The Cyclops Conspiracy (41 page)

He circled out of the neighborhood. There was one other way to determine if Waterhouse had dispatched the evidence. It would have to be a quick in and out. As with his trip to Zanns’s mansion, Jason felt he was tempting fate. But he couldn’t walk into a police station as a fugitive without that recording to prove his innocence.

* * *

Blue moonlight, filtered through fast-moving, low-hanging clouds, speckled the deck and nimbly danced through the swaying branches and leaves. Jason surveyed the doors and windows, locked out of his own house. His keys were in a manila envelope somewhere in the York County jail, along with his other possessions. He didn’t notice his satellite antenna was missing. He retrieved a broken brick from a pile of yard debris behind the shed. Seeing car headlights approaching in the distance, he smashed the brick into the glass of the back door as the car passed by with perfect timing, masking the noise.

Before meeting Chrissie for dinner at Maggie’s Tavern, Jason had let Waterhouse sweep his home for any remaining bugs. Jason had rushed off, leaving the private investigator to his work. He prayed Waterhouse had been thorough.

He crept like a thief into his own living room. Instantly, he recognized something was amiss. He’d seen the familiar shadows play out thousands of times. But, tonight, the shadows were different. He could feel his eyebrows converge and his forehead wrinkle as he tried to assimilate.

The silhouetted form standing at the junction of the living room and kitchen caught his eye only when it began to move. Jason recoiled too late. A heavy object struck him just above the right ear with a hollow, metallic chime. White light filled Jason’s field of vision, and he crashed to the floor.

Lisa Rodgers’s tanned complexion turned as white as the hospital walls when she laid eyes on her husband. He had borrowed a paramedic’s cell phone in the ambulance and calmly explained the shooting as if he were discussing changing the oil in the Hummer or picking up a gallon of milk. Despite his warnings against using the cell phone, she’d answered. Peter knew his wife too well.

She was by his side in forty-five minutes, barely containing her growing panic. She didn’t tell him where she had been hiding, and he didn’t ask.

“What the hell is going on, honey? You and Jason have been sneaking around for days. Now you’ve been shot. I want an explanation.”

Peter laid everything out, from Jason’s arrest and escape, to Zanns’s conversation about the presidents, to the attackers that had nearly killed him. He said he’d dispatched them easily, conveniently leaving out that he’d been a fraction of a second from having a 9 mm round rip through his chest.

She put a gentle hand on his heavily bandaged leg. The bullet had not severed any major blood vessels, passing only through well-toned muscle. The on-call surgeon had used twenty internal sutures and seven external sutures to close the wound right there in the emergency room. A heavy dose of pain medication and antibiotics had been prescribed. Lisa could tell by his fidgeting that his leg was beginning to ache.

“I need your cell phone,” he said.

“Are you serious?” Lisa asked. “You called me to come back because you need my cell phone. That’s it?”

Peter nodded. Lisa covered her mouth with a trembling hand. “No. I’m leaving, and you’re coming with me.”

“No! Just give me the phone!”

“Two men tried to kill you! If me and the girls had been home, we might be dead, too. I’m not leaving without you again. We have our children to think about!” She clamped her arms tightly across her chest.

“I would never have knowingly—”

She put a finger in the air, silencing him. “I know. But it’s time to go.”

“What about Jason?” said Peter. “He’s in trouble.”

“I love Jason too. But I have to put us—our family—first.”

“What would you do if it was your sister?” Peter said, lifting a defiant chin.

“That’s not fair, Peter.”

“None of this fair, Lise. Jason is family.
My
family!”

Lisa sighed. Peter drilled her with an unrelenting stare.

“How do you expect to help your brother in this condition?”

“I can get the right people involved. If we can clear him, then he can stop running and come in.”

“Then let me help you!” Lisa demanded.

“No, your place is with the kids. Leave the phone and go. Don’t make me yell again. Now!”

Lisa shook her head in disgust, torn between returning to her children and remaining to watch over her wounded warrior. She could feel a tear tracing a path down her face. “Fine! I’m leaving,” she pouted.
“Only because
your
daughters need at least one parent alive. But not because you asked me to.”

“That’s the right decision,” Peter replied evenly.

Her features softened. She leaned in, giving him a long, tender kiss, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Peter paused, then said, “Leave the phone.”

Lisa Rodgers fished it out of her purse as another tear snaked down her cheek. She crammed it into his open palm, spun on her heel, and left.

* * *

Peter watched the doorway for several long seconds after his wife had departed. Finally, he turned toward the muted television. A news program cut to a reporter, speaking to the camera, standing in front of a house Peter recognized. He increased the volume.

“…victim was a white male in his fifties. He was a private investigator. Police are not releasing his name until next of kin have been notified. He was shot outside his Poquoson home in the early evening hours yesterday…”

The camera panned, and he saw Waterhouse’s red Chevy Blazer. A cold shudder coursed through his body. “I don’t know how I’m gonna get you out of this one, brother,” he said out loud. The image and the feeling of impotence spawned in him a desire to act.

Sitting on his ass or his hands—or any other body part—was not in his nature. His friend in Washington, Tom Johnson, had promised to get back to him. Had he already missed the call? There was no way for him to know.

Peter decided to attack it from the other end. Using Lisa’s cell phone, he dialed information and got the nonemergency number for the Newport News Police Department.

“Police communications, Dispatcher Ridley.” At three in the morning, the female voice was bored, unexcited.

“I need to speak with a Detective John Palmer, please. It’s urgent.”

“I’m sure Detective Palmer isn’t in at this hour. Can I leave him a message?”

“Isn’t there any way for you to get in touch with him?”

“What is this about, sir?”

“I have knowledge that someone is trying to kill the presidents!”

“The presidents? There’s only one president, sir.”

“I need to speak to Detective John Palmer. Now!”

“What is your name, sir?”

Peter gave it.

“Hold on, please,” the dispatcher replied irritably, before the line rolled to the generic muzak.

* * *

Jason tried to shake the warbling from his ears along with the pain in his skull. Whatever had struck him felt like a wrecking ball. He tried to push himself up, but failed. Instead, he sank back to the floor and rolled onto his back.

As the pain and nausea waned, fear welled. He realized he was probably face to face with one of Zanns’s assassins. Then the silhouetted figure spoke. The female voice, though nervous, tried to sound ominous. “Don’t move! Or I’ll hit you again!” The woman loomed over him, holding his DeMarini softball bat.

An intimacy coated the woman’s words. It took a second, but Jason recognized the determined voice. “Chrissie?”

Several seconds passed. Jason sensed she was assessing, trying to assimilate the sound of her name, the voice that had spoken it. Jason saw the bat drop several inches as she said, “Jason?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

The soft whoosh of clothing preceded Christine dropping to her knees. The bat clanked to the floor, and her arms went around his
neck, squeezing him in a loving death grip. The warmth of her face against his felt like a blazing fire in a barren snowfield.

Jason returned her embrace with a weak one of his own, comforting her, stroking her matted hair. Finally, Christine pulled back. “I thought you were—”

“I’m fine.” He rubbed the side of his head. “But I’m gonna have one helluva knot.”

“I am so glad you’re all right,” she whispered. She helped him to his feet, pulled him close, and placed her lips on his. Christine cried as they kissed, her tears mixing with the sweat coating Jason’s face. Her lips were soft and warm, inviting him to press against her. Jason complied. They released, and then embraced again. Jason wiped her cheek with a gentle caress of his thumb.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m better now,” she replied in a low, soft whisper. Then she remembered the news report. “You’re hurt!”

“Yeah, a little,” he replied.

“Like hell. You were stabbed. Show me!”

He lifted the T-shirt he’d found in the suitcase of the Taurus. Even in the shadows, the wound looked bad. “Oh my God, Jason! That looks awful. You need a doctor!”

“That won’t be happening anytime soon. I’d be back in custody the second I set foot in an emergency room.”

“That needs to be treated. Where are your bandages?”

“Upstairs. How did you know I was stabbed?”

“It’s all over the news.”

She led him up the steps to the bathroom and was about to flip the light switch. “No lights!” Jason instructed.

He coached her on where to find the supplies. Christine gathered bandages and medicated ointment in the darkness. She helped him to the floor and told him to lie on his side. Setting the supplies on the floor beside him, she lit a small candle and placed it near the wound. Jason told her to smear the antibiotic goo onto
a balled bandage. When she had done that, she turned to Jason. “Now what?”

“I want you to stuff the whole thing into the wound.”

“That’s a pretty deep wound. Won’t that hurt?”

“It’s going to hurt like a bitch. Do it on three!” This procedure was akin to repairing a broken levee by sticking your finger in it. But it was all he could do at the moment. The wound was leaking. The edges were already black and caked with dried blood. He was beginning to feel the burn of a fever, which meant it was probably already infected.

On three, Christine rammed the coated gauze into his wound with two fingers. The pressure she applied opened the wound, forcing the coated gauze into the puncture. Jason tensed and winced, fighting the intense pain. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, glistening in the candlelight. Christine held her hands away from him, waiting with rapt concern to see what happened. Jason breathed rapidly for several minutes, trying to blow away the mounting agony. Finally, the pain subsided. Christine covered the gauze-packed wound with another square of gauze, then, with difficulty, wrapped a bandage around Jason’s trunk. When he relaxed, Christine hugged him again, careful to avoid his side.

Jason gently pushed her away and sat up. “I need to check my e-mail,” he said.

Jason retrieved his laptop from the chest-high safe bolted to the floor of his bedroom closet. He rarely used the laptop, having little use for it at work. The desktop computer was gone, probably sitting in a police evidence locker. Christine watched from over his shoulder as he turned it on and logged into his e-mail account.

“There it is,” he said. “Walter sent a copy of the recording to me, the detective in Newport News, and himself. Hopefully, they’ve taken steps.” An exhausting relief washed over him.

“So what now?” Christine asked.

At that moment, the phone rang. Jason hobbled to the phone and checked the caller ID. It was his sister-in-law’s cell number. What the
hell was Peter’s wife calling at this hour for? Then the realization struck him again that Peter might be hurt or in danger. “Shit,” he whispered.

He pressed talk. “Lisa?”

“No, it’s me.”

Jason breathed again, hearing his brother’s voice. “Pete, where are you? How did you know to call me here?”

“I called your cell. There was no answer. I was taking a shot in the dark. Hoping maybe you’d check your messages.”

Peter explained about the attacks, his wounded leg, and Waterhouse’s murder. “You have to come and get me out of here. I’m a sitting duck!”

“We’re on our way!” Jason ended the call and turned to Christine.

“Peter’s in the hospital. We’re going to get him. We can’t stay here any longer anyway. The cops are sure to be watching the house. Are you up for this?”

Christine met his gaze and smiled. “As long as I’m with you! Don’t leave me again.”

“Don’t worry. It won’t happen again.”

Five minutes later, Jason had burned a copy of the recording onto a flash drive in his desk drawer. If things didn’t go as planned, the Conversation was his get-out-of-jail-free card.

Jason faced Christine and smiled, caressed her cheek, and said, “Let’s go get the bastards who killed your father before they can assassinate the presidents!”

“The presidents!” Christine looked dumfounded.

“I’ll explain on the way.”

At that moment, the front door burst open with a loud crash. A man silhouetted against the moonlight rushed through the opening, holding a pistol capped with a very long silencer.

His face illuminated by the glow of his computer screen, Steven Cooper smiled as he scrolled down. His dubious role in this sordid affair was almost complete. He was already a delightfully rich man. When it was over, he planned on enjoying every delectable penny.

He had been the mouthpiece for the ultrasecret, nameless group headed by the unseen puppetmaster named Hammon. He’d posed as the businessman funneling funds to Zanns and her Simoon. The additional five million dollar fee he’d squeezed from Zanns was parked neatly in the designated accounts, every dime untraceable. The funds slithered through a maze of dummy ledgers around the world, ending up in the Caymans, Switzerland, and Indonesia.

Five million dollars!