Resistant (34 page)

“Dad, are you okay?” Emily asked.

He’d gone quiet for too long.

“Yeah, sweetie. Tell me about you. What have you been up to?”

Just talk to me … I need to hear your voice.

“I’m doing everything I can think of to raise more money for Cap,” she said. “It’s going great. I mean, we’ve still got a long way to go, but people are really rallying behind me.”

“Is General Mills still contributing?”

“They are!” she announced with pride. “In addition to the five hundred they’re donating, they’re also sending all sorts of mixes so we can have a big bake sale. The street team has been picking up steam, and my fund-raising sites have raised over two thousand dollars so far.”

“Two thousand,” Lou repeated. “That’s wonderful! Congratulations, honey. Well done. Very well done!”

“Thanks, Dad. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, kitten. I’m just a little—”

A sharp knock on the door interrupted him.

“Lou, it’s Vaill,” he heard the urgent, somewhat muffled voice say. “We gotta talk.”

“Sweetheart, let me call you right back.”

Lou got up from the bed.

“Okay, Daddy, I love you.”

“Love you, too,” he said on his way to the door. “Talk to you soon.”

Such a kid.

Lou wondered what news Vaill had returned to share, thinking it was something too serious to discuss over the phone. He turned the knob and had pulled the door open barely an inch when it sprung inward on him, rammed from the other side. Knocked off balance, Lou staggered backward. He was confused by Vaill’s sudden aggression until he realized it was not Vaill. This man had a beard, dark brown eyes, brown hair, and carried a pistol with a silencer pointed at the center of Lou’s chest.

“Don’t make a sound, not a single noise or you die,” the intruder said. One look at his flat, lifeless eyes, and Lou had no doubt the threat was real. The man stepped farther into the room, closing the door behind him with his foot and reaching back to dead-bolt it, which Lou knew would automatically engage the Do Not Disturb notice on the outside. “Keep your hands chest-high where I can see them,” he demanded.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Lou’s stomach cartwheeled. His heart slammed again and again against the inside of his ribs. This was not a man to be tested.

“Doesn’t matter,” the gunman replied, “you have something I need.”

Missing pieces quickly dropped into place.

“You kidnapped Humphrey, didn’t you. You’re Burke. You killed Tim Vaill’s wife.”

Outside, the wind and the downpour had intensified, but Lou, desperately sizing up his situation, was barely aware.

Alexander Burke returned an indifferent shrug. “So I am,” he said. “But to repeat—you, sir, have something I need. A notebook your friend Miller gave you.”

The killer moved closer, one cautious step … then another. His gun hand was as steady as a steel rod. Lou was on one side of the king-sized bed, Burke on the other, but the bullets in his gun shortened the distance between them immeasurably.

More lightning … more thunder … more wind … more rain.

Neither man moved to close the flapping drapes, but Burke flipped on one bedside light.

Lou searched for an advantage—any advantage. They were about the same height, and Lou had the sense that in an even-up fight he had a chance—except for the gun.

“I don’t know what notebook you’re talking about,” he said.

Burke sneered.

“We’re not really going to play that game, are we?”

“I don’t know what—”

“Cool it, Welcome. Just stop right there. You have one chance to save your life. Right now. Only one. I’m going to shoot you if you scream … or stall. Ever been shot? Well, you have my word that I’m going to do it—more than once, and in places that won’t kill you. I’m going to shoot you if you try to escape, if you cough, or sneeze, or argue, or do anything other than give me what I came here to get, which is a notebook that Humphrey Miller gave to you. Is that clear?”

“Please … let’s—”

“—I’m counting to five, then it starts.”

“I have it, I have it.”

“Four. I don’t care if you have it. I want you to give it to me. Three…”

“It’s here, it’s right here!” Lou shouted. Any vestige of coolness or composure was gone from his voice. This was a man with no soul. He had killed Vaill’s wife without a blink, and he had undoubtedly gotten pleasure out of gunning down Humphrey’s caretaker at close range. There was no way even to try to reason with him. “Don’t shoot me! I’ll get it. I’ll get it.”

Lou continued desperately to search his mind for a move or a word that might forestall the inevitable and turn even one thimbleful of the tide that was threatening to sweep him away forever.

“It’s locked in the safe,” he said, pointing.

Another round of wind and thunder. Rain was now being blown through the open sliders and onto the carpeted floor. The curtains billowed inward like spinnakers.

Burke came around to Lou’s side of the bed. Five feet separated them—an easy kill shot, but too far for Lou to make any reasonable attempt to attack him. Another look into Burke’s empty eyes told Lou everything he needed to know about how this was going to go down.

He’s going to kill me. Once he has the book, I’m dead.

“Open the safe,” Burke said.

Time was almost up. Lou decided he wasn’t going without a fight. He wasn’t going to wait to be shot. Crouching rather than dropping onto his knees, he opened the cabinet door and took in a deep, steadying breath. There was no way Burke would accept the combination to the safe. He wanted the notebook, not any of the distractions that could result from dialing numbers.

Distractions …

Lou glanced out the sliders, and the germ of an idea formed … and began to grow. He worked quickly but carefully to press the correct number sequence—03051009, a mash up of his birthday and Emily’s and the only combination he was guaranteed not to forget. The safe clicked open and he retrieved the thick, bound document. As he stood, Lou turned back around to face Burke.

Could the notebook stop a slug?
he was wondering.

He needed time. Just a second or two.

Another bright flash of lightning drew Lou’s attention to the balcony where raindrops continued pelting the stone floor.

“Slide the book over to me,” Burke said, motioning with his gun hand. Clearly, he did not want Lou even within arm’s reach.

Lou swallowed hard.

One chance … I have one chance.… What does it feel like to be shot?

He bent down and slid the book on the carpeted floor, but angled it in such a way that it slid underneath the bed.

Burke’s expression remained pure ice, but his eyes were daggers.

“That’s going to cost you,” he said.

Keeping his gaze locked on Lou, he used his foot to feel under the bed. The Neighbors had Humphrey Miller, and Burke had been able to make him hand over Lou. The notebook was insurance in case Miller suddenly refused to cooperate anymore … or died.

Lou tensed. He was a sprinter on the blocks, and the starter’s pistol was about to go off.

The Neighbors had probably given up on Kazimi’s antibiotic approach, and their scientists had not been able to keep up with the mutations of the Doomsday Germ. They were getting desperate. The good news was it now appeared Humphrey well might have been correct in his bacteriophage theory. The bad news was that Lou was essentially finished. His only hope—an incredibly thin one—would involve leaving the notebook behind.

Come on and look away. Look … away.

Lou’s eyes were fixed on the man set to kill him.

Look down. Now, dammit!… Now!

Burke extended his foot another inch under the bed frame. Then a wisp of smile bowed on his cruel mouth. He had located the notebook.

Bending at the knees, Burke kept his eyes on Lou, and the gun fixed on his chest.

Get ready …

Burke looked away for just two seconds, long enough to dip his shoulder and reach underneath the bed with his hand. When he glanced up again, Lou was already in motion. In the instant before he moved, Lou flashed on the parents rushing their kids out of the swimming pool. He took two giant steps, pushing past the curtain and onto the balcony. From behind him came two silenced shots—like champagne corks popping. He sensed bullets whizzing past his head. One might have shattered the sliders.

This was it.

There was no time for hesitation, no time to calculate … or to direct his leap. Barefooted, Lou swung one foot up onto the railing, and in a fluid motion, pushed off with all his strength.

Live or die.

He was six stories above the pool and falling fast. The scene rushing up from below was crystal clear. Indelible. No kids. Air being forced from his lungs. Unable to breathe in.

Lou peddled frantically as though astride an invisible bicycle. His arms pinwheeled to gain balance and shift himself into a seated position. He had heard someplace that going in butt first would do the least damage. Or maybe it was feet first. He also remembered to try to stay loose. Tight muscles would limit the cushion around the spine and contribute to compression fractures.

Of course, no maneuver would help a whit if he landed short.

The pool was coming up with dizzying speed. He could see now that he was going to hit water. His last thought before impact was whether he was about to land at the deep end, or whether, in fact, there even
was
a deep end. The force compressed his chest and stomach. Banshee wind and stinging rain lashed at his face.

It was time. He would survive this, or he would shatter and die.

He was upright now, about to hit legs and butt first—a cannonball from six stories with absolutely no idea what it was going to feel like when he hit, or if he was about to blow apart on the bottom. The impact was intense, and the simultaneous explosion was worthy of any cannon. Every bit of remaining air burst from his lungs. He pinched his nostrils just in time to keep water from shooting up them and through the top of his head.

A moment later, he hit bottom. The jolt was stunning, but not lethal. Disoriented, he flailed with his arms and foolishly tried to take a breath, filling his lungs with chlorinated water. With panic taking hold, he hit the bottom of the pool again, but this time he pushed off with his legs and shot upward, gagging mercilessly as his head broke the surface. Adrenaline and the realization that he was probably not dead carried him to the side of the pool.

Hanging on to the tile and coughing nonstop, he peered up at the balcony of his hotel room. Burke was there, silenced pistol in hand, taking aim. Then he lowered the weapon as a group of concerned parents with children in tow came rushing out of the lobby to Lou’s aide. Burke pointed two fingers at his own eyes, and then at Lou, before he vanished into the room. Groaning with the effort, Lou pulled himself out of the pool, and pushed himself to his feet. Burke was on his way down. Shivering from the shock of the ordeal, Lou eyed the crowd gathered around him.

“Kids,” he said, “don’t ever try this at home.”

CHAPTER 44

           Senator Huey Long’s
Share Our Wealth
program is emblematic of America’s failed entitlement policy. Choosing to forgo our agrarian roots, to turn our collective backs from extended family in exchange for urban living, to become dependent on handouts at the cost of self-reliance should have consequences not rewards.

        
—LANCASTER R. HILL,
Climbing the Mountain
, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1941, P. 99–100

Like the Red Sea, would-be rescuers and good Samaritans parted to let the sodden, barefoot specter hurry past. On his way into the lobby, Lou grabbed a towel from an oversized bin and coughed what seemed like a gallon of chlorinated pool water into it. There was still time, he was thinking, to catch Burke inside the hotel before he could get away with Humphrey’s notebook. Then he flashed on Vaill’s description of the ruthless murder of Humphrey’s caretaker, and of Vaill’s wife.

It was possible, likely even, that with his prize in hand, Burke would not come after him. But it also seemed certain that given half a chance, it would be a pleasure for the professional to finish what he had been about to do. The best chance Lou had with the least amount of risk to people was to call security and the police. He wondered if hotel security officers were like mall cops, or if they carried guns. Even if they did, he would be sending them to their death against Burke.

Still coughing into his towel, Lou braced himself against the front desk. Water dripped down his face and pooled on the granite surface. The attendant, a quick young man with black-rimmed glasses, a dark suit, and a name tag that read
REYNALDO
used a hand towel to blot the mess before it reached his keyboard.

“May I help you?” he asked, cool as a popsicle.

Lou was speechless,

Don’t you notice anything unusual about me?
he wanted to say.
I just did a six-story cannonball into your pool because a man broke into my room with a gun and was about to kill me. Would you please call security and the police?

Then it occurred to him that Vaill was keeping him hidden because the agent no longer trusted the FBI. The worst thing he could do now was to get the authorities—any authorities—involved. What he really needed was to get away from Burke, and to reconnect with Vaill.… Oh, yes, and to pick up some clothes and a pair of shoes.

Reynaldo stood by, waiting patiently.

“Um, the shower in my room is broken,” Lou said, using the coughing towel on his hair. “I was looking to see if the shampoo was in the stall, and the shower just went … on. Full blast, no warning.”

Improvised lying
. He had been a master at it during the drinking and drugging years. It seemed that like his alcoholism, the ability to improvise a lie was never really far from the surface.

“I’m very sorry about that,” Reynaldo said. “I thought you might have been caught in the rain. Sir, what’s your room number?” he asked as if Lou had simply requested another pillow. “I’ll send maintenance up right away.”