He waited, but Moroconi didn’t raise his head out of the water. Perverted bastard. This was just a scare tactic. He wouldn’t—
Mario’s lungs began to ache. He needed oxygen—now! He thrashed from side to side, trying to lift his head above the surface of the water. It was no use. Moroconi held his head down firmly. With his hands tied, there was nothing, absolutely nothing Mario could do. He felt himself growing faint.
Desperate for air, his lips parted, and the scalding water poured inside. Mario felt it burning his mouth, his tongue, coursing through his lungs. For the first shattering moment he realized he was going to die—
And then Moroconi lifted his head out of the water.
Mario came up coughing and throwing up water. Vomit spewed down his cheeks into the hot tub.
Moroconi laughed. “Gotcha worried that time, didn’t I?”
“It’s under the blotter. On my desk,” Mario gasped, as soon as he was able to talk. “Jack’s new address.”
“Thank you, Mario. Most cooperative of you.” He released Mario’s head. It splashed back into the hot tub.
The hot water rose to the level of Mario’s cheekbones. “Wait a minute. You said you’d let me go if I gave you Jack!”
Moroconi shook his head. “I said no such thing. You assumed I would let you go.” He grinned. “You were wrong. Bye-bye, Mario. Hope you can hold your breath for a long time. Like forever.”
He laughed again, even louder than before, and strolled upstairs.
62
5:15 P.M.
TRAVIS AND CAVANAUGH APPROACHED the front door of the home of the Elcon president, Mario Catuara. It was an elegant house, obviously expensive, not far from Fort Worth, but very secluded. If they hadn’t known exactly where they were going, they never would have found it.
Travis stopped when he got to the porch steps. The front door was open.
“Something’s wrong,” Cavanaugh said.
“I agree,” Travis replied. “Someone got here before us.”
“Moroconi? Or that creep from the library?”
Travis shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Why would Moroconi be looking for Catuara?”
“I don’t know. But that envelope we found in his hotel room tells me they’re connected somehow. Why don’t you stay out here while I take a look inside?”
Cavanaugh grabbed Travis by the collar. “Spare me the chivalry. If Moroconi is in there, you’re going to need someone who’s capable of firing a gun.”
Cavanaugh pushed the front door the rest of the way open and entered. Frowning, Travis followed close behind.
They made a quick sweep of the ground level of the house. Marvelously well furnished, but beyond that, they found nothing of interest. They did discover a staircase—nineteen steps going up, twenty steps going down.
“Let’s cover both floors at once so he can’t slip away,” Cavanaugh whispered. “You take the basement. I’ll take the upstairs.”
Travis didn’t argue. He tiptoed quietly down the carpeted steps and soon realized he had gotten the easier assignment. There was only one room downstairs.
The door was partly open and the light was on. Travis took a deep breath, then stepped through. He hit the deck, just in case someone fired at him. No one did. He crawled into the room on his hands and knees, then slowly rose to his feet.
It was a rec room—a high-class, state-of-the-art playhouse. Travis eyed the sophisticated exercise equipment, feeling a wave of envy he couldn’t suppress. If he could afford to put gizmos like these in his apartment, maybe he could lose those extra pounds around his gut. Scanning the room, he saw a pool table, several pinball machines, and in the far corner—a hot tub.
There was something floating in the hot tub. Approaching, he saw it was a body—Catuara, unless Travis missed his guess. He was tied down in the tub, and his face was covered with water. He was not moving.
“Cavanaugh!” Travis yelled.
He reached into the water, then instinctively withdrew his hand. The water was blisteringly hot. He grabbed a towel from a nearby rack and wrapped it around his hand. Steeling himself, he reached into the hot tub and pulled the man’s head above the water.
The man’s eyes did not open, but Travis saw them move under the eyelids—a sign of life, however slight.
He cut the ropes with a pocketknife he’d picked up at the pawnshop. After the man was free, he hauled him out of the steaming water.
It was at just that moment, when Travis’s arms were wrapped around the body and there was nothing he could do to defend himself, that he heard quiet footsteps immediately behind him. He felt a heavy blow on the top of his head, and before he passed out, he had a brief sensation of his face plunging into scalding hot water.
63
5:30 P.M.
THE SHORTER, BEEFIER OF the two men checked his watch, then frowned. “I don’t think he’s coming.”
“He’ll come,” Staci said defiantly. “I know he will.”
“Just a few more hours till midnight.”
“Plenty of time.” Despite her outward show of strength, Staci was scared to death. Why was Travis taking so long? Why wasn’t he here yet?
They were in a crummy hotel room somewhere in Dallas—Staci and the two men who grabbed her outside Aunt Marnie’s house. There were two other men in an adjoining room who popped in from time to time. Staci didn’t know anything about any of them, except that they all looked like crooks and they were all carrying big guns.
After she had regained consciousness, she had found herself tied to a stiff-backed, uncomfortable chair. They hadn’t let her move since.
“Maybe he didn’t get the message,” Staci suggested.
“Unlikely. It was in the paper, right?”
The tall man with the long scar down the side of his face nodded. “My man at the newspaper never fails me.
“Maybe Travis doesn’t have time to read the papers,” Staci suggested. “He’s been real busy.”
“If I were gettin’ the press coverage he’s gettin’, I’d read the paper,” the shorter man said. “Wouldn’t you, Kramer?”
The tall man’s eyes widened. In one sudden, savage motion he clubbed the man on the side of his face.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “Jesus Christ! What was that for?”
“Names,” Kramer whispered under his breath.
“Oh, shit. I didn’t think.” He looked down at Staci.
“ ’Course, that isn’t his real name, you know. We all use aliases around here.”
Kramer rolled his eyes. “Unlike you, she ain’t a complete moron.” He cast his eyes down at the girl. “You just signed her death certificate.”
Staci only understood about a fourth of what the two men said, but she fully understood the import of that last remark. “What did he call you? I didn’t even hear it. And I wouldn’t remember it if I had. I’ve got a real short attention span. Really. It’s certified and everything.”
“It ain’t gonna make much difference, in the end,” Kramer said grimly. “Even if Byrne does show up—”
“He will. I know he will.”
Kramer raised an eyebrow. “Then what’s takin’ so long?”
“I don’t know, but I know there’s a reason.”
“I think Byrne has deserted you.”
“He has not!”
“Maybe I screwed up. Maybe he never cared about you.”
Staci’s face flushed. “You geekwad.”
The short man raised his fists eagerly. “She can’t talk to you like that, boss. Should I hit her?”
“Of course not. Idiot.” Kramer stepped forward and, just as suddenly as before, swung his fist into Staci’s face.
Afterward he rubbed his hand and smiled. “Rank has its privileges.”