And she knew. His lungs were filling with blood. He was drowning.
Before each breath, she spoke to him.
“Don’t die,” she said with a raised voice. “You come back. I know you can see me. Jennifer is safe. You don’t have to leave. Come back.”
All around her, the walls were starting to give. Chunks of the ceiling gave way and smashed to the floor while fire on the second floor started to reveal itself and tumble down from above. Jennifer and Mark were at the door now. They stopped to look inside and then Jennifer started to run toward Marty.
“Go!” Maggie said. “Get him out of here. Don’t come back-you won’t have a second chance if you do. Marty’s fine, Jennifer. I’m getting him out of here now. Wait for us across the street on the sidewalk.”
Reluctantly, Jennifer stopped.
“Come with us, Maggie.”
It was Mark. She found him and now she was certain she’d lose him again. The building was going to give way. She knew it. She felt it. It took everything she had within her to say, “Just go. We’re right behind you. I promise.”
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
They left.
She gave Marty another shot of air, but nothing was working. She increased pressure on the wound and then, in her despair, she realized she was crying. All around them, pieces of the ceiling continued to fall. The house was shifting, weakening. The walls were alight with flame. The heat was intense. She leaned over him and held his face in her hand. She gently shook him. “Come back.”
The police, fire department and EMTs broke into the building. Maggie looked at them as they raced toward her. She turned back to Marty. “You’re not going to die,” she said. “Your girls need you. Do you hear me? Your girls need you. You can’t do this to the girls.”
And then, in spite of the smoke closing down on her, she pressed her scarred cheek to the hot floor, took a lungful of clean air and breathed whatever life was left inside her straight into him.
EPILOGUE
SIX MONTHS LATER
AMSTERDAM
Smelling of cannabis and feeling a bit high because of it, Vincent Spocatti left the Speak Easy Coffeeshop on Oudebrugsteeg, where pot was smoked as freely as the coffee was poured, and took a right on Warmoesstraat, a narrow street whose origins began in the 13th century.
As such, surrounding him was a bizarre hive of the old and the new. This was a popular street and now, on the tip of dusk, it was teeming with clutches of people walking close and in the midst of chatter. He listened to them as they passed-a cacophony of Dutch voices lifting and lilting.
He loved it here.
It was February, he was bundled against cold, there was a loaded gun in his pocket and his two marks were walking ahead of him.
One was an international banker pushing sixty, the other was his international mistress pushing thirty. Back home in the States, the banker’s longtime American wife was pushing to have each murdered by nightfall.
He could smell the Amstel river in the distance and he could hear the familiar clatter of the Central railroad, which occasionally made the pavement tremble when a train passed. And then, in his pocket, he felt a vibration of another sort-his cell phone.
He reached for it, saw that it was an email and opened it to a photograph of Carmen, who was in Bora Bora resting in a hut that reached into the South Pacific deep. She was on a deck, in a bikini and looking tan and fit. Beneath the photo were a few words: “Paradise ending. New job tomorrow. This one’s big. You might hear from me.”
He turned off the phone and looked ahead of him, where his marks were walking arm-in-arm, her head on his shoulder. She was blonde and she was pretty, with a smooth complexion that was just this side of pink given the chilly air. He heard her laugh and, as she turned her head to whisper something in the man’s ear, he saw just how delicate she was, just how fine her jaw line.
He had orders to get a photo of her face after he’d blasted it into nothingness.
Carmen.
The last time he’d seen her was in New York, when they decided to be nobody’s fool and turn the tables on Carra Wolfhagen and Ira Lasker when it was revealed that they lied to them and put them at risk. And so, just for fun, they found rope, put nooses around their necks and strung each up by their throats above the bar.
Wolfhagen and the reporter joined them.
When they left them behind, scrambling and gagging and choking as they fought to stay conscious, there was a sense of redemption. Maybe they’d live, maybe they’d die-neither he nor Carmen cared. What mattered is that Carra and Ira have time enough on those nooses to know why they were there. They’d think about their mistakes and wish they’d been straight with them from the start.
Later, Spocatti read in the Times how the scene unfolded. Carra Wolfhagen was caught by the police when she ran out of the building and down the street. The next day, Mark Andrews identified her and Lasker as the masterminds behind framing Wolfhagen. She now was facing prison. Spocatti read that Lasker died in the fire, as did Wolfhagen, who was burned so deeply beyond recognition, his remains were identified by his crowded set of teeth. All in all, a good ending in which he and Carmen learned valuable lessons while pocketing millions for their trouble.
Now, the day had tipped into night. Storefront windows illumined the stone sidewalks. Above them, street lamps flashed and created warm umbrellas of amber light. Tonight, he would end this job, likely by busting into their apartment and taking them by surprise, and then he’d move back to New York City, where another job was waiting for him.
Two years ago, he had been involved in a coup to take down the billionaire George Redman and his family, among others. Things hadn’t gone as planned and now Spocatti was being brought back to finish the job thanks to a provision provided by a man’s will. He was so intrigued by the situation-at the sheer freshness of it-that he agreed on the spot to take the job.
He would finish what should have been finished, and in the absence of one man’s ego and unwillingness to listen, he’d be free to kill in ways that were efficient, precise and, if he was in the mood, likely creative.
***
NEW YORK
The cat, Baby Jane, walked across the piano keys to the sound of her own music.
She stopped in the middle of the keyboard, reached out her paw and pressed down on one of the keys. Curious, she did so again, this time more firmly. And then, delighted that she possessed the gift of music, the cat reared up on her hind legs and crashed down in an eruption of sound.
Maggie Cain swept into the room and hooked the cat with one arm. “You’re no Chopin,” she said. “You do, however, have the aggression of a young Rachmaninoff. But do me a favor and work it out later, when I’m not writing.” She scratched the cat’s chin. “Okay?”
Unfazed, the cat squirmed out of Maggie’s arm and ran across the room to the window. She leaped onto the sill and looked out at the falling snow. New York was in the midst of a Nor’easter. They were predicting eighteen inches, but as Maggie moved behind the cat and looked out at the barren street, she knew they were in for more because the snow already was that deep. But she didn’t mind it-right now, everywhere she looked was bright and white and seemingly brand new.
She went back to her office and stared at the words on her computer monitor. Her new novel, a thriller, was nearly finished. She’d never attempted the genre before but given what she’d experienced six months ago, she felt uniquely qualified to give it a shot. And she was enjoying it. Three more chapters, a second and a third draft to hone the text, and then it was off to her agent Matt, who encouraged her to write it.
The phone rang. She glanced over at the lighted dial and saw that it was Mark. She weighed whether she wanted to be interrupted by him, and decided that she didn’t. She let him slip into the gray world of voice mail and waited for him to leave a message.
“It’s me,” he said. “You up for company? I could grab a cab, stop by the market and
get the fixings for a roasted tomato, basil and garlic soup. Let me know soon-I know you’re probably writing and haven’t eaten. The soup would do you good.”
He severed the connection and she looked back at the screen. She tried to concentrate, but it was difficult. He was making every effort to win her back. What still surprised her is that he even had to try. If she had been told the night she found him alive in that safe house that there would be any question they’d be back together again, she would have scoffed.
But then Mark went to Wolfhagen’s funeral and when he did, a part of her saw him in a different light. Regardless of what Wolfhagen had done to her and to the millions of people whose financial lives he ruined in the stock market crash he helped to create, Mark still revered the man, which she couldn’t accept or understand.
When she confronted him with it, he shrugged it off-Wolfhagen once meant a lot to him. He taught him what he knew today. He forgave him for what he’d done in the past. She should, too. After all, he’d done his time. He wasn’t responsible for anything Carra and Ira did. It was healthy to move on.
But for Maggie, that wasn’t the case-her scar wasn’t just emotional, it was physical. And how could Mark overlook the fact that Wolfhagen tried to shoot her?
She dropped Mark then. Months passed without a word. And then, two weeks ago, he called with an apology and asked if they could work this out. He told her that he loved her. He said that he missed her. He wanted them to be together. But in spite of the fact that a part of her still loved him, another part of her wondered if she was for him. Not knowing, she built up roadblocks. She still hadn’t agreed to see him.
Words on the screen. She read them again and added a sentence. He was pulling out all the stops with that soup. He knew it was her favorite. And the weather was perfect for it. She typed a line of dialogue, screwed up her face when she read it and then deleted it. Words on the screen. She stared at them so long, they went out of focus. For a moment, they could have been ghosts.
And then she knew exactly who to call.
She reached for the telephone and, holding it between her head and her shoulder, she opened her computer’s browser, searched for a number, got it and dialed. Given the heavy snow, she was surprised that the line was answered.
“Tarot Cafe.”
“Roberta?”
“Lotta.”
“Is Roberta there?”
“She’s in a trance.”
“Oh. Is it rude to break her from it?”
“Depends on what she’s seeing. Hold on and let me read her face.”
Maggie waited.
“I’m seeing a darkness.”
“Maybe we should interrupt.”
“This important?”
“It’s critical.”
“Hold on.”
It was a moment before Roberta came to the phone. And when she did, her voice was reduced to a hush. “Is this you?”
“Excuse me?”
“It is you. Why are you calling me? Did you cross over? You must have crossed over. But why? You weren’t supposed to do so until tomorrow at six.”
“Roberta, it’s Maggie Cain.”
“Who?”
“It’s Maggie.”
“Maggie? Why the hell didn’t you tell me it was you? I thought you were someone…else. What’s up, cookie?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“A question! Well, it’s about time. The non-believer is now a believer.”
Maggie laughed. “That’s right.”
“What’s your question?”
“This is going to sound stupid.”
“Everybody says that.”
She felt like an idiot. “I want to know if I should be with Mark Andrews?”
And when Roberta spoke, she changed the course of Maggie’s life. “No,” she said gently. “Mark isn’t the one for you, sweetie. It’s not in the cards. I saw it when you stopped by to visit a couple of months ago. I saw something else in your future. Someone else. It wasn’t Mark.”
“Who was it?”
“The one,” she said. “Give it some time. Give it till summer. Then come and introduce me to the man you’ll be marrying. We’ve already met on another plane, but I’d like to meet him in person.”
***
LAS VEGAS
Jennifer Barnes fed a twenty into the machine, cracked her knuckles and hit the button marked “Maximum Bet.” Four cards appeared on the screen. She was at the Wynn playing an aggressive game of Black Jack. A martini was in one hand. A lit cigarette was clenched between her teeth.
The game was aggressive because she was losing-big time. This twenty was it for her, which she’d said to herself about two hundred dollars ago. But this really was it. She swore to herself that if she didn’t win now, she’d walk away.
As the cards revealed themselves, she smiled.
On the left side of the screen was her hand-an Ace and an eight, giving her nineteen. On the right side of the screen was half of the computer’s hand-a four. The other card was hidden. Still, with a four, the odds were in her favor.
There was only one way to play this. She held on nineteen, hit a button, took a sip of her martini and watched. The computer’s hidden card was a seven, which gave it a eleven points. Her stomach sank when the next card was revealed-a Queen, which totaled twenty-one points, meaning she lost again.
Tight-ass motherfucking machine.
She downed the martini, snuffed out her cigarette, checked the time on her watch and saw that it was past two, though the casino was still packed. She walked through the perfumed air, had an itch to play something else as she walked past the inviting machines with their inviting sounds, but she kept on course. She was calling it a night. She walked across the floor, showed security her room key as she breezed past them to the elevators at her left, and then zipped up to one of the penthouses.
She entered her room and, in the wall of windows opposite her, was met with a grand view of the Strip. It was beautiful.
To the right of the windows was Marty. He was sitting at a desk, his face bathed in the light of his laptop. He looked up at her as she stepped in. “Win big, kid?”
“You’re funny.”
“Lose big, kid?”
“You could say that. And I assume by this ‘kid’ business that you watched ‘Casablanca’ while I was out?”
He started typing. “Just out on Blu. Looked amazing. While you were throwing money at Steve Wynn’s feet, it was just me and Bogie.”
“How’s the review going?”
“I’ve actually moved on to ‘Hamlet’.”
“Doesn’t everyone die in that?”
“That’s generally the case with Shakespeare.”
She walked behind him and put her arms around his chest. “And here I thought you’d be writing about happy movies with happy endings, if only to strike a balance given the year we’ve had.” She leaned down to look at the screen. “Which version of the movie are you reviewing?”
“The Gibson one. Also just out on Blu.”
“In this case, I’m glad Hamlet dies.”
“I’m conflicted.”
“Oh, please.”
“The man gave us ‘Mad Max’.”
“Are you forgetting ‘The Beaver’?”
“For every ‘Beaver’ there’s a ‘Lethal Weapon’.”
“Sort of like his mouth.”
She took off her shirt and walked across the space to their walk-in closet. She looked over her shoulder and wondered if he needed a distraction. He was healthy now. In the months that had past since Maggie Cain accidentally shot him, he had fully recovered, but had yet to take another job, even though offers came in. In the meantime, Jennifer took a leave from her own job, which she would return to in the next few weeks. For awhile, this would be their last vacation. Each knew they needed to get back to work or they’d never move forward.
But were they ready for work? She thought he was ready, but she wasn’t sure about herself. When the explo
sives ignited two blocks over on 77th, she grabbed Hines and pleaded with him to tell her what Marty wouldn’t-that he was going to a safe house on the city’s West side because there was a chance that Mark Andrews might be alive.
Convinced that this was the core of the story, she left the scene with the sense that she was exchanging one nightmare for another. Six months passed and still she couldn’t shake that night, what that man and woman did to her, and that she nearly lost Marty.
But she had to try.
She slipped into the closet and opened one of the drawers. She found something see-through and sexy, and put it on. Moving quickly so he couldn’t see her, she dipped into the bathroom, brushed her hair and her teeth, grabbed a bottle of perfume, sprayed it into the air and walked through the mist.
She stepped out of the room and looked across at him. She loved him. Better yet, she was married to him. No fuss-just a quick trip to the Wynn’s wedding salon. When he proposed to her on the plane, he gave her a four-carat diamond solitaire and told her that she meant everything to him. The next day at Cartier, they bought their rings. And then, within hours, it was official. She was Jennifer Spellman. To her surprise, when Marty told the girls, Gloria sent flowers and a note to Jennifer. “Dinner when you return. The kids are eager to meet you. So is Jack. We’re a family now. Brace yourself.”
The telephone rang.
Marty looked over at her and his eyes widened when he saw what she was wearing. “Tell me I don’t have to answer it.”
“You probably should,” she said. “It’s past eleven in New York. Something might be wrong with one of the girls.”
That made him pick up the phone. “Hello?”
“Marty Spellman?”
It was a woman’s voice. He looked over at Jennifer. “Who’s calling?”
“I need your help.”
“How did you get this number?”
Jennifer walked over to him.
“Your ex-wife, Gloria, gave it to me. We’re friends and she said I should call you. I know it’s late, but I’m in trouble and I wasn’t sure where else to turn. I know you’re the best.”
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