Money to Burn

63

THE NOISE FROM INSIDE THE SIKORSKY MADE ME DO A DOUBLE TAKE. It sounded like a half ring from a cell phone after Eric dialed the pilot’s number. Eric and Olivia had heard it, too. The tinted glass was virtually opaque beneath the hangar lighting, making it impossible to see inside. Suddenly, the tinted glass door flew open. The sight of Ivy standing in the opening with a gun to her head-and Ian Burn behind her-sent chills down my spine.

“Nobody move,” said Burn.

The three of us froze.

Burn looked almost exactly the way I remembered him from our very first meeting at Sal’s Place. To hide the scar on his neck, he wore a black turtleneck beneath a black leather jacket with the collar turned up. A knit beanie covered the deformed right ear. The expression on his face was all business, no sign of panic. He nudged Ivy forward, and they stepped down from the helicopter to the concrete floor. I noticed that Ivy’s hands were fastened behind her back. More than that, I noticed the look in her eyes-a desperate need to tell me something.

I looked away, still wrestling with what Eric had told me back in the WhiteSands dining room-away from Olivia-about the woman I had married.

“You,” said Burn, speaking to Eric. “Step away from the others.”

As Eric moved closer to the hangar door, my phone rang-the cell that Ivy had given to me. It startled me, but I didn’t move. It was that funny double ring-the kind that announced a new voice-mail message. Somewhere between North Bergen and Somerset County a call had come through while my phone was either roaming or completely out of signal.

“Reach into your pocket slowly,” said Burn, “and take out the phone.”

I did as he told me.

“Who’s the voice mail from?”

I checked the display. The number was familiar, and it only took a moment for it to register in my mind. I’d seen it a dozen times just a few hours earlier at the Tonnelle Avenue motel, when scrolling through the call history on Mallory’s cell. The number was her friend Andrea.

And thanks to Ivy, I now knew that Andrea was FBI.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Apparently I was a lousy liar around loaded weapons; Burn clearly didn’t believe me.

“Put it on speaker and play the message,” he told me.

I retrieved the message and hit the speaker button. The message was almost ninety minutes old:

“Ivy, it’s Agent Henning. I tried your other cell and couldn’t reach you there either. I’m calling with a heads-up. After we talked, I checked all of my contacts to find out if Eric Volke had, in fact, told the FBI that Kyle McVee was behind the bear raid on Saxton Silvers and the murder of Chuck Bell. I know he claims to have informed everyone, but it turns out that he hasn’t said anything of the sort to anyone. He lied to you. So just be careful, and call me when you get this message.”

The message ended.

“That’s not true!” said Eric. “I did tell the FBI!”

Something was starting to smell rotten, and I was nowhere near Denmark.

“Quiet!” Burn shouted. “Put the phone on the floor and slide it over here. Slowly.”

Again, I obeyed.

“Now everybody hold still,” Burn said as he reached for his cell. “We have some distinguished guests to invite.”