Maybe

35

I PUSH THE door open and duck back behind the wall while Callie gets a view of the room. As the door starts to rebound and close I say, “Good to go?”

“Yes! Bathroom’s on the right.”

“Be careful!”

Before the door swings shut on its own, Callie pushes it again, and hurls herself past the open area that leads to the bathroom. It’s a thing of beauty, watching Callie fly through the air, gun in hand, ready to shoot whoever might be lying in wait. It’s a fraction of a second in real time, but when you do what we do, as long as we’ve done it, time stands still, giving a guy like me time to admire the athletic grace of a truly amazing killing machine like Callie Carpenter. It’s like watching Michael Jordan in his prime. You know you’re seeing something special, a once-in-a-generation talent.

I come in high, just behind her, running directly toward the bathroom, in case someone’s trying to draw a bead on Callie.

But no one’s there.

“Bedroom’s clear,” she says.

“Closet’s clear,” I say.

I wait for her to retrieve her purse from the hallway. She does, and re-enters the room and closes the door. I’m standing in front of the closed bathroom door. A sitting duck if Sam starts shooting.

I motion Callie to stand out of the line of fire.

She does, but says, “He’s being awfully quiet for a live guy.”

I call out, “Sam?”

“Before you go in,” Callie says, “I’d like to put some money on it.”

“You’re that sure he’s dead?”

“Yes.”

I think about it. Everything in my experience tells me Sam’s in the bathroom, lying in the tub, unconscious. Of course, this would mean he’s been unconscious a long, long time.

Highly unlikely.

But Callie said Maybe was cool as a cucumber when she left. Crimes of passion leave you edgy, and haggard. Not to mention if Maybe had blood on her clothing, Callie would’ve noticed.

“A hundred says Sam’s alive,” I say.

“A hundred grand?”

“No. A hundred dollars.”

“Make it five hundred,” she says.

“Fine.”

I turn the bathroom door handle, open the door.