The rope was looped around the railing.
Cypher grinned at Helene. H looked insane; he looked in control. Helene fired again from the prone position. Her wrist was weak and wobbly. Cypher stood on the edge of the fire escape, both hands on the rope, then he pushed with his legs, launched out, away from the metal landing, and dropped out of sight.
Helene’s hands shook; that was the adrenaline rush.
Ackerman was okay. The Czech girl was covering him with her body. They looked like mother and child—life was weird.
The senator lay against the wall, his fat face sagged to the side.
The gun was still in his hand.
Blood from his head leaked down his face onto his shirt and white lab coat.
Helene phoned Murdock.
“What?”
“Cypher,” Helene said. “He’s got a rope; he’s rappelling.”
*****
Murdock called out to warn Slattery, but he was too late because Cypher was already in the air, looping out from the seventh floor, looked like he was flying.
Cypher lofted himself over Slattery’s head and hung there for a split second, just long enough to get off a shot. Slattery had stopped climbing. He was on the landing for the sixth floor, one hand going for the weapon, the other holding on. Cypher’s weapon made a spitting sound. Slattery’s knees buckled.
Connie Fremont reached the fourth floor of the fire-escape, using both hands to climb.
Cypher bounced off the wall like a professional rappeller.
The bounce put him level with Connie. His gun was out. She turned to face him, said something using his name. His pistol fired, sounded like someone coughing. Connie grabbed her leg—maybe he missed on purpose, for old times’ sake. Connie had dated the guy. She dropped her Beretta, sagged to one knee.
“Jeremy,” she said, “goddamn, you why did you ….”
Connie’s weapon bounced off the fire escape and landed with a crunch in the gravel under the windows. Dark under there. If Murdock could reach it, would the weapon still fire? Murdock left the chair in what felt like slow motion.
Cypher was one bounce away from the ground. He pushed off, soaring.
Murdock was huffing as he scrambled toward the Beretta. Cypher arced out from the wall, his left side to Murdock, no sign of his weapon.
Murdock had time—two seconds, maybe three.
Cypher’s boots touched down.
His left leg crumpled under him. It was too dark to see his face, but Murdock sensed something was off. The guy had lost some poise, maybe some balance.
Cypher’s left hand gripped the rope. He was steady now.
Murdock stumbled, kept his head down. Where was Connie’s gun?
Pale light came from the windows at ground level, making trapezoids against the dark. Connie’s pistol was lost in shadow.
Murdock went to his knees, fumbled for the weapon. There. Cold steel, cold night wind.
A voice came from above—Helene calling Murdock’s name, sounding concerned. And then a light beamed down, a cone of sudden brightness that located Cypher, holding his pistol in both hands, giving Murdock one last weary grin—two wounded warriors, a face-off at the end of the world, they should be working together, there was evil everywhere—but in that instant it was kill or be killed and the light was on Cypher, throwing half his face into shadow.
Murdock squeezed off his round.
There were three shots.
One came from Murdock—Connie’s pistol worked.
One came from Cypher, that whispery sound.
One came from Helene Steinbeck, shooting down from the landing on Seven.
Cypher’s shot tore out a jagged chunk of wall two feet from Murdock’s nose. Did he do that on purpose?
Helene’s shot missed Cypher’s head, but broke his shoulder.
Murdock’s shot hit Cypher in the throat.
Murdock sagged. He heard Helene’s voice calling, “Are you all right, Murdock? Are you all right?”
Chapter 74
A record day for Helene Steinbeck and guns and confiscation.
First they confiscated her Glock Nine.
Then they confiscated Ackerman’s Colt .45.
Helene had used her Glock to take out Penny Diamond, the mystery woman who rose up out of the past, a figure from a ghost story. Penny wanted revenge. How much had Cypher paid her? How well had Penny known Karla Kurtz?
Ackerman’s .45, inherited from his father, put the first bullet hole into Cypher, slowing him down, forcing him to split before he completed his quest for revenge.
The cops took the Glock in the penthouse spa at noon.
They took the chrome-plated .45 outside the CRMC—a world lit by spotlights from the official police vehicles, where Helene had been twisting a tourniquet to slow the bleeding in Connie Fremont’s leg wound, one more bullet from Cypher.
Connie was pissed off. “Goddamn Jeremy, anyway. That leg was my best feature.”
Helene was thinking about cops and crime and confiscation when Slattery answered another phone call. Flagstaff had even more snow, more ice, more sleet, more traffic woes. All available units were helping out. Slattery was still in charge at the CRMC. Wounded and waiting in line for his turn in the OR, he worked the command post from his bed.
The four survivors were camped out in Exam Room number 2 at the CRMC, the same room where Murdock had spent the afternoon on his back, dozing, resting, mulling over his multiple crime theories—while Helene did the sleuth work.
Connie’s metal bed was next to Slattery’s. They were starting to look like a couple. Murdock was back in his wheelchair, downing his coffee.
Helene was still on her feet, playing gofer for the wounded, moving between the exam room and the coffee machine.
Slattery talked, Connie took notes. They were both on pain meds.
“So,” Slattery said. “Here’s what we got—correct me if I miss something. The guy from Miami, Arthur, he’s dead—two gunshots. The guy from Boston, Daniel, he’s dead, but not from a gunshot.”
“What killed Daniel?” Murdock said.
“His ticker got him,” Slattery said. “He was heavy, right?”
“Right on the edge of obesity,” Helene said.
“We also got ourselves a dead senator,” Slattery said. “I still don’t get why he was here. He and Gypsum could have announced that running mate bullshit in Tucson or Phoenix or even Dallas and had more of a crowd.”
“It’s Gypsum’s home base,” Helene said, “and Fish was here to pester Ackerman. They had a fifty-year feud going, something that started with Fish’s mother.”
“Fish sent those Arabs,” Murdock said. “He had no idea Cypher wanted payback from Ramsay. He wanted info on the Tuesday night massacre.”
“I always voted Republican,” Slattery said, “but this guy Fish turned my stomach. This time around, I’m going Independent.’
“Be still, my heart,” Connie said.
“Speaking of Republicans, did that Featherstone guy make it?”
“They’ve still got him in the ICU,” Murdock said.
“I shot him,” Connie said, “after he shot Murdock.”
“Good job, Fremont,” Slattery said. “Because of you, I’ll be up to my ass in suits from Homeland Security.”
“Featherstone worked for Fish,” Connie said. “Fish hated Lottie. We still don’t know why.”
“There was also something going on with Fish and Iveta,” Helene said. “Like they knew each other from before.”
“Europe,” Murdock said. “Good reason for a trip, checking on the Paris-Prague Connection.”
“Back to my list,” Slattery said. “We got the daughter in surgery. The Czech chick’s gonna get a medal for saving our resident billionaire. We got the blonde tennis cutie in Recovery. Why the hell did Cypher shoot her?”
“Revenge,” Connie said.
“Revenge for what?”
“Revenge on women,” Connie said. “The entire female species.”
“What’s up with that?” Slattery said. “I heard he was hung like Tarzan, divorcées lined up for servicing.”
“Maybe they’ll find something at Jeremy’s house,” Connie said, “like who Jeremy really was.”
“What happens to Karla Kurtz?” Helene said.
“Up in the air,” Slattery said. “Why do you worry about her?”
“She’s got talent,” Helene said. “We bonded, two female writers in a world dominated by dead white guys.”
“Confession time,” Slattery said. “I asked her out a couple times. Both times she broke every goddamn date. What am I, chopped liver?”
“Karla only dates guys with money,” Helene said. “She wrote about that in the workshop.”
“As the ranking professional first-responder commander,” Slattery said. “I am hereby commanding you to hand over every word she wrote.”
“She took her manuscript back,” Helene said. “You’ll need a court order.”
“Are you charging Karla?” Murdock said.
“I would,” Slattery said, “only I got nothing on her. Cypher’s dead, so is the redheaded tile-setter. But I do have a question—who made that call to Raul that sent Steinbeck to rescue Ackerman?”
Silence in the room, then Connie said, “Raul said it was Javier.”
“Who the fuck is Javier?”
“Javier is Ackerman’s ball boy,” Helene said.
“How did he know?”
Murdock held up his hand, like a kid in school asking for permission to speak. “I got a theory, boss.”
Slattery moaned, “Another fucking theory. I’m too tired for this.”
“Let’s hear it,” Connie said. “Murdock did good on the TFK.”
“If we don’t nail Kurtz,” Slattery said, “it’s one-half of a TFK. Unless you count Penny/Charity as two females, which sounds okay at this time, in this place, at this moment in the history of—”
Murdock said, “Cypher made the call to Raul.”
“No way.”
“That makes sense,” Helene said.
“No way,” Slattery said.
“Cypher wanted both assassins dead,” Murdock said. “He needed to clear the decks for his big finale. He knew Helene could shoot. He made the call, knowing that Penny/Charity was going after Karla. He sent Helene up there to execute Penny/Charity.”
“No fucking way,” Slattery said. “Cypher wanted Ackerman dead. No way he would … oh, shit, I didn’t see it until now.”
“Family reunion?” Connie said. “You said it earlier.”
“I need a vacation,” Slattery said.
Helene said, “Speaking of Grand Finales, did anyone notice that book in Cypher’s office?”
No one said anything.
“It was a translation of the Odyssey,” Helene said. “Odysseus takes ten years to get home from the Trojan War, leaving the little woman alone with a houseful of randy suitors. When Odysseus gets home, he executes the suitors.”
“So Cypher used a goddamn book as a training manual?”
“Moral support from the classics,” Helene said. “A warrior back from the wars cleans out the bad stuff.”
“I can’t believe I missed it,” Slattery said. “That sucker Cypher has been here six or seven years, wearing khaki suits like a mask, ticking like a fucking time bomb.”
“It took him that long to set things up,” Murdock said.
Helene said, “Remember when Murdock laid out Cypher’s profile? He said Cypher was precise, a slicer-dicer. He was a planner, a tactician. He used people and they didn’t know they were being used.”
“Like Teri Breedlove,” Slattery said.
“Like me,” Connie said.
“Like me,” Murdock said.
“How did he use you?” Connie said.
“He wanted to be my pal,” Murdock said. “We were both ex-military. We’d both seen combat. I liked the guy. A shrink could say we bonded.”
“I wish you people had been on that elk hunt,” Slattery said. “Out there in the bush, poor fucking Cypher couldn’t find his ass with a rearview mirror. His hands were shaky; he dropped rounds into the dirt. I helped him pick them up, wipe off the pine needles. It was all a big fucking act.”
“Maybe we’ll know when the Army sends Cypher’s records,” Helene said.
“I hate to be the fool guy,” Slattery said.
“Don’t you mean Fall Guy?” Connie said.
The door opened to admit Iveta Macek, pushing Ackerman on a rolling bed. Ackerman’s face was working, moving between sadness and relief. Two sons were dead; one daughter was alive. The docs were saying 70/30 on Lottie’s chances.
“I wanted to say great work,” Ackerman said. “I wanted to thank you all. The worst part for me was not being able to help my boys. The best part was watching my contract employee nail Cypher with my Papa’s Colt .45. Who’s got the weapon?”
“Forensics,” Slattery said. “They’ll send it to Tucson.”
Ackerman said. “I’ll pay good money to get it back.”
“You trying to bribe law enforcement?” Slattery said.
“Hey, Steve, it’s a fucking heirloom.”
The door opened again and Nurse Rivera came in with an orderly. They had two ORs open—one for Connie, one for Slattery. Connie went first. As they rolled Slattery out, he passed his list to Helene.
“Finish up for me, Steinbeck.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
Ackerman said, “They’re bumping you up to Captain, Steve. We’ll have a party, my treat.”
They congratulated Slattery on his promotion. He blushed. When the door closed, Ackerman turned to Helene and Murdock. He was eager to close the deal on Sedona Landing. Cypher was dead; he needed to be replaced. Life goes on. Business is business. Find another banker, get things moving.
Ackerman reminded Helene she had a contract to sign. Then he offered Murdock an identical contract—one year, one million dollars. Helene shook her head. She was tired; she needed to be with Murdock. But through the fuzz of fatigue, she noticed that Ackerman’s tone was different. When he had first offered her a contract, the subtext was sex—he had come on to her like a suitor. Today, wheeled in by Iveta Macek, Ackerman was all business.
With Murdock, Ackerman’s tone shifted from adversarial to paternal. He was counting on Murdock to replace two dead sons. With his business completed, Ackerman nodded at Iveta Macek. She wheeled him out. Murdock grinned at Helene.
“What?” she said.
“Macek’s butt was wagging.”
“Pregnant girl on the prowl,” Helene said.
“She could do worse.”
“Three decades apart,” Helene said, “but their vibes are totally in synch.”
The door opened. It was Nurse Rivera again. Mr. Ackerman had arranged a room for them on the sixth floor.
“Come along,” she said. “It’s kind of a bridal suite.”
Chapter 75
Helene left the bed.
She padded into the bathroom, carrying the flimsy hospital slippers.
She slipped off her vest and pulled off her shirt, splotches of Daniel Ackerman’s blood.
She sat on the little shower stool and peeled off her socks, checked her feet.
She unbuckled, stepped out of her jeans.
Her face in the mirror looked like her mother’s before she got sick. Before she turned gray and bony and old. Before she stopped wearing lipstick. There was a stubby lipstick in Helene’s shoulder bag. The cops had taken the shoulder bag, along with Ackerman’s heirloom weapon—evidence in a shooting.
She removed her brassiere, stepped out of her panties.
A sign on the shower reminded users to conserve water.
FIVE MINUTE SHOWERS, FOLKS. ARIZONA IS HIGH DESERT.
The spray was misty, comforting, cleansing.
Helene kept seeing Cypher leaping off the fire escape outside Room 700. She kept seeing his eyes looking at her, the eyes of a lonely boy wanting to be un
derstood.
There in the room Helene had shot at Cypher three times—leg, torso, foot—and a fourth shot from the balcony. His return fire had been warning shots—stay down, you’re not part of this. Remembering those moments brought a sudden chill, Helene’s brain running a list of Cypher’s victims—five old guys from the Crew, four Arabs, two hookers, Ramsay and Latimer, Ackerman’s sons, Senator Fish, kills in Afghanistan, maybe more. She felt lucky to be alive.
Helene rinsed her hair twice. She wanted to stay in the shower, but there was that five-minute limit, the sign on the door.
She turned off the water. Dried off, thought of Murdock.
The hair dryer was weak. She cleaned the lint off, the dryer hummed. The green scrubs sat on a shelf in the bathroom cabinet. They were worn from multiple washings.
They smelled clean, innocent, all the memories washed away. Sickness and death. She put on the scrubs. They felt soft on her skin, accepting. She pulled on the hospital robe. Stepped into the slippers. Opened the door to the room.
The TV was going, the sound off. Murdock lay propped by pillows, his eyes closed. Two wine bottles sat on the rollaway table. Two plastic glasses. The corkscrew came from Connie Fremont, Sedona party girl.
Helene stood beside the bed.
Murdock opened his eyes. His smile was a mixture of wary and alert.
“Lady needs serious mechanical assistance,” she said.
“I was thinking about you,” he said.
“You do the corkscrew,” she said. “I’ll hold on.”
He used the foil cutter. When the foil was off, he positioned the corkscrew, did two twists, stopped. The tip of the screw was off-center, crooked from the start. He cranked it out.
“Crap,” he said.
“Let me.”
He handed over the corkscrew. Helene had been opening wine bottles since she was twelve. Her mother was French. There was always wine for dinner, wine for cooking. She popped the cork—that puffing sound, that grape smell. The wine was red, a Pinot Noir from Ackerman. He’d had a case delivered from his Sedona Landing wine-room.
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