by Mike Nappa
Trudi said nothing, still looking for a clean shot at the man’s head, but Annabel let her body go limp in his grasp. He loosened his hold just enough for the girl to cough and sputter and start breathing again.
“It’s over,” Trudi said. “Dr. Smith is dead. Your partner is dead. Let the girl go.”
The mercenary shook his head. “You don’t understand. There is no going back. This mission was always success or death.”
Trudi lowered her gun. “No,” she said. “You don’t have to die. Not today. Let her go.”
Brown Head ignored her. Instead he put a foot on the lowest step and craned his head, trying to get a glimpse of what was going on outside.
“Your sniper is crazy.” Fear tinged the mercenary’s voice. “He killed Rolf with a single shot. Rolf was already dead, but he just kept shooting. Kept shooting. I think he was trying to make his bullets pass through Rolf until they hit me.”
“I’ve got news for you,” Trudi said, raising the Walther once more. “I’m a little mentally unbalanced myself today.”
“Stay back! I will kill her—you know I will. I’m the one who finally took out her uncle, you know. I’m the one who ended the life of the great Leonard Truckson.”
Trudi stopped advancing, but she didn’t lower her gun.
“Annabel,” Trudi said, “you doing okay over there?” The girl nodded, eyes locked onto Trudi’s.
“Kill this worthless animal,” Annabel said fiercely. She nodded again.
Trudi almost laughed out loud. This girl was a force to be reckoned with. Maybe Dr. Smith was right about there being something special in her blood.
Brown Head was nearing a full state of panic now. His gun flew wildly between Annabel’s head and Trudi’s torso, but his real attention was on the sniper outside the tunnel.
“American!” he shouted above him. “American! I’ve got your little girl!”
In response, a volley of automatic weapons fire sprayed across the top step of the tunnel. The mercenary crouched low, taking the child with him. Annabel started kicking again.
“If I die,” he grunted at last, “you die.” Then he yanked hard on Annabel’s body and, carrying her as a shield, rushed to the top of the stairs.
“No, wait!” Trudi shouted, but she was too late. She ran to the base of the steps and saw Brown Head disappear from view, still holding Annabel. Trudi took the steps two at a time and peeked out of the tunnel, leaning her shoulders onto the ground just outside the entrance while leaving the rest of her body underground.
It took a moment for her to acclimate to the night outside, but when she did, she figured out that Brown Head had now taken cover behind a parked ATV. He still kept Annabel captive, pressing her into the open gaps of the ATV. She tried to take aim but knew that at this distance, in this moonlight, she’d be just as likely to hit the girl as she would the man.
Should have taken the shot when Annabel told me to, she told herself.
“Let the girl go!” she shouted into the darkness. “You can still come out of this alive.”
A strong hand covered her mouth.
It came from nowhere, appearing as if by magic out of the darkness, silencing her voice behind an impenetrable grip. Trudi tried to scream, tried to fight. She swung the Walther toward her attacker and then quickly found her gun hand pinned to the ground. She struggled to break free, astonished at the raw strength that kept her trapped and unable to move. Then a face was next to hers, staring hard into her eyes. And below that face, etched deep into the neck, was a thick, familiar scar.
“GheMutgtf!” she breathed. The Mute!
When he saw recognition in her eyes, The Mute released his hold on her mouth and hand.
“What—” she started to say, but he shook his head. He put a finger to his lips, and Trudi knew what he was asking. Would you shut up and let me do my job?
“American!” the mercenary was calling to the wind now, clearly unaware where The Mute was hiding. “Don’t make me kill your girl! Surrender now and she will live! American, do you hear me! Answer! Answer!”
The Mute motioned for Trudi to move. She rolled out of the tunnel, staying low to the ground and letting him take her place. She watched him lean on his elbows, sniper rifle balanced like a pendulum in his arms.
“American!”
There was a single shot, and Brown Head toppled backward to the ground. Annabel pushed away immediately and came running toward the tunnel entrance. When The Mute saw her, he shunned his rifle and came out of the tunnel. He knelt on the ground.
Annabel crashed into him like a wave hits a cliff, wrapped herself around his broad shoulders, and buried her head deep into his neck. He stood, holding her in his arms, swaying gently, turning in a tight, slow circle, unwilling to let go.
“I knew you’d come,” Annabel was saying to him over and over. “I knew you’d come for me. Like you did before. I knew you’d come.”
Trudi said nothing, just sat in the dirt and ash watching the reunion. It’s over, she thought. It’s finally over. And then a worry creased her mind.
But where’s Samuel?
The pig.
45
Trudi
Monday, October 26
Trudi Sara Coffey brushed a darkened curl away from her eyes and, as was her custom, looked first in the classifieds section of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
She scanned the personals until the familiar advertisement came into view. It was only one line, easy to miss, but Trudi couldn’t start her morning without checking to see if its invisible author still had the same message to send out to the world.
Safe.
She looked again at the four-letter word she’d grown accustomed to seeing, let a faint grin pass on her lips in gratefulness that it had returned, then contentedly turned back to the front page to begin her day in earnest. Half an hour later, she heard a knock on the doorframe to her office. The man who filled her doorway was tall, lean, and muscular, carrying a leather valise in one large hand. His chocolate eyes were smiling at her. His hair had been cut but still strayed longer past his ears than she remembered it last. He wore a gray wool trench coat over a collarless blue shirt and denim jeans. And as always, his favorite black boots bottomed out his outfit. He looked ready for either business or pleasure. As usual.
“Detective Coffey,” he said formally, “there’s someone here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he’s hoping that you’ll see him anyway. Ma’am.”
Samuel Hill flashed his teeth, and even though she knew he thought that was his “irresistible, boyish grin,” she couldn’t help being happy to see it.
“I would have buzzed in,” he continued, “but it seems you still haven’t hired a new receptionist.”
“Who has time for interviews and such?” She shrugged. Then, “So, you’re back in town. When did you get in?”
“Just yesterday. Can I come in?”
Trudi gestured toward the metal guest chairs in front of her desk. Samuel hesitated. “You’ll keep your hands where I can see them?”
“Relax, you big chicken. I’m not going to electrocute you. Unless you deserve it.”
The big man gave her a dubious look and then decided to risk it. He settled down comfortably. “You look good,” he said. “Much better than the last time I saw you.”
Trudi blinked involuntarily. It had been more than a month since she’d received a beating at the hands of Johannes Schmitzden. Her face had healed nicely. There were no physical mementos of her bruises and cuts, but it was harder to rid herself of the mental wounds. Time, she had decided at last, would heal the inner scars.
“Thanks,” she said. You don’t look so bad yourself, cowboy. She didn’t dare say that out loud. Too much baggage. So she went another direction with the conversation. “How did the cleanup go back in the Conecuh Forest?”
“All done,” Samuel said. He cracked his knuckles. “Sadly, it turns out there were a few dozen more casualties of the Great Conecuh Fire than firs
t estimated.”
“Yeah, I saw that on the news,” Trudi said. “They indicated the additional bodies had been burned beyond recognition. No identification possible.”
Samuel shrugged. “I guess that happens sometimes. Makes you think twice about hiking solo in a national forest, doesn’t it?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
There was a moment of awkwardness, but Trudi just waited. Silence is a powerful tool in a private investigator’s arsenal, she reminded herself, and in ex-husband/ex-wife relations. Her patience was rewarded when he reached inside his jacket.
“Here,” he said at last, “I thought you might need this. To replace the one you lost.”
He placed a brand-new Beretta Bobcat handgun on the desk. He’s so cute sometimes, Trudi thought. He’s practically blushing, like a little boy offering a flower to his favorite girl. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that hers had been a Beretta Tomcat, not a Bobcat, and that she’d replaced that little ditty within a week after her return to Atlanta. Oh well, having a backup gun would be a nice luxury. She’d definitely keep this one nearby too.
“That’s very thoughtful,” she said to him. “You shouldn’t have.”
He shrugged and tried not to look too pleased with himself.
“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Samuel said, “I brought you something else too.”
“What is it?”
He reached inside his brown valise and produced a book with a bow wrapped around it.
“An early Christmas gift,” he said, “from a mutual friend.” He emphasized the mute syllable of mutual.
Trudi took the book and removed the bow. It was an expensive illustrated gift edition of S. Morgenstern’s The Princess Bride, by William Goldman. Hardbound and thick, it was a beautiful tome. Fashioned with an imitation of 1800s-style precision that included lavish, four-color illustrations, a sturdy, sewn-in binding, and quarter-inch-thick cover plates on front and back. Trudi resisted the urge to flip open the back cover and run her hands across the endpapers there. She knew that what she expected to be hidden there, she’d find. But for now, she didn’t want to know anything else about it unless it was absolutely necessary. Unless something was unsafe.
“It’s lovely,” she said.
“He thought you’d like it. But maybe you should keep it in a safe place?”
“Of course.” She set the book next to the telephone on her desk, then turned her attention back to Samuel. He fidgeted uncomfortably.
“Annabel sends her love,” he said at last. “She’s fine. Safe. And her godfather. He’s fine too.”
“Good to know,” Trudi said. She let her mind drift back to their last meeting, on September 21.
It had been a hard parting when she and Annabel had said good-bye. The morning after the last stand at Truck’s farm, The Mute, Annabel, and Trudi had met Samuel at Denny’s restaurant in Birmingham. Samuel had brought two plane tickets, one for The Mute and one for Annabel.
“We still don’t know enough about Dr. Smith and his freaky Order of St. Heinrich von Bonn,” he said. “Best to keep Annabel in her Fade for a while, at least until she turns thirteen.”
The Mute had accepted the tickets without looking at them. “Plane leaves Birmingham-Shuttlesworth around 4:00 p.m.,” Samuel said.
Trudi saw The Mute frown at that news, but she didn’t know why. Not my business, she’d told herself. Something between him and Samuel.
“Meanwhile,” Samuel continued, “the CIA is actively looking into Dr. Smith’s organization now. The boys in Langley aren’t happy about losing a man like Truck. They beat Homeland Security to that last mercenary we left in the woods. They plan to question him while the fight over jurisdiction plays out.”
A perky young waitress delivered their breakfast at that point, and following The Mute’s lead, they ate mostly in silence. Then, too soon, it was time for good-byes.
Trudi followed Annabel until they stood beside a Jeep Wrangler in the parking lot. She noticed a few thick bags in the backseat. Samuel and The Mute made some excuse to leave the women alone.
“I can’t believe I just met you yesterday,” Trudi said quietly. “I feel like we belong together already.”
Annabel smiled and blushed. “Thank you, Miss Trudi, for coming to me. I think God might have sent you. I couldn’t have made it without you.”
“Nonsense.” Trudi was blushing now. “You’re a strong, educated girl. And besides, God tends to get things done with or without me.”
They didn’t say anything for a moment, and then Annabel leaned softly in and wrapped her arms around Trudi’s waist. In spite of herself, Trudi felt her eyes grow damp. She imagined, just for a second, that this was what it felt like to be a real mother to a real child. She didn’t want to let go. She knelt down and pushed her cheek into Annabel’s neck.
“Why don’t,” Trudi said into her ear, “why don’t you just stay with me, honey. I want you to stay. I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
It was a long moment before Annabel responded. “I can’t, Miss Trudi. The Mute, he’s my godfather. Truck told me if anything ever happened to him, I was to go live with The Mute.”
Trudi nodded and felt tears spring out despite her efforts to keep them in. “Okay, I understand.” Trudi nodded again and stood, leaving a hand resting on Annabel’s shoulder. “If you ever need me,” she said, “no, if you ever just want me, you let me know. I’m bound to you now, just like The Mute. I’ll always be there for you, okay?”
“Okay.”
Trudi now wished she would have said the words she was thinking then, but she hoped the girl knew them anyway. I love you, Annabel Lee Truckson. She hoped she knew.
And then they were gone. Annabel and The Mute drove off down the highway. Samuel drove Trudi back to Atlanta, gave her the name of a bodyguard he trusted, then he was gone too, and it was left to Trudi to resume the life she’d run away from just a few weeks earlier. Before everything changed.
She’d never called the bodyguard; she didn’t need to. No one came after her, and it was only a week or so before she was buried in her work again—background checks, insurance fraud investigations, asset locates, skip traces. It was predictable work, and she was liking it again. Almost . . .
“I have a postcard,” Samuel said now, bringing Trudi back from her reverie, “if you want to see it.”
“No,” Trudi said. “It’s better if I don’t have any idea where she might be.”
Samuel nodded. He stood and looked through the door down the short hallway to the reception area at Coffey & Hill Investigations. Trudi stood behind her desk, trying to be polite while he left. Again. The pig.
But he didn’t move toward the exit. Instead, he turned back to her.
“So,” he said, “they’re telling me to take a sabbatical.”
“What?” Trudi didn’t follow where he was going.
“The CIA. They want me out of the field for a bit. They say that the whole Annabel Lee situation makes me ‘hot’ overseas right now, and they want me to cool off stateside for a while.”
“Wow, I’m sorry, Samuel. I know how that must be hard for you.”
Her ex-husband shrugged. “At first I was a little upset about it. But now I’m thinking maybe it’s for the best.”
“Good for you.”
Samuel gave a long look across the hall toward the cluttered storage room.
“I notice you still have an empty office here at Coffey & Hill Investigations.” He placed an unnecessary emphasis on the Hill part of Coffey & Hill. “And, you know, I’ve got some free time ahead of me.”
Trudi bit her lip. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that maybe I could come back.”
“Samuel.” Trudi sat down heavily. “You know we can’t do that. Not after, well, everything.”
“No, no,” he said, “I understand that part. I understand we can’t get back together that way, not as husband and wife. But, you know, we’re a good PI team, Tru-Bear. We were a great t
eam working on the Annabel Lee case. We can’t be lovers, I get that, but why can’t we be partners? It is called Coffey & Hill Investigations, after all. That’s both our names on the sign out there.”
Trudi didn’t know what to say. She let the idea roll around in her head. It would be nice to have Samuel Hill around again, she thought. He was a superb asset to any private investigation. Smart. Resourceful. Connected out the wazoo. And a girl always appreciates looking at pretty things, right? But still . . .
“I don’t know, Samuel,” she said at last. “It seems like it could be a big mistake.”
“I know,” he said, “it could be. Or it could be just the thing we’ve both been looking for since . . . since a few years ago.”
“I don’t know.”
“How about this,” he said, and she could see his eyes glinting. “What if I just clean out the mess in your storage room over there? How about I come in tomorrow morning and just do that? Then, after, we can talk more about other things. Sound fair?”
Baby steps, she said to herself, smiling. He was using the What About Bob? strategy on her. She knew it, and he knew she knew it, but he was trying it anyway.
“All right,” she said at last. “Clean the storage room. Tomorrow is fine for that. Then we’ll talk.”
“It’s a deal.” He turned to go, but she called out to him before he reached the door.
“And Samuel?” she said. “One more thing.”
“You got it, Tru-Bear.”
“I need a receptionist.”
He looked dubious. “I don’t know that I’m cut out for answering phones,” he said.
“No, not you.” She waved him off. “But you made me fire my old receptionist. So you have to do one thing for me.”
“What is it?”
She scribbled something on a sheet of paper, tore it off the pad, and handed it across the desk.
“Call Eulalie Jefferson and talk her into coming back. Be charming. Offer her a raise. Tell her she can have your car. Just get her back here for me. Can you do that?”
Samuel Hill took the paper and let his fingers brush gently across Trudi’s hand. He looked at the telephone on her desk, and his gaze flicked across The Princess Bride still sitting beside it. He turned away from the book and locked eyes with Trudi.
