Nine Lives (23 page)

“Flannery, we might have a problem.”

“Captain?”

“Yeah. Turn on your television.”

Joe staggered into the living room, turned on a light so he could find the remote, and then aimed it toward the TV.

“What channel?” he asked.

“Anything local,” the captain said.

When the image on the screen emerged, Joe whistled beneath his breath. “God Almighty, Captain. What's burning?”

“Dallas Memorial. They're reporting an explosion on the second floor started the fire.”

“An explosion on the—” Suddenly it hit him. “Oh shit. Presley.”

“Exactly. Get over there and make sure the sorry bastard burned. I don't want to hear that he's missing and have to explain that we hadn't brought him in for questioning because we thought he was in a fucking coma, all right?”

“Yes, sir, but surely you don't think—”

“What I think is that if Catherine Dupree turns out to have been right on all counts, I don't want the Dallas Police Department to be the last to know.”

“Yes, sir. I'll see what I can find out,” Joe said.

“Do better than that. And call me,” his boss said, then hung up.

Joe disconnected as he hurried back into the bedroom. His wife was sitting on the side of the bed with her nightgown off, inspecting her breast.

“I'm really sorry, honey,” he said, and paused by the bed long enough to stroke her hair and give her a quick kiss. “That was the captain. Dallas Memorial is on fire. I've got to get over there now.”

For once his wife was sympathetic.

“Dear lord,” she said, and turned on the television in their bedroom. Her eyes welled with tears as she took in the scene—fire trucks and firemen everywhere, water spewing from hoses up to the second floor, and patients being wheeled out of the hospital in wheelchairs and on gurneys. “How terrible! Those poor, poor people.”

Joe came out of the dressing room on the run, pulling a turtleneck sweater over his head and carrying his sport coat. He pocketed his badge, holstered his handgun, then slipped into the shoulder holster before putting on the coat.

“I don't know when I'll be back,” he said.

“Just be careful,” his wife said.

He blew her a kiss as he ran out of the room.

 

Wilson had his bail jumper and was at the precinct turning him over to the desk sergeant when the call went out about the fire. Policemen who'd been going off duty, as well as those coming on, were returned to their commanding officers for orders. It was an “all available patrol cars proceed to the location,” which meant that, until they knew the magnitude of the problem, no one was going home.

He, along with a half dozen other people, looked up at the television screen behind the desk as the sergeant turned it on. They watched in horror as the media played and replayed the most sensational footage they'd shot so far.

As soon as he had finished signing papers, he took off for the parking lot. It was too late to go by Cat's apartment, and he had no excuse to wake her up that wouldn't tick her off. Besides that, he was tired and aching for a good night's sleep. He unlocked the car door and started to get in when he saw his cell phone on the floor. He frowned, guessing it must have fallen out of his pocket earlier. He dusted it off and dropped it in his jacket pocket.

The drive home seemed endless, and he resisted the urge to drive by the hospital, knowing there would be far too many sight-seers already on the street. Finally he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building. His steps were dragging as he entered, then rode the elevator up.

He'd left a lamp on in the living room by mistake, but the circle of illumination was welcoming as he opened the door and went in. He locked the door, then glanced at his answering machine on the way through the room and noted there were no new calls. Thankful for the respite, he went through the kitchen on his way to bed, drank a full glass of milk and ate the last of some Chinese stir fry, then moved down the hall to his bedroom.

He undressed slowly, putting his gun in a drawer and his wallet and change on the dresser. He dropped his dirty clothes into a pile near the door to be carried to the utility room later, and hung his sport coat on the back of a chair. As he did, he heard a slight thump.

The cell phone.

He hadn't taken it out of his pocket.

He tossed it on the bed as he headed for the shower.

A short while later he was back, showered and shaved and all but walking in his sleep.

He started to turn back the covers, and as he pulled them aside, the cell phone slid to the floor with a thump.

“Well, hell,” he muttered, and picked it up, checking to make sure that he hadn't damaged it in the process.

As he did, he finally realized someone had left him a message. When he checked Caller ID and saw Cat's name and cell phone number come up, he frowned.

He'd just talked to her earlier. She knew he was on a stakeout. Why would she be calling so late?

Quickly, he retrieved the message, and when he heard her voice, he froze, then slapped the wall with the flat of his hand. For all intents and purposes, she was chasing a killer on her own.

He knew she was capable of handling herself. He'd witnessed it firsthand more than once. But this was personal, and emotions could get in the way of good sense.

His heart was hammering as he sat down on the side of the bed and returned the call.

The first ring came and went.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Just when he was at the point of panic, he heard her answer.

“Wilson?”

He exhaled. “Yeah, it's me. I just got your message. Where are you?”

She frowned, trying to read a roadside marker without any success.

“I'm not sure. Maybe about halfway to San Antonio.”

“Have you seen anything of the car you're following?”

“No. There's at least an hour and a half between us.”

“You think it's Presley, don't you?”

Cat's voice hardened. “I know it's him. No one else would have the combination to his safe or a way to get into his office unseen, but someone did just that. And no one else has as much to lose.”

“If this is Presley, why didn't he just take one of his airplanes…or that chopper? Why make his getaway slower by driving somewhere?”

“Pete asked me the same thing earlier.”

“Who's Pete?”

“The friend who bugged Presley's stuff for me. Here's what I think. Somehow Presley started the fire that covered his escape. He wants everyone to believe that he died, which, if there's a body in his room, will be the assumption for some time. However, if an airplane or a chopper suddenly goes missing from his personal airport, then that's going to screw up his cover.”

“He could take public transportation.”

“And take a chance on being recognized? I don't think so. Also, you're at the mercy of someone else's timetables when you take that route. No control of when you leave, no way to change your mind in the middle of the trip and go somewhere else without a lot of hassle.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean.”

Cat shifted the phone to her other ear. “What have you heard about the fire? Is it out?”

“I don't know. Let me check.” He turned on the television and upped the volume. It didn't take long to get an update.

“Cat.”

“Yes?”

“They're saying that for all intents and purposes, it's out. They're still going through the building checking for hot spots.”

“Any details on how it started?”

“They're saying there was an explosion on the second floor. But Presley was in ICU, not on two.”

“No, they moved him down.”

“Shit,” Wilson said, then paused. “You know I'm coming after you.”

The warning in his voice should have been unsettling, but instead, it gave her a feeling of security. At least someone else in the world knew where she was and what she was doing. Not that it would keep her alive, but if she disappeared, they would know where to start looking.

“I can't wait for you,” she said.

“I know. Just stay in touch. Where do you think he's going?”

“Who knows? So far, he's staying southbound.”

“Did you call the cops?”

“No, but feel free. I had no time to waste trying to make them believe Presley hadn't gone up in smoke.”

“That wasn't smart.”

“So sue me. I'll be fine. Besides, I've been taking care of myself for years.”

“Maybe so,” Wilson said. “But I didn't know you then.”

“How does that change anything?” she asked.

“Hell if I know. I just don't like it, all right?”

Cat's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. She glanced at the speedometer. She was doing eighty and still not gaining on the sorry bastard, and Wilson wanted something from her she wasn't ready to give.

“Wilson?”

“Yeah?”

“Just don't lose me…okay?”

A knot of fear formed in the pit of his belly.

“I'll do my level best.”

Then the line went dead in his ear.

M
ark's elation at getting out of Dallas had faded to a sick, nervous feeling that he was being followed. Rationally, he knew it was far too early for anyone to know he hadn't died in that fire. He also knew there was the possibility that it would never be discovered, because the explosion and the fire that came after had been so intense that they should have destroyed every vestige of the orderly and his DNA. He knew that yet he couldn't get past his unease.

He attributed part of his anxiety to the fact that he'd been in a bed for so long. Driving was more difficult than he had expected. From time to time he felt weak and light-headed, and he was afraid that, in a moment of disorientation, he might drive off the side of the road.

The other part of his underlying panic involved that strange woman who kept threatening him. For all he knew, she was just guessing about her accusations, although he had to admit that if she was, she was damned good at it.

Marsha's body being found so quickly was unexpected. He would have bet everything he owned that it would never have been found—at least not for years. The land where the wells had been drilled was not only isolated but heavily wooded, as well. No one lived close, no one hunted on the property, and the ravine where he'd dumped her body was about as far off the beaten path as it got. There was that damn fire, but he was certain that had in no way contributed to finding her, yet it had still surfaced in less than two weeks.

Normally Mark made it a habit to know everything there was to know about his adversaries, which was what Marsha had become after she'd announced her pregnancy. But he had come to realize that he knew nothing about her life beyond the workplace other than that she was an orphan—a fact that should have worked in his favor. It seemed, however, that Marsha had friends he knew nothing about, one being a tall dark-haired woman who wouldn't go away.

It was unnerving to know that if the woman walked up beside him and looked him in the face, unless she spoke, he wouldn't even recognize her. That, low, raspy voice, which in any other situation he would have considered sexy, came across as scary in the current circumstances.

As he was driving, that uneasy feeling came over him again, and he glanced up in his rearview mirror, half expecting to see the husky-voiced woman staring at him from the back seat. It was with relief that all he could see were a few lights in the distance. There were also three or four cars up ahead, but nothing to suggest he was being followed.

At that point his attention moved from the rearview mirror to the gauges on the dashboard. He'd known for a while now that he was going to have to stop at the next truck stop and get gas. It wasn't all that far to San Antonio. Showing his face without some kind of disguise wasn't ideal, but even if he'd had his wallet, he couldn't pay with a credit card without leaving a paper trail. No matter how he worked it, he was going to have to go inside the station to pay in cash and show his face.

Tears suddenly blurred his vision.

Before this was over, his entire identity would be permanently changed. Everything he'd worked and sacrificed for was lost. He didn't have a home anymore. He was no longer the power behind the Presley Corporation. He had nothing but the clothes in the back seat and a bag full of money in the trunk. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel as he blinked away the tears.

Fuck them all.

He could buy more clothes and he could buy a home—hell, he could buy a castle, with the money he had stashed away in a bank in the Cayman Islands. He'd been whipped before, and he hadn't let it get him down. At least this time he had plenty of money to buy a whole new dream.

But he had to be careful. Eventually, someone in the head office was going to realize this car was missing from the parking garage, which meant he couldn't take it across the border into Mexico. The way his luck was running, it could already have been reported stolen. Getting caught trying to cross the border in a stolen car would set off a whole mess of red flags. If he was going to do that, he might as well stick an “I'm a killer, come and get me” sign on the back of the car and just wait to be arrested.

No, he would park this car somewhere out of sight and wipe it down for prints before he left. Even if the authorities found it, they couldn't be sure he'd been the last one driving it. As far as he was concerned, it could go the way of Marsha's Lexus—chopped up for parts, or repainted and sold. It didn't matter, as long as it was gone.

An eighteen wheeler came up behind him in the dark. When the lights suddenly ricocheted from the rearview mirror into his eyes, he swerved and almost ran off the road. He cursed out loud as the truck went flying past, but it was a weak complaint. The trucker couldn't hear him, and it was too dark for the driver to see Presley flip him off.

Mark's belly rolled as a wave of nausea came and went. He needed help. He needed a driver and started to reach for his cell phone when he remembered he didn't have one with him. He cursed again. He would just have to make his calls when he stopped to get gas.

As he was thinking it, he saw a cluster of lights on the horizon. He was coming up on an exit, and just in time. The warning light on the gas gauge had just started blinking.

With renewed belief in his ability to get away with murder, he pulled into the truck stop, parked at the pumps and got out, stretching wearily as he went inside to pay. He came back shortly and reached for the hose. His hands were trembling as he unscrewed the gas cap. When he was finished, he went back inside to make his calls.

 

Solomon Tutuola missed his bank shot and, in a fit of rage, broke the pool cue in half and then shoved the splintered end into his opponent's belly. The man screamed as blood spewed from the wound onto the pool table and Solomon's boots.

Two men leaped from the corner of the Nuevo Laredo cantina, tackling Tutuola in mid-air. He threw both of them off as if they weighed nothing, then pulled a switchblade from inside his boot. With one flick of the wrist, the blade was between them, gleaming like the fangs of a wolf.

Tutuola grinned at the pair, then taunted them in Spanish. Despite the epithets he flung at them and their female ancestors, they weren't willing to try a second attack. They knew Tutuola for what he was: crazy, both in spirit and in appearance. Why else would a man look as Tutuola did if he wasn't insane?

Although his body was a light café au lait, he wasn't of Mexican descent. He was covered in crazy geometric tattoos all over his face and upper body—some in a zig-zag pattern like oversized rick-rack, some ovals within ovals or squares within squares—different, yet still connecting to each other like a black and tan crazy quilt.

When he got drunk, which was often, he talked in some crazy language the locals couldn't understand, nor would they ever, Solomon knew, unless, like him, they'd been born half a world away, in a country called New Zealand, to a race of people known as the Maori. Although he was a long way from home, Solomon still considered himself a throwback—a warrior. He used his size as power and a way to get easy money. He might have the blood of warriors in his veins, but he was a chicken-shit in every other way that counted.

Solomon stared at the duo as a big grin spread across his blood-splattered face. When his adversaries saw that smile, they panicked. The two men picked up their bleeding friend and carried him out of the cantina as fast as they could go.

Solomon tossed the knife from hand to hand for a few moments; then, with another flick of the wrist, the blade disappeared back into the shaft. He dropped it inside his boot, then eyed the bartender, pointing at the bottles behind the bar.

“Tequila!” he demanded.

The bartender set an unopened bottle and a clean glass in front of him, then moved to the other end of the bar.

Solomon was downing his third straight shot when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his belt, eyed the Caller ID and shrugged. It was a number he didn't know, and he was in no mood to visit, but it continued to ring until finally, in a fit of pique, he growled an answer into the phone.

“Hola.”

“Diego gave me your number.”

Solomon frowned. It was a code phrase that he used in his business, but he didn't recognize the voice speaking in English.

“How do you know Diego?” he asked, which was the proper answer to that phrase.

“He's a cousin.”

“Ah,” Solomon said, then grabbed the tequila bottle and strode outside, swigging it as he went. When he was outside and alone, he disposed of his cordial demeanor.

“Who the fuck is this, and what do you want?”

Mark shuddered, wondering what this man looked like.

A couple of years ago, he'd been in a hot tub with a hooker who called herself Satin when a man he knew slightly had staggered out of the shadows. He was drunk and crying, and he gave Mark some sob story about being down on his luck. He'd asked for a thousand dollars to get out of town, and in return, he'd offered Mark his little black book for collateral.

Money was no object, but Mark wasn't in the habit of doling it out—not even for friends. However, he'd been curious about the contents of the little black book, and thinking it contained names of hot women, he'd readily done the trade.

The next day, he'd learned that the man had been found dead in his hotel room. Mark felt sorry for him but glad he hadn't been somehow involved. He had, by right of possession, become the owner of the book. On going through it, he had deduced that the names in the book weren't hot women. They were names of men for hire who asked no questions, with instructions for contacting them.

He'd never believed in a million years that he would have need of it, and yet when he'd run across it in the safe, he'd brought it along. Now he was using it and wondering if he'd just made another in a long line of mistakes.

“It doesn't matter who I am,” he said shortly. “I need a driver to get me from San Antonio into Mexico.”

“I'm no fucking cabbie,” Solomon growled, and started to hang up. Then he heard the magic word: money.

“It's worth ten thousand dollars to me.”

Solomon frowned, which made the tattoos between his eyebrows look like an upside down arrowhead. Then he smiled, and as he did, his teeth, filed to tiny, needle-sharp points, gave him the appearance of an animal and not a man.

“So if I give you this ten-thousand-dollar ride, where are we going?”

“I need a place to hide out…just until I can make arrangements to fly…elsewhere.”

Solomon ran his tongue lightly over the points of his teeth. “There is an abandoned hacienda about fifteen miles south of Nuevo Laredo. It would serve your purposes.” His grin widened. Whoever this American was, he was obviously in trouble, and in that case, ten thousand dollars was a pittance. “I will come get you and bring you across the border for fifty thousand American dollars.”

“Fifty thousand!”

“That or nothing,” Solomon said.

“Fine,” Mark muttered. “Fifty it is. But you screw with me and I'll splatter your brains all over the windshield of your car and walk the rest of the way by myself.”

Solomon's smile disappeared. Nobody threatened him, no matter who they were, but he could deal with that later.

“When and where do I pick you up?” he asked.

“Just get yourself to San Antonio. I'll be there in another hour or so. When I arrive, I'll call you. For now, that's all you need to know.”

“Money up front,” Solomon said.

Mark snorted and made no bones about trying to hide it. “Make no mistake about me. I am not a fool. You don't get a dime until you deliver me to the hacienda. It's that or nothing.”

“Half when we meet. Half when I deliver you.”

“Goddamn it! I have other names on this list I was given. Just because your name was first, that doesn't mean you're all I've got. If you want the fucking job, you will get paid when I get to my destination and not before. Is that understood?”

Solomon reconsidered. Just because the man was an American didn't necessarily mean he was a fool. He knew a good deal when he heard it, and decided that if he argued, he would still be bored and out fifty thousand dollars.

“Yes. It is understood.”

“Fine. I'll call you when I get into San Antonio. If you're not available when I get there, I'll find another way to cross the border.”

“I'll be there,” Soloman said.

The line went dead in his ear.

He dropped the phone back in his pocket, eyed the bottle of tequila he was holding, then turned and dropped it into a trash can. Fifty thousand for one night's work was worth missing a good high.

He shoved his hands through his long curly hair, then took an elastic hair band from his pocket and pulled it into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. It was time to get down to business.

 

Cat was so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open, but every time she felt the need to sleep, the image of Mimi's battered and broken body would dance before her eyes. It was more than enough to keep her going. The laptop was in the seat beside her—her only connection to her prey. Despite her weariness, it was the rage inside her that kept her foot on the gas and her gaze darting between the laptop and the road.