Double Jeopardy

39

9:30 A.M.

TRAVIS ROLLED OVER, GROANING, and untangled his body from the living-room furniture.

“Pffst—wha—?” He had carpet hair in his mouth. He was lying on the floor in a twisted knot between the coffee table and the sofa. He stretched his legs and tried to remember when he had finally conked out. His neck and back were stiff; pins and needles shot through his legs. He might be awake, but his legs weren’t.

He tiptoed into the kitchen, careful not to wake Cavanaugh. The cabinets were still littered with utensils and ingredients for the bell-pepper soup.

He wondered if Cavanaugh had anything for breakfast. He opened the refrigerator and found it well stocked: milk, orange juice, eggs, bacon. Much more than he could have found in his own kitchen. He congratulated himself for holing up with someone who cooked.

He decided to start with coffee. He couldn’t find a coffeemaker, but he did locate a jar of instant. He pulled a brass teakettle out of the cupboard, filled it with water, and turned the heat up high.

The doorbell rang. He frowned. Who would be here at this time of—

He checked his watch. It was already nine-thirty. How could he have slept so late?

He rushed to the door, hoping he could get rid of whoever it was before Cavanaugh awoke. If she was aroused too early, she was certain to be grumpy. Come to think of it, she was certain to be grumpy in any case, but the less provocation the better.

He peered through the peephole. The face was unfamiliar—which was good. A tall, medium-sized white male in a spiffy-looking blue suit and tie.

“Package,” the man said.

Why would someone be delivering a package? Then it dawned on him—Cavanaugh had said she was going to work on a new case. She probably had the files couriered to her apartment to save herself the trouble of lugging them.

He shook his head; he really was getting paranoid. No one could possibly know he was here.

He opened the door. “Hello.”

The man smiled politely. “Good morning. I’m delivering some documents for”—he glanced at the label—“Laverne Cavanaugh.”

Travis grinned. No wonder everyone called her by her last name. “I’ll take it.”

“I’m afraid I need a signature.”

“But she’s still asleep.”

“That’s all right. You can sign for her.” He handed Travis a pen.

Travis took the pen and started to sign Cavanaugh’s name. “Uh-oh.” He turned the pen upside down and shook it, but nothing happened. “Out of ink.”

“Hell,” the courier said. “I’ll have to go back to my car and get another one.”

“That’s all right. There must be another pen somewhere around here. Let me look.”

“Hey, thanks,” the man said.

“No problem.” Travis returned to the living room. The courier stepped inside and closed the door.

Travis tried to find the pen he had been drawing diagrams with last night, without success. Probably lost somewhere in the depths of Cavanaugh’s shag carpet, he mused. He went into the kitchen and began opening drawers—everyone had a few thousand pens in a slovenly kitchen drawer, didn’t they?

Travis returned to the living room. “I found—” The courier was gone. Come to think of it, why did the man come inside? And why did he shut the door? Unless—

Travis whirled around, much too late. He took a sucker punch in the soft part of his stomach, exactly where he had been hit a few days before in the men’s room.

Travis fell to his knees, struggling to maintain consciousness. The courier’s knee rose sharply and struck him under the chin. Travis fell backward, striking his head on the floor. He peered up blurry-eyed at his attacker. The man reached inside his attaché and withdrew a medium-sized gun with a silencer.

Travis commanded his fog-filled head to clear. By God, he wasn’t going to let another two-bit bully get the drop on him. He caught the man’s foot just before it struck his rib cage. He pulled, sharp and hard; his assailant lost his balance and fell back into the kitchen. The man clutched the counter to keep from falling. Travis crawled after him and punched him in the side.

Travis grabbed the hand holding the gun and pressed his thumbs down on the pressure points. The courier screamed and dropped the gun. Travis kicked it into the living room.

The man jerked open a drawer, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. He found a battery-operated carving knife. Damn Cavanaugh and her upscale kitchen appliances! In an instant the man had flicked the power switch. The knife roared to life.

Travis moved away as quickly as possible. An ordinary knife would be frightening enough—anything that made a noise like that he definitely did not want to come into contact with. The courier was waving the knife wildly back and forth, advancing like D’Artagnan, pressing Travis against the stove. Travis realized that he had run out of room to maneuver. The man with the knife was barely a foot away from his face.

Travis grabbed the teakettle he had put on to boil. Ignoring the heat radiating from the brass handle, he threw the boiling water at his assailant. The man ducked, but not quite fast enough. He cried out as the water scalded his face.

“Son of a bitch!” the man shouted. He clutched his face. “You’ll pay for that.” The man advanced again with the knife; Travis held out the kettle as a shield. He searched for a potential weapon, but there was nothing within reach more dangerous than a plastic place mat.

The courier forced Travis into the living room. Travis dodged the sofa but slipped on the papers he’d left lying out the night before. He plummeted onto the coffee table, shattering the glass top. The man grinned malevolently and lowered the knife. …

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Travis saw Cavanaugh swing her briefcase directly into the back of the man’s head. The carving knife took flight; Travis ducked as it soared over his head. The man fell to his knees, eyelids fluttering. Cavanaugh hit him again, then once more for good measure. He fell in a crumpled heap on the floor.

It took Travis several seconds to gain some semblance of his normal voice. “Good morning,” he said finally.

“ ’Morning,” Cavanaugh replied. She was wearing a shimmering blue nightie. “Sleep well?”

“Not bad. It was the wake-up call that was rough.”

“So I see.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was, till you two started clattering around in the kitchen.”

“My apologies.”

“Well, under the circumstances, you’re forgiven.”

Just as Cavanaugh finished her absolution the courier jumped up and tackled her from behind, knocking her onto Travis. The man raced out the front door.

Travis felt Cavanaugh’s warm skin through the nightie as she lay on top of him. She was surprisingly soft for such a likely bulemia candidate. “I’m going after him.”

Cavanaugh grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “Don’t be a fool. If one goon found you, there could be others. And they might all be waiting outside.”

“If they know where I am, I’ve got to leave.”

“Granted. But let’s get organized before we make a break for it. If we run out half-cocked, we’ll get creamed.”

“We?” His eyebrows rose. “Does this mean—”

She rummaged through her closet and pulled out a duffel bag. “It means you’ve successfully dragged me into whatever the hell trouble you’re in.”

“I can’t let you come with me. It’s too dangerous.”

“What am I going to do, stay here and wait for the next hit man?”

Travis frowned. He didn’t like the conclusion, but her logic was incontrovertible. “All right,” he said. “Get dressed. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”