“Those weren’t exactly the words I had in mind, but …” He cleared his throat. “The point is, I understand how you must feel, but I can’t let you leave.”
There was a long silence. Travis could feel her eyes scrutinizing him. It didn’t matter. It was too late and he’d been at it too long. He was beyond caring.
“Okay,” she said suddenly.
He looked up. “Okay what?”
“I promise not to turn you in. I promise I won’t try to leave. Mother, may I please be untied?”
His eyes brightened. “Then you do believe me.”
“Wrong. I’m just dead tired. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s after one in the morning, somewhat later than my usual bedtime. I’m weary to the bone, and I’m not likely to get any sleep duct-taped to a kitchen chair.”
“Okay.” Travis took a knife from the kitchen and cut the tape.
Cavanaugh rose slowly from her chair. Her knees creaked. “Oh God.” She ripped the cut tape from her clothing. “Well, you can stay up all night if you want, Travis, but I’m going to bed. I have to work on another case tomorrow.” She walked wearily toward the bedroom, then stopped. “You can sleep on the sofa if you like. It folds out.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t wake me. I plan to sleep in.”
“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”
“And don’t get the wrong idea, pal. This is for one night and one night only. As soon as the sun rises, you’re out of here.”
“Agreed.” He hesitated. “And thanks. I really appreciate this.”
“Don’t get sentimental. I might change my mind yet.” She closed her bedroom door.
He threw himself down on the sofa and tried to relax. It was no use. Whether he liked it or not, he had a thousand stray images racing through his head, a thousand loose ends, a thousand unanswered questions.
He took a legal pad from Cavanaugh’s briefcase and started sketching a diagram of what had happened so far. He drew the FBI on the left, Moroconi on the right. But where did he put those men at the shopping mall? Were they with the FBI, or the police, or the mob? And who were the men at the West End? Where did they fit into his diagram?
He was dog tired, but he was never one who could rest first; he had to get the work done before he could even think about relaxing. Like in the poem, the woods were pretty damn dark and deep and he had miles to go before he could sleep.
He had to figure out what to do. Where to go. How to get himself out of this mess.
Before it was too late.
38
2:35 A.M.
KRAMER CRUISED INTO THE apartment-complex parking lot just off Forest Lane, lights dimmed. Sure enough, there it was—Travis Byrne’s car. The license plate and description were both perfect matches.
His broad smile made the scar on the side of his face crinkle. This would show Mario. He had been certain his men would find the car eventually, but in truth he had thought it would take longer than this. Sometimes you just get lucky, he supposed. Of course, some of the luck could be attributed to the time-tested technique of putting the fear of death into a group of men who were basically spineless bootlickers. Part of the luck was also attributable to Byrne’s own stupidity—why was he still in the Dallas metro area? If Kramer had been on the run, he’d be in Chicago by now. Maybe Paris.
Byrne’s car was empty. Kramer slid a thin, long sheet of metal between the window glass and the car frame, pushed it down about a foot and a half, then jerked it to the right. He heard a popping noise that told him the lock had been sprung.
He crawled into the car and began rooting around. Nothing particularly suspicious—a change of clothes, an overcoat, a briefcase. Kramer popped open the briefcase and examined the contents. A lot of boring documents written on long legal paper. Some pens, pencils, yellow Post-Its. And a business card.
Now, that was interesting—Kramer had heard of Special Agent Henderson and knew what the man really did. Who had contacted Byrne, he wondered, and why? He slipped the card into his pocket.
Nothing else in the car seemed particularly noteworthy. Nothing indicated in which of the apartments Byrne was hiding.
Kramer considered his options. He could set the car on fire. That would be fun. That would give him great pleasure. And that might bring Byrne out of hiding.
On the other hand, he considered, it might just tip Byrne off and send him scurrying out the back window. No, he should figure out which of these apartments Byrne was in. Once he knew that, he could use a more direct approach. And if that didn’t work, he thought, grinning, he could still blow the car to hell and back—with Byrne in it. That would be Plan B.
Yeah, that’s the ticket. He strolled across the parking lot, crisscrossing toward the main office building. He casually passed the front door, glancing at the lock. Piece of cake. And the office would undoubtedly have files identifying every, tenant. And from that list, he could likely deduce which apartment Byrne was in. He would just look for someone Byrne would be likely to know—a coworker, or a relative, or another lawyer. He’d start with the apartments nearest Byrne’s car.
Kramer returned to his car. He checked the trunk and found all his favorite tools—cans of gasoline, lighter fluid, an incendiary blowtorch, cord. He examined a small brown box, barely three by four inches. Everything was there—a tiny triggering mechanism, a smidgen of plastic explosive, and four hundred nails. Ready to go. He crawled under Byrne’s car and locked the box into place.
He’d get Byrne in the apartment, or later when he ran to his car. Either way Kramer would get him, and have a little fun in the process. And then he’d be in a position to make that fat fucker Mario regret talking to him like he did.
There were going to be a few surprises for Mr. Travis Byrne in the morning.
39
9:30 A.M.
TRAVIS ROLLED OVER, GROANING, and untangled his body from the living-room furniture.
“Pffst—wha—?” He had carpet hair in his mouth. He was lying on the floor in a twisted knot between the coffee table and the sofa. He stretched his legs and tried to remember when he had finally conked out. His neck and back were stiff; pins and needles shot through his legs. He might be awake, but his legs weren’t.
He tiptoed into the kitchen, careful not to wake Cavanaugh. The cabinets were still littered with utensils and ingredients for the bell-pepper soup.
He wondered if Cavanaugh had anything for breakfast. He opened the refrigerator and found it well stocked: milk, orange juice, eggs, bacon. Much more than he could have found in his own kitchen. He congratulated himself for holing up with someone who cooked.
He decided to start with coffee. He couldn’t find a coffeemaker, but he did locate a jar of instant. He pulled a brass teakettle out of the cupboard, filled it with water, and turned the heat up high.
The doorbell rang. He frowned. Who would be here at this time of—
He checked his watch. It was already nine-thirty. How could he have slept so late?
He rushed to the door, hoping he could get rid of whoever it was before Cavanaugh awoke. If she was aroused too early, she was certain to be grumpy. Come to think of it, she was certain to be grumpy in any case, but the less provocation the better.
He peered through the peephole. The face was unfamiliar—which was good. A tall, medium-sized white male in a spiffy-looking blue suit and tie.
“Package,” the man said.
Why would someone be delivering a package? Then it dawned on him—Cavanaugh had said she was going to work on a new case. She probably had the files couriered to her apartment to save herself the trouble of lugging them.
He shook his head; he really was getting paranoid. No one could possibly know he was here.