His life had changed like this—suddenly and violently—three times before: first when his mother had died, and then when his father was killed during a robbery, and, finally, when Messing came to him four years ago to tell him that his brother was in fact not missing but dead.
There was a part of Cal that had believed—wanted to believe, needed to believe—that the life he had been lucky enough to find—Carver, an acquaintance of Aaron’s, had sought Cal out in the days after Aaron’s death, offered him this job—would last forever.
Yet there was another part of him that had always been on the lookout for the next sudden, inalterable change, anticipated it. Despite this, being, as he was now, on the verge of another drastic transformation, he nonetheless felt shocked, the kind of shock that comes with loss—loss of loved ones, loss of the familiar, loss of the bliss of youthful ignorance ...
Each caregiver one by one had disappeared from his life till he was left alone. Now, four people relied on him for their very lives.
How quickly everything can change, he thought.
Every now and then he’d hear from the other room the sound of mattress springs squeaking. Angelica, sleepless, turning over in Heather’s bed. It wasn’t long, though, before his door opened and he heard her slip into his room.
Pausing inside the doorway she asked if he was there, then followed the sound of his voice through the darkness to his narrow bed and climbed in beside him, all without another word.
Both were fully dressed, she on her left side, her back to him, he stretched out flat and looking up at the ceiling. Not touching, but under the same blanket. A presence in the dark beside him. Once they’d taken their positions on the narrow mattress, their only movements were those associated with breathing.
At some point, out of the darkness, her voice:
“Good night, Cal.”
“Good night,” he replied.
It took a long time, but eventually her breathing sounded to Cal like that of someone who had finally found a way through to sleep.
He lay there, watching the window for the dawn and smelling her perfume.
Lilac, he thought, with a touch of vanilla.
Ten
The map displayed on the screen of the notebook computer indicated that a street called Ox Pasture Road was where the signal had come to its second stop of the night.
Evangeline Amendora waited a moment before making the turn onto that street, needing to be certain that the paused signal meant that the motorcycle, and the Lexus it was following, driven by the woman with dark hair, had in fact reached their destination.
Not doing so would risk being seen, and yet waiting too long might mean, once they’d left their vehicles, losing track of them altogether. It was obvious by the map that the Lexus had led the motorcycle here via a less than direct route—an indication that they were concerned someone might be tailing them. So the possibility that they might pull some kind of last-minute maneuver here was real.
But this was the job, weighing the risks, taking some, not taking others.
Patience.
When she felt she had given them enough time, she made the turn onto Ox Pasture, traveling at the speed limit. Halfway down the street she came upon the location of the signal, an estate set behind a wall of tall hedges and a wide wrought-iron gate. Glancing quickly through the gap in the wall created by the gate, she glimpsed only the shape of a four-story mansion rising upward from the rear of the dark property, and the white stone driveway leading to it from the gate.
There was no sign of any movement, no sign of anyone, not even the motorcycle or the Lexus. Just dark and more dark.
The equipment was reliable, though, so they had to be in there, somewhere.
She continued on, came to the last side street off Ox Pasture, and turned, parking the Ford sedan on the shoulder. Opening her bag, she removed the snub-nosed .357 and pliers, then put the handgun in the left inside pocket of her leather jacket and the pliers in the right outside pocket. A quick check of the left-hand pocket of her jeans told her that her trusted Spyderco Scorpius was clipped there. Closing the computer, she placed it inside the bag. There was no point in shutting it down; she might need quick access to it again. Exiting the vehicle, she walked back to Ox Pasture and, pausing, looked down the long street.
Lined on both sides with old trees whose branches reached toward each other and intertwined, making a kind of thatched roof, this street looked to her like the entrance to a dark tunnel. Gusts of wind caused the leaves above, some still alive, some dead, to rattle and hiss. Those that had already fallen onto the pavement stirred noisily, some scurrying away like tiny animals.
She observed all this, then, determined, headed into that long darkness ahead.
She knew better than to approach the wrought-iron gate—not only would she be exposed there, but that area might be monitored by security cameras—so instead she searched the hedge-wall for a place to slip through. Well maintained and at least three feet thick, this wall was a significant barrier, but she found an opening just beyond the first corner, between two roots, where the branches had begun to rot and were brittle and bare. She had to crawl to make it through, but she was used to such discomforts.
Once she was through, she rose to a crouch and surveyed the grounds. The main house was still only a shape in the darkness, and the white-stone driveway appeared empty. Then she saw, just beyond the gate, a smaller house. The only light visible in the entire property burned there—a dancing, glowing light behind a large window. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, and when they did, she saw, beside that house, in its shadow, both the motorcycle and the Lexus.
Keeping close to the hedge-wall, she followed it to the edge of the driveway, crouched down again, and waited. Nothing for a moment, but then a figure moved past the lighted window. Seconds later it exited the building and followed the stone driveway to the main house. A dark figure to Eve’s eyes but, by the way it walked, by the sound of its boots on the stones, a woman.
Reaching the main house, this woman entered through a side door, and immediately a light came on, then another, and then more lights still, marking the path being taken. Moving from room to room, then upward, floor to floor. Looking back at the gate, Eve searched for signs of a surveillance camera—she knew every model on the market, how and where a camera would be mounted, both those that would be in clear sight, to discourage trespassers, and those that would be hidden. She saw none.
Studying the gatehouse now, she detected no further activity within. Eventually the lights in the main house began to go out, one by one, and the woman reappeared, heading back down the driveway. She was carrying something in each hand—Eve could see this as she got closer, but she could not see what those things were. Once the woman had stepped back inside, Eve rose and moved across the driveway, hurrying toward the smaller house. Its stone foundation was surrounded by shrubs, its walls covered with criss-crossing ivy vines. Making her way between two shrubs, Eve pressed her back flat against the foundation, instantly felt the cold stones through her leather jacket.
Directly above her was the lighted window, and she could make out voices, two male and one female, each speaking calmly. Voices, but no words.
Finally, she rose high enough to peek inside. At first she could see no one, only a small living room leading to a kitchen with a large stone fireplace, the source of the dancing light. Then, beyond the kitchen, she saw a bed, and a man being seated upon its edge, helped there by the woman who had driven the Lexus. Eve could not see this man’s face—the light in that room was dim, probably nothing more than the glow of a digital clock, and he was seated with only his side to her—but the bloodstained bandages across his naked torso told her it was Militich.
Her heart raced a little.
She’d found the bastard, was so close now.
Someone left the room, and she ducked down just as this person passed the window. The Rakowski kid?. She heard the door open, was unable to see it from where she was,
but this person began to walk across the driveway. It was the kid—that big old peacoat on a smallish guy. So, then, all were accounted for. The kid made a call on his cell phone, and she heard every word—instructions to a woman named Heather to escape, go somewhere safe. Mentions of a motel, a train station, her calling for a cab. Information that might prove useful later, should things go that way. The kid made a second call, this one a bit more interesting. A meeting with someone at a place called Road D, in a half hour. Something you need to know, the kid said.
Ending the call, he returned inside, and once he passed the window, she rose up again, saw Militich still on the edge of the bed, his torso bound in silver tape. The kid and the woman—an older woman, she noted now—began to dress him. The guy could barely move.
Closer still.
After a few minutes, the trio had made their way outside, were helping Militich into the Lexus. We won’t be long, he said to the older woman. Be ready when we get back.
The vehicle passed through the gate. There was no need for her to risk following it if they were coming back.
Nothing for her to do now but wait for her chance.
Back inside the gatehouse, the older woman stripped the bed of its covers and sheets, stuffed them into a garbage bag, then made up the bed again. She moved quickly, was an attractive woman, Eve noted, in shape, but nothing compared to the condition she herself was in. When she was done with the bed the woman got out a broom and swept the wooden floors—not the entirety of any of the rooms but rather the pathways through them, the places where footprints would collect. When she was done with this, the woman exited the gatehouse with the garbage bag and left it on the edge of the driveway, then went back to the main house. Emerging fifteen minutes later with a suitcase, she walked down the driveway and stopped beside the garbage bag, setting her suitcase down.
She was directly across from where Eve was hidden within the shrubs, and every time the wind paused for a second or two, Eve could hear in the silence this woman’s breathing.
Ten minutes later the Lexus returned. The kid and older woman helped Militich inside. Something was obviously wrong; he was leaning on them even more than he had when they’d first left. Eve moved to the side of the window, stood, looked through it. Militich—she could see his face now—was on a couch, and the woman was tending to him, the kid returning from the bathroom with a first aid kit and a roll of paper towels.
It was as they finished up with Militich that Eve received a text on her cell phone.
Set on vibrate, it danced in the pocket of her jeans. She reached for it, crouched down, cupped her gloved hand over the display to minimize its glow.
Then, a quick peek at the words.
Target now needed alive.
She replied immediately: Target currently under observation.
A thrill for her, informing Janssen of this. Nothing better than pleasing him—with the exception, perhaps, of being pleased by him.
Mere seconds later: Karl on route to assist.
She returned the phone to her pocket, knew there’d be no more communication. Her cell was equipped with a GPS locator, so they had already pinpointed her location. She would have preferred the original plan—wait for her chance to kill Militich, enter and put two bullets in his head, or, if no chance for a single kill presented itself, then two bullets in his head and two bullets in each of the heads of his friends. A last resort, of course, a bloodbath as such, but one she was easily capable of.
End this once and for all, silence his last enemy, then leave no trace as she slipped out of town.
If Janssen needed Militich alive, then she would take him alive. If he needed her to work on Militich, then she would do that, too. Crush his fingers, stick pins into his manhood, sever it and burn it before his eyes.
Whatever it took.
It wasn’t long after she had received the change in plans that the kid and woman left the property, the motorcycle leading the Lexus this time.
Militich was alone now—and as badly wounded as he was, he would have been such easy prey.
Something happened that she didn’t expect.
Militich, struggling, rose from the couch, walked past the window, and disappeared from her sight.
She waited a moment, then quickly crossed to the other side of the window, looking into the kitchen and what she could see of the bedroom beyond.
Maybe he went to lie down on the bed, needed something more comfortable than the couch, but there was no sign of him there. Could there be a back door to this place? But where, in his condition, did he think he was going? Was it possible that the extent of his pain had been an act? No, she knew wounds, and she knew pain; she had seen his injuries as the woman had tended to him, knew what she had done to him the night before. Anyway, why fake being in pain? To trick his friends? What, exactly, would that get him?
She listened and watched, heard and saw nothing. Every second he was out of her sight was a second too long. Losing him twice just wasn’t an option.
She needed to secure the target.
Moving around to the side of the gatehouse, she paused outside the door, reached for her .357, and switched off the safety with her thumb. With her gloved hand she tried the doorknob, felt it turn freely. From inside now she suddenly heard music, some kind of up-tempo jazz. Loud. Had he really gotten up just to turn on music?
Opening the door she entered quickly, surveyed the room, the .357 held up, her elbows bent, the firearm close to her chest. She finally closed the door, softly, paused for a moment more, then crossed the living room, passing the window and entering the kitchen.
In the large fireplace two halves of a single log burned, their fires almost dead. Eve moved forward, slowly, stopping with each step to study what was ahead. She saw the bedroom, saw that there was nowhere else to go in this tiny house—and no doorway, at least that she could see from where she was, that led out or even to a basement.
There was nowhere else for him to go, nowhere but that bedroom for him to be.
The room, she noted, was dark now, much darker than before—the source of dim light she had seen moments ago was gone. Ahead, then, nothing but dark shapes—a bed, a bureau, the outline of a curtained window—and deep shadows.
With the music as loud as it was, she wouldn’t be able to hear any movement, so what else could it be, she realized, but cover?
Militich had seen her, she knew this now. He had lured her right to the bedroom door. She held the gun up, the weapon tucked in closer still, aimed into the dark bedroom, then took her first step backward, to nullify the trap he had set.
It was already too late.
One of the dark shapes in the bedroom moved suddenly, crouched down low and lunged at her, not two separate motions but one. Savage and fast, like an animal. A wounded animal, lashing out from its cave. She fired but knew the instant she had that her shot was too high. As the figure closed the distance between them—three feet, at the most—it screamed, in anger and pain, and swung something at her, striking her hand hard.
The pain was instant, felt like a jolt of electricity. It shuddered through her, and the heavy revolver was gone from her grip before she even realized what it was that had been used to hit her.
Then she saw it.
A fireplace poker. Antique wrought iron, like the gate outside.
Militich completed his charge, slamming into her and sending her backward. She didn’t resist, just wound her right arm around his neck, put her feet together, and sat down on her heels. The momentum of his own tackle carried him forward, and she simply rolled with him, doing a reverse somersault till he had flipped himself over and she was seated on top of him like a schoolyard bully.
She went for a choke hold, but his head slipped free. Wasting no time, he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her off him, tossing her away. Every motion he made caused him to scream out, so he couldn’t, she knew, keep this up for long. His cuts were certainly opening up again, gushing blood. He was bigger than she, strong
er, but she was skilled at ground-fighting, could maintain, at least, a draw with any man and therefore wear him down, wait for the blood loss to catch up to him, for the pain to strip him of the last of his will to fight.
He wasn’t, though, looking for a ground fight.
The moment he had flung her away, he rolled onto his stomach and began crawling for the revolver. She quickly scrambled after him, caught him just as he reached it. Before he could aim the weapon at her, she lay all her weight upon him, spreading herself out and grabbing his wrist, applying a joint lock. He resisted it with all his remaining strength—a stalemate, of sorts; he could not aim the gun at her, and she could not yet complete the lock and break his grip on it.
Again, he did something she did not at all expect.
He began pulling the trigger.
Blasting a hole in the kitchen cupboard, he pulled the trigger again, immediately. A third shot went off, and she realized what he was up to: emptying the gun. Four shots now in total had been fired, so two remained. She reached up with her other hand, but he managed to fire again. Five shots. Before he could pull the trigger and get off the final round, she managed to press her thumb against the hammer and prevent it from cocking back. Lifting herself off him, she brought her knees up and then quickly reapplied her weight again, pressing her knees onto his torso. The pain this caused him gave her the edge she needed to complete the wrist lock. His grip weakened, and she struck the gun with the heel of her palm, once, a second time, then a third. It flew free finally and slid across the floor, skidding from the kitchen out into the living room, well beyond the reach of either of them.
Several elbow strikes to his head to stun him, digging her knees into his torso to inflict even more pain, and then she was up on her feet again, bolting toward the gun. She dropped down, grabbed it, was standing up and turning when he tackled her again. Together they flew a few feet, and then they fell, crashing onto the coffee table and smashing it.
[2010] The Violet Hour Page 17
