Furious Jones and the Assassin’s Secret (11 page)

I
lay on the bed
thinking about my mom having to come to this town to confront a killer. According to my dad's book, a world-class killer. The best killer. I'd always known she was tough. But I'd had no idea how tough she truly was.

I wondered if the Sicilian killed my mom. I wanted to skip to the end of the novel and see what happened to her. But according to my dad's book, Anton and the Sicilian both specialized in making assassinations look like accidents. I assumed that Anton, like my mom, was killed here in Galena. And I assumed that accidents like hot water heaters killing people and hay balers chewing people up and spitting them out hinted at the fact that the Sicilian was still here and still working his way down the list of witness protection rats.

I
woke up feeling better
than I had in a long time. Maybe it was the magical effects of the Second House. Or maybe it was the fact that I hadn't slept on a bus. I glanced out the window. It looked perfect outside. I reached down to open the window when I noticed white sand, or salt, piled an inch high on the windowsill. I left it alone. Maybe there was something to Betty's crazy voodoo. I did feel great, after all.

I checked my dad's website, and there were two new excerpts available. I was starving and figured I'd read the first one over breakfast.

I found a copy of the
Galena Gazette
outside my door. I picked it up and walked downstairs. Betty was sitting at the small round table in the middle of the living room. The crystal
ball was gone, and the table was now covered with tarot cards.

“Good morning, dear,” Betty said, appearing to be deep in thought.

“Good morning.”

“Say, honey, in all the excitement yesterday, I forgot to ask your name.”

“I, ah—” I quickly tried to think of a name. I remembered Carson Kidd's advice about keeping your actual initials when making up an alias and, before I could stop myself, I blurted out “Finbar Jennings.”

“Finbar? Well, that's an unusual name,” Betty said.

“Yes, it is,” I agreed.

I finally got a chance to try living with a different name and I came up with Finbar? Not Fred or Frank, but Finbar? I had gone to school with a Finbar for a while when my mom and I were in Ireland. For whatever reason, his name just came out. Stupid brain.

“Well, it is a lovely name. And, oh, you look so much brighter today. I told you, the House of Taurus was what you needed.”

“The room was great, thank you,” I said. I was just about out the door when I heard Betty call my name. Well, actually, Finbar's name.

“Yeah?” I responded.

“I know it is none of my business, but is everything all right?” Betty asked.

“Yeah. The room was perfect.”

“No, I mean with you. Sometimes these cards are wrong, but . . .” Betty's voice trailed off as she looked back down at the tarot cards.

“Never better,” I lied. “I'll see you in a bit.” I quickly closed the door behind me on the off chance that my aura changed colors when I lied.

It was a perfect day outside. Not a cloud in the sky. I walked down High Street and took the stairs to Main Street. It was 8:30 a.m. and Main Street was already crowded with tourists. I grabbed a booth at a little diner and ordered eggs and a Coke.

I unfolded the
Gazette
. There was a small photo of Sena­tor White and Attorney General Como along with a story about a recent presidential debate. According to the headline, Como had bested White and was one step closer to becoming the next president of the United States. But most of the
Galena Gazette
was devoted to the farm accident. There was a large color photo of the victims, Carl and Lily Freiburger. Apparently the Freiburgers had been new residents of Galena. And the story was quick to point out they were new to farming as well. Somehow they both wound up in the farm's hay baler. But no one was quite sure how. Although everyone interviewed agreed that hay balers were among the most dangerous pieces of equipment on a farm, and several farmers in the area had lost a finger or, in
Joe McDermott's case, an entire arm to a baler, no one had ever heard of a baler taking two whole bodies. Of course, no one, including me, had ever met the Sicilian.

The story went on to remind farmers to use extra care when baling this fall and listed some online resources for additional baling safety instructions.

I set the paper down as the waitress brought over my eggs. I wished I hadn't seen the picture of the Freiburgers. Looking at Lily's picture, I knew I had seen her eyes, or eye, before. I pushed my food away. I hated the way my photographic mind worked. All I could see now was Lily's eye resting in the bloodred hay.

The shrinks had called it eidetic memory. And it was just one more term in a long list of terms that had been assigned to me over the years. An army doctor in Germany thought it was tied to my ADHD. He said that eidetic memory went hand in hand with autism, too. He was darn near giddy when he told me. Like he had discovered something really cool and the connection would excite me, too. It didn't. I hated the fact that I had very little control over my mind. I didn't want to remember every single thing I had ever seen. Who would? The shrink may have called it eidetic memory, but I mostly called it a curse.

But for now, Lily's eye would not leave. I pushed the eggs around the plate, but I couldn't eat. I decided to walk down to the river and get some fresh air. Maybe I could find a place to sit and read the latest Carson Kidd excerpt on my phone.

I
found a bench near
Grant Park, next to the river. Ulysses S. Grant had lived in this small town for, like, ten minutes when he was a boy, and they were trying to claim him as their own. Whatever it takes to pull in the tourist dollars, I guess.

I pulled out my phone and started reading.

Carson Kidd went back to the DeSoto House Hotel and forced himself to sleep. It was a trick he'd learned over the years. You take sleep whenever, and wherever, you can get it. In his line of work, you never knew when the opportunity would arise again. He set the alarm for 8:45 p.m. and closed his eyes.

The alarm woke him several hours later. But it wasn't the alarm on the nightstand. This alarm was much louder. It was a fire alarm. Kidd got up and went to the window. It was dark now. There were a couple of tourists still down on Main Street. They were staring up at the DeSoto.

Carson moved to the door and his hand subconsciously brushed his hip. Once again he didn't notice the move, because his SIG was there.

Kidd took the stairs one flight down to the lobby.

“What's going on?” he asked one of the employees who was directing hotel guests toward the front door.

“Oh, I'm sure it is just some kid pulling a prank. I apologize for the inconvenience. We should have this straightened out in a few minutes. Please, feel free to visit Cannova's across the street and have a glass of wine on us,” she said.

Kidd stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked across the street. Cannova's was packed with hotel guests. So much for the dinner reservation. And so much for quietly connecting with Anton. There were way too many people around. He decided he'd walk along the river. Maybe he'd stroll past Ulysses S. Grant's house and wait for the crowd to die down.

Kidd walked down a short side street that butted up to Grant Park. There was a long grassy knoll that
ran to the edge of the river. The park was dark. Kidd started across the grass toward the river when he felt something tugging at his shirt. Before he could react, light exploded in his brain and he fell forward. He was facedown in the grass. His hand subconsciously went for his SIG, but it was gone. Then his hand reached for the back of his head. His hair was damp with blood.

“Slowly.” A voice said in a heavy Italian accent. “Turn over slowly.”

Kidd didn't recognize the voice. He had never heard the man speak, but he knew him the instant he laid eyes on him. It was the long-haired man from the pizzeria. It was the Sicilian.

“Well, well, well,” Kidd said. “If it isn't the shadow himself.”

“The shadow?” the man questioned. “I like that nickname.”

Then the man repeated the name with his thick accent and lots of drama. “T-H-E S-H-A-D-O-W!”

“I like that!” He nodded his approval like a little boy. He was smiling now. “That is much better than the Sicilian.”

The smile fell from his face.

“That, I don't like so much. It seems racist.”

How did he know we called him the Sicilian? Kidd wondered. Had the mole in the FBI told him?

Kidd looked at the Sicilian's right hand. He was holding Kidd's trusty SIG.

The Sicilian noticed the glance and looked down at the gun.

“Oh, this?” the Sicilian questioned. “Don't worry about this.” And with one smooth, swooping motion, the Sicilian threw the gun into the river.

“I don't care for guns. They're much too loud,” the Sicilian said.

“Yeah,” Kidd replied. “I've heard that about you.”

The Sicilian watched Kidd stumble to his feet. Kidd was clearly still woozy from the blow to the back of the head.

“Now, this,” the Sicilian said, pulling a giant knife from a sheath tucked in his waist. “This is the old-fashioned Sicilian way.”

“I thought you preferred accidents,” Kidd said, trying to buy time to formulate a plan. But his head wasn't working real well.

“Oh, I do, usually,” the Sicilian answered. “But tonight I might just carve you up and dump you in the river.”

“Aww,” Kidd said, sounding disappointed. “Where is the creativity in that? Where is the artistry?”

The Sicilian started to walk around Kidd, sizing him up. “You're right,” he agreed. “Maybe I'll dump a
tackle box on you when I am done and make it look like you fell on your tackle box while fishing in the dark and you happened to get stabbed by your filleting knife.”

Kidd was now circling with the Sicilian.

“Pretty weak, don't you think?” Kidd asked.

“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I should ask my new friend Anton for a better idea. I've been very impressed with his creativity.”

“What are you talking about?” Kidd tried his best to play dumb but disappointed even himself. “Who's Anton?”

“Please,” the Sicilian dismissed. “I normally like to work alone, but I must admit to being impressed with your friend's skills. He is very good. A good addition to the team.”

“Anton's working with you? Working for the Salvatores?” Kidd said. “I don't believe it.” But, secretly, it confirmed Kidd's worst hunch. Kidd knew Anton was good. Too good to come to a small town like Galena with the list of people the Sicilian was sent to kill, and not be able to find the Sicilian. He never bought it. But he refused to believe his worst hunch.

“Fortunately, I don't care what you believe. I get paid to kill you, not convince you.”

“Look, shadow,” Kidd said mockingly, “I'll make you a deal.”

The Sicilian laughed. “And what deal is this?”

Kidd said, “You drop the knife and take me to Anton or—”

The Sicilian laughed louder. “Or what?”

“Or else the locals are going to be picking up pieces of you in this park for the next couple of years.”

“Anton told me about you,” the Sicilian said. “He warned me that you were the toughest guy he had ever met. But I told Anton that I had met some pretty tough guys before. And none of them are still walking on this earth.”

“Last chance, Sicilian. Take me to Anton,” Kidd demanded.

“I told you that I don't like—”

Kidd spun around before the Sicilian could finish his sentence. They were nine feet apart. But Kidd moved fast. He closed the distance in an eighth of a second. The Sicilian had the knife in his left hand. And Kidd knew that many of the Salvatore assassins had been trained in several forms of martial arts and knife-fighting techniques. But so had Kidd. And Kidd knew that most martial arts training promoted balance and leverage. The Sicilian would go low. He was trained to go low. Another eighth of a second passed, and the Sicilian had already subconsciously started to widen his stance.

Kidd had been taught Krav Maga, a fighting technique, by an Israeli Special Forces trainer. Krav Maga was not about leverage and balance. It was about brutality and effectiveness.

Another eighth of a second passed. Kidd was now ten inches from the blade and closing fast. He made a motion as if he were about to tackle the Sicilian—a move the Sicilian would have expected. A move that Kidd knew would be suicide. No, Kidd decided, he would go high. He would just run up and over the Sicilian. He launched himself into the air and before the Sicilian could react, Kidd's right leg was over the Sicilian's left shoulder. And Kidd's left knee was smashing into the Sicilian's face.

Kidd's momentum knocked the Sicilian onto his back. Kidd landed three feet behind him in stride. He turned to see the Sicilian conscious but bloody. Kidd stepped on the Sicilian's left hand and kicked the knife hard with his right foot. The knife flew several feet and landed in the river. Then Kidd kicked the Sicilian in the head, snapping his neck. End of fight. End of the Sicilian.

I
looked around the park.
I was sitting exactly where Carson Kidd would have killed the Sicilian in my dad's story. Which meant, if all of
Double Crossed
was the true story of what happened to my mom here in Galena, I was standing exactly where my mom had killed the top Salvatore assassin.

I looked around the park. There were families playing, kids running, and couples holding hands. It all looked so normal. How many of these people were in the witness protection program? How many of them might be killers that had worked for the Salvatores before turning on them?