by Tim Tigner
After a long pause, Luther said, “Okay.”
“And Luther?”
“Yes?”
“If we do have to see each other again, it’s not going to go well for you.”
Chapter 93
Beneath portentous clouds and a blustery wind, Troy pulled his rented Chevy into a BP station a half-mile from Luther’s estate. He did not need gas, but he wanted to hide Farkas’s effects where Luther would not discover them if the next hour did not go entirely as planned.
Glancing down at the wallet, satellite phone, and remaining 456 vials as he slipped them beneath the spare tire, Troy realized that Farkas would be in custody now—his situation virtually identical to the one he had arranged for Troy four weeks earlier. Whatever followed next, Troy could at least feel good about that.
Settling back into the car, he rechecked the seals on the double-bagged portable DVD player occupying the passenger seat. He found that particular detail squared away, but knew there were countless others that might not be. Emmy would be lost to him forever if he failed to deal with a single one.
He could still call the police, he realized, and report a hostage situation. But the odds were that Luther had Emmy primed and ready to flash at the first sign of trouble. Dialing 911 would likely lobotomize her and land Troy in the cage next to Farkas.
He spit a surge of bile out through the window, and punched the gas.
Arriving at Luther’s gate, Troy slipped one of Farkas’s covert injector rings onto his right middle finger. This was it. An hour from now the world was going to seem like a very different place—either for Luther, or for Emmy and him. He crossed the fingers of his unloaded hand and punched the intercom buzzer.
The gate opened without a word from within, and Troy pulled the Chevy onto the crushed stone drive. He parked directly between the front entrance and the Spanish fountain and threw open the car door like a man meaning business. While turning toward the door, he reached over his head and slipped the DVD player atop the fountain’s third tier where it could not be seen by anyone shorter than a Laker.
He marched up to the massive front door, and rather than using the bell or oversized brass knocker, pounded on the oak with the heel of his left fist. This was where it got tricky, he knew. He fully expected Luther to answer with a gun in his hand, but was committed to pushing ahead regardless.
“Troy, long time no see. Please, come—”
Troy pushed open the door before Luther could finish. Squaring off with the man toe-to-toe he pushed Luther back with a challenging open-palmed double-blow to the chest. Luther was a hard body, his chest all muscle, but the force of Troy’s shove still landed him on his butt. “Where is she?” Troy asked, glowering down.
Luther locked Troy’s eyes as he rose slowly to his feet. “She’s the same place you are: at my mercy.” Luther rubbed his left pectoral muscle subconsciously. “You would be wise not to forget it.”
“Answer my question,” Troy persisted without blinking. “Where is she?”
“I’ll take you to her.”
“Good.”
“Once you show me the proof Farkas promised.”
“You see the proof once I see the girl.”
Luther shook his head. “Remember the details of our agreement. You don’t just get to walk away.”
“I’m not asking to leave. I’m asking to see her.”
“Very well,” Luther said. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
The instant Luther disappeared down the hallway at the top of the semicircular stairs, Troy pulled the injector ring off his finger to confirm that it had delivered its contents. Empty. Smiling to himself, he plunged the ring into the potted palm to the left of the doorway. The soil was still moist from a recent watering, so it left dirt on his fingers. With no other option at his immediate disposal, Troy licked off the evidence.
Luther reappeared almost instantly, dangling a pair of handcuffs from his right index finger. “Turn around and put your wrists together,” he commanded. “Then I’ll take you to her.”
Troy complied, reckoning that the score was now tied at one apiece. Still anybody’s match.
Luther walked around to face Troy once his hands were cuffed. “That’s better,” he said. Then he punched Troy fast and hard in the solar plexus.
Troy doubled over in agony, his lungs craving air.
“Well come on then,” Luther said, heading for the door to the back yard. “Time’s a wasting.”
After forcing himself into a pose that was more exclamation point than question mark, Troy followed along a cobblestone path through a manicured garden to a guesthouse that was nicer than anything he had ever lived in. Like the Spanish style master estate, the guesthouse boasted numerous white stucco arches and black-railed balconies and a red-tiled roof. Troy gauged it to be about eighteen-hundred square feet, spread over two floors.
Luther pushed open the front door like a cowboy entering a bar and then bounded up the tile stairs two at a time. Troy wanted to keep on Luther’s heels, but he needed to run out the clock. 456 required fifteen-minutes of activation time. So he took the stairs deliberately, one by one, his hands still cuffed behind.
Luther had the door to a secondary bedroom unlocked and held open by the time Troy reached the top stair. Troy looked in and felt his heart melt. Emmy was spread eagle on a twin bed with a gag in her mouth. She was clothed only in lacy red underwear. Luther had secured her wrists and ankles to the bedposts with padlocked chains.
“I thought you’d like her this way,” Luther said with a crocodile smile.
Locking eyes with Emmy and seeing the glow of recognition, Troy felt a warm surge of relief. “Take the gag out of her mouth.” He said, struggling to keep his tone civil.
“As you wish.”
As Luther pulled the gag from her mouth, Troy saw that it was a pair of pantyhose, secured in her mouth by tying the legs. The moment Luther backed away, Troy bent over and kissed her hard, full on the mouth. He didn’t stop until Luther pulled him backwards by his handcuffs.
“You taste like dirt,” Emmy said, an inquisitive glimmer in her eye.
“You taste great.”
“You’ve seen her,” Luther said. “Obviously she’s fine. Now, back to business.”
“It’s in your fountain,” Troy said, maintaining eye contact with Emmy. “The DVD player Farkas instructed me to give you is in your fountain.”
Troy heard the door shut behind him and a key turning in the lock. “Don’t get too comfortable,” Luther shouted. “I’ll be right back.”
“Farkas told me to remind you to transfer his ten million immediately,” Troy shouted back. “He told me to warn you that Rambo has nothing on him. Having watched him in action these last few weeks, I would have to agree. You don’t want him coming for you.”
Chapter 94
“You have to get out of here, now,” Emmy said, as soon as Luther was gone. “For both our sakes.”
“Luther knows I’m not going to leave without you,” Troy replied. “That’s the only reason he left us here alone. Besides, the door is bolted, the window is barred, and my hands are cuffed behind my back.”
“Kick the door down and run,” Emmy pleaded, tears streaming unbidden down her cheeks. “Find me later. Remind me that I love you. If I know that you’ll do that, then I can take it. Go now. You’ve only got seconds before he comes back from the fountain.”
Rather than doing as she asked, Troy just stood there staring back at her through misty eyes. She wanted to yell at him again to go, but his face beamed with such a loving glow that she could not do it. Finally, he said, “I think he’s going to be gone a lot longer than that.”
“Don’t be a fool, he’s—” She cut herself off. “What do you know that I don’t?”
“There is no video of the wiping of the Supreme Court Justices. We didn’t do it. Well, we did, but I sabotaged Farkas’s camera. I also rigged the DVD player to flash Luther with UV-C. As we speak, he’s losing his mind.”
>
Emmy could not believe what she was hearing, and for a moment she thought this was another of her dreams. But Troy was there, using his foot to open the door to the closet. “And Kostas? Luther told me what he had ordered you to do ...”
“Kostas is fine. We had a long talk and then he went to Greece for a month.”
Emmy felt a huge weight lift from her heart. She still had lots of questions, but Troy had allayed her chief concerns. “How did you manage to inject Luther? When?”
“I picked a fight minutes ago when I first arrived and injected him then. Farkas had custom built a lot of clever mechanisms for delivering 456. I inherited them. Can you pick handcuffs with a wire? There’s a coat hanger here from a dry cleaner.”
“I can pick them with the right wire, but that’s too thick. Did you know that all handcuff keys are the same?”
“No. Really?”
“Pretty much. How about a bobby pin? I don’t suppose you have one of those?” Emmy asked, trying to ease her own tension. Despite what Troy had told her, she expected to hear Luther’s footfalls any second. After spending two weeks with the man, she knew not to underestimate him. Luther was the sharpest tool in the shed.
“I’m fresh out. But this obviously used to be a woman’s room. Maybe we’ll get lucky. I hear Luther’s maid leaves something to be desired.”
As Troy scrounged, the implications of his earlier statement finally registered. Emmy asked, “What did you mean about inheriting Farkas’s tools? Is he dead?”
“No, he’s alive.”
“You’re confusing me, and I’m mixed up enough already. Where is he? Do you know? Luther was furious that he wasn’t coming back with you. He tried to hide his anger from me, but I could tell.”
“I zapped him too and sent him back to Honey. I’m sure they’re having a lovely chat as we speak.”
Emmy could hardly believe her ears. How had Troy managed to do all that? “You’re a wonder.”
“Will this do?” Troy mumbled, picking up a miniature gold paperclip with his lips.
“That’s probably too weak to work as a pick, but it just might do as a shim if the cuffs are a knockoff brand. I’ll give it a try.
Troy dropped the paperclip into her hand.
“How on earth did you manage to flash Farkas?” She asked, while working the paperclip into a straight wire. “Before Farkas flashed you.”
“I found a specialty optical shop on the internet while supposedly researching the justices. I e-mailed them a rush order for two sets of custom contact lenses.”
“Two sets?”
“A blue UV-C filtering pair for myself, and a metallic-brown non-filtering pair for Farkas. Saturday night while Farkas was sleeping contently with the knowledge that five of the nine justices were already in the bag, I swapped his lenses.”
“I hope they were in a case at the time, rather than his eyes.”
“Of course.”
“But how did you inject him? I mean, he must have been wary about that.”
“I let him inject himself. I mixed 456 in with his anti-insulin last Thursday. He’s been giving himself tainted injections ever since.”
“Didn’t he notice?” Emmy asked, satisfied at last that the paperclip was sufficiently straight. “I’d think he’d feel different without his medication?”
“Oh, he was still getting two-thirds of his usual dose. And blood sugar levels are always in flux anyway. I’m sure he wrote any unusual feeling off to stress.”
Emmy maneuvered the handcuffs around Troy’s wrists so that she could access the tiny gap between the teeth and the housing. “Hold very still now,” she said. Then she began pushing the wire into the gap. The wire was just thin enough to fit. She worked slowly, careful to keep it straight and parallel to the swinging arm. She hit resistance when it was about a quarter of an inch in. “Perfect.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t move. I’m at the junction between the teeth and the ratchet. Now, if I can find the seam … and the wire’s stiff enough …” She felt the ratchet give, and it was all over. The handcuffs swung open.
“That was amazing. You are amazing,” Troy said, turning around and giving her another a big kiss. She kissed back, hungrily.
Luther had not returned.
“It’s your turn,” Emmy said, when they came up for air. “You think you can break this bed apart?” Catching the look on his face she added, “Not that way.”
The bed was an antique, made of sturdy oak, but it was no match for Troy’s pent up frustrations. Within five minutes, he had both her hands freed. They were still in chains, but no longer attached to the bed. When he moved toward the foot of the bed to start working to free her feet, Emmy said, “Go to work on the door. Now that my hands are free I can use the paperclip to work the padlocks.”
“Okay,” Troy said, picking up a bedpost and testing it on the air like a bat.
“What’s our next move?” She asked. “Assuming you can get the better of that door.”
“Oh, I’ll get the better of the door. And then you’re going to be the busy one.”
“How so?”
“You’ve got some important calls to make,” he said, his eyes all a twinkle. “As Luther Kanasis’s personal assistant.”
Chapter 95
Luther fought his return to consciousness. In stark contrast to the monster headache throbbing between his temples, the soft mattress and warm sheets seemed to be sucking him in for a warm embrace.
“Good morning, sir,” came a soft sweet voice just inches from his face. The tone was so soothing that it took Luther a moment to realize that he had no idea to whom it belonged. He flashed back to college, where he had often awoken with girls of whom he had no recollection. Usually after a night of partying. Usually with a hangover. He had virtually stopped drinking when he started practicing law, but nonetheless his headache was of that unforgettable variety. Last night’s Fourth-of-July party had obviously gotten out of hand. He hoped she was worth it. Grudgingly he opened his eyes.
Standing beside his bed—dressed, dammit—in a peacock Chanel suit was a gorgeous sprightly nymph of a woman. Her body screamed sex, his kind of sex, but her beautiful face was all business. Her enchanting emerald eyes seemed to study his—a bit too intently for the hour, he thought—as she shot him a smile. “I’m sorry to wake you,” she said. “But we’ve got another big day ahead of us. The media will be here in an hour for the press conference.”
“And I wanted to go over the latest poll numbers with you first,” came another unfamiliar voice from the other side of his bed. An unfamiliar male voice. Startled, Luther whipped his head around only to be rewarded with a volcanic throb. He clenched his eyes for a second, and then opened them to see a thirty-something man in a conservative suit. He had penetrating cobalt eyes and a pronounced dimple on his chin. Luther had never seen him before either. Yet here he was, in his—Luther, interrupted his own thought to scan his bedroom. It too was unfamiliar, although opulently furnished to his taste. “Are you okay, sir?” The man asked before Luther could process the situation.
“I’ve got one whale of a headache.”
“Another one?” The woman stated. “You really should start taking something for the stress, as Doctor Martin has repeatedly suggested. Is this one worse than yesterday’s?”
Luther had no idea, but it must be. He’d take just about anything to get rid of this headache, and apparently he had resisted medication thus far. At least it wasn’t from booze … or a tumor. But stress? What stress? The man had said something about poll numbers. Perhaps they would shed light on the source of his stress. Ignoring the woman’s question he said, “Give me the numbers.”
The man cleared his throat. “Our latest poll pegs your name recognition within two points of the Lieutenant Governor’s, thanks no-doubt to coverage of the Rigby case. You are also neck-in-neck with Kramer on favorables.” The man handed him a printout with several numbers circled in red pen, and +10 to 20 written beside t
hem in the right margin.
Luther still had no clear idea what was going on. The whole situation resembled a dream. But given that he was a bullshit artist by nature, he decided to play along until something clicked. Pointing to the handwritten numbers, he asked, “Where do we get the bumps?”
The man and woman exchanged pleased glances, and then she said, “The press conference, of course. Speaking of which, you really have to get ready. I’ve selected a suit and tie that will play particularly well on camera. I’ve laid them out in your dressing room. You choose the shirt, so long as it’s white. I’ll see that your breakfast is waiting by the time you’re out of the shower.”
“And here’s the final copy of your speech,” the man said, handing him another several sheets of paper. “Along with your answers to the most likely questions. Memorize everything over breakfast. We need to make sure this comes off as sincere rather than conniving, so you won’t want to carry notes.”
“Fortunately, your record over these past couple years should make that a relatively easy sell,” the woman added.
“And regardless, this will generate a ton of publicity. I have every confidence, sir, that just forty days from now, you’ll be waking up as California’s Governor Elect.”
“No doubt, sir,” the woman Luther now presumed to be his personal assistant reverberated. “This will end the debate once and for all. Luther Kanasis wants to be governor so he can help improve people’s lives. It’s not about the power, prestige, or money. You’ve already got enough of those to burn.”
Luther looked down at the paper, his aching brain grasping the fringes of a remarkable situation—or rather, nested situations. He was days away from achieving his life’s dream, from becoming Governor of California, but the stress had finally overwhelmed him. He had once successfully sued UCLA for exposing a Mathematics PhD student to so much stress over his thesis defense that he suffered a staggering loss of memory. The poor guy basically forgot that he was a doctoral student and everything associated therewith, including where he lived and who his friends were. Luther’s expert witness had called this episodic amnesia a natural defensive mechanism, and compared it to a house blowing a fuse. As he told the jury, the UCLA mathematics department had obviously tried to run an unhealthy amount of current through his client, and his body had responded accordingly.
