GHOST_4_Kindle_V2 (13 page)

Jack nodded. He sat on a high stool directly behind Lucinda. “Gary, the plastic slipped off the laptop,” he said. He waited for the doctor to make the adjustment. “That should cover it well enough. Size us up. Are we good?”

“Lower your stool a little,” the doctor said, squinting at the digital viewfinder. “I can’t even see your chin right now. There. Perfect. That works.”

“Okay, Lucinda, my sweet,” Jack said, petting her silky blond hair. “We are about to start the movie. You’ll have to open your eyes and smile.”

Lucinda obeyed.
 

Jack pinched the thin skin on her neck between his nails. “Did you feel that?” he asked.

“It tickled.”

He pinched harder. “How about now?”

“It feels good. Do it some more.”

“I will,” Jack said.
 

“Will I get to see Molly soon?” she asked.

“Very soon,” said Jack. “Smile pretty.” He nodded to Doctor Gary. The camera began to roll.
   

Jack continued to pet Lucinda with his left hand. He leaned forward a bit so that the back of Lucinda’s head rested lightly against his chest. Then, in his right hand, he lifted the blade. He looked straight ahead into the camera, though he knew that only the lower portion of his face was visible. By feel, he found the dimple on Lucinda’s neck, below her ear, below the corner of her jaw. He applied just enough pressure to the blade and began to cut.

Jack likened it to a symphony, and he was first chair cello. His hand moved fluidly, and the blade glided over flesh. As the blood came, Jack smiled for the camera.

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“I’ve got to go now,” said Doctor Gary, slamming the hatch of his black sports utility. “This hour I shouldn’t have any trouble.”

“So you’ll be going straight from the marina to the hospital then?” Jack asked.

“I’ll need the time,” he replied. “I’m going to take her farther out, almost to Pensacola. Then I’ve got to be at the clinic for a procedure at ten, three more in the afternoon. But, ah…” He hesitated.
 

“What is it?” Jack asked.

Dr. Gary plucked off his work gloves and tossed them into the backseat. He shut the door, leaned against it, and sighed. “Shame about Lucinda. It felt rushed.”

“I’m worried,” Jack said. “But not about Lucinda.”

“About Erica? I don’t think she’s too far along. I doubt very much that she has any idea—”

“Not about Erica,” Jack said. “You’ll take care of her problem this weekend. No…I’m thinking about the elections.”

Dr. Gary rubbed his temples. “I don’t believe they will get enough votes back to take the big chair. Especially not after our messages become…more public.”

“Polls aren’t exactly looking favorable,” Jack replied. “And they’ve already got the court in their back pocket.”

“But surely not the Senate?”

“How many times will we tread this same ground?” Jack hissed. Then, with some effort, he moderated his tone. “If they get the Presidency, the House, and keep the Court, the Senate will be worthless. I’m beginning to fear that our work these many years is coming to naught.”

“Don’t say that!” Dr. Gary whispered urgently.
 

“But subtlety isn’t working, not this time,” Jack said. “In fact, we have become largely irrelevant. You were right all along about the desensitization of America. If we do not find a way to generate enough buzz with Lucinda…” He glanced at the black bag in the back of the SUV. “Well, the only thing left to do is reveal.”

“We always knew it might come to this,” Dr. Gary said.

Jack’s shoulders fell. He nodded slowly.
 

Dr. Gary said, “You understand where this will go? If we reveal, there will no longer be any hiding. No safety. No future plan.”

Jack smiled gently. “In every revolution, in every just cause, there are martyrs. Future generations are more important than…than our survival.”

“Yes, yes they are,” Dr. Gary said. “But listen, Jack, you need to relax.” After a pregnant pause, he went on, “I think we need to go out tomorrow.”

“You’ll be too exhausted after work—”

“I won’t take no for an answer,” Dr. Gary said. “Come, we’ll visit our favorite place. Not a late thing. We’ll go right after I get home, say about five o’clock. Can you swing it?”

“I…I think so,” Jack said. “The parents will understand. After all, I offer them favors of convenience, and I almost never close the daycare early.”

Chapter 13

I have many helpful items in my silver case. But one thing I do not have is some liquid or spray that would dissolve a corpse.
Body-B-Gone
or maybe
Abracadaver
.
 

Something like that would have really come in handy the night I was attacked. Sure, I could’ve just called the police, explained how a killer broke into my room, how I fought him off in self defense, and killed him. After due process, I’d certainly be acquitted. But the women who’d been abducted by Smiling Jack didn’t have time for due process.
 

I certainly didn’t find that camera so that I could wait in a jail cell for local cops to figure out how innocent I am. And if they did any in-depth research into my identity, I’d be in for more than due process. In fact, there was enough material in my silver case to have me shipped to a top secret government lab for a long, long time.

So I had a body to get rid of.
 

I thought about dragging him out through the lobby as if he was a good friend who’d passed out from too much to drink. But even if I managed to wash the blood off the killer, there’s something different about a human body when it’s no longer animated. Rigor mortis begins to set in, stiffening places that are usually fluid and flexible. Every part of the body becomes utterly dead weight. Someone would notice. Probably Mr. Granderson; he was already suspicious. He might put two and two together and make a whole lot of trouble.

Then I had an idea. It might even kill two birds with one stone. So to speak.

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The killer had no ID on him. He did have a single, nondescript car key and a gold money clip with several hundred dollars in it. That would help pay for damages. I figured he left the ID in his car. I needed a car for what I was planning, but I’d need to hurry. Being on the first floor turned out to have a few perks. A window large enough to climb in and out of was somewhat convenient…though it had been the killer’s source of ingress, I reflected. The window slid open easily, and I slipped outside.

A pro wouldn’t leave his car in the motel’s parking lot. He’d park nearby but on a shadowy side road where a police car could drive right by it nine times and never remember seeing it there. Someplace where he could leave in a hurry, with easy access to the main drag. A block away, I found the road. Then, I found the car. Netherviewing let me see the residual warmth of the four cars parked on the curb. But I needn’t have bothered. Black and sleek, a low slung sports coup—typical image prop for a killer.
 

Using the killer’s key, I opened the car and sat behind the wheel. I found his ID in an overhead compartment. Gerrard DiPietro was his name. 32 years old from Panama City Beach. A local.
Killers-R-Us,
I thought sardonically.
An office in every town.

Beneath a tarp in the back, I discovered a treasure trove of Gerrard’s tricks of the trade: a dozen slender blades like the one he used on me, two automatic rifles, two silenced 9-millimeter pistols, and, sitting innocently in a Tupperware container, a block of plastic explosives. Semtex, military grade.
 

I thought about this hoard. Gerrard wasn’t some movie-watching, assassin-wannabe. He was a big hitter. I blew out a sigh. If the guy was less discreet, he might have blown up half the Motel 6, taking out a score of innocent folks. Thank God Gerrard was discreet…and confident enough to make it personal. That gave me pause as well.
Personal
.
 

Someone
really
didn’t like me sniffing around. Whoever it was wanted me out of the picture urgently enough to put down hard cash for a real pro, someone who wasn’t likely to screw up the job or leave loose ends. Too bad.
 

Gerrard screwed up. And I’m a pretty big loose end.

I turned the key in the ignition, and the sports car purred to life. I drove back to the motel and parked in the open slot next to my room. I spent the next two hours cleaning blood out of the carpet and off the walls. Using a few ounces of a powerful epoxy from my case, I repaired the entertainment center door. But the TV and the duck painting were history. I’d leave the killer’s wad of cash for the replacements.
 

I put Gerrard’s body under the tarp in the back of his car and locked it up. Then, with the sun already airbrushing the horizon pink, I climbed back into my room and went to sleep for three hours.

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I passed by the business center just as the old guy and his granddaughter were going in.
 

“But, Grampy,” she mewed, “I wanna build a sand castle. I wanna go to the beach. You said we could. You s-a-i-d!”

I shook my head and waited in line to check out. When I stepped up to the counter, Mr. Granderson bounced backward. He wasn’t quite as bold when there wasn’t a locked door between us.
 

“Checking out?” he gurgled.

“Yes.” I handed him two key cards just like everything was normal. Just Mr. Happy Customer, checking out after a pleasant stay.
 

Mr. Granderson cleared his throat and said, “Any additional charges…or damages?”

“I’m afraid I’ve destroyed the TV and one of the paintings. This ought to cover it.” I handed him a sum in excess of $800, more than enough to replace the stuff. The TV wasn’t exactly state-of-the-art. And the duck painting wasn’t a Rembrandt.
 

I turned to leave, but then I had an idea. “Do you have any lollipops?”

Mr. Granderson almost laughed. “Lollipops?”

“Yeah, you know, a stick with a hard candy on the end? We give them to give kids?”

“I know what a lollipop is,” Mr. Granderson quipped. Then he seemed to remember he was terrified of me. He held up a little bowl full of red and white striped candies. “Will peppermints do?”

“Perfect. Thanks.” I left without taking a mint. They weren’t for me.
 

I stood outside the business center and watched as, once again, the old guy was at the solitaire, leaving the granddaughter playing with a doll on the floor. I entered, stood just inside the door, and glared at the man.

“You’ll have to wait your turn for the good computer,” the old guy said, barely sparing me a glance.
 

“S’okay,” I said. I knelt down by the granddaughter. “Pardon me, little girl, but the manager at the desk said he has some candies for you.”

“For me?” She was all smiles, bright blue eyes, freckles, blond pigtails. Adorable. She looked from me back to the old guy. “Can I, Grampy?”

“Go ahead,” he replied without turning around.
 

I waited until the little girl was gone. Then I grabbed the back of the old man’s chair and spun him around to face me.
 

“What are you—”

“Neglect,” I said, hammering both syllables. “That’s what you’re doing. I don’t know who you are and I don’t know your story. But that little girl’s worth more than every computer game in this world. Now here’s what you’re going to do.”

“Who are you to tell me—” He sucked in a harsh breath. He’d seen my eyes as I began to Netherview.
 

“Don’t speak again,” I commanded, the bass in my voice reaching subwoofer levels. “When she comes back, you’re going to tell her you love her, and you’re going to turn off that stupid game and take her some place nice. Take her to the beach to build a sandcastle. Take her to a water park. It’s going to be a hot day. Let her swim for you. Watch her do tricks in the water, and tell her how great she is. And don’t you ever take her for granted. You don’t know how many more days YOU have left. Do you understand?”

The old man swallowed and blurped out some kind of affirmative noise. I turned and left just as the little girl came back. She was smiling and one cheek was puffed out with a peppermint. She had at least seven more clutched in her fists.
 

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It was already 87 degrees by 10 a.m. in Panama City Beach. Not the best conditions to be riding around with a corpse. The smell made me gag several times on the short trip.

I pulled into the Spinnaker Sales parking lot, sliding to a stop in the pristine white gravel. The showroom didn’t open until eleven. I figured I had maybe twenty minutes until G showed up. I didn’t know what kind of top level security technology they used. It didn’t much matter. I had my silver case.

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G. Alonzo Vasquez arrived at 10:55. He was the only one on the floor at Spinnaker Sales until one o’clock, so he took the liberty of getting a long overdue manicure on the way in. He wasn’t worried. The showroom was immaculate, lit with inner fire from the Gulf sun, like a diamond with perfect color, cut, and clarity.
Shining like my future,
G thought, a jaunty spring in his step as he strolled to the showroom’s doors.
 

G was smugly expectant because he had a very important appointment coming in that morning, one that could dwarf the rest of the weekend’s sales by comparison. Sir Drystan Pembroke, the captain of the Royal Welsh Yachting Club was coming to Spinnaker with the intent of updating his fleet. If all went well, his lordship might drop eight digits on Spinnaker that day.
 

What a party I’ll throw,
G thought, imagining his commission from such a sale. When G turned off the security system and entered the showroom, he shivered. “A/C’s a little high,” he muttered, striding to the control panel by the main sales office. And indeed it was. Set at sixty-two degrees, much—much—lower than usual. G turned it back to a more comfortable seventy-one degrees and made a note on his legal pad to call the A/C people.