Exit Strategy (30 page)

“Thank you,” I said. “We’ll try to stop by his brother’s—”

“Toilet,” Jack said.

I glanced at him, brows raised.

He continued. “Before we leave, you needed the toilet. Don’t forget, because we have a long drive.” He turned to the nurse. “Is there one she can…?”

“Right down this hall. Third door on the right.”

Jack put his hand against my back. “I should use it, too.”

When we were out of earshot, I whispered, “I’m assuming you want to search his room. Do you know which it is?”

He tugged a tissue from his pocket and used it to open the bathroom door, then peeked inside. “Go in. Open the window. Then cough.”

“Cough?”

He propelled me through the doorway. “Glove up. And don’t lock.”

The door closed. I looked at the lace-curtained window. Better follow instructions, and get the explanation later—if he cared to give it.

I snapped on latex gloves and cracked open the window. On the other side was a screen. I suspected bathroom air quality wasn’t the reason he wanted this open, so I lifted the sash as far as it would go, unlatched the screen and pulled it inside. Then I coughed. After a moment’s pause, the door eased open and Jack slid in. I grasped the window edge, preparing to climb out, but he waved me back.

He moved to the window, then crouched to look out under the privacy glass. A sweep of the yard, then he climbed through. I waited for the all-clear and followed.

A fifteen-foot dash to a shed, and we ducked behind it.

“The orderly,” he said.

And that’s all he said, as if it should explain everything. After a few moments of thought, I understood, but sometimes I wished he’d give my brain a break and let his tongue do some of the work instead.

I remembered the look the young man had given us before hurrying off. If Boris Nikolaev knew Little Joe had let something slip about that old hit on the senator, and he knew we’d terminated Joe’s hired gun, he’d know there was a good chance we’d come back. Easiest way to make sure he found out about it would be to bribe the orderly for a tip-off. Yet, by the time Boris got someone here, we’d be long gone…which meant he probably had someone nearby or even on the property, waiting for a call.

Less than two minutes after we got behind the shed, the rattle of the bathroom door sounded through the open window. A figure appeared at the bathroom window. He ducked and peered out. I squinted to get a better look, but all I could see was his mouth, the rest of his face hidden under the bill of his ball cap.

The man scanned the lawn, then disappeared.

I glanced at Jack. He motioned for me to wait. The front screen door slapped shut. A stocky figure in a Cleveland Indians jacket hurried off the porch and cut across the lawn, then headed into the trees, toward the lot where we’d parked.

Jack grabbed my elbow and pulled me along at a jog. We looped behind the home and straight for the wooded path the thug had taken. Now, it would seem to me that the time to make a run for the car was
before
Nikolaev’s thug got to it, but maybe that was just too simple for Jack.

We skirted the wooded side field. Before we reached the path, Jack stopped. He surveyed the semidark forest, then prodded me into a thick patch.

We had to move carefully. The chill of the last few days had fulfilled its promise with an early morning frost and here, out of the sun, the undergrowth was still covered with a thin sheen of it, crackling with every ill-placed footstep. The thug didn’t bother with stealth, and we could hear him as easily as if he had maracas strapped to his legs.

“Wait.” Jack turned to go, then glanced back. “Duck down. Stay hidden.”

“And then what?”

“Don’t let him see you.”

He must have seen me already, but I knew Jack’s order had nothing to do with being overprotective. As the female half of the duo, I made the better target. And if I didn’t play “good victim”? I’d humiliate this thug, as Evelyn and I had done to Bert at the motel, and that would lead to the same result—we’d have to put the boots to him and intimidate him into giving up whatever information Jack hoped to gain.

While that thought didn’t bother me, Jack was my boss, the senior partner. I didn’t want to disrespect him by challenging him, not on this.

As for staying put, though, that was another thing. Jack might not be accustomed to working with a partner, might not understand a partner’s duties, but I did.

I crept forward, watching my step. The undergrowth was thick here, and I nearly stepped on a shallow puddle coated with ice.

Jack had stopped halfway to the parking lot, waiting in the bushes. A few minutes later, the thug returned, walking at a brisk clip back to the home. As he passed, Jack swung out, silent as a wraith, came up behind him and barrel pointed at the base of the man’s skull.

“Turn left and walk,” Jack said.

The man gave a tight laugh. “Into the woods? So you won’t have as far to drag my body? I ain’t making it easier for you.”

“I wanted you dead? Be there already. Got a message for Boris.”

“And you want me to play delivery boy?”

“You don’t want to? Fine. I’ll use the next guy.”

The thug let Jack steer him into the woods—on the opposite side of the trail. I crept as close as I dared, waited until they had their backs to me, then darted across the open path.

Jack stopped in a clearing. I found a spot ten feet away, with a good sight line. He made the thug kneel, hands on the back of his head, then trained his gun on the guy’s skull base. I aimed mine at the thug’s right shoulder—a disabling shot.

“You said you got a message for Boris,” the guy said.

“Houston.”

“Wha—?” The thug tried to look over his shoulder at Jack, but a gun poke stopped him.

“That’s the message. Houston.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Boris knows. Tell him this is my business—”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Houston. He’ll know. And my business? No concern of his. His business? No concern of mine. Got it?”

“Got what? That’s not a message. It’s code or some—”

“Repeat what I said.”

The thug sighed but, with prompts, repeated it.

“Good,” Jack said. “Boris comes after me again? I’ll know you fucked up the message.”

Jack let the thug go, then slipped into the woods to make sure he left.

The moment the guy’s car pulled out, Jack looked directly at where I was hiding. I stepped out, expecting to be lambasted. But he only waved me toward the car.

“So is that the last we’ll hear of Boris Nikolaev?” I asked as I climbed into the car.

“Better be,” Jack muttered. “Damned inconvenient.”

I shook my head and reached for the radio dial.

“Won’t change anything, Nadia.”

I looked at him, fingers on the knob.

“Find out now. Find out at Evelyn’s. Won’t change what happened.” His gaze slanted my way. “You
know
what happened.”

I nodded and turned on the radio.

THIRTY-TWO

As promised, the Helter Skelter killer had taken another victim at noon. As for whether he struck on the dot of noon, I’ll leave it for the more dramatically inclined reporters to speculate. What I do know is that the victim was found less than ten minutes past noon, when her friends called into the kitchen to see why she was taking so long with the coffee. At the time of the murder, they’d been tuned to CNN waiting for news of what was unfolding a few steps away. The irony of that would be lost on no one. Of everyone waiting for news of the next victim, one person
became
that news.

The audacity of the killing was lost on no one, either. Not only had he struck in an occupied home, but one with a state-of-the-art security system, in one of the most supposedly secure gated communities. The message was clear—if I can get to her, I can get to anyone.

That promoted exactly the kind of paranoia that gated communities preyed on. I’d pulled a hit in a “high security” private club, in the middle of a golf tournament, and let me tell you, I’ve done harder—much harder.

But of course the media was already playing it up, making it sound like he was some kind of phantom who’d slipped past not only the armed guards at the gate, but a fully armed home security system.

Fully armed, my ass. How many people rearm their system when they’re indoors entertaining, with friends coming and going? My guess was that the homeowner had reactivated it when she’d learned of the murder. If the system had been off, the Feds would figure it out, but I doubted
that
tidbit would make it to the six o’clock news.

Jack needed to call Quinn before we got back to Evelyn’s, so he stopped at a Cracker Barrel near the state border. I went in to grab coffees to go, then got sidetracked by the display of old-fashioned candy. When I returned to the car and found Jack wasn’t back, I put the coffees and candy inside and went to look for him.

Jack was twenty feet away from the phone booth, standing by the edge of the parking lot. When I walked up behind him, he looked back at me, his eyes unreadable behind his dark shades.

“What happened?”

He looked my way, but said nothing.

“Quinn told you something, and now you’re trying to figure out whether—or how—you should tell me.” My mind leapfrogged to the obvious. “Another killing. Already? He just finished—”

“Not yet.”

I stopped. “Not yet what? The killing, you mean? He hasn’t done it yet, but he’s announced it already? Come on, Jack, don’t make me drag it out of you two words at a time, or I swear—”

He motioned for me to sit with him on the edge of the restaurant porch, and started talking.

The FBI knew where the killer was going to strike next. While it would have been nice to claim that they’d deduced this through painstaking hours of statistical and behavioral analysis, the truth was far more disturbing. They knew because he’d told them.

According to Quinn, the FBI agent leading the investigation, Martin Dubois, had received his own letter from the killer. In it, the killer had promised to take a victim tonight, at a recently reopened historic opera house in Chicago. He didn’t dare them to stop him, but the challenge was obvious.

“So what you were debating was whether to tell me in advance or not, wasn’t it? Quite possibly our best chance to catch this guy, and you don’t think we should bother showing up.”

A kernel of rage rolled around my gut. I could feel Jack’s gaze on me, studying me, appraising my reaction. I closed my eyes to slits, then took a deep breath. Took another. Opened my eyes and looked at him.

“Could be a setup,” he said, words coming slow, deliberate, almost as if guiding me back on track.

I considered that. Saw the truth in his words. “Playing with the Feds. Leading them on a goose chase.”

“Playing, yeah. Goose chase…?” He pulled off his sunglasses. “Helluva challenge.”

“Killing someone in a busy public place—after you’ve given the FBI a heads-up? That’s not just a challenge. What better way to prove that no one is safe than to tell the Feds where you’ll strike next, and still pull it off.”

“Yeah.”

“So you think he’s really going to do it?”

A long pause now, really thinking it through. Then a nod. “Yeah. Think he’s gonna try.”

My nails dug into my palms as I kept my voice steady, dispassionate. “Are we going to be there to stop him?”

“Gonna try.”

Jack called Quinn back. Quinn and Felix had already planned to be there—not that Jack had been about to tell me that before we made up our own minds. As he slid into the car, I stared out the window. After a few minutes of his driving and my window gazing, he said, “You okay?”

“Just thinking of something and feeling stupid.”

“’Bout what?”

“Quinn.” When he didn’t answer, I glanced his way. “When you told me he was a cop, I figured you meant ‘cop,’ like me—like I was. Street cop. Maybe detective, but definitely local or state. But now he tells us about this tip-off. A beat cop gets the drop on an unpublicized tip-off to the FBI? Right.” I shook my head. “Quinn’s a Fed, isn’t he?”