Conspiracies

  The metallic click of the hammer was barely audible over Ceil's wail of terror.

  Her voice cut off as both she and Gus stared at the pistol.

  "That could have been a dud," Jack said. "Man, I hate when that happens." He pointed to the top of the pistol. "Pull that slide back to chamber a fresh round."

  Gus stared at him a second, then worked the slide. An unspent round popped out.

  "There you go," Jack said. "Now, give it another shot, if you'll pardon the expression."

  Looking confused, he aimed at Ceil again, and Jack detected a definite tremor in the barrel now. Gus pulled the trigger but this time Ceil didn't scream. She merely flinched at the sound of the hammer falling on another dud.

  "Aw, maaaan? Jack said, drawing out the word into a whine. "You think you're buying good ammo and someone rips you off! Can't trust nobody these days!"

  Gus quickly worked the slide and pulled the trigger again. Jack allowed two more misfires, then he stepped around Ceil and approached Gus.

  Frantically Gus worked the slide and pulled the trigger again, aiming for Jack's face. Another impotent click. He began backing away when he saw Jack's smile.

  "That's my dummy pistol, Gus. Actually, a genuine government-issue Mark IV, but the bullets are dummies—just like the guys I let get hold of it."

  Jack brought it along when he wanted to see what somebody was really made of. In the right situation, it tended to draw the worst to the surface.

  He bent and picked up the ejected rounds. He held one up for Gus to see.

  "The slug is real," Jack said, "but there's no powder in the shell. It's an old rule: Never let an asshole near a loaded gun."

  Gus charged, swinging the .45 at Jack's head. Jack caught his wrist and twisted the weapon from his fingers. Then he slammed it hard against the side of Gus's face, opening a gash. Gus tried to turn and run but Jack still had his arm. He hit him again, on the back of the head this time. Gus sagged to his knees and Jack put a lot of upper body behind the pistol as he brought it down once more on the top of his head. Gus stiffened, then toppled face first onto the floor.

  Only seconds had passed. Jack spun to check on Ceil's whereabouts. She wasn't going to catch him twice. But no worry. She was right where he'd left her, standing in the corner, eyes closed, tears leaking out between the lids. Poor woman.

  Nothing Jack wanted more than to be out of this crazy house. He'd been here too long already, but he had to finish this job now, get it done and over with.

  He took Ceil's arm and gently led her from the living room.

  "Nothing personal, lady, but I've got to put you in a safe place, okay? Someplace where you can't get near a fire poker. Understand?"

  "He didn't love me," she said to no one in particular. "He stayed with me because of his job. He was lying all those times he said he loved me."

  "I guess he was."

  "Lying ... "

  He guided her to a closet in the hall and stood her inside among the winter coats.

  "I'm just going to leave you here for a few minutes, okay?"

  She was staring straight ahead. "All those years ... lying ... "

  Jack closed her in the closet and wedged a ladder-back chair between the door and the wall on the other side of the hall. No way she could get out until he removed the chair.

  Back in the living room, Gus was still out cold. Jack turned him over and tied his wrists to the stout wooden legs of the coffee table. He took two four-by-four wooden blocks from his gym bag and placed them under Gus's left lower leg, one just below the knee and the other just above the ankle. Then he removed a short-handled five-pound iron maul from the duffel.

  He hesitated as he lifted the hammer.

  "Consider this a life saving injury, Gus, old scout," he said in a low voice. "If you're not laid up, your brother-in-law will kill you."

  Still Jack hesitated, then recalled Ceil's eyes as Gus methodically battered her kidneys—the pain, the resignation, the despair.

  Jack broke Gus's left shin with one sharp blow. Gus groaned and writhed on the floor, but didn't regain consciousness. Jack repeated the process on the right leg. Then he packed up all his gear and returned to the hall.

  He pulled the chair from where it was wedged against the closet door, and opened the door a crack.

  "I'm leaving now, lady. When I'm gone you can go next door or wherever and call the police. Better call an ambulance too."

  A single sob answered him.

  Jack left by the back door. It felt good to get the stocking off his head. He'd feel even better to be far away from this house.

  23

  Jack took the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge back into Manhattan. Since that would drop him right in Gia's neighborhood, he figured he'd pop in on his way back to the hotel. Vicky would be asleep, but he hoped Gia would be up. After the grimness of the Castlemans, he needed a little sweetness and light.

  He was about halfway across when he spotted the black sedan. He'd scanned the street when he'd left the Castlemans, but had seen no sign of it then. They must have been waiting somewhere along his return route.

  Or ... it simply could be a couple of guys who just happened to be heading into the city behind him, and just happened to be driving a black sedan.

  Could be. But Jack wanted to know for sure.

  When he reached the Manhattan side he took the downtown ramp, then made a full three-sixty loop around a single block. The black sedan stayed with him all the way, right behind him, not even bothering to hide its presence.

  That did it. He'd been sucker punched on a stairwell, damn near killed by some sort of dog monkey, and clocked on the back of his head with a fireplace poker. It had been a bad day and he'd had it.

  At the next red light, Jack slammed on the brakes, rammed the gearshift into park and jumped out of the car. Bursting with anger, he strode back to the Lincoln and yanked on the handle of the driver's door—locked. He pounded against the window.

  "Open up, dammit!"

  The window slid down and Jack found himself staring into the black lenses of a pair of sunglasses. He couldn't tell if this was the guy he'd chased or the one who'd punched him earlier today. They both looked alike and he could pick out no distinguishing marks on what little of their faces was visible.

  Traffic was light on the street, but just then a red pickup truck pulled to a stop behind the black sedan. Jack waved him around—he didn't want any witnesses to the altercation he was sure was about to ensue, but the truck stayed put.

  That bothered Jack a little. He thought he remembered seeing a red pickup in his rearview a couple of times since leaving the Castleman house, but couldn't be sure—he'd been concentrating on the black sedan. Who was it ... backup for the jokers in the sedan, or just another late night traveler?

  If it were a black pickup he'd definitely be worried but since it wasn't, he turned his attention back to the sedan.

  "What's the story, guys?" he said, crouching slightly to look into the open window. "Who the hell are you and why're you following me? Is my life that much more interesting than yours?"

  The driver merely stared up at him through his shades, saying nothing, his lips a straight line, his pale face expressionless, as if he were deciding whether this man was worthy of reply.

  That expression plus the memory of Olive's mutilated body stoked Jack's already topped-off anger.

  "Didn't your mothers ever teach you to take off your hats in a car? And what's with the shades at night? Don't you know that's dangerous?"

  Jack shot his left hand into the car, aiming to knock off the jerk's hat and grab his sunglasses, but before his fingers were through the opening, the driver's black-gloved hand grabbed Jack's wrist and stopped him.

  Jack tried to push farther in, but could not. And when he tried to pull free, he found his wrist imprisoned in a steely grip. Alarmed, he struggled but couldn't break free.

  The light had changed to green. A horn sounded, not from the pickup truck, but from some car b
ehind it. The black-gloved grip on his left wrist remained tight as a manacle. The fourth car, a battered old Toyota hatchback, chirped its tires and squeezed through the narrow, barely passable space on the far side of the pickup, the sedan, and Jack's rental, honking angrily all the way. The pickup didn't honk, didn't budge. Maybe the driver didn't think it could fit.

  As soon as the Toyota was gone, Jack heard the door open on the other side of the sedan. He looked up and saw the passenger emerge. A carbon copy of the driver. He stared at Jack across the black roof of the car.

  "Where is Melanie Rubin Ehler?" the second one said in a hoarse, whispery voice.

  "You're asking me?" Jack said. "Don't you know?"

  The passenger held up a small cylinder in his black-gloved hand. His thumb pressed some sort of button, Jack heard a snikt! and an ice-pick-like needle suddenly jutted from the upper end. The green glow from the traffic light gleamed evilly along its narrow polished surface.

  "Where is Melanie Rubin Ehler?" he repeated, and slammed the door.

  As the passenger started to move toward the front of the car, Jack grabbed the little finger on the driver's hand; with no little difficulty he worked it free and pried it up until he got a firm grip on it. Then he bent it sharply back.

  He heard the bone snap. But that was all he heard—no cry from the driver, and not the slightest lessening of the lock grip on his wrist. The driver was still looking up at him—no change of expression. Hadn't even flinched.

  A quick cold thrust of shock stabbed Jack's gut. He knew he'd broken that bone—he'd felt it give way. Didn't this guy have any nerves?

  Jack punched the driver's face as the passenger passed the right headlight. The sunglasses flew off as his hat slid down over his face; Jack punched the fedora, but the iron grip never slackened. A quick glance showed the passenger rounding the left headlight and coming Jack's way, his big needle held high.

  Time to bring out the artillery, Jack thought as he flexed his right knee to bring his ankle holster with the Semmerling within reach. But before he touched it, someone began firing.

  Jack looked around. The shots had come from the pickup. The driver door was open and a man was standing behind it, aiming a pistol in a two-handed grip through the window opening. Jack couldn't see his face, but that wasn't important right now. What mattered was he wasn't firing at Jack—he was aiming for the passenger.

  With an almost snakelike hiss, the passenger ducked into a crouch and jumped back into the car. The next bullet from the pickup went through the sedan's rear window.

  "Whoa!" Jack shouted. "Easy back there!"

  The driver still hadn't released Jack's arm, but that didn't stop him from throwing the car into gear and spinning the steering wheel.

  "Hey!" Jack shouted, pounding on the roof as the car started to roll. "Hey, what the hell are you doing?"

  "Where is Melanie Rubin Ehler?" said that same voice from inside the car.

  "I don't know!" Jack said as he began to be pulled along by the car.

  The sedan picked up speed, moving past the rear bumper of Jack's car, clearing it by a couple of inches—maybe. If Jack didn't free himself right now, his legs would be pinned between the cars. He tried to take another poke at the driver but, because of his position, couldn't reach him with his right fist.

  To save his legs, Jack stepped on his own car's bumper, jumped up onto the trunk, and then the driver gunned the sedan, pulling Jack along.

  Frantic now, Jack saw he had a choice between being dragged along the street or riding on the sedan's roof. Hell of a choice. He did a belly flop onto the roof as the car picked up speed.

  Jack knew he wasn't going to last long up here. He stretched, reached down, pulled the Semmerling. The chamber was empty so he clamped his teeth on the slide, drew it back, then let it spring forward. Turning his head away, he fired a .45 caliber slug through the roof into the general area of the front seat below him. The angle of his wrist made for a wild recoil. The Semmerling was not an autoloader so he had to work the slide with his teeth for every shot. Only rarely did he load full-jacket slugs, and unfortunately this was not one of those times. But the frangibles must have done some damage down below because the sedan suddenly swerved and the grip on his wrist loosened a bit—just enough for Jack to twist free.

  The car careened into a turn, its tires screeching as they slipped sideways on the pavement. It lost speed and Jack knew this might be his only chance. He pushed back, avoiding the shattered glass of the rear window as he slid off the roof onto the trunk, then slipped off onto the street. He hit the pavement running just before the car picked up speed again.

  His forward momentum was still too fast for his sneakered feet. He went down, landed on his shoulder and rolled halfway back to his feet, then slammed against the side of a car, denting its rear fender. He felt a quick wave of nausea but shook it off.

  At least he'd stopped moving. He stood and rubbed his sore shoulder as the black sedan continued down the street. Other cars passed. He saw curious faces looking his way, but no one stopped.

  At least not until the red pickup pulled up. Jack recognized the Jiffy-something guy with the gray crewcut behind the wheel: Miles Kenway.

  "You all right?" Kenway called through the open passenger window.

  What the hell was he doing here? "I've been better."

  "Get in. I'll take you back to your car." Jack looked back. He'd barely traveled a block. "I can walk."

  "Get in. We need to talk."

  Jack hesitated, then figured, what the hell, the guy had probably saved his life—or at least his lips and eyes. Jack got in. The first things he noticed were Kenway's camouflage pants and jacket. Camo? In the city?

  "Damn good thing I followed you tonight," Kenway said as he shoved the truck into gear.

  "And why were you doing that?"

  "Thought you might be working for them."

  "Who? The men in black?"

  "Don't call them that. That's what the UFO nuts call them. They're NWO operatives."

  "NW—?"

  "I'll explain later. Obviously you're not with them."

  "Obviously."

  "But then again, maybe that little scene was all a charade for my benefit, to suck me in, get me thinking of you as an ally."

  "Could be," Jack said, nodding, and thinking, Hey, I can be paranoid too. "Or ... your rescuing me from that little scene could have been a charade for my benefit, to suck me in, get me thinking of you as an ally."

  Kenway glanced at him and gave him a slow smile. "Yeah, I guess you could look at it like that. But trust me, Shelby—you're riding with the New World Order's worst nightmare."

  "Call me Jack."

  "Okay, Jack," he said, pulling to a stop behind Jack's car. "Meet me back at the hotel. I need to debrief you. And don't try confronting these guys again without backup. They're tough"

  Tell me about it, Jack thought, rubbing his wrist. He jumped out of the pickup.

  "Thanks."

  Kenway gave him a thumbs-up and roared away.

  Well, Jack had been looking for a way to get to Kenway. Maybe he could turn this "debriefing" into a two-way exchange.

  As he turned toward his car, something crunched under his foot. Looked like sunglasses. The ones he'd knocked off the driver? He picked them up—no, not quite sunglasses, just the frames. Thick black frames. But where were the lenses?

  He searched the pavement. The light wasn't great but he should have been able to spot black pieces among the glittery shards of shattered car window glass. He found nothing.

  Odd ...

  24

  Jack ditched the idea of dropping in on Gia. If he was being tailed, he didn't want the followers knowing anything about Gia and Vicky. Instead, he headed back to the hotel.

  He found Kenway waiting for him in the lobby. He wasn't exactly standing at attention, but his spine was so straight, his bearing so erect, he might have been waiting for military inspection. His camo stood out among the more civilian typ
es coming and going around him, but no one paid him much notice.

  "All right," Jack said as he reached him. "What—?"

  "My room," Kenway said, and marched off toward the elevators.

  Amused, Jack followed the shorter man. For the first few paces he resisted the temptation to fall into lockstep directly behind him, then gave in. He even saluted a couple of passersby.

  As they entered Kenway's room on the seventh floor, the older man stopped Jack just inside the door.

  "Wait here."

  All the lights were on. Jack gave the place a quick once-over. No shadows, no place for a big dog-monkey to hide. Good. He watched Kenway cross the room and take a little black box from atop the TV. He pressed a few buttons, then nodded with satisfaction.

  "All right. Come in."

  "What's that?" Jack said, pointing to the box.

  "A little something of my own invention," he said proudly. "A motion detector-recorder. It records the time of any motion in the room. Right now it shows clear readings since the time I left until half a minute ago when we entered. That means no one's been in while I've been out."

  "Pretty neat," Jack said, and meant it. He wouldn't mind having a few of those himself. "Anytime you decide to put them on the market, I'll be your first customer."

  This seemed to please Kenway, which was one of the reasons Jack had said it. No harm in softening up the guy.

  Kenway offered Jack a scotch from the minibar. Jack refused but that didn't deter Kenway from pouring himself a Dewar's, neat.

  "Good thing you were traveling armed," Kenway said. "I saw you shoot through the roof. Good move. What are you carrying?"

  Jack handed over the empty Semmerling and Kenway laughed.

  "I've heard of these but never held one. Cute little baby." He reached under his camo top to the small of his back and came up with a 1911A1 Colt .45. "Here's it's daddy. Best damn handgun ever made."