To Trust a Stranger (42 page)

That made what was getting ready to happen almost poetic.

Sid's wife and Daniel's little brother, gone bye-bye together: talk about deja vu all over again.

But he had other business he had to take care of first.

“How could you let this happen?” The Big Boss's face was etched with grief. Tears glinted in his eyes. He turned back from the Taurus, took a step, and had to support himself on the Lexus's trunk. He was dressed in a dark suit, and looked every inch the successful businessman he was. “My son. Oh, my son.”

“He came out of nowhere, Mr. Carlson: Mac McQuarry. Dorsey and Nichols were supposed to take him out, but something must have gone wrong. Somehow he followed us out here. We never even saw him until he snatched the girl out of the car and shot your son, just like that. I got off some shots, but they escaped into the woods. They're in there somewhere. We'll get them back, I give you my word.”

“Your word doesn't seem to be worth much these days. If you'd done your job properly, the little bitch would have been dead days ago and this would never have happened.” John Carlson's eyes were as cold and distant as glaciers. Basta had seen that look in them before, although it had never been directed at him. The people it had been directed at were all dead.

Carlson turned to the flunky behind him. “Get some more men out here now. Tell them we need a heat-seeking device. Have some of them ring the perimeter of the area. I want these people found, and I don't want any more mistakes.”

“Yes, sir.” The flunky stepped a little apart from the group and whipped out a cell phone.

He'd made the right decision about his future, Basta thought.

Before, he'd been a little unsure. If anything went wrong, his ass would be history. But that look told its own tale:

He was history anyway unless he did something to save himself.

The Big Boss, the capo of capos, the mind behind the most efficient organized-crime operation on the East Coast, was done with him. And when the Big Boss turned his back, whoever he turned it on was toast.

Basta gnawed at a thumbnail, thinking.

“Excuse me, I gotta take a leak,” he said to Carlson, and walked away into the dark. If he could have just kept on walking, that's what he would have done. But the Big Boss was one of the few people who knew where to find him. He would never let Basta just walk away. Fair enough, Basta thought, emptying his bladder against a tree. Walking back toward where the boss waited near the cars, he pulled the small silver silencer from his pocket and screwed it onto the end of his pistol. Ordinarily, out here, he never bothered, because the area was remote enough that no one ever heard anything.

But tonight there would be people near enough to hear. Such as the boss's flunkies. If he screwed up again, it would be the last time, literally. He would be dead.

He'd taken out Sid on his own, as part of his plan to break free of this life once and for all. He'd meant to take out Julie, too, not because he was being paid to-he didn't care about that any longer-but because Julie could identify him and was, thus, a loose end. It never paid to leave loose ends. None of them would be here tonight if they had not left a loose end dangling fifteen years ago: Mike Williams. After Daniel's unfortunate demise, Williams had cut and run.

Nobody had known then that he had taken the object of their frantic search with him-Williams had been little more than a flunky, after all-but still, the very fact that Williams had taken off should have set alarm bells ringing. Somebody should have followed up on it then, found Mike Williams and taken care of him, but no one had.

As a result of that screw-up, here they all were.

He rejoined the Big Boss, putting an arm around him and walking him across the grass, listening and nodding sympathetically as the man went on and on about his son. Something the boss had once said to him popped into his mind, and the sheer appropriateness of it made him smile inwardly: Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies even closer. To John Carlson, those had been words to live by, and undoubtedly still were.

Tonight the Big Boss was his enemy, and he was going to stick to him like a burr until the job was done. To survive, he was going to have to kill the man. He'd faced it earlier, known it was the only way out. Even before the debacle with McQuarry, he'd planned to hit them all tonight: Sid and Julie, and then, on his way out of town, John Carlson.

He'd been going to make them all disappear. That was the only way to keep himself safe.

Sid had started fucking up the plan by calling him on his cell phone earlier in the day, raving mad because his wife was being unfaithful-with Daniel's little brother, yet-and insisting on being present when she bought the farm. The plan had been for Sid to be safely in Atlanta while Basta did the job, but Sid had screwed that up by coming home early, so crazy angry he wasn't thinking straight. That had actually worked out well, because Sid knew Basta's daytime identity, too-the Big Boss had been grooming Sid to take over one day, and Sid basically was in on everything-and was going to have to be taken out anyway. Basta had told him to come on, come join him, figuring on killing two birds with one stone even as he said it.

With Sid, the pissant little punk, in tow, he'd tracked Julie, even managed to get his hands on her despite complications. Then things had started going wrong. Daniel's little brother had rescued her seconds before she would have joined Sid in the great hereafter. And then, right on the heels of that disaster, the Big Boss had shown up out here without warning, complete with flunkies. According to one of the flunkies, speaking on the sly while the boss tearfully examined his son's remains, it seemed Sid had called him, apparently while Basta was in McQuarry's office building retrieving Julie, and had told him what was going down and where, and the boss had made the trip out here to make sure that this time the job he'd hired Basta to do got done. Basta suspected that his own demise was also on the agenda. This was the perfect spot, after all.

Actually, that was probably going to work out all right, too, Basta reflected, although it had been hairy there for a few minutes after the boss had arrived. Basta had been running down the dirt road in hot pursuit of his escaping prey when the boss's car had pulled up, catching him in its lights, and then he'd had to think fast.

What he'd come up with was that McQuarry had shot Sid while rescuing Julie.

Now the situation was dicey. But the plan was still in effect. The key was to keep his head. The boss's men would be loyal unto death, just as he himself had been once, and all would be armed to the teeth.

If he wanted to survive and prosper, he had to take out the Big Boss, Mac McQuarry, and Julie Carlson.

Then he would vanish into the woodwork, and be home free.

34

“I'M ALL RIGHT,” MAC SAID, but it was clear that he wasn't. He got up and kept going, but it was obvious that he was finding it harder with every passing minute. The mud sucked at their feet, making each I step an effort. Breathing hard, Julie clung to his hand for his support now rather than hers, and tried not to panic as she felt his fingers growing cold where earlier they had been reassuringly warm. She was afraid he must be losing a lot of blood; when she'd put her hand on his back: It had seemed like the entire back of his shirt was covered in stickiness. Suddenly she was terribly, horribly afraid that he might lose consciousness. She couldn't carry him-but she couldn't wouldn’t leave him, either. She prayed he was able to stay on his feet. Behind them, the flashlights were drawing ever closer, sweeping the darkness in what looked like a systematic search effort. There were no voices, no sounds of pursuit, but only the slashing lights On her own, or with Mac his usual hale and hearty self, Julie realized that she probably would have been hyperventilating with fear.

But Mac was depending on her now. She had to be strong for Mac. Sloshing through the marshy water, she held to that thought like a talisman. Keep moving, she told herself as her heart pounded with fear and exertion, her legs trembled with effort, and her feet slipped and slid the mud that squished up between her toes. She was wet to the waist, and had been bitten by so many mosquitoes she no longer even felt the welts. The swamp was alive with splashes and plops and things that seemed to slither past her legs. Tall cypresses grew all around, their rough bark a welcome resting place for her hand as she waded past, their sturdy trunks tiptoeing out of the water on roots that were like six-feet-tall high heels. “

Mac was clinging heavily to her hand for support. Julie could hear the harsh sound of his breathing, see the slump of his spine. He stumbled from time to time, although he always regained his balance before he went down; but after each near fall his movements were more ragged than before. They weren't going to make it. Not the way they were going. The knowledge grew steadily within her until it was a certainty. Suddenly Julie realized that the swamp itself was their best, no, their only, hope.

“We need to hide,” she whispered.

“Leave me.” His words tacitly confirmed her judgment of his state.

“If you think I'm going to draw them off for you, you're wrong.” She strove to lighten the moment.

He made a sound that could have been a groan or a laugh.

“Julie ... “

“Don't argue.” Her voice was the merest breath. “There's no way I'm leaving you. Everything else aside, do you think I'd stand a chance out here on my own?”

He didn't reply, so he must have felt that there was some truth to that. A glance over her shoulder told Julie that the flashlights were gaining on them at a terrifying rate. The glowing disks were now the size of baseballs, where before they had been the size of quarters. As she watched them arc through the darkness, her heart started beating like a drummer in a heavy metal band. Her skin prickled. Her breathing grew ragged. She took a deep, calming breath, and prayed Mac was right: their pursuers would be reluctant to wade through the swamp.

“The cypresses. We could squeeze up under the roots.” The idea came to her as she touched another one.

“Good plan.” His voice was so faint now she could scarcely hear it. They had to do it almost entirely by feel, but they managed to squeeze between the finger like roots. Inside was a hollow dome affording them perhaps four feet of air above the surface of the water Julie tried not to think about what might call the cavelike place home. Her hip bumped something, and she discovered that it was a gnarled knot of roots sticking up above the surface of the water. They were able to sit on it and rest against the curved inner trunk of the tree. Mac was crowded next to her, his breathing harsh in the confined space. The trunk was close and airless. The smell was mildew to the max. Julie could see nothing beyond their small shelter.

Which was almost more terrifying than anything else, she realized.

It allowed her imagination free rein. Deliberately Julie blocked out images of Basta creeping up on them, slithering through the swamp like a poisonous snake. Unless he had wings, they would know he was coming. They might not be able to see, but they could hear.

Mac was shifting around uncomfortably next to her, and Julie could sense, from the tension in his body, from his breathing, from his restless movements, that he was in pain.

“How badly are you hurt?” It was a whisper; she was ever mindful of the butchers hunting them through the night. She turned toward him, reaching out to touch his arm, his shoulder. He was wet and muddy, like she was, but his skin was cool to the touch, whereas, in the clammy heat, she was sweating buckets she was so warm. Again she worried about blood loss.

“It hurts like hell, but I think I'm going to live.” His rasping voice made the words less reassuring than they might have been.

“Are you bleeding a lot?” She touched his face.

“Some.”

“Okay.” She wet her lips, afraid he was grossly understating the case. Whether he was or not, the blood loss needed to be stopped. Julie pulled off her T-shirt-the only relatively dry article of clothing either of them possessed and folded it into a tight little rectangle. “I’ve made my shit into a pad. Show me where to press it.”

“The right side of my back, just under my shoulder blade.”

With some difficulty-the space was tight-Julie reached around him to find the spot. It was warm and sticky with blood, impossible to mistake. She pressed the makeshift bandage over the wound. She did not dare lift his shirt-she feared it might dislodge any clotting and increase the bleeding-but she pushed down firmly to try to stop the bleeding. Mac shuddered and made a slight sound.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No.” He was clearly trying to ease her fears about his condition. Determined to do what she could to keep him alive and conscious, Julie pressed harder.

“Ouch! Now you are hurting me.”

“Sorry. I think it's probably really important that we get the bleeding to stop.” His reply was a grunt, which she took as acknowledgment that she was right. For a couple of moments after that they were both silent. Julie kept her hand tight over the pad, and listened for all she was worth to the sounds of the swamp. If Basta should come, or his friends with the flashlights, their only recourse would be to stay very still and quiet, like a mouse with a hawk flying overhead. And pray they wouldn't be found. The water lapped, warm and faintly slimy, around her legs. The tree creaked as the top of it swayed. There was a small plop nearby-a frog jumping in, she devoutly hoped-but nothing that sounded remotely human. Julie realized her pulse was thundering, and her breathing was quick and shallow. To be able to do nothing but sit and listen for their pursuers was more nerve-racking than fleeing would have been.