by Gayle Lynds
Already late, she had driven home to dress for the party, where she had one of those nasty turns that stopped one cold. She had been attacked. Some powerful group wanted her dead. Of course, she needed a gun so she could kill them before they killed her. She had gone directly to her wall safe, removed her old 9-mm Walther, found it clean and well oiled, and loaded it.
Her movements were effortless, filled with the solace of relentless training. But they also brought everything back: Her three years of operating in the field for Langley—the long stretches of boredom, punctuated by the sweat-inducing peaks of danger. Her helplessness when her husband was captured and murdered by the Islamic Jihad. Being a shocked witness in Lisbon to the Carnivore’s last bloody wet job. Then three perilous years underground, hiding and running with her parents while trying to arrange for them to come in from the cold.
She looked down at the pistol in her hand. Part of her wanted the weapon’s security, no matter how superficial it might be. Violence could be so easy, such an inviting solution. But in the end, it fed off itself, until it became a mindless, self-justifying cycle that created far more problems than it solved. Violence corrupted individuals and societies.
She gave a rough shake of her head. No. She did not want to be seduced again. There must be other ways to handle these attacks. She unloaded the weapon, returned it to her safe, dressed, and went out to her car once more. She would be very late, but it did not matter. She needed to put everything out of her mind for a time and relax and find a new perspective. And she needed to talk to Kirk about the man who had pretended to be Harry Craine.
In the last faint light of day, the blood-red bougainvillea that grew alongside Dean Derrick Quentin’s front porch was a tangle of radiant color against the white paint. Carrying only her shoulder bag, Liz walked past the bougainvillea and into the party. Greeting colleagues, she ordered a large, much-needed Belvedere martini and sipped it as she circulated. Almost everyone had heard about the attack on her, and she retold the story again and again as she watched for Kirk. Several people mentioned he was looking for her, too.
At last, her martini finished, she left the glass in the kitchen and pushed out through the screen door into the backyard. A dozen of the tenured and untenured stood on the deck, drinking and arguing about Freud and Jung and Rank as night settled in, but Kirk was not among them.
She walked around the porch. The martini had helped her relax, and she trailed her fingers over the bougainvillea. Tropical and lush, it climbed all the way to the three-story house’s gables. As she admired it, she heard her name. Curious, she peered through the thick leaves.
Kirk and the dean were talking quietly in the side garden. Behind them, a taxi sped down the block and away, its motor purring. She strained to listen.
“I had to tell Themis about Liz first thing,” Kirk was explaining. “What else could I do? You know he wants anything unusual reported immediately.”
She frowned, puzzled. Who was Themis? Kirk was reporting on her?
“But lying to Liz about calling the sheriff was damned risky, Kirk,” the dean said. “She’s no fool, and she could still figure it out. That’d be a disaster.”
Her rib cage contracted. Kirk had lied?
Kirk gave a low laugh. “She won’t. She’s in love with me. She trusts me completely. What really happened will never cross her mind….”
Anger shot through her. Why that smug son of a…What? What had he said?
Kirk was still talking. “Besides, you saw how fast Themis sent that bogus deputy to interview her. The foundation obviously wanted the cops kept out of it. We don’t want to shake up our arrangement with the foundation, now do we?”
She knotted her hands, keeping herself from exploding. Why were Kirk and the dean reporting on her? What in hell was going on! That bastard Kirk had betrayed her, and so had the dean. But what loomed even worse was that their boss, “Themis,” obviously had tremendous power and resources, and, as she had feared, some larger organization—“the foundation”—was somehow involved, too.
She found a wider opening in the bougainvillea. The two men were standing close together under a peppertree. Kirk’s posture was fully erect—no sign of the usual drunken slouch to which he quickly descended at parties. Compared to him, the dean was small and slight, but his gaze was sharp, like a rattlesnake’s, and he appeared as sober as Kirk.
Kirk continued: “God knows how the Aylesworth people would’ve reacted if I hadn’t reported it and the police had gotten involved.”
“I still don’t like it. Damned worrisome. Until now, our arrangement has worked so well. Everybody won, especially Liz. Five years ago, her credentials were short to be awarded such a prestigious chair.”
Bastards! All of them! So it was the Aylesworth Foundation behind it—whatever “it” was. Yes, her credentials had been short, but her proposal…Liz stopped herself from justifying being awarded the chair. Right now, that was the least of her problems.
Worried and furious, she leaned closer. She did not want to miss a word.
“We won, that’s for sure.” Kirk’s laugh was self-congratulatory. “I don’t kid myself. I’d never have rated a cushy job at a big university if Themis hadn’t hired me to watch Liz twenty-four seven.”
The dean ruminated. “You’re right. Two funded chairs didn’t hurt me with the regents either, or with the departmental budget, for that matter. Still, I’d like to know why he wanted her here. I can’t help but think this sudden assault on her and the theft from her filing cabinet are connected to our arrangement.” He pursed his lips, frowning. “I’m concerned we might’ve been used for some dangerous purpose we haven’t a notion about, and it’s going to boomerang back and hurt us.”
A string of oaths flooded her mind. Her funded chair, her special position at the university, her work—all had been arranged by this Themis, whoever the hell he was, and the Aylesworth Foundation. Not because her insights into violence and her work were worthy and important, but because some code-named asshole wanted to know where she was and what she was doing.
Outraged, she turned toward the flight of steps that led down to the garden. Words, sentences, whole paragraphs of disgust flooded her. After she told them exactly how despicable they were, she would find out everything they knew. Everything they had been told. Everything. What was Themis’s real name? Had they ever met him? There must be at least a telephone number they had called to make their reports.
She stopped. Barely breathing, she stayed in the shelter of the bougainvillea, and her gaze shifted. Something had changed out on the sidewalk—a shadow had drifted when there was no cause for it. She traced it back to the silhouette of a man crouching behind a tree near the white picket fence that surrounded the yard. She glanced down again at Kirk and the dean. They were watching the house, not the street.
The shadow moved along the sidewalk, using the picket fence for cover as he studied the garden and house. The fence’s upright slats made it almost impossible to see his whole face. But there was something familiar. With a jolt, she recognized him—the “deputy sheriff” who had taken her statement this afternoon.
Riveted, she made a decision. The pathetic duo in the garden could wait. The half-hidden man on the shadowy street came directly from Themis. He was the one who could lead her to Themis and perhaps to why she had been attacked. She turned and padded back the way she had come, continuing on around the long porch to the opposite side of the house, where she would have the best chance of being unseen. She slung the strap of her shoulder bag across her chest, so the bag hung off her back, where it would not be in her way in case she had to run. She kept her tread light.
At the front corner of the house, she peered around. The long purple shadows of early evening flowed across the Quentins’ front lawn and out to the residential street, where old jacaranda trees lined both sides. There were a dozen cars in sight, but no sign of the sham deputy.
Liz sprinted down the steps and over the long walk to the picket gate
, where she sat on her heels to watch again. Still nothing. She quieted her mind so she could hear more acutely. Behind her, laughter and conversation sounded faintly from the party. Then she heard a car door open and close softly from the left…somewhere up the street. She recognized another sound—an automatic car window was being raised or lowered.
She pulled open the gate and moved toward it. She passed a jacaranda tree and two cars, studying the shadows under the street lamps. A wind was rising, rustling leaves but leaving branches motionless, as if in limbo. The pungent scent of freshly cut grass infused the air.
She gazed back at the house, which was nearly out of sight now, and around at the deserted sidewalk and the quiet street that curled up into the rolling foothills. From somewhere high above came the sharp yips of a coyote.
Where had the man gone? She continued to prowl uphill, her gaze moving. And slowed, listening, feeling…. It seemed almost as if softly running feet reverberated through the sidewalk and into her consciousness. She whirled in time to see the bright flash of a knife in the left hand of a dark-clothed figure who wore a ski mask.
He was jumping silently toward her, intending to attack from behind.
Adrenaline shot through her. She dodged and turned to escape into the street, where the lighting was better, but her foot struck a tree root and twisted. She stumbled, her purse thudding against her back.
He was beside her in an instant. He locked his right arm across her throat and yanked her backward into the tree’s shadow. He was the same size as the man who had thrown her off the cliff. Gasping for air, she reacted poorly, doing just what a trained attacker would expect: She grabbed at his arm with both hands and twisted and struggled, trying to pry it loose. Her one advantage was her years of athleticism. She was strong and flexible. She could feel him strain to maintain his balance.
But his arm continued to crush her throat. She breathed in raw rasps, repressing the urge to keep tearing at him. Instead, she slammed back with both elbows in ushiro empiuchi strikes. One elbow connected to his side, and she felt more than heard him bite off a grunt.
The grip on her neck loosened a moment. She tried to scream, but he quickly squeezed again. She fought harder, jerking and bending through the deepening night, battling for air. Lack of oxygen was making her light-headed.
When she saw the knife move and catch the light of the street lamp again, she had a brief moment of utter terror. He was going to stab up into her heart from the left side. If his aim was poor, her death would be slow and painful. She would bleed out. On the other hand, if his aim was good, she would die in seconds.
Inwardly, she cursed. Then she realized there was a small hope: His attention had shifted to the knife, and she had a weapon, too—her shoulder bag, still slung over her back.
Gauging carefully, straining to breathe, she watched him pull the knife back, ready to plunge. She must time her maneuver just right and take advantage of his concentration on the knife….
Suddenly, he slammed it toward her. She gave an abrupt lurch to the right and threw all of her weight into wrenching around. For a second, she was free, and her shoulder bag swung.
With the impact of a hurtling fist, the knife rammed the bag and went all the way through. She flinched, but the point only nicked her. The arm across her throat loosened as the attacker cursed and tried to pull out his weapon.
Immediately, she reached up again with both hands. But instead of trying to pry away his arm as she had before, she gave a mighty push, raising it, and sank her teeth through cloth, biting into flesh. Blood spurted and dripped into her mouth.
He grunted and tried to shake loose.
Sweating, lungs burning, she hung on with her teeth, a pit bull at her enemy’s throat. When his arm gave a tremble of weakness, she released him and spun free. At the same instant, his knife tore loose from her handbag.
He reeled, off balance. This was her chance. Maybe her only one.
She leaned back and slashed a foot up at his chin. His eyes widened in his ski mask as her blow landed. She had caught him at the right instant, when he was vulnerable, and he knew it. A glint of rage showed, then his head snapped back. He rotated helplessly on one heel and fell hard, facedown, onto the grass beside the sidewalk. His body lay twisted, showing the motion of his fall. He did not move.
She stood over him, panting, looking around for the knife. She massaged her throat and swallowed. Where was the knife?
And then she knew. Stunned, she focused on the downed man. His hips were at an angle, the left one raised, one foot under the other leg, and one hand under his torso. But his chest lay flat on the grass.
She swore and crossed her arms, hugging herself.
Almost immediately, she heard footsteps. She turned to run, then saw who it was. Ten feet away, the fake deputy emerged from between parked cars, lowering a 9-mm Sig Sauer. He nodded at her, holstered the gun, and strode to her attacker. Without a word, he rolled him faceup. The knife was buried in the man’s chest, his bloody hand still gripping it.
Liz looked away. The violence and deaths of her past swirled through her mind. The attacker, a stranger to her, was dead because of her. He had tried to kill her, but she wondered whether that was really relevant. In the larger picture, his death had been as unnecessary as hers would have been.
The phony deputy looked up at her. “Nice work. Help me get him to your car.”
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Who sent you?”
Seven
Liz studied his eyes, which had seemed old and wearied in the noon sunlight. Now, in the shadows, they burned like coals. Dressed in a sports jacket, open-necked gray shirt, and tan cotton trousers, his large size loomed toward her. He had a long face, broad across the cheekbones. His forehead rose up to a thick mat of straight hair. His chin was narrow, but there was a curved dimple in the center, giving him a faintly sultry air, as if when he was twenty years younger and had more kindly thoughts about the world, he had been a heartthrob.
“You know who I am and who I work for,” he said.
“Yes.” She was suddenly exhausted. “I know.”
She supposed she really had known—at least in the back of her mind—from the moment the runner had tossed her over the cliff. Langley was back in her life—either the runner or the man she was talking to now, or both.
“We have a situation,” he said. “A critical situation. Grab his feet. Help me get him out of here before someone sees us.”
She remembered how Hughes Bremner’s rogue CIA group had tricked Sarah with a faked attempt on her life, making her believe the Carnivore had sent people after her who had “killed” her guards. A small but convincing movie.
“Not yet,” she told him.
“There’s no time—”
“Shut up. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need me. So just shut up while I check.” She knelt and pressed her fingertips above the man’s carotid artery. There was no pulse. His chest was bloody where the knife had plunged when he fell onto it. She pressed her cheek against the chest. There was no pulse there either.
“I told you he was dead.”
She looked up. “Who trained you, sport?” She searched the man.
“I was going to check him when we got to your car. But hey, knock yourself out.” He crouched beside her.
She said nothing. There was a small pistol holstered under the man’s arm, his backup weapon. Obviously, the knife was intended to keep her murder quiet. His pockets contained no ID, just cigarettes.
She lifted her head, listening. A wave of laughter rolled out toward them from the dean’s house. People were standing on the porch, saying their good-byes.
“Okay, let’s go.” She picked up the dead man’s feet.
The man from Langley went first, lugging the shoulders. The corpse was light, perhaps 160 pounds.
“You know where I parked,” she realized.
“I had a taxi drop me off,” he told her. “When I didn’t see you at the party, I went to your car to
wait. I was watching for you in the rearview mirror.”
“Then you saw him attack me.”
He nodded. “Sorry I couldn’t get there soon enough to help.”
“Bullshit. You had plenty of time. You wanted to see whether I could still handle myself.”
He did not deny it. She dropped the corpse’s feet and unlocked her trunk. When the lid swung up, she spread the plastic grocery bags she kept there and helped him load the dead man onto them. She peeled up the stocking mask. She was not surprised—the same short nose, short brown hair, and heavy jaw.
“He’s the one who threw me off the cliff,” she told him. “Do you recognize him?”
“I didn’t expect to. They’re not going to send anyone who’s readily identifiable.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
“We’d hoped you’d know.” Scanning the neighborhood, he closed the trunk and used the heel of one big hand to press it down until it locked with a low click.
Liz was in no mood for anything less than answers. “What’s your real name? What does Langley want from me?”
“Let’s get into the car. We’ll talk there.” He peered down the street, where couples were heading toward their vehicles. “We’ve been standing here too long.”
“That’s not my problem. You’ve been in my house.”
She had surprised him. He frowned, said nothing.
She told him. “You got inside my car and lowered the window. Since the only spare keys I have are in my kitchen, it’s logical you got entrepreneurial and swiped them. God knows what else you took. Let me see your ID.”
“They said you were good,” he grumbled as he slid his hand inside his jacket and handed her CIA credentials and badge. The name was Angus MacIntosh.
