Pray for the Innocent

by Alan Orloff

  Three minutes later, after King told her that Gosberg believed Dragunov was behind the bombing of a tourist bus, Emily’s smile disappeared. Five minutes later, her expression turned to horror when he’d filled her in on Connelly’s murder. Ten more minutes, after he’d recounted Dragunov’s other exploits and summarized the somber task force meeting, a look of profound sorrow had crowded everything else out. He felt terrible dragging her down, but he knew she’d feel even worse if he sugarcoated the news and then she discovered he’d been treating her like a kid.

  “It’s not your fault, Professor,” Emily said, lips quivering slightly.

  “What isn’t?”

  “All these people getting killed. You didn’t have anything to do with those heinous acts.”

  King sighed. He’d been telling himself the same thing, but he wasn’t sure he really believed it. He’d created Dragunov. And now some guy who thought he was Dragunov was killing people. Ergo . . . Ipso facto . . .

  “Professor King? Are you okay?”

  King focused his attention on Emily. “Huh? Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Okay. I thought you might be interested in what I found out.”

  “Where?”

  “At Gosberg’s warehouse.”

  “I thought I told you not to—”

  “It’s empty.”

  “Empty? What do you mean, empty?”

  “You know, nothing in it. I peeked inside, and the whole place was empty, as if a construction team had marched in and removed everything. No furniture, no nothing.”

  Weird. “Well, if I ever see Gosberg again, I’ll be sure to ask him about it. In the meantime, I don’t want you going back there, okay?”

  “Why would I go back? It’s empty,” she said, with a sly smile. Now she seemed to perk up. “How can I help? I’ve read Attack on America three or four times. Would you like me to offer some ideas about where Dragunov might strike next?”

  “I think Colonel Locraft and his analysts have that under control, but I would like you to help me with something else. There’s obviously some kind of connection that Dragunov sees between Feinbaum and Connelly. We need to figure out what it is.”

  “Let me get online and check a few things out,” Emily said as she pulled her iPad out of its sleeve and set about connecting to the motel’s Wi-Fi.

  King watched Emily in silence, thinking about his friends. Both dead. They’d been with him from the beginning of his research on Attack and had become fast friends. Feinbaum, guiding him along an unobstructed path into the intelligence community, never shying away from a turf battle, all with an eye toward getting King the information he needed. And Connelly mentoring him, in both the publishing business and the carousing business. Both men wanted nothing more than for King to have and enjoy the success they thought he deserved. He owed a large part of his career to them. And now they were dead.

  Because of him and his creation, the Nick Nolan franchise, all springing from a tiny kernel inside King’s mind. They’d help to nurture that seed, and they got a gruesome death for their troubles. He tore his mind away from the past and watched as Emily’s fingers danced on her keyboard. He’d spent an hour googling things last night, to no avail. But Emily’s internet-surfing skills dwarfed his. “Anything?”

  “I haven’t found anything that makes sense yet,” she said. “Of course, it is possible it’s just a coincidence.”

  King squelched a smile. Whether Emily was trying to convince herself that he wasn’t in danger, or whether she was trying to put his mind at ease, it was cute, really, how protective she was of him. But you didn’t have to be a genius to know the deaths were connected, and he was a target. In fact, you’d have to be pretty thick not to draw the correct conclusion.

  Sooner or later, King knew he’d be facing Dragunov. Now, more than ever, King wished he hadn’t been so diligent in his desire to create such a powerful and cunning villain.

  Emily looked up from her tablet, a gleam in her eyes. “Hang on.” She dug in her backpack and came out with a copy of Attack on America. She leafed through it until she found a specific page, then stopped to read it, clucking her tongue. After a few moments, she glanced up and caught King’s gaze. “I think I found something.”

  King felt his heart thump. “Shoot.”

  “What do James Connelly and Fred Feinbaum have in common?”

  “They’re friends of mine. And they helped me with Attack on America.” King paused. “But so did many, many others.”

  “Right,” Emily said. The volume of her voice had increased, like it did when she got excited. “I’m sure you had editors and publicists and proofreaders and other research sources. Probably dozens of people.”

  “At least,” King said. He couldn’t see where she was going with this.

  Emily handed King the paperback. “Turn to the acknowledgments.”

  King flipped the pages and found the acknowledgments in the back of the book. “Okay.”

  “Now read it.”

  King read the acknowledgments. He thanked his beta readers, and he thanked the people that he’d interviewed and who had provided him with background information. He thanked his agent, Lanny, profusely.

  He mentioned a passel of people at his publisher—Haddon Heights Publishing—who had championed his book from acquisition through multiple printings: his editor and his assistant, his publicist, the cover designer, the marketing team, as well as the publisher herself, by name.

  A few miscellaneous people also got acknowledged, but so far, King hadn’t picked up on what had gotten Emily charged up. “I really don’t see—”

  “Did you read the whole thing?”

  “Not yet, but—”

  “Keep reading, Professor.”

  King finished reading the page—more miscellaneous names, some belonging to people he couldn’t even remember—then turned to the next one. His breath caught. The first paragraph read:

  And finally, I’d like to thank the members of Nick Nolan’s brain trust, those people who have provided guidance and direction to the growth of a most complex and dynamic character: Fred Feinbaum, James Connelly, and Dante Harris.

  One final note: Although some may think I’m actually Nick Nolan, I guess you could say he’s just my alter ego. I’m not nearly as exciting or talented.

  Or am I?

  Mathias King

  Chapter Twenty-One

  King, slightly nauseated by his arrogant sign-off, looked up into Emily’s wide eyes.

  “See, Professor? You mention them by name in the acknowledgments. Maybe that’s the connection.”

  “You think that’s the connection? A few names in the acknowledgments? Seems a bit far-fetched. Besides, I mention a lot of names.”

  “Yes, but when you mention Feinbaum and Connelly, you specifically say they’re members of Nick Nolan’s brain trust.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know. I suppose . . .” King didn’t even recall writing those words. Of course, it was a long time ago, and alcohol had killed its fair share of brain cells since then.

  Emily held her hand out for the book, and King passed it back to her. She reread the acknowledgments. “Who’s Dante Harris?”

  “Back then, he was a close friend. A fellow writer. But we went our separate ways shortly after the book was published. I haven’t heard from him in ten or fifteen years.”

  “Maybe we’d better warn him.”

  “That’s a good idea, but I wouldn’t even know where to . . .” He broke off. “Hang on.” King got up and fished his phone out of his bag and punched a few buttons, then held it to his ear. “Hello, Theresa? Mathias King. Got a minute?”

  “Oh, Mathias. I heard about James Connelly. Who would want to kill him?”

  Off the top of his head, King could think of at least a dozen people, husbands of gorgeous women, mostly. If he had ten more minutes, he figured he could come up with another fifty solid possibilities. But there was no doubt who had killed him.

  Theresa
didn’t wait for an answer. “Is something going on? First Fred and now James?”

  “Obviously an unhinged madman. The police are working the case hard, that’s for sure. They’ve asked me a few questions, and that’s why I’m calling you. For some information. I told them I had an invaluable inside source who they could count on to assist the investigation.” King had always been a good liar; it was an occupational hazard for any novelist worth his weight in royalty statements.

  “Sure. Anything I can do to help.”

  “Great. At Feinbaum’s funeral, you mentioned you kept up with some of the old guard.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know where Dante Harris might be now?”

  A beat of silence. “He’s dead.”

  Shit. If he’d figured out the connection sooner, maybe he could have warned him about Dragunov. Now, with Harris gone, King was next, for sure. King’s heart leaped into his throat. “Dead? When?”

  “About ten years ago. Motorcycle accident out in North Dakota. Or maybe South Dakota. Or Idaho. Someplace off the grid. I think he was tired of putting up with other people’s crap, so he checked out of society. Something like that, anyway.”

  King exhaled. “Oh. Well, uh, sorry to hear that.”

  “Do the police think this guy is targeting friends of yours? Does that mean they—we—are potential targets, too?”

  “No, no, not at all. The police are sure the murders somehow relate to an old mission of Feinbaum’s that Connelly wrote a story about.” Once a liar, always a liar.

  “Well, I guess that’s a relief. I’m not sure how well I’d sleep if I thought I was a target.”

  “Yeah, you got that right.” King knew that was the truth, from experience. He hadn’t slept well for days. “Well, thanks for letting me know about Dante Harris. I appreciate it.”

  “What are old friends for, anyway? Any other info you need?”

  “No, that’s it. Thanks.”

  “No problem. Take care, Mathias.”

  King hung up and turned to Emily. “Dante Harris died ten years ago in a motorcycle accident, so we can scratch him off our potential . . .” He stopped speaking as something clicked inside his head. “Emily, I hate to burst your bubble, but there must be another connection. This isn’t it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the acknowledgments are in the back of the book. Our Dragunov never got past chapter 6. So he could never have seen them.” He sat down in his chair and sighed. “It was a good theory, but . . . sorry.”

  “Then what could it be? It can’t just be a coincidence.”

  “No, you’re right about that. But let’s face it. There’s really just one connection that matters right now.” He exhaled heavily.

  “You,” Emily said in an ominous tone. The only thing missing was the dunh dunh duh.

  He held out his arms, gesturing at the grandeur of the Red Roof Inn. “That’s why I’m here. Trying to stay under Dragunov’s radar.”

  Emily pushed her tablet aside. “What are we going to do?”

  “We? There is no we. You’re going to go back to your life, and I’m going to stay holed up until this thing blows over.”

  “But I’m not leaving you here alone. Who knows how long it will take to catch him?” She maneuvered herself into a sitting position. The way she sat on the bedspread, feet dangling over the side of the bed, reminded King of Amanda when she was little and they’d go away to the beach on vacation and all she would want to do was stay in the air-conditioned room and read her books and draw her pictures.

  He missed those innocent times.

  “What about the men following us?”

  “First off, no one is following you. And the men who were watching me at the Stop Inn and staking out my house are not going to hurt me. They’re waiting for Dragunov to show up.”

  “You mean they’re using you for bait?”

  He pointed at her. “Exactly. At least they were until I gave them the slip.”

  “Now you don’t have any protection,” Emily said, voicing the obvious.

  “I also don’t have a beacon around my neck, announcing my presence. It’s all about trade-offs.”

  “I don’t know, Professor. I think maybe you’re better off with some guards watching you.”

  King got up. “It’s time for you to vamoose. Go home. I’ll call you if I need anything else.”

  “But, Professor King, I can stay here, and we can—”

  King held up his hand. “Thanks, but . . . no. I’ll be fine here. Trust me, Dragunov wouldn’t think of looking for me here. And, unfortunately, I have a feeling he’s up to more devious things.”

  “But, but—”

  “Emily, enough.” King said, in his stern lecturer voice, known to cause the most confident of undergraduates to shrink in their seats.

  She got the message and stopped protesting. King watched as she crammed her stuff into her backpack. Then she got up, sulking, and slipped her shoes on. This, too, reminded King of when he forced Amanda to settle for a double scoop of ice cream when she wanted a five-scoop ultimate banana split with double hot fudge sauce.

  “Don’t be glum. Maybe you can uncover something on the internet that will lead us to Dragunov.” King’s voice cracked.

  “Sure.” Emily smiled, but King had seen enough of her genuine ones to know this one was forced. “Okay, then. I’m going.” She trudged to the door, and King followed, ready to throw the locks as soon as she was safely out the door.

  “Thanks for helping me, Emily. I mean that. But I don’t want you to . . . there’s no need for you to take any chances. This doesn’t even concern you.” He stepped up to the peephole and took a nice long look. “All clear. Do me a favor and call me when you’re in your car—with the doors locked—okay?”

  King grabbed the knob and swung the door open. Emily slipped out without a glance backward. He felt bad shooing her off like that, but he didn’t want the responsibility of looking after her. Although, if he was honest with himself, she could take care of herself much better than he could take care of himself.

  He locked the door behind her and flipped the security latch.

  He waited until Emily called from her car before going to the bathroom, where he peeled off his shirt and splashed water on his face. Leaning over the sink, he examined himself in the mirror, thinking back to the weeks right after Attack was released, when he’d been on tour, promoting the dickens out of it. His skin had been tauter then, with far fewer wrinkles and blemishes. A darker, more even tone that didn’t get splotchy with the tiniest amount of sun exposure. A full head of dark, thick hair. He’d never been the most handsome guy in the room, but Rina never had any complaints.

  That was a long time ago, back when people begged him to do radio interviews and book signings and lectures. Back when he enjoyed doing all that stuff.

  Now, he just wanted to be left alone so he could teach. Despite his students’ many irritating qualities, he genuinely enjoyed working with them. Underneath their baggy clothes and apart from their ubiquitous electronic equipment, most of them had clever, inquisitive minds. His challenge, like every teacher since Socrates, was to find a way to make those eager minds blossom. To inspire their thirst for knowledge.

  King turned off the bathroom light and went to fetch his cell. He called Gosberg, who answered on the second ring.

  “Dr. King. Where are you?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m safe.”

  “You sure everything is okay?”

  “I’m sure. I appreciate you keeping an eye on me, but I can do fine on my own.”

  “But, Mathias, we need your further cooperation—”

  King laughed. “It’s not like I was helping anyway. Why don’t you take the men you’ve got looking for me and have them look for Dragunov instead?”

  “But Dr. King—”

  King clicked off while Gosberg was still talking. He wasn’t being flip—they didn’t really need him. He couldn’t predict Dragunov
’s next move any better than he could predict the next spin of a roulette wheel.

  His phone rang, but he switched it off. He had nothing more to say to Gosberg, and he wasn’t in the mood to be lobbied, cajoled, or browbeaten. If he had known what kind of holy hell Attack on America would bring him—now, and during the past thirty years—he would have killed off Nick Nolan in the prologue and written a chick lit book instead.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Pentagon was the world’s largest office building, and a building Gosberg hated to visit. Too many bureaucrats. Too much red tape. Too many uniforms walking the myriad hallways. He felt like they all held his purse strings and would kill any of his research projects unless a “suitable” military application could be envisioned. The only place he hated more was Colonel Locraft’s office three miles away from the Pentagon.

  There were no armed guards. No elaborate security screenings. No need for visitor badges or escorts. Locraft’s suite consisted of two identical offices situated around a central bull pen. When six people were present in the suite, it was crowded.

  Now, with his lab closed down, Gosberg was forced to use office space there. He’d tried to tell Locraft he’d be fine working out of his house, but Locraft was insistent, and when the colonel insisted on something, Gosberg had learned it was better to say yes immediately rather than argue.

  Gosberg’s office was even smaller than Locraft’s—and he had to share it with Slattery. Two desks, four chairs, one coffee maker sitting on a scarred wooden table with one leg shorter than the rest.

  At its essence the office wasn’t conducive to getting any real work done; it was just a place to park their asses while they waited for bad news to arrive.

  And it had.

  Slattery had called him about an hour ago with some terrible news. JaVane Robinson’s wife had found him murdered yesterday. A bloody mess, with Dragunov’s figurative fingerprints all over it.