Mosaic

by Gayle Lynds

  "Get a towel and wrap my hand," Maya Stern told the new man.

  Sam pushed away the pain rattling his skull. His gaze surveyed the porch, looking for a way to help Julia.

  The skinny Janitor covering him growled, "You should've stayed behind a desk, asshole."

  Sam spat out the cotton that had distorted his features. "Why? And miss all this?" The corner of his mouth pulled up in disgust and rage. With the cotton gone, his face was again chiseled and hard.

  The Janitor's weapon moved closer to Sam. He was unaccustomed to failure, and his discomfort was all due to Sam Keeline. "This used to be just another assignment." His voice was low and bloodless.

  "Stop it." Maya Stern's mouth was a red slash. The second man returned and wrapped her hand with a linen towel and tied it. "Now take him out and kill him. You know where." She prodded Julia up and out into the lowering sun.

  "Sam!"

  "Worry about yourself." Maya Stern punched the pistol into Julia's agonized ribs again. "Walk."

  Sam called out, "Don't worry! I've got them where I want them."

  The two men pushed Sam viciously out another door.

  Watching back over her shoulder, hoping for a miracle, Julia followed the brick path among junipers that seemed stark and ominously green against the brown grass. The sun was moving down toward the horizon, cold and brilliantly bright. The wind had returned, and it moved restlessly over the land, pushing the thin branches of trees and sending dry leaves tumbling as if in a mad dance.

  In the end, she'd been no match for Maya Stern. Inwardly she seethed and cursed herself. Just as Sam had said, she'd been unable to handle trained killers on her own. But she couldn't lose him. Not now. Not after everything they'd been through. Aching love swept through her, followed instantly by raging grief.

  Because of her, Sam would die.

  Behind her the gay noises of the party faded. She and Stern walked out of sight of the guesthouses, the teahouse, and the porch.

  Stern pushed her around a curve in the forest's edge. Ahead, her grandfather's isolated retreat stood cradled by the woods, out of sight of all the other buildings. An old terror gripped her. She hadn't been here in years. She associated this plain building with power and violence, and she didn't know why. She curled her hands into hard knots. She forced away her fear for Sam and herself. She couldn't be afraid. They weren't dead yet. She had to think. She had to use all her senses—

  Maya Stern continued to press her downward on the path. Despite the frosty air, Julia was sweating. Her chest felt as if a claw gripped it.

  4:09 PM

  Lyle Redmond padded toward the end of the tunnel, his head bent beneath the dangling lightbulbs. He was chilled and tired, but he was elated, too. He swatted spiderwebs and chuckled to himself.

  When he'd bought Arbor Knoll, Lyle had figured if the president could have secret tunnels that dumped him out onto Pennsylvania Avenue, he was entitled to at least one of his own. Of course, his opened onto an asphalt road from a door in a small shed hidden by brush. Nothing quite so grand as the president's, but it sure had been handy. And with a combination lock on the door, and his ability to keep his mouth shut, no one had ever been the wiser.

  Lyle had rested most of the day, so his energy was holding out. And the good Father Michael had slipped him thirty bucks for pocket change. The taxi driver had liked the big tip. He chuckled again and inhaled the dank air. It brought back memories of beautiful women. He'd been lonely after Mary died, but he'd survived. And now, hell, it was good to be alive. He had something he had to see, and then he was going to confront his greedy sons.

  4:10 PM

  Julia! Sam's agonized inner voice called her name as Maya Stern prodded her out the door and she was gone. At least she was alive. Stern had to be taking her to Creighton, or she would've killed them both. He was thankful for that much. Maybe Creighton would hold Julia until after the election. Maybe—

  He didn't believe that for a second.

  No, Creighton would want Julia to tell how much she knew and whom she'd told. Maybe he'd try to persuade her to return to the fold. After all, she was a Redmond, and it was obvious he was infatuated by the mystique of his family.

  But Julia would defy him to the end. She couldn't do anything else. Because she was a Redmond. Like old Lyle.

  Sam had to help her.

  The two Janitors pushed Sam away from the porch and into the back of a waiting car. Since it was still daylight and the Secret Service was everywhere, they weren't willing to risk killing him here. But to increase their chances of success, Sam knew they should've shot him immediately and figured out some way to disguise his corpse and cart it out. Someone had screwed up. Probably Vince and his constipated way of doing everything tidily. Nothing but surface, making it look good but not getting it right.

  The taller, darker one with a knife scar at the corner of his left eye that gave him a sleepy look got behind the wheel. The skinny one with the face of a demented ferret climbed into the back beside Sam, his Glock 9mm steady in Sam's rib cage. Another mistake. The skinny Janitor was an assassin, not a field operative. He knew how to kill and escape, but he was sloppy at guarding prisoners. Sam kept thinking about all this to keep the sour taste of fear in his mouth from getting to him.

  They took a rutted dirt road used for maintenance into the dense forest. A Secret Service agent appeared, and the driver waved. He recognized the driver and allowed the car to continue. Creighton—or Vince—had covered enough contingencies that Sam was reevaluating his criticism: They still had a damn good chance of killing him.

  At last they reached a locked gate deep in the woods. Beyond it curved an asphalt road. There was no kiosk or guards checking people in and out, but some agents would be patrolling the fence. The sleepy-eyed driver jumped out to open it. The skinny assassin watched his partner, looked for agents, and guarded Sam.

  Sam quickly decided his guard had too much to watch. And Sam had to do something quickly before they left the estate. This looked like as good a chance as he was ever going to get. He had to take the risk.

  So he moaned. He grabbed his stomach and doubled over.

  Beside him, the skinny Janitor was surprised just long enough that the gun in Sam's ribs relaxed a fraction. Instantly Sam shot his elbow sideways in a yoko hiji-ate straight into the guy's ribs and crashed the fist of his other arm down on the forearm that held the Glock. The Glock fell with a soft thud. The guy's eyes showed white in pain, and the arm dropped limp, paralyzed.

  But the good hand lashed out for Sam's throat. Sam blocked with a backhand haishu-uke and swiftly rammed the palm of his other hand up into the guy's chin. The guy's head snapped back. There was a crack. Bad breath exploded into the car, and the guy's head lolled to the side. It was all over in seconds. The Janitor was unconscious.

  Sam snatched up the silenced Glock from the floor. He was panting.

  The first Janitor had seen the car rock. He sprinted back to it, clawing out his gun from his holster. Sam opened the door on the opposite side and slid out into the cool sunshine that slanted down through the trees. As he watched the guy's feet hesitate then tear around the car, Sam quietly rolled under it. He had the odd feeling he'd never left the field, never left Cold War Eastern Europe. The dirt was rich and moist. The odor filled his head and made him think of death.

  Sam quickly shimmied around until he was facing the side of the car from which he'd just exited. As the sleepy-eyed Janitor blasted to a stop to reconnoiter, Sam's hand lashed out, grabbed his ankle, and yanked. The guy hit the ground hard, spitting and cursing. By then Sam was rolling out from under the car. A silenced bullet creased his cheek with a lethal pop. Blood spurted hot into his eye and down his cheek.

  Blinking rapidly so he could see, Sam instantly fell back flat, aimed, and shot. The guy's gun had just leveled on Sam again. But Sam's silenced bullet exploded through the killer's forehead, spraying bone and brains. The Janitor crashed back into the bloody mass, unmoving, his gun still in his ha
nd.

  Sam heaved air. Relief flooded him. His heart was pounding like a kettledrum. God, he was good at this. And God, how he hated it.

  He pulled himself up so he was sitting. He turned to look into the open backseat, and suddenly a stiletto knife was pointed at his throat from the car.

  "You sonofabitch." The skinny assassin was awake and vicious.

  Before Sam could raise his gun hand, the guy lunged. Sam ducked and fired. The bullet caught the guy just beneath the chin, burrowed through his brain stem, and exploded into the air. The man collapsed forward, his torso drooping from the car down to the earth.

  Breathing hard, Sam shook his head and listened. Had any Secret Service agents heard the silenced shots? He crouched low behind the car and studied the thick woods, the empty road beyond the fence, the open meadows toward the bay. Nothing moved. Only a soft silence as the low sun angled through the trees.

  He got up and dragged both men in their fine tuxedos into the forest. He kicked forest duff over them. Then he tore back to the car, climbed in, and drove back toward the distant mansion. Still no Secret Service agents had appeared, and he could only pray he'd get there in time.

  58

  4:20 PM

  In the retreat, the pungent odors of fine cigars blended with those of the aromatic woods that lined the walls. The low early winter sun bathed the exotic woods with a pale yellow patina and warmed the rich leather and polished wood of the furniture. The brothers and Vince relaxed in the warmth on the sofa and chairs, savoring the victory that would belong to all of them.

  "Tokugawa's Fist," Vince said with admiration. "It never fails."

  Vince watched his father and uncles nod soberly. He reflected that old Lyle had maybe taught them too well. Their strength was in being together. Powerful Redmonds. And now they were against the first powerful Redmond. Vince was smiling to see them still congratulating themselves when the wood floor seemed to shiver. There was a sharp, rasping sound.

  Startled, they all looked quickly around, trying to identify where it originated.

  "There!" Vince pointed.

  A section of parquet floor began to rise up near the desk. It was a large square of eight panels indistinguishable from the rest that covered the room. Suddenly the whole piece jutted up, and a brown-clothed arm slammed back a trapdoor. Lyle Redmond's white hair and corrugated face popped up like John the Baptist rising from the cistern of Herod's palace, dusty with cobwebs.

  He glared at his sons and Vince. "Goddammit. What's going on around here?"

  "Dad?" Brice couldn't believe it.

  Creighton and David stared, shocked into silence.

  The old man lurched up onto the floor. "Thought you had me on ice for good, didn't you? You pipsqueaks think I don't know what's been going on with my money?" He struggled to his feet. "Who the hell cares whether you're president, Creighton? How many people have to die so you can have what you want? Your own sister! Your niece! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" He stalked toward his sons, the long, brown Franciscan habit flapping around his bony legs. "You think anything you want is that important? Sure I bent a few rules, hardballed my competitors, and sold land I shouldn't. What I did was wrong. But this—" He rotated his head from his sons to his grandson. "I'm ashamed of you. Mortified. And I'm afraid for you. Your souls are going to burn in hell's flames. This has to stop. You're killing people, for God's sake. I wanted you to be men. But you've turned into bloodsucking vampires!"

  Stunned by the apparition of the man who should've been old and senile, Brice battled his old fear. Then his anger at how Lyle would ruin him took over. His goddamn father was as demented as ever. "No! You don't do this—"

  "Brice!" Lyle spun to face Brice. "You! I'd hoped for more from you. You went off and did something on your own when you started your company from scratch. I respected you for that. But now you're working with Creighton when you should've kicked his ass into jail!"

  David was on his feet, enraged. "Still browbeating us, old man? That's all you ever had. Bombast and lies. You built your business on those, but you couldn't even have done that on your own. You needed Dan Austrian's brains and enterprise—"

  The old man bore down on David. "Without my money you'd've ended up an ink-stained flunky or a bank thief. The only way you can think is by the numbers. Whatever happened to your heart!"

  Vince had never seen his grandfather behave quite this bad. He'd heard his father talk about it, about how he'd ranted and browbeat everyone. But until he'd seen him in action, he never would've believed it. He'd never have let Creighton act this way. The man was demented. This had to stop.

  Vince stood up. "You're in no condition to be out of the home, old man. I—"

  "Well, if it isn't the boy," Lyle roared. "That your voice, or Creighton's? Look at me, grandson. You're too damned young to know what an asshole your father is, so let me explain. Any man who'd steal his own father's fortune under the pretext of protecting it is a kid with the biggest cock on the block and a strong streak of exhibitionism. And you're turning out just like him!"

  Creighton finally recovered from the shock of seeing his father appear so suddenly. His analytical brain reasserted itself. "Okay, Dad," he said calmly. "You've had your fun. Now it's our turn. If you think—"

  "Fun?" Lyle growled. "You think this is fun? You think I've been lying up there in that prison you sent me to and the only thing I've been thinking about is getting even? That great big brain of yours thought that? Well, you're wrong, son." He heaved air and tried to calm himself. "I wanted to save us, that's all. But the only way there's a prayer of that is if all of this stops. Here. Right now. Creighton, you've got to go on TV and tell the world Doug Powers is a good man and will make a hell of a president." He glared at his oldest son. "Then you've got to tell them what you, your brothers, and your son have done. Confess. Say you're sorry. And take your punishment like a man."

  The old man bit his lower lip. Tears glistened on the rims of his eyes. He fought them off, and his voice lowered. "And I'll be right beside you, son. I'll tell them what I did, too. About the treasure Dan and I stole and the murder I hid. Because I am sorry. And I will accept my punishment, whatever it is, and be glad my soul finally has a chance at salvation."

  For a long moment, as if they had never expected him to stop, neither his sons nor grandson said anything. The silence stretched. Their faces were stony, and power and confidence radiated from them, their birthright. They'd cut corners and finagled and skirted the law all their lives, and they saw little difference in what they were doing now. Only moments ago they'd decided what to do about their father, and no amount of guilt would stop them. Especially after Lyle had admitted the crimes that would ruin them all if the world knew about them.

  Suddenly, Creighton threw back his head and laughed. The sound filled the room and seemed to ricochet from the walls and high ceiling. Abruptly he stopped. His eyes blazed. "It's the same shit, isn't it, old man? You always have to be right." His voice dropped, cool and brusque. Businesslike. "You think we're all going to hell. And that scares you. You're going to make up for all you've done, and now you've got it into your squirrelly brain that we have to, too."

  The old man said simply, "You're wrong, Creighton."

  But Creighton jumped up. He stalked to him and jabbed a finger into his chest. "If there's a hell, we'll deal with it later. This is here. Planet Earth. We're going to run this country, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it!"

  Lyle tried once more, "Creighton. You don't know what—"

  "Stop!" Creighton bellowed. "No more of your crap!" He swung around and strode back to Vince. "Give me your gun." Vince raised his brows, but he handed the SigSauer over. Creighton bore down again on Lyle in his brown Franciscan habit. Outrage and frustration fueled him. No way was he going to let Lyle destroy his life. "If there's a hell, you old bastard, get ready to deal with it, because this is where all your crap ends!"

  Creighton aimed the gun at his father's head. He cocked the hammer.


  Brice tensed on the couch as if to get up, then stopped and slowly sank back. David never moved. A thin smile played across his flushed face.

  Vince wetted his lips and watched with glittering eyes.

  "On your knees." Creighton pushed the weak old man to his knees. He aimed the cocked pistol. "Now you act like a man."

  Lyle Redmond looked up at his son. There was no fear in his eyes, only contempt. "Go ahead, you little weasel. If you've got the balls to do your own dirty work, go ahead."

  4:32 PM

  Maya Stern pushed Julia through the wrought-iron gate up to the door of the isolated retreat. Julia swallowed. Dread filled her. Think, she told herself. She had to find a way to escape—

  She breathed deeply and stepped inside. And stopped, astonished.

  Low sunlight streamed in through the tall, west-facing windows, harshly painting her uncles, grandfather, and cousin Vince in its bright light. Brice and David sat on the sofa, their arms crossed. They glanced at her and then gazed with curiosity back at Creighton. Vince stood a few feet behind his father, his eyes shining. Creighton towered in the center of the great room, a cocked pistol in his hand. It pointed down at her grandfather. On his knees, old Lyle Redmond glared up. Defiant

  "Creighton! What are you doing to Grandpa!" And then she froze. She smelled—

  Abruptly that odd, pungent scent that was associated with her blindness seemed to explode inside her head. But there was no threat of blindness and this time the odor was real. It came from some of the woods that lined the cavernous room. Some tropical wood odor she couldn't name. Like. . . camphor. . . but not camphor.

  She felt herself begin to tremble with excitement. Some vital piece of information seemed to be percolating just beyond her reach. She struggled to grasp it. And then suddenly she knew what had made her blind. Saw it in her mind. The night of her debut. Clear as that night itself—

  TEN YEARS AGO, ARBOR KNOLL

  It was late at the party to celebrate her debut, and something was troubling her father. He seemed distracted, almost upset. He smiled, but there was little joy in it. As people drifted off to bed, he'd gone into a corner with Creighton, arguing.