by Greg Iles
With that, Jonathan Sands strolls off down Washington Street, the massive dog walking at his heel like a royal escort. When Sands pauses to study the smooth trunks of the crape myrtles in the pink glow of the streetlamps, the dog stops and sits beside him. As I watch, a long, black car glides soundlessly up to him, gathers up him and his dog, and rolls quickly out of sight, making for the river.
As I stare at the blackness where the taillights faded, I realize that Im shaking uncontrollably. I can hardly grip my key to get it out of the lock.
Im no stranger to threats. Ive confronted dangerous men in my life, some of them psychopaths. A few vowed to avenge themselves upon me for criminal convictions or for the executions of relatives. I once shot a man dead to prevent him from killing my daughter in retribution. But never have I experienced the paralyzing terror I felt while listening to the clear and passionless voice of Jonathan Sands.
God, what Tim must have suffered before he died.
With shaking hands I take out my cell phone and call Julia Jessup. Im three minutes late, but she answers, sounding like shes close to hyperventilating. I dont know what Sandss promise to leave Tims widow alone is worth, but I must protect my own family now. After instructing Julia to seek refuge with Tims parents, I carry Sandss briefcase inside, lock the door behind me, and race up the stairs to Annies door. In the night lights glow, I see her tucked into the bow of my mothers larger form beneath the covers. Relief washes over me, but fear quickly burns through it. As I watch my sleeping daughter, a disturbing certainty rises from the chaos in my mind. Tim was right about Mr. X. Jonathan Sands is not like anyone Ive ever faced before. Ive dealt with the man for nearly a year and not once suspected his true nature. But theres no time for self-recrimination now. Or for doubt. Sands may have convinced himself that Ill be like the others hes bought off or threatened into cooperating with him, but in twenty-four hours hell know different. Before I can act, though, I must get my daughter to safety.
Hurrying down the stairs, I lock Sandss briefcasewhich is indeed full of cashin the safe in my study, mentally ticking off the obvious obstacles: The house will be watched. My phones will be tappedcellular and landlines. The house may be bugged or even covered by video cameras, considering that Sands was waiting for me when I got home. He could be checking my e-mail, text mes sages, and any other form of digital communication. So what options remain?
For some people, mortal danger brings paralyzing confusion. For meafter the first minute of panicit brings clarity. So its with utter certainty that I pick up my kitchen telephone and dial my fathers home number. The phone rings three times, and then a mildly groggy baritone voice answers, Dr. Cage.
Even before I speak, something in me arcs out over the wires, instinctively reaching for the protection of blood kin. Dad, its Penn.
From three miles away, I feel him come alert in the dark. Whats the matter? Is Annie all right? Is it Peggy?
I let some anxiety bleed into my voice. Annie and Mom are fine, but somethings wrong with me. My hearts racing. I think Im having a panic attack.
Tachycardia? Is it a stress reaction?
No, it just started a couple of minutes ago. Im a little short of breath, and my pulse is about a hundred and ten. I feel like I may throw up. I guess maybe Im worried about taking that balloon ride in the morning.
Theres a brief silence. Wed better go down to my office and get an EKG on you.
No, no, I think its just anxiety. I had to fly in a goddamn helicopter today. I think I just need some Valium or something.
A helicopter? Hmm. Maybe youre right. Do you have any Ativan there?
No. Do you think you could bring me something? Id come there, but I dont want to drive while this is going on.
I hear him grunt as he heaves himself out of bed. Ill pull on some clothes and get my bag. I want to listen to your chest.
I press my palm so hard against my forehead that my arm shakes. Thanks, Dad. I appreciate it. The front door is unlocked. Just walk in. Ill be in my bathroom.
Okay.
I should hang up, but I cant help adding, Try to hurry, okay?
Im on my way.
CHAPTER
13
Linda Church hugs the toilet in the ladies room of The Devils Punchbowl Bar and Grille, shuddering as she retches into the bowl. Shes supposed to be seating patrons, but she can no longer carry out the basic functions of employment. Two minutes ago she received a text message from Tim, but the message made no sense. She wipes her mouth with toilet tissue, then flips open her phone and reads the letters again, being careful to hide it from the hidden camera above.
Thiefwww kllmmommy. Sqrttoo.
The message came from a number she doesnt recognize, not even the area code, but this is the strongest proof that Tim sent it. Hes told her that one of his security tactics is to use the phones of strangers when their attention is elsewhere. Hes even stolen cell phones for this purpose. But this message has taken her to the edge of panic. Kllmmommy? Sqrttoo? It almost sounds like an order to kill Julia and the baby.
No, she whispers, as the possibility that this message might have been meant for someone else sinks into her bones. Not possible. He loves that baby. He loves Julia.
Linda hears footsteps enter the restroom. She grabs the handle and flushes for cover, and cold spray hits her face.
Linda? asks a worried voice. Its Ashley. Are you okay? Janice said you really look like shit.
Im okay, Ash. Stomach flu, I think. Ill be right out.
Yuck. Ill tell Janice.
Thanks.
Linda frantically plays back the sequence of events that brought her here. Four hours ago, Tim walked past the door of The Devils Punchbowl whistling Walking on the Moon, by the Police. The song was a coded signal, arranged last night after Tim met with Penn Cage. If Tim had whistled Every Breath You Take, it would have meant, Get out now. Dont wait for anything. Walking on the Moon meant Linda should work until the end of her shift, then throw her cell phone in the river, get into her car, and drive three hours to New Orleans, to her aunts house. Tim would call her in transit using a pay-as-you-go cell phone hed bought at Wal-Mart, and she would answer with the same type of phone. Hers was in her car now, under the front seat.
Walking on the Moon was supposed to signal that everything was going according to plan, but the moment Linda recognized the tune, her insides had started to roil with apprehension. Shed forced herself to keep doing her job, even though she had to remain on the boat an hour after Tims shift ended. Shed almost snapped at midnight and simply run down the exit ramp as he left the boat, but that would have busted them for sure.
I shouldnt even be here, she says almost silently, ever conscious of the hidden microphones. The Devils Punchbowl usually closes at 11:00 p.m., but Sands has ordered all the food service to run on extended hours during the Balloon Festival.
The door bangs open again, and Ashley calls, Darnell just came by and asked why you werent on duty. Shes on the warpath. Youd better get back out there if you can walk.
Sue Darnell was the personnel manager, a cast-iron bitch from Dallas. Almost done. Im just fixing my face.
Down there? Im looking at your heels, girl.
Im coming, Ash! I got vomit on my blouse.
Its your funeral, honey.
Dont even think that, Linda says silently. With a handful of tissue she wipes clammy sweat from her face and forehead, then gets to her feet and checks her uniform for any signs of vomit. She was lucky.
The ladies room opens into Slot Group Seven, a jangling circus of noise filled with smoke and drunk gamblers. The extraction fans dont work for shit up here. Linda smooths her skirt against her thighs and tries to walk with something like grace as she moves through the suckers
and back toward the Punchbowl.
Shes thirty feet away when she realizes something is wrong. Ashley and Janice are standing by the cash registers, talking to each other without any regard for three patrons waiting to be seated. Ashleys mouth forms a perfect O, then Janice nods and begins chattering. When Ashley catches sight of Linda, she motions her over with a quick wave.
What is it? Linda asks, fighting the urge to bolt for the main-deck gangplank.
Janice just got a text from her ex-husband. Hes up at Bowies. He said some guy fell off the bluff up by Silver Street. He was goofing on the other side of the fence or something, and he fell. Hes dead. Some people are saying he jumped.
Linda blinks, trying to absorb this, but a low ringing has begun in her ears.
Drunk, probably, Janice says. Jimmys drunk, anyway. You couldnt get me on the other side of that fence even if I was toasted. Theres only about a foot of concrete, and then nothing.
A whole lot of nothing, Ashley agrees. I wonder who it was.
A tourist, I bet, says Janice. Somebody here for the race. Wait. Janice takes a cell phone from her pocket and checks a message. Now Jimmy says somebody threw the guy off the bluff. Jesus.
Linda is looking at Janice, but what she sees is Tim flying through the air, head over heels, spinning through the dark
Linda? says Ashley, her voice tinged with real concern. Are you going to puke again?
Janice grabs the trash can from behind the register, but Linda ignores it and walks back toward the ladies room. The girls say something behind her, but she doesnt catch the meaning. She passes the door of the restroom and walks to the thick glass door that leads to the observation deck. The October wind hits her face-on, and shes glad for the chill. Looking upriver, she sees the lights of the houses on Clifton Avenue, then Weymouth Hall. Somewhere up there, Tim is supposed to be meeting Penn Cage tonight. She doesnt let her mind go any further than that. Tim is there, she says silently. Right now, hes handing over whatever he got tonight. With this article of faith set in her heart, she slips her personal cell phone from her pocket and flicks it through the rail, toward the river three decks below. She doesnt hear the splash, but she sees a spurt of silver rise in the moonlight as the phone goes under. She knows her body was between her hand and the surveillance camera when she threw the phone, because shes rehearsed this move a dozen times in her mind, just as Tim instructed.
Keep moving, she mouths to herself, walking to the companionway used by the service staff to get to the main deck. Dont stop long enough to let fear paralyze you.
Shes quoting Tim now, like a heroine echoing her mentor in her mind. She slips through the gift shop, then past the foot of the escalators. This is the hardest part of her journey. Every atom of instinct is screaming for her to march down the big aisle between the slots, through the main entrance, and right across the broad exit rampbut she cant.
She doesnt have her car keys.
For one wild moment she considers leaving anyway, breaking into a sprint and racing out to freedom. But if she did that, shed be cutting herself off from Tim. The TracFone from Wal-Mart is under her car seat, and thats her only sure link to him now. To reach it, she has to have her keys.
Why didnt you tell me to keep my ignition key in my pocket? she asks Tim silently. Why didnt I think of it? For the first time a blade of raw terror slices through her, cold and true. If Tim didnt think of this contingency, what else did he forget?
Linda grits her teeth and forces herself to breeze past the center aisle without looking at the exit. Point of no return, she thinks, spying the service door that leads belowdecks to the restricted area of the boat. Operations, Security, the physical plant of the barge.
She has to show her badge to the security officer at the top of the stairs. He gives it a bored look, then lets her walk down the steps. She can feel his eyes on her backside as she reaches the lower deck.
The smell changes in the lower holds. Its like entering the service elevator in a hotel by mistake. The illusion of cleanliness and luxury falls away, leaving the sticky floor of reality. The air down here reeks of bad cafeteria food and other things she cant quite recognize. Employee resentment paranoia. Linda quails at the idea of going near the security control area, but she has no choice. The lockers and changing room are aft of the security suite.
Because everyone is still on shift, shes alone on the lower deck. If the security guys poke their heads out, shell tell them shes puking nonstop and has to get to the emergency room.
A long corridor runs past the door of the security suite, then the off-limits room they call the Devils Punchbowl. She makes the length of the passageway on a single held-in breath. Halfway home now. Through the hatch that leads to the changing rooms, past the clock where she punches in, around the corner and there. The employee lockers.
Linda licks her lips, takes a breath, then dials the combination on her locker. The lock clicks. In her mind she sees the yellow Dooney & Bourke purse she bought at Dillards in New Orleans, a birthday splurge. And inside the purse, her car keys.
She opens the door and reaches into the locker, but her purse is gone. Withdrawing her hand, she leans back so that more light can get into the space. Its a mistake, she thinks, feeling the way she does when she somehow loses the milk carton in the refrigerator.
Lying where she left her purse is the black TracFone Tim bought her at Wal-Martthe phone she last saw before shoving it under the front seat of her Corolla.
You fucking slag, growls a male voice filled with rage. Seamus Quinn. Do you have any idea what youre in for?
Linda closes her eyes and grips the cold metal edge of the locker door. Without it, she would have fainted to the deck.
Quinn starts to speak again, but the air in the room changes suddenly, and his words become a mute exhalation. Linda hears rapid, shallow breathing that sets her nerves thrumming.
Close the locker, Linda, says Jonathan Sands. Were a bit pressed for time.
Tim is dead, says a voice inside her, the voice that has known it all along. Hot tears slide down her cheeks as she closes the locker door.
Thats it, darlin, says Sands. Now turn around.
Linda wipes her face on her sleeve and turns slowly. Quinn is leaning against the wall behind her, his shoulder wedged against a flyer that reads NEED HELP MANAGING YOUR 401(K)? Sands stands in the corridor that leads past the security suite, arms folded across his chest, dressed as perfectly as if he were attending a wedding or a funeral in fifteen minutes. His hyperobservant eyes glide over her face and clothing, missing nothing. Beside him sits the huge white dog that sometimes accompanies him on the boat. Sands told her the dog was bred in Pakistan, for fighting and for war. She has never heard the dog make a sound.
Poor Tim, she thinks in a rush of despair that almost drops her to the floor.
Cant trust a fucking cunt, Quinn mutters. All the same.
Lindas heart flutters like a panicked bird trying to beat its way up through her throat. Move, she tells herself. Run
Dont be a fool, Sands says. Theres nowhere to go.
The wild urge to flight twists inside her.
Come to me, Sands says, beckoning her toward the hallway. We need to ask you some questions about Timothy.
The last ember of hope dies in her soul.
They know.
CHAPTER
14
The second my father walks into my bathroom with his black bag, I put my finger to my lips and shove a piece of paper into his hands. On it are printed the words:
Im not sick. Annie is in danger. We all are. House may be bugged. Act like Im having a panic attack. Follow my lead. Were going to type messages on the computer on the counter. Ill turn on the bath taps to cover the noise of the keyboard.
Dad looks up after reading for only two seconds, but I shake my head
and point at the paper, and he goes back to reading. My father is seventy-three years old, and hes practiced medicine in Natchez for more than forty of those years. Hes the same height I aman inch over six feetbut the arthritis thats slowly curling his hands into claws has bowed his spine so that I am taller now. His hair and beard have gone white, his skin is cracked and spotted from psoriasis, and he has to take insulin shots every day, yet the primary impression he radiates is one of strength. Thirty years past triple-bypass surgery, hes sicker than most of his patients, but they think of him as I do: an oak tree twisted by age and battered by storms, but still indomitable at the core. He licks his lips, looks up slowly from the paper, and says, Is your heart still racing?
I think its worse. And the nauseas worse. I vomited twice after I called you.
Wonderful. Dad glances toward the bathroom counter. Between the two sinks are the articles I assembled while I waited for him: my keys; a black Nike warm-up suit and running shoes; Annies MacBook computer, booted up with Microsoft Word on the screen; a Springfield XD nine-millimeter pistol, and a short-barreled .357 Magnum. I brought you some Ativan, he says, but I want to listen to your chest first.
Do you mind if I get in the bathtub? I want to clean myself up.
Thats fine. Just get your shirt off.
I nod and turn on the cold-water tap, then strip off my clothes and pull on the warm-up suit. Dad moves in front of the computer as I pull on the top and pecks out the words What the hell is going on?
He steps aside for me to type my response, and we begin a sort of waltz in place, during which I explain our dilemma. He always typed much slower than I, but its worse now because of his hands; it hurts to watch him struggle to strike the keys.
