Double Jeopardy

37

1:00 A.M.

TRAVIS HAD RECOUNTED EVERYTHING that had happened since Al Moroconi called him the night before. Cavanaugh listened quietly and patiently to the entire story—not that she really had any choice.

“So you see where I am,” Travis concluded. “There’s nowhere I can go. There’s no one I can trust. Visiting friends would be fatal, both for them and me. So I came here.”

Cavanaugh leaned forward, the dishrag still wedged in her mouth. “Mmmwhtantfmmmeeee?”

“I’m sorry,” Travis said. “I missed the last part.”

Cavanaugh kicked up her heels, sending the chair within inches of capsizing.

“For the millionth time, I’ll take the rag out of your mouth if you won’t scream. You don’t have to help me. Just promise you won’t try to attract any attention.”

He waited a long time. Eventually, her head moved slowly up and down.

Travis crawled over beside her. “This is going to sting a little. Should I do it all at once, or slowly?”

She rolled her eyes.

In a quick jerk, he ripped the duct tape off her face. Cavanaugh made a noise, but it was muffled by the dishrag. He yanked it out of her mouth. “Does this mean you believe what I told you?”

“No,” she replied curtly. “It means I’m tired of having a dirty dishrag in my mouth. Blech!” She rubbed the tip of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You could at least have used something clean.”

“You didn’t allow me much time to look around.”

“That was the same towel I used to mop up the spilt soup!”

“So? I thought the soup was delicious.”

“It’s better on a spoon than a dishrag. I think you’re totally delusional, Byrne. But even if what you say is true, what do you want from me?”

“I told you. I just need a place to crash for the night.”

Cavanaugh glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’ve half-accomplished that goal already.”

“Of course,” he added, “any recommendations you could make would be greatly appreciated.”

“I recommend counseling, Byrne. Intensive, psychiatric counseling. Shock therapy, perhaps.”

Travis ignored her. “Didn’t you say you used to be a skip tracer? You must know all kinds of dodges for finding people who have disappeared.”

“That was a long time ago, Byrne.”

“So? I’ve seen you in the courtroom. You have a great memory.”

“For some things, yes. For others, no. That’s a part of my life I try to block out.”

“But this is an emergency—”

“Don’t you hear what I’m saying, Byrne? This is not a part of my life I wish to remember. Do you have any idea what that might be like?”

Travis looked down suddenly. “I have … some idea, yes.”

“Good. Then leave me alone. And get me the hell out of this chair.”

“Do you promise not to try to get away?”

“Get away? I live here Byrne, remember?”

“I can’t untie you unless you promise not to leave.”

“Why not? Christ!” She struggled against the tape strapping her to the chair. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid this hundred-and-five-pound woman will overpower you?”

“Frankly, yes. You damn near got away the last time we struggled. I’m not taking any chances.” He smiled slightly. “After all, you are a martial-arts expert.”

“This is probably how you get your cheap thrills. Bondage. S-and-M fantasies.”

“Oh, please—”

“I bet that’s it. I’m surprised you haven’t been sitting over there jerking off.”

“Such language. Next time I’ll put a bar of soap in your mouth.”

“Sicko.”

This was the drawback to overpowering people and taping them to the kitchen furniture: they tended to be somewhat hostile afterward. “Look, I understand how you feel. Some guy you only know from the other side of the courtroom breaks into your apartment, and for all you know he may be a … a …”

“Psychosexual sadist who likes to tie women up?”

“Those weren’t exactly the words I had in mind, but …” He cleared his throat. “The point is, I understand how you must feel, but I can’t let you leave.”

There was a long silence. Travis could feel her eyes scrutinizing him. It didn’t matter. It was too late and he’d been at it too long. He was beyond caring.

“Okay,” she said suddenly.

He looked up. “Okay what?”

“I promise not to turn you in. I promise I won’t try to leave. Mother, may I please be untied?”

His eyes brightened. “Then you do believe me.”

“Wrong. I’m just dead tired. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s after one in the morning, somewhat later than my usual bedtime. I’m weary to the bone, and I’m not likely to get any sleep duct-taped to a kitchen chair.”

“Okay.” Travis took a knife from the kitchen and cut the tape.

Cavanaugh rose slowly from her chair. Her knees creaked. “Oh God.” She ripped the cut tape from her clothing. “Well, you can stay up all night if you want, Travis, but I’m going to bed. I have to work on another case tomorrow.” She walked wearily toward the bedroom, then stopped. “You can sleep on the sofa if you like. It folds out.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t wake me. I plan to sleep in.”

“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

“And don’t get the wrong idea, pal. This is for one night and one night only. As soon as the sun rises, you’re out of here.”

“Agreed.” He hesitated. “And thanks. I really appreciate this.”

“Don’t get sentimental. I might change my mind yet.” She closed her bedroom door.

He threw himself down on the sofa and tried to relax. It was no use. Whether he liked it or not, he had a thousand stray images racing through his head, a thousand loose ends, a thousand unanswered questions.

He took a legal pad from Cavanaugh’s briefcase and started sketching a diagram of what had happened so far. He drew the FBI on the left, Moroconi on the right. But where did he put those men at the shopping mall? Were they with the FBI, or the police, or the mob? And who were the men at the West End? Where did they fit into his diagram?

He was dog tired, but he was never one who could rest first; he had to get the work done before he could even think about relaxing. Like in the poem, the woods were pretty damn dark and deep and he had miles to go before he could sleep.

He had to figure out what to do. Where to go. How to get himself out of this mess.

Before it was too late.