Bodyguard of Lies

CHAPTER 10

Neeley was cramped and uncomfortable. She’d assumed that a successful attorney would have a bigger car. Maybe Howard Brumley wasn't so successful. Neeley wondered if Hannah suspected that Howard knew more about John's disappearance than he should. Neeley didn't know the answer to that question. She only knew that Howard's eagerness to put distance between John and Hannah was very suspicious. One thing she had learned traveling in the shadow world with Gant was to question every word, every action. Something was wrong about the way Brumley was acting toward Hannah and it didn’t take a rocket scientist in Neeley’s opinion to figure the person behind that something was John Masterson.

The time to be discreet was past. Neeley knew the clock was ticking and time was not on her side.

Neeley tried to straighten her shoulders but it was impossible. Her hope was that Howard would not work overly late. However, it seemed like he was in no rush to get home to his loving wife.

Howard’s arrival at the car in the back of the practically empty underground garage was hours after most of the other workers had left. He unlocked the door, which had taken Neeley less than five seconds to open without a key. Not looking into the shadowy backseat, he slid onto the black leather. Before he could completely insert the key, Neeley reached around and pushed the barrel of her Glock pistol against the side of his head.

"Let's make this easy. Where is John Masterson?"

"I don't—"

Neeley pressed the tip of the muzzle against the skin, a persuasive argument to the uninitiated.

"Where is John Masterson? Answer or you die in three seconds," Neeley said in a flat voice. “Have you ever seen what a bullet to the head does?”

Howard may have been a foolish man in certain business associations, but he tended to be practical when the stakes moved from money to survival. "Across the river. The Cloverleaf Motel. Room twenty-seven."

"Does Hannah Masterson know where he is?"

"No."

"Does she know anything about this thing John has set up?"

"No."

"Why is John doing this?"

"I don't know. He didn't tell me."

“Why is he disappearing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit,” Neeley hissed.

“I really don’t know. Please! I’d tell you if I did.”

She believed that. "Why are you helping John?"

"He's paying me."

Neeley was impressed how quickly the answers came. Howard wasn’t very loyal. Which triggered her next question.

“What else?”

The momentary silence told her there was indeed more. Neeley waited, noting the drip of sweat from his temple around the tip of the gun. She’d have to clean it after this. There were oils in sweat that were not good for gun steel.

“I was told to tell her to see her psychiatrist.”

Neeley frowned. “Doctor Jenkins?”

“Yes.”

“Who told you to make sure she saw Jenkins?”

“I don’t know. I got an envelope with a thousand in cash and a note with Jenkins card attached. The note said make sure Hannah Masterson made an appointment with Jenkins right away.”

“Was it John, her husband?”

“I don’t think so — I mean, why would he do it that way?”

Good question, Neeley thought. Maybe Howard wasn’t totally stupid. "You know, Howard, if you tell anyone about this little chat, I will have to drop everything in my life and spend the remainder of my days hunting you down. You don't seem to be hard to find so I'm not reluctant to commit the time because I don’t think it will take me more than a day or two. Do we understand each other?"

The lawyer's whisper was hardly audible. "Yes."

Neeley rapped the barrel hard against Howard's temple. "Good," she said to the unconscious body.

Walking out of the garage into the night, Neeley looked like any of the other late-fleeing secretaries of the downtown business district. Her simple kit dress was neither stylish nor well-fitted and the loose jacket did little for her figure except to hide the shoulder holster. Even her tennis shoes on stocking feet drew no notice since pumps had become passé. Neeley remained alert to her environment but allowed the majority of her thoughts to formulate the next step.

The Cloverleaf Motel was in Alton. It was on the east side of the Mississippi River, north of the Gateway Arch. Neeley drove her truck across the Eades Bridge and pulled over at the first gas station. She got the key and unlocked the door to the filthiest toilet she had ever seen. Neeley hadn't been this repulsed in Morocco when she’d gone there with Gant.

She quickly pulled some more practical clothes from her backpack and put them on the cleanest spot on the counter she could find. She only kept the sneakers on, putting the Glock and its holster on top of the clothes. After stashing the other clothes in a zippered pocket of the pack, she reached into the pack's main compartment.

She retrieved a second gun, this one a Model 59 Smith & Wesson semi-automatic pistol with a MOD O silencer attached. She slid a magazine of Gant's specially made 9mm, subsonic rounds into the handle and pulled back on the slide, chambering a round. She let the slide go forward, and then locked it down so when she fired it wouldn't jump back and make noise. She would only be able to fire one shot at a time like this but the gun would be almost perfectly quiet when she did so. She put the pistol on top of the new clothes.

She strapped a thin, double-bladed Fairburn knife to her right calf. Another, even smaller knife, went in the exact center of her back, clipped to the top of her panties, a spot Gant had told her police often miss in searches.

She slipped on a pair of comfortable jeans, then made sure the thin wire garrote was still in place on the inside waist, held there by single loops of thread along its length. She pulled on a loose fitting t-shirt and then the shoulder holster for the Glock. On top of that went a sports jacket with large pockets. She slipped the Model 59 into the right pocket.

When she was done, she looked in the mirror. The woman staring back was calm and determined. Satisfied, Neeley returned to her truck.

The motel was in a dingy industrial area. Not exactly top of the line and a long way from the South Seas. She drove around the block once until she knew what was the area was like.

Room 27 was on the second floor. It opened onto a walkway and was about twenty feet from the outside stairs. The parking lot was nearly empty but there were two cars next to the stairwell. One was a rental and the other was a heap.

She drove to the payphone across the street and checked the page she had torn from the phonebook at the gas station. She punched the numbers and was put through to room 27. There was no answer, but that didn't mean anything.

Neeley moved her truck as far away from the motel office as possible yet still be in a position to see the room’s door. Darkness had slid over east St. Louis and the area looked even more forlorn. Neeley sat in the shadows and waited. After a few minutes she could see the glow of a light come through the fabric on the inside of the window in 27.

Neeley quickly got out of the truck and moved up the stairwell, her hand on the grip of the Model 59 in the coat pocket. She stood to the side of the door and knocked. She mimicked the voice as well as she could, hoping the door provided a muffler. "John, it's me, Hannah. Let me in! Hurry, please, John!"

She heard rapid footsteps and the locks clicking. She had the silenced gun in his chest, pushing him back into the room before he could say a word. She kicked the door shut behind her.

John Masterson looked haggard, as if the despair of the room had broken his spirit. "Where's Hannah?" he choked, barely registering the gun.

Neeley shoved him back to a chair and he fell into it with an audible plop. He was at least twenty pounds overweight and had that soft, pinkish exterior that Neeley had always associated with weak men. She couldn’t believe he had ever known Gant. When she didn't say anything, he began to stammer.

"Who are you?"

"Gant sent me," Neeley said.

"How do I know you're not from the Cellar?" John asked.

"You don't," Neeley said.

"Where's Gant?"

"He's dead."

John nodded. "He called me fifteen days ago and told me he was dying. He told me someone would be coming from him."

"Is that why you ran?" Neeley asked.

John gave a strangled laugh. "Hell, yeah. Who knows what Nero's going to do now? And how did I know I could trust whoever Gant sent?" John cocked his head and looked at her more closely. "If you're from Gant, then you have the videotape," John said. "Let me see it."

Neeley paused at this unexpected development. "I didn't bring the tape with me," she said. "That would have been stupid." As she said these words she caught the shift of John's eyes to a metal briefcase lying on the cheap wooden table.

"But you know where it is?" John was growing nervous again.

"Of course," Neeley answered.

John licked his lips. "Maybe we can get things back to normal then. Maybe Nero will deal."

"What do you have to deal with?" Neeley asked. She regretted the question as soon as she asked it.

"Gant didn't tell you shit did he?" John didn't wait for a reply. "No, that son-of-a-bitch wouldn't. He always played everything close to the vest and didn't trust anyone. And he couldn't tell you. We promised Nero we would never tell anyone. And Gant, oh boy, he sure was one for doing exactly what he was supposed to do."

"I've got the tape," Neeley said, trying to keep him talking.

"Maybe," John said. "But then again, maybe not. I shouldn't have hung around. I should have left town right after Gant called. God damn Nero, pulling strings. God damn it."

“Who is Nero?”

“The head of the Cellar,” John said.

"Why did you leave your wife like you did?" Neeley asked, her head spinning from John's words, trying to make sense of it all.

John now focused on the gun. "Look, my wife is out of it, OK?”

“Out of it?” Neeley felt the sliver of metal under her finger and she forced herself to ease off the trigger. “You leave her high and dry and she’s out of it? Because you say so?”

“I wish you'd quit pointing that gun at me. Those damn things are dangerous. Hannah knows nothing," John insisted.

“Why did you have Brumley send her to that shrink right away then?”

The confusion on his face was real. “What are you talking about? Jenkins?” His face crumpled as if hit. “Oh shit.”

Neeley felt the floor almost shift under her feet as she realized there was another layer to all this, but she knew she didn’t have the time to get into it right now. "Why did you run if Gant told you I was coming?"

John was trying to regroup. "Did Gant tell you about 'dead time'? About living with knowledge that others want buried? Always being afraid that someone is going to show up in the middle of the night and kill you and everyone you love if something changes? Or if someone gets a bug up their ass and just decided to tie up a few loose ends?

“When Gant told me he was dying, I knew I had to get out of sight. I'd tried to make a new life but I always knew it was hanging by a thread and his phone call brought everything crashing down around me. Hell, I knew Nero didn’t give a damn about me. It was Gant that kept the peace. Gant and his brother. Jack. Without Gant, I was nothing. I've been trying to close everything out."

She wondered how the brother fit in, but she didn’t ask that right now. “Why did you stay here?”

John shrugged. "I guess there was a part of me hoping you would show up from Gant and have the videotape and maybe we could deal with Nero and get things back like they were."

"So you decided to take all your money and leave your wife dangling without a clue?" Neeley asked.

John lowered his eyes. "I had to. I had to convince whoever came from the Cellar — if they got here first — that Hannah knew nothing. That she was out of it."

"Do you think the Cellar and Nero will buy off on that?" Neeley asked. Gant had never mentioned Nero. She already knew more now in five minutes with Masterson than she had in a decade with Gant. The cowering man in front of her was right about one very important thing — Gant had to have been the one holding things in balance.

"Not really, but it's her best chance," John said. "That is until you showed up here," he added. "Like I said, maybe we can make a deal now with Nero and reestablish the status quo."

Neeley shrugged. "Maybe." She wanted to know what was in the briefcase and more about this videotape Gant had supposedly left her. The only thing she could think of was Gant's second request: that she climb the route in Eldorado Canyon. She waved the gun. "Let's go back to your house and talk this over with Hannah."

"Hannah's out of it," John said.

"Jesus Christ!" Neeley exclaimed. "She's your wife. That means she's involved. She has the right to know what is going on and to make her own decisions." The muzzle of the weapon allowed for no argument. John reluctantly stood and picked up the briefcase.

Howard Brumley couldn't sleep. It was 1:30 in the morning and not only was he wide awake, but he had enough adrenaline going to finish an Ironman competition. It had been hours since the gun was pressed to his head but it seemed like fifteen seconds.

Lying in the dark next to his gently snoring wife, he kept lifting his hand to his head and feeling the spot. There was a bruise on his temple that was already darkening. He'd had to tell Celia that he hit a door. She didn't believe him but she also didn't seem to care.

He noticed a drip in the master bath and fought to ignore it. He wrapped his pillow around his head, praying that sleep would end this terrible day.

Howard took shallow breaths hoping to lessen his anxiety because if he wasn't going to sleep a wink at least he could be spared the racing heart. He kept replaying it in his head and it always played out the same way. He was stupid man. Always letting Celia buy whatever the hell she wanted and the boys, too. Just to keep some peace, because he didn't want the endless confrontations. That was a laugh. He almost got killed today because he needed the money John Masterson had offered. That was a whole new level to confrontation. What the hell had John done to him? And who the hell had left the envelope and card about Jenkins? But what was he supposed to do with a thousand in cash? Keep it and not do what the card said? There was no way to return it. Damn. And what was the big deal with Hannah going to see her shrink. Hell, she’d looked like she needed it. Howard felt a headache growing in concert with the throbbing in his temple.

John must have heard he was having some trouble because the son-of-a-bitch hadn’t minced any words when he made his offer nine days ago. He just needed some help covering his tracks and the legal work that went with skipping out on his life. He had assured Howard that Hannah had plenty of money in her own name from some family trust. But it hadn't seemed that way when Hannah stood in his office.

Howard was beginning to believe that his friend John had told him a pack of lies. It made him feel better to think that since he had given John up so easily. He was willing to break some ethical laws, even a few civil ones, but by God, he'd never have gotten mixed up in this mess if he'd had any idea that it involved guns. What exactly had John gotten him into?

Howard looked at the glowing numbers on the clock: 1:45. The night was never going to end. He continued staring at the ceiling and resenting the hell out of Celia for forcing him into this even though she didn't know a thing about it. He could hear the damn drip in the master bathroom and it irritated him even more.

Finally, he slid back the covers and walked confidently through the dark room. At his age a man knew well the trip from his bed to the bathroom. As he stepped across the tiled expanse to the sink faucet he felt rather than saw the presence.

Before his sensory system had time for any reaction he felt two awful and rapid movements. A hand wearing a rubber glove covered his mouth and the cold feel of steel once again pressed to the side of his neck. The whisper was deadly: "Where's John Masterson?"

Howard started to talk through the hand. Two fingers slid apart to give him working room. In the few seconds it took to give John up for the second time in less than twelve hours, Howard deduced something very important. The steel wasn't the barrel of a gun, it was the edge of a knife. When it suddenly moved across the front of his neck he was surprised that there was no pain. The hand was firmly pressed against his mouth as he felt an explosion of warm liquid on his chest. The dark went black.

Racine quietly dropped the lawyer's body onto the big bathroom rug. He reached over and pushed the faucet knob completely shut, stopping the drip. He stood still, not even his breathing audible until he was sure no one in the house was moving. He could feel the gentle blow of air from a vent across his naked body.

He slid his feet slowly across the tile and peered in the bedroom. He could see the sleeping form in the bed. He wondered what she looked like. Racine stood there for several minutes, taking shallow breaths. Finally he reluctantly turned back into the bathroom. He moved toward the big window over the Jacuzzi.

Once through he grabbed the bag under the window and slipped behind the bushes to the side of the house. He loved these big new houses. Security systems that were junk, windows big enough to push an elephant's butt through and, of course, all the wonderful landscaping. Racine could have slaughtered an army next to the house and no one from the street would have been the wiser.

He pulled a small garbage bag from the rucksack leaning against the side of the house and deposited his latex gloves and the plastic wrap from his feet. It was all he had been wearing. He ran his hands over his smooth naked body and felt no sticky wetness. The lawyer had sprayed forward. He had given up so quickly that there had not been the struggle and messiness Racine had anticipated.

Racine's body was completely hairless and he knew he had left no trace of himself behind. He had shaved his entire body just two hours ago. He quickly dressed and put everything back in the bag. He still wasn't breathing hard as he bent and tied his sneakers. They were two sizes too large and clumsy, but he was careful as he retraced his steps to the street. Once there, he calmly walked the block and a half to his car.

He left the headlights off until he reached the first light. It was blinking yellow at this hour. He drove another five minutes and pulled the car over. He changed his shoes, then reached over the seat and retrieved the St. Louis Yellow Pages and the map. Within a few minutes he knew where he was going and how to get there.

Racine lifted an apple from the seat next to him and contentedly munched it as he carefully drove toward Alton. Once on the main Interstate, I-70, he set the cruise to three miles below the speed limit and allowed himself to think of Anthony Gant. He still couldn't believe the bastard was dead. He wondered how Gant’s brother, Jack, was reacting. That was a dangerous man, not that Anthony hadn’t been a hard-ass too. And Racine really couldn't believe that A. Gant had shared so much of his undercover life with another human being, much less a woman. Pussy. Racine shook his head. Too many men were ruled by it.

Racine wondered what had been in Gant's head. He had run into the other man several times on operations prior to Mogadishu and the two had come close to exchanging bullets more than once due to tactical disagreements.

It was a good thing the stupid fuck was dead. Racine would have killed him for free. As it was he could amuse himself with Gant's alter ego, Neeley. That thought was exciting enough to force him to push it away and focus on the Masterson's. After John he planned on going straight to Manchester and doing the bitch. The only catch was Nero's order to bring Mrs. Masterson in alive. Not only would that make it more difficult, but it zeroed out the possibility of immediate job satisfaction. And there was Senator Collins to consider. Fucking politician could fuck up anything.

Racine wasn't tired at all, even though he'd been up now for over twenty-four hours. The flight had been enjoyable due to the extra attention of a pretty young stewardess named LeAnn. Racine didn't even wonder any more about the women who found him intriguing. All his life he'd only generated two responses in the fairer sex. Utter revulsion or a base sexual heat with the preponderance toward the former. He had long ago decided it was something in them and had very little to do with him. He simply ignored most women and the few that fell to him blindly, he usually took.

On the plane he had played it slow and easy with the girl but he had suspected it would take little effort to do her right there in the toilet. He regretted the expedient nature of this business prevented him from getting her phone number. His name for this op, even though it was an alias, was on the passenger roster. Someone could remember him and the last thing he needed was more crap from Nero. Thinking of the lost opportunity with the stewardess as he left the plane made him relish the idea of killing the old blind fart in the damn office of his. Bashing his brains out with that stupid phone or his voice wand. Or maybe just blocking off the hole in his throat.

Racine checked his watch as he drove by Masterson's dumpy motel. Racine parked his car at the end of the building, as far away from the office as possible. He put a fresh pair of gloves on, and then got out of the car.

He moved quietly through the darkness, avoiding the few lights. There was a light on in room 27 but he didn't care. He held his heavy Desert Eagle against the side of his leg and pressed against the cheap door. He didn't have to jam any of the locks and before the door was fully open, he knew why.

Masterson was gone. Racine locked the door with gloved fingers and spent a couple of minutes on a thorough search of the room and bathroom. There were clothes in the closet. A passport for John Masterson was inside a shoulder bag hanging on the bathroom door. That meant John was still in town. Racine smiled. He'd come back for John. There was someone else who could occupy his time this early morning. He left the room and headed for his car.

Neeley held the silenced pistol in her right hand, muzzle pointing across her lap at John Masterson's right leg as he drove her truck. She didn't expect any trouble from him, but it paid to be safe. John was grasping at the possibility of making a deal with Nero like a drowning man at a life preserver. He obviously assumed that Neeley had some way of contacting this man whose name she had just heard today.

"How did you know Gant?" Neeley asked.

"I was in the army," John said. "I met Gant on a mission."

"What kind of mission?"

John nervously laughed. "Lady, if Gant didn't tell you, then I sure as shit ain't telling you. Watch the tape." His eyes shifted over. "You'd better have it. You don't want to play games with Nero."

"I know where it is," Neeley said. "Gant said you had the 'what'. Is that 'what' in the briefcase?"

John nodded. "Yeah. But it’s a lot less powerful without the videotape. That's why I was scared knowing Gant was going to die. I didn't trust that he'd send someone here. I was afraid the tape would be gone with him."

Neeley had been watching the road. She wished John would stop playing "I've got a secret" but she knew Gant had played it also. Whatever they were covering up had to be both very powerful and dangerous. She would get to the bottom of this when they got to the house and Hannah.

“If Gant called you, how come you didn’t run right away?”

John’s eyes shifted and Neeley knew whatever he was about to say was going to be a lie. “There were things I had to do first.”

"Turn here," Neeley ordered, while wondering what he was keeping back from her.

"The house is—" John began, but Neeley cut him off.

"We're not exactly going to walk in the front door," Neeley said. "That's not the smart way to do things."