by Tim Green
Suddenly there was a sharp cracking sound and then nothing.
Cook frantically punched buttons and twisted knobs on the recording device, then the receiver. Something was wrong!
"Shit!" Cook cursed, going over the equipment again and again. "Son of a bitch!" he screamed, slamming his hands on the steering wheel.
This was it, he was sure. Whatever was faulty was on Logan's end. Cook couldn't help wondering if the quarterback had backed down at the last moment. Or maybe he'd done something dumb to give away the wire. Cook had seen that before. Once in a rural Georgia town Cook had wired an accountant who did the books for a country bar that a white supremacist leader was using to launder drug and gun money. The guy couldn't keep himself from nervously touching the transmitter. The bigot asked the accountant three times what was wrong with his chest before he figured it out, and when he did, Cook had to start his whole investigation from the ground floor again.
Cook fumed the whole time Logan was inside the motel room. Finally Rizzo and Carl came out, got into a black Blazer, and drove off. Cook almost went right in, but the habit of cautious patience paid off. In the corner of the lot was the dark Town Car with a wiry, cigarette-smoking guy who looked like a ferret leaning against the hood. He seemed to be paying a little too close attention to Room 107. Cook held tight and continued to fume.
When a cab pulled up to the room and Hunter appeared, Cook could see that the player had been roughed up a little. He followed the cab and the Town Car, at a very safe distance, back to Hewlett.
Hunter went into his house by himself and sat down on the couch in the living room without bothering to put on a light. His sense of being completely alone was almost tangible. Morty's words haunted him. Good was getting Rachel back, but strong--was he being strong? It was more like weakness. He had done nothing but go along with Rizzo since his appearance three months ago. Strength would have been if he followed Rachel's advice back in the very beginning and gone to the FBI. The money, his career, his reputation, the things he had tried to protect back then now seemed so meaningless. Hunter had made decisions he wished he could make over again. He tried to push it out of his mind, but he was certain of one thing. If he didn't get Rachel back, he might as well die himself. His life would be nothing but a living hell. He would never know another moment's peace if anything happened to her.
Hunter sat up straight. He thought he had heard a noise. Maybe it was . . . no, there it was again, a soft rapping at the back door by the kitchen. Hunter's first thought was Cook, but then he wondered if it wasn't just one of Rizzo's cronies taunting him. It had been painfully obvious that Rizzo had something very big riding on Hunter's performance in next week's game. Hunter snuck up on the door and opened it suddenly. He thought he heard the FBI agent gasp.
"What the fuck do you want!" Hunter said maliciously.
Cook was taken aback, but only for an instant. He had a few choice words himself that he wanted to share. He started to push his way past Hunter into the quarterback's home, but Hunter jarred him with a stiff arm.
"You just hang on a fucking minute, man," Hunter growled, giving the agent another shove. "You and I don't have anything to talk about. You can fucking kiss my ass, Cook."
Cook grabbed Hunter by the shirt and pushed his way in the house. This is stupid, man!" Cook blurted out. Those people are still out there watching you!"
Hunter took the invasion as his cue. He threw a roundhouse punch that landed squarely on Cook's jaw, knocking him down to the floor. Cook's reaction was instinctive and he lashed out instantly with his foot, hooking Hunter's leg behind the knee and bringing him down with a crash. Hunter was on Cook fast, but Cook boxed Hunter's ears and squirmed out from under his stunned adversary to stand above him like the victor in a wresting match.
Hunter got to his knees slowly, wobbling. Suddenly he lurched at Cook with his head down and barreled into his solar plexus, knocking out Cook's wind with a violent huff. Hunter windmilled his fists at the same time and landed punches to Cook's face and body, but the older man was still in control. He tucked himself up into a ball and used Hunter's momentum to roll backward and pull the quarterback's entire body over the top of him. Then Cook spun quickly and sprang to his feet, ready and waiting for Hunter's next move. Hunter got his bearings and rose to face Cook. Then he stopped.
"Just get the fuck out," Hunter said flatly.
"Hey," Cook said, "I know they pinned you with the wire, but it wasn't anything I did. You must have given it away, Hunter, but we can do something. We can still get Rizzo--"
"Ha! Given it away!" Hunter said, rubbing some blood from his lip with the back of his sleeve. "You're the one that gave everything away, Cook! You're the only one, unless you told someone, which you said you wouldn't do.
'They knew everything," Hunter said, his face going blank with the exhaustion of all the day's emotions as well as a full sixty-minute game in Kansas City. 'They knew it all, and now they've got Rachel."
"That's not . . . they couldn't know. I didn't tell anyone. They didn't know from me, but there was no one--"
Cook stopped abruptly. Instinctively he felt for a chair at Hunter's kitchen table, pulled it out, and sat down. Cook furrowed his brow and asked himself if what he was thinking was at all possible. There had been no leaks. Only one man had known how Cook and Hunter were going to take down Tony Rizzo. The idea that Duncan Fellows was the dirty player was as unthinkable as it was appealing to Cook. He never had liked Fellows, but he had always attributed his bad feelings to the way Fellows had handled the Keel situation. Now Cook knew why Fellows had put him on the defensive. He had been trying to cover up his own deceit by putting the blame on Cook for failing to stick to procedure with a possible witness.
"There was someone," Cook said. "One man, my superior, who knew about you ..."
"Cook," Hunter said, "I want you to leave."
Cook turned his gaze back to Hunter. "I can help you," he said. "I'm probably the only one who can."
"I've seen your help," Hunter said. "Just leave me alone. I know how to get my wife back, and if you want to help, you'll just stay away. Forget it. You lost. Rizzo's too big."
"If you think you can get Rachel back by just giving Rizzo a game, you're wrong. You'll need more than that. If he knows he's got you, he'll keep her until things get too hot for him. Then he won't be giving her back. That would be too dangerous for him. The only way your wife won't be a problem for Rizzo is if she disappears."
"Nnnnnoooo!" Hunter screamed, grabbing Cook by the shirt and pulling him up from his seat.
Cook remained impassive. Hunter Logan looked like a shell of the man he'd seen only two days ago. He was exhausted, frantic, and beaten. The whole thing was driving him mad. "I can help you," Cook said quietly. "I can get her back."
Cook saw a flicker of hope in Hunter's eyes.
"You want to believe that you can go out and toss a game to Rizzo and he'll give you your life back, but think about it. Think about how this whole thing has played itself out. What did Rizzo want from you at first? A favor? A little information? Then once he had that, he wanted some points, am I right? Then a game, each time probably promising you that the way to get rid of him was to do as he said."
Cook paused, then said, "Look where you are now. Look at the pattern. Rizzo doesn't think like you and me. He's an animal. He doesn't care that Rachel is your wife and that you love her. He does not care about people. He'll kill her, Hunter."
Hunter flinched at Cook's last words. He was torn apart with guilt and an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. He felt helpless against Rizzo. He had worked all his life to be someone, someone that mattered. Now, here he was, one of the most well-known celebrities of his time, but helpless against a criminal like Tony Rizzo.
"How can I get her back?" Hunter demanded.
"I can get her back. When are you supposed to throw the game? This weekend?"
Hunter nodded.
"Sure," Cook said, "more money will be going down on th
is game than any but the play-offs. That gives me a week."
Hunter relaxed his grip on Cook and said, "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to find her . . . and get her," Cook said.
Hunter thought about that. It didn't make sense. FBI agents did not "get" people, they arrested the bad guys.
"No," Hunter said, "Rizzo will find out. He'll see it coming. Your boss, or someone, talks too much."
"My boss is dead," Cook said.
This neither surprised nor worried Hunter. Everything was crazy.
I'll go after her alone," Cook said.
His determination was like a breath of fresh air. This was how Hunter had always lived, by seeing a problem and attacking it. Since Rizzo had come into his life, Hunter had been dangling helplessly on a string. He didn't know how to act against someone like Rizzo. But guns and bodies and threats--those were Cook's world.
"Are you sure about Rachel?" Hunter asked. "Are you sure Rizzo wouldn't just let her go?"
"It's possible," Cook said. "But I don't see it. Tony Rizzo is on the verge of something big, and he's acting instinctively. If he thinks he's better off losing your wife, she'll be gone. Then it will be too late to do anything. I always favor action if there is any hope at all."
"And do we have any hope?" Hunter said.
Cook shrugged. "If I can find her, I can get her. Hunter," Cook said, "I'm sorry ..."
Hunter's shoulders slumped. "It's not you, Cook," he said. "I'm the fool, from the beginning. It was such a stupid thing to do, but everyone does it. I didn't think anything of it. I know what the league says, but it . . . but the real fuck-up was not going to you as soon as Rizzo approached me. That's what Rachel said to do. I just never thought all this could happen, to me especially."
"It happens to people like you a lot easier than anybody else," Cook said. "And don't blame yourself. We all make small decisions that lead to big and painful consequences . . . it just happens."
Hunter sat down next to Cook on the end of the table and said, "How do we start? I'm going with you."
'That's not possible," Cook said. "Rizzo's still got someone watching you. I need to move fast and freely. Even if they weren't watching, you'd stick out like a sore thumb."
"If you're going to find Rachel, I'm going with you, Cook," Hunter said. "I'm staying with you. She's my wife, and if something did happen and I wasn't there . . . That's the way I've been my whole life. If things are on the line, I want to be the one making it happen. I want to be the one making the decisions. The winning and losing comes down to me. That's the way it has to be, especially with my wife. I won't let you go without me. I'll let Rizzo know you're out there before I let you go poking around and risking her life without me. Besides, I can disguise myself so that no one will notice me. I do that all the time. I've had to over these past few years just to have some peace when I walk down the street. I'm the master."
"But listen to yourself," Cook said. "You're not rational. Even if you could mask who you are, you can't go anywhere. That guy out there is gonna expect to follow you to practice tomorrow and then home. He's gonna watch everything you do. You can't be at two places at the same time."
"Yes, I can," Hunter said.
Camille pulled her car off the Roscoe exit and headed north on 206. The sky was just starting to turn pink in the east There was a slight autumn chill in the air, but the forecast was for fifty-five, so she'd dressed in a light jeans jacket and a T-shirt. She shivered a little and turned up the heat The mountains were colder than the city by almost fifteen degrees. She could see Bear Spring Mountain looming in front of her. She recognized the surrounding landscape and began to slow down. She saw the dirt road that led uphill toward the cabin that belonged to Tony Rizzo. She debated whether or not she should just drive right up the two-mile road to the front of the house and lean on her horn until he came out with whoever it was he had in there beside him, maybe wrapped in a sheet or wearing one of her silk nighties.
Camille saw red. The image made her murderous. She had stayed up the entire night before. Tony said it was business that he had, but she'd seen the Timberland boots in his bag. She knew what that meant. He was going to the mountains. He always brought the boots. It was the only time he used them. And since she'd known him, the only times he had gone to the mountains was with her, so the two of them could relax and be alone together. Tony always said sex was best in the mountains. Those were the words that had stuck in her mind when she had seen the boots on Sunday afternoon. She tried to escape it. She even went out to the clubs that were hot on Sunday nights. But that did her no good. She was marked as Tony Rizzo's woman, and only the most daring men would even steal a furtive glance at her long, hard figure and streaming blonde hair. She was off limits until Tony was done with her. She had been around long enough now to know the rules.
She'd gone home and tried to sleep. She even took a downer, but it only made her depressed and anxious. Finally she simply decided to find out for herself. She took a hit of speed to counteract the downer and set out. She was determined that if she found Tony up there with another woman, it would be the end. Part of her wanted that almost desperately. But much of her was still obsessed with the power and strength that oozed from Tony. Her obsession went beyond his Adonis looks. She could have that with many men. The link that held her was psychological. She knew it. She knew what it was and why, but that did nothing to help her break it. She wanted a dominant male as her mate and that was Tony. Even among wealthy and famous and successful men, Tony stood out. He exuded something that innately generated fear and respect in them. She had even seen her father succumb to him. Her father, one of the most powerful men she knew, had treated Tony with respect from the first, even though Tony had annoyed him. Then, in her father's sky box during halftime of a game, she had seen the fear. It was a power Tony had over people. She knew it was a bad thing, but she was drawn to it nonetheless.
His cruel games with her only heightened the notion of his dominance. No man had ever dared to cross the line with her, knowing that she would simply toss them aside and move on. But she could not do that with Tony, even if she wanted to. She would be free only when he set her free, and all the other males in the pack knew this and kept their distance accordingly. Still, his teasing games with other women in public were one thing, but taking them to his retreat, that would end it. She would leave New York if she had to, but she would end it.
Camille turned up into the drive before fear overcame her. She was almost relieved when she saw that the pipe gate that blocked the drive was chained and locked. She backed out and drove a half mile down the road to a sandy path into the woods where an old country dump had been. She parked her car and bent down to tighten the laces on her sneakers. She puffed her breath like smoke into her hands before jamming them back into the pockets of her jacket and starting off. She would go, but she wouldn't make it so obvious. As she stumbled through the woods in the gloom, she planned her escape. If there was another woman there, she wouldn't confront Tony. She would just leave. She'd go to her bank and wire a lot of cash to Switzerland. She could kick around Europe for a while until Tony settled down. Then she'd come back and start over. It was not an unfamiliar plan--she'd pondered it before--but nothing had as yet brought her to enact it. If she caught him now, though, she knew she would go.
It was a long hike uphill to the cabin. Camille was breathing like an old dog, huffing and wheezing by the time she reached the perimeter of trees that surrounded Tony's hideaway. She stopped to rest. In the gravel drive was a Blazer and a sleek new Cadillac Seville, both of them black. Camille knew the truck was Mikey's, and she thought the car belonged to Angelo. Maybe it belonged to the other woman, but maybe Tony really was here having some kind of business meeting with his right-hand men. She felt the speed beginning to wear off, and weariness overcame her like a fever. She cursed to herself for not having brought another hit. Suddenly the whole thing seemed scary and a little ridiculous, but she had come too far to turn b
ack. She would find out for herself and end it. Carefully Camille approached the cabin.
There was a covered porch that wrapped around the entire dwelling and Camille went quietly up a set of side stairs. Her and Tony's bedroom was around in the back of the house, and as she edged her way along the porch, she looked nervously into the windows. Her worst fear was to see Angelo leering out at her unexpectedly from within. She peered around the edge of a window into what she knew was an extra bedroom. She froze. There on the bed was a woman lying on her side. She was dressed in only a long T-shirt. Her legs were bare, and there were no covers on her. Camille raged with jealousy and brought herself into full view of the window. The idea that at least Tony hadn't fucked her in their bed crossed Camille's mind.
Then she saw something that didn't make sense. The dark-haired woman slept with one hand stretched over the top of her head, and it was handcuffed to the brass headboard. Camille tiptoed around to the back. She peered into Tony's bedroom and there he lay, alone and sound asleep. She went back to the side room where the girl slept. Camille looked carefully. She recognized this woman, but she had to think from where. Suddenly the door to the bedroom burst open. Camille dropped down quickly, but saw that the intruder was not Tony but Carl Lutz. After only a moment Camille heard the door shut, and cautiously she peeked back up over the windowsill. On the night table beside the girl was an orange, two pieces of bread, and a bottle of water. The girl had shifted in her sleep and Camille got a better view of her face. Camille studied the face carefully and it hit her suddenly. There was a thick band of tape across her mouth. The woman was the wife of Hunter Logan. Camille backed away from the window quickly, her head swiveling from side to side. When she got to the stairs, she turned and ran.
Chapter 39
