Two Dollar Bill (22 page)

LATER THAT NIGHT, when Peter and Ilsa were asleep, Stone showered, then slipped into bed with Arrington. She was not wearing a nightgown. He touched her shoulder. You're very warm.

Come closer, and I'll warm you, too.

They came together as if they had never been apart.

FOR THREE DAYS, they lived quietly, dining at the Mayflower Inn or cooking at home. They drove the country roads, gazing at the Connecticut winter. It snowed. Peter and Stone made a snowman in the front yard.

Late in the afternoon of the third day, while Arrington and Peter were napping and Ilsa was helping to get dinner started, Stone drove down the hill toward Washington Depot, the little business district, to get some wine for dinner. His cell phone vibrated, and he pulled into the empty parking lot of the Episcopal church, remembering that this was a place where cell-phone reception was possible.

Hello?

It's Lance.

Hello, Lance.

Where are you?

Out of town.

Where out of town?

I don't think I should say on the phone.

I've been trying to call you.

Cell-phone reception is dicey here.

Don't you ever check your voice mail?

Not since I left the city. What's up?

We identified Billy Bob from a single thumbprint found in the Hummer.

And?

It's not good news.

Tell me.

His real name is Jack Jeff Kight.

You mean, Knight?

Without the n. Kight.

So, who is Jack Jeff Kight?

Born in Plainview, Texas, thirty-nine years ago, son of a used-car dealer and a waitress mother. Attended the local schools, barely got out of high school. Juvenile delinquent, of a sort joyriding in other people's cars, fights at the local roadhouses, that sort of thing. Got a local girl pregnant, stole some money to buy her an abortion in Juarez, got caught. He was given a choice two years in jail or three years in the military. He picked the Marines.

Sounds pretty ordinary.

He wasn't. He tested very bright in the Corps. Very physical, breezed through basic at Parris Island, breezed through advanced infantry training. He qualified for the Navy Seals and was about to start training, when an Agency recruiter came across him.

Uh-oh.

Well, yes. He was lifted from the Corps fifteen years ago and sent to Camp Peary.

The Farm.

Yes. He did extraordinarily well there, learned many skills, seemed made for covert work, the wet kind. Then he killed another trainee. With his hands.

So why isn't he at your little establishment in Leavenworth?

Claimed it was self-defense; a couple of witnesses backed him up. Another witness claimed he provoked the other guy, but he got through the investigation and was returned to training. Less than a month later, he got into a fight with an instructor and got his ass kicked, but when the instructor was walking away, Jack Jeff picked up a board and fractured the man's skull. This time, he got the boot. The Corps didn't want him back, so a general discharge was arranged, and Jack Jeff vanished into the hinterland. Five weeks later the instructor whose head he had broken had a seizure, collapsed and died. Apparently, too much time had elapsed between the original injury and the death to prove murder, and anyway, our boy was gone. The Agency never heard of him again, until now.

What were some of those skills he picked up at the Farm?

Hand-to-hand combat, explosives, weapons, communications, document forgery, the opening of locks and safes, the bypassing of alarms of all sorts and how to create false identities and cover his tracks. Among others. He was there for nine months.

Everything a boy needs to know to carve out a criminal career for himself.

Everything but experience. He got that over the next decade and a half, doing the con jobs that we know about and, probably, a lot that we haven't discovered, yet. Apparently, he didn't kill anybody until the hooker at your house, but we can't be sure of that. Are you at your place in a nearby state? I'll send some people up to watch you.

Don't bother; we're doing just fine.

You took Arrington with you? What about her child?

Him, too. Look, Lance, we're okay. There's no way Billy Bob could know about this place.

How about the little piece about your house in Architectural Digest two years ago?

Stone felt ill. How would he run across that?

How'd you find out about Billy Bob's past?

Google. That's a long shot.

It's how I found you.

Oh, shit.

Exactly. You must learn that working for us entitles you to certain protections.

I suppose you want to put us in the Agency's Protect Your Consultant's Ass program and ship us off to Omaha, or someplace?

Tell the truth, I'd rather send a team up there and hope Jack Jeff shows up.

You want to turn us into bait?

Bait is alive. Corpses are dead.

All right, but can you do it without Arrington noticing?

I can do it without you noticing.

I'd rather notice.

If you see a very Irish-looking fellow thirtyish, red haired, red faced, chunky he's mine. Name of McGonigle. There'll be others. McGonigle is all you need to notice.

All right, when?

They're already on their way.

Are you going to tell the local cops? You don't want to get them rousted.

I've been in touch with them. I trust you are now armed?

To the teeth.

Don't let Arrington or the boy go anywhere without you. The team won't be as effective, if they have to split up.

Oh, there's a nanny, too, Swedish, name of Ilsa.

Keep everybody close. If there are errands to be run, send Ilsa. I'll let McGonigle know about her. Oh, there was one other piece of information, goes to the motive of our boy.

What's that?

You remember a little German man named Mitteldorfer?

Oh, Christ, yes. Stone and Dino had sent him to prison, and, once out, he'd made repeated attempts to kill them.

There's a nexus: Jack Jeff has visited him a number of times in prison, using other names. We've no idea how they first made contact, but apparently, he's annoyed with you at having Mitteldorfer put away a second time.

Yeah, he kept trying to kill us. Get some people on Dino, too, will you? Stone said.

I'll do that. Talk to you later.

Lance?

Yes?

Thank you. But Lance had already hung up.

Stone drove on to the wine shop, but he hurried. He returned to find the house still quiet. Even Ilsa wasn't making any noise in the kitchen.

He went in there to put the wine in the kitchen rack, and Ilsa was still sitting at the kitchen table, where she had been shelling peas, but now, she had fallen asleep, her head on the table.

Stone put away the wine and went to wake her, then he stopped, confused. She had been shelling peas, not cutting tomatoes. There were no tomatoes for dinner. Still, there was a lot of tomato juice on the kitchen table, and some had spilled onto the floor. He walked slowly around the table and saw where the red came from.

Ilsa's throat had been cleanly, surgically cut.

STONE TOOK his 9mm from the holster on his belt, looked into the hallway, saw no one, then slipped out of his shoes and ran silently up the stairs, two at a time, his heart pounding, steeling himself for more gore. His bedroom door was open. He put his back against one side of the door, listened for a moment, then went in, ready for anything. The bed was empty, its covers mussed. Arrington's shoes were still sitting neatly at one side.

He ran to Peter's room. The door was closed. He put his ear to it and listened, heard a murmur and the squeak of bedsprings. He looked through the keyhole and saw a hand hanging over the side of the bed, then he quietly opened the door and looked in. Peter was sleeping on his stomach, undisturbed. He closed the door quietly and checked Ilsa's room and the rest of the upstairs. Nothing, no one.

Stone started back down the stairs, then stopped. Through the glass pane of the upper door, behind the wrought-iron grillwork, lit from behind by a streetlamp, was the silhouette of a man. The man cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the front door, then moved away.

Stone ran down the stairs, opened the door, and, his weapon at the ready, looked around. The man was now peering through the kitchen window.

Freeze! Stone said, not too loudly, as he didn't know if the man was alone. The man straightened up from the window. Hands on top of your head, Stone said. The man complied. Turn and face me.

The man turned, and the light from the kitchen window illuminated his face, which was red. So was his hair.

I'm from Lance, he said. My name's McGonigle.

Come here, Stone said, still holding the gun on him.

McGonigle approached, his hands still on his red head.

Show me some ID.

McGonigle produced a leather wallet with an ID card.

Inside, Stone said. You can relax.

McGonigle stepped inside the house, and Stone closed the door behind them.

What's wrong with the woman in the kitchen? McGonigle asked.

Her throat has been cut, Stone said.

McGonigle's voice remained calm. Anybody else hurt?

Arrington Calder has been lifted. Her son, Peter, is still upstairs, asleep. They apparently didn't know he was in the house.

McGonigle nodded. Have you spoken to Lance?

Fifteen minutes ago. I was on my way into the village to pick up some wine when he called.

McGonigle produced a cell phone.

It won't work here, Stone said. With the exception of a few spots, Washington is pretty much a dead zone. There's a phone in the kitchen, on the wall, at the end of the counter.

I think you can put the gun away, McGonigle said. They're gone.

Billy Bob won't be happy until he has me, too.

That's why he took the woman when he didn't find you here. He can take you at his leisure, now. He knows you'll come to him, when he wants you. McGonigle went into the kitchen and used the phone to call Lance. They talked for a minute, then McGonigle called out, Stone, he wants to talk to you.

Stone went into the kitchen, trying not to look at Ilsa, and took the phone. Yes, Lance?

I'm sorry we were too late, Lance said.

Thanks for trying.

Billy Bob didn't know about the boy; that's good.

Yes.

First things first. I'll have to notify the local authorities; a civilian is dead. I'll ask them to be discreet. I'll also call the Connecticut, Massachusetts and New York State Police and ask them to put out a bulletin on Arrington.

Thanks.

As soon as you're done with the police I want you and the boy to go with McGonigle and his people. We can't leave you there.

All right.

Pack some things for both of you.

All right. You haven't said that we'll get Arrington back.

I don't have to tell you why.

No, I guess you don't.

We'll get you through this, Lance said.

Goodbye. Stone hung up.

Why don't you go upstairs and pack, McGonigle said. I'll call you when the local cops arrive.

All right. Stone went upstairs and put some clean clothes into a bag, then went to Peter's room and packed for him without waking him. When he came back downstairs, there was a uniformed Connecticut State Trooper sergeant standing in the hall.

Mr. Barrington? My name's Coll. He offered his hand.

Stone took it. Sergeant.

I'm the local law. You want to give me your account of what happened?

Stone did so, while Coll took notes.

Thank you, I think that will do it. My people will take over here, now. You can go with Mr. McGonigle.

Thank you.

I've got a van out front, McGonigle said.

Stone went back upstairs and thought of waking Peter, but he remembered how he had slept when he was that age. He picked up the boy, wrapped him in a blanket and walked downstairs with him. Will you get our bags and his coat from upstairs? Stone asked McGonigle.

Sure.

He went outside and got into the van. Another man and a woman were already inside.

I'm Corey, he's Tucci, the woman said. Tucci backed the van into the street and drove away. We'll be there in ten minutes, Corey said. It's where we had planned to stay.

Stone held Peter against him, the sleeping boy's head on his shoulder. They drove through the village, in then out, then back, obviously checking for a tail. A few minutes later they turned into a driveway.

I'm going to get out and open the door, Corey said. When I've checked out the place, I'll call you, and you get Peter inside quickly. She got out of the van, and a moment later came back.