by Stuart Woods
37
STONE SLEPT, or rather, didn’t sleep, with a .45 under his pillow, cocked and locked. As his mind raced through the night, considering alternatives, he considered Arrington. He had been out with her in public twice, and had perhaps been photographed or videotaped in her company, and that troubled him. He waited until after 7 A.M. to call her.
“Hello?” she said sleepily.
“Hi, it’s Stone.”
“Good morning,” she said, her voice husky with sleep and, maybe, something else. “Did you conclude your business last night?”
“Not really,” he said. “May we have breakfast together in your suite?”
“All right.”
“Order me some bacon and eggs; I’ll be there by the time room service delivers.”
She gave him the room number. “See you then.” She hung up.
Stone grabbed a shower and threw some things in a bag, then packed a Halliburton aluminum case with a couple of guns and ammunition. Then, with considerable reluctance, he went down to the garage. The place looked as it had before two men had been murdered there, but cleaner and neater. He got the car started and backed into the street, checking all around him, fore and aft, for any strange vehicle.
He pulled away and turned up Third Avenue, watching to see if a car, any car at all, followed him. None did. He drove up to the Carlyle on the Upper East Side, parked his car in the hotel’s garage and walked next door to the lobby, again watching his back.
Arrington answered the door in a beautiful nightgown with a matching pegnoir, her blond hair brushed back but with no makeup. “Good morning.”
“I’m sorry to get you up so early,” he said, “but it’s important.”
The doorbell rang. Stone sent Arrington back to the suite’s living room and looked through the peephole. A room-service waiter gazed blankly back at him. He let the man in and let him set up the rolling table; Arrington signed for their breakfast, and he left.
Arrington raised her orange-juice glass. “Remember the old Chinese curse? ‘May you live in interesting times.’ ”
“It’s appropriate,” Stone said.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m going to tell you this as concisely and as straight as I can,” Stone said. “None of what I have to say is hyperbole.”
“All right.”
“A week or so ago, Bill Eggers introduced me to a new client, who he said had asked for me. His name was Billy Bob Barnstormer.”
“And you believed that?”
“It doesn’t matter. For reasons we needn’t go into, Eggers talked me into putting him up at my house. He was there for several days, then he left, leaving a dead prostitute in my guest room.”
Arrington’s eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing.
“He arranged things so that I would be considered a suspect in her murder, then he vanished. Then I was introduced to Barbara Stein, a wealthy widow who had come to see Eggers, because she had seen a photograph of her husband, who was supposed to be out of the country, in Avenue magazine, with the mayor, and the same prostitute. It was Billy Bob, though she knew him as Whitney Stanford.”
“I know that name,” Arrington said. “Someone from Dallas recommended him to me as some sort of a financial whiz.”
“You didn’t meet him, I hope.”
“No, but we talked on the phone. He was supposed to call me when I got to New York, but he hasn’t.”
“Good. He bilked a number of people in Dallas out of millions, and Barbara, as well, though you must keep that to yourself—client confidentiality, and all that. Did I mention that Billy Bob also murdered an investment banker in New York a couple of weeks ago?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Well, he did. Now, about last night: As Dino mentioned, Lance is CIA.”
“I knew him when I was a freshman at Mount Holyoke, and he was a senior at Harvard. I lost track of him after that.”
“Some months ago, I signed on as a consultant to the Agency, and that is why Lance commandeered me. Last night.”
“Did he also put a bullet hole in your trousers?” she asked. “I thought that looked odd.”
“Yes, he did. When I declined to go with him, he became . . . persuasive.”
“Where did you go?”
“Turns out, Lance’s people had caught Billy Bob, waiting outside my house, apparently for me. He was armed with a silenced pistol and two explosive devices. Lance took him into my garage to interrogate him, and for some reason, he thought Billy Bob might talk to me more easily, since we had somehow formed this relationship where he wanted to kill me.”
“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” Arrington said.
“A lot of what the CIA does doesn’t make any sense to me,” Stone replied. “I chatted with Billy Bob for two or three minutes, during which time he confirmed that he intended to kill me.”
“But why?”
“I honestly don’t know. He says I inconvenienced him by getting his wife to throw him out, but it’s got to be more that that, I just don’t know what.”
“Well, you’re safe from him, now that Lance has caught him.”
“I’m afraid not. Lance and I left him alone with two of Lance’s men, large men, who were supposed to, well, soften him up for interrogation. During the short time we were gone, Billy Bob managed to free himself and kill both men with a knife he had, apparently, concealed on his person.”
“By kill, you mean, dead?”
“Very.”
“In your garage?”
“Yes.”
“With a knife?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t imagine what your garage must have looked like.”
“Lance’s people cleaned it very thoroughly, and did God knows what with the bodies.”
“So Billy Bob is on the loose again?”
“He is.”
“Which is very dangerous for you?”
“Well, yes.”
She looked at him narrowly. “Are you here to tell me that I am in some sort of danger?”
“You are, possibly, in some sort of danger.”
“And what do you recommend I do about that?”
“I have the house in Connecticut, and Billy Bob doesn’t know about it. I think you should come up there with me, and . . .”
“When?”
“Right now, or as soon as we finish breakfast.”
“Has Billy Bob seen the two of us together?”
“Possibly, I don’t know. He had cameras in my house, but they had been removed by the time you arrived. He might have seen us at the Four Seasons, or at Elaine’s.”
“And if he did, he knows who I am?”
“Again, possibly. After all, he had your name, and you spoke to him on the phone.”
“Stone, you must remember that, when Vance was murdered, my photograph was in every newspaper in this country.”
“I do.”
“So, if he saw us together, he might very well know who I am?”
“Perhaps. In any case, if he had been planning to con you out of money, he would have researched you thoroughly.”
“And he would know that I have a child?”
“Yes.”
Arrington got up and started for the phone. “I’m going home to Virginia,” she said.
“I don’t think you should go there, or to L.A., either.”
“My little boy is there.”
“Sit down and listen to me.”
She sat, the frightened-deer look in her eyes.
“I think you should come to Connecticut with me. My car is downstairs; you should pack and send your luggage down. Do you still have access to the Centurion Studios airplane?”
“Yes, whenever I want it.”
“I think you should ask them to send the airplane to Virginia and have Peter brought to Connecticut. There’s an airport twenty-five minutes’ drive from my house. It will take the GIV. We’ll meet Peter and take him to my house. No one will know we’re there, so Billy
Bob can’t find us.”
Arrington was quiet for a moment, but it was obvious that she was thinking fast. “What’s the name of the airport?”
“Waterbury-Oxford. It has a five-thousand-foot runway and jet fuel.”
“All right,” she said. She got up and went to the phone again. She made two calls and returned. “We’re in luck; the Centurion airplane is landing in Washington in an hour, after a flight from L.A. They’ll refuel and go directly to Charlottesville, where Peter and his nanny will be waiting for them.”
Stone shoveled down the last of his eggs. “Then let’s get moving.”
38
STONE CHECKED OUT the bellman through the peephole, then let him enter and take the luggage. He called the garage and asked them to have his car ready, then instructed the bellman to precede them and load the luggage. They waited five minutes, then, with Stone going first, his hand under his jacket on his gun, made their way down the hall and into the elevator.
Stone asked Arrington to remain on the elevator while he checked out the lobby, then he escorted her quickly to the garage, where the car was waiting, its motor running. He tipped everybody, then got moving. He drove around the block twice to be sure he was not being followed, then crossed the park at Seventy-second Street, made his way to the West Side Highway, then north to the Saw Mill River Parkway.
“How long have you had this car?” Arrington asked. It was the first time she had spoken.
“Three years, I guess.”
“It seems very powerful.”
“It is; it’s the E55 model, with the AMG-tuned engine, the fastest Mercedes made. And it has the advantage of being armored.”
“Armored? Did you anticipate events?”
“No, it was serendipitous. I arrived at the dealership as they were wheeling it in. It had been ordered by an Italian-American gentleman, who felt he had enemies, but the car arrived exactly one day too late. His widow asked the dealer to resell it, and I couldn’t resist.”
“How armored?”
“It’ll stop small-arms fire.”
“That’s comforting to know, in the circumstances.” Then she went quiet again.
Stone took the Saw Mill all the way to I-684, then to I-84 and thence to exit 16. A left turn from the ramp took them to Oxford airport in two minutes. He checked his watch. They had been on the road for an hour and forty-five minutes. “We’ll have a wait,” he said.
They made themselves comfortable in the little terminal, and an hour and a half later, the GIV, with the trademark Roman centurion on its tail, touched down and taxied to the terminal. The engines died, and the door opened. The first person out was a small boy in a blue overcoat, carrying a small suitcase in one hand and a Gameboy in the other.
As Peter rushed into his mother’s arms, Stone was struck by his appearance—dark hair, handsome face—and it suddenly occurred to him that Peter Calder, ostensibly the son of Vance Calder, bore an uncanny resemblance to Malon Barrington, Stone’s father.
“Peter,” Arrington said, “I want you to meet a very good friend of mine. This is Stone Barrington.”
Peter extended his hand and said gravely, “How do you do, Mr. Barrington?”
“Hello, Peter,” Stone said, taking the boy’s tiny hand, “and please call me Stone.”
“Thank you, sir,” Peter replied.
Arrington then introduced Ilsa, the knockout Swedish nanny, and a moment later, they were headed north toward Washington, Connecticut.
Peter took in the bare trees and patchy snow. “It’s colder here than Virginia,” he said.
“I hope you packed warm clothes,” Arrington said to Ilsa.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ilsa replied.
THEY ENTERED the village from the south, drove past the Mayflower Inn and turned left at the Congregational church.
“This is Washington Green,” Stone explained, “and my house was once the gatehouse for the big place next door, called the Rocks.”
“Then you should call your house the Pebbles,” Peter said.
“The Pebbles it is, from this day forward,” Stone replied, turning into the short driveway.
“Oh, this is charming, Stone,” Arrington said. “Look at the little turret, Peter.”
But Peter was already out of the car, peering through the windows.
Stone got the door open and turned up the thermostat. “Keep your coats on for a few minutes, until it warms up.” He took Arrington aside. “There are only two bedrooms.”
“Well,” she said, “it won’t be the first time we’ve shared, will it?”
Stone and the nanny got the bags upstairs and distributed, and by the time he got back downstairs, the furnace was producing heat. “Make yourselves at home,” he said. “I have to make a couple of phone calls.”
He called his office first.
“The Barrington Practice,” Joan said.
“Hi, it’s Stone. I’m at the Connecticut house, and I expect to be here for a few days.”
“Okay, I have some things I can work on.”
“No, I want you to take a few days off, too. Put an announcement on the answering machine saying that I’m away but that I’ll pick up my messages. You can check it a couple of times a day and call me about anything important.”
“Okay, boss.”
“I’ll call you when it’s time to come back to work.”
“Okay, I’ll just do a few things this morning, then go home.”
“Joan, I want you to lock up and go home right now, and I don’t want you to come back, even for a minute, until I call you.”
“Uh, oh,” she said. “What’s up?”
“A bad guy is looking for me, and I don’t want him to find either of us.”
“I’m out of here,” she said. “ ’Bye.”
Stone called Dino.
“Bacchetti.”
“Hi, it’s Stone.”
“What was that little dance you and Lance were doing last night, and why was there a bullet hole in your pants?”
“Lance picked up Billy Bob, but he managed to escape. It appears that killing me is high on his to-do list.”
“Billy Bob’s or Lance’s?”
“Billy Bob’s. Lance was just trying to get me to come with him.”
“I guess it worked.”
“I guess it did. But listen, Billy Bob might be mad at you, too.”
“Why?”
“He doesn’t seem to need a reason, but I want you to watch your back for a few days.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Maybe even assign a man to watch it for you.”
“You think Billy Bob’s that dangerous?”
“Last night, he killed two of Lance’s best people with a knife.”
“In my precinct?”
“It’s been dealt with; it won’t come to your attention.”
“Good.”
“I’m at the Connecticut house, but don’t tell anybody, not even Elaine. You can reach me here if anything happens.”
“Okay, take care of yourself. Is Arrington pissed off at you again?”
“No, she and Peter are here with me.”
“How cozy.”
“Oh, shut up, and as I say, watch your back.”
“And you watch your ass.”
Stone hung up and went into the living room, which was warm now. Peter was expertly hooking up his game machine to the television.
“You can do that with the sound off,” Arrington said.
“Don’t worry, Mom, I brought my earphones.”
Stone sat and watched, fascinated, while the little boy played his computer games.
LATER THAT NIGHT, when Peter and Ilsa were asleep, Stone showered, then slipped into bed with Arrington. She was not wearing a nightgown. He touched her shoulder. “You’re very warm.”
“Come closer, and I’ll warm you, too.”
They came together as if they had never been apart.
39
FOR THREE DAYS, they lived quietly, dining a
t the Mayflower Inn or cooking at home. They drove the country roads, gazing at the Connecticut winter. It snowed. Peter and Stone made a snowman in the front yard.
Late in the afternoon of the third day, while Arrington and Peter were napping and Ilsa was helping to get dinner started, Stone drove down the hill toward Washington Depot, the little business district, to get some wine for dinner. His cell phone vibrated, and he pulled into the empty parking lot of the Episcopal church, remembering that this was a place where cell-phone reception was possible.
“Hello?”
“It’s Lance.”
“Hello, Lance.”
“Where are you?”
“Out of town.”
“Where out of town?”
“I don’t think I should say on the phone.”
“I’ve been trying to call you.”
“Cell-phone reception is dicey here.”
“Don’t you ever check your voice mail?”
“Not since I left the city. What’s up?”
“We identified Billy Bob from a single thumbprint found in the Hummer.”
“And?”
“It’s not good news.”
“Tell me.”
“His real name is Jack Jeff Kight.”
“You mean, Knight?”
“Without the n. Kight.”
“So, who is Jack Jeff Kight?”
“Born in Plainview, Texas, thirty-nine years ago, son of a used-car dealer and a waitress mother. Attended the local schools, barely got out of high school. Juvenile delinquent, of a sort—joyriding in other people’s cars, fights at the local roadhouses, that sort of thing. Got a local girl pregnant, stole some money to buy her an abortion in Juarez, got caught. He was given a choice—two years in jail or three years in the military. He picked the Marines.”
“Sounds pretty ordinary.”
“He wasn’t. He tested very bright in the Corps. Very physical, breezed through basic at Parris Island, breezed through advanced infantry training. He qualified for the Navy Seals and was about to start training, when an Agency recruiter came across him.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Well, yes. He was lifted from the Corps fifteen years ago and sent to Camp Peary.”