Ortega was angry and afraid.



That he was afraid was what made him angry. Stupid CIA whore. He had a good setup in the United States. He did not want this pissed woman to pull strings with her government friends and have him deported.



He sighed. For the moment it was out of his hands. He could only turn to other business. It would not be professional to let other opportunities lapse just because he’d blown it with Meredith.



He spent an hour making phone calls, checking on his investments, overseeing several projects currently being carried out by underlings. He sent a bundle of cash in a brown paper bag to a detective sergeant with the Oklahoma City Police Department. The price of doing business. He looked at his schedule for the week. In a few days he would take his private jet to his other home, in San Antonio, where he would repeat the process of managing all of his local interests.



In short, he was on top of things.



Ortega turned his attention to the kill team he’d put together to eliminate the target in New Orleans. The men he sent were not subtle. They were vicious bar brawlers and street fighters. Not geniuses, but they were hard as nails and relentless.



And if they failed, then there were always the Sprats.



Little Miss Nikki Enders wouldn’t know what hit her.





21



Meredith Cornwall-Jenkins grinned wide, the Cayuse helicopter roaring through the shallow valley a mere ten feet above the scrub oaks. She had to admit it. The stick felt good in her hands. She’d missed the rush, the earth flashing past below.



She’d had to bully a young second lieutenant into clearing her to take the chopper without exactly going through all the proper channels. I need this bird now. You don’t want to interfere with a covert operation, do you? Think about it, son. This is your career on the line.



Yes, the Cayuse felt good in her hands. The skills were still sharp. Flying had never been the problem. She’d resigned her commission for other reasons.



Increasingly, the military intelligence brass had been asking for her by name when they needed a pilot for a special mission, dicey insertions, extractions from hot zones, dropping black ops agents into politically volatile regions, and once blasting the Iranian embassy to smithereens in Jordan. She began to wonder how she’d been fast-tracked for so many important missions.



Then she found out her father had been pulling strings, calling in favors, even getting her assigned to missions in which he was the lead agent. He’d been behind the scenes, orchestrating every move, and his own daughter hadn’t even known. She’d been so proud, had thought she was making it on her own, ROTC at Texas A&M, head of her class, one of only three women at army flight school. And here was her father invalidating all of her accomplishments.



She quit the army, spun her life in a completely different direction.



But now, zooming through the sky, she fantasized about getting back in again. Maybe she could look up some of her old army contacts. Or maybe she could give the FBI a call.



No. It would never work. Even from the grave, her father’s shadow would loom over everything she did. Former Company chums would come out of the woodwork to help the daughter of an old-timer. She could go freelance like Nikki, but that just wasn’t her style. She liked to be part of a team. At school she enjoyed working with the other faculty, choosing textbooks, chaperoning events, marching bad kids to detention.



She checked the GPS and adjusted her course. She’d used the information Nikki had given her, accessed state and federal databanks, surveyors’ maps, business licenses. She was looking for a cabin, a barn, and rows of grapevines. She’d plugged the longitude and latitude into the GPS, and she was getting close.



The helicopter cleared a ridge and swept past so quickly, Meredith almost missed the narrow valley tucked in between two hills. She circled back more slowly, spotted the barn and the cabin. A young boy ran among the grapevines.



She made a wide circle and lined up for a strafing run.



* * *



They’d already searched the front seat and backseat, finding only junk-food wrappers, an empty whiskey flask, an address book, and a used condom. Mike and Andrew Foley now stood looking into the open trunk of Enrique Mars’s Cadillac.



Andrew noted the various guns and other weapons and whistled. “Looks like Rambo’s junk drawer.”



“Gather this up,” Mike said. “It might come in handy.”



“Where are you going to dump the car?”



Mike said, “I’m thinking about it. Lots of back roads around here. We’ll take it out someplace this afternoon.”



Keone ran to within twenty feet of them and skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust. “Hey, boss.” He pointed over his shoulder at the sky. “Look.”



Andrew squinted into the sun, shaded his eyes with a hand. “Crop duster?”



“Listen,” Mike said. “Helicopter. I don’t think they use them to dust crops, at least not around here. It might be a police helicopter scouting for meth labs.” Hell, they might even be looking for Keone’s father. Mike had seen choppers in the distance before.



“Could that be trouble?”



“Just act nice and wave,” Mike said.



Keone ran skipping back into the grapes, jumping and waving at the helicopter.



Mike closed the Caddy’s trunk. “We’ll get this stuff later.”



Andrew yawned. “What now? We haven’t had any breakfast. I could go inside, put on some more coffee. You got eggs in there? I could do us some omelets.”



Mike wasn’t listening. He still watched the helicopter. He couldn’t see any markings in the sun’s glare, didn’t know if it was police or a news helicopter or what. It swung in low and got lower, lined up with Mike’s narrow valley. If it stayed on course, it would buzz the vineyard low and fast.



“What is it?” Andrew shaded his eyes again, took another look at the helicopter.



“I don’t know,” Mike said. “Maybe we better get inside. Maybe it’s—”



The machine guns on the aircraft thundered to life, the helicopter descending like hell from the sky.



* * *



Meredith trained her sights on anything moving, thumbed the fire button on the stick. The 20mm cannons screamed their song of death, lead shredding grapevines and pounding earth. The two by the parked cars dashed into the cabin.



She kept her thumb on the firing button, skimming low, and shot out the cabin’s front window, chewed up the door, wood chunks flying. She pulled up and banked at the last second, her left skid barely clearing the cabin’s chimney. She wanted to come around for another pass, and she flipped switches, arming the grenade launchers.



Her cell phone rang.



She kept one hand on the stick, fumbled for the phone with the other, and flipped it open. “Hello?”



“Hey, hon, it’s John.”



“Now’s not really a good time, babe.” She brought the helicopter around and popped two grenades through the roof of the little barn. It blew apart, a spectacular fireball crackup of flames and flying wood and billowing black smoke.



“What the hell was that?” John asked.



“I’m in a construction zone,” Meredith said. “They’re demolishing a building.”



“Well, drive careful, hon. Anyway, I wanted to ask about the dry cleaning. Did you use the place downtown or the other place by the mall?”



She was coming in too steep to get a good bead on the cabin, so she pulled up hard, hovered backward, and put the target in her crosshairs. The smoke from the exploded barn filled the sky, drifted in front of the Cayuse’s windshield, obscuring her vision. “The one by the mall.”



“Okay, one more question.”



“I’m serious, John. This is a bad time.”



“I’ll make it quick,” her husband promised. “I want to make a Crock-Pot of really hot chili. I know you don’t like it so I figured while you were gone—”



“Cut to the chase, John.” She flew in fast, shot two grenades into the cabin and veered away at a steep angle so she wouldn’t get caught in the blast. The cabin’s walls blew out, and the roof collapsed on the rubble.



“I can’t find the Crock-Pot, and I didn’t know if we had any ground beef in the freezer.”



“You’re a grown man, John. Figure it out. I have to merge into traffic. Love you.” She hung up, tossed the cell phone onto the other seat.



She grabbed some altitude and circled the area three times. She didn’t see anyone. The cabin smoked but didn’t burn like the barn. It was possible somebody had ducked under a table or something and survived. That’s all she needed was to blow the place to hell and back only to have the fire department show up and save her target. She needed a closer look.



Meredith brought the chopper down slow and steady and made a slow circle around the cabin. The rotor blades blew the smoke back and kicked up dust. She let the Cayuse drift a few feet from the cabin toward the barn. She was maybe eight feet off the ground. She scanned the tree line and the vine rows in case somebody was hiding, waiting for her to leave.



She considered what to do next. She was fairly confident nobody could survive the cabin or the barn’s destruction, but she had to be sure. She glanced around for a place to set down. Then she could get out with her sidearm and—



The cockpit erupted with shattered glass and the flurry of metallic tinks. Her instrument panel sparked. Smoke.



“Shit!”



It took a tenth of a second for her to recognize the jagged rattle of a submachine gun. She craned her neck, twisted in her seat, and tried to spot the shooter. She rotated the Cayuse, saw the man standing atop the ruined cabin, legs apart, the machine gun in his hands still spitting fire. At this range, a ten-year-old with a BB gun could bring her down.



She jerked back on the stick, climbed steeply, heading for the hill on the other side of the valley. She didn’t have the angle, clipped the branches of some scrub oaks. She topped the hill and saw a two-story house.



A black woman on the back porch stood with her hands up to her surprised face. She hit the deck when Meredith buzzed the house.



She made a ragged turn. The Cayuse was sluggish, handling poorly. The guy must’ve hit the hydraulic line or maybe some electronics or who the hell could say? She started going down, tried to keep the front up, but it was dead in her hands. Branches slapped the windshield. The ground rose up and introduced itself. There was an abrupt jerk and she hit her head and everything went dark.



* * *



Andrew Foley climbed through the rubble where the back door had been, just in time to see the chopper trailing smoke as it went down over the far ridge, his uncle holding the smoking machine gun.



When they’d first seen the helicopter and it had opened fire, they’d dashed into the house, and his uncle had thrown open the trapdoor in the floor. They’d jumped into the wine cellar. The explosion had blown the lightbulb dead and they squatted in the dark as all hell broke loose above.



Then his uncle had opened the chest, feeling his way in the dark. He climbed the ladder out of the cellar with the Thompson gun under his arm.



Andrew stood next to his uncle now, a revolver in his hand. He’d taken it from the chest. He scanned the vineyard, the barn. It looked like something from a D-day movie, the blasted landscape and thick smoke. It stung his eyes.



He pointed at the ridge where the helicopter had disappeared. “Did you do that?”



Mike ignored the question. “Keone.”



He ran for the vineyard and Andrew followed. Half the rows were ruined. Others still stood. It didn’t take long to find him. Mike knelt slowly, gathered the boy into his arms. Andrew shivered. It looked like a bullet— a big bullet— had entered his lower back and burst through his belly. He looked at the boy’s face. If not for the blood, it would look simply like Keone was sleeping.



Mike stood, checked the load on the Thompson. It was empty. He dropped the gun and turned to Andrew. “Give me that pistol.”



The look on his uncle’s face made him take a step back. “What are you going to—”



“I said give me the pistol.”



Andrew handed him the revolver.



“Stay here.” Mike walked in the direction of the ridge.



Andrew took a tentative step after him. “Maybe I should come too. I can—”



“Stay.”



He walked with long, deliberate steps, the gun in his hand swinging at his side.





PART THREE







22



Mike marched up the ridge. Part of his brain registered the steep climb, the ache in his knees and back. Sweat poured down his neck. His heart hammered in his chest.



Something white-hot behind his eyes blinded him to the pain, commanded his knees and heart to obey. He walked in a perfect straight line to the wrecked chopper, the hate humming through his body like an electric current. It buzzed hot in his ears, tingled his fingertips where he held the revolver. The roar of blood pulsing in his veins was the sound track of his fury.



He topped the ridge, headed down. There was a scar in the ground where the chopper had crash-landed. A second later he saw it smacked up against the thick trunk of an oak. The tail was bent, rotor blades snapped off.



Some instinct kicked in. Mike brought the pistol up, approached slowly, trying to walk quietly. He listened for movement, scanned the area. From this angle, he couldn’t tell if the pilot was still in the cockpit or out in the open waiting to jump him. He noticed the US Army markings on the side of the helicopter.



He circled wide, saw the pilot slumped forward. It was a woman. He took this in merely as information. He was fully prepared to kill man or woman alike. He opened the door on the passenger side, reached across, and pushed her back in the seat. A shallow gash on her forehead bled into her left eye.



Mike checked the cockpit, found a purse and a cell phone. He took them. He also found a photo of his nephew. There could be no doubt now that this woman had come to erase Andrew from the face of the earth.



The woman groaned. Her eyes flickered open. She pawed at her eye, wiped the blood away.



Mike checked the purse. Military ID. Also a Kansas driver’s license. Meredith Cornwall-Jenkins.



“Hey,” said Meredith Cornwall-Jenkins. Groggy. “Hey. I need some…I need some help.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Ambulance.”



Mike held up the picture of his nephew. “Why does the US Army want to kill Andrew Foley?”



“Dammit, I’m hurt here.” Her head was clearing now. She took stock of her injuries. “Get a doctor.”



Mike leaned into the cockpit, raised the pistol, and shot her kneecap. Blood sprayed over the instruments and windshield. Meredith screamed horror, surprise, and pain all mixed together. She clamped both hands over the wound, blood squirting between her fingers. “Jesus!”




Mike looked down at his pistol. It was the .32. He remembered carrying it from the old days, but he hadn’t remembered what a corny little pop it made.



“You old f-fucker.” Sweat on her face. She grew pale, then tilted forward abruptly and vomited. The smell rose and mingled with the blood and smoke and fuel leaking from the chopper’s engine.



Mike thumbed the hammer back on the revolver, pointed it at Meredith’s face. “I asked you a question.”



“N-not the army, you idiot.” She blew vomit residue from her lips, spit. A line of drool flopped over her chin.



“Then who?”



“Goddammit! Pull me out of here before that fuel leak catches.”



Mike dropped his aim and blasted a hole in her heel.



She shrieked again, squeezed her eyes shut. Tears. “Oh…bastard.”



Mike thumbed the hammer back again, but didn’t feel confident. This wasn’t working. Tough lady. He had to think of something else. He remembered he was still holding the purse, opened it, pulled out Meredith’s wallet.



She coughed, spit again. “What are you doing?” She seemed to be fighting to stay conscious.



He opened the wallet, flipped past credit cards and found a picture. He held it up for Meredith to see. “Who’s this? Mr. Hired Killer?”



“It’s nobody,” she said quickly.



Mike examined the picture. A man in his middle thirties, Robert Redford good looks. “Maybe I should go see this guy. Maybe we should have a talk.”



“Pull me out of here, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”



Mike kept flipping through the wallet. “Your address is on your license. And here are some phone numbers. One says John at work. Is that his name? John?”



“You do a thing to him, and I’ll hurt you like you wouldn’t believe.”



“I can believe it,” Mike said. “You’d be surprised. I think somebody in your line of work knows all the imaginative things that can be done with piano wire. Or even a simple pair of pliers.”



“Don’t hurt him.” A hint of a plea in her voice.



“Who ordered the hit on Andrew Foley?”



“Get me out and I’ll tell you.”



Mike shook the wallet at her. “I’ll kill him! I’ll cut out his eyes and his tongue and his liver, then I’ll fucking kill him.”



“Don’t!”



“Who ordered the hit?”



“My sister!” She sobbed, gasped for air. “It was my sister.”



Mike blinked. Her sister? “What are you talking about?”



In his peripheral vision, Mike caught a flicker of orange. Something had sparked, more smoke from the engine. Flames.



Mike clutched Meredith’s purse and cell phone and backed away from the chopper.



“Wait!” Panic in her eyes. “Pull me out!”



A sharp hiss from the engine, a pop, then a belch of fire from the back of the chopper. Heat washed over Mike, blew him back. He scrambled to his feet and ran from the chopper.



Meredith screamed.



Another small pop, then an explosion. Fiery debris flew in all directions. Mike hit the ground, covered his head with his arms. A chunk of charred metal the size of a doormat landed two feet from him. When he looked back, fire had completely engulfed the chopper.



Mike stood, brushed himself off. At this distance, he still felt the heat of the flaming helicopter and backed away a half-dozen steps. He watched the fire and regretted that he’d left the woman inside to burn to death.



He’d planned to shoot her in the head.



* * *



When he returned to the vineyard, simmering rage, the immediate need for blood had subsided. He now felt the aches. Each step was agony in his knees. He tried to remember if he still had any Bengay in the medicine cabinet. His shirt was soaked with sweat.



Although his bloodlust had subsided, his mind-set was the same. Mike’s make-believe life had been swept away by fire. The vineyard had only been the window dressing of his pretense. The real charade had been in his heart and soul, in the belief that he was anything other than a killer. Dan had tried to tell him. It had taken Mike forty years to see that his brother was right.



So if he was a killer, then he would kill. He would stalk and find the ones who deserved it.



Linda and Andrew were waiting for him. They’d wrapped Keone’s body in a dull green blanket. Linda’s eyes were red, cheeks wet. He looked beyond them to the cabin. Now it too was burning.



“It must have been the gas line or something,” Andrew said. “It just started two minutes ago.”



Mike shook his head, said nothing. He looked at his truck. The windows had been blown out. The entire side of the truck facing the cabin had been scorched black.



Linda stepped close to Mike, put a hand on his arm. “You okay?”



Mike nodded.



“What happened out there?”



“I took care of it.” Mike noticed that the Cadillac hadn’t been damaged. He felt in his pockets, found the keys.



“Come back up to my place,” Linda said. “I sure as hell don’t want to be the one to do it, but someone needs to call Keone’s folks.”



“I don’t know the number,” Mike said.



“What? How can you not know?”



“I said I don’t know it.”



“That’s impossible.” She crossed her arms, frowned. “He’s only twelve. You’re telling me his parents let him work here all summer and didn’t leave a number? That’s ridiculous. You must have some kind of—”



“Linda!”



She started, took a step back.



“I don’t know, okay? He showed up for work, and I paid him. His folks live in a trailer. I’ve never been there. I don’t even know if they have a phone.”



She burst into tears again, sobbed quietly. The three of them stood around the body, not talking. A stiff breeze blew smoke past them. The crackle of fire.



Finally, Mike said, “Linda, can Andrew stay with you a few days? I have to take care of something.”



“What? Where are you going?”



“Can he stay with you or not?”



She hesitated only a second. “Yes.”



Mike went to the Caddy, climbed in behind the wheel, stuck the key into the ignition.



Andrew ran to the driver’s side, put his hands on the door. “Whoa. Wait a minute. You’re just taking off?”



“I have to,” Mike said. “They’ll keep sending killers until the job is done. I have to go finish this now. I have to take the initiative, or we don’t have any advantage at all.”



“I’ll come with you. I can help.”



“This isn’t for people like you,” Mike said. “It’s for men like me. Stay with Linda.” He cranked the Caddy.



Andrew stepped away from the car. He looked like he was in shock. He looked lost.



Mike drove away, didn’t look back. Blood had started this, and there would be more blood to finish it.





23



Nikki Enders hung up the phone and bit her thumbnail. Middle Sister wasn’t answering her phone. She sat with one leg dangling over an arm of the big overstuffed chair beneath the ever-watchful eye of her father’s portrait in the library. When Mother finally passed on to that great knitting circle in the sky, Nikki fully intended to remove the portrait and hide it in the farthest reaches of some dark closet. Daddy’s portrait had an Edgar Allan Poe quality about it. Sometimes he seemed to grimace in disapproval. Other times he seemed to sport a slight Mona Lisa smile as if he kept some smug secret.



“I’m worried about Middle Sister, Daddy,” Nikki said to the portrait. “I used her. Just like you used to do. I used her to finish a job I was too chickenshit to finish myself.” She drank the rest of her coffee. It was her seventh cup.



Nikki no longer bought into the fiction of her injury. Yes, her wrist had been banged up pretty badly, but she’d completed more difficult assignments with worse injuries.



Now Middle Sister. Why didn’t she answer her phone?



The library was dim and quiet, only a small reading lamp casting a dirty yellow glow. A light rain beat a slow rhythm against the windows. The weather service had predicted it would get worse. A tropical storm in the Gulf of Mexico would soak New Orleans with a few days of heavy thunderstorms. Nikki let her thoughts drift, bit her nails, listened to the wind and rain and the gentle creak of the large old house.



On the wall near the library door a red light blinked, accompanied by a gentle, inoffensive buzz. Nikki came to attention, sprang from the chair, and went to a panel set in the wall under the light. She slid the panel back, revealing a floor plan of the mansion. A tiny green light indicated a secure door or window. A flashing red light indicated a security breach.



An upstairs window blinked red, a bedroom at the other end of the hall from Mother’s. Some unwitting burglar was about to get the surprise of his life. Nikki would need to make her way to the gun locker in the special anteroom just off the kitchen. At one time there had been a pistol secreted someplace in every room in the house, but with Mother in her current condition it wasn’t safe, and all the firearms had been gathered into two locations, one locker downstairs and another one upstairs.



Nikki would grab a small automatic from the downstairs locker, then teach this burglar a thing or two about—



Another red light blinked to life. A window in a downstairs hall. It cut her off from the gun locker. Shit. A third blinking light. Upstairs bathroom. This wasn’t a burglary.



It was a hit.



Her eyes spun around the library, searching. She saw the cavalry saber under Daddy’s portrait, grabbed it, drew the blade, and tossed the scabbard aside. She swung it side to side, getting a feel for the weight and balance. Her mother’s tutoring sessions flooded back. She reminded herself this wasn’t tournament fencing. She’d be going for kill strikes.



Nikki kicked off her house shoes, peeled off her socks. She jogged down the dark hall toward the gun locker, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor, eyes scanning the shadows for the intruders. She heard the door from the kitchen creak open, and she shrank into the darkness between a potted palm and a china cabinet. Movement, two figures from the doorway into the hall, their wide forms barely visible in the nearly complete darkness. The lead figure held something out in front of him. A gun.



They tried to move quietly, heavy boots, rainwater dripping from soaked clothing.



Nikki waited for the first intruder to pass her hiding place, then leapt up between them. She kicked the knee of the second man as she thrust the sword into the first. The blade slid deep, and the man grunted, gurgling blood and pitching forward. She spun back on the second man, jammed the heel of her palm into his nose. Cartilage snapped, and warm blood sprayed on her hand. Nikki finished him off by bringing the hilt of the sword down hard on the top of his head.



She felt along the floor for the first man’s dropped gun, couldn’t find it in the dark. Nikki couldn’t spare any more time searching. She forgot the gun, sprinted up the stairs, sword in front of her.



At the landing at the top of the stairs, she found three more. The light was better here, streetlamps leaking in through the big, rain-streaked windows. Wide-bodied toughs, jeans, dark T-shirts. Nikki swung at the first one as they turned to face her, lopping off his gun hand at the wrist. The clenched fist rolled down the stairs, still clutching the revolver. He screamed, stumbled back, holding his arm, blood pulsing out.



She didn’t have time to admire the carnage. The other two were already lifting their pistols.



She swept the sword back, and the blade bit deep between neck and shoulder. He dropped his gun and went down, but the blade lodged fast in bone. Nikki had to let go of the sword. She stepped in close to the final thug, so his shot went past her. She locked on to his wrist, twisted, and he dropped his gun too. She punched him in the gut, then the face. He backed up, pulled a knife, and came at her, thrusting wildly. She dropped to the floor and swept his legs. He landed hard on his back, the air whuffing out of him. She bent over him, grabbed his head and chin, jerked sharply, and was rewarded with a sharp crack.



The attacker with the severed hand darted past her. Nikki went to one knee, pried the knife from the hand of the man whose neck she’d broken. She stood, threw the knife. It flipped end over end, burying itself in the back of the fleeing intruder. He yelled, went stiff for a moment, then tumbled forward and bounced down the stairs before finally landing in a heap at the bottom.



Nikki rushed to her mother’s room, flung the door open. “Mother? Are you okay?”



“I’m fine.” Her mother searched through the top drawer of her dresser. “I need another pair of knitting needles. My other ones are soiled.”



Nikki looked in the corner of the room. A dead man on his back, a knitting needle driven into each eye, all the way back through the brain. Nikki winced. “Stay here, Mother. I need to check the rest of the house.”



Halfway down the stairs, she picked up the severed hand and relieved it of the revolver. She checked the load and methodically searched the rest of the mansion. No more intruders.



She went back to her mother’s room, found the eerily calm woman in a rocking chair, a new clean pair of needles clicking away at her scarf.



Althea appeared at the door. She wore a heavy yellow robe, bedroom slippers. “Miss Nikki, there’s a big mess of dead bodies out here. You want me to call the police or shall I fire up the big basement furnace?”



Nikki said, “Get the furnace going, Althea. I’ll help you put in the bodies when it’s ready.”



She went back to the library, cleaned the sword on her shirt, and put it back on the mantel. “Thanks for lending me your sword, Daddy.”



She looked back, and saw her footprints in blood leading into the library. At some point during the fight, she’d stepped in a puddle of somebody’s blood. She grabbed the rum bottle, tossed the coffee into a nearby fern, and refilled the mug with rum.



Her hands shook.



Nikki had made countless enemies, but who could know she was here? Who had the means and motive to find and eliminate her? Only the man with the voice. She tossed back the rum. It burned. She coughed, wiped her mouth.



But these men had been no threat. Now that Nikki had the chance to think about it calmly, she realized the men had been laughingly easy to kill. Did the man with the voice really believe these third-rate thugs had a chance to take her? It didn’t make sense.



Still, somebody wanted her dead, and maybe the next hit squad would be more confident. Nikki decided she needed help, somebody to watch her back. And it had to be someone she could trust. Family. But Middle Sister wasn’t answering her phone.



She poured another drink, considered her options. Could she possibly, did she dare, give Baby Sister a call?



Baby Sister was family, but she was also a loose cannon. Baby Sister frightened Nikki sometimes. There was something in the eighteen-year-old hellion that delighted in pain and cruelty. Baby Sister was the reason they’d given up on family pets.



But there was no alternative. Nikki needed a sidekick, and Baby Sister was the only choice available.



Tomorrow morning Nikki would call the asylum.





24



Mike Foley didn’t get far. He didn’t know where he was going.



He couldn’t drive the Caddy with one eye closed anymore. One side of his face was cramping. Both eyes open didn’t work either. Everything went all fuzzy. He hadn’t recovered from the whack in the head Enrique Mars had given him.



So Mike had pulled into a Wal-Mart an hour south of Tulsa, purchased gauze and surgical tape, and taped his bad eye closed. Now it would stay shut without him having to think about it. He didn’t like the way the tape looked, so he bought a black eye patch to go over the tape. He also bought a tube of Bengay.



Back on the road, he caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.



He drove another hour but had to give it up. His shoulders were tight, and he was finally feeling the hike to the helicopter and back. His knees and lower back were screaming. He pulled into a La Quinta Inn and got himself a nonsmoking room. He rubbed the Bengay into his neck and knees and lay flat on the bed in his boxer shorts for an hour and a half.



He got up and dressed, his knees only marginally better. He went across the street, purchased a meatball sub and a Pepsi and took them back to his room. While he ate, he went over what he’d taken from Meredith Cornwall-Jenkins and Enrique Mars.



Mike had trouble with what he found in the woman’s purse. Was he reading this right? Was she a schoolteacher? The contact numbers for her school and principal were in her purse. Also, a list of substitute teachers and home numbers in case she was absent. A teacher’s union card. Parent-teacher conferences penciled into her schedule book. Was this some kind of cover identity?



He set the purse aside and picked up her cell phone. He scrolled through the recent calls, jotted the numbers down on a La Quinta notepad.



Enrique Mars’s possessions were less revealing. Two credit cars, Visa and Discover. No cash. No business cards. No personal photos. The appointment book didn’t at first seem any more helpful. Names and dates and phone numbers, none of which stuck out as significant.



He showered, let hot water strike his back until it turned cold. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror while he was drying off. Dark circles under his eyes. His white stubble came in like a light coat of frosting. He wished he’d thought to buy a razor at Wal-Mart. He sat on the bed and rubbed more Bengay into his knees.



He spread Mars’s and Meredith’s belongings across the bed. It took about an hour to find it. But after comparing all the phone numbers, Meredith and Enrique had only one in common. A man named Louis Ortega. And Mars’s appointment book even had an address listed.



Mike turned out the light and got a good night’s sleep. In the morning, he checked out of the La Quinta Inn and pointed the Cadillac toward Oklahoma City.





25



Elizabeth “Lizzy” Cornwall was a real piece of work. Clear, Goth white skin, a shock of hot pink hair sticking out in all directions. A silver ring in her nose connected to another near her eye by a thin silver chain. Deep burgundy lipstick. A tattoo of a thorny vine around her neck. She wore a black T-shirt, ripped jeans, and combat boots.



She sat at a table, popping potato chips into her mouth and crunching loudly.



The table and two chairs were the stark white room’s only furnishings. A second later, a man entered, bland and sallow, thinning, sandy hair. A brown suit. Round glasses. He sat in the chair across from Lizzy with a felt tip pen and a clipboard.



“Good morning, Elizabeth.”



“Good morning to you, Dr. Bryant.” She popped another chip into her mouth. Crunch.



“And how are you?” Bryant asked. “I’m told you assaulted one of the orderlies and took his cigarettes.”



“Yup.”



“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” Bryant scribbled on the clipboard. “I mean, it’s just that I thought we were making progress.”



“Did you?” Crunch.



“You broke Brad’s jaw. I mean, that’s just uncalled-for. Honestly. If you’d asked, I’m sure he’d have given you a cigarette.”



“If you’re going to have an entire ward for patients with violence and anger problems, you really should have tougher orderlies.”



“Brad is six-foot-four. He wrestled for Louisiana State.”



“He smokes menthol cigarettes,” Lizzy said. “He’s a sissy.”



“Are you unhappy here? Is that it? Is there anything you want?”



Lizzy said, “All I want, Dr. Bryant, is to eat Lay’s Kettle Cooked Jalapeńo chips and to kill you.” Crunch.



Bryant squirmed in his chair, tugged his tie loose. “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “You might not have to worry about me or the institute any longer. Your sister is here to sign for your release.”



Lizzy froze, a potato chip halfway to her mouth. “I’m getting out?”



“Possibly,” Bryant said. “Your sister wants to have a word with you first.” He stood, tucked the clipboard under his arm and the pen into a shirt pocket. He backed toward the door, reached behind him, and knocked, always keeping his eyes on the ferocious girl with the pink hair.



“Personally, I think you should go. I’ve really tried my best, you know? Honestly. You don’t want to get better.” He scuttled through the door and shut it quickly behind him.



Lizzy wasn’t listening. She was thinking about getting out. It had been eight months since her sisters had dumped her into this cushy, overpriced loony bin. Admittedly, she had been blind with rage and out of control. Eight months of therapy had told her what she already knew. She hated her dead father, resented her addle-brained mother, and absolutely despised her sisters.



Lizzy Cornwall was eighteen years old. Mother and Father had decided to have her late in life. A feeble attempt to bring something warm and familial to a marriage that had gone cold and platonic. It hadn’t worked.



Father had nearly always been gone, off somewhere, subverting a Third World government or pulling the plug on uncooperative dictators. When home, he seemed to regard her as this thing always underfoot, this eating, sleeping, playing obligation. His perfunctory attentions were stiff and formal. Hello, Daughter, how was school today? What? A problem with a teacher? Ask your mother about that.



And if Father was cold and distant, then Mother smothered her. With Lizzy’s sisters grown and gone from the house, and Father off to unknown corners of the globe, Mother had made Lizzy her twenty-four-hour-a-day project. It somehow became Lizzy’s job to fill Mother’s time and mute her heavy gray loneliness. When Lizzy should have been playing dolls with the neighborhood kids, she was instead learning to throw knives or listening to her mother cry long into the night.



The Garden District mansion was the real asylum, dark and eerily quiet except for her mother’s sobs echoing through the cold halls. She was a little girl. It hadn’t been fair. She wanted to run in the park. She wanted to play dress-up and get into Mother’s makeup.



Her mother’s crushing loneliness became her own.



Lizzy pushed the bag of potato chips away, sat in the white room. The quiet was so heavy, it pushed at her from all sides, squeezed her, mashed the air out of her. She recognized what was happening, fell into the breathing exercises she’d learned the first weeks in the institute. She closed her eyes, searched for her safe place.



The sound of the door creaking open jerked her from her reverie. She opened her eyes.



Big Sister walked in, sat in the chair across from her, arms crossed. They didn’t say anything for a few seconds.



Nikki pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. Unfiltered Camels. She slid them across the table to Lizzy. “I heard you had some trouble getting smokes.”



Lizzy opened the pack, shook one out, and popped it into her mouth. “Got a light?”



“Nope.”



Lizzy sighed, stuck the cigarette behind her ear. “Am I getting out or not?”



“That depends on you, doesn’t it?”



“You mean, will I keep my hands to myself and play well with others?”



“That’s exactly what I mean.”



Lizzy cocked her head, looked at the ceiling, and bit a thumbnail. There was something going on here. It didn’t seem likely that Big Sister was suddenly lonely for her company. “What do you want?”



“What do you mean?”



Lizzy made a don’t jerk me around face. “I’ve been safely out of the way for eight months. Crazy, pain-in-the-ass Baby Sister under lock and key in the booby hatch. Nobody in the family need get their hands dirty. The polite doctors in the white coats will handle everything. But now here you are. You need me for something.”



“Okay, sure. I need you for something.”



“At least you admit it.”



Nikki said, “Let me sign you out, and I’ll fill you in on the way home.”



“You just toss me in here to rot, and now I’m supposed to be grateful that you’re going to get me out so I can do some dirty job for you?” Lizzy wanted out. Desperately. But she had some pride too. She didn’t like being shoved around. That’s always how it had been. Shut up and toe the line, Baby Sister. You’re the youngest. Don’t ask questions. Don’t sass back.



Fuck that. Somehow, she was going to get some control over her life again.



Nikki sighed. “Better in here than in jail, Lizzy.”



“The judge said six months of therapy,” Lizzy said. “You kept me in here another two months for some extra help.” Lizzy made air quotes around the words extra help with her fingers.



“You killed a man.”



“It was self-defense.”



Nikki nodded. “Yes. That’s right. I know it was. But you stabbed him twenty-two times. The police thought it excessive.”



“H-he put his hands on me.” Lizzy’s hands balled into fists. Something savage flashed in her eyes. “He got what he deserved. Filthy little—”



“You were running away from home,” Nikki reminded her. “You were running away and down a dark alley, then suddenly this man is dead at your feet with a knife sticking out of him.”



“I was not running away,” Lizzy flared. “When you’re ten you run away. When you’re an adult it’s just leaving. I was leaving. What did you think? Did you think I was going to stay at home forever, sitting there looking into Mother’s vacant eyes and watching her knit until hell froze over? I had to get out of there. I had to find some kind of life. And you and Meredith just left me there. You left me. Alone in that house with Mother. Even Dad got to die!” She realized she was standing, fists so tight her fingernails dug into her palms, drew blood. She trembled all over.



“You see?” Nikki said. “Look at you. You fly off without warning. You remember doing that in court? Remember what the judge said?”



“Fuck you.”



“It was the institute or jail. We were looking out for you.”



“Just get me out of here,” Lizzy said. “Get me out and I’ll do whatever you want.” But when your back is turned, you can kiss my ass good-bye.



* * *



The institute was in a wooded area on a small lake in Slidell, and the drive back to New Orleans was wet and gray. Nikki drove her mother’s Bentley. The windshield wipers slapped a hypnotic rhythm. The radio weatherman assured listeners that the real heavy stuff was still stewing over the Gulf but would arrive soon.



The weather seemed to match the mood of the girl slumped in the passenger seat. Baby Sister was a brooding enigma. What sort of disturbed thoughts lurked behind those dark eyes, Nikki could only guess. But Lizzy had been right about one thing. Nikki and Meredith had left her alone to look after Mother. They’d ditched her. Why worry that Mother was knocking around in a great, empty house? Lizzy was there. Lizzy would keep her company. As if Baby Sister were some sort of accessory they’d purchased online as a companion for an old lady. That alone might drive the girl bonkers. It certainly explained— at least in part— the anger.



Apologies would have to come later. Sometime in the unknown future they might go on some women’s get-in-touch-with-your-feelings retreat and Nikki and Lizzy could have some sort of warm and fuzzy moment of healing and they could go on Dr. Phil and everything could be candy and roses.



But not today.



Today they had to shove their differences aside. They had to watch each other’s backs. It was time for family to come together. There was a bond. A family bond of blood, and such a bond superseded any petty differences she and her sister might have had in the past. Now Nikki just needed to explain all that shit in a way that seemed believable.



She told it to Lizzy like a little story, didn’t rush it, left in all the gory details, didn’t try to embellish or gloss over anything. The job she’d taken to erase these guys in New York, how one had fled to Oklahoma, the wrist injury, Nikki’s own nagging doubts about her place in the world and how she needed a life change. The only part that was hard to tell was about Meredith. Nikki felt guilty she’d bullied Middle Sister into doing her dirty work, felt frightened that there had been no word from Meredith since Nikki had sent her into the line of fire.



The more Nikki tried to tie up these final loose ends so she could get on with her new life, the more the loose ends frayed and unraveled and became a tangled mess.



Nikki ended her account with the break-in by the thugs who’d tried to kill her. “That’s why I came to get you. I needed somebody I could trust.”



“I’m not interested in being your bodyguard,” Lizzy said.



“I don’t need a bodyguard,” Nikki said. “I need a sister.” A sister who can hack a man’s heart out with a shrimp fork.



The silence stretched. The gray sky deepened to black. A storm was coming.



“I guess I should get out to Oklahoma then,” Lizzy said.



Nikki blinked. “What?”



“Somebody should find Meredith,” Lizzy said.



“No, that’s not— you can’t just run off to—”



“You said family has to stick together.”



Nikki shook her head. “That not what I meant. I didn’t—”



“What was all that you said about being sisters? Who’s going to look out for Meredith? You said it. We’re sisters. What if she needs help?”



Nikki opened her mouth, shut it again, shook her head. Was that a little smug smile on Baby Sister’s face?



Goddamn little girl.



* * *



Jack Sprat followed the Bentley west on I-10 to New Orleans. He kept well back, always just on the edge of losing her. Ortega had told him the first kill team had bought the farm, and he was damned if he and the missus would go in until he got some more information. The woman had killed six street-tough men. One tough Sheila. At least the men were assumed killed. Nobody had seen any sign of them. Who was this lady?



Louis Ortega had admitted he didn’t know, but considering the source of the contract, it should be assumed the woman was dangerous.



No shit, thought Goldberg.



Even as Sprat followed Nikki, Mavis cased the house, finding out about alarms, trying to get a read on who else might be in there. When they went in, they were going to do it smart.



Sprat had always been careful. As a kid he’d been a runt. Picked on. Pushed around. He had to be smart. He used his brains because he had no brawn. He’d done a stretch for armed robbery, and brains had saved his hide in the clink. He was good at heights and climbing in through little windows. At five-foot-five he was still a short guy, but he was also a tight wad of sinewy muscle. His nose was flat from too many jailhouse fights. Knuckles swollen and scarred. His shaved head was hard as granite. But each fight had taught him something, how to move, when to duck, when to strike. And he could put a knife between your eyes from fifty paces.



No amount of muscle was better than his brain. He’s seen a lot of strong, tough guys go down for being stupid. Sprat was too smart to underestimate Nikki Enders. He knew strong, tough guys who’d underestimated women too. Men who’d underestimated Mavis had lost teeth.



Such a good old gal, Mavis. Maybe he’d take the money from this job and take her on a proper holiday.





26



The Cadillac needed two more tanks of gas before Oklahoma City finally swelled into view on the horizon. Mike Foley pulled into a convenience store, used the bathroom, and bought a bottle of orange Gatorade. He changed the tape and gauze under his eye patch. He looked up Louis Ortega in the phone book, scribbled down the address, but had to go to another convenience store to purchase a map of the city.



Mike realized he didn’t look right. Jeans, hiking boots, checkered short-sleeved shirt. Standard Okie ranch wear. When he’d been a hired gun back in the day, the right image was nearly as important as a clean pistol.



He took the first exit once he hit downtown, zigzagged the streets until he spotted a men’s clothing store. He parked, went inside.



All the other customers were black. The first suits he saw hanging on the rack were yellow, blue, red, and purple. But it didn’t take long to find what he wanted, a black suit. He found a white shirt and black wing tips in his size. Black socks. He picked out two ties. One solid black. The other black and red paisley. He took them up to the counter, told the salesclerk, “I want to wear these out.”



“Got to pay for ’em first.”



“Okay.”



The clerk rang up the clothing, and Mike paid with his American Express.



“Changing room in back,” the clerk said.



Mike changed into the suit. It was a bit loose but not bad. The pant legs were short too, but not enough to worry about. He put on the paisley tie. He went back out to the clerk and asked how he looked.



“Like an undertaker,” the clerk said.



Perfect.



On the way out he saw a mannequin wearing a black pork pie hat with a yellow feather in the band. He took it from the mannequin’s head and plucked out the yellow feather. He returned to the counter and paid for it. It fit snugly on his head.



Back on the road, he headed for Ortega’s neighborhood. He felt good in the suit. He was starting to remember who he’d been.



Louis Ortega’s house was in an expensive development on the south side of the city, a golf course, lake, trees, Land Rovers and Audis and other expensive cars in the driveways.



He found Ortega’s house, parked across the street, and watched. He ate a bag of pistachio nuts he’d bought at the second convenience store.



Ortega’s home was a sprawling two-story affair with a tile roof. Stucco wall with a gate of twisted iron bars. The whole thing was meant to resemble a Spanish villa. Black Mercedes SUV in the driveway.



Mike crunched pistachios, tried to estimate what sort of man Ortega was. He’d sent Enrique Mars to kill Andrew Foley. Mike thought about Mars. When Mike had been young and fresh, a thug like Mars would not have given him much trouble. If that’s the sort of muscle Ortega had on his roster, then Mike judged Ortega to be a regional player at best.



But Ortega had also sent Meredith Cornwall-Jenkins. She was tougher, a smoother operator who somehow had access to an army helicopter. Government connections. That put her in a whole different league than Mars. It didn’t fit with Mike’s appraisal of Ortega.



In the old days, in his old neighborhood, he could have called some people, asked some questions, gotten the skinny, called in favors. Now he was in a strange town with no friends. Mike didn’t really know shit about Ortega and couldn’t think of a way to find out.



And he was out of pistachio nuts.



He got out of the Caddy, opened the trunk. He’d decided on the direct approach and needed to take along the right playthings. He stuck a revolver in his waistband, buttoned his jacket over it.



He went to the front gate, rang the buzzer next to the intercom.



“Yes?” A woman’s voice, slight Spanish accent.



“I want to speak to Louis Ortega.”



“This is his residence,” the voice said. “Appointments should call his business office.”



“Tell him I have a message from Enrique Mars.”



A long silence. Mike figured he’d struck out and turned back toward the Caddy. Then he heard a high-pitched buzz. The gate clicked open. He pushed through, walked up the driveway to the front door. A woman let him in, gray maid’s uniform. She was young, black hair in a tight ponytail. She led him through an elegant living room, earth tones and mirrors, down a long hall where a big guy in a green jogging suit waited. He had bodyguard written all over him, stoic expression, shoulders you could park a Jeep on. The bulge in his jogging suit under his left arm said gun. Only the leather sandals seemed out of place. To Mike, it was hard to appear intimidating when people could see your toes.



The maid left and the big guy started frisking Mike under the arms.



“It’s in my waistband,” Mike said.



The bodyguard reached under Mike’s jacket and took the revolver, stuck it in his own waistband while he finished the frisk.



“Okay,” the bodyguard said. “This way.”



He opened the door. Mike was surprised. He’d expected an office or den on the other side. He was half right. Bookshelves lined one wall. A desk. Large-screen TV. A bar. On the right, the room opened up to the outdoors. Big French doors flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, a kidney-shaped swimming pool. Well-manicured landscaping.



They circled the pool to a gazebo on the other side. A well-dressed man sat at a table, a folded newspaper in his lap. A pitcher of something on the table next to a glass. Margaritas. A thick cigar smoldering in an ashtray.



“I am Louis Ortega.” He was smartly dressed, tan slacks, Italian loafers, a gold pinky ring with a ruby the size of a marble. A blue silk shirt open to the chest. A hundred-dollar haircut. “Who are you?”



The bodyguard loomed directly behind Mike. Good. Stay right there. Mike pictured the sandals, his pistol stuck in the bodyguard’s waistband. “I’m Mike Foley.”



It took a second, but then the name Foley registered in Ortega’s eyes. “You are the father?”



“The uncle.”



Ortega nodded. “You said you had a message from Enrique Mars.”



“The message is that he’s dead and will see you in hell.”



Ortega refused to be rattled. “Uh-huh. Yes, very colorful. What is it you want, Mr. Foley?”



“I need you to answer some questions.”



“And what if I’m not in the mood to answer your questions?”



Mike said, “Then you’ll see your pal Enrique sooner than planned.”



A bemused smile from Ortega. “You are in no position to make threats, old-timer. My man Pedro behind you can bench-press a Buick.”



“Maybe,” Mike said. “But he wears sandals.”



Mike lifted his leg and brought the heel of his new wing tip down hard with everything he had. He felt the bodyguard’s little toe pop and flatten like a mashed ketchup packet. The big bruiser sucked air, his eyes going wide. There was a fraction of a second when all three men froze. Then the big guy screamed, tumbled down, grabbing for his foot.



As the bodyguard dropped, Mike snatched his pistol from the bruiser’s waistband. He thumbed the hammer back, spun toward Ortega.



But Ortega had overturned the table, scattered coffee cups. He was running back toward his house. Mike tried to follow, but something caught his ankle. Mike looked down, saw the bloody splotch where the toe had exploded. He also saw the bodyguard up on one knee, pawing at Mike’s leg. Mike aimed the revolver, squeezed the trigger. The shot caught the bodyguard in the gut and he sprawled facedown.



Mike tried to run after Ortega, but his knees wouldn’t let him. He fired the revolver twice, trying to catch Ortega in the leg, but both shots went wide. Ortega was already around the pool. Mike limped after him.



He made it back through the French doors, saw Ortega at his desk, reaching for something in the top drawer. Mike thumbed the hammer back again. “Hold it!”



Ortega didn’t hold it. His hand came out of the desk drawer clutching a nickel-plated snub-nose revolver.



Mike fired, splinters flying up from the desktop an inch from Ortega.



Ortega dropped the revolver on top of the desk, put his hand up. “Okay, okay. Take it easy.”



Ortega had taken it as a warning shot, but Mike knew better. He’d been aiming for Ortega’s chest. The shot had gone wide again. It was the eye patch, Mike realized. It was throwing off his aim. He’d gotten lucky. Now he could ask Ortega about Cornwall-Jenkins and Enrique Mars and the hit on his nephew.



“Why was Andrew Foley marked for a hit?”



“I don’t know,” Ortega said. “I got the call and put my man on it.”



“Who gave you the order?”



“A woman named Meredith Cornwall.”



Mike nodded. Meredith pulled Ortega’s strings, not the other way around. That explained why Meredith and Mars seemed to be in different leagues. Mike asked, “What about her sister?”



“I don’t know anything about that,” Ortega said.



“Think harder.”



“I’m telling you,” Ortega said. “I’m a middle man. I never ask why. Someone says take the guy out, and that’s it. I haven’t heard from either Mars or Cornwall.”



“They’re both dead.”



“How?”



“Me.”



Ortega blinked, bewilderment on his face. “Who are you?”



Mike opened his mouth to explain just exactly who he was and why he shouldn’t be fucked with, when the floor-to-ceiling glass window exploded behind him, glass raining, gunshots ripping through Ortega’s office.



Mike threw himself on the carpet, looked up at the bruiser stumbling through the broken window. The bodyguard held his gut with one hand. In his other trembling hand he held a big automatic and fired wildly.



Mike compensated for his bad eye, squeezed the trigger. The slug punched a bloody hole in the bodyguard’s forehead. Mike didn’t wait for the body to hit the floor. He was already turning back to Ortega, knew he’d be going for the snub-nose on the desk.



Ortega fired, ripping carpet two inches from Mike’s head.



Still flat on the floor, Mike aimed, held his breath, and fired. Blood sprayed from Ortega’s shoulder; he flew back, his pistol spinning away. He fell behind the desk.



Silence and cordite and the copper smell of blood hung in the air. Mike grunted, stood. He circled the desk slowly, saw Ortega on his back. His breathing came quick and shallow. Blood leaked from his shoulder at an alarming rate, and Mike figured maybe he’d hit an artery.



“H-help me.” Ortega’s voice was weak.



“Tell me about Meredith Cornwall. Who does she work for?”



Ortega’s eyes had gone glassy. “Water. G-get me some w-water, will you?” But then his eyes rolled up and that was it.



Mike shook his head. “Hell.”



He walked back through the house and found the front door standing open. He guessed maybe the maid had fled when she heard the shots. The police might be on the way. No time to hang around. He climbed back into the Caddy, cranked it, and drove.



He still had no idea where he was going.





27



Sitting halfway up the ridge, Andrew Foley picked at the strings of his mandolin and watched the scene in the valley unfold. The two Indians had backed a thirty-year-old pickup truck next to the remains of his uncle’s cabin. The truck was nearly all rust, but might have been blue once upon a time. Even at this distance, the faces of the two Indians were striking. Dour and brown-red, like they’d been carved from mahogany. They both wore jeans and T-shirts, the woman’s hair in braids, the man wearing a straw hat. They stoically loaded the blanket-wrapped body of their son into the bed of the truck.



Andrew shifted his gaze down the slope. Linda was hiking up toward him. Her house was directly behind him up the slope.



He strummed an intro to “As Tears Go By,” segued into a plucking rhythm. The bluegrass version of the Mick Jagger song stopped just short of corny. He began singing the melancholy lyrics, adding a down-home, Appalachian sadness to his voice. The wind blustered and flung the notes into the wide sky.



Andrew remembered Keone’s impish grin and infectious laughter, which he’d thought so annoying at first. Andrew’s voice cracked a little. He finished the last few notes just as Linda reached his spot. She sat on a smaller rock next to Andrew’s perch on the big boulder.



Andrew waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. He almost started another song when she finally spoke.



“I tried to tell them, you know? But it sounded so stupid.” She wiped a tear from her eye, her hands trembling. “And they wouldn’t say anything. They just looked at me and wouldn’t say a damn thing. Can you believe that shit?” She wiped her nose with her hand and wiped her hand on her pants. “So I just kept talking and they still wouldn’t talk and then I’m babbling about a helicopter and God knows what.”



Andrew held his breath. Linda was about to lose it.



“And I just ran out of things to say. I looked at them and they looked at me and finally the woman opened her mouth to ask where Mike had gone.” Linda sighed, shook her head. She was emotionally drained. “I didn’t know what to tell her. I said Mike had gone to take care of things. I didn’t even know what I meant by that, but the woman nodded and they loaded the body and that was it.”



She beat her fists against her knees. “Goddammit! I left Chicago because I thought it would be quiet and safe here. What the fuck? I mean, just, what the fuck!” She stood, brushed the dust off her butt. “I need a cigarette. I need a drink.” She climbed back toward her house at the top of the hill.



Mike watched her climb a moment, then turned his attention back to the Indians. They just stood on either side of the truck, looking at the wrapped body in the bed, neither of them moving or talking.



Somebody should do something.



He started playing Johnny Cash’s “Sunday Morning Sidewalk.” The mandolin sounded sweet and sad and nostalgic.



Maybe somebody will.



The Indians finally climbed into the truck’s cab, cranked it, and drove slowly away from the ruin and ash.



* * *



Lizzy and Nikki had argued off and on about it all night. Lizzy stuck to her guns. They couldn’t leave Middle Sister twisting in the wind.



It pleased Lizzy to catch Big Sister in the web of her own argument. All that stuff about families sticking together. If Nikki didn’t let Lizzy go after Middle Sister, then Nikki’s words would be exposed as empty rhetoric and manipulation. If there was anything Nikki hated, it was being shown up. Throwing Nikki’s own words back in her face was the perfect way to get under Big Sister’s skin. Lizzy knew it was stupid, knew on some level that she was still so young and immature and silly to delight in the petty victory over her sister.



Nevertheless, she felt smug and pleased as her Southwest Airlines flight touched down in Tulsa. She had only carry-on so bypassed baggage claim and picked up her rental car keys at the Avis counter. Nikki, in her annoyingly efficient way, had produced a false driver’s license and Visa card saying Nikki was twenty-five, so she could rent a car and handle expenses.



When Lizzy walked out of the airport, the heat hit her like a punch in the face. Jesus H. Christ. I thought New Orleans was bad in summer. It must be over a hundred.



She found her rental and followed the rental agent’s directions to Highway 75 going north. She recalled Big Sister’s instructions. Go find Meredith. Nothing else. She hadn’t come all the way to Oklahoma to pick a fight. She didn’t have any weapons anyway. Nikki knew how to contact people, pick up weapons in a hurry without the bother of a background check or a waiting period. Lizzy didn’t have that kind of experience. She’d have to make do with her natural viciousness.



So she drove out to the wilds of Oklahoma. She would find her sister if possible. Nikki had sent her to find their sister. Sure. She’d do her best. What Nikki didn’t know was that Lizzy had absolutely no intention of returning home.



* * *



Jack Sprat picked up his twittering cell phone and hit the TALK button. “Yeah, love?”



“The sister went to the airport,” Mavis said. They didn’t want to move in on the woman until he knew who else was in the house, so they’d been watching, waiting for the right circumstances.



“Okay,” Jack said. “Go back to the house and keep watch.”



“I’m hungry.”



“Now, darling, you know you’re in training.”



“I need protein. Bring me a Lucky Dog.” The French Quarter was lousy with bums pushing hot dog carts. Mavis had unfortunately fallen in love with the bloated tubes of rancid meat.



“Darling, it’s not healthy to—”



“LUCKY DOG!”



“Okay, okay,” Jack said. “Give me thirty minutes, love.”



“Jack.”



“Yes, love.”



“I want to go to Hollywood.”



Jack sighed, but tried not to let her hear. “We’ve talked about this, darling love. We’re not movie people. We need a live audience. We need to hear the applause.”



“I want to be in films, damn you.”



“How about a nice holiday? We could go to Niagara Falls.”



Mavis said, “I’m not going to Niagara Falls, you corny bastard.”



“Anywhere you like, then.”



“Hollywood!”



“Right. Okay. Right.” It was no use. Her mind was set.



“When this is done, I want to pack up and go west.”



“As you say, my darling, but first we need to bugger that alarm,” Jack said. “We get paid and we head west.”



“Okay then.”



“Kiss kiss, love.” He hung up.



He tried dialing Louis Ortega again. Still no answer. Where the fuck was this guy? Jack Sprat didn’t like being cut off from the man who was supposed to pay him. Jack didn’t like the idea of Mavis finding out.



Sprat would make sure the job was finished, and woe be unto Ortega if he failed to pay.





28



The cup of coffee was bad. Bitter. The BLT wasn’t much better, soggy bacon and wilted lettuce. The potato chips were okay, but they were out of a bag and hard to screw up. So far, Mike Foley wasn’t too impressed with Maxine’s Diner just southeast of Oklahoma City.



But Mike had bigger things to contemplate. Ortega worked for Meredith Cornwall-Jenkins and not the other way around. Mike was still trying to get his mind around that. Where did he go from here? He hadn’t gotten the information he needed from Ortega. He’d have to get it someplace else.



The waitress took his plate away and refilled his rancid coffee.



He’d brought in Meredith’s purse to the restaurant, spread the contents on the table. He took a few of the phone numbers and names and began to put some kind of half-ass plan together. Yeah, it just might work.



He scooped the stuff back into the purse, left money on the table, and went back out to the Caddy. He pulled around to the back of Maxine’s Diner, where the noise from the highway wasn’t so bad. He had two numbers for John Jenkins. He checked his wristwatch and dialed the office number. A cool female voice answered and asked how she could direct Mike’s call.



“I’m calling for John Jenkins.”



“May I tell him who’s calling?” she asked.



“Principal Resnick from his wife’s school.”



“Hold just a moment, please.”



When John Jenkins came on the line he said, “Hey, Larry, it’s been a long time. What can I do you for?” His voice sounded friendly and smooth, like a car salesman. No, classier. Like a folksy congressman from the South angling for votes.



John had met the principal before. How long ago? Would he know the voice? Mike coughed, cleared his throat. “Sorry, Mr. Jenkins, I think I’m coming down with something.”



“Sounds rough,” John said. “Better hit the fluids.”



“Right, right. Good advice. Listen, I’m trying to track down Meredith. I know she went out of town, but we really got a thing going on here and I need to ask her some questions.” Mike crossed his fingers. Time to try out the story he’d prepared. “She mentioned she might be visiting her sister sometime. I thought I’d take a chance. See if you had a phone number.”



“Yeah, she went down a couple days ago,” Jenkins said. “Her mother’s been having some health problems.”



“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mike said. “I sure hate to disturb them, but it’s important, and I’m up against a deadline.”



“What’s the trouble?”



Mike had a lie ready for that too. “Some assessment reports I had her working on. The state wants them yesterday.”



“Let me look up the number,” Jenkins said.



Mike exhaled. He was having some luck. The guy knew the principal but not enough to recognize it was the wrong voice. Also, it looked like Mike had made some good guesses about the situation. The husband didn’t know the wife was storming around Oklahoma blasting people with an army helicopter. Mike remembered this upper-class Jewish girl from Brooklyn. Back in the day, he and she had been a hot item. He’d told her he was an insurance salesman. And when he’d vanish for a week to kill somebody, he’d tell her he was visiting his brother or grandmother. Hired guns always found themselves lying to loved ones.



Jenkins came back on the line and gave Mike the phone number. “If you talk to her, tell her to call home, will you? Her husband misses her.”



“I’ll tell her. One more thing. Do you have an address?”



A pause. “You need that?”



“Sorry to trouble you, but I have to FedEx some things for her to sign and the guy is coming to pick up the envelope any minute.”



Mike thought he heard Jenkins stifle a sigh. “Just a second.” Another pause and then he picked up the phone again and gave Mike an address.



“New Orleans?”



“Yeah. Her family is loaded,” Jenkins said. “Big house in the Garden District. Look, if there’s nothing else…”



“I appreciate your time, Mr. Jenkins. I’ll tell Meredith to call home.” He hung up.



* * *



Mike drove down Interstate 35 toward Dallas, where he could catch I-20 east to Louisiana. It wasn’t long before his back and neck were sore again. He pulled into a rest stop, unbuttoned his shirt, and pulled his tie loose. He lathered some Bengay on his neck, massaged it in, but the real pain was along his spine, where he couldn’t reach. He got out of the car and walked around a bit, stretched. Too many hours in the car and still a long way to New Orleans. His back would get worse before it got better. He made a mental note to hit a drugstore for some pills.



He got back in the car, determined to make time. When he got to Dallas he realized it was no use. The white-hot pain had spread from his lower back to a spot between his shoulder blades. He was almost dizzy with it. His knees hurt only when he tried to run or jump, but the back pain burned constantly and was getting worse.



He found a Hilton, went in, and got a room. He wouldn’t be able to drive another mile until he worked out the knots in his back. At the check-in desk, he was bent almost in half.



“Do you need help to your room, sir?” asked the clerk.



“I can make it.”



Mike took the key, went upstairs without any luggage, and flopped on the bed. He dozed off and dreamed. It was night and he was among the grapevines again, fog. It was cold. People stepped out from between the rows, emerged from the fog, men, women, children. All of them had guns, all coming for him, crowding in, sticking the guns in his face. Mike went for the gun in his belt, but his hands wouldn’t work, cramping. He couldn’t grip the butt of his pistol.



All of his assailants fired at once, the vineyard exploding in fire.



Mike’s eyes flickered open. It took him a second to remember where he was.



He sat up, back still sore, clamped his mouth shut against a moan. He took a long shower as hot as he could stand it, and when he came out he put his boxers back on and grabbed the phone book. He flipped to the listings for escort services. One said classy & sassy, discreet and prompt.



Mike dialed the phone.



“Classy & Sassy.” The voice that answered was deep and rough, redneck accent. It sounded neither classy nor sassy.



Mike said, “I need a girl over here as soon as possible.” Mike told him which hotel.



“What you want? Blond, black girl, Mexican?”



“Whatever you got. Just so she can get over here quick.”



Mike finished with the guy and went back to the bed. Lying flat helped only a little. He sat up and took his wallet out of his pants. He put an appropriate amount of cash on the nightstand and stuck the rest of his money and wallet under the mattress. If he fell asleep, the hooker wouldn’t be able to snatch his wallet without waking him. She might have been “classy” according to the advertisement in the phone book, but she was still a hooker.



Mike flipped on the television, sped through the channels, his thumb on the remote. A guy with a bad haircut was firing someone. On another station, a snotty woman explained to some frumpy gal why her clothes were all wrong but never fear because they had a plan to find her a whole new wardrobe. Mike couldn’t quite understand what had happened to television. It seemed like all they did was follow people around with a camera, recording them making asses out of themselves. He finally settled on a black-and-white Otto Preminger movie, John Wayne in the navy with some desk job because a Jap submarine had blasted his ship out from under him.



Forty minutes later, a knock on the door.



Mike grunted as he got out of bed, opened the door.



She couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Platinum blond hair cut short and spiked out, too much green eye makeup contrasting with very white skin. She was tall and thin, slight and delicate features like an elf. Scandinavian. She wore a very conservative and elegant black dress and pumps. Mike stared a second too long, surprised by the dress.



“Something wrong?” she asked. Her voice was high and slightly childlike.



“No. Nothing. I just thought you’d be dressed differently.”



“We need to dress differently for the nicer hotels,” she said. “A tube top and spandex would draw too much attention.” She looked him up and down. “You seem eager to go.”



Mike remembered he wore only boxer shorts. He stepped aside to let her in and closed the door. He grabbed the tube of Bengay from his jacket pocket, and when he turned around again, she’d already dropped the dress. Black stockings. Black thong panties. No bra. Medium breasts standing up in youthful defiance of gravity. Pink nipples.



Mike liked what he saw. Liked it just fine, but said, “I’m too old for you.”



She giggled. “I’ve been with older men. What are you, fifty?”



“More than that, but you’ve got the wrong idea.”



He handed her the tube of Bengay, then sprawled across the bed on his belly, facing the television. “Start at the base of the spine and work your way up. Between my shoulders especially. Don’t be afraid to dig in with your thumbs.” He closed his eyes and waited.



Two seconds later, Mike opened his eyes again. She was still standing there with the Bengay in her delicate hand, a confused look on her face, looking now even younger, like she should have been on her way to the prom instead of offering herself to some old man at the Hilton.



“I’m not sure I get what you want,” she said.



“My back,” Mike said. “I don’t have time to fool around looking for a chiropractor. Just do this for me, okay?”



She still looked confused. “And then after I rub your back, we’ll do it?”



“What’s your name?”



“Cricket.”



“What’s your real name?”



“We’re not supposed to tell clients our real…” She shrugged. “Patricia. My name is Patricia.”



“I don’t want to have sex.” This wasn’t completely true. Patricia was attractive, something demure and vulnerable in her eyes. And she smelled nice, like lemons. But Mike didn’t think he could manage it. Sex would wreck him. “I just need help with the back, Patricia. Please.”



“I’ll have to charge you the same.” She looked embarrassed.



“It’s okay. The money’s near the lamp.” He motioned toward the nightstand.



She squirted some Bengay into her palm and rubbed her hands together. Then she leaned over him on the bed, rubbed a layer of the ointment on his back. She began massaging along the spine.



“Press down more firmly,” Mike said.



“It’s hard to reach. Can I get on the bed?”



“Go ahead.”



She kicked off her shoes and climbed up next to him. “Can I sit on your butt?”



“What do you weigh?”



“A hundred and nine.”



“Okay,” Mike said. “But go slow.”



She eased one leg over, straddled his ass, wiggled a little to get settled in. “I can reach you better from here.”



Mike put the feel of her stockings out of his mind, her soft feet tucked in close to his legs. She kneaded small circles along his spine. She pressed in hard with her thumbs. “Let me know if I hurt you.”



“Don’t worry.”



He’d lost interest in the movie, put his face in the pillow instead, and closed his eyes tight. He replayed the day’s events in his mind, the men he’d killed, the phone call to John Jenkins. The pistol had felt right in his hand. In the heat of conflict, the only emotion Mike had felt was a vague dissatisfaction with his marksmanship. Now he didn’t know how he felt. He kept hearing Ortega’s voice, a ghostly echo in his head asking for water.



“Don’t think about it,” Patricia said.



His eyes popped open. “What?”



“Whatever it is you’re thinking about, stop it. Your shoulder muscles are getting all bunched up. You’re all tense and everything.”



“Sorry.”



“Take a big breath and let it out slowly. Try to clear your mind.”



Mike gulped in a breath, held it a moment, then let it leak out between his lips. He did feel better.



“You must have some kind of stressful job,” she said.



“Yeah.”



“Are you a stockbroker or something?” She pressed the heel of her palm into his back, leaned into it.



Mike grunted. “No.” He decided to change the subject. “What about you? When you’re not visiting hotel rooms, I mean.”



“I got my degree in communications last year,” she said. “I specialized in broadcasting.”



“College? You don’t look old enough.”



“I’m twenty-two.”



“If you went to college…I mean, why would you…?”



“I worked through the escort service for tuition and expenses,” Patricia said. “Then just after I graduated, I got an intro position at a classic rock radio station. What I got paid in a month, I make in three days turning tricks.”



“But you were just starting out, right? I mean, that’s how it is for kids right out of college. You got to work your way up.”



“I guess. But, you know, I just had this life going already. I had a brand-new Nissan and satellite television and new clothes anytime I wanted. It was like I had been Cricket so long I couldn’t be Patricia again. Did you ever get the feeling that once things are set, it’s just, like, too much trouble to try and do something different? Like making a river flow the other way.”



But Mike had stopped listening. Patricia’s voice had faded to a soothing drone, her hands working into his flesh. He felt like he was floating, drifting into sleep. He did not dream.



* * *



Mike woke up. The movie was now something with Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake.



He got out of the bed and lifted the mattress. His wallet was still there. The cash on the nightstand was gone. He was tucking the sheet back under the mattress when he realized his back didn’t hurt anymore. Yes, a distant ache, but no longer the agony. There had been this one, special spot in the center of his back, and the harder she’d pressed, the more things seemed to shift back into place.



Patricia’s citrus scent still hung in the air. No, not Patricia. Cricket.



Mike crawled back into bed and didn’t care if he ever woke up.



* * *



A heartbeat.



It had always been there, but so slow it was almost undetectable. It grew stronger. Blood pulsed. Synapses fired in his brain.



There was something in his mouth.



He clawed, spit. It was in his eyes and hair. Everything was dark. Where was he? What had happened?



Dirt.



He clawed his way through it. Every time he gasped for air he got only a mouthful of soil. He coughed, choked. His hand broke through into cool air. He pulled himself out, coughed out the dirt, gulped a delicious lungful of clean air. Where was he?



Memories. Yes, he’d been left for dead. He stumbled in a random direction. Dizzy. His head had been bashed. Did he have a concussion? He stumbled, put a hand against a tree, and steadied himself. The pain. Somebody would pay for this.



Enrique Mars was back from the grave.





PART FOUR







29



The rental was one of those new Fords that resembled the old-style, classic Mustangs. Lizzy liked it and flew up Highway 75 at 90 mph. The scenery grew more dull and bland by the mile, open miles of flat grassland bleached pale green by the sun.



She slipped a CD into the player, and a second later the car’s speakers blasted selections from Wagner’s Ring Cycle. She was in a Wagner mood and pressed the gas pedal. The speedometer needle edged past ninety-five just as “Ride of the Valkyries” began.



Maybe she’d look into stripping the VIN number and exchanging license plates. She wouldn’t mind keeping the Mustang, tear-assing around the country for a while. No, it wouldn’t work. Too many of these new rentals had tracking devices. They could zero in on her from orbit with all the satellites and shit. Nikki would know how to disable it. Lizzy didn’t.



Two minutes later, she saw the red-and-blue lights in her rearview mirror.



“Shit.”



She pulled over and the state trooper pulled in behind her. He didn’t immediately come up to her window, and Lizzy figured he was running the plate. Finally, he came up to the driver’s side and rapped a knuckle on the window. She rolled it down.



“You want to turn that down?” he shouted.



Lizzy turned off the Wagner.



The trooper looked like he’d been sent from central casting. Mirror sunglasses, a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “What’s the hurry, girl?”



“Sorry, Officer.”



The trooper bent down, got a good look at her. “Jesus H. Christ. What in the hell are you supposed to be?”



“Why don’t you just write my ticket, and we can dispense with the chitchat?”



He frowned. “You want this to be hard? It can be hard. Come on out of the car, smart-ass, and bring your license with you.”



She got out of the Mustang, and the trooper motioned her around the other side so that the car was between them and the highway. She handed him her license. He looked at it while he picked his teeth.



“Assume the position,” he said.



“What?”



“Hands on the car,” the trooper said. “Spread your legs.”



No fucking way. This can’t be happening.



She put her hands on the hood of the car, spread her legs. She wore a denim skirt and fishnet stockings. A white silk blouse. The cop stood close behind her, hands frisking. He groped. One thick hand went under her skirt, brushed her mound with a finger.



“You enjoying your free feel?”



He stepped in close, pressed his body against hers. His chin stubble scratched her neck, his hot breath on her ear. “Better watch that mouth. This ain’t New Orleans. Decent people live around here, and we don’t want no pink-haired freaks driving through at a hundred miles per hour. Maybe you’re some kind of queer. Huh? On your way to meet your queer pals?”



She bit her tongue. Don’t say anything. Just take it.



“You got any drugs in the car?”



“No.”



“Don’t move.”



The trooper searched the car, popped the trunk and looked in there too. Then he dumped her bag out on the backseat. Through the windshield, Lizzy watched him paw her underwear, toss her other clothes around the interior of the vehicle. Her face went red with rage, but she held it in, didn’t say a word. Find your safe place.



He came back around, stood next to her, tossed her license onto the hood. “I don’t know where you’re headed to so fast, but keep going until you get there. We don’t want no troublemakers around here.” He got back in his cruiser and sped away.



He hadn’t even given her a ticket.



She got back behind the wheel, but didn’t immediately start the Mustang. Her hands shook. Rage and frustration. If she could have gotten away with it, she would have killed the trooper, fully believed that he deserved to die. The indignity. So she had pink hair. So she had a pierced nose. So fucking what? Why wouldn’t people leave her the fuck alone? All she wanted to do was live her life.



She started the Mustang, drove to the next exit, and pulled off. There was a truck stop and an Arby’s and a little gray shack with a dirty sign that said BEER & POOL. She parked in front of the shack and went inside. There were two guys in jeans and T-shirts shooting pool, a fat woman behind the bar restocking a potato chip rack.



Lizzy slumped at the bar, took out her cigarettes, and lit one. She needed a smoke, needed to calm down before getting on the road again. She felt eyes on her back, knew the two dudes shooting pool were taking a look at her. She didn’t care. Fuck them.



The fat woman said, “You got ID?”



“I just want a Diet Coke.”



“Got to be twenty-one to sit at the bar.”



Lizzy showed her the fake license, and the woman brought her a Diet Coke. Lizzy finished the cigarette and immediately lit another. Anger still bubbled in her veins.



She heard the dudes snickering, caught a glimpse of them in the mirror behind the bar. One elbowed his buddy in the ribs, pointed at her. She spun on her stool, blew out a cloud of smoke, and said, “Got a problem, guys?” Let them start something, let them say one fucking thing. She should have been breathing, finding her safe place. She didn’t want her safe place. She wanted trouble.



The one in the cowboy boots looked at the one in the sneakers before answering. “No problem. It’s cool.”



“Right.” She turned back around, leaned on the bar.



She smoked, stared at herself in the mirror, remembered how Dr. Bryant had tried to explain to her that her appearance was a defense mechanism. If people rejected her because of her wild looks, her crazy hair, all the piercings, then she could dismiss their rejection as shallow narrow-mindedness. She didn’t have to consider that maybe it was really her, the deep-down Lizzy, that people couldn’t accept. Maybe. But Lizzy wasn’t feeling very open to Dr. Bryant’s theories at the moment. Mostly, she felt like she wanted to lash out in righteous anger.



In other words, she wanted to fuck somebody up, and it was okay because the motherfuckers had it coming. It would be some measure of justice, at least to her way of thinking.



One of the guys leaned at the bar next to her. Cowboy boots. He waved the fat woman over. “How about a Coors, Bess?”



“Sure.” She popped the top off a longneck and set it in front of the cowboy.



“I’m Brandon,” he said.



“Good for you.” Lizzy sucked on the cigarette, held it, exhaled a long gray stream.



“How about I buy you a beer?”



“How about you fuck off?”



Brandon laughed. Half-bravado, half-nervous. “I’m just trying to be friendly. I think you got the wrong impression before. Me and Duane are good guys.”



She turned her head slowly, met his eyes, and blew smoke straight into his face.



Duane laughed from the other side of the pool table. “I told you she was a bitch.”



“Goddamn,” Brandon said. “I was just trying to make nice. Should have known better. Fucking pink-haired weirdo.”



Lizzy snatched the Coors bottle out of his hand and smashed it across his teeth. Brandon’s face erupted in beer, blood, and broken glass. He stumbled back. The fat woman behind the bar screamed. Lizzy hopped off her barstool, kneed Brandon in the balls. He groaned and went down, holding his bloody mouth.



“Shit!” Duane grabbed his pool cue and ran at her.



He swung, and she ducked, dropped to the floor, and swept his legs out from under him. Duane landed hard on his back. Lizzy sprang back to her feet.



The fat woman behind the bar was in motion. She grabbed a jar of pickled pigs feet and hurled it at Lizzy. Lizzy leapt aside. The jar landed on Brandon’s gut, the air wheezing out of him.



Duane got to one knee, and Lizzy balled her little fist tight and punched him in the nose. His head flew back. Lizzy heard and felt cartilage snap. Blood gushed over Duane’s lips.



Lizzy grabbed him by the shirt with one hand, punched with the other, three rapid-fire shots in the face. She let him go, and he fell to the floor, curled in a fetal position, holding his nose and sobbing quietly.



The fat woman was still screaming. Lizzy grabbed her cigarette, puffed, hands shaking.



“You’d better get out of here!” The fat woman grabbed the telephone behind the bar. Hysterical. “I’m calling the police. I’m dialing them right now!”



Lizzy kicked Duane once more, then ran for the door. There weren’t any windows at the front of the bar, so she figured if she sped away quickly, they might not be able to identify the car or get a tag number. She cranked the Mustang and floored it, flying west down the two-lane county road.



Three minutes later she eased up, started driving the speed limit. It would be stupid to get pulled over again.



The anger and violence still rang in her ears. She turned the Wagner up, pounded the steering wheel. She had caused that. She wanted to believe that those rednecks had deserved a beating, but it just wasn’t true. She buzzed with anger and had wanted an outlet. She couldn’t kill the trooper, so she’d taken out her anger on a couple of harmless guys in a pool hall.



Even as it was happening, she knew she was wrong, that she was out of control. Eight months of therapy had taught her to recognize what was happening. But recognizing what was happening and doing something to stop it were two different things. It was as if she were watching a movie of somebody who looked like her going crazy.



Five minutes later she drove into a small town and pulled into the parking lot of a Wal-Mart. She went inside and purchased some black hair coloring and a pair of jeans and an orange Oklahoma State University T-shirt. The fat lady at the bar might not be able to identify the Mustang, but there couldn’t be too many pink-haired freaks in the area.



She drove another mile and found a motel with a dirt parking lot. The room was $33.95 a night. She thought the room might have been nice at one time, say, back during the Eisenhower administration. The room was hot. She flipped on the air-conditioning to high, and by the time she got out of the shower, the room had cooled to a tolerable level. She dyed her hair in the sink. Jet-black. She removed all of her piercings.



In the mirror she looked at her new appearance, bland and anonymous. She was no longer Lizzy. She wasn’t a freak anymore. She wasn’t anyone at all.



She sat on the bed, looked around the dim motel room. The remote for the television didn’t work.



She took out the Oklahoma map and the directions Big Sister had given her. If she drove without stopping, she could reach her destination in under two hours, but the thought of getting back on the road was too exhausting to contemplate.



She stretched out on the bed. Fatigue. Emotionally drained. She was so tired, wanted to sleep, but it wouldn’t come. She stared at the cracked ceiling, at the cobwebs in the corner.



She eventually did fall asleep, and she didn’t dream.





30



There was only ash and dirt and burnt timber.



Andrew Foley had hiked down from Linda’s house to see if he could salvage anything, but really there was nothing left. It almost made him cry, thinking how utter and complete a loss it was. He tried to imagine how his uncle must feel.



His uncle. There had been no word from Mike Foley since he’d driven away in the Cadillac with murder in his eyes. Where could he be?



The morning sun was still low, the day not yet so oppressively hot. The salvage mission had only been an excuse to get out of the house. Andrew thought Linda was feeling the strain of the last few days. She needed a little elbow room, and had hinted she’d like to take a long nap after her bath. Linda was nice, polite, but Andrew sensed an edge in her, that maybe having a houseguest underfoot was getting old. So he slurped a cup of coffee, shouted up the stairs he was going for a hike, and left her alone.



He stood with his hands on hips, looked around. Under other circumstances, he might have thought this beautiful country, but all he could think now was that he wanted to go home. He missed New York, the pizza joint down from his apartment, the bagel place he went to on Sunday mornings, browsing the used record store near Juilliard, the constant, comfortable racket of life in the city.



It was too damn quiet out here in the woods. Eerily quiet, in fact, after the recent craziness.



He looked in the direction of the downed helicopter. He’d been meaning to have a look, but the time never seemed right. Also, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see a charred corpse. But now he had all the time in the world and began walking toward the ridge.



The hike up was steeper than it had looked, and by the time he reached the top he was sucking wind hard. He sat on a fallen tree trunk and smoked a cigarette. He let himself sit there another five minutes and finally got up and started down the other side.



The woods were thick, and he realized he wasn’t sure where he was going. What had he expected? A nice path, winding its way down to the wreck? I reckon I’m a city boy all right. He supposed his uncle had been able to follow the smoke.



He wandered, the woods thicker on this side of the ridge. One tree looked pretty much like another. He headed generally downhill and hoped for the best.



When he heard something rustle the underbrush behind him, he whipped around. He stood frozen, listening and looking. His uncle had told him there were plenty of deer. He’d also seen foxes and some kind of game bird. Once, about ten years ago, his uncle had seen a coyote in the yard.



Andrew didn’t mind a deer or a bird but found the idea of a coyote a little spooky. He stood another second, holding his breath and scanning the trees. When he didn’t see anything, he moved on down the hill. He hit the floor of the shallow valley, flipped a mental coin, and turned left. He followed flat ground until he came to the groove of plowed ground that ended at the blackened husk of the helicopter wedged against a scorched tree.



A thick canopy of branches hung over the chopper. Andrew looked at the sky, back down at the helicopter. When it crashed deep in the narrow valley, it had slid into thick stuff. The army could search for a thousand years and never find it.



He approached slowly, taking in the sight. His morbid curiosity had brought him this far. Might as well go all the way. He came to within a foot of the chopper. A layer of soot almost completely obscured the US Army insignia. A series of questions spun through Andrew’s brain. How long did it take to learn to fly one of these things? How often did they crash? How high could they fly? How fast?



What he really wondered was why somebody would go to such trouble to make him dead. He didn’t hold his breath expecting answers to any of these questions.



Also he was stalling. He wanted to see what was in the cockpit, yet he didn’t want to see.



He stepped up next to the door and looked. It took him a moment to get used to what he was looking at. The body looked like a movie prop, like something from The Mummy, but black from head to foot, contorted in the seat, the instrument panel and the entire rest of the cockpit black, gauges shattered. It was all so gruesome and fascinating.



He reached out to touch the body but jerked his hand back at the last second. He wasn’t quite willing to go that far.



“Who are you, lady?” Andrew said out loud.



“She was my sister,” said a sudden voice.



“Oh, fucking shit!” Andrew jumped, grabbed his chest, and fell back against the helicopter.



“Didn’t mean to startle you.” The girl in the orange T-shirt lit a cigarette, puffed.



“Where did you come from?”



“I followed you.” She was somewhere between plain and pretty, glossy black hair not quite to her shoulders. Jeans and combat boots.



“Are you here to kill me?”



A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. “That’s a funny question. Is there a lot of that going around? People trying to kill you, I mean.”



“You’d be surprised.”



* * *



Enrique Mars had hiked in circles, his throat dry with thirst. He was hungry, too, and getting pissed. Where the hell was civilization? Since waking up to darkness with a thin layer of rocks and dirt and leaves over him, he’d wandered confused and lost. Somebody was going to pay for this. He touched the back of his head near the base of the skull. It still hurt, but at least the blood had dried.



During Mars’s career as a hired killer, he’d been shot, stabbed, and beaten numerous times. He’d even, on occasion, been left for dead. He was a tough bastard. This was the first time he’d actually been buried. He hadn’t enjoyed it.



Ahead he saw a clearing. He jogged for it. The trees parted, and he sighed with relief. He didn’t know where he was but he saw a truck and a…building



The buildings had been burned. He recognized the grapevine rows even though half were destroyed. This was the Foley place. But what the hell had happened?



No time to wonder. Enrique’s need for water and food took priority over his curiosity. The pickup truck had two flat tires, and there was no sign of his Cadillac.



His gaze lifted, and he saw the house up the hill. This place hadn’t burned. There would be food and water and maybe even a hot shower. And he needed rest. He was dead on his feet. Then he would convince the owners that he should borrow their car. He patted his pockets. Somewhere he’d lost his guns. He didn’t even have a knife. It didn’t matter. Enrique Mars could be very persuasive, even with his bare hands.



* * *



Andrew Foley and the girl stood staring at one another for long seconds. She puffed a cigarette. Andrew licked his lips. His mouth was dry, heartbeat still rapid-fire against the inside of his chest. He didn’t see that she had any kind of weapon.



He pulled out his own pack of cigarettes and lit one.



She puffed. He puffed. They continued to stare.



“So what happens now?” Andrew asked.



She shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. I came to find out if my sister was alive or dead. Now I know.”



Andrew looked at the corpse, then back at the girl. “I’m sorry.”



“Why would you be sorry? She was trying to murder you, wasn’t she?”



Andrew nodded. “That’s a good point.”



“What happened?”



“It wasn’t me,” Andrew said quickly. The girl didn’t seem threatening, but if the body in the chopper was really her sister, then Andrew didn’t want to be on her revenge list. He explained what had happened, the helicopter roaring into the valley, the bullets and grenades ripping everything to shreds and how his uncle stood atop the demolished cabin and machine-gunned the helicopter like a Sam Peckinpaw movie hero.



She nodded as she listened, face blank, taking in the information like it was stereo instructions. “She was a teacher.”



“What?”



“A teacher,” the girl repeated. “She almost had a whole new life. She’d just about made it. Then this. So fucking stupid.”



Andrew didn’t know what she was talking about, didn’t know how to respond. He flicked away the cigarette butt.



She flicked hers away too, although she hadn’t smoked it down as far. Andrew had seen this before. A friendly rhythm, smokers lighting up, tossing away the butts and lighting up again. Like some kind of ritual between animals. Better than sniffing each other’s asses.



“What are you smoking?” she asked.



“Parliaments. You?”



“Camels. Trade?”



“Sure.”



He smoked one of hers. She smoked his. Puff puff.



“You don’t seem that upset, considering, well, you know.” He gestured at the helicopter.



“I didn’t like her. But she was my sister. I had to find out.”



“I’m Andrew.”



“I know. I’m Lizzy.”



Thirty yards up the ridge, something crunched dry leaves. Andrew and Lizzy both went stiff, turned their heads to look. Andrew didn’t think he could take any more surprises.



But it wasn’t another assassin. The white tail of a big buck flashed among the trees. He ran twenty feet, stopped, and looked back at them.



Lizzy’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Oh. A deer.”



She took a step toward it, and the deer bolted deep into the woods. “I’ve never seen one. Out in the wild, I mean.” She started walking after it.



Andrew followed. “They’re all over the place. Other animals too.”



“I want to see.”



“What about…?” She didn’t seem too broken up about her sister. She’d claimed not to like her. Still



“I want to see animals. I want to see everything I’ve never seen before.”



They climbed the ridge, Lizzy stopping to ask the names of birds and Andrew admitting he had no idea at all.





31



By the time Enrique Mars reached the house, he was nearly ready to collapse. The sun baked him. His feet screamed pain. His throat was so dry, he was unable to utter a single word. He wanted water, food, and sleep, in that order.



He twisted the knob on the front door. It was open, and he went inside. He tossed caution over his shoulder and found the kitchen. He didn’t care who might be home. It wasn’t important. Nothing mattered but water. He turned on the faucet, stuck his head underneath, and gulped. The water splashed cool in his mouth, down his throat. He splashed some on his face and the back of his neck and sighed.



He opened cabinets until he found a large plastic cup. He filled it, and drank more water. He opened the refrigerator, grabbed a large chunk of chedder cheese wrapped in wax paper. He unwrapped it and took a huge bite, swallowed. He took out bread and a jar of pickles. So many choices. A leftover slab of lasagna covered in aluminum foil. He found a fork and dug in.



More water.



Enrique Mars felt almost human again.



Time to take in his surroundings. The sound of water shutting off grabbed his attention. Someone had either just run a bath or just gotten out of the shower upstairs.



He wasn’t alone in the house.



* * *



Jack looked around the dingy motel room. Mavis deserved better than this. When they finished the job and got the money, they’d pack up and go to California. It was what she wanted, even if the thought of Hollywood made him a bit ill.



He sat on the bed, doing his stretching exercises. He brought one leg up and behind his head, then the other. He was forty-one years old. How long would he be able to do this? Soon his joints would give in to age.



Mavis sat by the table near the window. She was working on her sixth Lucky Dog. So greasy. It was enough to make Jack go vegetarian. Time to worry about their health later.



“How did the security look, love?”



Mavis smacked her lips, wiped her mouth with a towel. “It’s an older system. No problem.”



“Right.”



The old girl was a whiz with wires and electronics and whatnot. Occasionally, when the money got tight, they’d case a house in a fancy neighborhood. She’d handle the alarm system, and he’d squeeze in through an upstairs window, grabbing whatever jewelry or other valuables might be lying about.



But they wouldn’t be grabbing loot this go-around. Mavis might break the Sheila’s neck or maybe Jack would slip a knife between her ribs. Go in quiet and get out the same way. Get paid and head to Hollywood.



Mavis burped, and the room smelled like Lucky Dog.



* * *



Mike Foley crossed the state line into Louisiana, and the first fat splats of rain pelted the Caddy’s windshield. He pulled into an Amoco station and put up the car’s roof. He resumed driving, jaw set, eyes hard, hands on the wheel at ten and two.



The rain came harder. The sky grew darker. The pain crept up his spine.





32



They walked in the woods for an hour. They chatted casually, awkwardly at first, but eventually they eased into the rhythm of one another’s conversation. He asked about New Orleans. She asked about music school and the mandolin. It all had that slightly tentative but reasonably pleasant feeling of a first date. She seemed strangely delighted when she saw a bunny or squirrel.



When they reached the summit of the ridge they traveled along the top, up a gentle slope. They found themselves in a small clearing, three enormous boulders leaning against one another. Lizzy scrambled to the top boulder, and Andrew followed. The view was amazing. Andrew realized they’d left his uncle’s property far behind, three different valleys stretching out in different directions below them. Was this how the pioneers felt?



Lizzy sat on the edge of the boulder and lit a cigarette. Andrew joined her.



Lizzy said, “When I was thirteen, she lied for me.”



“What?”



“To our father she lied,” Lizzy said. “I can’t even make you understand how brave that was. Or stupid. I got into Daddy’s gun cabinet. You want a kid to be interested in something, then lock it up. If they’d have locked up the complete works of Shakespeare, I’d have every play memorized word for word. You know?”



She went quiet, puffed her Camel. Andrew didn’t take her silence as an invitation to comment. He sat and waited.



A few seconds later she said, “Anyway, Dad came in and caught me. I’d picked the lock on the cabinet, and I had three of his pistols out. Dad was about to go crazy— he was big on discipline— but Meredith jumped in and said she’d been showing me the guns. She was older, so it was okay for her to be in the gun cabinet. I never knew why she did that, why she lied for me.”



“To help you,” Andrew said.



“I thought so for a long time. Now I think maybe it was something against Dad.”



She exhaled, shoulders slumping. “You can see a long way from here.” She leaned in close to Andrew, kissed him lightly on the cheek.



Andrew took it as a friendly gesture, a thank-you for listening to the story about her sister. He was about to go all aw-shucks, when she grabbed his face and turned it to hers, mashed her lips hard against his.



He pulled away. “What’s that for?”



“It’s not for anything,” Lizzy said. “I just need it. I’ve been locked up for eight months, and you seem nice.”



“But—”




She covered his mouth with hers, tongue stabbing urgently against his. Her hands went under his shirt. A surge of longing spread through Andrew, a sudden primal excitement. He tugged her shirt over her head, worked the clasp on her bra as she tugged his belt loose and unzipped him.



They pulled at clothes, kicked off shoes. Soon both of them were naked atop the boulder, white skin gleaming in the sun.



He looked at the elaborate Chinese dragon tattooed from her left breast to just above her dark thatch of pubic hair. The tail of the dragon curled around her breast, the dragon’s mouth gaping, razor teeth on either side of Lizzy’s mound. A possible warning to would-be suitors? Andrew didn’t care.



He cupped one of Lizzy’s breasts, licked the nipple.



“Forget that,” she said. “Just get inside.”



He put himself in, tight at first, then thrust in to the hilt. She grunted, reached around and grabbed his ass cheeks, dug in her nails. They thrust into one another, smacking and scraping along the boulder, bodies dripping sweat.



Lizzy’s eyes squeezed shut. She threw her head back, body shuddering, grunts deep in her throat. She screamed, the climax nearly shaking Andrew off her. She sucked in a deep breath, whining utterances leaking from her as the orgasm waned.



She began to cry, a small bleating at first, then great racking sobs, fat tears rolling down her face.



Andrew stopped thrusting. “What is it? What’s wrong?”



“Nothing. Keep going.”



“But—”



“Keep going!” She wrapped her arms around his body, pulled him against her.



He humped until he came, collapsed against her. She held him tight, sobbed against his shoulder.



* * *



They lay naked on the rock, the sun baking them. Her eyes were closed, and Andrew wondered if she’d drifted off. The encounter had been abrupt but intense. He felt he could use a nap himself.



He looked at her and now thought she was beautiful. Her curves, white skin, even the Chinese dragon. He’d always been one to fall easily, never all that popular with women, and here was a mysterious stranger, a chance encounter deep in the Oklahoma woods.



Maybe he’d write a song about it. Probably not.



“That probably freaked you out a little.” She didn’t move or open her eyes.



“You can freak me out like that anytime you want.”



A slight smile at the edges of her mouth.



Andrew said, “But it was a little sudden.”



She opened her eyes, turned her head toward him. “It’s been a sudden couple of days. As a matter of fact, it’s been a very strange time for me.”



There’s a lot of that going around.



“I don’t know why I started crying,” Lizzy said. “I didn’t even like my sister. I really don’t care at all if she’s dead. But still…” She put her hand on Andrew’s thigh. “It was sort of rushed, wasn’t it? It’ll be more normal next time.”



Next time?



They dozed. Birds circled. Clouds wandered across the sky.



“We’d better get dressed,” Andrew said.



“Why?”



“The sun’s bad here,” he said. “It’ll scorch the skin right off us.”



“Okay.”



They dressed and headed back down to his uncle’s valley.



Something had changed. Andrew didn’t miss New York quite so much. He didn’t really know Lizzy, but he made guesses about her and felt they were right. She was strange and wonderful and scary and new and everything he didn’t realize he wanted until now. At least that’s what he hoped, that was the fantasy that delighted him as they made their way down the ridge hand in hand.



And anyway, it was a hell of a lot better than being shot at.





33



Linda wrapped a towel around her, bathroom still steamy from the hot shower. She felt better. A little. The last few days had been strange and stressful. She wished Mike would call. She worried about him. He was the only friend she had in this wilderness. His nephew seemed like a good kid, but she hardly knew him.



That’s almost exactly what Mike had said. His own nephew was a stranger.



She looked at herself in the mirror, brushed her teeth, brushed her hair. Who had she become? She’d let Mike talk her out of calling the police. That wasn’t like her. Would her husband have understood such a decision? Then she’d again had the urge to call the local sheriff when Keone’s parents had come to pick up their son’s body. But Mike had previously indicated that the boy’s parents weren’t the kind of people who appreciated law enforcement. She was in too deep to call in the sheriff now. How could she explain herself? No, she’d made her decision and had to live with it. She draped her towel over the shower-curtain rod and walked naked into the bedroom.



Strong hands grabbed her from behind. An arm around her waist lifted her. She screamed, kicked her legs. When she felt the cold steel against her throat, she went stiff.



“Remember me, chica?”



Oh, no.



He shoved her into the wooden chair she used when applying her makeup. In front of the vanity mirror. He produced a roll of duct tape, wrapped her wrists around the arms of the chair, taped her ankles to the legs. Then he looked right into her eyes, his face four inches from hers. His grin was yellow and crooked, a big gap on the side where she’d knocked the teeth out.



Linda felt a cold knot in her stomach, dread turning her body to ice.



“You think Enrique dead, eh? I am too hard to kill.”



“Please—”



He backhanded her across the face, the stinging slap knocking her head around. Her ears rang, spots in front of her eyes.



“You’re one tough puta. Tough with an axe handle. But my head is too hard.”



Mars held the knife an inch from her face. She saw now it was the meat cleaver from her own kitchen. It had never been used, the stainless steel reflecting her own terrified eyes.



“You do what I say, or I hack everything off. Nothing left but parts. You understand?”



She sucked in breath, but couldn’t find her voice. She nodded instead.



“Bueno.”



He took off his shirt, sniffed under his armpits. “Phew. I’ve been camping.” He laughed, took off the rest of his clothes. His brown body was marred by the occasional scar, bullet or knife wounds maybe. Linda had no idea. But the sight of his dangling penis and balls was somehow a hundred times more threatening than the meat cleaver.



He leaned over her, his stink filling her nostrils. He tugged at her arms, but she was taped fast.



“You’re not going anywhere.” Mars cupped one of her breasts and laughed. “Maybe we have some fun. But first I must wash.”



He left the bedroom, and ten seconds later Linda heard the water running in the bathroom.



She jerked at the tape, twisted in the chair. It was no use. Tears welled in her eyes.



No. Get a grip. Think.



Where was Andrew? He might walk through the front door in the next two minutes or it might be hours. And if he did come home, he’d walk right into the middle of a bad situation without warning. He’d probably get a cleaver in the head from Mars before he could do anything to rescue her.



She pulled at the tape again. No way.



If she could just get loose. She’d tucked one of her husband’s old service revolvers into a chest at the back of the closet. It might as well have been a thousand miles away.



Linda looked for anything useful on her vanity. Lipstick, cotton balls, nail polish. She thought there might be a fingernail file in the top drawer. She hoped. If she could get ahold of it, maybe she could cut through the tape.



She scooted and bounced the chair a foot closer to the vanity, froze a moment and listened, but Mars was still in the shower. She stretched her hand and was barely able to hook her finger through the drawer handle. She couldn’t pull the drawer out, didn’t have an angle or leverage. She heaved back in the chair, and the drawer slid open an inch as the chair moved. She heaved again.



The chair tilted back on two legs, and she locked her finger on the drawer handle, trying to right herself. But the chair went over, the drawer popping out, its contents raining onto the carpet. Linda landed flat on her back.



Shit!



She listened again to see if Mars had heard the crash. The shower must have covered the noise. She glanced around to see what she’d done. Combs and curlers and sponges scattered about. An eyelash curler. Something glinted metallic nearby.



The nail file.



If she could just roll on her side. The back of the chair was rounded, so she’d caught a break. She began rocking back and forth, grunted, and flopped over on her side. Her hand was a half inch from the nail file.



In the bathroom, the water shut off.



Oh, no. No no no no no.



She stretched her fingers, the tips brushing the file.



The bathroom door creaked open.



One more stretch, and her fingers covered the file. She dragged it into her palm and closed it into her fist. The point and the dull end stuck out either side of her fist just slightly. It wasn’t very noticeable. If she kept her fist closed, Mars might not even see it.



It was so quiet for so long that Linda allowed herself the fantasy that he’d gone.



Then the bedroom door opened. He walked in, drying his ass crack with one of her good towels. He saw her on the floor, scowled, and tossed the towel onto the vanity.



“What’s this? Trying to squirm away?”



She didn’t say anything, only watched him, mentally bracing herself against the inevitable.



Mars knelt next to her. He grabbed the roll of duct tape, ripped off a six-inch strip, and slapped it over her mouth. “Keep you quiet while I catch a nap.”



He stood, moved out of Linda’s line of sight. But she heard the bed springs, the rustle of pillows and blankets. Long seconds passed, five minutes, ten. His shallow breathing segued into light snoring. Was he really going to leave her on the floor while he slept?



She knew the reprieve was only temporary. Sooner or later he would wake, and the horror would begin anew. She jerked her wrists against the tape even though she knew it was useless. She held the fingernail file but could not figure out how to get an angle to cut the tape.



Her fate seemed written in stone, that she could only wait to suffer and die while a vile killer dozed on her Martha Stewart sheets.





34



On the way back to the house, Andrew told Lizzy about Linda.



“I’m not sure what we should say about you,” Andrew said to Lizzy. “Linda’s a little high-strung right now. If she knows you’re the sister of the woman who tried to blast us all to hell with a helicopter, she might not take it too well.”



“We’ll lie,” Lizzy said. “Say I’m your girlfriend from New York.”



It was a good, simple, reasonable lie, but Andrew hadn’t thought of it. The idea of his having a girlfriend was too alien. Also, it was a lie he liked. The thought of her being his girlfriend made him grin.



“And just what is so funny?”



“Nothing,” he said. “I’ll tell you later.”



They entered the house, and Andrew put a finger to his lips. He whispered, “Let’s keep it down. I don’t know if she’s up from her nap yet.”



“You’re just stalling,” Lizzy said.



Maybe. “Hungry?”



“Yes.”



They went to the kitchen. Genoa salami, Swiss cheese, brown mustard, lettuce, and tomato. Two bottles of beer. They chewed and drank in silence.



Lizzy said, “You should tell your friend she has company.”



Andrew sighed. “Let me finish my sandwich.”



* * *



Linda’s face itched. She knew it was psychological, her hands taped to the arms of the chair. She would have given every cent she had to be able to scratch her nose. She was so uncomfortable, feet going numb. The duct tape around her ankles was tight.



She realized in some distant way that focusing on her minor discomforts kept her from thinking about the fate in her near future.



She was going to be robbed and raped and killed.



Now she thought about it, couldn’t stop herself. Mars would rape her in the cruelest way possible, revenge for the axe-handle clubbing. And he wouldn’t want to leave a witness behind, so she was as good as dead. Linda’s too-vivid imagination twisted her guts. Nausea swept through her. She panicked briefly, thinking she might vomit with the tape sealing her mouth shut. Would choking and dying on her own puke be any worse than what Mars had planned for her? Again, she felt the tears coming.



No! She would not cry, could not allow herself to give in to despair. Her husband had been a good cop. She knew what he would say. Keep your head. No matter what happened, the first step was to keep calm and think straight; otherwise, it was all over.



She still held the nail file, her fist aching from the tight grip. All she needed was a chance. The waiting was the worst. Mars had only been napping maybe thirty minutes, but to Linda it seemed like an eternity.



Please just let this end. Even if I’m murdered, just let it end.



Be patient, her husband would say. Keep your head.



Right. No vomiting. No crying. Stay calm and be patient.



* * *



Andrew put the plates in the sink. “One more beer.”



“I feel weird being in somebody’s house and not telling them,” Lizzy said. “It’s not courteous.”



“After this beer.”



“I don’t want her to walk downstairs and just see me.” She grabbed Andrew’s arm.



He pulled away. Reflex. The beer bottle slipped out of his hand, broke open with a loud pop on the kitchen floor. Foam and glass across the tile.



“Shit!” Andrew squatted, picked up the larger pieces of glass.



Lizzy giggled. “Klutz.”



* * *



Linda started at the noise. Somebody was downstairs. Andrew was home. Oh, please please please. If only she could scream. She worked her mouth and jaw, tried anything to dislodge the strip of duct tape. But would she scream for help or for Andrew to run?



It didn’t matter. She was stuck.



Mars stirred, shifted in the bed, and Linda went cold. He grunted, and she heard him mumble something in Spanish. He was waking up. Maybe he had also heard the noise from downstairs. Linda gripped the nail file even tighter. One chance. That’s all. Just give me one shot.



She craned her neck, glimpsed his feet swinging over the side of the bed and planting themselves on the carpet. He stood, came around to face her, rubbing his eyes and yawning.



He bent over, grabbed the chair, and tilted her upright. Relief flooded her sore joints, but she hardly noticed. She looked up at the killer with pleading eyes. Mars offered only a joyless smile in return. He stood close, bent over to grab her breast, pinched a nipple. Hard. He made grunting sounds deep in his throat as he moved his hand to the other breast and pinched again.



Linda shivered, and Mars laughed. She felt his balls on her leg, his dick growing hard. Now she wanted to scream, do anything to get Andrew’s attention and make him come upstairs. She no longer cared if she put Andrew in danger. She’d do anything to end this horror with Mars.



Mars grabbed the base of his erection, pointed it at Linda’s face. For the first time she was glad for the strip of tape across her mouth.



Mars said, “Maybe I take the tape off, eh? Put something in there. No, I want to get to that pussy, I think.”



Mars sized up the situation, decided he couldn’t get at her in the chair. “I’m going to get you out of the chair, then tape your wrists again to the bedposts, spread you out nice and comfortable, yes? But you don’t fight. Make trouble and I break your jaw. Try to get away and I twist your arm, break that too. żComprende? You understand what I’m saying?”



Linda nodded.



He used the meat cleaver to saw through the tape binding her right wrist. Her right hand was free, the hand with the nail file. No. Wait. Not yet. Let him cut the other hand loose. She didn’t like that Mars held the cleaver again. He’d slice her throat in two seconds flat if he thought she might pull something.



He cut the tape on the other wrist. Both hands were free.



Mars knelt in front of her, began sawing at the tape around her ankles. In a fraction of a second, Linda had to decide. If she waited, her legs would be free, but if she did it now, it might be her best chance. He knelt right in front of her, his neck naked, exposed. It was right there. A voice shouted in her head. Now. Do it now. Right NOW!



She raised her fist and brought it down with all her strength on Mars, the nail file sinking two and a half inches into the side of Mars’s neck. She pulled it out. Blood. She struck again, another neat hole next to the first like a vampire’s bite.



More blood gushed. Mars lurched away from her, his free hand going to his neck, blood spurting between fingers. He screamed, a long, high, endless shriek. He danced in panicked circles.



Linda tried to stand, immediately sat down again. Her legs were still taped to the chair. Mars’s howl triggered something in Linda. She started screaming too, brandishing the nail file in front of her like a bayonet. But Mars had lost interest in her. His attention was entirely on the blood draining out of him at an alarming rate.



He ran naked from the bedroom, screaming in Spanish.



* * *



Lizzy and Andrew looked at one another, eyes wide.



“What the hell is that?” she said.



Andrew ran from the kitchen. “Linda!”



He ran through the living room and toward the stairs, slammed on the brakes when he saw the naked, screaming, bleeding Mexican charging right at him. Andrew also noted the meat cleaver.



Andrew did the only reasonable thing he could think of. He squealed like a frightened bunny.



Mars plowed into him, eyes blazing, blood spraying. Mars tried to hack at Andrew with the cleaver and keep one hand over his neck wound at the same time. Andrew grabbed Mars’s wrist with both hands, halted the cleaver an inch from his nose. “Shit. Help!”



Lizzy erupted from the kitchen, leapt over the couch, and planted herself in front of Mars. She took up a boxer’s stance and punched Mars in the ribs, three rapid, sharp shots. Mars grunted, shoved Andrew away so he could face the girl.



He jabbed, and she blocked it, punched him in the gut. He swiped at her with the cleaver, but she ducked low and punched him again in the gut. He got mad, growled. Mars wasn’t used to a little girl giving him trouble. He swung the cleaver again, and she leapt aside.



Mars moved in close, brought up his knee, caught her in the chin. Bells went off in her ears, and she sat down hard. He lifted the cleaver over his head. He was going to split her skull.



“No!” Andrew jumped on Mars’s back. They spun in a circle, Mars trying to swing the cleaver back over his head. They banged around the living room, obliterated a lamp, knocked a picture off the wall. Mars spun until Andrew was dislodged and landed in a heap next to a disoriented Lizzy.



Mars towered over them, blood dripping down his neck and over his heaving chest, meat cleaver poised to strike. His face stretched in a savage grimace.



Andrew gulped. He was going to die.



The room shuddered with the explosion, and a hole opened in Mars’s head, brain and bone spraying the walls and floor. Mars went stiff for two seconds, then toppled over backward to lie sprawled in a puddle of his own fluids.



Linda stood halfway down the stairs, legs apart in a shooter’s stance. She held a smoking revolver with both hands. The expression on her face was all business. She was still naked.



She descended the stairs slowly, stood over Mars’s body, and pointed the gun at his chest. She pulled the trigger five more times, Andrew flinching with each blast. Linda looked at the body, nodded approval, and dropped the gun.



Andrew stood, helped Lizzy to her feet.



Linda began to shake all over. “I th-think I need to s-sit down.” She dropped onto the couch and started to cry.



“I’ll get you a blanket,” Andrew said.



“There’s a r-robe on the back of the b-bathroom door.” Linda shook so violently, Andrew was afraid she might be having some kind of seizure. He ran upstairs to fetch the robe.



Lizzy lit a cigarette, puffed nervously.



“G-give me one of those,” Linda said.



Lizzy gave her a cigarette, lit it for her.



Linda sucked in smoke, exhaled a long gray stream. Her shaking subsided slightly. She puffed again, looked at Lizzy. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”





PART FIVE







35



The rain slashed, and the wind tore at the banners along Canal Street on the border of the French Quarter. Mike pulled the Caddy into the Marriott’s parking garage. His back and neck hurt so much, he was nearly dizzy, and the drive from Dallas had exhausted him. He felt like an old man. Even a long, hot day working the vineyard had never been like this. His whole life and all the years had caught up to him at last.



He checked in and took the elevator up to his room on the fifth floor. He thought about calling an escort service again for a girl to work that spot on his back, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay awake until she arrived. He kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the bed. He was fast asleep within three minutes.



His dream was a confused tumult of unpleasant sensation. All was dark. The only awareness he had of his own body were floating patches of pain. And somewhere in the nightmare realm he heard the voice of his bother Danny calling for help. Where was Mike? Why didn’t he respond to his brother’s pleas?



Mike groped, shifted, tried to move his bodiless existence toward Danny’s voice. But always there was the pain, blocking him. He had no body, but still he felt paralyzed. He strained to open his eyes, to end the darkness. It was as if his eyes were glued shut. He fought to pry them apart.



When Mike’s eyes popped open, he was back in the hotel room. He glanced at the clock. He’d slept almost three hours. He still ached but felt somewhat better. He found the remote control and flipped on the television, surfed until he hit a local station.



A weatherman said the storms would get worse before they got better. People were advised to stay indoors. Power outages here and there throughout the city, trees falling into power lines, lightning strikes. Flooding in some of the lowlands.



It didn’t make any difference to Mike. He wasn’t going to wait for sunshine. He was going to see this thing to the end. Tonight. Come hell or high water.



* * *



Although the first team of killers had been little more than clumsy amateurs, they had still served as a wake-up call for Nikki Enders. She rechecked the mansion’s security system and planted firearms in specific locations for easy access— bedroom, library, kitchen. She hoped her mother wouldn’t find one of them and take a sudden dislike to the paperboy.



She made a point to keep her eyes open, her radar up, which is why she noticed the sedan parked across the street. It had been there the day before too. Sometimes it was farther up the street, but it was definitely the same car. It might be nothing, or it might be trouble. At the moment, everything made her suspicious. She had a trick up her sleeve that might work on the sedan but decided to save it for later.



It also worried Nikki that she hadn’t heard from either of her sisters. She’d long ago accepted the possibility that something untoward had happened to Meredith, but she’d expected Lizzy to check in long before now. Nikki felt the mansion had become a fort. She was afraid to go out, and no news was coming in. It bothered Nikki to be on the defensive, an unfamiliar and uncomfortable position.



Nikki found her mother in the library, knitting her scarf in the shadow of her husband’s portrait. Lightning in the windows. A clap of thunder rattled the windows.



“Why don’t you go to bed, Mother?”



“The storm will keep me awake.” The click of her knitting needles was lost in another sharp crack of thunder.



Nikki looked at the portrait, back at the old woman. “I always thought the eye patch made him look cool. Do you miss Daddy, Mother?”



Tonya’s smile was enigmatic. “He’ll be home soon enough. Back from his mission.”



Nikki shook her head. Usually she steadfastly refused to indulge Mother’s delusions. But not tonight. Nikki didn’t have the energy or the heart to force reality. “What will you do when he gets home, Mother?”



The old woman sighed. “Murder the son of a bitch, I suppose.”



* * *



The storm battered the nondescript sedan parked across the street from the Garden District mansion. Jack Sprat sipped tepid coffee from a styrofoam cup and checked his wristwatch. Soon. First Mavis would cut the power and the lights would go out. The outage would probably get blamed on the storm. Then they’d go in. He felt bad about the old girl out in the rain, but there was nothing for it. She had to be in position to handle the alarm. He glanced at his watch yet again.



Soon.





36



The sleepy Marriott desk clerk told Mike getting a taxi would be tough. Two in the morning and the worst storm of the year. Neither man nor beast was out and about. Mike found the Cadillac in the parking garage and checked the trunk. Shotgun, shells, pistol, and a New Orleans Saints rain poncho he’d picked up at a tourist shop on the way into town. In addition to keeping the rain off him, it would serve to hide the shotgun. He put some extra shells into his pocket.



Mike’s plan was simple. He’d drive to the place and kill the person who set the hounds on Andrew. If anyone got in the way, Mike would sweep them aside with the twelve-gauge. The shotgun had always been Danny’s weapon of choice, but Mike knew how to use one too. He preferred the jitterbug dance of the tommy gun, the .45 caliber scat. The shotgun was more of a bass drum boom, the thunderous punctuation for some fat lady’s song.



So be it, thought Mike. It was a time for thunder. He drove the Caddy out of the garage and into the storm.



* * *



For a moment, Nikki thought the sedan had gone, but she spotted it up the street, almost to the next block. She knew in her gut there was somebody in the car, watching the place, somebody she would probably not like and maybe even need to kill. It was time to use the trick with the phone.



She picked up the phone, dialed in a special code before calling 911. An emergency operator answered.



“There’s a suspicious car parked in my neighborhood. I think he’s dealing drugs.” She described the sedan and told the street to the operator.



“What’s your name?”



“I don’t want to give my name,” Nikki said. “I’m afraid of the drug dealers. I want to remain anonymous.” She hung up.



Years ago her family had rigged up a switchboard for just such calls. To the police dispatcher it would appear as if the call came from a pay phone three blocks away. It was less suspicious to use the pay phone than for no number at all to appear to the dispatcher. Also, by saying the person in the car was a drug dealer, the cops were more likely to approach the sedan with caution. They might even search it. In any event, it would get rid of the sedan at least temporarily.



From her upstairs window, Nikki kept watch. In the brief flashes of lightning, she could almost make out somebody sitting in the driver’s seat. She watched until the red-and-blue lights appeared at the end of her street and headed for the sedan. She looked at her watch. Four minutes since she’d called.



It was nice to live in an upscale neighborhood.



* * *



Jack Sprat saw the cop car heading right for him and spat every curse word he knew in a long stream. This could drop the plan right into the toilet. The squad car pulled within a foot of Sprat’s sedan. A cop got out of the driver’s side, rain battering his yellow slicker. The cop would probably be in a pissed-off mood, having to shake him down in the thunderstorm. That’s all Sprat needed was an angry, soaked, fucking flatfoot screwing things up right before everything got started.



The cop went around back, noted his license plate. Sprat glanced at the big knife between his seat and the door. He could chuck it right into the copper’s chest, then stash the body. His hand eased toward the knife as the cop came up to the driver’s side.



The passenger door of the squad car swung open, and another cop climbed out, stood in the rain, watching Sprat. The cop’s hands were low. He might have been holding a pistol, or he might have been scratching his balls. Sprat couldn’t see.



Bloody hell.



Sprat put his hands on the steering wheel at ten and two. He didn’t have a play. The second cop could splatter him through the windshield before Sprat could even twitch. He’d have to ride this out, play nice like a normal citizen.



The first cop tapped on his driver’s-side window with the tail end of a long black flashlight. “Sir.”



Sprat rolled the window down three inches. “Problem, Officer?”



“What are you doing around here?”



Keep it simple. “My hotel isn’t too far, but I got lost. I didn’t want to drive in the storm.” He had to shout for the cop to hear him.



“You can’t loiter. Where’s your hotel?”



Sprat told him which hotel. He tried to emote harmless cooperation. He really didn’t need the cop getting suspicious, busting his balls and searching the car.



The cop pointed. “Two blocks that way, then turn left on St. Charles. You’ll see where you are.”



“I was hoping to wait until it let up a little.”



The cop shook his head. “Keep it slow, and you’ll be fine. There’s no traffic.”



It was no use. Any more protests, and he’d be pushing his luck. Sprat started the sedan, waved at the cop, and pulled away. He got two blocks and took out his cell phone, thumbed the speed dial as he turned onto St. Charles at ten miles per hour.



“It’s me, love,” Sprat said. “We’re going to push it back twenty minutes.”



Mavis chattered on the other end.



“Local constabulary telling your boy to move along. I’ll swing back when they’ve cleared off. And remember not to cut the alarm until the last second. We don’t want to tip our hand.”



Sprat hung up and began the long, slow circle back to the Cornwall mansion.



* * *



Nikki watched from the bedroom window. The sedan turned on its headlights and pulled away. The cops sat in their squad car for a minute before they too drove away. Nikki nodded, satisfied. She’d check again in an hour, and if the sedan returned, she’d take more direct action.



She left the window, curled up on the bed. She felt suddenly so very tired. She lived in a big house she couldn’t enjoy, had money she didn’t spend. Her mother lived in a fantasy world in which her dead father would come walking through the front door any moment. And her sisters. Where were they? How had this become her life?



Outside, rain pelted the roof, and thunder shook the world. She curled into a small ball in the middle of the huge bed, and slipped into an uneasy sleep.





37



The Cadillac zigzagged through the Garden District, Mike hunched over the steering wheel, squinting at street signs and house numbers through the downpour.



He drove the streets in a wet, resigned funk. He no longer burned with hate. Even conjuring the image of Keone’s dead body failed to fuel his revenge. Yes, the hate was still there, but it was cold, without passion. A contract he’d signed with fate, a job to be done. Blood must answer for blood. It was all Mike knew. He would do this job, then rest, sleep and sleep and forget.



But no rest yet. Now there was work, and pain in his back, and the leaden feeling in his gut he used to get right before he and Dan went into a gunfight. And he was wet. He wanted only a few cold beers and a hot shower when this was all over.



Mike passed a cop car going in the opposite direction, and half a block later saw the mansion. The number on the gate was right. This was the place. He parked on the street and checked his weapons. The pump shotgun was fully loaded with buckshot. Six rounds in the .38 revolver.



He climbed out of the Caddy and winced. The rain stung cold and hard, flew at him almost sideways. The bandage under the eye patch was soaked. Mike approached the gate, shotgun under the Saints poncho. A lock on the gate. He gave it a weak kick, and pain lanced up his back and neck.



The pain was so bad he had to stop, lean against the gate.



“Goddammit.”



He stepped back, lifted the shotgun, and blasted the lock. If somebody heard, then screw it. He wanted this over. He was going to go in and get this done. He pumped another shell into the chamber and pushed the gate open. He took the short walkway to the front door, shotgun leading the way.



Mike tried the knob, locked. He aimed the shotgun at the door lock, hesitated. Of course there would be an alarm. At this point, he wasn’t concerned about alerting the people inside, but if the alarm were wired to the local precinct, that could end the party real quick.



He hid the shotgun back under his poncho and knocked. He would make something up, say his car had a flat and he needed the phone.



In three seconds, the door swung open. Mike wasn’t surprised to see the grim black woman in a maid’s uniform. It was Mike’s understanding from TV and movies that women like her were standard issue in these old Southern mansions.



But the silver revolver in her hand did surprise him a little. He thought about swinging the shotgun around fast and making a play for her, but he’d have to twist at the waist and fire from the hip, and if his back seized up, he’d be a sitting duck.



Hell.



She motioned him inside with the pistol. “Get in.”



He went in, hands tight on the shotgun in case he saw an opening.



She shut the door, kept her eyes and the pistol on him the whole time. “I heard the shot and saw you through the peephole, mister. Now set that shotgun aside nice and slow.”



“What shotgun?”



“I can see the butt sticking out the back of the poncho,” she said. “Don’t make me ask again or I’ll shoot that other eye out.”



He held the shotgun in one hand, held the other hand up so she could see it. He sidestepped toward the wall slowly, leaned the shotgun up against the doorframe.



“Now step away from it.”



Mike stepped away.



“You just keep still while I call the lady of the house and we’ll see what to do with you.” The maid edged toward an intercom on the wall.



The lady of the house. That would probably mean two people pointing guns at Mike, and then he wouldn’t have a chance. He had to do something right now or his long drive from Oklahoma would be for nothing. He tensed to grab for the .38 in his belt.



A flash of lightning. Thunder boomed, and the lights went out.



Mike went for the revolver, backpedaled and tripped over his own feet and went down. The maid fired blind, and Mike heard the slugs hit the far wall. She must have thought he was going for the shotgun.



He fanned the .38 in a wide slanting arc, squeezed the trigger five times. Hopefully one of the shots would hit.



Everything went quiet except for the rain and Mike’s own heavy breathing. He tried to get up. He couldn’t. His back had locked.



Mike dragged himself along the floor, groped, and found the wall. He’d give himself ten seconds to catch his breath, then he’d use the wall for support and somehow get to his feet.



The lights flickered back on.



Mike lay three inches from the maid’s face, her big eyes rolled up and lifeless, mouth open like a cartoon trout’s. One of his shots had hit. Mike had gotten lucky.



Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself to his feet. He had one shot left in the .38, stuck it back in his belt. He picked up the shotgun and went looking for the lady of the house.



* * *



Nikki sat up in bed, rigid and alert. She’d heard something. Gunfire.



She rolled over and checked her laptop. The computer was connected to the house system. She tapped a few keys, scanned the display, but the system didn’t show a breach, no forced entry. Nikki knew the difference between shots and thunder. Something bad was happening.



The digital clock blinked 12:00 at her. A brief power outage, but that wouldn’t affect the security system, which was wired to a separate power source.



She pulled the .380 from under her mattress and jumped down from the canopied bed. She quickly peeled off her socks and tossed them aside. Too much hardwood flooring in this house, and she couldn’t afford to slip and slide. Better traction with bare feet.



Out in the hall. She looked both ways. Nothing. She cocked her head, listened, but heard only the storm. She headed for the stairs.



At the bottom, she spun a full circle, both hands tight on the .380. She looked into every corner. Nothing. She crept silently down the hall and gasped when she got to the front foyer and saw Althea, blood spreading in a pool from beneath the maid’s corpse.



Grief for her longtime servant flared only briefly, then turned to cold calculation. Nikki’s eyes kept moving. She needed information. How many? How had they gotten inside? Would the single magazine in the .380 automatic be enough?



Another level of thought contemplated bigger questions. Who was here to kill her and why? The man with the voice. It could be no other. She had botched the job, sent her sisters to do what she should have taken care of personally.



With shocking clarity, Nikki realized she had been slowly removing herself from the business, backing off and bowing out a little at a time. She had come too close to getting killed too many times, and she knew now she’d lost the stomach for it. Killing had been her father’s business. She could not now think of a single reason she should continue. She wanted her life back, wanted off the leash.



The man with the voice wouldn’t like that.



She set her jaw, headed back down the hall toward the library. The man with the voice would be made to understand. He did not own Nikki Enders. She would send his killers back in a box.



Maybe then he’d get the picture.



* * *



Sprat made a wide circle and finally arrived back at the mansion. He looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of the squad car. Good. He looked at his watch. He hadn’t lost much time. He regretted having to break surveillance, but really, what could possibly have happened during the ten short minutes he’d been gone?





38



Andrew rolled over in the dark, put his hand on Lizzy’s bare stomach. She sighed, half-sleepy, half-content. Outside, the crickets sang. The moon hung low and huge in the wide Okie sky, washing them in pale light. It made Lizzy’s white skin glow. Again, Andrew thought she was beautiful. He wondered at the circumstances that brought them together, ached at the thought they might part.



He tried not to look very far into the future. They were here, now, in Linda’s big, four-poster bed. That was enough. Wasn’t it?



Linda had said they could use the bed, use the house, stay as long as they wanted. She didn’t care anymore. She was going back to Chicago to stay with an aunt and figure things out. Her life the last few days had been turned into a horrible nightmare of violence and fear. Adding insult to injury, Linda felt she’d betrayed her husband’s memory by not calling the sheriff like a good citizen. She needed to go away and figure things out. Andrew thought the woman might be a nervous wreck the rest of her life.



He rubbed Lizzy’s stomach again, whispered, “Hey.”



She stirred. “Hmmmmm.”



“I think I love you.” It was sudden and ridiculous, but Andrew wasn’t interested in pretending it wasn’t true.



“Go to sleep,” Lizzy whispered.



“You don’t love me?”



A pause. “Maybe I do. I don’t know. I’ve never loved anyone before.”



“Let’s run away together.”



She rolled into him, buried her face in her pillow. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”



“I’m wide-awake.”



“Leave me alone. I’m sleeping.”



“Come on. Talk to me.” He reached, grabbed her shoulder to turn her back over.



She rose up suddenly, turned, and jerked away from his grasp. “Get your hands off me!”



She swung, her little fist connecting with his chin.



Bells went off, Andrew’s head flying back. He bit his tongue, tasted blood, and tumbled backward off the bed. He landed flat on his back, stared up at the ceiling in shock, stuck out his tongue, and touched it. Not too bad, he hadn’t bitten that deeply. He lay dismayed at the sudden violence.



Lizzy’s hair appeared over the side of the bed— she looked down at him. “Sorry.”



“What was that for?” He rubbed his chin.



“You should know something about me,” she said. “I’m a little…touchy.”



Andrew refrained from commenting that suddenly smashing him in the face qualified as more than touchy in his book.



“You can’t pressure me,” Lizzy said. “And I don’t like to be touched suddenly. And don’t sneak up on me.”



“Anything else?”



“I do like you,” she said. “A lot. But let’s just play it by ear, okay?”



“Right. No sudden grabs. Play it by ear.”



She put her head back on the pillow, and her breathing became steady and deep.



Andrew stood up, watched her a moment. He wished he could sleep like that. He did love her, even if she did beat him up a little.



After a few minutes he went downstairs, still naked. He stared awhile into the refrigerator. Nothing grabbed his interest. He found his mandolin and took it out to the back deck.



There was a light breeze, just enough to raise goose bumps on his exposed flesh. He strummed random chords for a while, just sitting and looking at the enormous moon. He plucked strings and soon found his way into a song: “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.”



His thoughts drifted back to the Indians loading their dead son into the back of a pickup truck. Would there be any answers for them? Would it help or hurt them to know their boy’s death was the result of events set into motion by people they didn’t know for reasons they wouldn’t understand? It wasn’t fair. It was bullshit. Somebody should do something.



Maybe somebody would.





39



The library impressed Mike. Leather-bound books, deep Persian rugs, and highly polished antique furniture all whispered old money. He paused in front of the portrait of the man with the eye patch. Involuntarily, Mike’s hand went to his own eye patch. Mike didn’t like the guy in the portrait. The look in the man’s eye seemed to say I know all about you. You are beneath me.



Mike discarded the Saints poncho, checked the load on his shotgun. He wished he had more rounds for the .38. Lightning filled the windows, thunder, and the lights went out again. He backed into a desk, tripped through the room, knocked over a lamp with his elbow.



He heard something. Was that him, something he’d knocked over? No. Somebody was here, in the room with him. He spun around, the shotgun in front of him. He strained to see, a shadow, movement, a glint of something in the darkness. Had he heard something? A wisp of air, the whisper of feet across the floor.



There! Right in front of him, was that a shape? Another flash of lightning in the window illuminated the room for a split second. A shape to his right. He lifted the shotgun, took three steps forward.



The lights came back on, stunningly bright and sudden. Mike was blinded for an instant. He blinked, saw the woman in front of him the exact second she saw him. He pointed the shotgun at her. She trained a pistol on him.



“Drop it,” Mike said.



“Don’t make me laugh,” she said. “I can put five rounds into you before you’ve pumped a second shell into the chamber.”



Mike took a deep breath. “Little girl, at this range it would take only one blast of buckshot to turn that pretty face into hamburger.”



“Well, I guess we’ve determined we can gun each other into oblivion,” she said.



They stood like that for a second, sighting each other, hands sweating on grips, fingers itchy on the trigger.



“That shotgun looks heavy, old man. You can’t stand like that forever.”



She was right. The familiar ache was already creeping into his back and neck. Beads of sweat on his forehead. “I can stand like this all night.”



They circled each other, both waiting for the other to flinch, slip up, look away. Mike wasn’t going to last much longer. His lower back was on the brink of a spasm. But he didn’t know what to do. If he pulled the trigger, she’d fire too.



Another long second ground past.



Finally, Mike said, “How about I count to three and we both pull the trigger? Unless you got any other bright ideas.”



* * *



Sprat squatted in the driving rain outside the mansion’s big French doors. He cupped his hand over his wristwatch, pressed the button to light up the display. Mavis had said she would cut the electricity and the alarm simultaneously. Thunder cracked so loud it made him flinch. Son of a bitch! The storm was right on top of the Garden District. The brace of knives were slick and wet in the leather harness. He wished he’d brought a towel to dry them once he was inside. Hell, he’d use the curtains. He’d find something, but he didn’t want the knives slipping out of his hands at an awkward moment.



He checked his watch again.



Soon.



* * *



Nikki didn’t know if she could talk this situation away, but she had to try. She wouldn’t feel guilty for one second about shooting the old man. The problem was she was afraid he might shoot back. There could be no clearer sign that her career as a killer was over. You couldn’t be afraid in this business. Too much concern for saving your own skin made you hesitate, and hesitation was an invitation for death. So fear wasn’t an option, but when she looked down the gigantic dark barrel of the old man’s twelve-gauge, Nikki felt afraid.



“Listen,” Nikki said. “I’ll let you live if you—”



“You’ll let me live?” The old man raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you know who you’re—”



“Will you let me finish a sentence?” Nikki snapped. “I’m trying to get us both off the hook.”



“Fine. Talk.”



“Tell the man with the voice it’s over. You can walk away if you deliver that message. I’m not working for him anymore. If he sends anyone else, I’ll kill them, and then I’ll come after him.” It was a good, tough speech even if it was mostly hot air.



The old man only blinked, and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”



Of course. The old man was probably a subcontractor, didn’t even know who had hired him. He probably worked for somebody local, who in turn worked for the Voice. “Tell whoever sent you. The message will get through.”



“Nobody sent me.”



Nikki digested that, didn’t know what to do with it. “Then who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?”



The old man hesitated, seemed to consider. “I’m Mike Foley. Andrew Foley is my nephew.”



What? Who the hell was Andrew Foley? The name did strike her as vaguely familiar, but—Oh…my…God.



Impossible. That’s all she could think. Andrew Foley was the final target, the one she was hoping Middle Sister would kill for her, so Nikki wouldn’t have to put herself in harm’s way. And this guy was…his uncle? How did he…where did he…? Nikki’s world had turned upside down.



She realized her mouth was hanging open. She closed it.



“That’s over,” Nikki said. “Nobody’s after your nephew anymore.”



“I’m just supposed to believe you?”



“How about we both lower our weapons,” Nikki said, “and I’ll tell you a little story.”



* * *



Sprat checked his watch. Two minutes. He stood, readied himself to go in through the French doors. He thought about climbing up to one of the second-floor windows, but even with his skills, he didn’t want to risk slipping in the rain.



As the seconds ticked away, Sprat suddenly felt nervous. He didn’t know what was on the other side of the French doors. It was a big house. The chances the woman would be standing right there ready for him were remote. And Ortega had said the woman could be dangerous. He didn’t like thinking Mavis would find her first and get into some kind of trouble and Jack wouldn’t be there to help.



The thought of Mavis not being there anymore struck him in the gut. He loved her so damn much. If something happened to her



No. Can’t get distracted like that. Get in quick and do the job.



It would be okay.



* * *



Although they’d lowered their weapons, Nikki’s .380 still pointed more or less in Mike’s direction. Mike held his shotgun at waist level, finger still on the trigger as he listened to her story.



Nikki Enders wanted out. Mike knew what that was like. She said nobody would be coming to kill his nephew, her least of all. She had bigger worries. Her boss wanted her head. Not exactly her boss, Mike thought, but somebody who pushed her buttons. Somebody who wanted her dead if she didn’t follow orders.



And Mike realized that killing her would be meaningless. It would be like shooting a carpenter’s hammer because he built your house crooked. Nikki was a tool. That was all.



But a dangerous tool. Mike still wasn’t completely ready to trust her. “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”



She sighed, thought a moment, then stepped over to the desk, set the automatic down, and pushed it away. Mike kept the shotgun on her the whole time. He could do it now, blast her with buckshot. His finger tightened on the trigger. His killer’s instincts rose up hard. If she were pulling some kind of trick, then it was the worst trick Mike had ever seen. He started to lift the shotgun. She was so very close to death.



But he couldn’t do it. No, it wasn’t that he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. It would be pointless. In the old days, it wouldn’t have mattered that it was pointless. You didn’t leave a foe alive. It could come back to bite you. Better safe than sorry, right? Mike wouldn’t let himself think that way anymore. He forced the killer inside him to stand down.



Still, there was something he needed to get out in the open. “Your sister is dead.” Mike didn’t say how or that he’d done it. Nikki would know. He didn’t want her to find out later and seek revenge. This had to be dealt with now. No loose ends.



Nikki’s eyes widened. “Which one?”



“Which one what?”



“I have two sisters.”



“Meredith,” Mike said.



Nikki’s lower lip trembled slightly just for a moment. She mastered herself, nodded. “I figured. Hazards of the business.”



Good, Mike thought. She’s taking it like a professional. No grudges. All business. Mike couldn’t decide if he blamed her for Keone. But who was he to cast stones? He’d made his own mistakes and had to live with them. It was enough that she wouldn’t come after Andrew. He’d made sure his nephew was safe, paid any debt he thought he owed his brother. Time for all of this to be over. Let it be finished.



Mike wanted to go home.



“Okay,” Mike said. “You have a deal. I’m going to back out of here nice and slow. You stay right where I can see you. I’ll leave, and we’ll never see each other again, right?”



She nodded. “Agreed, Mr. Foley. You don’t have a thing to worry about.”



And then the lights went out.





40



The instant everything went dark, Nikki snatched up her pistol again and dove behind the desk. She paused, listened.



“Foley?”



“It’s the storm,” the old man said. “The lights have been going on and off all night.”



She glanced at the alarm display on the wall. There should have been a blinking green light, but there wasn’t. “It’s not the storm. The alarm’s been cut too, and it’s a separate system.” She took a deep breath, exhaled. “They’re here.”



“They who?”



“I told you,” Nikki said. “They want me dead.” The man with the voice had sent his killers. She would never be safe. They would hound her to the ends of the earth.



“It has nothing to do with me,” Foley said.



The old man’s voice had moved. He was shifting in the darkness, trying to find a spot for himself. He was an old veteran. She could tell. But he was long in the tooth. Most didn’t last so long in this business. Time to see what Mike Foley was made of.



“We can help each other, Foley.”



“I told you. Not my concern.”



“They won’t see it that way,” Nikki said. “They’re going to come in here any second and sanitize the place, including you, whether you feel involved or not.”



A pause. “What do you want from me?” Foley asked.



“Kill anyone downstairs that’s not me. My mother is upstairs. I have to go.”



“How will I know if it’s you or not in the dark?”



“I’ll say, Don’t shoot me, Mike Foley you son of a bitch. How’s that?”



“Fair enough.”



“Okay,” Nikki said. “I’m going. Good luck.”



She ran quickly out of the library, through the dark house, down the hall to the stairs. The furniture had not been moved in years. She had that much over her assailants at least. She could navigate the house with a bag over her head. No problem.



Nikki had a split second of warning before she saw the tiny penlight hovering in the dark, then the fist smacked into her face, bells shrieking in her ears, fireworks behind her eyes. The world spun. Nikki flew in the air. Her feet couldn’t find the floor.



* * *



After the lights went out, Sprat waited thirty seconds, steeling his nerve.



He pulled a knife, held it loosely, poised to toss should he see a target. He took a step back and a deep breath and kicked open the French doors just as a blinding flash of lightning lit up the Garden District.



* * *



Mike flinched when the French doors flung open with a loud crack, the rain and wind roaring into the library.



The lightning filled the doorway with blue-white light. Standing in contrast was the shape of a man. He could have been a cardboard cutout from a police shooting range. The outline of this guy holding something up near his head. It was right there for a fraction of a second, the duration of a lightning flash, and then this outline vanished back into the darkness in the same heartbeat that Mike swung the shotgun and blasted buckshot.



Mike heard the intruder yell. Immediately, Mike knew it wasn’t a pain yell. It was a surprise yell. Another lightning flash, and Mike wasn’t sure what he was seeing. The man seemed to spring onto a set of bookshelves like a spider monkey, something flying toward Mike, spinning and glittering metallic in the lightning flash.



It struck Mike in pitch-darkness, stabbed medium deep into his leg. The monkey guy had tossed a knife at him. It stuck in his leg, and Mike was afraid it would bleed too much if he pulled it out.



He gritted his teeth, pumped the shotgun, and caught a glimpse of the guy leaping to the floor in the next lightning flash. He fired, buckshot spraying, but the monkey man had slunk under a desk. The guy was cat-fast, a twitchy lizard. The way he moved, Mike couldn’t get a bead on him. He pumped, fired the shotgun, pumped and fired again, trying to follow the little man’s jerky movements in the white-bright lightning strikes.



Mike circled, pumped, blasted. The tinkle of broken glass. The French doors flapped in the wind. Thunder cracked. The shotgun hammered away at the interior of the library, but it was like trying to shoot a ghost.



Mike pumped and pulled the trigger again. Click.



Shit!



Mike reached into his jacket pocket, grabbed a handful of shells, fumbled them to the floor. He knelt, felt along the floor, but found only a single shell. Son of a bitch. He loaded the shell, pumped it into the chamber.



When he tried to stand up again, his back went out.



* * *



Only because she’d seen the flashlight did Nikki have time to turn away as the cement-hard fist hit her face. If she’d taken the punch full-on, it would have finished her. Still, the glancing blow spun her around, teeth flying out in a spray of blood. She had slipped halfway into unconsciousness, landed hard. She shook the bells out of her ears, stood and wobbled away on shaky legs, only her strict training keeping her upright.



The flashlight hovered in her peripheral vision. Instinct took over. Nikki spun, kicked the hand holding the flashlight. She heard a grunt and something heavy falling. The flashlight clattered across the wood floor, light splashing like an out-of-control disco ball.



Then she ran.



Something massive slammed into her from behind, powerful arms going around her, lifting her off the ground. She felt the attacker’s chest press into her back, a slight hint of flowery perfume. A woman? Yes, a giant woman with arms like iron.



The arms squeezed, began the slow, hard crush, and the air left Nikki’s lungs.



* * *



Where the hell did he go?



The man had surprised Sprat. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone else in the house. Now Sprat couldn’t catch a glimpse of movement in the lightning flashes, and he couldn’t hear anything over the wind and rain. Was it possible Sprat had nailed him with the knife? No. The blade had been wet and slick, and Sprat knew his aim was off. The knife had gone low. It had possibly caught the bloke’s leg, but it might have missed altogether.



He took the little flashlight from his jacket pocket, thought about using it to check for a body. But he also knew the light would make him a target. Maybe that’s what the sneaky fellow was counting on. Maybe he was playing possum.



Sprat spider-crawled on top of a table, crouched low, stepping carefully to avoid knocking over decanters of expensive liquor on the tabletop. He pulled the other knife, prepared to spring. He could pounce on somebody like a jaguar, entangle them in his arms and legs, and slit a throat before the victim said boo.



He scanned the room, straining to see any hint of movement in the shadows.



Where are you, you crafty bastard?






Nikki went limp and threw her arms over her head. If the big woman anticipated the move, then Nikki was through, but she caught her attacker by surprise. Her sudden deadweight slipped through the big woman’s hug.



She lay on the floor, waited a moment, knowing the woman would bend over to grab her again. Nikki kicked up hard, caught the behemoth on the chin. Her attacker stumbled back and fell, the sound of an avalanche.



Nikki scurried to her feet and flew up the stairs. Who else is in this house? How many? She ran to her mother’s room and threw open the door. Her mother looked up from her rocking chair. She knitted the scarf by candlelight. The old woman raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”



“There are intruders in the house.”



She snorted. “Come for your father, I suppose. Tell them he’s not here.”



As she closed the bedroom door, Nikki said, “Lock yourself in, Mother. Don’t open the door until I check—”



A heavy hand on Nikki’s shoulder spun her around. Nikki ducked the punch just in time. The giantess had followed her up the stairs so quickly. Nikki had thought the kick to her chin would have put her down a little longer. She dropped and attempted to sweep the woman’s legs. It was like kicking stone, the woman’s ankles like granite monuments.



The woman lifted an enormous foot and brought it down hard, trying to stomp Nikki’s chest. Nikki rolled to the side, and the foot impacted the hardwood floor, which cracked under the force.



A sudden memory. Her old martial arts teacher, wrapping a blindfold around a seventeen-year-old Nikki. Fighting without sight, sensing the mass of your opponent in front of you. Listening for breathing and the rustle of clothing. Nikki closed her eyes, kicked, her heel impacting the big woman’s knee.



A pained yelp, strangely high-pitched and feminine.



Nikki scrambled to her feet, leapt high and kicked, felt the ball of her foot flatten the woman’s nose. She spun, kicked again, landed another blow on her jaw. A fist flew out of the darkness and landed above Nikki’s ear. She staggered back, spots in front of her eyes. She shook her head, tried to regain focus, when another unseen fist hit her square in the mouth. She tasted blood and fell backward, landed on her back.



She lay a split second on the floor, trying to block out the pain. She felt groping hands on her head. The woman grabbed a fist full of her hair. Nikki kicked up and over her head, caught her in the face again, and heard her teeth rattle. But this time the big woman hung on tight, hoisted Nikki to her feet.



Nikki felt a thick forearm tighten on her throat. It wasn’t the haphazard grip the woman had used on her before, some kind of wrestling hold. Going limp wouldn’t work this time.



Nikki bent her knees and heaved with all her strength to slam the big woman against the wall. It was like trying to move a bulldozer. Nikki managed to knock the woman against the wall, but it was barely a nudge. Nikki hadn’t even bruised the giantess. The grip tightened on Nikki’s throat, her face red and the air pressed almost completely out of her.



This time Nikki brought her feet up against the wall and pushed away hard. The big woman hadn’t been ready for that. She stumbled back, still clutching Nikki.



Their mass hit the stair railing, smashing it apart like so many matchsticks. The big woman panicked, let go of Nikki, arms windmilling, screaming bloody murder. Nikki was almost unconscious, but training and instinct kicked in, an arm snaking out to grab something solid.



The big lady fell like a meteor. She struck the chandelier, scattering crystal baubles just as a bright flash of lightning flooded the house. The woman fell among the glittering diamond rain. Woman and chandelier crashed at the bottom. It sounded like the apocalypse.



Nikki hung from the second-floor ledge, groped for the remains of the railing, and found a grip. She heaved, pulled herself up. She lay there, her legs still dangling over the edge, breathing heavily. If there were any more attackers, she didn’t care. There was no fight left in her.



Nikki heard the shotgun blast and remembered the old man.





41



Mike gritted his teeth to hold in a moan. The pain burned along his spine. He lay awkwardly on his side, a white-knuckled grip on the shotgun. He had one shell.



Make it count, little brother. I’m not there to bail you out this time. His brother’s voice echoed in his head. In the old days, Mike and his brother always went in as a team. Now Mike was alone. Is this how Danny had felt when Mike left him?



Sorry, Dan. My bad.



He couldn’t hear much over the wind and rain. Had the girl come out of it okay? Mike lay behind an overstuffed leather chair. It provided cover, but meant he couldn’t see anything.



As quietly as he could, Mike scooted out from behind the chair. If a lucky bolt of lightning lit up his foe, Mike needed to be ready to take his shot. He tried to heave himself into a sitting position. A mistake. More pain.



He elbow-crawled under a table, and rolled onto his back, breathing hard and clutching the shotgun against his chest. He glanced to both sides, tried to see feet in the brief lightning. If he had a shot, he’d take it, but he saw no sign of the intruder. Mike lay perfectly still, watched, and listened.



Directly above him, the wooden table creaked, the sound of a man shifting his weight.



Mike pointed his shotgun up, made his best guess, and squeezed the trigger.



* * *



The shotgun blast plowed through the highly polished wood, and Sprat’s left ankle exploded in blood and fragments of bone and blinding pain. He dropped the knife, tilted and went down screaming, his foot barely attached to his leg with a few strands of skin and sinew. He writhed on the tabletop, scattering the decanters.



He managed to raise his head, still looking for his adversary, rage and revenge boiling up through the pain.



None of this was really turning out like Sprat had hoped.



* * *



Mike tossed the shotgun aside. He knew his shot had found its target. The guy was still groaning and whimpering and thrashing above. Time to get the hell out of Dodge. He crawled on his side, not wanting to roll onto the knife still stuck in his leg, pulled himself toward the doorway with his elbows and hands. If he could get to the hall, maybe he could pull himself up on a table or something. If he could just get outside, get to the Cadillac



It was slow going, the pain still rippling along his spine. The grunting and crying had subsided behind him. Maybe the guy had passed out, or maybe he was dead. Mike didn’t know how badly he’d hit him. He hoped to hell the guy was dead.



Mike could tell his nephew to go home. It was safe. Maybe he could repair the vineyard. He could rebuild. Mike had insurance. He could pick up where he left off. Sure. Ten more feet and he’d be out the door. He wouldn’t look back. Blood dripped warm and sticky down his leg. He’d been so close to death. But he’d lived. He’d made it and—



Something grabbed his ankle from behind.



“Not so fast, fucker.” The voice behind him was shaky, strained, but also angry. A thick accent.



Oh, hell. Mike tried to crawl faster, jerk his leg away, pain from his wound sending a wave of nausea through him.



“You motherfucker. I’m c-crippled.” He grabbed Mike’s ankle with the other hand too, pulled himself onto Mike’s legs. “You shot my f-foot off.”



Mike tried to shift, twist around, get into any kind of position to fight the guy off. It was no good. The guy was punching him in the ribs now. Mike grunted, remembered the pistol in his pants but couldn’t reach it. He took more punches to the ribs and the back of the head.



His attacker reared up, brought the point of his elbow down with his full force into the middle of Mike’s back. Mike screamed—



But—



Something shifted, fell into place along his spine. Mike rolled onto his back. The agony had drained away, replaced only by a dull ache.



The attacker grabbed the knife in Mike’s leg and jerked it out. Mike grunted.



“I’ll slice your bloody throat.” Another flash of lightning. Mike’s attacker had the knife high over his head for a death strike, eyes wild, the blade gleaming in the sudden light. Teeth clenched in an animal grimace. The man looked like something from a comic book cover—Macabre Tales.

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