Maybe

  “Where are we staying?”

  “Vega Rouge.”

  “That’s the one with the big mall and cool restaurants?”

  “I think so.”

  “And you’re going there straight from the airport?”

  “I am.”

  “Then I’ll go with you!” she says. “I can check in for us and shop till you call me.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say.

  “How many days will we be together?”

  “As many as it takes to catch Felix.”

  “Can you catch him within a week?”

  “You’ve got a whole week?”

  Miranda smiles. “For you? Yes.”

  “In that case, I’ll catch him quickly. Then we’ll go somewhere fun.”

  “Where?”

  “Let’s ask the twins.”

  She lifts her top again, gives her torso a shake.

  I love hanging out with the twins.

  Miles Gundy.

  THE HSV-1 VIRUS is one of Miles’s favorites. This is the basic cold sore virus most people contract before age six. When the cold sore goes away, the virus remains in the body for life, appearing from time to time for no predictable reason.

  There’s no permanent cure for HSV-1.

  It’s contagious, and spreads through direct contact, as Miles learned four months ago when combining it with the highly toxic agent, dimethylmercury. On that occasion he spilled a single drop on his gloved hand. As a result, Miles is dying. The only reason he’s still alive? He immediately underwent treatment for mercury poisoning.

  Upon contact, Dimethylmercury enters the bloodstream and slowly works its way to the brain. It generally takes four months to notice the first symptoms, but when it comes, it’s quick. Your speech slurs, you drop things, you stumble into walls. Three weeks later, you die.

  But by combining the poison with the live HSV-1 virus, Miles created a toxic stew that will enter the skin of anyone who touches the barre for the next two hours. Because the Dancing Barre ladies are exercising, it’s only a matter of time before they’ll wipe the sweat from their eyes, noses, or mouths, at which point Miles’s concoction will enter their mucous membranes. The ladies will be symptom-free for ten days, but they’ll die four days later.

  Two weeks from now, when doctors realize the instructor and every member of the 3:15 p.m. exercise class died on the same day, people all over the country will fear exercise classes.

  It would be nice to think his concoction would have far-reaching effects, where one infected person would infect ten, and those ten would infect ten more, but it doesn’t work that way. The entire life cycle of the contagion is about four and a half hours, meaning, anyone not infected by 7:30 pm tonight will be safe. What’s worse, only about five percent of infected people will prove to be carriers of the disease.

  That is not to say Miles hasn’t made an impact.

  Take Joy Adams, for example. Joy reserved the last spot for the 3:15 p.m. exercise class at Dancing Barre. After class, she’ll catch a plane to visit her sister in Roanoke, Virginia. She’ll hold her boarding pass in her contaminated hands and pass it to the gate attendant, who’ll be dead fourteen days later. On the plane, Joy will touch the arm rests, the tray table, the overhead compartment latch, her water bottle, her drink glass and napkin, the in-flight magazine, and any number of other items. Until about 7:30 p.m. some or all of those items will be infected, and the chances are high at least another dozen people will come into contact with them.

  When Joy disembarks her plane, she’ll embrace her sister and brother-in-law and their two kids, and their dog. The dog will be fine, but the family won’t. That night, they’ll take her out to dinner at Chez Villesa, where she’ll enter the restroom at 7:23 p.m. After peeing, she’ll use the soap dispenser, at which point the virus will have approximately seven minutes to live.

  What are the odds the very next woman who touches the soap dispenser will be that one-in-twenty person who can spread the virus during the final seven minutes?

  Donovan Creed.

  TWO HOURS OUT of Vegas, my cell phone vibrates.

  “What’s happened?”

  Callie says, “Maybe just left the room.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perfect. How did she look?”

  “Cool as a cucumber.”

  “Good. You want to try to get in?”

  “Yes. If I hurry, he’ll probably think Maybe left something behind.”

  “Let me know when you’re in.”

  “Will do.”

  We hang up. Five minutes later, Callie calls.

  “What’s up?”

  “No answer.”

  “You knocked loudly?”

  “Yes. And called the room. You think she killed him?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “I think he saw you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Callie says.

  “Perhaps Maybe came back, saw you knocking, and called him.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Keep an eye on the door till I get there. If he starts to come out, run over, push him back inside, and give me a call.”

  “I could act like I lost my key, get the maintenance guy to let me in.”

  “I don’t like it. Too many problems. The door might be latched. The maintenance guy might see something. Sam might scream for help.”

  “Fine. I’ll sit tight.”

  “See you soon.”

  “By soon, you mean, what? Ten minutes?”

  “Ninety.”

  “Shit.”

  “Maybe he’ll come out soon.”

  “Hard to come out if he’s dead,” she says.

  “He’s not dead. Trust me.”

  “But he will be soon after you arrive?”

  “Not too soon.”

  “Goody,” she says.

  Lou Kelly.

  LOU AND SHERRY arrive at Chez Villesa, in downtown Roanoke, at 7:20 p.m., and find the restaurant completely packed. More than a dozen couples are waiting for tables. Lou glances at the bar and sees it’s even more crowded than the restaurant. He knows the manager, and tries to bribe him, but what can be done when there are no tables at all?

  “How long’s the wait?” he asks.

  “We’re running an hour wait right now.” He notices the Franklin in Lou’s hand and says, “I can maybe find you something in thirty minutes.”

  Lou turns to Sherry. “You want to wait or try somewhere else?”

  She thinks a moment.

  “Let’s find something quieter, and more romantic.”

  Lou smiles. “I agree.”

  They exit the restaurant and start heading to Lou’s car.

  Suddenly Sherry stops and says, “Maybe I should use the restroom before we go.”

  “You sure?”

  She says, “I can probably hold it a little longer.”

  Lou shrugs. “Better safe than sorry,” he says.

  She kisses his cheek, says, “I’ll be right back.”

  As Sherry opens the door to the ladies’ room, a young, fit woman walks out. Sherry pees, then pushes the top of the soap dispenser several times and washes her hands. Then she cups her right hand under the faucet, collects some water, puts it in her mouth, and swirls it around, to freshen her breath. Then she spits it into the sink, checks her hair, and exits the restroom.

  DINNER AT ROMANZA was more romantic than Lou and Sherry could have imagined, and the hotel sex that followed rekindled something in Lou that had been dormant for years. After making love for a surprising second time, Sherry gets up and pads to the bathroom.

  Lou decides it’s now or never.

  He rolls to the side of the bed and sits up with his feet touching the floor. He looks at the bathroom door. For years he’s wanted the head job at Sensory. It’s as if his entire career was a prelude to this crowning achievement.

  All he has to do is open the door, come up behind her, and snap her neck. r />
  He hears her running the water, washing her hands. Living alone all these years, Lou never hears anyone running the water in the bathroom of his apartment.

  It suddenly dawns on him that everything he wants is behind that door.

  Let Creed or someone else run Sensory. Lou’s wealthy enough. Maybe he’ll retire and settle down with Sherry. Surely Creed will allow it, especially after Lou explains how the President reneged on the deal to exchange her for Rachel.

  The bathroom door opens, and Sherry comes out, wearing nothing but a smile.

  “You know what I think?” she says.

  “Tell me.”

  “I think I’m falling in love with you!”

  Lou beams.

  Sherry tumbles into his arms. They fall back onto the bed, where they remain for hours, cuddling, kissing, and pronouncing their love, totally convinced they’ll be happy the rest of their lives, completely unaware they’ll be dead in two weeks.

  Mercury poison’s a bitch.

  Donovan Creed.

  AFTER WHAT SEEMS like weeks on the jet, we finally land in Vegas. The pilots rush to get our luggage into the waiting limo, and Miranda and I order the driver to take the short route to the Vega Rouge.

  As we’re waiting in line to check in, Callie’s on my cell phone saying, “If Sam’s in room 228, he’s dead. There’s no sound inside, and he hasn’t responded to my phone calls or knocking.”

  “I agree something’s up,” I say. “But not that. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Bring a strip steak.”

  Moments later, she sees me coming and pops out from her spot in the cubby. Normally I’d head straight for Sam’s door, but hotel guests are walking up and down the hall, entering and exiting rooms.

  “Has it been this busy all afternoon?”

  “Off and on.”

  “Feast or famine?”

  “Don’t say feast to a starving woman.”

  I enter the little cubical where she spent all those hours. It’s basically a small room without a door that contains a standard ice machine, and nothing else. The front of the machine has an opening for your ice bucket. You set it there, press the button, ice falls into the bucket. I notice a drain under the opening where the bucket sits.

  I carefully inspect the metal below the opening, then sniff the drain, and look at Callie with curiosity.

  She gives me a condescending look and shakes her head as if to say she knows exactly what I’m thinking, and can’t believe it.

  “I’ve got to know,” I say.

  “Of course you do.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You’re not getting off that easy. Ask the complete question out loud, so you can hear how immature you sound to me.”

  “Fine. How did you pee all this time? You couldn’t have come prepared.”

  “I always come prepared.”

  “Prove it.”

  “How?”

  “Open your purse.”

  “Our generation calls this a handbag.”

  “Whatever.”

  She opens her handbag. I glance through it and find no cups, mugs, jars or containers of any kind. I do see her gun. I return the pretty lady’s purse before the guy coming toward us with the ice bucket sees me holding it.

  He gets his ice, trying desperately not to stare at Callie. I can tell he’s curious about the two of us standing by the ice cubby without buckets. This is where I’d normally expect some hero wannabe to ask, “Miss? Is this man bothering you?”

  But he doesn’t. Just gets his ice and leaves.

  “I don’t get it,” I say, waiting for him to enter his room and close the door.

  She says, “You’re still dwelling on the pee thing?”

  “Of course. How’d you do it?”

  “How would you have peed?”

  “I’m a guy.”

  “Exactly. But you still have to say it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this is your conversation topic, not mine.”

  I shrug. “I would have whipped it out and peed directly into the drain below the ice dispenser.”

  “Of course you would.”

  “So?”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “A drain’s a drain.”

  “Spoken like a guy who probably pees in the shower.”

  Ignoring her comment, I say, “So how did you manage it?”

  She reaches in her purse and removes a tiny little silver…what’s that sewing thing called? Oh yeah. A thimble! She holds it up, proudly. I stare in disbelief.

  “That’s impossible,” I say.

  “Not impossible at all. I peed in this till it filled up. Then I drank it.”

  “Bullshit. First of all, you could never direct your stream into that ridiculous thimble. Second, —why are you smiling?”

  “How long have you known me, Donovan?”

  “Twelve million years.”

  “That feels about right. Especially today. And you’re an expert on sewing now?”

  “Of course not. But I know enough about anatomy to emphatically state you didn’t pee in that thimble.”

  “And if I stubbornly persist in saying I did, what does that make me?”

  “I don’t know. What, a stubborn idiot?”

  “And yet, over the last several hours you’ve told me Sam Case is in that room, and he’s alive, despite all the proof I’ve offered.”

  “I know he’s in that room. And I know he’s alive.”

  “You know what that room is, Donovan?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your thimble.”

  I point down the hall. “Room 228 is my thimble.”

  “That’s right. And your reasoning doesn’t hold water.”

  I wonder how she came up with all that based on me sniffing the drain. I hate it when the people who work for me prove, time and again, how much smarter they are than me.

  Callie says, “The coast is clear. So, what now? Want me to call the room?”

  “Nope.”

  “Knock on the door?”

  “Nope.”

  “Find the superintendant? I can distract him while you enter.”

  “Nope.”

  She frowns. “We can’t kick the door down.”

  “Follow me,” I say, and lead her to the room. When we get there, I stand behind the wall left of the door, and motion Callie to hug the wall to the right. The wall wouldn’t protect us from assassins, because professional killers would shoot through the walls first. But if Sam or some other civilian inside starts shooting, we’d expect them to shoot through the door.

  Civilian shooters are like college quarterbacks at the start of a big game. Their adrenalin kicks in and they always aim high.

  Which is why I motion Callie to go low.

  She takes a knee, puts her hand in her purse—handbag—and nods, to let me know she’s gripping her gun.

  I take a key card from my pocket, reach my arm across the door, slide the card through the lock. It clicks open. I turn the handle and push. The door opens maybe an inch. I take a deep breath, glance at Callie to make sure she’s ready to storm the room.

  She’s not.

  She’s shaking her head, frowning.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You’ve got a key?”

  “Think about it.”

  She does.

  Then smiles.

  “Sam used your name when checking in. You went to the front desk, showed your ID, told them you left your key in the room. They gave you another key.”

  “Exactly. Now it’s your turn.”

  “For what?”

  “How did you manage to pee all this time?”

  Callie rolls her eyes. “Let it go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re wearing pants.”

  “Our generation calls them jeans.”

  “You wouldn’t have pulled your jeans off in the hallway. And even if you did, you couldn’t h
ave hiked your leg up and hit the drain without dribbling down the front of the ice machine.”

  “Donovan.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Let’s see what’s inside the room.”

  “Okay.”

  I PUSH THE door open and duck back behind the wall while Callie gets a view of the room. As the door starts to rebound and close I say, “Good to go?”

  “Yes! Bathroom’s on the right.”

  “Be careful!”

  Before the door swings shut on its own, Callie pushes it again, and hurls herself past the open area that leads to the bathroom. It’s a thing of beauty, watching Callie fly through the air, gun in hand, ready to shoot whoever might be lying in wait. It’s a fraction of a second in real time, but when you do what we do, as long as we’ve done it, time stands still, giving a guy like me time to admire the athletic grace of a truly amazing killing machine like Callie Carpenter. It’s like watching Michael Jordan in his prime. You know you’re seeing something special, a once-in-a-generation talent.

  I come in high, just behind her, running directly toward the bathroom, in case someone’s trying to draw a bead on Callie.

  But no one’s there.

  “Bedroom’s clear,” she says.

  “Closet’s clear,” I say.

  I wait for her to retrieve her purse from the hallway. She does, and re-enters the room and closes the door. I’m standing in front of the closed bathroom door. A sitting duck if Sam starts shooting.

  I motion Callie to stand out of the line of fire.

  She does, but says, “He’s being awfully quiet for a live guy.”

  I call out, “Sam?”

  “Before you go in,” Callie says, “I’d like to put some money on it.”

  “You’re that sure he’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  I think about it. Everything in my experience tells me Sam’s in the bathroom, lying in the tub, unconscious. Of course, this would mean he’s been unconscious a long, long time.

  Highly unlikely.

  But Callie said Maybe was cool as a cucumber when she left. Crimes of passion leave you edgy, and haggard. Not to mention if Maybe had blood on her clothing, Callie would’ve noticed.

  “A hundred says Sam’s alive,” I say.