“Not even dial-up,” said Tank.
Keefe picked up the glass of tequila and drank half of it down. “A little early, but then again, I don’t usually shoot anyone before noon.” Then he was kneeling in front of Tank again. “So are you going to cooperate or not?”
Tank closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the floor. “Not.”
Keefe put the gun to Tank’s left knee and fired. “IRA used to do that. They call it kneecapping someone. Hurts, doesn’t it?”
Tank couldn’t speak. He knew only agony.
Keefe finished the tequila and put the glass in the sink. “You know,” he said, “it doesn’t really matter whether I get the key or not. It only matters that no one else finds it. But if I do leave without it, everyone upstairs is going to think Mary Grant has it. We don’t know where she is at the moment, but I don’t imagine she can stay hidden for long. So if you don’t have the information Stark stole, we’ll have no choice but to assume she does.”
Tank began to cry. It wasn’t the pain so much as the disappointment—the despair of it all.
“In the typewriter,” he said. “The key is in the typewriter.”
Keefe retrieved the key to the LaFerrari. “Clever bastard,” he said as he popped the flash drive. “Just so you know, we’re going to kill Mary and her daughters anyway. Mr. Mason doesn’t like loose ends. Neither does Ian Prince.”
“Don’t you dare!”
Keefe stood over Tank and pointed the gun at his head. “And how do you propose to stop us?”
92
The elevator was hot and crowded. Jessie stood with her face pressed against the door, hemmed in on all sides. She was aware of Rudeboy somewhere behind her, but there were too many people to speak to him here. The elevator stopped repeatedly, disgorging passengers. The last two left at the twenty-first floor. The doors closed and she had her wish. She was alone with Rudeboy.
“Um…,” she began, facing him, smiling. “Good game.”
Rudeboy kept his head lowered, saying nothing.
“I was on the Ninjaneers. We needed better defense.”
Still no response.
Jess turned back toward the front, every atom of her wanting to shrivel up and die.
The elevator continued to the penthouses. The door opened and Rudeboy brushed past her. Jess followed. “I was wondering if I could talk to you for a second. I don’t know how you manage to do attack, research, and defense all at once. That’s awesome.”
Jessie cringed. She sounded like a total fangirl.
“I actually came to play against you,” she went on blindly, hurrying to keep up. “I thought if I won, you might talk to me. You see, I have this problem. It’s about a hack. I can’t figure it out on my own. Even my TA couldn’t make sense of it. Whoever did it is, like, super-smart. In fact, I don’t know who else to ask.”
They’d come to the end of the hall.
The presidential suite.
Jessie stood back as Rudeboy slid his card key through the lock and opened the door. She caught a glimpse of marble and lots of plants and an aquarium that looked like Sea World. Rudeboy walked inside, leaving the door open. Jessie poked her head into the suite, not daring to enter. “Please,” she said, begging but not begging. “It’s about my family. My dad, really. I need your help.”
Rudeboy turned around. For the first time she got a clear look at his face. Dark, deep-set eyes; a small twitchy mouth, the lips sickeningly red, inflamed.
“Come in,” he said. “Shut the door.”
Jessie stepped inside and closed the door. The aquarium formed a wall between the entry and a living area that looked as large as her home on Pickfair Drive. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view over the Las Vegas strip and beyond.
“So you want to talk to Rudeboy?” he said.
Jessie nodded. Weird question. Obviously.
“He’s in there.” Rudeboy, or the person she’d thought was Rudeboy, pointed to a doorway.
“But aren’t you—”
The door opened. A man she’d seen a thousand times on television and on the Net walked toward her. “Hello, Jessie,” he said. “Brilliant play. You almost had me.”
“One letter,” said Jess.
“Sometimes that’s all it takes,” said Ian Prince.
“You’re Rudeboy?”
“Seven years running.”
“But you weren’t on the floor.”
“It’s difficult. Too much attention. My associate takes my place. He helps a bit, but I feed him the answers. You’re a gifted player, young lady. Maybe one day you’ll work for me.”
“That would be cool.”
“After all, we both live in Austin.”
Jessie was confused, off balance. It was too much to take in. Ian Prince was five feet away, talking to her. The hotel suite was insane, and there was a shark in the aquarium. “How did you know my name?”
“I know all about you. I know you love Led Zeppelin. Me, too. Favorite song?”
“ ‘Heartbreaker.’ ”
“Mine’s ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ ”
Weak answer, but Jessie wasn’t going to say anything.
Prince went on. “I know that you’re taking a summer school class at UT and that you have a younger sister named Grace. I also know that you both adore sloths.”
“Sorry, but you’re kind of creeping me out.”
“And I know that you recently lost your father. I’m sorry.”
Before Jessie could say anything, there was a sharp knock on the door. Ian Prince said, “Excuse me,” then walked to the entryway. “Come in,” he said, opening the door and throwing out a welcoming arm. “This is a surprise.”
Jessie’s mom entered the suite. Behind her was a slim, rough-looking man with a blond crew cut.
“Mom? What are you doing up here?”
Mary Grant didn’t answer. “Let her go,” she said to Ian Prince.
“So nice to finally meet you. I feel as though I know you already.”
Jessie looked back and forth between the two of them. “Mom, what is this? How do you know Ian Prince?”
“Your father did. Be quiet now, Jessie.”
Jessie backed up a step. She had no idea what was going on, only that she’d never seen her mother look so upset.
Ian Prince dropped his hand. “Close the door, Peter,” he said to the tough-looking blond guy. “Mary and I need to have a chat.”
93
“This doesn’t have to end badly. As long as I have what I need, I see no reason why we can’t go back to how things were.”
Mary sat in a low-backed leather chair facing Ian Prince in the library on the second floor of the presidential suite. “My husband is dead. You had him killed. Things can’t go back to how they were.”
“You have no money. No savings. Your credit is ruined. You have a stack of medical bills as high as a mountain. And now Grace is back in hospital in the company of a guardian—a Mrs. Kramer, whose credit card you used to book your flight to Las Vegas. Don’t ask me how I know.”
Mary contained her fear. He knew because he knew everything. She looked into Prince’s eyes, part of her questioning whether he was even human. The easy smile, the flawless complexion, the sparkling eyes and lustrous hair. He radiated health, well-being, yet it was somehow artificial, not entirely lifelike.
“I’m prepared to rectify these unfortunate reversals,” he went on. “Your checking account will be refunded. Ditto your savings. Additionally, I’ll pay Grace’s hospital bills to the penny. I’ll even provide you with a generous cushion to find your footing after so difficult a loss.” He put out a hand to touch her knee. “I only want the best for you.”
Mary knocked the hand away. “You should have thought of that before you had Joe killed.”
Ian Prince chuckled, as if this were a misunderstanding between friends. “Edward Mason told me you were stubborn.”
“He has no idea.”
The look in Ian Prince’s eyes changed. A
light went out. “Of course, there’s also the matter of your husband’s pension,” he said.
“What about it?” With all their money stolen from the bank, Joe’s pension was all they had. Mary had calculated it to be a little more than $3,000 a month. If Edward Mason made good on his promise of a posthumous raise to Senior Executive Service, the amount would rise to nearly $5,000. The pension was their only remaining safety net.
“If I’m to understand correctly, the FBI considers drug or alcohol use in the course of duty as a punishable offense. Joe spent some time at Hazelden, did he not? A sixty-day course of treatment, lengthened to ninety owing to the severity of his addictions…plural. Alcohol. Prescription drugs. Even marijuana.”
“Joe hadn’t drunk or used in two and a half years. It started because of an accident at work. He ruptured a verterbra—”
“Lifting a filing cabinet while removing evidence,” said Ian Prince. “I know, I know. These things often start in the most innocuous ways. Still, Edward Mason informed me that an analysis of his blood work at the time of death is standard. Should the FBI find any abnormalities, they’ll be well within their rights to decrease his pension, if not to cancel it altogether.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“We’re far past threats, Mary.” And then Ian smiled. The light in his eyes went back on. “Regarding Grace, I nearly forgot to tell you. I’ve found a promising physician in Houston who can look after her, a Dr. Shender, at the MD Anderson clinic. A leader in his field. Brilliant.”
“Grace is fine.”
“So you told me. And I’d love for Jessie to come work for us at ONE. She’s a natural. Just like I was at her age. We can start with an internship next summer. Of course we’ll pay her college tuition and for any graduate studies she might wish to pursue. A full ride. Expenses, too.”
“No, thank you,” said Mary. “That won’t be necessary.”
Ian narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know that you’re in a position to turn me down.”
“I believe I am.”
“Really?”
Mary leaned closer. “Another thing the FBI frowns upon is bribery. You paid Edward Mason ten million dollars to stop my husband’s investigation into Merriweather Systems. And then there’s the matter of your hacking into the FBI’s mainframes, not to mention the original accusations of extortion against Merriweather shareholders. Don’t ask me how I know.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“We’re far past threats, Ian. I have all of Hal Stark’s files. Everything he copied from your computers to give to Joe. Any minute my associate will deliver an article to the newspaper, along with copies of the files detailing the crimes you committed.” Mary stood and picked up her purse. “I would advise Edward Mason to leave my husband’s blood as it is and not to mess with it in any way, shape, or form. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going downstairs and taking my daughter.”
As Mary left the room, Ian Prince’s head of security entered. “I believe we’ve met,” said Mary as he passed her. “Last night. My place. I was the one with the steel bowl.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Doubtful.”
Mary continued downstairs to where Jessie sat on the couch, working on her laptop alongside the man with the deep-set eyes. “Come on, peanut. We’re out of here.”
“We’re just talking about the code I found on your phone. This is Greg. He went to MIT. He totally explained it to me.”
“Hello, Greg. I’m impressed.” Mary took Jessie’s hand and yanked her off the couch. “We’re going home.”
Jessie pulled her hand free. “Okay. You don’t have to be so aggro.” She looked at Greg from MIT. “Thanks for showing me that. I didn’t see it on GitHub anywhere.”
“Too bad about the typo.” Greg smiled, and Mary thought he looked like a hyena. More than ever she wanted to get away from Ian Prince.
“I have to get my laptop,” said Jessie. “I left it in the ballroom. I hope Garrett is taking care of it.”
“Fine. Let’s just go.”
Ian Prince had come down the stairs and was standing near the aquarium. His bodyguard walked past him toward Mary. “You should have kept your mouth closed,” he said in the South African accent she’d heard the night before.
Mary didn’t see the blow coming. She felt something hard and unyielding strike her jaw. Her vision blurred. The next thing she knew she was lying on the floor, blood filling her mouth. Jessie was shouting and then she wasn’t. Strong hands pulled Mary to her feet. She saw Jess on the couch, doubled over, clutching her stomach. Her “friend,” Greg from MIT, stood above her.
“Bad news, I’m afraid,” said Ian Prince. “Mr. Mason informs me that your friend Mr. Potter has been killed. The FBI is in possession of the evidence you alluded to. A car key. Points to Hal Stark for thinking of it—or was it your husband’s idea? Either way, very clever indeed.” He looked at his bodyguard. “Mr. Briggs, I believe we’re done here.” He approached Mary. “You should have taken my offer while you had the chance. I’m afraid it’s off the table now.”
Mary spat a wad of blood and saliva into his face. “That’s what I think of your offer.”
Ian recoiled, brushing the spit from his face. “You could never have stopped my work,” he said. “I’m the future.”
“God, I hope not.”
Ian walked from the suite.
Briggs guided Mary to a chair and sat her down. He drew a pair of flex cuffs from his jacket and fastened her wrists in front of her, then placed a length of duct tape over her mouth. Jess bolted from the couch, trying for the door. Greg tackled her and held her until Briggs cuffed and taped her, too.
“Wait until dark,” said Briggs to Greg from MIT. “We’ll send someone to help out. Until then, they’re yours. Just don’t make a mess.”
94
Tank Potter was not dead yet. He lay on the floor of his cabin in a netherworld of pain.
Standing above him, Fergus Keefe finished his call. “Hear that, Potter? Directions from the boss himself. Eliminate all loose ends. That means you, my friend.”
Tank turned onto his back. “A drink. One last one.”
“You wouldn’t rather say your prayers?”
“He and I aren’t on speaking terms.”
Keefe poured two fingers of tequila into the glass and returned. “This is good stuff. I won’t argue with you there.”
“A buck a bottle.”
“No shit. Hope you don’t mind if I help myself to the other one.” Keefe propped Tank up and put the glass to his mouth. Tank tried to take a sip, but the tequila no longer smelled so enticing. It came to him that if he hadn’t stopped to take a drink, he would have gotten away. Right now he’d be driving somewhere near Hutto with the article on the seat beside him and Hal Stark’s files safe and sound on the key and the tablet. He thought of Mary and her girls and knew that Keefe, or someone like him, would be visiting them very soon.
With the last of his strength, he pushed the glass away.
“What is it?” said Keefe.
“I can’t,” said Tank.
Keefe shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He drank down the tequila with relish, then stood. “You ready?”
Tank laid his head down. For the first time in many a year, he prayed. He prayed for Mary and her girls. He prayed that Ian Prince and Edward Mason would die terrible deaths. And he prayed for forgiveness. It didn’t take long.
“Now’s as good a time as any.”
There was the hollow thump of footsteps on the porch. Keefe moved eagerly toward the door. “Who’s that? Mary Grant still here?”
Keefe raised his pistol and yanked the door open. Tank saw his eyes widen. There was a terrific, ear-splitting noise. Fergus Keefe dropped to the floor as a hail of machine-gun bullets tore up his chest.
Don Bennett advanced into the cabin, firing a second burst into Keefe’s prone body.
“Not you, too,” said Tank, his heart sinking.
Bennett
knelt at Tank’s side. “Hang on,” he said. “We’ll have an ambulance here soon.”
An older man with shaggy gray hair and a belly followed. He picked up the key to the LaFerrari off the floor. “This it?” asked Randy Bell.
“Is it, Potter?”
Tank nodded. “It’s all there.”
Bennett shouted for Bell to get a first-aid kit out of the car, then returned his attention to Tank. “I’m sure we’ll read about it in the paper.”
But by then Tank wasn’t interested in the paper or in writing an article that would win him the Pulitzer Prize or in pulling down a hefty book contract. He took hold of Bennett’s arm. “Find Mary.”
95
The Mole touched the blade to the pouch of flesh below Jessie’s eye. Her skin was so smooth. She was pure. Untouched.
“Stand up. I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your mother.”
He saw the hate in her eyes and he felt himself stir. The Mole pushed the point against the skin. He saw fear, too, and this excited him more.
Jessie stood.
“Go into the bedroom.”
Mary Grant rose to her feet and charged. The Mole kicked her and she fell backward over the coffee table. He was on her in a second, the knife puncturing her neck, a rivulet of blood besmirching the blade. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. If I hear you, I’ll bury my knife in your baby girl’s belly so deep it won’t ever come out. And then I’ll bury it in yours.”
The Mole flipped the knife in his hand and brought the weighted handle down on her forehead, shutting those pleading eyes. He had plans for Mary, too.
He stood and pushed Jessie forward toward the bed.
He closed the door behind them. But not all the way. If Mary Grant made a noise, he’d be listening.
—
Seconds after the door closed, Mary struggled to her feet. She was dazed, nothing more. If anything, the pain acted as a prod. She slid off her shoes and glided soundlessly across the room to where her purse lay on the floor. She got to her knees and opened it, and her bound hands delved inside, pushing aside her wallet, the envelope containing $36,000 before finding the grip of the nickel-plated .38 revolver. An old-fashioned Saturday night special—$295 at the Pawn Stars shop.
Invasion of Privacy: A Novel Page 34
