Cold Around the Heart

by Michael Prescott

  No.

  Centered on her chest, the red dot of a laser sighting system.

  He was hidden somewhere in the shadows of the prrlor, and he had her dead in his sights.

  But he didn’t fire.

  Not for a half second—long enough for her to duck behind the wall. As she was in motion she heard a distant pop—silenced shot, subsonic round—and felt a burning stripe lash her left arm.

  Then she was back on the higher staircase, hearing thumps of impact as he fired at the wall.

  Dimly she was aware of blood on her arm, a stinging tear in her left biceps, but she could still move the arm, it wasn’t broken, so it didn’t matter.

  And how he’d tricked her—that didn’t matter either, not right now.

  Even silenced gunfire was loud enough to wake people, especially when the shots were punching into a wall. Down the hallway, the kid cried out in confusion, and from the master bedroom came the stir of the parents, then Alan’s voice. “Who’s there? What’s going on?”

  “Don’t sweat it, Alan!” she yelled back. “I got it under control!”

  Like fun she did.

  She leaned out and fired two wild shots into the parlor, just to get Pascal’s attention. Three bullets answered her, landing perilously close even as she retreated, and then there was a blast of noise, a deafening clamor all around her.

  The alarm system. Alan or his wife had hit the panic button.

  It wouldn’t faze Pascal. He knew the response time was measured in minutes, not seconds. He still had plenty of time. She, on the other hand, needed to end this standoff pronto. Bullets flying around was not a good situation for anybody.

  She jammed the Glock into her waistband and unshouldered the carbine.

  Pascal thought he had her trapped. “Well, asshole,” she hissed, “say hello to my little friend.”

  She pulled back the bolt and put her finger lightly on the trigger, then spun out from cover and opened fire.

  The carbine was another of her black-market toys, one she’d modified, removing the trigger assembly to grind down the bolt catch with a diamond bit. What had been a semi-auto rifle had been converted into a full automatic. Easy peasy.

  Holding down the trigger, she spat all twenty-five rounds into the parlor in a continuous burst. It might have been noisy if the scream of the burglar alarm hadn’t swallowed all other sound.

  When the gun was empty, she retreated behind the wall and pulled out the magazine, then slapped in a fresh one and retracted the bolt again.

  Back to work. Another spray of gunfire lit up the parlor. She swiveled on her hips, tracing a semicircle across the room as expended shell casings flew out of the gun.

  It took only a couple of seconds to empty the magazine. She took cover and heeled in a third one. The gun was already getting hot, the barrel smoking.

  One more fusillade. In the flickering light of the muzzle flashes, she glimpsed Pascal on the run, darting toward the front door. Then she was out of ammo again, shoving in a fourth mag.

  But she held her fire. From the top of the stairs she could see that the front door was open. He’d fled.

  She came down fast, nearly stumbling over something at the foot of the staircase, and ran to the door. Raindrops beaded on her face as she risked looking out, just in time to see a black SUV explode out of a stand of pines and swing onto Old Road, speeding east.

  He hadn’t been expecting a machine gun. He’d been in a bad tactical position, outgunned and occupying lower ground. Retreat was the only option.

  And he was wounded. She felt the tackiness of fresh blood on the door frame at shoulder height.

  She’d fleshed him, at least. She had drawn blood, and she felt good about that.

  CHAPTER 21

   

  The alarm was still howling throughout the house. She returned to the stairs and shouted up to the second floor. “Turn that goddamn thing off! He’s gone!”

  A moment later—silence. But it was a loud silence, because her ears were still ringing.

  She knew the drill. The security company would call to see if a police presence was required. “Tell the alarm guys you set it off by accident,” she yelled. “Alan, you hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  The phone rang. She let him deal with it as she switched on some lights and surveyed the parlor.

  A lot of holes in the walls. A lot of broken glass and splintered furniture. Amazing how much damage seventy-five rounds could do. The slugs themselves littered the floor, a sea of misshapen pellets.

  The wall by the sofa was spattered with blood. Pascal had been crouching there when she’d hit him. Not a bad hit, she thought; not enough blood for a head wound or a spurting artery.

  She tracked the trail of droplets across the carpet. His strides were long and even. He seemed mobile enough. Probably she had nicked him in the upper body or an arm.

  Her own arm hurt like a bastard, but she would handle that little problem in a minute.

  She returned to the staircase and took a closer look. By the bottom step lay a throw pillow from the sofa. Pascal had pitched it at the stairs to trigger her early-warning system and lure her out of hiding.

  But how the hell had he known about the infrared beam in the first place? She could only assume he’d realized the staircase was the best place for an ambush, and a likely spot for her to rig a booby trap.

  Earlier he’d seen through her attempt to track his vehicle with a cell phone. Now he’d anticipated her strategy inside the house.

  He was good, this guy. Always one step ahead.

  She recalled him saying, It is what they pay me for. She had a feeling he was worth every penny.

  Still, he could have taken her out on the landing if he’d been a hair quicker. Which was weird, because it wasn’t like a pro to hesitate. She knew she wouldn’t have.

  By now the phone call was over, Alan having given some explanation and recited the necessary security code. She started up the stairs, taking her time, because she was feeling a whole lot of different things right now and she was afraid that any sudden, violent action might set her off like a hand grenade.

  Some of the second-story lights were on. She saw the wife comforting the kid in his bedroom. Little boy, maybe six, looking more confused and sleepy than scared. Wifey, on the other hand, looked positively distraught.

  Alan was still in the master bedroom. When she entered, he was pulling on his trousers. He stopped when he saw her, leaving his fly unzipped.

  “What in Christ’s name just happened here?” he breathed in a fierce whisper. “You come into my house—”

  She knew he was only flipping out from stress, but she didn’t care. She closed the distance between them and grabbed him by his collar and shoved him up against the closet door.

  “You fucking asshole,” she hissed.

  He stared at her, sudden fear in his eyes. She didn’t understand the fear at first, until she saw herself as he did—the Glock snugged in her waistband, the machine gun riding on her shoulder. Like her namesake, maybe. Had bank tellers and state troopers stared at Clyde’s Bonnie that way when her blood was up?

  Slowly she released him. “You sold me a load of bullshit. What’s the point of hiring me if you feed me a bunch of lies?”

  “I didn’t. I—”

  “Shut up, Alan, or should I say Jeffrey? Yeah, that’s right, I’m on to you. You’ve been running a game on me. Everything you told me was a big fat shit sandwich.”

  He almost denied it, then took another look at her face, and nodded.

  “Okay,” she said. “You and me—we’re gonna have a serious conversation about this.”

  “Yes, sure, of course.” He was being very agreeable all of a sudden.

  “But not now. First things first. We need to get you, the missus, and the rug rat outta here. Have ’em get dressed, and don’t let ’em take all day about it. I don’t know how long we can stay in this house.”

  “You think the neighbors heard
the shooting?”

  “Nah, the alarm covered it. It’s not the neighbors I’m worried about.”

  He got it. “It’s him. You’re thinking he may come back.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

  “Cynthia.” Alan held his voice steady. “You and A.J. need to get dressed right away.”

  Bonnie smiled. “A.J., huh?”

  “Alan Junior.”

  “Cute. What’s his real name?”

  “Christopher.” Alan rubbed his forehead. “How’d you get past the alarm system?”

  “Buddy boy, I hate to break it to you, but your security measures are strictly open-mic night at the Improv.”

  “What?”

  “They’re amateur hour. Didn’t stop me. Didn’t stop him.”

  “Oh.” He looked away, his face troubled. “I never thought he’d find us this soon.”

  “Yeah, company always drops by at the most inconvenient time.” She had no intention of telling him she’d helped Pascal track him down.

  She was saved from further conversation by the arrival of Cynthia with A.J. in her arms. The lady of the house was blond—it looked like a dye job—and unnaturally thin, like one of those starved waifs in the fashion pages. She stopped in the bedroom doorway and gave Bonnie a hard stare. “Was that a machine gun you were firing?”

  “It wasn’t a water pistol.”

  “Alan, who is this woman?”

  And I love you too, Bonnie thought. “I’m a PI, name of Parker. Your hubby hired me, and I just saved your ass.”

  “You hired her?” She spoke in the clipped dialect of fancy-pants private school kids. Came from money, probably.

  Alan nodded glumly. “I didn’t think I had any choice. There was someone after us.”

  “And he’s still after you. So throw on some clothes, toss a coat over the tyke, and grab a couple of overnight bags. We gotta amscray.”

  The woman stood her ground. “I’m not going anywhere until I know what this is about.”

  “It’s about Jeffrey and Caroline Walker. Capisce?”

  “You told her about that?” Cynthia asked her husband.

  “She found out.”

  “How much do you know about her? How do you know we can trust her?”

  “She was recommended by a friend.”

  “Hey,” Bonnie interrupted, “in case you haven’t noticed, she is right here in the room with you, and she is getting majorly pissed off. You two have your marching orders. Start doing the high-step.”

  Cynthia glared at her. “You’re quite full of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’m a freakin’ spitfire.”

  “Well, you can’t order me around. I demand to know what’s going on.”

  “You want the background story? Here’s the USA Today version. You guys got involved in something messy and had to change your names and hide out here. It didn’t work. The boogeyman tracked you down and he’s gunning for bear.”

  “What—what boogeyman?”

  “A professional killer from Chile.”

  Cynthia hugged A.J. tighter. Bonnie was glad to see it. It meant she was taking this business seriously, though the bullet holes in the wall should have been enough to clue her in about that.

  “Chile?” she asked, her voice low and uncertain.

  “That’s his base of operations. But he gets around. I’m guessing his frequent flyer miles pile up pretty fast. His name’s Pascal, by the way. Or so he told me.”

  Alan glanced at her. “You talked to him?”

  “Oh, yeah, we’re best buds now. He gave me a nice little workout, free of charge. On second thought, there were a lot of charges. And he took Sammy.”

  “Oh my God, who’s Sammy?”

  “My phone. So can we get a move on, or what?”

  Cynthia didn’t seem to be listening. She set the boy down on the bed. “Pascal,” she said quietly. She saw Bonnie’s questioning gaze and added, “As in Pascal’s Wager?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Blaise Pascal? The philosopher?”

  “Sorry, I’m not too up on my philosophy.”

  “He’s the one who said the heart has its reasons.”

  “Did he? I thought that was Woody Allen. Well, I don’t think this sick son of a bitch has a heart. As for his reasons, he’s in it for the pesos.”

  “A killer for hire,” Cynthia uttered tonelessly.

  “Don’t sweat it. It’s my job to see he doesn’t earn his keep. Get dressed and packed. I’m gonna clean myself up.” She plucked at her sleeve, and Alan jumped a little.

  “You’re wounded,” he said, shocked.

  “More like grazed. Kind of a rush when that happens. Like winning the Powerball.”

  She went into the bathroom down the hall, stripped off her bloodied shirt, and tossed it into a wastebasket. She cleansed the wound with hot water. The bullet had shaved off a layer of skin, and some cotton fibers from her sleeve were embedded in the wound. In the cabinet under the sink she found first aid supplies. With tweezers she plucked out the trapped fibers before applying antiseptic and wrapping her biceps in a bandage. From a hamper in the hallway she stole a dark blue blouse. Dark blue was the preferred color for camouflage at night.

  With the blouse on, she checked herself out in the bathroom mirror. The bandage was invisible under the sleeve. That was good. She didn’t want Pascal to know he’d nicked her. It was never a good idea to reveal any weakness, no matter how minor. Let her adversary think she didn’t have a scratch.

  Back in the bedroom, she found Alan tossing prescription meds and other essentials into a small suitcase while A.J., a perfect replica of his dad in miniature, watched from the bed. The kid was surprisingly calm, all things considered. Apparently he interpreted this late-night ritual as just another of the incomprehensible things grown-ups did. Which was good, because a squalling child might have been more than she could take just now.

  Cynthia emerged from the walk-in closet, suitably attired. She frowned at Bonnie. “Is that my blouse?”

  “Looks good on me, huh? I’ll try to get it back to you without any holes.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Alan asked, looking up from the suitcase.

  She found his solicitude touching and irritating at the same time. “I told you, it was a pinprick. I’ve had manicures that did more damage. So, we ready to roll?”

  “I’m not done packing.”

  “I’ll give you five minutes. Think of it as a fire drill. Take only the stuff you can’t live without. I’m gonna go grab my car. Meet me at the back door in”—she checked her watch—“four minutes thirty.”

  She retrieved her poncho and was about to go downstairs when she remembered the file cabinet. She detoured into the den and riffled through the folders. At the back of the top drawer she found a cache of documents from the Kirbys’ previous life. Many related to Conscience Watch, the nonprofit outfit Alan Kirby joined when he was still Jeffrey Walker. Conscience Watch was an international human rights organization that put pressure on dictatorial regimes to release political prisoners. It seemed legit. A bunch of heavy hitters from politics and the entertainment industry were listed as honorary board members. One glossy brochure was devoted to thanking the biggest donors. She scanned the list, and right there, near the top, were two names she knew.

  Jacob and Gillian Hart.

  “How now, brown cow,” she murmured for no good reason.

  Things were starting to make just a little more sense. Ponying up the cash for new IDs and a replacement law degree would have been a stretch for a mid-level exec at a nonprofit firm, but no stretch at all for the Harts. Naturally the new-made Kirbys had ended up in the vicinity of Brighton Cove. They needed to stay close to their benefactors.

  And there was another possibility, one that was a little more troubling. But she didn’t have time to work it all out now. She would deal with it later.

  If she was still alive.

  CHAPTER 22

&nb
sp;  

  Dan Maguire knew Bonnie Parker was dirty in all kinds of ways. Dirty in ways he couldn’t even imagine, probably. And she had something to do with the crime scene at the Coach House, he was sure of that.

  He had spent the past hour talking to the manager and to those guests who hadn’t cleared out fast enough. Nobody knew anything. In a crap hole like this, nobody ever did.

  Now he stood under the overhang by the parking lot, staring past the cycling light bars of parked cruisers and a sheet of steady rain. On the highway, post-midnight traffic blurred past, headlights and taillights making watercolor streaks. He watched the traffic and tried to figure out what the hell had gone down here.

  “It’s a puzzler, huh, Chief?” That was Phil Gaines, the only detective on the Brighton Cove force. “You know we’re going to have to bring the Highway Patrol in on this, right?”

  “I know.” The state police had more expertise in these situations. They had a crime lab. They had—no offense to Phil—real detectives, not glorified beat cops who investigated the occasional bicycle theft or late-night break-in.

  “Be nice if we had something to give ’em. Some theory of the case.”

  “Fire away,” Dan said irritably.

  “Sorry. I’m all out of ammo. I mean, it seems clear enough that someone was in that tub, getting shock treatment. And somehow they got away, and a shot was fired. But the who, what, and why is a mystery.”

  Dan surveyed the parking lot. “At least four vehicles left before the first officer got here. And naturally we have no description of any of them. It’s enough to make you lose your faith in human nature.”

  “One was probably our victim, running away. Another was our perp, fleeing the scene. The other two, or however many more there were, had to be some of the Coach House’s upstanding clientèle, heading for cover.”

  “They’re the ones we really need to talk to. They might’ve seen something.”

  “Good luck finding them. Nobody wants to admit to checking in here.”

  “Then we squeeze the ones who didn’t get away. The hookers and the johns. The manager too. We apply pressure until somebody’s memory improves.”

  “If they saw anything in the first place. Most of them say they never even heard the gunshot.”

  “How can you not hear a gunshot?”

  “Maybe they were preoccupied.” Phil poked his index finger into the curled fingers of his other hand, in and out, in and out, accompanied by a creaking-bedspring noise. He liked illustrating his thoughts with gestures and sound effects. A comedian, Phil was.