by John Locke
A few minutes later, while talking to the limo driver, I notice Callie has turned her back to me. Her handbag’s on her shoulder, but it’s in front of her, not at her side. And her head’s tilted, as if she’s looking at something in front of her.
Like her cell phone.
“Everything all right?” I call out.
She turns her head. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
I can’t see what she’s doing, but I know she’s sending a text message.
I’m not a jealous guy.
Suspicious, yes.
Moments later, in the car, I notice Callie’s stone-faced, staring straight ahead as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders.
I ask, “Is there something I should know?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“I love you.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope, that’s it.”
“Am I allowed to ask about the person you just texted?”
“No.”
I wait, but she says nothing.
“I’m trying to trust you,” I say.
“I’m trying to be trustworthy.”
I study her expression, but Callie gives up very little.
9.
Callie Carpenter.
DECKER’S UPPED THE ante. In the space of minutes, he went from ass-writing to murder. While it’s exactly what Callie anticipated, she now finds herself in a sticky situation.
Moments ago, Decker texted: “We’ve got a serious problem.”
Callie texted: “I’ve upheld my end.”
“I know. But something horrible happened. Tell me if this is who I think it is.”
She opens the attachment.
It’s a photo of Kimberly Creed, a.k.a. Maybe Taylor.
“WTF?” Callie writes.
Decker writes, “Is it her?”
“Yes. Is she dead?”
“No. But she’s critical.”
10.
NOW, BACK IN the car, she feels Creed staring at her. He saw her texting, and knows something’s up. He’s talking about wanting to trust her.
She says, “I’m not cheating on you.”
He says, “I believe you. But you’re upset.”
“Actually, I’m feeling sick to my stomach. Can you ask the driver to pull over?”
He does, and Callie jumps out. When Creed starts to follow, she says, “Please wait for me in the car. I don’t want you to see me this way.”
His look says he saw her palm her phone.
Doesn’t matter. This is more important than any argument they could possibly have. She texts, “How did this happen?”
“I don’t know. She got in the line of fire somehow.”
“You better hope she survives.”
“I can’t let that happen. I have to kill her.”
Callie texts: “If you spare her, I’ll protect you.”
“Explain.”
“I won’t let Creed kill you.”
“He’ll kill me anyway. For letting this happen.”
“If you protect Kimberly, I’ll protect you.”
He pauses a moment, then texts: “How much trouble am I in?”
Callie: “You don’t want to know.”
Decker:“I’ll spare her on one condition. Kill Jack Tallow.”
“Why?”
“Can’t say. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it. Where is he?”
“If I knew that, I’d kill him myself.”
“I’ll find and eliminate him.”
“I want your word you won’t interrogate him first.”
“You have my word. And my advice: If Kimberly dies, kill yourself.”
“Understood.”
Callie breathes a sigh of relief, climbs back in the car.
Creed says, “You didn’t bother to fake being sick just now.”
“No. But everything’s okay.”
“Sorry, but it’s not.”
She looks at him. “I thought you trusted me.”
“I thought I did, too.”
She looks out the window a minute, then says, “Can we pretend the texting didn’t happen just now?”
“No.”
She starts to say something, then changes her mind. “Suit yourself,” she says.
They ride to the jet in heavy silence. When they pass the gates to enter the private airfield, Callie says, “I know we’re not speaking at the moment, but can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Where’s Jack Tallow?”
“New Orleans.
“Rose Dumont Hotel?”
He nods.
“And the babe?”
“Jill?”
“Yeah. Where is she?”
“Someplace safe. Till her husband’s out of the picture.”
“Someplace safe? You won’t tell me where?”
“It’s more like I’m wondering why you care.”
“She’s in this thing somehow.”
“I doubt that. She gave us the sketch.”
“Are you sure it’s accurate? I mean, how many positive hits have you gotten from it?”
“Do you have anything substantial, or is this about your jealousy issues?”
“It’s a feeling.”
“Women’s intuition?”
Callie gives him an angry look. “Assassin’s intuition.” —and catches herself before adding, Like you used to have, before you started fucking Kathleen again.
He says, “I think Jill will be safer if I keep her location a secret.”
“So much for trust,” she says.
The limo comes to a stop a few yards from the jet.
Creed says, “Jack’s at the hotel, convalescing. He’s being treated by one of our company physicians. He’s staying under an assumed name.”
“That’s very chatty of you to say.”
“I’m comfortable telling you all that because I can assure you he has no idea where Jill is.”
“And you think I’m planning to kill Jill.”
“Honestly? I have no idea what you might be up to.”
She nods. “Thanks for the trust.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I thought I was the jealous one.”
“You are. It’s unhealthy how jealous you are.”
They stare into each other’s eyes. Neither blinks.
Callie says, “How jealous do you think I am?”
“I’m not sure. But lately I find myself wondering if you’re jealous enough to kill Kathleen and leave her daughter an orphan.”
“That’s a lovely sentiment to express about the woman you’re supposed to love.”
They continue staring without blinking. Somehow, without a word being said, they’re in a blinking competition.
Five minutes later Creed says, “I can keep this up all night.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Because we’ve got witnesses to interview in Louisville. If you like, we can move this staring contest to the jet.”
“I’m not going with you.”
He looks at her with genuine surprise. “The person you’re texting wins out?”
She shrugs. “I can’t be with a man who doesn’t trust me.”
They stare at each other until he says, “Do you still work for me?”
She thinks about it a minute, still not blinking. Then says, “I don’t know. It’s up to you.”
“The person who texted you. Man or woman?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not.”
“See you around,” she says.
“Whatever,” he says.
They continue staring.
After a while, Creed says, “What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without blinking?”
“Two days. You?”
“Two days.”
“Figures.”
He says, “I have to go to Louisville.”
“So go.”
“I wi
ll. But just so you know, I won’t be blinking for the next three days.”
“Who gives a shit?”
“You do.”
She says, “Honor system?”
“Fine. Text me when you blink.”
“I’ll blink after you text me that you blinked.”
“What’re we, eight years old?”
“More like eight-year mental patients.”
He says, “Did we just break up?”
“Probably.”
“How long would we have gone without killing each other?”
Callie says, “I could kill you this very second.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
She wiggles the fingers of her right hand. From out of thin air, a knife has appeared.
Without moving his eyes from hers, he says, “I saw you go for the knife.”
“If you had, you would’ve gone for yours.”
He wiggles the fingers of his right hand.
She says, “Nicely done.”
“Thanks.”
She says, “If you ever need to talk?”
“Yeah?”
“Call me.”
“You too.”
They exit the limo from opposite doors and back away from each other without taking their eyes off each other’s faces. He backs up across the tarmac toward the jet’s staircase, reaches behind him for the railing, finds it, and climbs backwards up the steps. She walks backwards all the way to the door of the private aviation terminal.
Once inside, she charters a flight to New Orleans.
11.
Faith Stallone.
“ARE YOU REALLY that stupid?” Faith asks. “It would look suspicious if we didn’t call each other! She blew up the whole fucking neighborhood!”
“No she didn’t,” Milo says. “Turn on your TV. It’s that crazy urban terrorist group that wrote on people’s asses in Central Park.”
“You don’t think your hit woman killed our spouses and blew up the neighborhood to pin the blame on Ryan Decker?”
“No. I think it’s a coincidence.”
“That would be a hell of a coincidence.”
“It’s only a coincidence from our standpoint. Yours and mine. Not the world’s.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Every day hundreds of people get murdered. And every now and then, bombs blow up somewhere. But these are two separate events. We hired a hit woman, and Decker blew up two neighborhoods. One of the neighborhoods happened to be mine, which is the only thing that makes it a coincidence. But that’s our coincidence, not the world’s. So if you still think Maybe Taylor did it, how do you explain the neighborhood that got blown up in Jackson, Mississippi?”
“I can’t. But either way, we’re in a world of shit.”
“Don’t fall apart on me, Faith. Are you still at your sister’s?”
“Yes. And you’re in South Carolina.”
“As planned. When’s the last time you heard from Jake?”
“A few hours before he and Lemon were killed in your house.”
“If Jake’s dead, she probably killed him at your house.”
“Then how did she get caught in your neighborhood?”
“What are you talking about?”
Who’s called you so far?”
“About a dozen people.”
“I mean, which of our friends?”
“There seem to be fewer and fewer of them. But the ones we hang out with have called to touch base. Brody sent me pictures of what’s left of the house.”
“You don’t sound very upset over losing it.”
“Are you kidding? It’s the best thing that could’ve happened! It’s been a fucking money pit! I’m mortgaged to my eyeballs. Thank God for insurance.”
“If they pay.”
“Of course they’ll pay!”
“On TV they said some homeowner’s policies won’t pay for acts of terrorism.”
“What?”
“Better check your coverage.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be the icing on the cake.”
“Let’s focus on Jake and Lemon. Why do you think they were at my house?”
“I think Jake was there. Without Lemon.”
“Why?”
“Lemon called me last night to say she was spending the night at our lake house.”
“It was an excuse, you moron.”
“I don’t think so. I backed out. I told Maybe Taylor not to kill Lemon.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“I couldn’t go through with it. I said if she spared Lemon, I’d pay her fee.”
“She shafted you, Milo. Lemon’s dead.”
“No. I would have heard.”
“If Lemon was alive, she would have called you by now. Her house has been blown up!”
“I doubt she’s heard about it. We don’t have TV or Internet service at the lake house, and she can’t get telephone coverage unless she’s standing at the top of the driveway.”
“She didn’t go to the lake house, Milo. That was an excuse. She didn’t want you checking up on her. Go online. Read the latest updates. Jake and Lemon are dead. Check the Internet.”
“I did. They haven’t released any names.”
“True. But an FBI spokesman said a man and woman had been found in one of the houses. They’d been shot in the head at point blank range prior to the attack. If that’s not Lemon and Jake, that would be the biggest coincidence in history! They also said a woman was found with shell casings and surveillance equipment in her pocket. If that’s not Maybe Taylor, I’ll eat your car.”
She waits for him to say something. When he doesn’t, she says, “Are you listening to me? We’ve got a problem. They captured Maybe Taylor. If she talks, we’re fucked.”
“Lemon’s dead?”
“Yeah. She’s dead, asshole. Thanks to you and your crazy-ass hit woman. And thanks to you, we’re in deep shit. So you need to get your ass back to town. I can’t believe you did this to us! I will never forgive you.” She pauses. “Are you listening to me?”
“I can’t believe she killed Lemon after I asked her not to.”
“Did you talk to her in person?”
“No. I texted her.”
“If the police have her phone—”
“I wish you hadn’t said that. You know what I think?”
“No. And I don’t care.”
“I think we should hire another hit person to kill Maybe Taylor.”
Faith thinks about it a minute. “That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said since this whole thing started. Do you know someone?”
“I can ask my client.”
“No. That would be stupid. There can’t be a whole lot of hit men running around. Maybe probably knows the same people your client knows.”
“I could call Sal Bonadello.”
“The crime boss?”
“Uh huh.”
“You know him?”
“Nope. But I’m willing to meet him, if you’re willing to pay.”
“I’m willing to discuss it. In the meantime, contact him, see what he says.”
“Okay.”
12.
Donovan Creed.
I’M NOT SURE what Callie’s going through right now, but it’s so typically Callie, the way she’s shutting down. I’ve seen it many times over the years, so I don’t know why I thought things would be different just because she’s dating me.
What was it she said in Jackson? “Can we pretend the texting didn’t happen just now?”
Wouldn’t that be a crazy way to live? Every time she does something wrong we can just pretend it never happened.
I wonder what she’s up to.
I don’t think it involves Jack Tallow, or Jill DiPiese. But this thing she said about Jill has me thinking. What if Jill’s been in contact with Decker? What if she gave us a phony description?
Jack Tallow vouched for it, but what do we really know about him? He supposedly met Decker years ago. But wa
s he covering for Jill? I’d like to think not, as angry as he seemed to be with her in the limo.
When my jet touches down in Louisville, I notice a car waiting beside the limo I ordered. I descend the steps and meet FBI Special Agent Brad Dung.
“Odd name,” I say.
“What, Donovan Creed? I agree. I bet the other kids used to give you hell about it.”
“Ah. A G-man with a sense of humor.”
“My bureau apparently has a bigger one. We spent hours culling information from the blast site.”
“So?”
“They ordered me to share it with you.”
“The FBI’s sharing data? Did I just land in Opposite Land?”
“Apparently, because nothing makes sense.”
“Wait,” I say. “I get it. You guys are about to get slammed by the media for letting this happen. You’ve had three chances to catch the guy, three chances to prevent Louisville and Jackson from being bombed.”
“Your point?”
“By sharing data with Homeland Security, your bosses are shifting half the burden to our department. From now on we’ll both look like we’ve got our heads up our asses.”
“You might be right. Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Have you recently had a face lift?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“You’re not blinking your eyes. Why not?”
“It shows weakness.”
“You people are fucked.”
I glance at his government-issue car and say, “Why don’t you park that piece of shit and ride to the site with me in style?”
“That’ll work. Except we’re not going to the site.”
“Why not?”
“They want you at Mercy Hospital.”
“Someone’s conscious?”
“Not yet. But we’ve got some interesting situations developing.”
“Like what?”
“I’ll tell you in the car.”
13.
“DOES THE NAME Milo Fister mean anything to you?” Agent Dung asks. “He’s an attorney, here in Louisville.”
He hands me a grainy photo, obviously pulled from the Internet.
I shake my head.
“What about his wife, Lemon Fister? Up-and-coming socialite?”
“That’s a name I’d remember. What, no photo?”
“Working on it.”
“Did they survive?”
