Covenant (16 page)

            Mike waved off their praise.  “Hey, all I was doing was having a Hannibal Lecter marathon. 
Manhunter
to
Hannibal Rising
.  I’m at
The Silence of the Lambs
so far
.
”

            Anthony winked at Lisa, and she smiled briefly.

            “Yo, AT, was this damage caused by gunfire?”  Mike examined the Tahoe’s shattered right tail light, dents on the bumper, and the ragged hole in the rear windshield.  He shuffled around the side and saw the rupture in the front window, too. 

            “What does your expert opinion tell you?” Anthony asked.

            “My opinion?”  Mike put his fists on his waist.  “I think you been in a scuffle with a rifleman, AT.”

            “We’re on the retreat from a rifleman—a whole bunch of them, we think.”

            “And you haven’t bagged them all yet?  You’re slipping, dude.”

            “What can I say?  Married life has made me soft.”

            “They track you here, you think?”  Savage interest glinted in Mike’s eyes, and he glanced out the garage at the dark street beyond.

            “We don’t think so,” Lisa said.  “Tony gave them the slip.  You should’ve seen him in action.”

            Anthony shrugged.  “I did what had to be done.”

            “Damn, I was hoping I might see some action, too.”  Mike punched the button beside the doorway to lower the garage door.  “Let’s head in.  I can’t wait to hear what this is all about.”

24

            Mike’s home was decorated in a style that could have been called, “Contemporary Bachelor.”  There was no furniture at all in the living or formal dining rooms.  In the kitchen, there was a basic, hardwood dinette table and chairs.  In the family room, where Mike watched his movies, there was a black leather loveseat and armchair, beech veneer coffee table, steel side tables, stainless steel floor lamps—and the centerpiece of it all, the theater system: sixty-inch, flat-panel plasma HDTV standing on a thick wooden stand.  Surround sound speakers positioned for maximum cinematic effect.  Two tall, black cabinets that stored hundreds of DVDs. 

            Everything was squared away as if in preparation for a barracks inspection.  No embellishments, no artwork, no plants.  The only photographs were his recruit graduation portrait, pictures he’d taken with members of his platoon, and a few photos of his parents and older sister.

            “Nice place,” Lisa said.  “It could use a woman’s touch to soften the ultra-masculine vibe, though.”

            Mike grinned.  “Got a girlfriend who likes to decorate?”

            Anthony said, “Lisa knows only
quality
ladies, Mike, not the kind of girls you’d go for.”

            “Here’s to you.” Mike gave him the finger.  “Anyway, you guys want coffee?  I brewed a fresh pot.”

            “Coffee sounds good,” Anthony said.  “I need to keep my edge.”

            “You?”  Mike asked.  “I doubt it.  You live on the edge.”

            “That was eons ago.”

            “Bullshit,” Mike said.  “You’ve got warrior blood, man, like me.  That never goes away.”

            “I hate to interrupt the macho posturing here, but where’s the powder room, guys?”  Lisa asked.  “I need to wipe the dew off the lily pad.”        

            “You need to do what?” Mike asked.

            “My wife’s being a lady—I know you aren’t used to those,” Anthony said.  “First door on the left in the hallway, sweetheart.”

            Lisa left the kitchen. 

            “Hey, I can appreciate a good woman,” Mike said.  He got three coffee mugs from the kitchen cabinet.  “She’s gotta have a little swagger in her, that’s all.  She needs to be ballsy enough to keep me in line.”

            “Your warrior princess is out there somewhere.”  Anthony leaned against the counter.  Although the dinette chairs beckoned, he wanted to get a blast of java first, to counteract the exhaustion he knew would hit him once he got off his feet.            

            A key rack hung on the wall beside him.  Several sets of keys dangled from the hooks, each assigned to rental property that Mike owned; printed address labels on each key ring identified the residence.  After his honorable discharge, Mike had gotten into the business of purchasing foreclosed properties or those in need of renovation, buying them outright, doing whatever rehab was necessary, and then renting them out or selling them. 

            He had pulled back from the business about a year ago.  Confessed it had become too much like work, and he was determined not to spend his life running on the career treadmill.  He kept ten of the properties as rentals, used a property management company to collect rent and manage tenant issues, and lived off the rental income—which financed his desire to purchase collector’s editions of his favorite movies, entertain countless women, travel, and sleep in till noon if he so wanted. 

            Mike passed him a coffee, black.  Anthony drew a sip of the rich brew and immediately felt more awake. 

            “This is good stuff,” Anthony said. 

            “Jamaican Blue Mountain,” Mike said.  “Expensive as hell, but well worth it.  A lady I met in Negril turned me on to it.”

            “Figures.  She turn you out, too?”

            Mike winked.  “On the serious tip, what kind of shit are you in?  You know I wanna be involved, whatever it is.”

            “I don’t know if you want to wade into this one.  I haven’t figured out yet what kind of animal we’re up against, but it’s something truly hairy.”

            “Try me.”

            Anthony produced the voice recorder.  Switching it on, he placed it on the dinette table and turned up the volume.

            As the tinny voices crackled from the small speaker, Lisa returned to the kitchen.  She took coffee as well, and the three of them sat around the table. 

            When the recording ended, they filled Mike in on what had happened that evening, and their theories.

            “If these fanatics are responsible for what happened to your dad, you
know
I’m in,” Mike said, eyes burning.  “Shit, I’m in anyway, just ‘cause of what they’ve done to you guys, but if this Bob dude is right—“

            “Then I’ll finally get what I’ve wanted for fifteen years,” Anthony said.  “A shot at justice.”

            “Yeah, like a nine millimeter shot,” Mike said.  

            Both Mike and Lisa knew what kept Anthony awake some nights: a lucid vision of the shadowy figure racing away from the lake.  A dream of chasing down the killer.  A fantasy of putting a pistol to his head and squeezing the trigger . . .

            Lisa touched his arm.  “One step at a time, guys.  First, we’ve got to figure out who we’re dealing with, and I think this may be the key to it.” 

            She removed the Bible from her purse and slid it across the table toward Mike.         

            Mike picked it up.  “I was raised Catholic, but I haven’t been to church or read a Bible in ages.”  He opened the book, paused on the first page.  “Who’s Kelley Marrow?  Sounds like someone I used to date.”

            “Seriously?” Lisa asked.

            “Nah, not really.”  Mike flipped through the book.  “Someone got happy with the highlighters, huh?  They used all the colors of the rainbow in here.”

            “We think the highlighted scriptures are clues,” Anthony said.  “A message Bob is trying to tell us.”

            “A message about what?”  Mike said.

            “Where we can find this evidence he’s gathered against the organization, I think,” Anthony said.   “It could be a shot in the dark, but that’s what we’re assuming, anyway.”   

            “Could be.”  Mike returned to the front page and tapped it with his finger.  “But this name’s gotta be in here for a reason, bro.”

            “It might only be the name of whoever owned the Bible,” Anthony said.

            “Sometimes people plant big clues right out in the open,” Mike said.  “Haven’t you seen that in the movies?  A big fat clue will be so obvious that people ignore it, ‘cause they figure something so simple can’t mean anything.” 

            “Kelley Marrow sounds like a fairly ordinary name,” Lisa said.

            “I’ll run it through Google, see what pops up.”  Pushing away from the table, Mike grabbed a note pad and jotted down the name.  “This Kelley chick might be someone we need to have a chat with.”      

            “Listen, I appreciate your offer, but we didn’t come by to ask you to get involved,” Anthony said.  “We only wanted somewhere to lie low for a little while.”

            “Don’t insult me, AT,” Mike said.  “I’m involved, all right?”

            Anthony glanced at Lisa.  She shrugged. 

            “The more the merrier,” she said.

            “And you guys can stay here as long as you want,” Mike said.  “I’m gonna hop on my PC for a while.  You can join me, or catch some shut-eye in the guest room, or hang out here and watch movies.”

            Lisa stretched her arms above her, yawned.  “I’m so tired I want to cry, but I’m going to start reviewing these marked-up scriptures.”          

            “I’ll stay out here with you,” Anthony said.  “You got a piece, Mike?”

            “ ‘Course I do.  Who’re you talking to, dude?”

            “Keep one on you,” Anthony said.  “I don’t think anyone followed us here, but . . .”

            “Be prepared.” Mike nodded grimly.

25

            The online background report ran close to twenty-five pages.  It confirmed what Cutty had already learned about Thorne—address, date of birth, vehicles registered to him, marital status, home phone number—but it also gave him much, much more.

            Thorne’s Social Security number.  His mailing addresses for the past twenty years.  The duration of his military service, pay grades he’d achieved, and where he had been stationed throughout his enlistment.  The income he had reported to the IRS over the past seven years and the taxes he had paid.  The purchase price of his home, and an assessment of its current value.  His credit report and cumulative score from the three reporting bureaus.  His estimated net worth. 

            Also included were details from his marriage certificate three years ago, which contained the name and birth date of his comely bride, the former Lisa Boyd, and their parents’ names, too.  The firearms license for which he had been approved, not the least of which were a concealed weapons permit and details of the prodigious number of weapons he had registered.

            “This guy is planning to wage war, Valdez,” Cutty said.  He put his thick finger on the MDT display.  “He’s got fifteen—
yes,
fifteen
—firearms on file.  Is he not intending to be a soldier in Satan’s army?”

“Si,”
Valdez said.  She drove aimlessly around the dark city, as he had yet to give her a destination.

            “I wonder where he stores all of this weaponry.  I should have searched the rest of the house.”

            Her eyebrows arched.  “Go back?”  

            “No.  It’s irrelevant.  Remember the word—no weapon formed against you shall prosper.  With God on our side, it doesn’t matter if Thorne has a thousand guns in his arsenal.”

            The report listed every account Thorne held: banking, investments, credit cards, utilities, Internet access, cellular phone providers, insurance.  It included account numbers for each respective entry, and passwords, too, when applicable.    

            Cutty could have taken the information, and, for all practical purposes,
become
Thorne.  In an information-based society, every person could be reduced to a digital dossier, with data

vulnerable to tampering by those who possessed the requisite keys.

            Underneath the account list, there was a menu of commands that allowed the user to monitor or freeze a target’s financial assets. 

            He selected the MONITOR option. 

            From that moment forward, if Thorne withdrew money from an ATM, or made a purchase with his debit or credit cards, Genesis would record the time, location, and amount of the transaction.  It had proven a successful method to trap a mark about ninety-eight percent of the time, and worked because targets had no clue their spending patterns were being observed. 

            But always, someone was watching, someone was recording.

            If Thorne somehow managed to slip their virtual net, however, Cutty would execute a freeze.  An account freeze was a riskier tactic, because the mark would quickly realize something was amiss and go on alert.  But without funds, no one could run for long.

            The last section of the report offered information on Thorne’s known associates, a basic table containing names and addresses of about a dozen family, friends, and business colleagues.  In the event that other, more precise tracking methods failed, Cutty could turn to the associates index, and start digging. 

            His cell phone vibrated.  The incoming number belonged to division headquarters.  Probably the dispatcher calling.

            “Cutty speaking.”    

            A gravelly voice rumbled: “This is the Director.”

            Cutty straightened so fast in the seat that the keyboard flipped out of his lap.  

            Valdez glanced away from the road.  “Is okay?”

            Cutty covered the handset.  “It’s the Director.”

            Her lips formed a startled “o,” and she dropped her speed, as if concerned the Director would remotely take note of her speedy driving and rebuke her—which wasn’t all that far-fetched, as all fleet vehicles were linked to a central computer.          

            Cutty cleared his throat.  “Uh, how are you, sir?”

            “If I’m calling you at this hour, obviously I am not well,” the Director said.  “You lost your primary target.”