by R. J. Jagger
“That’s quite a statement,” he said.
She walked over, put her arms around him and laid her head on his chest.
Her body trembled.
“I have some money saved up,” she said. “We’ll go down to Mexico and find the treasure. I’ll cut you in. We’ll be fifty-fifty partners.”
Wilde pictured it.
The picture was intoxicating.
Secret would be history, but London was every bit her equal. The only reason he hadn’t fallen for London yet is because he’d let Secret in first.
He’d made no commitments to Secret.
If he left, it wouldn’t be a violation.
There was chemistry with London.
He couldn’t deny it.
It was the same as with Secret, maybe even more so.
Finding the treasure and getting it out of Mexico would be dangerous, in fact damn near impossible. In all probability they’d be caught and end up in rat-infested prison cells, either that or dead. But if they actually pulled it off, if they actually got away with it, the math would be fun.
“Come with me,” London said. “Say you will. After we get the treasure we’ll buy an island and spend the rest of our lives on the beach.” A beat then, “Or first we can travel. I want to go to Hong Kong.” She pulled her stomach tighter to his and looked into his eyes. “How about you, Wilde? Have you ever wanted to go to Hong Kong?”
He grinned.
“I never really thought about it.”
“If we get the treasure, that’s what our lives will be,” she said, “thinking about things we never thought about before. Not just thinking about them, either—actually doing them. We’ll make the world ours. Everyone else will just be a trespasser.”
He kissed her forehead.
“When you think you don’t mess around, do you?”
“No I don’t.”
She kissed him on the mouth.
Her lips were soft and moist.
“So what do you say?” she said. “Are you in?”
77
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Morning
Waverly’s plan was to make contact with the woman Bristol spanked in his houseboat, not just to warn her but also to solicit her help.
She was on the inside.
She could get information they couldn’t.
Su-Moon wasn’t enthused.
“What makes you think she’d do that?”
“Maybe she won’t,” Waverly said. “But we’re going to warn her anyway. What’s the harm of asking?”
Su-Moon pulled the blinds back and looked out.
The alley was full of life.
A thick fog was lifting.
She turned to Waverly and said, “The harm is that Bristol might use her against us. When she confronts him—which she will—he’ll deny any wrongdoing, then convince her to go in with him to get rid of us, under the guise of saving his reputation, hence his money, hence whatever it is that he’s giving her on the side. She lets him spank her. Remember?”
True.
Waverly remembered.
“That doesn’t just happen,” Su-Moon said, “not without some kind of connection, an emotional connection. Emotions trump reasoning every time. I don’t mind warning her. If we do and she doesn’t take it, that’s her problem. Getting mixed up with her beyond that is a train wreck.”
Waverly exhaled.
“Let’s do this,” she said. “I’m going to go downtown and shadow Bristol. In the meantime, you go down to the library. Remember that entry in Bristol’s journal about the rooftop blowjob?”
“Yes.”
“That was dated 1948, March or April or May, somewhere in that time frame.”
“March I think.”
“Okay, March. Go through every big-city newspaper that the library carries and see who was murdered in that timeframe, no matter where in the country.”
A crowded but uneventful trolley took Waverly into the guts of the financial district where she bought a coffee and took a position as far down the street from Bristol’s building as she could while still maintaining surveillance. Thirty steps farther down, next to an alley, a bad sax player squeaked out jagged notes with a bent rhythm. Passersby occasionally tossed coins into an open case.
Waverly didn’t know what she expected to see.
It was possible, though unlikely, that the man who attacked them last night would show up and disappear into Bristol’s building, confirming that Bristol was behind it—as if there was any question. If that happened, she’d follow him. If she could find out who he was, it might be worth breaking into his house.
She wore a blue, long-sleeve shirt tucked into gray cotton pants.
A black baseball hat tilted down over her face.
Ten minutes passed, then half an hour.
Bristol’s face didn’t show—not going in, not coming out.
A sliver of sun cut between two buildings.
Waverly stepped over and got in it.
Suddenly a man emerged from Bristol’s building.
It was Sean Waterfield, the Marlboro man who took her to dinner, the one who may or may not be in cahoots with Bristol. He turned in her direction and walked at a brisk pace on the opposite side of the street with his hands in his pockets. She leaned against the building, brought the coffee up to her mouth and kept the brim of the hat low. Her instinct was to trust him, to intercept him, to tell him everything that happened, to solicit his help, to let him take her in his arms, to let his lips meet hers.
She resisted the impulse.
He passed without looking her way.
She watched him as he walked away.
Did she just make a mistake?
Maybe.
It wasn’t irreversible, though.
She could call him later if she wanted.
Maybe she would.
Time passed, then more.
Lots of people came in and out of Bristol’s building. None of them were Bristol or the man from last night, or anyone else of interest.
Fifteen minutes later a cab pulled up.
Street parking was full.
It double-parked in the traffic lane.
A car behind it paused, then honked and swung around.
There was a woman in the back of the cab. Her face was pointed towards the building. Suddenly Bristol emerged, wearing a dark suit and carrying two briefcases, one in each hand. He walked quickly to the cab, opened the door and slid in. Almost immediately the vehicle took off.
Damn it.
He was getting away.
Suddenly Waverly spotted a cab heading her way. She jumped in front of it, smacked the hood as it skidded to a stop and jumped in.
“Do a one-eighty.”
The driver stared as her, astonished he hadn’t run her over.
“Now!”
The vehicle spun around.
“Follow that cab up there,” she said.
“You want me to catch up to them?”
“No, just stay back and follow.”
“Okay.”
A beat then, “I’m a Russian spy,” she said. “That’s my target up there.”
The man laughed.
“You speak pretty good English for a Russian spy.”
“They teach it to you at spy school.”
78
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Morning
In the wrong lane and heading directly into the front end of an 18-wheeler, River had one thought and one thought only, to avoid a head-on hit at all costs. It wasn’t even a thought, really. It was more of a chemical reaction in his brain, a reaction that made him jerk the steering wheel to the left with all his might.
The vehicle reacted like a startled snake.
The center of gravity shifted violently.
River felt it in his gut but kept his eyes on the mountain of steel speeding at him.
He might clear.
He might not.
He closed his eyes at the last second and tightened his grip on the steering wheel until there was no squeeze left. Then, whoosh. The front ends didn’t lock. The vehicles passed by each other, so closely that River felt the vacuum suck him to the right.
Then he flipped.
His body left the seat and slammed into another part of the interior, then another and another.
Everything spun.
It was too fast to make out images.
All he could see were violent blurs.
Then the vehicle almost tipped again but didn’t. Instead it twisted, reset on the wheels and sped into the topography with a wild bumping motion.
River’s brain lightened at that second.
The vehicle wouldn’t flip again.
He wasn’t dead and whatever happened in the next few seconds wouldn’t kill him.
He’d survived.
He might be hurt—hurt badly in fact—but he wasn’t dead.
The vehicle slowed and finally came to a stop. River was in the back seat, half on the floor, twisted. He bowed his forehead onto his hands and closed his eyes.
Everything was silent.
It was the deepest silence he’d ever heard.
Thunder rushed through his veins.
He was alive.
That’s all that mattered.
Alive.
Alive.
Alive.
Then a warning sounded inside his head, a warning that said he had no time to relax.
Something was wrong.
A pain from his side made him focus. He looked down and saw a knife sticking out of his body.
There was blood, lots and lots of blood, enough to scare him.
He grabbed the knife as fast as he could, pulled it out and dropped it.
There.
The bastard was out.
He twisted upright and pulled his shirt up to see how deep the wound was.
He couldn’t tell.
There was too much blood.
It felt deep but he couldn’t tell.
Suddenly his right eye blurred.
He wiped the back of his hand across it.
When he pulled it away, there was blood, dripping down from somewhere above.
He felt around until he found the wound. It was on his head, under his hair, two or three inches back. He ran a finger along it to gauge how bad it was.
It was bad.
79
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Morning
“So what do you say? Are you in?”
London was waiting for an answer.
Her stomach was pressed to Wilde’s.
Her lips were open.
Her breathing was shallow.
Wilde was at a crossroads, the kind that lasts only a few seconds and then ripples forever. Part of him said yes, go; screw his whole existence, disappear with London and let whatever happens happen. The other part said no, don’t even think about it; he hardly knew the woman, certainly not enough to throw away everything he’d built up in Denver.
He blew smoke.
Then he looked down into her eyes and opened his mouth to talk.
He still didn’t know what the answer would be, but knew it was time to give it.
The silence was over.
It was time to decide.
It would come to him as he mouthed the words.
Suddenly a noise came from behind him. He turned to find a man in the room, a man he knew—Crockett Bluetone, the hotshot lawyer, the head of London’s firm.
London was as surprised as Wilde and took a step back.
“The door was open,” Bluetone said. Then to Wilde, nodding at his cigarette, “You got another?”
Wilde hesitated; then he tapped one loose and extended the pack.
Bluetone pulled it out, said “Thanks,” and lit up from a fancy gold lighter.
His eyes were on London.
He flicked the lighter shut, stuck it in his pocket, blew smoke at London and looked at Wilde.
“She’s a beautiful woman. I wouldn’t take her offer, though, not if I was you.” He focused on London and said, “Tell him why.”
Wilde turned to London.
Her face was a mixture of hate, fear and confusion.
“Get out of here,” she said.
“Sure, partner, whatever you say. We’ll be talking, though. Trust me on that.”
Then he was out of the room and down the stairs.
The front door opened and slammed.
He was gone.
Partner.
Partner.
Partner.
The word ricocheted through Wilde’s brain.
“What did he mean, partner? He didn’t mean law partner, did he?”
London took a step back.
The wall stopped her from going farther.
“He’s scum,” she said. “The guy who tried to kill me last night—Bluetone hired him. That’s why I’m getting out of Denver. That’s why I can’t practice law anymore.”
Half of Wilde wanted to take the woman in his arms.
The other half wanted answers.
“Answer my question,” he said. “What did he mean, partner?”
London exhaled, then slumped to the floor.
Wilde sat next to her.
“Talk,” he said.
London took his hand in hers, brought it to her mouth and kissed it.
“Partner refers to the Mexico deal,” she said. “Technically we were partners in that.”
Wilde nodded.
That’s what he thought.
“Go on,” he said. “Keep talking.”
A beat.
“It’s not pretty,” she said.
“Fine, I’ve been warned. Now keep talking.”
“If I keep talking, you’ll hate me.”
Wilde took a drag on the smoke.
“Let’s find out.”
80
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Morning
Bristol’s cab headed south away from the skyscrapers of the financial district and then even deeper to where the insane congestion of the city began to ease. Waverly stared through the windshield as they followed, being sure she didn’t break the line of sight. The driver was staying back just the right amount. “You’re doing good,” she said.
The man moved the rearview mirror.
His eyes suddenly appeared in it, looking into Waverly’s.
“We try our best for Russian spies,” he said.
“Good.”
“You never said thank you, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For not running you over.”
She smiled.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“The last person I didn’t run over gave me a pretty good tip,” he said.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m not suggesting, I’m just stating a fact.”
“I understand.”
A photo of a woman with two blond girls was taped to the dash.
“Is that your wife and kids?”
He looked into her eyes for a heartbeat, then back at traffic.
“Yeah.”
“They’re nice.”
“I married out of my league,” he said. “What can I say?” A beat then, “You got a family?”
“No.”
“Get one,” he said. “That’s my advice.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“A family keeps you sane.”
“I’ve heard the opposite, too.”
Waverly suddenly realized where they were headed—the San Francisco Municipal Airport, on the east side of the bay thirteen miles south of downtown. That had to be it. There was nothing else down in this section of the world worth going to.
“They’re going to the airport,” she said.
“That’d be my guess.”
Her heart raced.
The
re would be at least some minimal wait before they boarded a plane. The woman would powder her nose at some point.
Waverly would be there when she did.
She turned out to be half right—they ended up at the airport, but Bristol and the woman bought tickets and boarded a plane almost immediately.
The flight was headed for Denver.
Waverly’s first instinct was to get a ticket and jump on. Her second instinct was that her first instinct was insanity. There’d be almost no possibility of Bristol not spotting her. In fact, with her luck, the only seat left would be right next to him.
She headed to the ticket counter.
“When’s the next flight to Denver?”
A man in a brown suit checked.
“Two hours,” he said. “At 12:15.”
“I’ll take a ticket.”
Denver.
Denver.
Denver.
Of all the places in the world, why was Bristol headed to Denver?
81
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Morning
The engine was dead and the world was quiet. River got out and found he was fifty yards off the road. A magpie flew overhead and clouds were building up over the mountains. The windshield was spider-webbed with cracks, the rear glass was gone, the metal looked like someone had taken a hundred-pound sledge to it. The 18-wheeler was down the road so far it was barely a speck. The key was still in the ignition. River turned it and the vehicle started. He smiled, listened for strange noises and got none. The tires weren’t flat. He surveyed the terrain from there to the road and picked the path least likely to get him stuck. Three stressful minutes later he was back on the road heading south.
A wobble came from the tail end.
Something was bent.
It felt like the wheel, that or the axle.
At fifty the shaking got violent enough that he had to ease back to keep from tearing the stupid thing apart. He kept his right hand pressed against the knife wound.
In the rearview mirror, he checked his face.
It wasn’t pretty.
He didn’t care.
Suddenly a thought came to him.
The gun—where was it?
