by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
She carefully unwrapped the package, slowly lifted the lid.
And days later, cleanup crews were still finding remnants of her flesh in the strangest places.
53
I woke up first, so I went into the kitchen and set the oven to four hundred. While it preheated, I filled a blender with milk, flour, eggs, butter, salt, and vanilla and almond extract. I let that churn on high a full minute, found Kathleen’s muffin pan, and sprayed it with nonfat cooking spray. I poured the batter into the muffin slots, popped them in the oven, and set the timer for twenty-seven minutes. Then I placed some butter on a plate to soften and headed back to Kathleen’s bedroom, where I belonged.
“What was all that racket?” she asked.
“I’m making us popovers for breakfast.”
“You can’t make popovers at home. They always fall before you take them out,” she said.
“Not mine.”
“Only fancy restaurants can make popovers that stay puffed up.”
“Only fancy restaurants and me,” I said.
“If you’re wrong and I’m right, will you take me somewhere fancy for breakfast sometime?”
“Do you have a place in mind?” I said.
“I’d like to have breakfast at Tiffany’s,” she said.
“Actually, I think Tiffany’s is a jewelry store, not a restaurant.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I’ve never seen the movie. I just always assumed …”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “My popovers won’t fall. We won’t have to eat somewhere fancy.”
“Darn,” she said.
Somebody famous once said that you can kiss your friends and family good-bye and put a lot of miles between you, but you’ll always be with them because you’re not just a part of the world; the world is a part of you.
Or something like that.
The point is, I never missed anyone the way I missed Kathleen this last trip. When I found my way back to her modest duplex with the faded green siding, half attic, and half basement, and she jumped into my arms and wrapped her legs around me and squealed with joy—well, I knew this must be what all the poets make such a fuss about.
“How long do we have before the popovers fall?” she asked.
“Forever, because they never will. I have it down to a science.”
“So what you’re saying, you’re a chef scientist.”
“We all have a specialty,” I said.
“My specialty is math,” she said.
“Math?”
She gave me a sly smile. “That’s right. As in, how many times can one thing … go into another.” She arched an eyebrow seductively.
“Before a cooking timer goes off?” I asked.
“Hypothetically,” she said.
“I’m not certain, but I’m willing to expend a great deal of effort toward helping you solve that equation.”
And so we did.
The bell interrupted our research, and we agreed to continue the experiment after breakfast. Kathleen took a blanket off the bed, wrapped it around her, followed me into the kitchen, and watched me take a pan of perfectly formed popovers from the oven. We filled them with softened butter.
“Oh … my … God!” she squealed. “I’ve always wanted a man who could cook, and now I’ve got something even better: a man who can bake!”
We each ate two, and afterward, Kathleen looked as though she wanted to say something.
“What?” I said.
“I want to tell you something, but I don’t want to run you off.”
“You won’t run me off. Unless you’ve got another lab partner.”
She took a deep breath and said, “I want to adopt Addie.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just said, “Really.”
“I love her, Donovan, and she loves me. I’ve always wanted a child of my own, but Ken beat that physical possibility out of me years ago. Anyway, it’s like I’d be choosing her over all the other children in the world, you know? And she needs me.”
“What about Aunt Hazel?” I asked.
She lowered her eyes. “That’s the problem,” she said. “Hazel doesn’t want her, but she doesn’t want me to have her.”
“Why not?”
“She thinks I can’t provide for Addie. She thinks Addie should be turned over to an adoption agency where she can be placed with a proper family.”
“You mean like a husband and wife?”
She nodded. “And enough money to adequately care for her needs.”
“What did you say?”
Kathleen took my hand in hers. “I told her the chances of a perfect family adopting Addie were slim and that I might not have a husband or money, but I can give her all the things a little girl needs.”
“Well said.”
“But she still won’t sign off on me, even though Addie begged her to.”
“You want me to have a talk with Aunt Hazel?”
Kathleen said, “Would you mind terribly?”
“I’ll do it today,” I said.
We sat there in silence awhile. Then Kathleen said, “Donovan?”
“Uh huh?”
“Will you still see me if I adopt Addie?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“A lot of men would rather date gorgeous, young, big-boobed women that aren’t single mothers.”
“Yuck,” I said. “Not me!”
On my way to Aunt Hazel’s, I reflected on the enormity of the accounts I’d seized from Joe DeMeo. He was far wealthier than I’d anticipated, and in fact, money was still pouring in at a healthy clip. I supposed the contributors hadn’t yet heard the news of DeMeo’s fall. After paying all costs of the campaign, I had enough left over to give a million dollars each to Lou, Kimberly, and Janet. Janet seemed quite pleased to get a share, I thought, even though she said it was a drop in the bucket compared to what I’d cost her in misery.
I thought about Garrett Unger and how he was scheduled to be arrested this morning. I hadn’t said anything about it to Kathleen, and I hadn’t mentioned the million dollars that would be wired into her personal account by 2:00 pm today, or the trust I was setting up for Addie that would be funded with the initial ten million I’d clipped from DeMeo. These were all surprises that were sure to make breakfast at Tiffany’s seem pale by comparison. Not to mention the biggest surprise of all—when Kathleen finds out I’m not just a baker, but an accomplished cook as well.
Traffic was moving, but slowly. I looked out the window and saw the small piles of black snow, the only visible remnants of a brutal winter. We plodded our way under a bridge, and I noticed several bums huddled together under blankets, trying to sleep. I wondered what had happened in their lives that brought them to this bridge on this day.
I had my driver pull over. I got out of the car and approached the bums. “I’ve got something for you,” I said.
It took a minute, but the three men roused themselves to sitting positions. There was no way to tell how old or young they were, but they were equally filthy. I handed each of them a hundred dollar bill, and they all said “God bless you, sir.”
The first guy held up a small bottle of blackberry brandy. There was maybe a sip left in it. “You want to sit and have a drink?” he asked.
“Another time,” I said, but I didn’t leave.
“That’s mighty generous of you mister,” one of the guys said. “Mighty generous, indeed.”
Another one said, “Know what I’m gonna do with my hunnerd?”
“What’s that?” I said.
“I’m gonna go to a fancy bar and get drunk on the finest whiskey money can buy.”
I nodded.
The second guy said, “I’m gonna get me some pussy. Been a long time since I’ve had pussy.”
I handed all three of them another hundred dollars and said, “Now all three of you can get drunk and get some pussy.”
The third one said, “I’m a woman, you dumb shit
.”
One of the others said, “Mm hmm, you right, Agnes. He is a dumb shit.”
I was about to apologize, but my cell phone rang. I waved goodbye to my new friends and climbed back in the car to take the call.
“Mr. Creed … I’ve got … some … good news … and some … bad news.”
“Hi, Victor,” I said. “Bad news first.”
“The social … experi … ment has … run its … course,” he said.
“I’m okay with that,” I said. I’d known it was just a matter of time before we got to a bunch of leads that were already dead. “What’s the good news?”
“I’ve got … another … idea … that is … in … credi … ble and … I want … you to … partici … pate.”
“Is there money in it for me?”
“Lots.”
“Will this interfere with your plans for world conquest?”
“It might … delay … them some … but it … will be … fasci … nating. In fact … it is … the most … amazing … thing … you will … ever hear … in your … life!”
“I’m listening,” I said.
He told me.
And when I heard it, I had to agree.
Preview
Read on for the first chapter of
LETHAL EXPERIMENT
Donovan Creed is a CIA assassin turned killer-for-hire. His new girlfriend thinks it’s time they settled down, but he can’t bear to give up his adrenaline-fuelled life.
Now he’s been offered a role in a bizarre social experiment: Give a man $100,000 on the understanding that a murderer will be killed if he accepts the money. Will anyone accept? What will happen if they do? And why is Donovan Creed playing by totally different rules?
Furious action, gorgeous women and outrageous plot twists: the second novel in John Locke’s bestselling series is a break-neck thriller with a cliffhanger ending that will leave you gasping for more.
Prologue
The small house was old and cramped by furniture that seemed even older. A transaction was taking place at the kitchen table, where the three of them sat. A slightly foul odor seeped in from the living room. Trish didn’t know it yet, but the next few minutes would change her life. She cleared her throat.
“We were hoping to get eighteen thousand dollars,” she said to the loan officer.
The young blond loan officer wore her hair combed back with a part midway above her left eye. “No offense,” she said, “but it took more than eighteen thousand dollars of stress to put those dark circles under your eyes. Not to mention the car in your driveway, the condition of your home, the fact you’ve been turned down by every lender in town…”
Trish swallowed, seemed about to cry.
The loan officer’s face was visually stunning, with flawless skin, impossibly high cheekbones, and sandy blond eyebrows that arched naturally over electric, palegray eyes. Her name was Callie Carpenter, and she was wearing driving gloves.
Trish’s husband Rob wasn’t looking at the gloves. His eyes had found a home in Callie Carpenter’s perfectly-proportioned cleavage.
“You know the vibe I’m getting?” said Callie. “Pain. Frustration. Desperation. There’s love in this home, I can feel it. But it’s being tested. I look at you guys and I see the vultures circling your marriage.”
Trish and Rob exchanged a look that seemed to confirm her words.
Trish said, “This sounds all New Age to me. I’m not sure what this has to do with our loan application.”
Callie looked at the chipped coffee cup in front of her from which she’d declined to drink. She sighed. “Let me put it another way: how much money would it take to remove the stress from your lives, allow you to sleep at night and help you remember that the important thing is not other people and what you owe them, but rather the two of you, and what you mean to each other?”
Trish had been quietly wringing her hands in her lap, and now she looked down at them as though they belonged to a stranger. “I’m afraid we have no collateral.”
Rob said, “The banks got us on one of those adjustable rate mortgages that turned south on us. Then I lost my job. Next thing you know?”
Callie held up a hand. “Stop,” she said. “Would a hundred thousand dollars get you through the bad times?”
“Oh, hell yeah!” said Rob.
Trish eyed Callie suspiciously. “We could never qualify for that type of unsecured credit.”
“This wouldn’t be a conventional loan,” said Callie, getting to her favorite part of the story. “It’s what I call a Rumplestilskin Loan.”
Trish’s voice grew sharp. “You’re mocking us. Look, Ms…”
“Carpenter.”
“…I don’t particularly care for your sense of humor. Or your personal assessment of our marriage.”
“You think I’m playing with you?” Callie opened her briefcase, spun it around to face them.
Rob’s eyes grew wide as saucers. “Holy shit!” he said. “Is that a hundred grand?”
“It is.”
“This is ridiculous,” Trish said. “How could we possibly pay that back?”
“It’s not so much a loan as it is a social experiment,” Callie said. “The millionaire I represent will donate up to one hundred thousand dollars to any person I deem worthy, with one stipulation.”
“What’s that?” Rob said.
Trish’s lips curled into a sneer. She spoke the word with contempt. “Rumplestilskin.”
Callie nodded.
Rob said, “Rumple—whatever you’re saying, what’s it mean?”
Trish said, “The fairy tale. She wants our first born unless we can guess the name of her boss.”
“What?” Rob said. “That’s crazy. We’re not even pregnant.”
Callie laughed. “Trish, you’re right about there being a catch. But it has nothing to do with naming a gnome or giving up future children.”
“Then what, you want us to rob a bank for you? Kill someone?”
Callie shook her head.
“So what’s the catch?” Trish said.
“If you accept the contents of this suitcase,” Callie said, “someone will die.”
Trish said, “All right, that’s enough. This is obviously some type of TV show, but it’s the cruelest way to punk someone I’ve ever seen. Here’s an idea for the next one: get a normal-looking woman instead of a beautiful model. And don’t use all the flowery New Age language. Who’s going to buy that bullshit? Okay, so where’s the camera—in the suitcase?”
The suitcase.
From the moment Callie lifted the lid, Rob had been transfixed. He’d finally found something more compelling to stare at than Callie’s chest. Even now he couldn’t take his eyes off the cash. “Do we get some sort of fee if you put this on TV?”
Callie shook her head. “Sorry, no TV, no hidden cameras.”
“Then it doesn’t make sense.”
“Like I said, it’s a social experiment. My boss is fed up with the criminal justice system in this country. He’s tired of seeing murderers set free due to sloppy police work, slick attorneys, and stupid jurors. So, like a vigilante, he goes after murderers who remain unpunished. He feels he’s doing society a favor. But society loses when any person dies, no matter how evil, so my boss wants to pay something forward for the life he takes.”
“That’s a crock of shit,” Trish said. “If he really believed that, he’d pay the victims’families instead of total strangers.”
“Too risky. The police could establish a pattern. So my boss does the next best thing, he helps anonymous members of society. Each time my boss kills a murderer he pays society up to one hundred thousand dollars. And today you get to be society.”
Trish was about to comment, but Rob got there first. He was definitely getting more intrigued. “Why us?”
“A loan officer forwarded your application to my boss and said you were decent people, about to lose everything.”
Trish said, “You represented yourself as a loa
n officer.”
“I did.”
“And you’re not.”
“I’m a different type of loan officer.”
“And what type is that?”
“The type that brings cash to the table,” Callie said.
“In a suitcase,” Trish said.
Trish looked at the cash as if seeing the possibilities for the first time. She said, “If what you’re saying is true, and your boss is paying all this money to benefit society, why tell us about the killing at all? Why not just pay us?”
“He thinks it’s only fair that you know where the money comes from and why it’s being paid.”
Rob and Trish digested this information without speaking, but their expressions spoke volumes. Rob, thinking this could be his big chance in life, Trish, dissecting the details, trying to allow herself to believe. This was a family in crisis, Callie knew, and she had just thrown them the mother of all lifelines.
Finally Trish said, “These murderers you speak of. Is your boss going to kill them anyway?”
“Yes. But not until the money is paid.”
“And if we refuse to accept it?”
“No problem. I’ll ask the next family on my list.”
Rob said, “The person your boss is going to kill—is there any possibility it’s someone we know?”
“You know any murderers?”
Callie could practically hear the wheels turning as Rob and Trish stared at the open suitcase. Callie loved this part, the way they always struggled with it at first. But she knew where this would go. They’d turn it every way they could, but in the end, they’d take the money.
“This sounds like one of those specials, like 'What Would You Do?'” Trish said, unable to let go of her feeling this was all an elaborate hoax.
Callie glanced at her watch. “Look, I don’t have all day. You’ve heard the deal, I’ve answered your questions, it’s time to give me your answer.”
Her deadline brought all their emotions to a head.
Trish’s face blanched. She lowered her head and pressed her hands to either side of her temples as though experiencing a migraine. When she looked up her eyes had tears in them. It was clear she was waging a war with her conscience.
