Nothing Personal (The Kincaids)

by James, Rosalind

  “When do you think he’ll bite?” Ron asked.

  “Fast,” Alec said. “Depending where his buyer is, and how fast he can get in touch with him. He won’t want to access the code until he’s sure the trap is ready, and he won’t send it until he’s got the payoff. At least, that’s how I’d do it.”

  “Hmm,” Ron said. “Hope you never do embrace the dark side, because you’d get away with it, wouldn’t you?”

  “He can’t,” Rae said. She smiled at Alec, and he could see all the fatigue, all the nervousness and excitement there, because he was feeling exactly the same things. “He’s constitutionally incapable of it, and you should have known it. Once a preacher’s kid, always a preacher’s kid.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I’ve been less convinced of Alec’s moral rectitude,” Ron said. “And finding out about the two of you—that hasn’t helped you one bit with any of us.” He looked at her, seeming genuinely saddened. “Why, besides the obvious? I’d have said you knew better. You’re the last person I’d have expected to risk your career for a . . . a thrill.”

  It was Alec who answered. “When you met Moira,” he said, referring to Ron’s wife of thirty-odd years. “If you’d been working with her at the time. How much would that have mattered?”

  “Not much,” the older man admitted. “Not much at all. You telling me that’s what this is?”

  “That’s exactly what this is.” Alec had Rae’s hand in his now. “The real deal. And if you think Rae’s judgment and integrity could be compromised by being involved with me, then all I can say is, you don’t know her very well.”

  “No,” Ron corrected, “looks like I don’t know you. But I’m beginning to get the picture.”

  The planner paced. Living room, dining room, kitchen, again and again. He should sit down, but he couldn’t. When his phone finally rang, he lunged for it. An unfamiliar number. Of course.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “You got it?” No niceties, no greeting.

  “No. But I will.”

  “You screwed up.” There was contempt in the voice, and the planner was sweating even more. “They’ve shut you down, and I have to assume they’re wiping the servers. I was hoping that meant you’d got it, but you’re about to tell me that it means you got caught.”

  “Not me. Kincaid. They found the breadcrumbs, that’s all.”

  “You left the breadcrumbs, but you didn’t get the code?”

  “I got all the alpha. A hundred percent. And—”

  “I’m not paying you for the alpha.” The tone was flat. “We’re done.”

  “No, wait,” the planner insisted. “I’ve got the beta version too, at least I will. I’ve got clear access to all of it, as soon as it’s safe to take it. The board still thinks it could be Kincaid—well, him and Rae working together, which is even better—and Kincaid thinks it’s—somebody else. It’s a beautiful thing.” He laughed, his confidence returning. “Whichever way it works out, the others are screwed, and I’m sitting pretty. And so are you.”

  The voice on the other end was silent a moment, then asked, “When?”

  “Hours. That’s all.”

  “Call this number when you have it.”

  “I’ll call. You wire the money, and I’ll mail the code, same as before. Twenty million.”

  “We said ten.” The voice was sharp.

  “And now it’s twenty.”

  “Twelve.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Thirteen, and that’s final. With twenty million, I could build from what I have of the alpha.”

  “You couldn’t,” the planner insisted. “You don’t know what else we’ve added. It’s massive.”

  “The basic idea’s there,” the voice said. “Thirteen. Take it or leave it.”

  The planner took it. Thirteen would do.

  He was in the clear, he thought as he hung up. He was bulletproof, and once he implemented Part Two of his plan, he’d be bombproof. And with the company shut down and Alec and Rae at loose ends, Part Two was just about to fall into his lap. He could feel it. He could very nearly taste it. And it was going to taste so sweet.

  14-Millimeter Wrench

  “One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.”

  “What?”

  “Hamlet,” Alec explained. “It just popped into my head.”

  They were hiking, of all the bizarre things. Mid-morning, and they’d heard nothing. Which, they’d reminded each other, was what they had expected. But the prospect of waiting around all day for something to happen was too much, so they’d driven an hour down the Peninsula to Los Gatos, then up into the Santa Cruz Mountains to Castle Rock State Park.

  “As close to remote as we can manage on short notice,” Alec had said. “I need to be someplace where we can see the hills, and nothing else. There’s nothing we can do now anyway. The trap’s set, and we’re out of the picture.”

  So here they were, taking a couple hours away from all of it, walking amidst the boulders and the redwoods, looking out over tree-covered ridges to the distant Pacific. Hardly anyone else around on this Tuesday morning, the weather mild down here, out of the San Francisco fog. Blue sky, warm sun, the song of wind in evergreens, a few birds adding their grace notes. Peace.

  Except that they were talking about it, because they couldn’t help it. The deception, the betrayal were too raw, too recent.

  “I should have known,” he said again. “I should have seen.”

  “You saw what he meant you to see,” she said. “What he’s been showing you for, what? More than ten years?”

  “That’s right. I thought we had loyalty. I thought he had my back, just like I had his. I trusted him. I have to wonder, has it always been like this? Or just lately? And why?”

  “Envy,” she said. “There’s a reason it’s one of the Seven Deadly Sins, isn’t there? Because what’s stronger than that, the feeling that somebody has what you don’t, and you deserve more, and it’s not fair?”

  “Love,” he said, and he didn’t care how it sounded, because it was the truth, and he needed to tell her the truth. “Love’s stronger. That’s one thing I know for sure.”

  He tightened his hand around hers, feeling the emotions roiling inside in a confused, confusing mixture. Anger, and pain, and gratitude that he had her to share them with, to help him make sense of them.

  “Not for him, I’ll bet,” she said. “I’ll bet that envy burns so hot in him, it’s burned all those other feelings away.”

  “If that’s how he feels, I’m sorry for him.”

  She snorted. “You can be sorry for him, I guess. But don’t let it influence what you do. Because I think he hates you. To do this . . . He has to hate you. And you need to remember that.”

  The planner pulled into the spot next to the Mercedes. Only a few other cars here on this weekday morning, he saw with satisfaction. And Alec had conveniently parked in the most remote spot, right at the end of the lot, not wanting to expose the perfect paintwork on his perfect Mercedes to a careless hand opening a door. Which was perfect for the planner too, because his own car would shield him from the other direction if anybody did come by.

  No risk, no reward.

  He reached into the back seat, pulled out the items he’d stashed there. Reminded himself that he’d practiced this, over and over, in the safety of his own garage. He’d been even smarter than he’d thought when he’d bought his own German car, and he felt the rightness of it again, as if every decision he’d made in his life had prepared him for this moment. He’d even done all his research at the public library. Nothing on his computer, and no way to prove that the unfortunate error that would cause the tragic accident hadn’t happened . . . well, accidentally. How sad, two lives lost just because a mechanic had been a little careless. He’d thought of everything. It was practically risk-free. Part Two, locked and loaded.

  He looked around again. Still nobody. It was all here, if he had the balls to take it. And he did.

  “Sh
owtime,” he said aloud. He pulled on the work gloves and opened his door, covered the narrow gap between the cars, walked around the back of the Mercedes. Looked around one final time, and committed.

  It was all about speed now. Get in, get out. He pulled on his headlamp and flipped the switch, laid out his blue plastic tarp, scooted himself under the big car, and got to work with his 14-millimeter wrench. Exactly the same as when he’d practiced, mere seconds to locate the right spot, only a few more to loosen the bolt to the left front caliper, and it was done, and he was scooting out again, folding up his tarp, switching off his light and pulling it off, walking quickly around the Mercedes with only a brief pause to reach under the rear bumper for the black box he’d hidden there weeks previously. He yanked it free, felt the magnet resisting as if it were unwilling to let go, as if it the device were asking to do a little more work for him.

  God, he was good. He opened the door of his own car again and got in, tossed everything into the back seat, stripped the gloves off quickly, just in case somebody came by and noticed. Which nobody did, because this was all meant to be.

  He drove for less than twenty minutes, pulled into the turnout he’d scouted on the way up. Put the gloves on again and picked up his tarp, a hammer he’d left ready, and the magnetic GPS device, opened his door and laid the tarp down, the bulk of his car shielding him from the roadway. He destroyed the tracker with a few swift blows, bundled up the tarp with the pieces inside, put the hammer back into the car and removed the wrench.

  He walked to the dumpster at the edge of the asphalt and opened it, tossed the tarp and wrench inside and pulled a couple bags of trash on top of them, wincing at the smell. Yanked his gloves off and threw them into the opposite corner, rolled his shirt sleeve down and used it to cover his hand, and closed the heavy cover again with a metallic clang.

  Then he moved to his second turnout, less than ten minutes away, reached under the driver’s seat for the police scanner, and turned it on. And waited.

  “Look out.” Desiree grabbed for Alec’s elbow, yanked him aside as they reached his car, sitting alone at the end of the lot. “That’s nasty. People who walk dogs and don’t pick up after them . . . ”

  He laughed a little. “Yeah. That would’ve been a good omen for today, huh?”

  Once they were in the car, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. One bar at last, so he did a little clicking around.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  “Not yet. Hard to wait. Maybe we should have gone camping, what do you think?” He heard her laugh as he pulled out of the lot, looked across at her with a grin.

  “Camping, huh?” She smiled back at him. “No need to go to extremes. Don’t worry, it’ll happen. He’s not going to be waiting around. He’s got to be itching for this. I’ll bet we know something by the time we get home.”

  “Your place or mine?” He shook his head. “Can’t believe I just said that. Proof of extreme stress.”

  “Mine, don’t you think? Or we could go have lunch first, if we haven’t heard.”

  He frowned, his attention caught.

  “It’ll be OK,” she promised him again. “It’s going to happen.”

  “Sorry.” He’d turned onto Black Road by now, downshifted as he began the long descent to the freeway. “Brakes felt a little spongy there for a second. I just had the car in the shop, but I think I’m going to have to take it in again. But hey, the mechanic probably has a boat payment to make, so it’s all good, right?”

  “Besides, you know you want to drive my car,” she teased again.

  “Oh, yeah. I always wanted to join the circus. Think I’ll go for the loaner.” He took another corner, and the tires screeched a little.

  “Alec.” He could sense her grabbing for her armrest. “Please slow down.”

  He shifted all the way into first, felt the transmission jerk in protest, heard the protesting rev of the engine, loud even in the normally whisper-quiet interior. And felt the car slowing, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said as they went around another corner too wide, too fast, with another screech of tires. “Brakes.” Because he’d just put his foot all the way to the floor, with no resistance at all.

  His heart was pounding, the adrenaline pouring through his body, every sense screaming at him. He pulled the emergency brake. Another jerk, another brief slowdown, just in time for another sharp curve, and they made it around that one too.

  “Alec,” she was saying, her voice high with tension, but he barely heard her, all his attention focused on the road ahead. Still miles to go, and too much weight, too much momentum. No safe way to stop.

  Another corner, more precarious this time. He almost lost control, the big car fishtailing, and it was now, or it was over.

  Not her side of the road, not slamming her into the bank. His side, the downhill side. His mind ran through the physics in microseconds. Nothing but trees down there, second-growth cedars and redwoods. He needed a glancing blow that would swing the car around, take some of the impact. Not on the driver’s side, because that would turn the car in the opposite direction, and she’d be the one who hit. That glancing blow had to come on the right corner of the hood. And it had to be now.

  The next curve was coming up, and he knew they wouldn’t make it. He drove deliberately over the curb, down the bank, felt the tires bouncing, the front end jolting over the uneven ground, and heard her start to scream.

  He held onto the wheel with all his strength through the jarring bumps, aimed for one specific tree, for the car to strike it in one specific spot. Felt his body jerk at the impact as they hit, the seatbelt yanking tight, but it was nothing to the force of the airbags slamming into his face, his chest, his knees, harder than he could ever have imagined. And then the car began to swing around, exactly as he had envisioned it.

  He saw the trunk of the tree, larger and larger, approaching the side window, the only place he could still see, as if it were all happening in slow motion. And heard Desiree’s continuing scream only dimly, from a long way away.

  His last thought before the thick trunk met him was a prayer of gratitude. That she was screaming. That she was alive.

  Desiree heard the voice, and thought for a confused minute that she’d died. That this, finally, was heaven, and that there really were angels.

  “Mr. Kincaid.” There it was again. “Your airbags have deployed. Are you and your passenger injured? Do you need assistance?”

  She tried to answer, but only a croak came out.

  “Mr. Kincaid. Do you need assistance? Are you injured?”

  “Help,” she managed to say. “Please. Help.”

  “Help is on its way.”

  She tried to look, but the airbag was in her face, and she could only see that he was pressed into his own bag, and that he was still. She listened with all her might, and heard nothing. Not a word. Not a moan. She tried to hear him breathing, but she couldn’t, not over the pounding of her heart.

  “Alec,” she got out. “Alec. Are you all right?” But there was no answer.

  She felt the tears on her cheeks, hot and salty, and she was trembling with cold. She was cold, and her chest hurt, and her head hurt as if something were pounding into it. And she couldn’t hear a thing.

  But after a while, she did hear something. She heard the sirens, closer and closer. And the voices. People were there, then, pulling her out of the car, putting her gently onto a board and strapping her down, passing her up the steep bank and into the waiting ambulance, and she could see the flashes of its whirling red lights even with her forehead fastened to the board. They were loading her carefully inside, and the big vehicle was starting on its way to help, to safety.

  And the tears were still there, and the cold. Because during all that time, she’d been calling for Alec. But he hadn’t answered.

  The Smartest Person in the Room

  “Desiree.”

  He was saying her name in his dream, and he was whir
ling, carried to the surface of consciousness, then back underneath, now rising again.

  “Desiree.”

  A long time, or a short one, and a hand was touching his, a woman’s voice in his ears. “Alec. Sweetie. I’m here.”

  He opened his eyes, tried to turn his head, but it hurt, so he didn’t.

  “Alec.”

  Her face was above his now, and it was his mom.

  “Desiree,” he said again.

  “Sweetie, she’s all right, and so are you.” Her hand was clutching his, and there were tears on her cheeks.

  “Where . . . What . . .”

  “You were in an accident,” she said. “A car accident. You’ve just come out of surgery, but you’re going to be fine. You’re going to be just fine.”

  She was crying, and he wanted to do something about it, but it seemed too hard. So he shut his eyes again and drifted some more, and after a while, she was walking beside his bed, which was rolling now, pushed by somebody he couldn’t see, through brightly lit corridors, into a big elevator, down another corridor and into a room, and he was being shoved onto another bed, which got through the fog in his head, because it hurt.

  He could see now that his right arm had tubes leading to it, and his other arm was encased in plaster from bicep to fingertips. His entire body ached, but the pain was gentle, held at a distance, and everything around him kept approaching and receding, coming in and out of focus. The white walls, the TV mounted in the opposite corner, a nurse doing something to the plastic bag hanging on the metal stand at his right side. And his mom.

  “Desiree,” he said again. “Where . . . is she?”

  “Here,” she promised. “In the hospital.”

  “OK?”

  “She’s going to be fine.”

  He shut his eyes, because keeping them open was too much work, and the nurse was talking to his mother, leaving the room, and he opened his eyes again and his father was there, and Gabe too, filling the space between his bed and the empty one beyond.