Last shot

Chapter 46

At half past nine in the morning, the electricity kicked back on. The TV blared; the cheap chandelier over the kitchen nook flickered to life; a square worker's fan by the garage door revved up so fast it blew itself over.

At the commotion Walker had sprung from the floor up over the couch into the best position of cover the family room afforded; he found himself in a high-kneel shooting stance, his Redhawk trained on the front door. He returned his revolver to the back of his jeans and rose.

He unplugged the fan, which was rattling its death throes against the floorboards, then turned off the lights and the garbage disposal, which was roaring its waterless displeasure. He couldn't locate a remote, so he thumbed down the volume on the TV itself, leaving the morning anchor to murmur in the background about Gaza settlements.

The disposable cell remained on the arm of the sofa where he'd left it, resting atop Tess's tiny bound calendar. He picked it up, hit "redial," and waited for the same answering machine he'd gotten the previous nine tries.

This time a woman answered. "Elite Chauffeur Service."

"Yes, hi, I'm calling from the billing department at Vector Biogenics, and I'm showing an outstanding invoice from April nineteen."

"Just a minute, sir." She hammered on a ridiculously loud keyboard. "Yes, here it is. I show that it's been paid in full."

"This was the trip to the studio?"

"Yes, Quixote Studios. The limousine was booked through Mr. Kagan's office."

On the TV, Walker's booking photo appeared in the graphics box above the newscaster's shoulder. He walked over and clicked the volume back up. "That's the one. Apologies-I must have my records crossed."

"No problem, sir."

An attractive Asian reporter had filled the screen. "Tim Rackley, known as the Troubleshooter-"

"Oh, and one more thing," Walker said. "The driver we used last time, Mr. Kagan liked quite a bit. What was his name?"

"Chuck Hannigan."

He asked her to spell the last name, then asked, "Is Mr. Hannigan available today?"

"Oh, no. He's quite busy. He's available after six?"

Walker declined, thanked her, and hung up.

Looking a touch uncomfortable under the studio lighting, Tim Rackley spoke directly to the camera. He seemed to stare into the model house's family room and address Walker alone. "-message for Walker Jameson. I understand that you believe firmly in what you're doing. I have shared your motivation. We have information about your sister that impacts what you're trying to do."

To Tim's side the newslady couldn't contain her surprise-hot damn, a scoop unfolding right before her. Walker would bet his own face held an equal measure of shock.

The exploitation of Tess Jameson, take two.

Tim said, "I want you to contact me at the number below, anytime, day or night."

A 213 number popped on-screen like a telethon prompt.

Walker stepped in front of the TV, going face-to-face with the Troubleshooter. He might have been looking into a mirror.

"Careful what you wish for," he said.