The Last Book. A Thriller

by Michael Collins

  ‘And Joey?’

  ‘Dead, probably,’ the boy said, admitting it to himself for the first time. ‘He was always a wild child, but he started running with some really bad people. Mom told me that he helped us out a lot with money. She hated taking it at first, but as she became less able to work …’

  The boy’s throat was tight. He felt Jilly’s hand gently squeeze his own and swallowed back his tears.

  ‘I’ll get them, Jilly …believe me. One day …they’ll pay for all that.’

  Jilly’s body felt closer. The boy could feel her soft breath on his cheek as her hand stroked his hair. Unexpectedly, an undulating warmth drifted into his groin as he felt his manhood stiffen, straining with delicious discomfort against his clothing.

  Ashamed, he squirmed slightly.

  Jilly caught the movement and glanced his way. She smiled gently, taking the glass from his hand and patting his knee.

  ‘It’s been a long day, my man. I shouldn’t have given you so much to drink. Thanks for being here for me today. I know it sounds clichéd, but I don’t know what I would have done without you to lean on.’

  ‘It’s alright,’ the boy mumbled, watching the lump in his pants slowly subside.

  Jilly followed his gaze and then casually looked away. He was right. Death had a different meaning for both of them.

  13. WashingtonDC

  A disappearing act

  Cara Cortez opened her front door wide enough to see who was standing there and sighed heavily. The caller knew her well and wasn’t deterred. She was pleased to see him.

  ‘Hello stranger. What the hell happened to you?’ she asked, quietly, moving to one side as Ben stepped through the doorway.

  ‘That bad, eh?’ he replied, scowling at the hall mirror. His face was a terrible sight. A livid, purple bruise covered his left cheek and his face, peppered with cuts and tiny sutures, had converted his strong features into something left at a garbage dump. He caught Cara staring at his reflection and his heart lurched. Her strawberry blonde hair, normally immaculately groomed, looked lank. Deeply shadowed hollows surrounded her eyes. She’d easily aged twenty years since he’d last seen her.

  ‘More importantly …’ he said, holding his arms out.

  Cara slumped against his body gratefully, clutching at his coat.

  ‘Oh, Ben, this is dreadful. I’m so pleased to see you. Everyone’s been fantastic, but I haven’t had time to take it in.’

  Eventually, she pulled away from him.

  ‘I’m all sobbed out. It hurts my ribs to breathe,’ she said, staring into his face. ‘But you know all about that and, I’m sorry to tell you, it does make me feel just a little bit better. Anyway, come through, I’ve got plenty of coffee or something stronger if you want—even your favorite bourbon.’

  Ben could have murdered a large one but knew his body had enough painkillers in it to drop an elephant. Even with them, the huge lump on the back of his head throbbed mercilessly, so the offer was tempting. Mixing them with alcohol would have him floating in pain-free la-la land in no time.

  He’d come round on a blood-soaked stretcher in the middle of medical madness. Apparently he was bundled into an ambulance and taken to Chicago’s Northwestern Memorial, where someone had stitched the gaping wound in his head, cleaned up his facial injuries as best as possible and moved on to the next casualty before he’d regained consciousness. There were only perfunctory objections when he’d tottered out to the desk requesting to discharge himself. He couldn’t even find someone to thank.

  ‘I’ll pass on the fire water thanks. Some of that coffee will be great.’

  When Cara delivered his mug of strong Colombian coffee, she curled her long legs up on the couch and stared at her friend.

  ‘Something’s really up, isn’t it Ben? I guess you got that bashing from the bomb in Chicago tonight?’ she asked.

  Ben nodded.

  ‘I’m really sorry Cara, but it’s brought up a heap of questions. Are you up to if we talk about some stuff?’

  ‘You know we can, Ben,’ she replied. ‘Is it anything to do with Juan?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he confessed, shrugging. ‘Last night Juan asked me to do a surveillance job on the protest. It seemed pretty straightforward to tell you the truth and a bit weird that my outfit would be asked to do something that operationally simple.’

  ‘Wasn’t there something special Juan asked you to do?’

  ‘No, nothing,’ Ben replied, wracking his mind. He’d been doing that ever since he’d caught the shuttle back to Washington. On the way, his office had confirmed that the three others in his team had survived the blast and were recovering in hospitals all over Chicago which took a weight off his mind. Before ringing off, he asked that everything possible be done for the injured, but it was already well under way. Knowing what he’d expect of them, the base manager had arranged transport and accommodation for the families and made sure they were looked after.

  Ben closed his eyes for a moment as grief for Juan swept over him. He rubbed his forehead with a finger, something he always did when deep in thought, and then flinched as it scraped across an exposed cut.

  ‘Ouch! Did he say anything to you about it?’

  ‘Only that he’d spoken to you,’ Cara said, smiling sadly, ‘he told me that he’d extracted a promise from you to come to my birthday BBQ, that’s all.’

  ‘No phone calls, texts, emails, anything you can remember that stands out? How about just before he got …?’ Ben saw the faraway look on Cara’s face and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry Cara, I wasn’t thinking …’

  ‘No, no, that’s OK. It’s just when you mentioned emails, I was remembered something I had to talk to Juan about that’s all.

  Cara paused.

  ‘Hey, even if we don’t feel like it, we both need something to eat. How about I heat some pasta and we keep talking?

  Ben’s stomach rumbled. He remembered that he hadn’t eaten a thing since that morning.

  ‘Truth is, Cara, I’m bloody starving,’ Ben responded. ‘Some of your world-famous puttanesca would go down a treat.’

  Cara got up, swaying unsteadily and then recovered her balance.

  ‘Phew! I really do need something to eat. I’m sorry, there’s no wine left. I’ve had so many visitors today.’

  Feeling plenty of pain, Ben pulled himself to his feet and pulled out his smartcom.

  ‘I’ll get some. I shouldn’t be drinking anything with the medication I’ve had, but a glass of red would be perfect. I can return some of these calls while I walk some of this stiffness off.’

  ‘Deal, and maybe while we eat I can ask you some stuff …’ Cara hesitated and plunged on, ‘I’ve had some strange emails from a friend in Australia. The recent ones are a bit scary and I was going to talk to Juan about them, but now …maybe …?’

  ‘That’s not your old buddy Kristen, is it, the famous writer’s wife?’ Ben asked as he turned to the door.

  ‘The very same, and none of your usual comments about my wild days,’ Cara said with the trace of a smile. ‘We’ve both almost grown up now.’

  Cara saw that Ben was thinking of something inappropriate to say and waved him off.

  ‘I need vino señor. Ahora—now!’

  When Ben stepped onto the street, he breathed deeply. It was an OK night for May and he could smell a faint, rose-like aroma. Aah, cherry blossom, he thought, nice and early, and at Julie’s favorite time of the year. He knew that seeing Cara would bring a flood of memories back, but had been surprised at how well he’d handled them. Perhaps with so much happening some of the hurt had been dulled. Or, maybe, it was time he moved on. Who knows?

  By the time Ben was retracing his steps back to Cara’s place with two bottles of a hearty Burgundy suitable for a taste-laden Italian meal, he’d talked to the office again.

  ‘There’s not much more on the bombing,’ Alexia told him. ‘Our contacts on the investigation team tell us that the explosives were packed into the trunk of
a police cruiser and probably detonated by a cell phone signal.’

  It had already been identified as was cyclotrimethylene trinitramine or C-4 and the officers responsible for searching the vehicles before and after every shift had already been interviewed, swearing that they’d been thorough. To Ben, that had a ring of truth. In the last two years, up to twenty police vehicles had been used as mobile bombs, raising police paranoia to unprecedented heights. Clearly it would have taken a highly skilled explosives expert to mould the C-4 into the cruiser’s trunk and have it remain undetected. The problem was tracking them down.

  ‘We’ve also had messages from a Sam Hawke, asking for an immediate meeting with you,’ Alexia reported, giving him a number to call.

  With a start of recognition, Ben remembered the President’s request just before the bomb went off. He recognized the digits as one of a number of missed calls he’d received over the last few hours and hadn’t had time to think about.

  He wasn’t up to chatting to some navy desk jock so, after Alexia rang off, he texted the smartcom number he’d been given, suggesting a diner near Georgetown at 0800. An immediate ping back confirmed the meet. Ben glanced at his watch. Almost one in the morning—the keen bastard was still up.

  Ben stopped outside Cara’s house and frowned. She’d left the door partly open for him—not a good thing to do even in the best parts of Washington. As he entered the hall and started to shoulder the door closed, he stopped. The full-height lamp standard that normally stood in the lobby was sprawled across the floor.

  Silently, Ben placed the wine bottles on the floor and, slipping off his shoes, reached behind for his Glock. With the other hand, he thumbed a four-digit code into the screen of his smartcom, pressed the call button and placed the phone on the floor next to the wine. Silently, he padded up the hall, covering each room and listening intently as he went. From the kitchen he could hear the innocuous sound of water bubbling. With every atom in Ben’s body straining, he moved into the living room and then froze. The corn colored carpet was splashed with blood. Pistol extended and moving it gently in sync with his steps, he edged forward. Two crystal wine glasses lay on the floor and, right where he’d been sitting just thirty minutes earlier, lay a buff envelope.

  ‘Ben?

  It was Tracy, one of his agents.

  ‘In here Trace,’ Ben replied, still staring at the single sheet of paper he’d taken from the envelope.

  He heard Tracy murmur something to the other agents who’d responded to his coded call, before she appeared at his side. She pointed to the ceiling and then to her ear. The sonic sweep had returned a positive. Someone was listening.

  ‘Upstairs?’ she asked.

  ‘Clear,’ he responded, ‘same as out back.’

  Ben waited until she’d relayed the information to the others and, glancing at the blood smear, requested a forensic kit, before he handed her the sheet of paper by the edges. By then she’d already rolled on a pair of surgical gloves.

  ‘We’d better get out of here,’ she mouthed, ‘and let the evidence geeks have a look before the cops trample everything flat.’

  Ben nodded, appreciating her thoroughness, noticing that she didn’t have to ask who the blood might belong to. He’d trained his team well. They would have known more about the house layout, and who lived there, than the neighbors ever did, well before they slid quietly into position front and back with their guns drawn.

  Waiting in the hall for the two forensic experts to finish checking the place out, Ben reread the note that had been left for him. It was now safely shrouded in plastic. He could tell that Tracy hadn’t been thrilled that he’d handled it, but knew he had no choice. The evidence geeks as she called them would have bare minutes to examine the paper and the house before he’d have to call the cops and hand everything over. They’d hardly believe his story that he’d been too overcome to call them straight away, especially when they found out who he was. But, by that time, he’d be long gone and, hopefully, soon have his hands on a handy presidential authority.

  ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes left team,’ Tracy called, looking anxiously at her watch and then at Ben.

  ‘Good work tonight Trace, and thanks,’ Ben murmured.

  ‘Thanks boss, what do you make of it then?’ Tracy asked, quietly, nodding towards the note.

  They both stared at the scrawl.

  Keep your fucking nose out, or she dies

  ‘It’s almost laughable,’ Ben said.

  ‘I reckon it’s a crock of shit,’ Tracy said. ‘You couldn’t ask for a clearer party

  invitation than that.’

  The Boy

  The siren faded into the distance and the neighbors, giving the boy curious looks, went back to their homes.

  Although Jilly had been a little distant with him since the night of the funeral, saying she had difficulty sleeping, he had no idea she was really sick.

  The boy tried to understand, but watching Jilly’s spirits rapidly sink confused him. Over two weeks he saw the strong woman he knew become vague, disinterested in food, or in her appearance, confining herself to her bedroom for hours. Whenever she emerged, a mess of unkempt hair and disheveled clothes, she’d manage a quick weak smile before returning to the privacy of her hideaway. Once, she sat watching a TV program with him, silently weeping over her untouched meal until she excused herself and disappeared again.

  ‘She’s grieving, let her be,’ her father told him when the boy called, ‘she’ll work it out.’

  The man, a widower, hadn’t been around since the funeral. His own wife had taken a fatal overdose some years before and made it clear before hanging up that grief should be faced alone.

  With mounting anxiety, the boy reluctantly rang Jilly’s sister, Annette. She disliked him, something the Australian had been eager to remind him of. At the funeral wake, when Max had accused him of freeloading on Jilly and Brett’s generosity, the boy had glanced around the assembled faces and spotted Annette’s flat, reptilian stare. Hesitating to dial the last digit, he remembered the previous Christmas when Brett had been late home and she’d ripped into him.

  She was drinking a lot of wine, hardly tasted each glass as she flung it back. And she was angry, wagging her finger furiously under Jilly’s nose as she spoke in hard staccato sentences, ignoring the fact that he was sitting right there with them.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ she hissed. ‘Sending him to college. What a waste of fucking money. He’ll never come to anything. He’s gutter trash—nothing more.’

  ‘What we do with our money is our business, surely,’ Jilly replied, mildly.

  ‘Not when others in your own family need a bit of help,’ Annettte said, sneering at the boy. Why does he come before us, he’s a nothing—a nobody?’

  ‘But we give you money,’ Jilly said.

  ‘Not enough, Jilly believe me,’ her sister spat, ‘it makes me sick to my heart seeing what you do for that worthless piece of …’

  ‘Hey, that’s enough,’ Brett said, sharply from the door. ‘He’s family, our family, and you better get used to it. Here!’ he added, holding up her coat, ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  Later that evening, Brett plunked himself onto the boy’s bed.

  ‘She gets like that sometimes,’ he said, ‘especially when she’s had a few. Don’t take any notice of her. We think the world of you.’

  Now the boy listened to Annette’s voice snarling in his ear. He’d explained his reason for calling and was cut off almost immediately.

  ‘Maybe if that poor bastard hadn’t worked so hard to keep you, he’d still be alive now,’ she said. ‘Tell Jilly I’m coming round in the morning,’ she snapped, hanging up.

  By then it was too late. The boy had knocked on her door with a tray of food around nine that night, hearing only the usual murmured refusal. He left the meal outside her door, hoping she’d change her mind and went to his own room. He slept badly, dreaming of Jilly and her sister, locked in combat. Each
time he awoke, he listened for an hour, afraid that Annette had somehow crept into the house and attacked Jilly as she slept.

  The tray was untouched. The boy knocked softly, waiting for the usual sounds of Jilly stirring. Gently he eased the door open and looked into the gloom. Sometimes she’d wave a heavy hand at him before turning over, other times he’d find her staring blankly at the wall but, today, the bed was empty. Empty and made up, the boy’s mind registered as he crossed the room to find the bathroom door open. Maybe her father’s right, he wondered, perhaps it’s all over and she’s alright again. Somehow he doubted it.

  He ran downstairs, calling her name. Everything was just as he’d left it, kitchen tidied, his study books neatly stacked and ready for college. No Jilly. The boy stood, listening—something was running—humming or vibrating—a background noise. He checked the kitchen expecting to see the extractor fan or microwave whirring away, but they were still.

  The boy coughed. He could smell fumes and knew it was the car. Bursting into the garage he found her, slumped into the driver’s seat.

  *

  ‘You can fuck off now,’ she said as he went inside the house.

  ‘What do you mean,’ the boy said, looking at Jilly’s sister. She stood in the hallway, arms folded across her narrow chest.

  ‘You heard me, pack your bags and get the fuck out.’

  ‘This is my home,’ he heard himself protest.

  ‘Not any more, pal,’ she said triumphantly, ‘when she gets out of hospital, I’ll be here to look after her, and I don’t need any leeches sucking off my tits.’

  The boy stood looking at the floor for a minute. Where could he go? He had less than $15 in his savings from working in the neighborhood yards and knew nobody on earth who could help him until Jilly came home.

  ‘And don’t think about coming back and weaseling your way in,’ Annette said. ‘I know about you and her—the way she looks at you. And you, you can’t take your dirty big eyes off her.’