Double Danger

by Trilby Plants

  He was speaking again. Alyssa snapped into focus.

  “Now, you take care, Miss Alyssa.” His face was serious, with not a hint of his jovial grin. “You want I should send one of my boys home with you?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’ll be all right. As soon as I get home, I’ll call the police.”

  “You do that. And you need anything, anything at all, you call. I’ll send my boys.”

  She nodded. “Yes, yes, I will.”

  Did her pocket seem heavier? If she touched her jeans, would the outline of the slug feel huge?

  A few minutes later in the van, she tried to ignore the images conjured by the bullet and concentrated on driving.

  Her phone chimed an incoming text message alert as she turned into her driveway. She parked and fished the phone from her purse.

  It was Carl: Fabulous find – jewelry, mostly gold. Lots of diamonds. The people who ran the sale had no clue what they had. Spent 1K. I think we’ll make five times that on it. Back after lunch.

  She sent back: Great. See you then. There was no point in telling him about last night. It would keep until he returned. She would get her car back.

  Bella met her at the back door, her tail fluffed up in feline outrage. She had probably seen Mrs. Wilson’s latest poodle strutting through the backyard.

  Alyssa picked up the cat and stroked her thick gray fur back to normal. “Poor Bella.” The cat purred as if she hadn’t seen a human being in weeks.

  Hugging the cat, Alyssa climbed the stairs. The door opened when she turned the knob. She forgot to lock it again. So much had happened since last night. Alyssa set Bella down, and the cat uncharacteristically slunk back toward the stairwell, her tail twitching, fur puffed again.

  The living room was a shambles. Alyssa gasped and gripped her keys until they dug into her palm. The couch was tipped backwards, cushions cut. The upholstery on Aunt Ellen’s prized love seat had been sliced. Velvet hung in shreds, and stuffing dripped from the slashes. Paintings and photos had been taken from the walls, their backs ripped off. Every drawer in the highboy had been pulled out, turned over and dumped. Sheets and pillow cases were scattered. Most of a set of delicate pink Depression glass in the china cabinet was smashed. The things her aunt had collected ‒ the ones that had sentimental connotations ‒ were ruined. Ellen’s desk had been swept clean. The laptop was gone along with a small basket containing a few flash drives. The phone lay on its side. She picked it up. Dead. The cord from the base to the wall had been cut.

  Alyssa should leave, but her feet took her to the kitchen. Drawers had been emptied on the floor. Cupboard doors stood open, dishes and pans and food pushed aside. The refrigerator door stood ajar, the half and half carton on its side on a shelf, white liquid puddled around it.

  In stunned silence, Alyssa headed for her bedroom, stepping around the obstacle course that littered the living room. The old oak clock ‒ Uncle Henry’s pride ‒ was smashed on the floor, its reassuring tick silenced.

  A lump formed in Alyssa’s throat, making it hard to breathe. Tears gathered in her eyes. In her bedroom, tears turned to anger. The suitcase Alyssa had brought from her apartment was upended, the contents strewn about. Bed sheets were scattered, and the mattress was cut in a dozen places. Isabella meowed and rubbed her head against Alyssa’s chest. There was little comfort in the familiar gesture.

  Alyssa crossed to the bureau and her open jewelry box. She peered inside. Although slightly disarrayed, the only good jewelry she owned ‒ the diamond stud earrings Aunt Ellen had given her at her college graduation ‒ nestled in the center partition exactly where she had left them. Next to them were two fifty dollar bills: her emergency money. Why hadn’t the thieves taken her money? What were they after? Not the jewelry in the shop. That would have set off the alarm. She tucked the bills and earrings into her pocket.

  In the bathroom, towels had been thrown haphazardly in the tub, and make-up and toiletries were scattered across the floor. The only thing that appeared to be untouched was the cat’s litter pan on the floor beside the vanity.

  Alyssa bent and retrieved her favorite rose lipstick and slipped it into her pocket, a small gesture of order amidst the chaos. She couldn’t bear to look into Aunt Ellen’s bedroom. She didn’t want her memories tainted by more disorder.

  Call the police, she told herself. Get help. She’d left her cell phone in the van.

  She stepped over heaps in the living room.

  Who would do such a thing to her? Isabella meowed and trembled. The cat’s tail was bushy again.

  Alyssa grabbed Nick’s jacket from the floor. At least it seemed to be intact. She hugged it around Bella who dug her claws into the fabric and trembled.

  What if the burglars had somehow bypassed the alarm system, and the shop had been ransacked, too? It could bankrupt her and Carl. She clattered down the stairs, holding Isabella tightly.

  Locked. She unlocked the door and punched in the numbers to deactivate the alarm, flung the door wide and held her breath. Dust motes floated in the shafts of sunlight that speared through the gauzy curtains on the front windows. Everything as she had left it. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  Why had she left her phone in the van? The van. She would feel safer outside.

  The shop phone rang, startlingly loud in the silence. Alyssa jumped, then sprinted to answer it. She grabbed the receiver, about to berate the caller for delaying her summons for help.

  Before she could speak, Nick Trammel’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Alyssa? Are you all right?”

  “I can’t talk. I’ve got to call the police ‒”

  “Why? What’s going on? You didn’t answer your phone, and the garage said you’d already been and gone, so I took a chance and called the shop number ‒ what do you mean, police?”

  “My house is wrecked, glass broken, cushions cut, everything ruined. I’ve got to call the police, so I’m going to hang up ‒”

  A flash of movement froze her. God, she hadn’t thought. What if the intruders were still here? Waiting for her. Like when Uncle Henry had died. Someone waiting for her with a gun ....

  A silhouetted man peered through the front window.

  “Alyssa, are you there?” Nick’s voice on the phone was insistent.

  Forcing herself to speak calmly, she said, “There’s a man looking in the front window. I’m going to hang up and call the police ‒”

  “Get out.” Nick shouted, his voice harsh. “Get out now. Run out the back door. Get in the van and leave. Now. Come over here. Don’t waste a second, and don’t stop for them, no matter what. Do you understand?”

  “Where? Where do you live?” Fear made her breathless.

  “Six eighteen Oak. Move.”

  “Yes.” She smacked the receiver down and ran ‒ out the shop door, out the back door clutching Bella. She threw open the door to the van, tossed the cat ‒ still wrapped in Nick’s jacket ‒ on the passenger seat. She jumped in, started the engine and backed down the driveway toward the street. Two black-suited men, eyes hidden behind dark, reflective sunglasses, stepped away from the front door of the shop. One, stocky with dark, close-cropped hair, pointed at her, and the other man, tall and lean with startling white-blond hair, moved toward her.

  She backed into the street, caught the curb with a rear tire and bounced Bella onto the floor. Growling, the cat crawled under the seat. Alyssa glanced in the rearview mirror. The two men jumped into a dark car. The car made a screeching U-turn and followed her.

  She sped down the street, a block and a half ahead of her pursuers. After a few blocks, she barreled around a corner into the parking lot of a convenience store and ducked into the alley behind the store. The other car was going too fast to stop and whizzed past her. She followed the alley to the next street, turned right, went into another alley, turned again and sped to the next stop sign. Oak Street. She turned onto Oak. Just a few blocks.

  Alyssa glanced in the mirror. No sign of her pursuers. She searched the house
numbers, thinking she had missed it, afraid if she turned back, she would meet the men in dark suits. Then she saw it ‒ 618. Crimping the wheel, she slewed into the driveway and slid to a stop behind a blue BMW with a crushed fender.

  She sat for a second, trying to catch her breath. She knew this house, at least its history. She remembered her aunt buying old furniture and china years ago when the houses in the neighborhood were being turned into apartments, although this house had remained intact. It had been built by Thomas Harmon, an automotive mogul in the heyday of auto manufacturing.

  Thankful for the shade of mature trees, Alyssa rolled the window down an inch to provide air for Isabella and hurried up the porch steps. The openness made her feel exposed, vulnerable.

  Just as she reached for the bell, the door opened. Nick stood before her wearing jeans and a frayed and faded red T-shirt with Ohio State across the front. His eyes were stormy.

  “I-I-I ‒” Alyssa’s orderly life had been turned upside down. Everything was coming apart.

  Nick grabbed her arm and pulled her inside. He glanced outside before he shut the door and turned the deadbolt key.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  She found herself incapable of speech and could only nod. He gripped her shoulders. The warmth from his hands flooded through her, infusing her with some measure of courage.

  “Breathe,” he said.

  She gulped air and swallowed. “I got home from the garage and my house was trashed and I went downstairs to call the police, when you called and there’s a bullet ‒”

  “Wait. What bullet?” Nick’s grip tightened.

  “Ow.” She flinched away from him, unnerved by his intensity. She dug the bullet out of her pocket and held it out to him.

  “Joe Murphy said it was in my tire and I should call the police and I was going to but ‒”

  “Whoa, slow down.” Nick pulled her closer to him.

  There were gray hairs in his beard and at his temples, and the muscles of his shoulders and arms were hard and tense. She looked up into his unreadable eyes.

  “Who trashed your place?” he said, his voice low and threatening.

  “I have no idea. They were at the shop ‒”

  “They? You only said a man.”

  “There were two of them.” She described them briefly, then said, “There was ....” The bullet. A sudden flash of memory showed her a man with a gun aimed out a car window. His face shadowed. “There was a gun,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “What gun, Alyssa?”

  “The car last night. The driver had a gun.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police?” His voice was tight.

  “I didn’t remember then.”

  Nick’s eyes were cold, unflinching.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “Guns terrify me. Anyway, one of the men in the car had a gun. That must be how the bullet got in the tire. Why would someone shoot at me? Why wreck my house?”

  The chimes of the doorbell shattered the silence. Nick pushed her away from the door. Unbalanced, she stumbled, flailed for a handhold, caught the front of his shirt with one hand, and instinctively closed her fingers. The fabric ripped, leaving one sleeve askew, and she spun hard against the back of the couch.

  Nick whirled to a table by the door, reached under and pulled. The sound of ripping tape was accompanied by his blur of movement toward the door. Smoothly, with a practiced motion, he tore gray duct tape from a handgun. Holding the weapon in his right hand and aiming at the ceiling, he turned the deadbolt key with his other hand and pulled the door toward him, exposing only a small wedge of his shoulder and face. His body was rigid.

  Alyssa stared. Don’t think about the gun, she told herself. Uncle Henry had not been shot. That long ago incident could not hurt her now. She willed the memories of that night in the shop back into the recesses of her mind.

  An adolescent boy’s voice floated through the door, cracking on a few words. “Hey, Mr. Trammel. You owe me for two months of the Journal.”

  Nick’s stance visibly relaxed. He set the gun on the table and leaned around the door. “Hi, Terry.” His voice betrayed none of the tension of the situation, none of the terror quavering in Alyssa’s stomach. “How much?”

  “It’s twenty-eight. Hey, what happened to your shirt?”

  Nick laughed. “I caught it on something. It’s so old, it just shredded. My favorite shirt.”

  “Not anymore,” the boy said.

  Nick chuckled and dug in his jeans pocket, extracted some bills. “Here you go. Keep the change.”

  “Wow.” The boyish voice sounded thrilled. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Trammel.”

  “You’re welcome, Terry. Bye, now.” He shut the door quickly, cutting off any reply the youngster might have made. He relocked the deadbolt and pocketed the key, then turned to Alyssa and positioned himself in front of the gun on the table.

  “What is going on?” Somehow Alyssa still clutched the spent bullet. She held it in her open palm and backed away. Away from him. Away from the gun. Her retreat was stopped by the couch.

  Nick stepped toward her and took the bullet from her, examined it, and closed his fist on it.

  “Bastards,” he said. The vehemence of the single word made Alyssa flinch. He peered out the front window, then lowered the blinds and turned to her.

  “Well, Alyssa Mallory,” he said. “You’re caught in the middle of this, and I suppose you’re entitled to some kind of an explanation.” He ran a hand over his beard, seemed to consider for a moment before he spoke. “I work for the government. I’m on a case, undercover. I think the men you saw may be after me. There was a car outside your place last night, but it was gone this morning. They’ll probably assume I live nearby and just drive around until they find my car. Or wait for me at the college.”

  “Who are they? Why did they wreck my house?”

  Nick shrugged.

  “They have guns,” Alyssa said.

  Nick’s expression was grim. “Yes, they do.” He looked at the bullet in his hand. “And they will use them.”

  Chapter 5

  The man leaned his lanky body casually against the side of the car, a cell phone plastered to his ear. He was tall with buzzed blond hair that was almost white. His name was Hunter. He had long ago given up using his first name. He had so many passports in different names he’d settled on just being Hunter to those who needed to call him something.

  He had parked on a quiet residential street. It was an affluent area, in spite of the city’s troubles. Small children watched by vigilant parents or caregivers played in front of houses.

  His eyes constantly darted around, taking in every detail of his surroundings, though his partner stood guard at the back of the car, hand inside his coat, close to his weapon. Even a partner could not be totally trusted.

  After losing the Mallory woman in traffic, he’d parked across the street from the antique store, waiting for her to return. So far, no sign of her.

  She was pretty. The type he liked, small and vulnerable. And innocent and naïve. The kind of sheltered woman who wouldn’t believe what he could do to her with a knife until ‒

  “I take it this is urgent,” the voice on the phone said.

  “Wolf?” Hunter said, knowing it was. He was not supposed to use names, but he wanted the other man off guard, impatient. There was advantage in another’s impatience.

  “Who wants to know?” said the man on the other end.

  Hunter shifted his weight from one foot to the other. There was little need for subterfuge since the call emanated from and ended with untraceable cell phones. “You know who this is.”

  “Who wants to know?” The man called Wolf was more than impatient. He was angry. It would not do to make him too angry. Anger made people take action without thinking.

  “Hunter.” He waited for the rebuke for saying his name. When none came, he said, “Red Code Four.”

  “Verified. Did you get the pig?”

&n
bsp; It annoyed Hunter to speak in code. These were disposable phones. But perhaps with the Fed’s surveillance of just about everything, code was necessary.

  Hunter lowered his voice. “There’s been a complication.”

  “Did you terminate the pig?”

  “No, not yet. There’s a … fox. She ‒”

  “There was a fox once before, Hunter. It was messy.” Wolf’s voice was low, harsh.

  Hunter thought about the fine, soft curve of the woman’s throat. How white her skin had been before the knife ‒

  “There’s been a change in plans,” Wolf said. “I want the pig alive. And the fox. Both of them alive, Hunter. I don’t want any messes. No fuss. Is that clear?”

  Hunter was silent for a moment. There was fun to be had even without killing.

  “Do you have that?” Wolf’s voice was still low and deadly.

  “Yes, I have it.” He resented Wolf’s authority. “What do you want done?”

  “The zoo needs two specimens.”

  Hunter smiled. A tranquilizer dart. That took skill. Calculating the dosage, aiming for muscle. “Yes,” he said. “No problem. Why the change?”

  “Remember the other pigs?”

  “Yes.” They had been Hunter’s job. The car had burned in a haystack, and the plane had gone down in trees. Straw and sticks. It was such a nice touch. This pig should have died in his house of bricks, but he had somehow survived. Perhaps the irony was beyond Wolf’s intellect.

  “The second pig’s house was in order,” Wolf said.

  Hunter knew that. Was there a reason Wolf was pointing out the obvious?

  “We didn’t find it in the woman’s apartment,” Hunter said. “This pig must have it.”

  “Now, listen, Hunter. If you terminate the last pig, we’re in trouble. All of us. The housecleaning was done. If this pig doesn’t have the material, then the fox must know where it is. He may have made ... arrangements to publish. It could finish me ‒ you ‒ all of us. Do you understand? Think about the money.”

  “I understand.” Hunter was silent a moment “The zoo needs a pig. And a fox, too.”

  “Yes.” Wolf sounded impatient. “Today, Hunter. Ship the merchandise by air. I’ll have a plane waiting at Bishop Airport.”