She frowned in concern. “What’s wrong? Do you need to see a doctor?”
“A doctor?” he asked, snapping back.
“You said you’re sick, didn’t you, or not feeling well?”
“Yes, maybe I should.” He ran a hand through his hair, rubbing his aching head again due to lack of sleep. Kilkenny had always made his dreams interesting. The last few nights, they’d been vivid, disturbing, and disjointed, not the coherent narratives he’d experienced for years.
“You look so tired, lately,” she began, then the waiter brought their cheesecakes, and they stopped the conversation. When the waiter was gone, he said, “I love you.”
“I love you, too. Eat that, now. It’s so yummy, and you need something to cheer you up.”
People grieving don’t need cheering up, exactly, but I can’t tell her that. She’d understand if she knew, but I can’t explain without appearing crazy. “Right.”
He took a bite—a small, joyless bite—and smiled at her. She did the same, and her answering smile was sad, if not as forced as his.
“I love you,” he said. I just said that.
“And I love you.”
He put another bite in his mouth and chewed, his eyes and mind drifting away from her. Granger, the jovial, slightly pretentious, but seemingly generous Granger from book conventions, filled his thoughts. There was a book signing scheduled for him at Poplar Booksellers the next day. They had an appointment to meet for lunch afterward to discuss the script Granger was helping him with.
I could show up, surprise the hell out of him. He has to think I’m dead now, and he’s only waiting for the news to come out. I could accuse him and ruin him before his readers, tell them all about it, except I have no proof. If he tries again, though, all fingers will point to him. It would just seem bizarre to the public. My book sales would either jump or plummet, and his, too. God help me, it would be so easy to hire someone to go after him. He doesn’t have a pooka to save him with magic.
The realization hit him that he might never write again, anyway. His muse was dead. It was a bitter thing. A wave of grief rolled over him afresh, stinging loss and self-pity.
“Roger!” Emma’s voice, alarmed, snapped him back to her and the present.
“Sorry, what?” he asked. His eyes had to refocus to find her. She appeared out of the background in sudden clarity. She was leaning across the table, taking his left hand again, eyes searching for him as if through fog and darkness, hands grasping his to keep him from slipping away. She was displaying a lot of cleavage, but the view wasn’t titillating to him just then, it was merely a fact.
“You got all red and stopped breathing. Your fork,” she said, indicating it with her eyes.
He saw how tightly he was gripping it in his right hand and pushing it against the table. He’d bent it into a U around his fist.
“Sorry,” he said, setting it aside. “I’ll just use my spoon instead.”
“How did you do that and not notice?”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“My love, what’s wrong?”
He avoided her eyes and went after his cheesecake clumsily.
I want to tell you, my love, but you’ll never believe me. I didn’t let you in on my secret while Kilkenny was still alive to prove it.
She let go of him and signaled for the waiter. “We should go, my love.”
“Here, I’ll bend it back into shape,” he said.
“Nah, don’t bother, leave it as proof of your mental prowess. Tell him you bent it with your mind.”
“Right,” he mumbled, wishing he could laugh for her sake, but finding himself unable to do so.
She waved again, this time catching the waiter’s eye. The young man crossed the restaurant to them quickly. The music ended. A crisp voice announced that the next piece was by Bach. Roger missed the name of it.
“Check, please,” Emma said as the waiter arrived.
Roger stared at the fork, thinking back to a time, years ago, when Kilkenny had played a trick on some folks at a bar, bending spoons invisibly and letting everyone believe Roger had done it with telekinesis.
“Realize the truth,” Emma said seriously to him, drawing his eyes away from the fork and back into the present, “You can’t bend the fork. That’s impossible. The truth is, there is no fork. It is not the fork that bends, but you.”
Uncomprehending, he stuttered at her, “Wh-what are you talking about?”
She sighed. “I was trying to make you laugh. I was paraphrasing a movie. Substitute spoon for fork, and you’ll probably get it.”
“Oh, right,” he said, still not remembering.
They sat in awkward silence, awaiting the check. She ate the rest of her cheesecake quickly. He ate a few more spoonfuls of his. The check came. With blunt, uncooperative fingers, he pulled out a debit card and handed it to the waiter.
“Sorry about the,” he started to say, but Emma cut him off, snatched up the fork, and said, “Here’s a keepsake. He bent it with his brain.”
The waiter’s bemused expression was eloquent. On any day prior to three days ago, it would have made Roger laugh. “Add the price of the fork to the bill,” he instructed the young man. The waiter stuck the fork in his pocket and shook his head.
“No, sir. It’s an honor to have our flatware disfigured by mind magic. I’ll treasure your gift.”
Emma giggled with delight and winked at Roger. The waiter smiled and left.
“Leave that boy a big tip, Roger.”
“Sure.”
Her smile faded from delight to the sad, compassionate one that had adorned it so much of late. He couldn’t answer it adequately. The music from the string quartet flowed among the tables, tickling ears and brains with its clean, precise beauty.
“My love, why are you so sad? Did you hit the dog with your car? Is that it?”
The temptation to lie struck him. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“If that’s it, it’s okay. Everyone makes mistakes. Sometimes dogs just run out in front of cars. It happens. You didn’t mean it.”
He wanted to agree to that and ease her worry, but the lie stuck in his throat.
“That’s it? Was it not a stray? Did it belong to one of the neighbors, and you’re too ashamed to tell them?”
“No,” he said, at last. “No, that’s not it.”
Deflated, she slumped a little in her chair. “I love you; you can tell me the truth. You love me. Give me your all. I can take it. What’s really the matter?”
He tried. He tried to say, “I had a friend who’s been with me since I was young, yet no one else ever met him. He’s dead now, murdered. He saved my life. He was my muse and my collaborator, and I miss him as if he were my brother. He was my best friend. I didn’t always know where I left off and he began.” Instead, tears came to his eyes, and he looked away. The check was placed neatly on the table beside him.
“You get to keep the pen. It has the quartet’s performance schedule printed on it in tiny letters. If you want to leave them a gratuity, you can put cash in the hat by the stage, or mark this box on the receipt to split part of the tip from your card with them. If you do that, please be kind, and don’t forget it needs to be more than you would normally leave for me, or I get gypped.”
Roger nodded to the boy as he put his card into his wallet. He read the receipt, trying to make sense of it. He couldn’t for some reason. Finally, he doubled the price of the meal, marked the box, and left the receipt on the table.
“Ready?” Emma asked.
He nodded. They threaded their way out of the restaurant, Emma making sure their arms were linked and leading the way. He allowed her to steer, not trusting himself. The fresh air, quiet, and moonlight outside were a blessing. He didn’t remember where his car was or even who’d driven which vehicle, but she led him to where he’d parked his.
“My love,” she said, as he opened the door for her, “I’m getting desperate, here. I’m going to ask Kilkenny what�
��s going on if you don’t tell me soon.”
He gaped at her. He’d heard the words but didn’t believe them. I misheard her, he told himself. He’s on my mind so much that I see him and hear his name when he’s not there.
“You heard me right,” she said calmly.
“No,” he said.
“Yes, I’ve met your invisible friend from Ireland, the guy with the horns and the tail. I didn’t believe it at first, but he convinced me he was real. He said you weren’t ready for me to know, yet, but he liked me so much for you that he wanted us to know each other anyway. Next time I see him, I’m going to ask him what’s going on. I bet he’ll be at your house when we get there. He lets me see him every few days, so we’re due for a conversation. I guess you have until then to tell me what’s wrong.”
He turned from her and went around the car, hitting his knee on the bumper on the way. He sat down in the driver’s seat, trying to figure out why he couldn’t see clearly. Then her arms were around him, and he was sobbing on her shoulder—long, deep, uncontrollable sobs. She was trying to soothe him, he could tell, but her words were no more than comforting sounds he couldn’t make sense of. In the end, they had to switch seats, and she drove him home. He must have told her on the drive, but he didn’t remember what he said. She was crying, too, by the time they pulled into his driveway.
Chapter 3
A Plan
Later, sitting beside each other on the couch in his living room, too late at night for Emma, who had to work the next morning, she asked, “If you go to Granger’s signing tomorrow, or meet him at the restaurant, what will you do?”
He was calmer at last, having let it all out. “I don’t know. He deserves to die, but what he did was legal. I could retaliate. They must think I’m dead. Except for the park with you on Saturday, mass on Sunday, and dinner tonight, I haven’t left the house. Granger must think my corpse hasn’t been discovered yet. I doubt he knows I’m dating you. He knows I live alone, but he thinks I live in St. Louis, like most people do, so it’s logical for him to wait for someone to find my body. I could strike when they’re unprepared. It would be self-defense, in a way.”
“Wouldn’t it still be wrong?” she asked, half-convinced he should.
“It would. I’ve been thinking about it since Saturday. If I were going to do it, I already would have. I can’t stoop to the devices of the enemy, as it were.”
She was tired, worried, and hurt because he was. She’d met Granger before at a convention. He’d seemed a nice enough man, if a little stuffy—but things had changed, and now she wanted his blood. “If you don’t strike back, won’t he just try again?”
“I guess he might.” He was staring down. She couldn’t tell if he was staring at the floor, or the coffee table, with its interesting books full of photos of far-off places and such.
“You have to do something. Do you want to move away and assume a new identity? Do you want to hire bodyguards?”
“I could out him. It would ruin his plans and remove the reason he tried to have me killed, I think. I could just tell everyone that he made the attempt. It’ll ruin him.”
“Then he’d have nothing to lose and go after you for revenge. Maybe you should hire someone to off him. It would be self-defense, right?” Did I really just say that? she thought.
“I thought of that. I don’t want to do it. I mean, I do, but I don’t. I’d like to kill him myself. I’d like to put my hands around his throat and choke the life out of him.” He stood rapidly, pulling out of her embrace, and stretched his hands out to grasp, but there was only air in front of him. “It’s wrong, though, and vengeance belongs to the Lord, doesn’t it? I’m supposed to forgive my enemies.”
“But you aren’t just supposed to let them go on murdering, either.”
“I know.”
“Then what do we do?”
He faced her fiercely but said gently, “You don’t do anything. I don’t want you to be part of it. I’ll go to his signing tomorrow, just like I planned, as if nothing had happened, and I’ll ruin him, but I’ll also take out a contingency contract that only takes effect if I die suspiciously. If he has me killed, my guy goes after him. Mutually assured destruction, like between the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. during the cold war.”
“A contingency contract?”
“Yes. A lot of rich people take out contracts, just in case, targeting their enemies. Politicians do it a lot. I read an article about a senator who had 50 contingency contracts in case he died suspiciously. That way, it’s in his political enemies’ best interests to keep him alive.”
“Isn’t that revenge?”
“It is, but I don’t actually have to do it, do I? LEI contracts are completely confidential. They only verify that contracts exist after someone is dead to protect their shooters from jail, and they don’t reveal a client’s name unless they’re given permission by the client. I only have to tell Granger that I have the contract to keep him in check.”
“That could work. So you’re going to his signing tomorrow?”
“Yes, I think I should.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Emma,” he said, shaking his head.
“To keep you from attacking him when you see him. You loved Kilkenny like a brother or a best friend, and the look on your face when you were talking about choking the life out of him scared me.” Although, I want to do it, too, she thought.
He was silent for a bit, his face still.
“I’m a grown woman, Roger. I love you, and I’m going to the signing, whether you let me go with you or not. I’ll drive myself there if I have to.”
He nodded.
“You should resign yourself to such things, my love. I’ve resigned myself to them on your behalf.” She touched his face, all careworn and tired, and kissed him on the forehead.
“Resign ourselves? No, let’s embrace it. I love you. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He kissed her on the lips, and after he was done, they held each other for a while. At last, she disentangled herself.
“I’ll stay if you need me. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
He thought it over, it seemed, so she added, “I’m exhausted, my love, worn out. I’m not tempted to go to bed with you right now. We’ll pass the test due to circumstances beyond our control.”
He smiled wanly and nodded. “There’s a guest bedroom, silly. Sleep there.”
Chapter 4
Frustration
Shaw went over the plats, blueprints, and recent satellite photos of Hooker’s residence, the house, the sheds, the pool house, and the workshop. Some changes had been made. There had been a major renovation to the main house in the last year, and the blueprints hadn’t been updated with what changes had been made. Avery knew only that construction had occurred but didn’t know for sure what company had done the renovation or what the nature of it was. It had all been interior, but the wreckage carried off had included a lot of carpets, flooring, drywall, boards, even four by fours. Whole rooms could have been added or combined. The layout of the house probably wasn’t the same at all.
Shaw smiled at the papers on his coffee table. It was going to be a challenge. The place was 10,000 square feet. Hooker could be anywhere inside at any time. He’d driven by earlier in the day and gotten a look at it. He’d been poring over the papers for hours and had them memorized. His Jaguar, the vehicle most appropriate to the club where he’d park, was loaded with his equipment, including a set of jammers for the wireless security system. It was time to go.
A ditch ran behind the estate to the rear of Hooker’s. He’d park at the club near a bank a couple blocks away, take the ditch to get there, set a jammer up, and climb the wall next to one of the security cameras. He’d be on the property. More jammers would be needed. He’d have to move fast. It wouldn’t take long for the bodyguard to get suspicious.
The club was rocking when he arrived—the music, or at least the beat, could be felt in the parking lot. He parked in an overflow lot next door
instead of at the bank and took his backpack with him, skirting the edge of the parking lot unhurriedly, but staying out of sight. He knew there were cameras nearby and snuck past them as he was able, just for practice. They would probably never be checked by anyone. In short order, he hopped over the chain link fence and slid deftly into the concrete drainage ditch that ran behind the club, the shopping center, and the bank. Soon, he was out of the commercial area and into the residential neighborhood, stepping carefully past a pair of homeless people at one point and later causing a family of raccoons to skitter out of his path. There was something surreal about the feel of the night and something very right. It was like his reptile dream. The perfect killer. He smiled.
On his left, he counted houses until he arrived at the 10th, then he paused beneath some overhanging shrubbery. He took a moment to examine the secluded surroundings. He was well out of sight of any of the yards nearby unless someone was at a back fence. He pulled his night vision goggles out of his pack and carefully examined the back wall of number 12 ahead. As he’d suspected, there were discretely placed and well-disguised security cameras watching the ditch, and equally unobtrusive ones of dubious legality watching the surrounding yards.
He kept the goggles on and pulled a jammer out of his pack. He sat under the bush for several minutes, figuring out what frequencies to work with. Once he found them, he started low key, and gradually increased the power until he was confident the signal from the nearest cameras would be too staticky. He pulled out several other jammers, set them to the same frequency on a timer, returned them to his pack, and made his move.
Inside, the bodyguard, if he was paying attention, would take some time to get everything switched over to a better frequency, assuming he even knew what to do about it. By then, Shaw would be inside the house. The wall was high, but it didn’t take him long to mount the wooden fence beside it in the neighbor’s yard and boost himself over it. Keeping a low profile, he checked below and dropped between some large azalea bushes and the wall. The backyard was an amazing environment of hedgerows, fountains, a pool, walled off courtyards, rose bushes, benches, lawns, statuary, an outside kitchen, and more.
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