safe, you’re family. It’s gonna be ….”
Chapter 67
In the Medical Center meeting room, Helene sat way in the back, working a mind-map, while Slattery made his rah-rah speech. Cops kept coming in late, interrupting Slattery. Cops from Prescott, deputies from Camp Verde, a cadre of state guys.
Slattery gave up the podium to his boss, the Sedona Chief, who gave it up to the Lieutenant Governor, who gave it up to Jimbo Gypsum, the Gary Cooper lookalike who would be president. Hiram Fish stood at Gypsum’s elbow. Both men looked presidential. That was spooky.
The empty talk ballooned in the room, captured by the TV cameras. Gypsum and Fish left for their next appointment—a public appearance at City Hall in Cottonwood, fishing for voters.
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