The Answer Man (26 page)

Still keeping a watchful eye on her, Bill reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out two rolled-up certificates, now quite crumpled, each with a gold seal.

“Treasury notes?”

“From Denmark. The cops will do some checking and find that a large number of these notes were purchased right after the money was stolen. They'll find these notes that you accidentally left behind.”

That
she
left behind? Myth tried not to look as terrified as she was.

“You should appreciate this,” he said. “I'm just using your own plan. Yours and Michaelson's. Kenny told me all about it. This way it'll look like
you're
the one who left town with the loot. Not Ken. Same scheme, different victim.” He smiled. “You're a beautiful woman. I can see why Sabini was so nuts about you. He was in love with you, did you know that?”

She didn't reply.

“You
did
know,” he said with a chuckle. “I saw him only a few times in those last couple of months, but whenever I did, you're all he talked about. He never even told you, did he?”

Still she did not reply.

“Did he?”

“No.”

“That's because he was weak. Scared. He had big dreams, but he didn't have what it took to follow through. This whole scheme was his idea.
He
approached
me.
But he tried to chicken out half a dozen times. Right up until the end.”

“You killed him,” she said without looking up. “Just like you're going to kill me.”

He said nothing.

Hound Dog skidded to a stop in Myth Daniels's driveway. She dismounted and looked at the house. There were no lights on. She crept up the front stairs, inching her way to the door.

It was ajar.

The glass panel next to it was broken.

She was too late.

Hound Dog whipped out her cellular phone to punch 911. But before she could punch the second “1,” a hand reached out and pulled her into the house.

The phone hit the floor.

The door slammed shut behind her.

A man with a knife pulled her close. “You must be Hound Dog. Ken just told me about you…and your motorcycle.”

She tried to ignore the knife at her stomach. “And you would be…”

He grabbed the back of her neck and guided her toward the stairway. With the knife rising to her chest, he steered her up the stairs and down the upstairs hallway.

She tried not to cry out when she saw Myth Daniels bound and gagged on the office floor. Hound Dog couldn't tell if the woman was alive or dead.

“Why are you here?” he whispered.

Hound Dog took stock of her surroundings. There had to be a way out. If she died tonight, it wasn't going to be without a fight.

“Did you hear me?” the man said, pressing the knife into her. A drop of blood appeared on her sweatshirt.

“Yes,” Hound Dog said. “Don't kill me. Please.”

“We've already established that you're going to die. The only question is, How painful does it have to be? The choice is yours.”

Hound Dog nodded, and then, in one lightning-fast motion, she pulled sharply on the file drawer and rammed him on the chin.

He stumbled back.

His blade lunged at her.

She ducked, but wasn't fast enough. It swiped the side of her neck.

The slash felt cold. Wet.

He fell to the floor.

She stumbled, but regained her footing as she hurtled through the doorway. She could hear him pulling himself up behind her.

Not much time, think fast…

She jumped through a doorway and yanked the door closed behind her. It was a large closet, but she could see light underneath another door at the far end. She moved through the closet, pushing and burrowing through the clothes and boxes. Keep pushing, a little farther…

She reached the other door, and turned the knob.

Locked.

Dammit!

She fought desperately with the knob.

She froze.

He was coming down the hallway. His footsteps stopped in front of the closet.

Did he know she was in there?

She didn't breathe.

Why didn't he move on?

He was listening.

Waiting for her to do something stupid.

The seconds ticked by. She had to take a breath. Surely he would hear her.

He moved away. She heard his footsteps echoing in the hallway.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

They receded, then became muffled as he entered the other room.

The bastard had a plan, she thought. She was pretty sure the only way down to the first floor was the staircase at the far end of the hall. He was starting at that end so he could work his way back.

He was sealing her in.

Escape was out of the question. She had to get to a phone.

Maybe there was one in the room on the other side of the closet door.

If only it wasn't locked…

Her neck still felt cold. Numb. She yanked a sweater down and dabbed it against her wound.

She crept back toward the hallway and listened.

The man was still in the bedroom.

She peered out, then silently moved toward the next room. Her eyes were trained at the end of the hallway, where he could appear at any moment.

As she approached the door, she noticed it was slightly ajar.

Would it creak? Better not take the chance. She sucked in a deep breath and shimmied through, brushing only slightly against the door.

Please, please, please let there be a phone.

In the dim light she saw one on the end table. She lifted the receiver.

Before she could dial, she heard that tapping sound on the hallway tile.

His footsteps.

She dropped the handset and scrambled for the door, pressing herself against the wall behind it.

She waited.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The footsteps stopped.

The door slowly creaked open. It swung closer and closer, stopping only inches from her face.

She imagined he was looking around the room. The phone was off the hook, dangling from the end table.

“We can work out a deal, young lady.”

She didn't breathe.

He took a step inside.

This was it, she thought. Her last chance…

She threw herself against the heavy wooden door. It swung at the man, striking his back and shoulders with bone-crunching force.

He doubled over and staggered a few steps.

Hound Dog jumped from the other side and grabbed his wrist with both hands. With more speed than strength she shoved his fist—and the knife—into his stomach.

He dropped to his knees. A crimson stain grew on his shirt.

She jumped over him and started running toward the staircase. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a shadow coming after her. Before she could react, he slid across the hallway and grabbed her ankles.

She screamed.

She tumbled down the first flight of stairs, her arms and legs banging and bruising as she tried to slow herself. She caught brief glimpses of the man sprawled above her, waiting to pounce again.

She finally collapsed on the landing. Her right leg throbbed. Was it broken? God, no…

The man jammed his knife into a wooden step and pulled himself down. He pulled the blade free and jammed it into the next one.

He was working his way down to her, one step at a time….

Ken's stomach lurched at the sight of Bill's car parked at the curb.

He was too late.

He sped into the driveway, barely clearing the brick mailbox, then braking to avoid hitting Hound Dog's motorcycle. He leapt from the car and ran up the front stairs two at a time.

A woman screamed.

He looked to the bay window at his right.

They were on the landing. Hound Dog's back was to him, and Bill was standing over her.

Ken threw his legs over the railing, calculating the distance. Seven, maybe eight feet across.

A moment of doubt. Don't think, he told himself. No time.

He kicked away from his perch, keeping his head low as he crashed through the bay window.

His first sensations were purely of sound.

The smashing of glass.

The low-pitched breaking and splintering of wood.

He felt his skin sliced in a dozen places at once—his head, shoulders, arms, legs…

His eyes closed, he collided with Bill. They fell against the stairs.

The knife spun crazily out of Bill's hand.

Stunned, Ken was vaguely aware of Hound Dog jumping for it, but Bill was faster. Bill grabbed the knife and held it against Hound Dog's throat.

“Don't move. I'm finishing it, Kenny!”

“No, you're not.”

Ken stood and pulled out his gun. Warm wind whistled through the shattered windowpanes, but he couldn't have felt more chilled.

“You don't get it, do you?” Bill pulled Hound Dog closer to him on the landing. “She's not important. We're set, buddy. The money…it's ours!”

Ken aimed the gun down at Bill. “It's over.”

“It doesn't have to be.”

“Yes, it does. Put the knife down.”

Bill kept the knife where it was. “Kenny…”

“When did life get so cheap to you?”

“I didn't want it to be like this.”

“Then how did it happen?”

“I had to do it, Kenny. I didn't want to go to jail. Sabini was gonna fold. And that investigator was gonna turn me in if I didn't cut him a piece!”

“Then why didn't you pay him off?”

Bill didn't answer. He leaned over, grimacing in pain from his still-bleeding puncture wound. He kept the knife at Hound Dog's throat.

Ken took a step closer to him. “Drop it.”

“I was looking out for you, man. That's why I sent Sabini to you in the first place! I knew you needed the money.”

“Don't pull this bullshit with me. You were out for yourself.”

“Kenny, that Valez guy was gonna kill you. If I hadn't—”

“Murdered him?”

“He would have killed you.”

“You wanted me around to finish Sabini's training. That's all.”

“No. Look, we can carve up the money. Just me and you. Margot doesn't even know about it!”

“I said it was over!”

“No. It's not. Listen to me. Sabini gave me the codes I needed to monitor Vikkers' secret transactions. Channels they use to bribe foreign politicians to get contracts, that kind of stuff. Get this: They've been funneling money to the governor.
Our
governor!”

“I don't care.”

“I have the printouts to prove it. Don't you see? He can grease the wheels for us.”

“Drop the fucking knife!”

“I'm trying to
help
you!”

Ken shook his head. Bill actually believed his own bullshit. Just like everyone else in the world.

Blood started beading on Hound Dog's throat.

Ken squeezed the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the house.

Bill spun around, wheezing and gasping for air as his chest was ripped apart. He tumbled down the stairs.

“Liar,” Ken said.

Ken paced in the driveway of Margot and Bill's house, looking at the surreal scene playing before him. Swarms of police officers scurried about, some with dogs, others with high-powered flashlights. Several arc lamps lit up the garage and yard, casting the house in a harsh white glare. It was a quarter past four in the morning.

Ken felt sick.

Bill.

The guy he had known since he was thirteen years old.

They had taken their first sip of beer together.

Their first cigarette.

On the night Ken lost his virginity, Bill was the first person he told.

And tonight he had ended his friend's life in a fraction of a second.

Hound Dog stepped toward Ken. She, like he, was now accessorized in gauze bandages.

“They don't need all this,” Ken said. “I told them where it was.”

“How are you so sure?”

“I'm sure.”

She followed him to the garage, where police mechanics were conducting a search of Bill's vintage Corvette. As they watched, an officer rolled out from under the car with a plastic-wrapped bundle.

“Lieutenant!” the officer shouted.

Gant stepped forward and took the bundle into his plastic-gloved hands. He peeled back the wrapper to reveal a hefty stack of treasury certificates and accounting forms.

Gant joined Ken and Hound Dog in the driveway. He motioned back to the car. “You were right.”

Ken nodded. He hadn't had any doubts.

Margot appeared in the doorway. Ken had been the one to tell her about Bill, and she had reacted with shocked disbelief. When he left her side, he still wasn't sure the death had really registered.

She now looked at Ken silently, with eyes that communicated more sadness, more disillusionment, than he had ever known. If only he could take that pain away.

She turned and went back inside the house.

She was gone forever, Ken thought. Like Bill.

“We have a lot to sort out,” Gant said. “I just talked to the hospital. Myth Daniels will be okay. I need statements from all of you.”

Ken nodded.

Gant held up the accounting forms. “Electronic fund transfers,” he read aloud.

“Someone should look at those,” Ken said. “They may show that the governor of Georgia has been earning some extra cash from Vikkers Industries. At least that's what Bill said.”

Gant shook his head as he put the forms and treasury notes into an evidence bag. “I'll make sure the FBI is present for your statement. They'll want to hear this.” He pointed to the garage. “How'd you know where to look?”

Ken looked down at the Corvette. “Bill always said this car wasn't for driving. He said it was for dreaming.”

I
n the days and weeks that followed, Ken couldn't shake the image of his friend twisting and twirling backward, his chest blown open, eyes rolled upward, mouth pulled into a horrible grimace.

It was the worst thing he had ever seen.

Or done.

When the police lab called to tell him he could have his gun back, he thanked them and said he would pick it up the following day. He never did.

The investigation continued, and though he was called upon to clarify aspects of the case several times, he was never formally charged. Neither was Myth, though the state bar took a close look at her actions. She was helped by the fact that the National Polygraph Association refused to admit that it was possible to beat polygraph exams.

That did not, however, prevent the trade group from suspending Ken's license for ninety days.

No sooner had that missive come down, when he was contacted by the Emory University psychology department. They wanted him to assist in a new study relating to polygraph effectiveness. Apparently, media coverage of his case prompted the study, and Ken suddenly found himself making more money than he had ever made as an examiner.

The Vikkers president, Herbert Decker, was headed for trial for Securities violations and conspiracy to commit
murder. Although the man was suspected of ordering Don Browne's killing, he was not charged, due to the fact that his presumed hatchet man, the late Ted Michaelson, was incapable of turning evidence against him.

The accounting forms did incriminate Governor Holden, helping to cement the government's case against Vikkers Industries. Holden claimed to be unaware of the numbered account the company had credited, but the FBI, following the same trail Bill had discovered, traced it back to the governor. Decker refused to confirm their findings. As the government's probe continued, Holden announced he would not run for another term so he could launch his own investigation and clear his name. In the meantime, he quietly began to solicit financial support for a U.S. Senate campaign.

Ken missed Margot. He had not seen her since Bill's funeral, a day he wished he could forget. He felt more alone than ever, unable to share his grief and frustration with anyone.

Margot told him she wanted some time to herself. He understood, but he still jogged every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, hoping to see her one day at her usual start-up point on the trail. He began to realize he'd been right about losing her that night.

One Saturday afternoon he finally made himself look for the brick that Bill had bought for him in Centennial Olympic Park. It took some searching, but eventually he found it. It wasn't the good-natured insult Ken was expecting. Instead, it read
KEN PARKER
—
BESTEST BUD
.

He wished it had been an insult.

He visited Hound Dog and her boyfriend, and happily, Mark was on his way to a full recovery. Hound Dog was back on the streets every night, scanner on, waiting for crime scene info.

One bright spot in Ken's life was seeing his brother testify before the congressional committee in Washington. Ken surprised Bobby by driving all night to be at the hearing. Bobby spoke eloquently, with passion and conviction,
moving other witnesses to tears. Ken had never been prouder of his younger brother. Although no money had yet been appropriated, the fact that it was a congressional election year could work in Bobby's favor.

Ken spent a lot of time driving, trying to reconcile himself to the changes in his life. Bill was gone, Margot was out of the picture, and Myth…

He made no attempt to contact her, though she had tried to call him several times. It didn't feel right. She had shown him a part of himself he hated, a part of himself he would always associate with her. The liar. The master of self-deception. If there was any good in this, he thought, it was that he had finally confronted who he really was. And maybe, just maybe, he had beaten back his darker side.

He was finally evicted from his office building, not for late rent payments, but because Downey had determined he was a “disruptive presence” in the building. Ken knew he could have fought it, but there was no use. He still had several weeks to go on his license suspension, and the rent was only a drain on his funds.

“Keep or throw away?” Hound Dog held up a stack of polygraph industry newsletters.

“Throw away.”

It was Ken's last day in the office, and Hound Dog was helping him pack up. He folded in the flaps of a large cardboard box. “I think I'm actually going to miss this place,” he said.

“It's been a big part of your life.”

“It's ugly, dilapidated, and probably unsafe, but it was comfortable. I almost feel like I'm abandoning a crippled, one-eyed dog nobody wants. I'll even miss the receptionist.”

“
I
won't,” Hound Dog said. “She gives me the creeps.”

A knock sounded on the open door. They looked over to see a young man with a baseball cap. “Ken Parker?”

“Yeah.”

“I have a delivery for you, sir.”

The kid handed him an envelope. Ken signed for it, and while he tried to decide whether to tip him, the messenger disappeared.

“You should have tipped him,” Hound Dog said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Ken opened the envelope and pulled out several papers. On top was a note handwritten on Myth's letterhead.

Dear Ken,

I'm not writing to apologize, though I am sorrier than you will ever know for what has happened.

Enclosed is a promissory note from Vikkers Industries' insurance company for the return of the stolen funds. I want you to have it all, Ken. I hope it gives you an opportunity for the “new start” you've been looking for.

Myth

He looked at the papers underneath. After wading through the legalese, his eyes zeroed in on the numbers.

Five hundred and sixteen thousand dollars.

The finder's fee. It was all his.

Five hundred and sixteen thousand dollars. It was a fortune, but still a pittance compared to all he had lost.

He handed the papers to Hound Dog. She read the letter and found the dollar amount. “That's great, Ken.”

“I want you to have half.”

“No.”

“You earned it.”

She shook her head. “I'm getting a trust fund in a few years that makes this look like spare change. If, of course, my folks don't cut me off.”

“See? You may need it.”

Hound Dog thought for a moment. “Maybe you can give
a little to Mark, so he doesn't have to work at the strip club anymore.”

“Sure.”

“We'll discuss it over dinner. You're still coming, aren't you? Mark's making one of his specialties.”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

Hound Dog tied a plastic trash bag and hoisted it over her shoulder. “I'll meet you downstairs, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Cheer up. If you're real good, maybe later I'll tell you why everybody calls me Hound Dog.”

He smiled. “It's a deal.”

She gave him a squeeze on the arm and left the office.

He looked around. Everything was neatly boxed and ready to go.

Go where?

To his apartment? He had enough junk there already, he thought. And that's what all this stuff was. Junk. Artifacts of a life he'd just as soon forget.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his trick deck of cards, and tossed it into the waste can. He turned off the lights and took one last look around.

There, silhouetted in the room, was his beat-up old polygraph. With its sensors removed, it looked like a quadruple amputee, helpless on its metal stand.

How fitting, he thought.

He walked out of the office, slowly pulling the door closed behind him. It groaned and creaked, finally swinging shut with a click. Ken took a deep breath, taking in the building's familiar musty smell one last time.

He never looked back as he walked down the stairs and stepped into the pale orange light of dusk.