by Tim Tigner
Skylar’s hazel eyes glowed with passion as she related the story, from their habitual sunrise run to their passing a fellow jogger, sighting the conspicuous car with its distinctive driver, and realizing a few seconds too late what was happening. Then came the impact, the battered lifeless body, and the police report.
Slate stopped Skylar there after listening attentively. She then turned to Chase and asked him to retell the story from his unique perspective in greater detail, including what he was thinking about with every tick of the clock.
Chase complied, repeating himself a few times when prompted by the battle-hardened attorney from New York City. They had nothing to hide. The truth would set them free, or more accurately, lock up Mrs. Porter.
“Okay, just a few more questions, and we’ll wrap this up,” Slate said. “First of all, who are John and Joy Hughes?”
“What do you mean?” Chase asked. “We’re John and Joy Hughes.”
“No, I’m asking about the real John and Joy. You’re Chase and she’s Skylar,” Slate said with nods of her head.
As fast as that—a snapped finger, a door opened, a corner turned—Chase was plunged into a nightmare. His actual, recurring nightmare. Unfortunately, he’d always woken up just after the official caught him red-handed perpetrating a fraud, so he hadn’t seen what would come next.
Having sprung her trap, Slate simply sat there staring at him like he was lunch. She practically licked her lips.
The best Chase could do in the face of that blinding surprise was offer a banal generality. “Who we are bears no impact on what we saw.”
“Well, you’re half right,” Slate said, tapping one red fingernail. “You saw what you saw, but who you are is important. If you had, say, murdered the real John and Joy Hughes in order to steal their identities, well, that would matter a great deal.”
“We changed our names for personal reasons,” Skylar said. “There’s no law against that.”
Slate shifted her laserlike focus to Skylar, but didn’t speak right away. She sat there as if weighing her words. “So John and Joy Hughes are simply names you decided you wanted?”
“That’s right.”
“May I ask why?”
It was Skylar’s turn to weigh her words. She settled on, “That’s none of your business.”
This time Slate didn’t hesitate. “Fair enough. But for the record, you definitely did not kill them? Didn’t stab them in the eye and feed them to the fish, the way you did Tory?”
“Tory who?” Chase blurted, struggling to conceal the panic surging within his chest in the wake of Slate’s second shocker. “Where did you hear that nonsense?”
Scarlet smiled. “My source is not something either the judge or the jury will be particularly concerned with, so long as it’s true.”
Chase was suddenly thrilled by the fact that there was no recording in progress. “That was self-defense. He attacked me.”
“So you say. Alas, given their subjective nature, interpersonal conflicts are subject to interpretation. Subtleties matter. What’s not so subtle is that you’re now living off the millions you stole from him.”
Chase could not believe his ears. How could a lawyer from New York City possibly know that? Tory’s cash had come from white-collar drug dealers. When Tory tried to kill them and lost his own life in the process, Chase and Skylar inherited his money as the spoils of war.
At the time, Chase had been reasonably confident that he and Skylar could have been awarded all or most of the loot in court—had they taken that route. But the legal battle would have been long and ugly, and by that point they’d already been through more than enough. Furthermore, as with any roll of the legal dice or interaction with violent criminals, there was risk that things could have gone terribly wrong. There were subjective subtleties at play—as Scarlett now noted. So he and Skylar opted to skip the formalities.
They simply took the money and ran. Or rather sailed.
Shortly thereafter, just in case any surviving cartel members came looking for Tory’s money, Skylar and Chase changed their names—getting married in the process, on paper at least.
Slate pressed on. “What do you think will happen to you once the court hears your confessions and the transcripts of your testimony are published? Wait, forget I said that,” Slate said with a wave of her red nails. “What a bunch of murderous drug dealers learn really doesn’t matter to me.” She paused there, like an executioner with a raised axe. “Let’s focus on how the judge and jury will react to learning that the only witnesses for the prosecution are a couple of murdering thieves living under false identities? I’d call that an interesting question, wouldn’t you?”
14
The Yacht
Key West, Florida
CHEWIE COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time he’d been so happy and excited. Certainly not since graduating Berkeley a decade earlier.
Although managing Cassandra had been the most rewarding professional experience in his life, closing it down opened the door to a personal experience he’d been craving for months. Freed from fears of ruining their business and released from their employer-employee status, he and Vicky could responsibly pursue a romantic relationship. Something they did about three seconds after she invited him to run away with her.
The idea of escaping to a completely new life was also incredibly appealing. He would literally be exchanging all his worries for sunshine and a sea breeze. Sure, there would be headwinds and storms, but he’d be facing them with the woman he loved by his side.
Back in Las Vegas, Chewie had quickly wrapped things up with Basil and the Bellagio while being careful to leave the door open to Cassandra’s return should safety permit. Meanwhile, Vicky bought him a ticket to Rio de Janeiro on one airline, and booked herself to Buenos Aires on another. Then they both got off between connecting flights in Miami, where they surprised and delighted a taxi driver with a three-hour ride to Key West—paid in cash.
Confident that they had effectively vanished, they began phase two of their disappearing act: yacht shopping. “You’re sure this is the one?” Chewie asked, during their third day in the Florida Keys. “There’s no rush. Back in Miami there’s a gazillion more.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Personally, I think it’s perfect. But it’s a big commitment, so you should be certain.”
The Fairline Phantom 50 was fifteen years old, meaning it would cost only a small fraction of its original price. While its design and systems were a bit dated, the Vitamin Sea had been top of the line when new, and it appeared to have been well maintained. The wood was freshly varnished and the leather still soft.
The starter yacht boasted two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a compact kitchen, and a laundry facility below. The main deck and upper deck were both comfortable and luxurious, with captain’s stations, dining tables, bench seating, and bar service. The front was perfect for sunbathing and the rear convenient for water sports.
Chewie had expected secondhand yacht shopping to be a stressful experience. Ten times more so than buying a used car. But he’d failed to account for their secret weapon. The stress melted like ice cream on those sun-drenched white decks when Vicky donned her Pradas.
She insisted on walking through each serious prospect with the owner, rather than an agent, reading his mind for the real story while each described his baby in detail. The Vitamin Sea had no hidden skeletons, and a genuinely stellar maintenance record. Plus, they both liked the name.
The owner was eager to sell. Although May was a peak boating month, the heat of summer would soon bring hurricane season. He wanted to be free of his floating liability by then.
“He’ll go as low as $250,000, which is a bargain and fits our budget,” Vicky whispered, as they conferenced off to the side. “And I think he’ll agree to spending a few days showing us the ropes as part of the deal.”
“Sounds like this is the one,” Chewie agreed.
“You really think so?”
He took h
er hands. “I am one-hundred percent in favor of this decision in particular and your plan in general. I’ve never been more thrilled in my life.”
She popped up on her toes to kiss him, then sealed the deal with the owner.
Four days later, comfortable with their command of maritime regulations and their ability to captain the Vitamin Sea, the runaways left Key West heading east toward the Bahamas and the adventure of their lives.
15
The Race
VICKY WAS CHOPPING vegetables for their second dinner at sea when a question popped into her mind. She wondered if Chewie would know the answer. He’d taken to the technical aspects of their new life with childlike enthusiasm. “Do we call this sailing, even though our yacht doesn’t have a sail?”
Chewie was facing the stove, cooking a simple fettuccini Alfredo dish. They’d agreed not to get complicated while growing accustomed to the compact appliances with their gimbal leveling systems and guard rails. “Technically, we’re motoring, but nobody outside the life talks that way. I think sailing is fine for general discussions. Motoring makes me think of a bus.”
“Me too.”
Vicky was enjoying the adventure of a novel lifestyle—with a new boyfriend by her side. But despite their luxurious circumstances, the wonderful weather, and a commitment-free calendar, she felt far from carefree. Someone was hunting her with murderous intent. Vicky realized with an inward groan that she wouldn’t rest easy until she knew who he was. Or she. Or they.
Hours before their hasty midnight departure from Las Vegas, Basil had reported that the Bellagio’s expert inquisitor had independently confirmed her conclusion that Vance knew nothing about the identity of his employer. For the hit on her, the assassin had been interviewed and hired through a hotel-room door, then paid with cash slipped beneath it. On the bright side, Vance had confessed to all thirty-one prior murders during the second day of interrogation, and had given up the names of the only two employers he knew. Those were among the killer’s last words, according to Basil.
Upon hearing that report and absorbing the closure that came with it, Vicky vowed to forever banish Vance from her mind.
After considerable thought, she also resolved not to tell Chewie that she was seriously afraid of a second assassination attempt. Three factors drove that decision. First, there was nothing additional they could do to ensure her safety. They were already hiding in isolation thousands of miles from Vegas, and Chewie was protecting her like a baby bird whenever they left the yacht.
The second driver was Vicky’s desire to shield their budding romance from the storm raging in her mind. Their relationship already had more than enough stress to contend with, given that literally everything in their lives was new.
The third factor was the most nuanced. In order to raise the capital required to fund Cassandra Las Vegas, Vicky had used her Pradas to win high-stakes poker matches in Reno. She’d accomplished that guilt-free by targeting cheaters. Teams of players who were secretly collaborating to fleece wealthy tourists using sophisticated signaling and betting strategies.
While her plan had proved successful, it hadn’t come without cost. One evening, the losers mugged her and Chewie while they were walking home. Although neither of them were seriously hurt during the surprise attack, the blow to Chewie’s pride was substantial. In his mind, he had failed to protect her and thus was a failure, both as a companion and as a man. Vicky was certain that the perceived shortcoming remained a festering sore spot to this day, so she absolutely did not want to give him the impression that she felt unsafe in his presence, lest he take it personally.
Fortunately, Chewie was fully absorbed with organizing the yacht while getting to know it from bow to stern. There were lots of moving parts, and he wanted to understand them all. If Chewie was topside with her, she’d brainstorm about how to identify her would-be killers while pretending to read a Kindle. If he was below, fiddling around in the engine room or wherever, she’d search online.
Intuition told Vicky that she was up against a group of people. Maybe large, maybe small, but almost certainly more than one individual. Most serious bioengineering research was done by teams. She’d been a rare exception, thanks to her extraordinary circumstances. Furthermore, the tactic of anonymously employing investigators and assassins also felt more like a committee decision than someone acting alone. What individual would have the time or appetite for so much administrative work on top of all the other delights, demands, and distractions available to the world’s only mind-reader?
She figured that identifying the group would prove to be less daunting than it sounded. She wasn’t looking for a needle in a haystack so much as a lit match. She hoped.
They had presumably found her as part of a project to covertly identify and track everyone who was conducting serious bioengineering research on mind-reading. Likewise, Vicky figured she could find them by investigating outliers who were working in fields where mind-reading would be maximally advantageous. People with extraordinary records of success.
She began by composing a list of likely career choices. Detective, negotiator, psychiatrist and spy came from her own previous considerations, as did poker player and chess champion. To that initial lineup, a bit of sundeck brainstorming added venture capitalist, talk show host, and news anchor.
Vicky dismissed her own choice: psychic. She’d become familiar with her peers, and nobody was in her league. That gave her six professions to begin scouring for people who, as she had been, were head and shoulders above the competition.
She decided to start with talk-show hosts and news anchors, because that research would be fun and easy. Videos were readily available. Venture capitalists would come next, because she considered that the safest bet, given that the mind readers would have begun as bioengineers. The brightest MDs and PhDs often migrated to venture capital because of the vast fortunes to be made and fun to be had by brilliantly managing money and betting on startups. Personally, Vicky had no interest in either finance or television, but plenty of people did.
Her mind was still racing as she settled in behind her dinner plate and Chewie raised his glass of champagne. The stark, simple reality of her situation struck home as they clinked glasses. While all appeared perfect, it most certainly was not. She had to identify and disable an established group of geniuses—before they found and killed her. She was literally in a race for her life.
16
Stumped
Miami, Florida
TRENT KELLER WAS STUMPED as he speed-dialed Colton Resseque. It was an unusual feeling for him. For virtually his whole life, Trent had been the guy in the room who always knew what to do. As an MIT biological engineering PhD, he understood how things worked. He saw the big picture. The physiology, the physics, the math.
Perhaps that was the problem. The issue here wasn’t a thing and therefore not entirely subject to the laws of nature. His problem was a person. Worse, a female.
Trent could lecture on quantum mechanics or carburetors. CRISPR or cloning. But sticking him in a situation where emotions ruled the day was like exposing Superman to kryptonite.
Trent understood why it had to be thus. Evolution required chaos. But he didn’t like it. In fact, the older he got, the less he cared to spend time with unpredictable people.
Fortunately, as the firm’s behind-the-scenes guy, as their silent partner, he was rarely called upon to interact with outsiders beyond the occasional contractor. It was the perfect setup.
He was very content being the polish that made his partners shine. The dirty rag that kept them clean. The shadowy figure who maintained their equipment and kept their big secret safe. Having a title didn’t matter to Trent, so long as he received the respect he deserved—and an equal piece of the partner pie.
Colton answered after a single ring.
“Mission accomplished?” he asked in his silky voice.
“I’m still drawing a blank,” Trent confessed. Vicky had indeed left Las Vegas. He’d let her get aw
ay, and had taken it on himself to track her down. To redeem himself before the others.
“Tell me about it,” his former classmate, old friend, and current partner said. It was a sincere request and a welcome invitation to vent.
“I feel like Edison did when testing hundreds of materials to find a filament. I’ve ruled out a lot of possibilities, but I haven’t moved us closer to the light.”
“Why don’t you walk me through the details from the beginning. Maybe that will spark an idea,” Colton said, his voice sounding as silky as ever.
For once, Trent was happy to talk through his tribulations. “As you know, Pixler didn’t fly to Buenos Aires after all. She got off in Miami.”
“And you now believe that the Argentina ticket was an intentional misdirection?”
“Yes. It was certainly a time-consuming one. In retrospect, I should have been more alert for deception given that she made no credit card purchases after buying her plane ticket, but I was in a hurry to get to Buenos Aires before the trail got cold, so I flew immediately.”
“It was a smart choice for a false destination,” Colton said. “Given that Argentina is a classic location for people looking to get lost.”
“Agreed. Miami was also a savvy choice. It’s America’s gateway to the Southern Hemisphere, both by air and by sea. I’ve been at every airline and cruise line ticket counter in Miami, Fort Lauderdale, and Orlando to see if my ‘missing sister,’ Victoria Pixler, recently bought a ticket. At some I had to wait for a shift change before finding an agent willing to check their system so I could get a read.”
“And you got nothing?”
“Zero. I’m thinking she picked up a fake passport, in which case we’re screwed.”
“Suppose she intended to continue on to Buenos Aires. Suppose she planned to pick up her new passport in Miami during her layover and got mugged?”
