“If you are who I think you want me to believe you are, you sure as hell aren't here to protect me. If you are assigned to kill this Styer, I'm your bait, so you owe me the truth.”
“It might be because…” He shook his head slightly. “This is just between us, it has to stay that way.”
“Fine,” Winter said. “My word.”
“Cross my heart,” Nicky said.
“It could be sort of our fault that he's after you.”
“Define ‘sort of.'”
“Look, I know you aren't going to shoot me, Green. So aim that damn gun somewhere else.”
“So far, you ain't bought yourself a thing but a. 45-caliber hollow point. I hope you got extra gore insurance on this car when you rented it.”
Winter opened the breech of the Glock he'd removed from Adams's pocket and saw the glint of brass. He pointed the weapon at Adams. “Put the Colt away, Nicky. He knows I'll shoot him.”
“When a certain Russian mobster, who wasn't technically guilty of what he was convicted of last year, whom you helped the A.G. frame, made an attempt to hire a hit on the attorney general, the FBI intercepted the messenger and came to see us about it. We saw an opportunity to thwart that hit and to get Styer, someone we wanted. We offered Yuri a deal, and Yuri offered Styer an assignment to get you, which he took because of your stellar reputation, Massey.”
Winter asked. “Why didn't y'all get Yuri to point him out to you-give you his hideout?”
“Styer moves constantly, keeps everything secret, so if there was a mole in his group, or someone gets turned, he'll be safe. He trusts Yuri, but even Yuri never knows where Styer is, so all he could do was send him to us like he did. If Styer survives and figures out he was set up, he'll go straight back to Russia and kill Yuri. He has independent ties into intelligence and helpers.”
“Styer ran over Hank and Millie because he wanted Winter?” Nicky said, obviously stunned. “That makes you people responsible.”
“Does my director know about this?” Winter asked.
“No. Nobody outside my group does.”
“You're gonna kill this Styer?” Nicky said. “How?”
“When he comes for Massey, I'll be there. He'll be coming soon. He will want to take you man to man, pit his skills against yours. That's why he used Trammell. Styer wants you angry, motivated, so you'll be on your game.”
“If he is watching, what effect will you showing up have on his plan?”
“He'll just think an FBI agent was sent in to evaluate the Trammels' accident. He'll check up on me using his intelligence resources, and he'll believe it.”
“What about my family? Will he go after them?” The Russians, like the Colombian cartels, were notorious for killing entire families as an object lesson.
“Not a chance Styer would do that.”
“He doesn't kill women or children?” Nicky asked, sounding skeptical.
“It would serve no purpose.”
“Last year I killed some men. Were any of them friends of yours?” Winter asked Adams.
“I don't have any friends,” Adams answered.
“If you are who I think you are, you know who Fifteen is.”
“He runs our organization.”
“Your boss goes by a number?” Nicky asked.
“It's not his real name,” Adams said.
“He like the fifteenth in line for the throne?” Nicky said. “This is horse dookie.”
“Fifteen ran into a blowtorch while he was on a mission in East Germany during the Cold War. Fifteen hours is how long he was interrogated without talking.”
“Can't be true,” Nicky argued. “He's lying, Winter.”
Winter handed Adams back his Glock.
The cutout made Winter uneasy, in the same way sharing the interior of the car with a coiled cottonmouth might. But since the agent was a specialist-something Winter was painfully familiar with-that uneasy feeling wasn't necessarily a bad thing. If Adams so much as sneezed wrong, Winter would kill him.
The cells run by Fifteen, the groups Adams was affiliated with, were ex-military Special Forces-trained cleaners, assassins called cutouts because their identities were fictitious. Fifteen was powerful. And he was at the top of the list of the most poisonous and frightening individuals Winter had ever met.
“Green,” Adams said, “I'm going to give you this one.”
“One what?”
“Breaking into my rooms and putting that gun to my head. I understand why you did it and, even though I would have done the same thing, the next time you aim that gun at me you'd better pull the trigger.”
“If I feel called on to draw down on you again, that won't be a problem.”
Adams laughed.
78
Hood cinched tight, hands clenched together in the front pocket, Faith Ann lay flat in the narrow space between the hard cases, duffels, and rucksacks piled inside the tall steel cage on the van's roof. The raised flat bars that comprised the floor of the cage allowed the air to come at her from above and below, adding to the chilling effect of the wind. If she could have huddled up more, it would have made the ride more comfortable. At least she was hidden. By her watch it had been two hours of driving up and down rural roads. How long did it take to get to a Bible bee? She ventured a peek. Peter had mentioned sightseeing before the contest, but not that it would take hours. Below her, the kids started singing. Their voices filtered up to her from the open van windows.
She might not freeze to death this time of year, but darkness would drop the temperature, and she was bone tired-not to mention that she had important things to do. Sometimes it was as if she had dreamed the murders, had confused real life with a scary movie, and that her mother was really at the office, or at home, and perfectly fine.
Faith Ann saw the approaching sunset as an accusation against her. Horace Pond was sitting in a cell in the isolated Death House Unit at Angola. Faith Ann imagined him praying with Sister Ellen, his small voice telling God that he didn't kill anybody. Maybe Sister Ellen believed him, but Faith Ann knew hardly anybody, except a convicted killer's family and maybe a lawyer like her mother, ever really believed people in Horace Pond's position.
With four hours to go, she imagined Horace Pond eating his last meal, which she thought was probably something he never got to eat in prison. She thought about Horace Pond's family, his wife and four children, and how sad and afraid they had to be knowing he was going to be dead in a few hours. Thinking about it made Faith Ann sad. The fact that he was innocent made her angry. Thinking about justice made her think about her mother.
Faith Ann thought about the fact that her mother died knowing that Horace Pond was innocent. Her mother knew that the only chance he had to live was if Faith Ann survived and told the truth to somebody who could make the state stop the execution. And Faith Ann had to make that happen somehow. If I can't stop it tonight, they'll all be sorry to find out they murdered an innocent man. They'll have to quit murdering people on Death Row.
Faith Ann realized that it wouldn't be just as good if people found out Horace Pond was innocent after he was executed. No matter what, she couldn't let that happen.
It occurred to her that she could have done something and hadn't. If she had run out the front door before he fired his gun, and the killer had chased her, knowing a witness was escaping he wouldn't have dared kill the women. She knew that the elevators always went back down to the lobby and waited down there until someone called them up. She should have raced down the stairs. Then she could have escaped and called for help.
Her mind wrapped itself around that scenario. Faith Ann could see everything. Sliding out from under the table. Slipping to the front door. Slamming it as she ran out. Straight to the stairwell. Through that door. Down the four flights of stairs. Screaming bloody murder. Out in the street, waving down cars. A police cruiser, a cab, a mother taking her children to school. Her mother calling 911. The killer trapped. Horace Pond freed. Her mother a hero. Herself a hero.
<
br /> I could have done it.
I could have saved her.
Mama, I'm so sorry.
It's all my fault.
I was afraid.
I didn't do anything but lie there safe.
Now you are dead forever.
Now Aunt Millie is dead forever.
Uncle Hank will know it's all my fault.
Mama, I'm so sorry…
Faith Ann started crying.
The van slowed and pulled off the highway. It stopped beneath a corrugated steel awning.
The doors opened and the passengers started getting out.
She smelled gasoline fumes.
I can get down and find a phone. I'll call Rush…
She sneaked a peek over the luggage and her heart stopped. A police car was parked outside the gas station; the khaki-uniformed cop leaned against it, holding a soda.
The kids were going into the station convenience store to get snacks while the adults put gas in the van. She lay there, her thoughts racing, unable to decide what to do. Now she knew how rats felt in a trap. She felt the van shift ever so slightly and she froze.
She sensed someone standing on the ladder and she looked up to see Peter.
He put a finger to his lips to warn her to stay quiet. He took off his leather jacket and tossed it onto her. He made a gesture of putting his hand in his pockets and climbed down.
Faith Ann slipped the coat on. Inside the pockets she found a bottle of water, two packages of peanut butter crackers, and a candy bar.
Thank you, sir. Mama always said angels don't always need swords.
79
Harvey Suggs sat at a small table in a private dining room at a family-owned restaurant he frequented. The police captain had decided that he needed a sit-down meal and a stiff drink or two so he could calmly examine this mess and figure out his escape opportunities.
Suggs wasn't in the catbird seat, but neither was he dumb enough to be standing around at the bottom of the hill waiting to catch whatever rolled down.
If he played this right, handled it himself, nobody could point a finger at him when Bennett vanished. He remembered the words of the famous Louisiana gangster Sam Manelli: “Three people can be trusted to keep a secret… if two of them are dead.”
Manseur was going to have to cover a lot of ground before he could trace anything back to Bennett, which would be a dead end. The Feds had compiled a lot in a short time, but suspicion and proof were different animals. Suggs had never banked one dime of the money he'd gotten under the table from Bennett or anyone else. The waiter brought his scotch, interrupting Suggs's worried train of thought.
“Ten minutes on the trout,” he said.
“No hurry, Angelo. If you have any steak scraps…”
“Of course, Captain Suggs. A bag for Heinzie.”
When the door opened a minute after the waiter left, Arturo Estrada and his girlfriend, or wife, or whatever she was, came in.
“What are you doing here?” Suggs demanded.
“We need some information,” Arturo said.
“Meeting is not a good idea.” Suggs was annoyed.
“Mr. Bennett says you won't take his calls.”
Marta made Suggs very nervous. The woman was remarkably beautiful, and that was part of it, but he knew that she was as cold and as proficient a killer as any creature Nature had ever designed. Her big brown eyes were like wet river stones, and when she stared at him he was sure she was reading his mind.
“I can't talk to Bennett. Didn't Tin Man explain that?”
“Tin Man doesn't have the gift of explaining things,” the woman said. “He is a dumb son of a bitch, who sees only his own small part of things. He mentioned two federal officers showed up to make trouble. Tin Man told Mr. Bennett that you put someone else in charge of the lawyer's and Amber Lee's deaths. Mr. Bennett isn't sure this is a good thing. He is a little bit nervous. He liked it better the way it was.”
“Mr. Bennett doesn't get to decide how things are done. The Feds are all over this now. I had no choice. They know certain things that they shouldn't know. Remind Jerry that I had it all under control until that little hit-and-run. You shouldn't have run over the deputy marshal and his wife.”
“What are you talking about?” Marta asked. “What deputy and his wife?”
“Uptown last night is what I mean. Your stupid hit-and-run brought in the FBI and Deputy U.S. Marshal Winter Massey. It turns out that Deputy Trammel and his wife were related to Kimberly and Faith Ann Porter. And the child was a close friend of Massey's son. She called the son and told him that cops killed her mother. That was how the Feds showed up at Canal Place.”
“Cops?” Arturo said. “How did she think that? I knew she wasn't in her mother's office.”
“ The Winter Massey?” Marta asked, smiling.
“Tell Jerry I can't talk to him about this or anything else for a while.” When Suggs said that, he had it all. His mind played out the scenario, ending with patting down the dirt over Bennett's grave. “Tell him that I have to talk to him face-to-face. Tell him to make sure he doesn't have a tail. Tell him to meet me at his lake house tonight at ten.”
“Tell me more about the Feds,” Marta said. “Winter Massey.”
“Winter Massey is about the worst possible man to have on your ass. Ask Sam Manelli about it.”
Marta nodded impassively. “What else?”
“What do you mean, what else?”
“Tell me everything you know about Massey and the agent. Where they are staying, what weapons they have, how they communicate. Everything.”
“Why?” Suggs said.
“Because I asked,” she said.
It didn't take long for Suggs to tell the killers everything he knew about Massey and the FBI agent.
Marta said, locking eyes with Suggs, “Sometimes I wonder about things. Like why would the spying FBI agents all stay out of sight after Agent Adams told you about them watching? And I wonder why you would have Mr. Bennett go all the way out to the boathouse when you could meet closer?”
“Sometimes I wonder about things too,” Suggs shot back. “Like what has Bennett done to get rid of any incriminating evidence? He did tell you that the Feds came to ask him questions? He must have told you that he didn't do very well in the interview. He mentioned my name to them. I am sure he would never give them your names.”
Marta held Suggs's eyes for a long time. Icily, she smiled. “Maybe near the lake is the safest place for Mr. Bennett to meet you. We should all be thinking about our safety. And our futures.”
“Maybe we'll see each other again real soon,” Suggs said. “I like the way you”-he tilted his glass to her in salute-“think.”
80
Winter and Adams went straight to Charity Hospital while Nicky stopped by the hotel to give the clerk a letter Winter had written, and an envelope. The letter said that if a child came looking for him, the clerks were to give her the envelope. It contained his phone number and a key to the suite. Faith Ann hadn't known where he was staying, because Rush hadn't known when they talked. If she called back, Sean would send her to the hotel and call him. He chose the hospital because there was a chance that the girl might show up, knowing Hank was there.
Winter was bothered by the amount of time that had passed without Faith Ann calling Rush. While he visited Hank in the ICU, Adams sat out in the waiting room, perhaps watching for the superkiller.
The young doctor assured him that Hank was showing signs of improvement as measured by the phalanx of machines that were charged with deciding such things. “We unhooked the respirator because he's breathing on his own now. I think we are going to set the bones we can set tonight and start bringing him out of the coma after the procedure. I wouldn't be surprised if he regains consciousness during the night.”
To Winter, his friend looked even worse than he had the last time he'd seen him. The facial swelling looked worse and Hank's skin, where it wasn't abraded or bruised, seemed to have turned to a light
gray.
Winter suddenly felt the weight of the hours of worry and stress settling on his shoulders. He was accustomed to long stretches without rest, and although he couldn't think about sleeping yet, he needed to eat something and fill himself up with hot coffee. When the doctor left him, Winter slumped in the chair beside Hank's bed, put his elbows on his knees, and closed his hands over his eyes. He thought about Sean, Rush, and the baby that would soon join his family.
When Winter opened his eyes, Detective Manseur was in the room. The bags under the cop's eyes seemed to be larger and to have turned a darker brown in the two hours since Winter had last seen him.
“How's he doing?” Manseur asked in a soft voice.
“Doctor says much better,” Winter said. “I wish I could see it.”
81
“In the city with the finest restaurants on earth we're eating in a hospital cafeteria,” Winter said. “So where do we stand.”
“The transmitter I found in Trammel's Stetson,” Manseur said, “is an audio and positioning combination. My tech friend has never seen anything close to that size. Thinks it could be European. Probably a three-mile range. The body in the Rover had European dental work. That's about as far as I can go with that until we get I.D. on prints. I copied Interpol as well.”
Winter didn't let on that the dental work or the bug's origin being European were of specific interest to him. It added credibility to Adams's story about a Russian assassin targeting Hank and Millie to lure Winter to New Orleans. If that wasn't true, the two crimes were just one very large coincidence.
“I found out who the male half of the Latin couple was, without letting Suggs or Tinnerino know that I knew about them.” Manseur handed Winter a copy of a driver's license.
“Arturo Pena Estrada. How'd you find him?”
“There was no criminal record on the woman. But I ran her home and business addresses through the database and I got a separate hit on her home address. She owns the property. Estrada uses that address for everything, so he likely lives there.”
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