More lightning … more thunder … more wind … more rain.
Neither man moved to close the flapping drapes, but Burke flipped on one bedside light.
Lou searched for an advantage—any advantage. They were about the same height, and Lou had the sense that in an even-up fight he had a chance—except for the gun.
“I don’t know what notebook you’re talking about,” he said.
Burke sneered.
“We’re not really going to play that game, are we?”
“I don’t know what—”
“Cool it, Welcome. Just stop right there. You have one chance to save your life. Right now. Only one. I’m going to shoot you if you scream … or stall. Ever been shot? Well, you have my word that I’m going to do it—more than once, and in places that won’t kill you. I’m going to shoot you if you try to escape, if you cough, or sneeze, or argue, or do anything other than give me what I came here to get, which is a notebook that Humphrey Miller gave to you. Is that clear?”
“Please … let’s—”
“—I’m counting to five, then it starts.”
“I have it, I have it.”
“Four. I don’t care if you have it. I want you to give it to me. Three…”
“It’s here, it’s right here!” Lou shouted. Any vestige of coolness or composure was gone from his voice. This was a man with no soul. He had killed Vaill’s wife without a blink, and he had undoubtedly gotten pleasure out of gunning down Humphrey’s caretaker at close range. There was no way even to try to reason with him. “Don’t shoot me! I’ll get it. I’ll get it.”
Lou continued desperately to search his mind for a move or a word that might forestall the inevitable and turn even one thimbleful of the tide that was threatening to sweep him away forever.
“It’s locked in the safe,” he said, pointing.
Another round of wind and thunder. Rain was now being blown through the open sliders and onto the carpeted floor. The curtains billowed inward like spinnakers.
Burke came around to Lou’s side of the bed. Five feet separated them—an easy kill shot, but too far for Lou to make any reasonable attempt to attack him. Another look into Burke’s empty eyes told Lou everything he needed to know about how this was going to go down.
He’s going to kill me. Once he has the book, I’m dead.
“Open the safe,” Burke said.
Time was almost up. Lou decided he wasn’t going without a fight. He wasn’t going to wait to be shot. Crouching rather than dropping onto his knees, he opened the cabinet door and took in a deep, steadying breath. There was no way Burke would accept the combination to the safe. He wanted the notebook, not any of the distractions that could result from dialing numbers.
Distractions …
Lou glanced out the sliders, and the germ of an idea formed … and began to grow. He worked quickly but carefully to press the correct number sequence—03051009, a mash up of his birthday and Emily’s and the only combination he was guaranteed not to forget. The safe clicked open and he retrieved the thick, bound document. As he stood, Lou turned back around to face Burke.
Could the notebook stop a slug? he was wondering.
He needed time. Just a second or two.
Another bright flash of lightning drew Lou’s attention to the balcony where raindrops continued pelting the stone floor.
“Slide the book over to me,” Burke said, motioning with his gun hand. Clearly, he did not want Lou even within arm’s reach.
Lou swallowed hard.
One chance … I have one chance.… What does it feel like to be shot?
He bent down and slid the book on the carpeted floor, but angled it in such a way that it slid underneath the bed.
Burke’s expression remained pure ice, but his eyes were daggers.
“That’s going to cost you,” he said.
Keeping his gaze locked on Lou, he used his foot to feel under the bed. The Neighbors had Humphrey Miller, and Burke had been able to make him hand over Lou. The notebook was insurance in case Miller suddenly refused to cooperate anymore … or died.
Lou tensed. He was a sprinter on the blocks, and the starter’s pistol was about to go off.
The Neighbors had probably given up on Kazimi’s antibiotic approach, and their scientists had not been able to keep up with the mutations of the Doomsday Germ. They were getting desperate. The good news was it now appeared Humphrey well might have been correct in his bacteriophage theory. The bad news was that Lou was essentially finished. His only hope—an incredibly thin one—would involve leaving the notebook behind.
Come on and look away. Look … away.
Lou’s eyes were fixed on the man set to kill him.
Look down. Now, dammit!… Now!
Burke extended his foot another inch under the bed frame. Then a wisp of smile bowed on his cruel mouth. He had located the notebook.
Bending at the knees, Burke kept his eyes on Lou, and the gun fixed on his chest.
Get ready …
Burke looked away for just two seconds, long enough to dip his shoulder and reach underneath the bed with his hand. When he glanced up again, Lou was already in motion. In the instant before he moved, Lou flashed on the parents rushing their kids out of the swimming pool. He took two giant steps, pushing past the curtain and onto the balcony. From behind him came two silenced shots—like champagne corks popping. He sensed bullets whizzing past his head. One might have shattered the sliders.
This was it.
There was no time for hesitation, no time to calculate … or to direct his leap. Barefooted, Lou swung one foot up onto the railing, and in a fluid motion, pushed off with all his strength.
Live or die.
He was six stories above the pool and falling fast. The scene rushing up from below was crystal clear. Indelible. No kids. Air being forced from his lungs. Unable to breathe in.
Lou peddled frantically as though astride an invisible bicycle. His arms pinwheeled to gain balance and shift himself into a seated position. He had heard someplace that going in butt first would do the least damage. Or maybe it was feet first. He also remembered to try to stay loose. Tight muscles would limit the cushion around the spine and contribute to compression fractures.
Of course, no maneuver would help a whit if he landed short.
The pool was coming up with dizzying speed. He could see now that he was going to hit water. His last thought before impact was whether he was about to land at the deep end, or whether, in fact, there even was a deep end. The force compressed his chest and stomach. Banshee wind and stinging rain lashed at his face.
It was time. He would survive this, or he would shatter and die.
He was upright now, about to hit legs and butt first—a cannonball from six stories with absolutely no idea what it was going to feel like when he hit, or if he was about to blow apart on the bottom. The impact was intense, and the simultaneous explosion was worthy of any cannon. Every bit of remaining air burst from his lungs. He pinched his nostrils just in time to keep water from shooting up them and through the top of his head.
A moment later, he hit bottom. The jolt was stunning, but not lethal. Disoriented, he flailed with his arms and foolishly tried to take a breath, filling his lungs with chlorinated water. With panic taking hold, he hit the bottom of the pool again, but this time he pushed off with his legs and shot upward, gagging mercilessly as his head broke the surface. Adrenaline and the realization that he was probably not dead carried him to the side of the pool.
Hanging on to the tile and coughing nonstop, he peered up at the balcony of his hotel room. Burke was there, silenced pistol in hand, taking aim. Then he lowered the weapon as a group of concerned parents with children in tow came rushing out of the lobby to Lou’s aide. Burke pointed two fingers at his own eyes, and then at Lou, before he vanished into the room. Groaning with the effort, Lou pulled himself out of the pool, and pushed himself to his feet. Burke was on his way down. Shivering from the shock of the ordeal, Lou
eyed the crowd gathered around him.
“Kids,” he said, “don’t ever try this at home.”
CHAPTER 44
Senator Huey Long’s Share Our Wealth program is emblematic of America’s failed entitlement policy. Choosing to forgo our agrarian roots, to turn our collective backs from extended family in exchange for urban living, to become dependent on handouts at the cost of self-reliance should have consequences not rewards.
—LANCASTER R. HILL, Climbing the Mountain, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1941, P. 99–100
Like the Red Sea, would-be rescuers and good Samaritans parted to let the sodden, barefoot specter hurry past. On his way into the lobby, Lou grabbed a towel from an oversized bin and coughed what seemed like a gallon of chlorinated pool water into it. There was still time, he was thinking, to catch Burke inside the hotel before he could get away with Humphrey’s notebook. Then he flashed on Vaill’s description of the ruthless murder of Humphrey’s caretaker, and of Vaill’s wife.
It was possible, likely even, that with his prize in hand, Burke would not come after him. But it also seemed certain that given half a chance, it would be a pleasure for the professional to finish what he had been about to do. The best chance Lou had with the least amount of risk to people was to call security and the police. He wondered if hotel security officers were like mall cops, or if they carried guns. Even if they did, he would be sending them to their death against Burke.
Still coughing into his towel, Lou braced himself against the front desk. Water dripped down his face and pooled on the granite surface. The attendant, a quick young man with black-rimmed glasses, a dark suit, and a name tag that read REYNALDO used a hand towel to blot the mess before it reached his keyboard.
“May I help you?” he asked, cool as a popsicle.
Lou was speechless,
Don’t you notice anything unusual about me? he wanted to say. I just did a six-story cannonball into your pool because a man broke into my room with a gun and was about to kill me. Would you please call security and the police?
Then it occurred to him that Vaill was keeping him hidden because the agent no longer trusted the FBI. The worst thing he could do now was to get the authorities—any authorities—involved. What he really needed was to get away from Burke, and to reconnect with Vaill.… Oh, yes, and to pick up some clothes and a pair of shoes.
Reynaldo stood by, waiting patiently.
“Um, the shower in my room is broken,” Lou said, using the coughing towel on his hair. “I was looking to see if the shampoo was in the stall, and the shower just went … on. Full blast, no warning.”
Improvised lying. He had been a master at it during the drinking and drugging years. It seemed that like his alcoholism, the ability to improvise a lie was never really far from the surface.
“I’m very sorry about that,” Reynaldo said. “I thought you might have been caught in the rain. Sir, what’s your room number?” he asked as if Lou had simply requested another pillow. “I’ll send maintenance up right away.”
The young desk clerk was clearly destined for bigger things.
Again, Lou found himself speculating on how Burke might escape the hotel, and wondering if it would be wise to go after him. Again, the internal debate ended quickly. Alexander Burke was a man to stay away from unless Cap’s life or Humphrey’s depended on bringing him down.
“No worries,” Lou said to the desk clerk. “It only did it once. Just wanted you to know.”
From the corner of his eye, Lou saw some would-be rescuers making their way in from the pool, and hurried off. In spite of himself, he ignored the mismatch of a soaking wet doc versus a heavily armed killer, and skidded to a stop at the elevators. There were four of them, two on each side of the bay. All were in use, but none of them was on the sixth floor. At that moment, his common sense took over. It was doubtful Burke was anywhere near the sixth floor. He could have taken the stairs or gone out a service entrance. Either way, he had the notebook. The Neighbors would want it ASAP, and Lou would most likely be put on his to-do list.
Lou avoided the front desk and Reynaldo, and hurried out the revolving doors. The rain had largely abated, but the wind remained, along with a thick band of humid air that gave his sodden clothes the heft of a suit of armor. Ignoring the uniformed doorman, Lou climbed into a cab that was idling on the hotel’s circular driveway.
The cab lurched forward, and the driver, an African American man with a congenial smile, glanced over his shoulder.
“Going to the aquarium?” he asked.
“That was pretty funny.”
“I have my moments.”
The cabbie slowed, waiting for instructions.
Stubborn to the last, Lou was still scanning for Burke.
“Just drive,” he said.
“Your dime.”
There was reason to be hopeful, Lou was thinking. Horrible as it was, it was telling that Burke killed the home health aide, but not Humphrey. One Hundred Neighbors were frantic. According to Cap’s doctors, the germ had mutated. It could be the Neighbors had lost their leverage to negotiate with Washington, but were keeping that fact secret for as long as possible. Assuming their treatment was no longer effective, it made no sense that Humphrey was dead.
Lou removed his sodden wallet from his pants pocket and gave the driver the address to the FBI’s Atlanta field office.
“Do you have a cell phone I could borrow?” he asked.
The driver looked at Lou through his rearview mirror.
“You’re not going to call a girlfriend in Canada, are you?” His laugh was genuine.
“No, I’m going to call my brother at the FBI,” Lou said, deadpan.
The man’s expression turned serious.
“Oh, well, in that case…”
He passed his phone back. The numbers Vaill had scrawled on his card were still legible, although the ink was running. Reluctant even to consider going into the field office, Lou didn’t have a plan B. As things shook down, he didn’t have to. A second after he hit the last number, Vaill answered.
“Yeah, Vaill here.”
“It’s Lou.”
“What number is this?”
No pleasantries, no small talk. The man was all business, and totally suspicious of everything.
“I borrowed it from my cab driver. I’m on my way to you now.”
“Just stay away from the front of the building,” Vaill said. “Park across the street and a block down. Believe it or not, I was just going to call. I’ve put together a DVD like you suggested. There’s one thing I think we should go over together—it’s a DVD recording Burke sent to his wife. It’s been checked by the evidence analysts, but it may be worth looking at again.”
“Well, I’ve learned a little bit about Burke, too,” Lou said. “He just showed up in my hotel room. He used your name to get me to open the door. Then he tried to do his thing.”
“How’d you get away from him?”
“Let’s just say I got a seven from the Polish judge.”
Lou heard Vaill suck in a breath.
“You dove?”
“Cannonball. I did a six-story cannonball. I’m sore but okay. Tim, he’s got Humphrey’s notebook.”
“As long as he doesn’t have your scalp on his lodge pole. Do you need anything?”
“A change of clothes and size nine New Balances.”
“We’ll find a place to do that. Have the cab park near the Starbucks across the street. I’m going to pack up and meet you. Where are you now?” Lou got the address from the driver and relayed it back to Vaill. “Okay, I think you’re about fifteen minutes away. And, doc?”
“Yeah?”
“That puts you and me together in a unique group.”
“What group is that?”
“As far as I know, we’re the only two Alexander Burke has ever tried to kill and didn’t.”
CHAPTER 45
Secrecy and discretion are more important to a tactical revolutionary movement than numbers.
&
nbsp; —LANCASTER R. HILL, 100 Neighbors, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939, P. 156
Burke showing up at Lou’s hotel had only heightened Vaill’s paranoia and his conviction that they were dealing with a mole in the agency. Moments after Lou hung up, he had called back to move their meeting place down two blocks.
As the cab cruised past the field office and neared the spot, Lou dropped two limp wrinkled twenties onto the front seat and bolted before they had come to a complete stop. As best as his still-saturated jeans would allow, he got into a crouch and weaved to Vaill’s passenger’s-side door like a man afraid of getting shot by a sniper, which, essentially, he was.
Alexander Burke had proved his skill as an agent as well as his viciousness and absolute remorseless. Now it was time for Vaill to take charge and lead them in some sort of counterstrike. Two problems: even in top form, it was unlikely he was a match for the killer, and at the moment, post-op with a rainbow scar and unpredictable, disabling headaches, he most certainly was not in top form.
“Buckle up, buddy,” he said. “If I pick up a tail, we’re going to have to do some fancy driving to lose him, or even better, to come up behind him. Just like the fighter pilots.”
“I don’t think he’s out there, Tim. At least not right now.”
“Explain.”
“He’s got what the Neighbors want, Humphrey’s notebook, and now he’s got to deliver it to wherever they are, probably as quickly as possible.”
“I suppose.”
“That doesn’t mean forget about him, but I am willing to take the chance he’s postponing coming after either of us until his mission is complete. Then maybe he’ll come after us instead of taking a well-earned vacation to the Caribbean or something. All that is by way of saying I need to get out of these damn clothes and into something dry.”
“How about we find a place to stay first?”
“How about we stop by a store for some sweats and a pair of sneakers? My inner thighs can only take so much of this.”
For the first time, Vaill cracked a smile.
“You got it,” he said.
To the credit of the staff at Richie’s Sporting Goods, no one reacted to the disheveled, sodden, shoeless customer with an “M.D.” following the name on his MasterCard, which, not surprisingly, failed to work after its soaking. Vaill quickly pulled out a wad of cash before the clerk even started keying in the account number by hand. Fifteen minutes of rapid shopping, and Lou left the store with a set of sweats, a sharp pair of New Balance running shoes, shorts, socks, underwear, T-shirts, an Atlanta Falcons jacket, an Atlanta Braves cap, an Atlanta Hawks sweatshirt, and $270 owed to his new partner.
Resistant Page 27
