“Hello?”
“Uh, yeah. Hi. Mr. Hector? My name is Delia Moon.”
He said, “You’re Adam’s friend.” He knew this not because of Adam confiding in him but because he knew all pertinent details about Adam Reynolds’s life.
“Oh, yeah. Did he mention me to you?”
“With the warmest regard, Delia. He was so fond of you.”
“Oh, God, um…” A choked sob, controlled with effort.
He waited for her to compose herself.
“I need help, Mr. Hector.”
“Of course.”
“Adam mentioned that you were going to help him with his project. His software to track illicit banking activities to find terrorists.”
Hector squeezed the bridge of his nose and thought: Idiot couldn’t keep a secret. That was unfortunate. “Well, yes, he talked to me about such a project… but I didn’t know he was far off the ground with it.”
“Well, he is very far along in developing the program. I think that’s why he died. And Homeland Security, they’ve confiscated his computers, and they’re going to sit on his software or take it for their own use, and well, it doesn’t belong to them. It belongs to.. him, to his estate now, I guess.”
“And you would be his estate?”
“No,” she said, sounding horrified. “His mom. She’s sick, she needs money. But it’s not the government’s. I’m scared they’re going to take it and keep it… it’s not right. I need your help, Mr. Hector. They won’t listen to me but they’ll listen to you. Or your lawyers.”
“Yes,” he said. “We should talk. But privately.”
“All right.”
He considered. “May I come to your house? I’m afraid the press are all over my place, and I’m constantly interrupted with calls from Homeland Security.”
“Yes, that’s fine.” She gave him directions and he said, “I’ll see you shortly then,” and he hung up.
He called in his assistant.
“I’m going to work from home today.”
The assistant-a former army clerk who was not easily rattled-went pale. “Sir. You’ve gotten another twenty interview requests including CNN and Fox and The New York Times, you’ve got that noon meeting with the lawyers if the guards’ families sue, the PR firm wants to give you a strategy update…”
“Cancel it all. I’m not giving further interviews; I’ve said the words that matter most to me, they can rerun the press conference. I’m simply not available.” He knew he didn’t have to explain, but he believed so fervently in the power of his own company to do good, he added: “I have to assist the government in its investigation. Are there still a lot of press camped out in front of the gates?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell the driver to get a car with tinted windows. I don’t really want the world knowing where I am right now.”
The two men from the Cellar had not returned or reported their progress. Teach sat at the conference table. A laptop, not connected to the Internet, sat before her. She had been typing into a document a detailed history of the Cellar, its agents, and its operations, as ordered that morning by Hector.
He slid into a seat across from her. “Your boys aren’t back. Do you think Green and De La Pena abandoned you?”
“No.”
“You think Pilgrim intercepted them.”
“Maybe.” Hate filled her eyes. “Making us your puppets won’t work.”
“It won’t work today,” he said, “but it will tomorrow. If I get any inkling that those two took off, I start killing people on the Cellar roll calls.”
“You may end up killing us all.”
“I may.”
“Don’t believe for a second that it will be easy.”
He leaned over, printed her draft report on the Cellar’s activities. As the paper spooled from the printer, he scanned each sheet. At one page his gaze widened slightly; but he felt her gaze on him and he put his poker face back in place.
“What?” she said.
“I’m both impressed and disturbed by the scope of your activities. Would it sound contrary to say I admire you?”
“Yes.”
“As you say, this won’t be easy, but I know you’ll smooth my path. Keep writing.” He set the draft on the table and left the room, locking her inside. He leaned for a moment against the door; it was reassuring to know he’d made the right business decision. He felt an inappropriate, insidious urge to laugh, but he choked it down.
Hector found Jackie sitting in a guest room. He’d sent an aide to buy him clothes: black pants and black shirts, as Jackie requested. Jackie kept wearing his pair of black cowboy boots. He looked like a poor man’s Johnny Cash. He balanced a wicked knife’s handle on the flat of his palm.
The knife glinted in the light as Jackie steadied his hand.
“I need you to put that knife to work on a loose end. Her name is Delia Moon.”
Jackie tossed the knife up, caught the handle. “I didn’t think Dallas had hippies.”
“They can have one less. Be quick and don’t get caught.”
Jackie put the knife back in its sheath and stood. “I’d like to know why you hate these two guys so much.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Pilgrim and Forsberg. What’s your motive?”
“It’s not your concern.”
“My brother died trying to put Pilgrim down. I’d like to know why he died.”
Hector crossed his arms. “Jackie, I wonder if you’ve thought about your future.”
“Yes. Quite a lot. Are you going to answer my question?”
“No. It’s irrelevant to your work.” He cleared his throat. “Running a business like yours is dangerous-not just on account of the violence. Trying to bring in the contracts, find clients who will pay, it’s almost as dangerous as killing the targets. Every potential client’s a cop or a rival who wants you to let your guard down.”
“It’s not like you can go cold-calling to drum up business.”
“So you complete this job, and if you want, you’ll work for me. For as long as you like.”
“Work for you. Doing what?”
“I’m going to give you Pilgrim’s job,” Hector said. “His exact same job.”
Jackie laughed. “His job’s too bloody dangerous.”
“But you won’t be alone, Jackie.” And Hector could tell he’d read the boy right, he’d appealed to his insecurity, because Jackie studied the floor, as though he needed to slip on a mask before he met Hector’s stare. He said, “Sure, I’ll give it a solid think, Mr. Hector. Point me toward your hippie chick.”
22
Tied to a toilet. Ben figured he could holler for help, pound the walls, and the housekeeping staff or another guest would hear him and come to his aid. And then what? At the least he faced a difficult explanation as to how he came to be bound to the pipes, and at the worst he’d be recognized from the news accounts and handed over to the police.
The plastic cuff bit into his skin. He had to loosen it. He lay between the tub and the toilet. A sample shampoo canister sat with its matching bottles of conditioner and soap on the counter. But well out of reach.
Ben yanked the bath towel hanging above his head. He held one end of it and whipped the tail of the towel onto the counter. It knocked over the pyramid of miniature soaps and gels. Ben lashed out again with the towel, caught the plastic bottles under its weight. He slowly dragged the towel and the toiletries tumbled to the floor.
He upended the shampoo bottle over the cuff and greased his skin. He worked the ooze between the plastic and his flesh. Pulling and twisting, he tried to ease his hand through the cuff. Too tight. He worked it for five minutes but made scant progress.
He tried again with the bottle of conditioner, pouring with greater care, making sure he spilled none to the tiles. His heart pounded against the floor and he steeled himself to lose an entire layer of skin. He gritted his teeth and pulled. Agony. He tried to twist his hand through the tough plastic circle but it was simply too tight.
His eyes searched the counter. Nothing else, just a set of sugar packets, plastic cups, foil pouches of crappy coffee, and a coffeemaker.