The Last Best Lie

by Kennedy Quinn

  I sucked in a breath, my mind instantly awake and alert. “Is Jake okay? Is he … ?”

  “Alive? Yeah. He’s one tough tahyo,” he said, his well-disguised Cajun accent making a rare appearance on the last word. “I should’ve known no little bullet would take him out.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I shouldn’t have worried.” He looked down at me, his eyes hardening again. “You’re my biggest problem now. But I’m going to take care of that. Get in.”

  I sighed and did as I was told. We drove in silence, drawing ever closer to Chicago proper. Hunter had his offices in the Hancock Building in the middle of the city, and I assumed that’s where we were going.

  Great. The little girl being sent to her room. How humiliating! I huffed and looked away.

  “Stop being a baby,” Hunter said, not taking his eyes off the road.

  “Bite me.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Such a lady.”

  The skyline loomed closer and defeat gouged deeper. No. I’m not going down without a fight. The vision of the alley where Jake was shot came to me. That would be a good place to divert him to, and maybe get away from him. “Can we stop at the alley?”

  “Hell, no. I’m getting you out of the picture as quickly as possible.”

  “But I remembered something.” I wasn’t lying exactly. My dream pointed to something about the note. The police couldn’t find it, but they missed the file too. Maybe I’d get lucky.

  Hunter whipped around, gripping the wheel so hard I thought it’d crack. “What?”

  That simple, but powerful, act reminded me how much stronger he was than I, making me think that I’d better tread carefully. Nibbling at the stubborn hangnail on my thumb, I said, “I think I know where the note went.” As good a lie as any.

  “You think you know? What does that mean?”

  “I can picture it falling out of my hands. I think I know where it might have landed.”

  He shook his head as in doubt. “The cops practically pulled that place down. If the note were there, they’d’ve found it. But tell me where you think it is, and I’ll have them check it out.”

  “Oh come on, Hunter, have a heart. I’m already on Voltaire’s bad side. If I can find the note, I might have a chance of recovering a little dignity.”

  “And what have I ever done to make you think I’d care?”

  “Okay,” I said, “then think of it this way. Jake always says that my reputation affects his reputation. So, you’re really helping your buddy out, not me.”

  “Nice try, Angel. No way. I’ve got a cozy saferoom with your name on the door and a chain hooked to the bed just long enough for you to reach the bathroom. You’ll love it.”

  My eyes shot wide. “You’re not serious!”

  Hunter grinned and kept driving.

  That’s when I knew I had to use the one weapon in my arsenal guaranteed to work. “Okay, you’ve forced my hand. I’ll give you one more chance to take me to the alley.”

  “Or you’ll do what? Stamp your feet and pout? Hold your breath? I’m so scared.”

  “You should be, mister, because I have a foolproof device to get what I want.” I puffed my chest out. “I will talk to you.”

  He snorted. “That’s it? You’re going to talk? I’ll admit that’s annoying but—”

  “You don’t understand. You think you’ve heard me before but wait until I really get started. Believe me, I learned from the best. My mother could talk a dead man into tears and freeze the balls off a sailor at fifty feet with the tone of her voice alone. Trust me, Hunter. I will do more than simply talk. I will reason. I will lecture. I will question. I will soliloquize, sermonize, and rationalize.”

  “Look, I’m not going to be—”

  “I will be loquacious and largiloquent, flippant and fluent, garrulous and glib, magniloquent and multiloquent. And, trust me, I will be most aeolistic. And it gets worse.”

  He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a child.”

  “You see the real problem, Hunter—for you, anyway—is that I’m willing to talk about anything. I’m a liberal, feminist American female, and I have no fear of any subject whatsoever. Feelings, for example—let’s talk about yours.”

  His jaw ratcheted tight, and he clenched the steering wheel. “I’m serious. Cut it out.”

  “No? Not your feelings? How about your mother then? I mean, do you really regard her as a human being? Do you see her as a vivacious, exciting, and caring person capable of the same passion, the same strong sexual urges—”

  His glare singed my cheek. “Hey! I will pull this car over—”

  “And I will just keep talking. You can’t exactly pull over and employ physical force on a busy city street, can you? Oh and look, there’s a red light.” The tires screeched as we rocked to a halt. Early-morning commuters rushed out in front of us, like horses from the starting gate.

  “Son-of-a—” Hunter shook his jammed thumb in the air.

  “The way I figure, it’ll be a good fifteen, twenty minutes before you can actually get us out of sight of witnesses. By which time, I guarantee, your ears will be bleeding. In the meantime, why don’t we try an exercise that I went through at the Emotional Cleansing Retreat my Aunt Victoria runs? The idea is to get in touch with your gestation process, from conception to birth. Let’s start with impregnation. When your mother and father were having sex—”

  He gaped at me in horror. “What?”

  I could barely keep a straight face. “No, really, give it a try. It’ll help you relate to your parents as full, sexual beings. Knowing your parents as you do, do you think the moment of your conception was tender? Vigorous? Passionate? Perhaps a touch of domination and submission, which is, of course, a completely normal expression of sexual need, and quite harmless if not carried to excess. And think about the sounds. Would you envision loving sighs or more guttural groaning and moist smacking sounds of—?”

  “All right!” he thundered.

  I sat back in the seat, smiling. Hunter, on the other hand, breathed as if he’d just survived a battering. “Ten minutes,” he said. “I’ll give you ten minutes. If you don’t find anything, we leave. And you don’t say a word, not one damn word, until we get there. Got it?”

  I nodded and made the classic zipper-my-mouth-and-throw-away-the-key move.

  A horn honked behind us. Growling, he slammed the car into gear, and we rocketed forward. I grinned out the window at the many passersby hurrying by. Men are so easy.

  Half an hour later, Hunter and I stood in the alley. Not twenty-four hours earlier, I’d stood there with a man I respected more than any, save my father. And now that man was hooked up to machines, fighting for his life; another good man was dead; and a lovely, old woman lay alone and maybe dying. I sighed, trying to will away the anger churning in my gut. Morning traffic roared by as the neighborhood kicked into gear. Down the street, a school bus glided to a halt, the noise of the squealing children drowned out by the heavy rumble of a store owner raising a corrugated steel shutter from in front of his door. Raising my head, I squinted against the bright sun clearing the building across the street. I shielded my eyes against the glare and stared up at the window from which Jake had been shot. My jaw clenched so tight I feared I’d crack a tooth.

  “Stupid Pixie,” I murmured.

  Hunter walked over from the far side of the alley where he’d been searching. He’d been right; the note was nowhere to be found. “What are you muttering about?”

  My gaze wouldn’t leave the building. “Why dream of the note if there isn’t something here? And what’s the point of silver snow and coal-covered bull dung? Annoying, evil bitch.”

  “Are you out of your damn mind?”

  “Huh?” I turned to Hunter. Though still morning, the slight shadow of a beard outlined his strong chin, and, in the bright light, his eyes seemed more blue than gray. I cocked my head, studying his face. Not a bad face; actually it was really nice. T
oo bad it belonged to a jerk.

  He glowered at me. “What are you lookin’ at?”

  “You.”

  “Well don’t.” He seemed disconcerted by my staring at him. Isn’t that interesting?

  I shrugged. “Okay. How about I look over there?” I pointed at the window. “That’s the room where the sniper was, right? Let’s take a peek.”

  “Forget it. You had your chance, and we—” Bee-dee-bee-dee went Hunter’s cell. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. “Damn it, this wild goose chase is making me miss an appointment.” He touched the Bluetooth receiver perched on his right ear and began to speak a moment later. “Get me Liz,” he said without opening pleasantries, “I need her to take the Hennessey meeting.” Hunter cocked his head at me, signaling me to get into the car.

  I pointed my thumb behind me to the alley and said, “I want to take one more look.”

  He snarled and, I’m guessing, was about to refuse, when his attention was drawn to his cell. “Yeah, it’s me. You need to start without me. Get the file, and let’s go over it now.”

  I started to turn away, and he snapped his fingers at me, pointing again to the car. I mouthed something deliberately incoherent, as if not wanting to interrupt his call. But in fact, I knew that forcing his brain to multitask between carrying on a phone conversation and working out the silent communication would have a deleterious effect on his ability to focus—with luck specifically on his ability to focus on booting my ass into the car. A rudimentary knowledge of neuropsychology has its uses.

  But I’d need a bigger distraction to get away from him and into that apartment. I fast-scanned the end of the alley, chewing my lower lip anxiously; I had precious little time. Aha! A broken table-tennis paddle jutting out of a trash can caught my eye. Hmm. I wonder …

  I went to the can and two-finger picked my way through the top layer of trash. Sure enough, I found what I’d hoped for: ping-pong balls.

  Here’s the great thing about ping-pong balls: they’re made of celluloid, which smokes like crazy—if one knows how to light them.

  And guess who does?

  But I needed some foil and a heat source. I smiled. I knew where to find them, too.

  I palmed the balls and jogged over to the car, mouthing more nonsense and making exaggerated chewing motions while pointing at the car. Hunter, as desired, scowled in confusion, verbally stumbling over his phone call.

  I angled into the car and opened the glove box. I sat with the door open, one leg on the sidewalk as I knew I would have to move quickly when my plan took off. He was standing well behind the car, but I canted the side mirror to see him and saw him peering at me intently. I took some gum from the black bag that I’d stolen the toothpicks from earlier. Turning my head to him, I held a piece up, asking with my eyes for permission to take it. He scowled and turned his back on me. Grinning, I unwrapped the gum and popped three pieces in my mouth. Then I laid the aluminum foil on the seat beside me, overlapping them to form a three-by-five-inch sheet. My heart was racing hard now from a combination of being hurried and that tingly adrenaline rush that came with pulling one over on a bully. Revenge, however nerdy, is so sweet.

  I pulled Jake’s knife out of my pocket; lucky I’d kept it! Leveraging open the scissors, I quickly cut the balls into shreds over the foil. That done, I carefully, but swiftly, wrapped the aluminum wrappers around the shreds, wonton-style, and twisted the ends into a small handle. I’d pushed in the cigarette lighter on the dash as I worked, and it popped out. Now for the tough—and dangerous—part: lighting my smoke bomb. Ping-pong balls are hard to light, but once they catch, they do so immediately. And the resultant smoke is thick and toxic. I had to be in position!

  Glancing over my shoulder at Hunter, I saw he was still distracted with his call. That boy’s going to learn not to take phone calls around me. Heh, heh, heh.

  Shielding my actions with my body, I held the aluminum foil outside the door and pushed it into the glowing cigarette lighter. I bit my lip, waiting. Normally, it’s best to do this with an open flame; the lighter might not get quite hot enough or be concentrated enough to catch the wrapper on fire. I cut my eyes to the rear again, nervously checking on Hunter. Sigh. What broad shoulders the Big Bad has. Honestly, does he have to be so—

  HOT! Ack! The foil caught as dense, gray smoke roiled off it. Fortunately, my instinctive panic reaction helped, and I flung it hard into the back of the alley. “Fire!” I yelled, pointing.

  Hunter whirled, saw the smoke, and sprang into action. Okay, I wasn’t exactly certain what that action entailed because once he ran toward the smoke, I ducked around the front of the car and dashed across the street. I jogged inside the building without a backward glance. Yeah, I was going to get it when he caught up with me, but that would be then, and this was now.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, I flew up three flights, exiting onto a long hallway. I paused to catch my breath, hands on my burning sides. I rolled my aching shoulder and looked around. Torn carpeting crowded one side of the hall. Paint fumes nearly overwhelmed me; I wrinkled my nose. I spotted yellow police tape across a doorframe down the hall and started toward it, then suddenly skipped to the side to avoid a still-tacky paint tray. Black dots, like soot, scattered the surface of the drying layer. Had some idiot actually had a fire around paint?

  A door slammed on the floor below. Hunter!

  I dashed to the exit at the other end of the hall. Slamming against the silver release bar, I leapt onto the landing and pelted down the stairs. At the last moment, I veered off at the second floor, hoping Hunter would think I’d run for the exit.

  Footsteps pounded above me. My heart pounded just as furiously, and I could barely keep from gasping aloud. I pulled the door closed seconds before the footfalls hit the landing. I held my breath as Hunter ran past me. Moments later, the exit door banged open two floors below.

  Fantastic! It’ll take a while for him to search the alley between this block of houses and the next. Enough time to get away!

  I ran to the open staircase leading to the front of the building. Just as I cleared the doorway, an arm shot out and pushed me, sending me flying face-first down the stairs. I flailed about, grabbing wildly for purchase. I skidded on my stomach, my chest slamming each step, smashing the air out of my lungs, until I finally crashed, shoulder first, on the floor below.

  Someone ran down the stairs toward me. I started to roll over, clutching my wounded arm in agony, when something long and dark rushed toward my head. Everything went black.

  Rolling. The world rolled beneath me. A deep, aching pain split the back of my head. Where—? I opened my eyes, temporarily blinded. Sunlight? I’m outside? No, I’m lying down. Focus! Damn it, Madison, focus!

  In an instant, my brain processed the scene. I lay in the rotting back seat of a sunbaked car. It bucked, as if hitting a rut, and then rolled forward. I rose onto my elbows, watching in horror as the hood of the car hit the water.

  It started to sink.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My heart slammed into my rib cage, blood surging with pure terror. Can’t panic. Get out! Have to get out! I yanked on the door handle, but it wouldn’t open. What the hell? In seconds the water would be too high! I twisted, propelling myself against the other door. Damn! No good! For Christ’s sake! Who the hell puts child locks in sinking cars?

  A hand shot out from the floor. I screamed and pulled away as a man sat up. Lathos!

  He struggled to rise. Dried blood, caked black, covered the right side of his face. His matted hair stuck out like porcupine quills over his large, protruding ears. His gangly arms flailed, thin fingers clutching at the seat, and his eyes, stretching wide, were tiny black beads in a circle of white. Panic rose from him like stink.

  “Tina!” he cried out, grabbing at air.

  I clutched him by the shirt and hauled him up to the seat beside me. “I’m not her! She’s not here!” Whether dazed or too panicked to understand, Lathos clutched my shirt, his fingern
ails digging red welts into my flesh. Terror surged, and I fought to beat it back.

  Seizing his wrists, I pushed down and broke his grip. “Let go! Look, it’ll be all right! Once the car sinks below the surface, the pressure will equalize, and we can open the doors! You have to let me go! I have to get into the front seat—”

  I reached over the seat, determined to show him, but my fingers slammed hard into a barrier. What the— We were in an old taxicab with a scarred, yellowed plastic wall between the seats. There was no way up front, no way to open the doors!

  I looked down at the sound of sloshing. Mucky water filled the footwell, rising relentlessly. Lathos snatched at my shirt, mewing in fear. I slapped his hands away. “Stop it! You’ll get us both killed!”

  I threw myself on my back and kicked at the side windows, knowing it would take serious power to break through the tempered glass. Cold water crept over my hands. I flinched but held tight to the seat to brace myself. No good! Tears welled in my eyes, and I started to hyperventilate. There’s no way out!

  Behind me, I heard Lathos claw at the frayed door panel and then pound at the back window. “Stop it!” I screamed. He fell back and began to cry. Disgust, pity, and self-reproach hit me. I gritted my teeth and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll get us out. Stay calm.”

  But how? Icy water sloshed around my midsection, stinging my exposed skin. I only had seconds. I had to shatter the window! If only I had something sharp—wait! Jake’s pocket knife! I yanked the knife out, splashing my face, and gave thanks for the corkscrew set in the cover. Hands shaking as much from fear as from cold, I levered the screw open and wrapped my fingers around the knife body so the steel jutted out between my middle and ring fingers.

  Water chilled my shoulder. Lathos pounded on the barrier and gulped for air, his head pressed against the roof. I got onto my knees, cursing my sluggishness. “Take a deep breath!”

  Lifting my arm out of the water, now neck high, I aimed up, right, and to the rear—the weakest point of the thinnest window. I filled my lungs and, with all my might, hammered the corkscrew into the glass. It shattered in one piece, and bone-chilling, muddy water rushed in.