Off the Edge (The Associates) (21 page)

It was something Jazzman had done in the conference call. He’d done it only twice, and yet…

Macmillan sat up and quickly riffled back through, focusing in on the packing material of the language. He found a certain construction—
Would that you were here.
Then,
Would that I had a bike
—construction that was rare among English speakers—fussy, even. Jazzman had used it and it was one of the things that had made Macmillan suspect Jazzman might be a native German speaker, or had perhaps learned English in a more formal setting. He found two more instances of it in after-the-shift emails. The rate at which the imposter used it well exceeded any corpus.

Could it be?

She’d said Rolly had entered prison just over two years ago.

Two and a half years ago, the TZ-5 had disappeared, along with whoever stole it.

Heart pounding, Macmillan went back to the date the imposter took up the correspondence. It was right around the time Jazzman had held the conference call announcing the auction.

Energy blazed through him the way it always did when he hit on an outrageous new theory.

Were Jazzman and Rolly the same man?

Laney had told him Rolly had cops who’d do his bidding. Men working for him even from prison. Could the Shinsurins be among that group? Had he simply parked Laney with the Shinsurins until he could get out of prison? Had he arranged the auction using the name of Jazzman, and then killed her brother and taken over his email account?

He looked up at the honeymoon suite and his blood froze. Champagne in the ice bucket.

For Rolly. For Jazzman. Two glasses.

Jazzman and Laney. The package.

Alarm swept through him like wildfire. He sprung up from his seat.

Laney.

If he was right, Laney was in grave danger. He had to get her out of there. Protect her. He couldn’t sit around and wait. Anyway, if Rolly was Jazzman, Laney could confirm it.

He stripped down to his T-shirt and stuffed his bloody brown shirt in the garbage. Gently and quickly as he could, he removed the largest guard’s jacket and put it on. He took his utility belt, trying to keep his movements smooth—the drug would be wearing off soon. He grabbed a hat, tucking in his blond hair, wishing the Shinsurins had given their basement guards guns instead of just pepper spray and radios. Bare feet would be conspicuous as hell, but his toes were too wrecked for boots.

It was then he heard it—just a whisper of a movement down the hall. Too stealthy to be Laney. He looked at the monitors. The Indian businessman. Was he lost? What was he doing on LL2? When he caught the dull glint of a gun he realized where he’d seen that face.

Anders. Just feet away.

No weapons. Too late to run. Macmillan stuffed his hair firmly and completely under the hat, pulled up his collar to cover his hairline, and took a seat, resting his head on the desk, face down, just like the other two guards. He forced himself to be perfectly still even though his every instinct drove him to tear out of there and get to Laney. Because he’d die before he reached the street. Anders was a true pro, a man who’d fought before he could walk, and he’d be armed head to toe. Macmillan had nothing but pepper spray. And he was raised a scholar, not a killer. He’d come to killing late.

Macmillan’s heart pounded. He was unarmed against a superior killer. He needed luck. Surprise. Something.

He felt Anders come in and move past him. He peeked out the corner of his eye to see Anders standing over the guard without the jacket, Sig P229 with silencer in hand. Anders took hold of the guard’s hair and yanked his head up, then let it bang down. It was a wonder the man didn’t wake up. Lucky, too. Anders would kill the man if he woke up.

Anders picked up the coffee cup and sniffed, then put it back down.

Macmillan could follow the track of Anders’ thoughts exactly. He’d been to the empty cell. He’d figure Macmillan had gotten the guards drugged so that he could escape. There was no reason for Anders to think Macmillan would stay. And his hair wasn’t showing.

But there were only two coffee cups for three drugged guards. Anders would notice that. It would be even worse if he noticed Macmillan’s bare feet. Macmillan wished he could move them deeper into the shadows under the desk, but he didn’t dare.

His mind clouded with images of Laney, hurt and scared. The way her eyes would look. Laney running, caught. Beaten. Worse. He felt like a volcano was in him.

Tap.

Anders had discovered the video feeds.

Macmillan felt his body clench.

Tap.

Anders was using the feeds to determine where and when Macmillan left. Who he’d been with.

Tap.

Tap tap.

Silence.

It began as a tickle of awareness. Maybe a subconscious realization that the keyboard taps had been too far apart that last time. A sense of stillness that hadn’t been there before.

Tap.

Anders had noticed his feet.

Tap.

Macmillan’s heart raced; he didn’t need eyes in the back of his head to know when a gun was on him.

It was at that moment, that very moment, that one of the guards groaned. A chair squeaked. “
Aao
…
aao…”

Macmillan slit his eyes enough to see Anders swinging the weapon around to the guard. He’d shoot. He’d shoot all three of them.

Macmillan yanked the pepper spray from his belt and exploded from his chair and right into Anders, spraying the assassin in the eyes and knocking his arm as a wild shot went off.

Anders coughed and gasped, blinded.

Macmillan grabbed Anders’s arm and brought his knee up into the killer’s elbow with crushing force. He heard the bone crack as the gun clattered to the floor.

Even blinded, even with a destroyed elbow, Anders kept coming. He landed a left-handed blow on Macmillan’s throat—just a hair to the right and it would’ve been lethal.

Macmillan hit back, coughing, eyes watering from the spray, barely able to see or breathe himself.

Anders fell. Macmillan was on him with a final blow that knocked him out cold. Macmillan cuffed Anders’ wrists to different metal fixtures and raced off with the man’s Sig shoved into the utility belt, trying not to think too hard about the fact that he didn’t finish Anders off.

He should’ve killed him, but something in him had shifted back in that cell, back when he’d told Laney about the men he’d killed. He hated the man he showed to her that night.

Two minutes later, Macmillan was slipping out onto the dark sidewalk, throat raw, eyes stinging from the pepper spray. He melted into the shadows to avoid a trio of drunks helping each other down the block, then he picked the back gate padlock and crept through the pool area, sidestepping empty lounge chairs until he reached the pergola.

Stealth was key now; if Jazzman was on his way, the Shinsurins would be out and about with the guards on high alert.

He scaled the back of the hotel; not easy with each floor wider than the one below it. When he hit the third floor he began to move sideways, balcony to balcony, using the railings as monkey bars until he got to hers.

Room dark. He swung his legs over.

The patio table and chairs they’d knocked down during the fight had been put back right. She’d mentioned sitting on her porch in those emails to Charlie. She needlepointed out there, and watched sunrises. She’d made herself a life here. Of course it was hard to leave.

He picked the lock on her sliding door and slipped inside, shutting it quietly behind him, standing perfectly still as he let his eyes get used to the dark.

She slept on her stomach, sheets tangled around her legs and waist, her back a pale expanse of white undershirt, hair a dark mass to one side of her head. Face calm in sleep.

He needed to tell her about her brother and get her out.

Her brother.

He felt suddenly as if he was looking down at a version of himself the moment before his life went dark. There was a time when he would’ve given anything to go back to that blissful, ignorant
before,
to spend just one more minute there.

She stirred.

“Laney,” he whispered—gently. It wouldn’t do to alarm her.

She turned, reflexively pulling the sheets up around her, eyes wide.

He clapped a hand over her mouth before the scream could come out. “Shhh.”

She tore at his fingers, kicking him. Confusion in her eyes. Fear.

No way could he carry her out of there; he needed her cooperating. “You’re okay. Just don’t scream.”

She kept twisting.

He grabbed her wrist. “You’re okay. I’m not here to hurt you.”

She stilled, nostrils flaring, in and out, in and out.

“I’m taking away my hand,” he said softly. Slowly he removed it.

She sucked in a breath, preparing to scream. He clapped it back on.

She tore at his fingers. He was suffocating her! He’d escaped dressed as a guard and snuck into her room! She tried to bite him.

“Okay, I deserve this,” he said. “What with the papaya bit and all.”

She struggled and thrashed, but he was solid as a mountain. She stopped hitting him and brought a knee into his ribs.

“Oof.” He seemed to collapse a titch, but he didn’t release her; instead he climbed over her further, straddling her, which prevented any more knees. “Sorry,” he said.

Sorry?
He was on her. Holding her down. Suffocating her. Her heart beat wildly.

“I’m here to help you, but you need to calm down.”

She tried again for the rib but he had her legs and arms pinned.

“I read the emails,” he said softly.

She glared at the monster, unsure what to do.

“One question. Shake your head yes or no.”

She watched his cool blue eyes. Some part of her wanted him still. Some part of her liked him there on top of her. So screwed up.

He sucked in a ragged breath. “Did you ever hear Rolly use the word
vim
with a word other than
vigor
?”

“Mmm!” She struggled against his hand. Was he crazy?

“
Vim
,” he repeated, “unaccompanied by
vigor
.
Vim
and something else.” Like that was the problem of the universe.

“Mmm!”

“I’ll know it if you’re about to scream. Before you do,” he warned.

“Mmm-
mmm
,” the best
okay
she could manage.

He removed his hand.

“Get the hell off!” She tried to push off his heavy bulk. “You give me your answer on the letters or you get out of here. ‘Cause I’m not talking about Rolly.”

He didn’t budge. “Think. Does he like to modify sayings?”

She stilled.
How did he know?

“It’s not a difficult question. Yes or no.”

“Yeah, he used to change around sayings. He thought that was real clever. Why?”

“Did you ever notice his b’s and p’s sounding alike? And like shots.
Panorama
.
Banana
.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed that you listened to a tape of Rolly or something?”

His face darkened. “Does he ever over-explain and trail off with the word
so
. For example,
This new blender is powerful. The best in its class, so…”
He continued, “Or,
I don’t like tomatoes. They taste like hell, so…”

“What the fuck?” She wriggled underneath him. “Get out.” It was a nightmare, hearing Rolly’s talk coming out of Maxwell. “Get out.”

“Did he take trips to Panama just before he went inside?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Yeah.”

He got off her. “Get dressed. We’re out of here.”

She felt shaky. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“It’s me or Rolly,” he said.

“Rolly’s in prison.”

He tossed jeans at her. “I examined the emails. Do you know who you were emailing with? It didn’t feel familiar?”

Ice crackled through her veins.

“It wasn’t your brother,” he said.

“Yes, it was.”

“Not for the last five weeks. The change occurred about five weeks ago. Am I right?”

She hadn’t told him that. “You so full of it, Devilwell—”

He spoke right over her. “Did you ever notice Rolly’s fondness for
that
as an intensifying article with proper nouns? For example, he’ll say
That Laney drinks beer
when he could just as easily say,
Laney drinks beer
. It’s common to only 4% of the population. It occurred twice in recent emails from your brother.
That Brittany Spears is a whore
.
That Mayor O’Hannon will burn in hell.”

No. She’d known something was off, but…Rolly? “They don’t let prisoners email.”

“No,” he said. “They don’t, do they?”

Every nerve on her skin prickled up. “You think Rolly’s out. No way, my brother would’ve found a way to warn me if…oh, my God!” She felt the blood drain from her whole entire soul. “My brother.”

“Come on. I’m getting you out of here.”

“No,” she whispered as the world careened around her. “I know my own brother.” Her eyes misted up. “It was my brother, he’s just depressed or something.”

“Did you notice how very, very badly he wanted to make sure you stayed put in the last few weeks? And the sentences. The music of the language.”

“You’re messing with me.”

He grabbed her shoulders, looked into her eyes. “You feel language the way other people can’t, Laney. It’s why you showed me the emails.
Would that we had Twisty-Kreme here
. That’s Rolly talk, not Charlie talk.”

“Oh, my God.” She shook out of his arms, feeling like she might throw up. Rolly inside her brother’s emails like a spider in her brain.

“He could be down there, Laney. In the lobby,” he said.

She went to her dresser and pulled out her gun. “I know you’re right. But that doesn’t mean I suddenly trust you.”

“Let’s get out of here and you can decide on the trust part later. Grab what you need and let’s go.”

“He’s not dead. I’d know if my brother was dead.” She shoved her wallet into her backpack along with her phone, her iPod. “Crap, I think I might throw up.”

“Ignore it.”

Her brother.
She stuffed in her clothes from the day before.