by Julie Kenner
Idly, he wondered if he’d bought the girl dinner. He doubted it. Somehow, he didn’t think that chivalry had been on his mind.
Devlin shoved his hands under the running water, then splashed his face. The back of his neck ached, and he rubbed his wet hand along his hairline, trying to ease the tension.
Three sharp raps sounded at the door. Automatically, Devlin’s hand went for his hip…and the gun that was no longer there. Fuck.
The pounding sounded again. Who the hell was that? Had to be a resident. No way for an outsider to get past Evan. The building’s concierge wasn’t tipped better than a starlight whore at Christmas for nothing. The man had some serious cajones on him. If Evan didn’t want someone in the building, then that someone wasn’t coming into the building. Simple as that.
Again the sound. Devlin considered ignoring it, but the truth was he was craving distraction. He’d either answer the door now or crawl down to a pub at midnight looking for another woman who could make him forget.
He eased down the hallway silently, avoiding the one parquet tile that squeaked when you stepped on it just so. He settled in next to the door, reconsidered whether he really wanted to do this, then finally called out, “Who’s there?”
“Oh, Agent Brady! Thank goodness. I could hear the television, and then when you didn’t answer the door I thought—Well, let’s just say I was worried.”
Devlin rubbed the bridge of his nose and considered going back to the couch. But then Annabel rapped again. “Agent Brady! Now you open this up right this second. I want to take a look at you.”
The television he could tune out, but not his neighbor, and so he unlocked the door and tugged it open. And as he leaned against the door frame, he looked down from his two-foot advantage into the cloudy gray eyes of Annabel Carson, resident, apartment 12B.
She took a step back, shaking her head and making the kind of tsk-tsk noises his grandmother used to make. When it came right down to it, that’s probably why he let her in. It wasn’t like he could slam the door on Grandma.
In the hallway, she looked Devlin up and down, this inspection even more intense than the last. “Agent Brady, you look terrible.”
He shrugged. This was hardly breaking news. “Then I guess there’s some justice in the world, Annabel, because I feel terrible, too.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
Sitting in the dark, feeling sorry for himself, screwing around, eating only when he had to. To Annabel, he just said, “I’m coping. I’ll be fine.”
“Will you? When? It’s been two weeks since the shooting.”
He flinched at her bluntness. Even his buddies at the field office had danced around it, calling the shooting “the incident.” OPR had been more bold, of course, especially when they’d confiscated his weapon and sent him off into exile. That had raised some eyebrows. Time off after a shooting was par for the course. But the suits in the Office of Professional Responsibility only confiscated your weapon and badge if they thought the shooting was dirty. If they thought he was dirty. Bastards. Wasn’t it enough that he had to live with killing his partner? If you could call what he was doing living….
As for Annabel, she didn’t seem to expect an answer, and she just barreled on. “You need to get out, young man. You need fresh air. Friends and family.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Mmmm.” Her appraising look peeled over him one more time, and this time he shifted uncomfortably, fearing that maybe old Annabel Carson, with her tea cozy décor and Lawrence Welk sensibilities, might be seeing more in him than he wanted her to. “What were you doing when I knocked?”
“Mrs. Carson…” He left the question unanswered, but managed to infuse his voice with a hint of warning. It was a tone that had silenced numerous unfriendly witnesses.
It wasn’t silencing Annabel. “Don’t you ‘Mrs. Carson’ me, young man. You were sitting in here in the dark watching television, weren’t you?”
“There’s a lot of quality programming on cable these days.”
That almost earned him a smile, and Devlin was amazed to realize how much lighter his heart felt.
“All right, Devlin. Have you got a hammer and nails?”
Although he had a feeling that any answer would be the wrong one, Devlin answered that, yes, he had those particular tools.
“Good. Go get them. I’ll wait here.”
He opened his mouth to ask why—no, to tell Mrs. Carson that she could purchase her own hammer and nails for under twenty bucks at the hardware store on the corner—but some gremlin ordered him to keep his mouth shut. He left her standing in the doorway, then headed to the kitchen where he rummaged around under the sink until he found the small plastic tool chest. Dutifully, he lugged it back to the door, feeling a little like a prized puppy when she nodded approval and said, “Good.”
He started to hand it to her, but she didn’t take the thing. Instead, she pointed to the hook just inside the door, and the key ring hanging there. “You might want to lock up.”
“I might?”
“You can never be too careful, can you?”
He agreed that you couldn’t, and grabbed his keys, now fully aware that he was being handled. “Want to tell me what we’re doing?”
“Does it matter?”
“I’m curious,” he admitted.
“Good. Means you’re alive.” She took her own key out—apparently she’d locked up even though she’d never been out of sight of her own door not ten feet away. “Spring cleaning. I’ve got stacks of boxes with things that need sorting, old bills to be filed, and at least a dozen pictures I need to hang. You’re helping me.”
He honestly meant to protest, to tell his well-meaning but interfering neighbor that he’d be going back to his couch and Gilligan’s Island or whatever it was. And good luck getting those pictures straight. But when he opened his mouth, all he said was, “It’s March.”
“I’m starting early.” She reached out and squeezed his hand, her wrinkled skin soft and cool in his palm.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t have any reason to. Because even though he might not want to admit it to her or to himself, the truth was that he knew this was about more than helping Annabel Carson. It was about helping himself.
Chapter
11
JENNIFER
I knew from Mel that the real-life game was played almost exactly like the Internet version. And even though I’d disliked the online version intensely, I’d played it a couple of times, so I knew the basic rules. Knowing the rules, however, didn’t mean that I knew strategy, and, in fact, the few times I’d played I’d lost badly.
On that encouraging note, I scooted my chair closer to the desk. Now was not the time for negative thinking. Success is ninety-eight percent attitude, right? And I’d beaten the pants off my brothers in Nintendo dozens of times. That was a victory I could focus on.
The bottom line was that I knew how the game was played. Three roles: a target, an assassin, and a protector. The target is the one who, like the title sounds, is the “target.” The one the assassin is after. The game starts when the target receives the first clue, also called the qualifying clue. Until the target solves that first clue, the assassin has to just sit tight. But once the clue is solved, all bets are off. And then the target has to follow clue after clue until—finally—the last clue is solved and the assassin is called off. (Or the target dies, but we won’t go there.)
But what, you might ask, is there to keep the target from just ignoring the clue altogether? If the first clue is never solved, then the assassin can never hunt.
Yeah, you’d think that would be a good plan, wouldn’t you? So would I. But I know it’s not. I just can’t remember why not.
Clearly, the first order of business was to get in touch with this Devlin Brady guy. My initial instinct was to call the FBI and just ask for the man. They’d know how to find him, wouldn’t they?
But about the same time, I realized that I probably
had Agent Brady’s phone number right there on my computer—DB_Profile.doc. The file that the game had sent to me. I wasn’t crazy about going back to my computer—at the moment I blamed it for my predicament—but I didn’t have a choice.
I opened the file and saw that I was right. Everything was there: Devlin Brady’s name, address, phone number, occupation, hobbies, previous employment. Even a photo. A candid shot, with Brady turned slightly from the camera.
We’d met once, and I remember thinking that he was pretty hot, which the picture reflected quite well. He had dark, unruly hair and a firm jaw. But what really got me was his eyes. Clear and blue. Very sexy.
At the moment, though, I wasn’t particularly interested in sex appeal. I was much more focused on the fact that Agent Brady had a solid, capable face. And, from what I could tell, he had a decently muscled body under that suit. He looked like a man who could watch his back and mine. And under the circumstances, that was more appealing than a kissable mouth and a sultry grin.
I snatched up the phone and dialed the number listed for his home. The phone rang three times, and as it did, I drummed my fingers on the table, waiting for him to pick up. He didn’t, and I found myself faced with his answering machine and absolutely no idea what to say. In person, I could just tell him the truth. But to leave a message like that on a machine? I guess I was afraid he wouldn’t call me back.
You could have driven a truck through my silence, and just as I was about to speak, the machine beeped and the line went dead. Damn.
I redialed. This time, I was expecting the message: “You’ve reached Devlin Brady. Please leave a message.” I did as asked and said, “Um, hi. Agent Brady? My name is Jennifer Crane. You, um, might remember me because we met once about a year ago. Actually, you confiscated my laptop, remember? I was Melanie Prescott’s roommate? Anyway, I really need to talk to you. Can you call me back right away? It’s urgent. Thanks.” I left my home and cell numbers, then called his cell phone and the number listed as his direct dial at the FBI. I got dumped into voice mail in both cases. I hate that.
I left my messages, then hung up, feeling (rightly) like I hadn’t accomplished a thing. More, I wasn’t sure what to do next. Should I hang out and wait? Should I go to his apartment? For that matter, was it safe for me to leave my apartment?
I paced from kitchen sink to bathroom, running these questions over in my head. In response to pretty much all those queries, I decided I should give him an hour to call me back. My reasoning was that for all I knew, he already knew about the game, knew who I was, and was on his way to my place. That’s what FBI agents did, right? Rode to the rescue of damsels in distress?
The other reason was that I wasn’t really a damsel in distress (though I had to keep reminding myself of that). Sure, I was in deep doo-doo, and there was a definite possibility that I wouldn’t get out of this situation alive (with that thought, I had to remind myself to breathe), but I wasn’t the target. This may seem like a technical distinction given the overall fucked-up-edness of the situation, but I was clinging to whatever good news I could find.
Once I hooked up with Agent Brady, not only would I not be the focus of the assassin’s bullet (or whatever), I’d also have the added protection of a Fibbie at my side. I can’t say that I thought this rendered the situation ideal or anything, but having someone else shoulder the burden was a definite step in the right direction.
While I waited, I tried Mel again. Still no answer, which made me concerned about the state of national security. If an NSA employee isn’t answering her cell phone, that seemed to me to be very bad indeed.
About five minutes into the “wait an hour for Agent Brady” plan, I began to have second thoughts. I wasn’t good at waiting around. I wanted to be out doing. Possibly even running. Mexico sounded appealing, I could use a tan and a fruity alcoholic beverage, and that was an option I very specifically intended to discuss with the elusive Agent Brady. At the moment, getting the hell out of Dodge sounded like a mighty fine idea.
Since I still had fifty-one minutes to go, I busied myself by zipping my laptop in its Neoprene sleeve and shoving it down into my tote. Then I rummaged in my closet until I found my favorite light jacket, along with the pair of Nike Airs I’d bought during my brief fascination with jogging in Central Park. My enthusiasm had waned after, oh, about seven minutes, and I’d shoved my running shoes into the closet, vowing to devote myself to Pilates at a women-only center.
Now, I’d get my money’s worth out of the shoes. Running, I figured, was very likely in my future.
Other than that, I didn’t know what to take with me. My lovely Marc Jacobs tote was plenty big enough to double as an overnight bag, but I wasn’t heading out on a typical overnighter. I mean, I had a complete list of what to take on a first date—everything from makeup to emergency tampons to emergency condoms—but what to take on a deadly scavenger hunt through the city? That was a new one on me. I pondered for a while, then decided on a toothbrush, deodorant, a clean shirt, and fresh underwear. Then I checked the batteries on my iPod and tossed that in as well. I might be on the run, but I didn’t intend to be without my show tunes.
All of that took about fifteen minutes, and I was just about to say fuck it and head out the door forty-five minutes early, when the phone rang. I bolted across the room and snatched it up, my heart pounding so hard in my chest I thought it would explode. I’m good at shoving emotions down inside me, but poke even the tiniest crack in my armor, and it all explodes out of me in one big, gooey mess.
“Agent Brady!” I cried. “Thank you so much for calling me back. I’ve been—”
A long, sustained beeping noise interrupted me, and I realized that I wasn’t talking with Agent Brady at all. I didn’t have a clue who was on the other end of the line, in fact, but I did have a very bad feeling. Paranoia? Maybe. But it turned out I was right. Like the saying goes: it’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.
The beeping stopped and suddenly I was being serenaded. The music from The Rocky Horror Picture Show’s “Eddie” trickled across the phone line, and even though the situation was a bit odd, I couldn’t help but hum along. I’d seen the movie at midnight screenings an embarrassing number of times, and I’d played Janet in two productions and Magenta in another. The music was practically branded on my brain. And this particular song—about poor Eddie who didn’t love his teddy bear—was one of my favorites.
So there I was, filling in the words to the go with the tune, when all of a sudden, the lyrics kicked in, and there was Eddie telling me to “hurry or you may be dead.”
What the fuck?
The voice had specifically said “you,” which undoubtedly referred to me, because that wasn’t in the song. Even more, that voice—the one who’d piped in for just that one word—wasn’t on the original recording.
I realized I was staring terrified at the phone. Then a voice came on, the sound far away since the handset was no longer pressed to my ear. With trepidation, I pulled it close and listened. One of those computerized voices. The kind that says “please press or say ‘one’ now.” Only this time she said: “Tick, tick, tick. The countdown has begun. Ten tomorrow morning, and your time is up.”
The line went dead, and my stomach clenched. Forget what I’d thought about being a tiny bit safe. I needed to hurry or, in the immortal words of Meatloaf, I might be dead.
My stomach wrenched and I clapped my hand over my mouth as I raced for my bathroom. The porcelain of the toilet felt cool against my arms as I literally hugged the toilet, emptying my stomach of the coffee I’d had for lunch.
Weakly, I stood, then walked on shaky legs to the sink. I turned on the faucet, bent over, and sucked down two handfuls of water. Then I splashed water on my face and held myself upright as I inspected my reflection in the mirror.
The girl who looked back at me appeared calmer than I felt. And why not? That girl now had a plan.
Back in the living room, I rummaged on the coffee table until I fo
und the card Mel had given me. I’d had no luck with either Agent Brady or Mel.
Now I was pinning my hopes on Andrew Garrison.
I dialed carefully, then held my breath as the phone rang twice, then three times.
On the third ring, I heard someone pick up, followed by an impatient “Hello?”
I almost fainted with relief. “Mr. Garrison? Andy? My name is Jennifer Crane. I’m a friend of Melanie Prescott. And—oh, God—I really need your help.”
Chapter
12
BIRDIE
>http://www.playsurvivewin.com<<
PLAY.SURVIVE.WIN
>WELCOME TO REPORTING CENTER<<<
PLAYER REPORT:
REPORT NO. A-0002
Filed By: Birdie
Subject: Status update.
Report:
Secondary subject located and encounter successfully orchestrated.
Time-release toxin delivered.
Initial message to primary subject in transit.
Warning and incentive message to secondary subject in transit.
Game currently proceeding on schedule.
>End Report<<
Send Report to Opponent? >>Yes << >>No<<
Block Sender Identity? >>Yes <<>>No<<
I shut my newly-acquired laptop, then get up from the Chippendale writing desk. Almost distractedly, I pace naked in my hotel suite at the Waldorf-Astoria, my head filled with so many thoughts that I can hardly sort through the noise.
I let my fingers trail over the fine silk upholstery of the love seat, then linger on the lilies and roses that are the centerpiece of the ornate flower arrangement that sits atop the coffee table. The suite is stunning, resplendent in genuine antiques and fine textiles, and I take it all in, enjoying these amenities as if I were a starved person.
