“I’m going to make a dive for the hot tub, Cavanaugh. Cover me.”
“Cover you? With what?”
“Use your imagination.”
Cavanaugh clenched her teeth and mumbled something he couldn’t understand. He figured it was just as well. He crouched down near the end of the table and prepared to spring out.
He glanced back over his shoulder. “I’m ready.”
He was startled to see Cavanaugh grit her teeth and grab a billiard ball. “Take this, you sorry son of a bitch!” she shouted. She reared over the tabletop and hurled the ball toward the door.
Travis heard the projectile clatter and ricochet around some exercise equipment, and heard their assailant drop to the floor. Good enough. He dove away from the table and scrambled toward the hot tub. He landed on his hands and executed a somersault that brought him right beside his gun. Not bad for a fat ex-cop. He grabbed his gun and scrambled back to the safer side of the hot tub, hugging the carpet.
Travis heard another bullet zoom over his head, this one much closer than before. Much too close for comfort. He flattened himself and tried to figure out what he was going to do next.
He heard a mechanical grinding sound coming from the door. No bullets followed. Something was wrong with their assailant’s gun.
From his prone position, Travis saw Cavanaugh cautiously peer over the top of the pool table, “His gun is jammed!” she shouted. “Go!”
Travis took her at her word. He sprang to his feet, cocked the hammer back, aimed the barrel at the stocking-capped figure in the doorway, and …
And he could not pull the trigger.
“Goddamn it,” Cavanaugh yelled. “Fire!”
He couldn’t do it. His hands trembled, his fingers refused to move. He stared at the man in the doorway, fully aware that at any second he might clear the action and fire that gun. It didn’t help. He still couldn’t do it.
“Travis—do something!”
The man in the stocking cap threw down his gun, pulled a long, curved knife out of his belt, and ran toward Travis. Travis hurled his weapon at the man’s head. While the man ducked, Travis rushed him. Travis hit him around the waist and sent him careening backward. The man hit the wall, lurched away in the opposite direction, then tumbled backward into the boiling hot tub. He screamed.
The man beat his arms furiously, trying desperately to get out of the water. Travis knocked the knife out of his hand, then held him down by the shoulders. Cavanaugh ran out from behind the pool table, grabbed her gun, and trained it on the man in the tub. “Don’t kill him,” she said.
“I’m not letting him out just so he can come after us again,” Travis grunted. “As long as he’s fighting me, he stays in the water.”
As if on cue, the man stopped struggling. Travis grabbed him behind the shoulders and placed a half Nelson lock around his neck. Once he was sure he had the man under control, he hauled him out of the water. Cavanaugh kept her gun trained on his skull the whole time.
The man’s face was red and flushed and he looked as if he hurt. “Look at all this high-tech equipment he’s packing,” Cavanaugh said. She searched him, then systematically removed every gadget and weapon he carried, much of it now waterlogged and ruined. “This is the same man who attacked me at the library.”
“Persistent son of a bitch,” Travis muttered.
Cavanaugh ripped the man’s stocking cap off his head. Travis’s eyes widened.
It was Curran McKenzie. Mary Ann McKenzie’s brother.
65
6:30 P.M.
ONCE TRAVIS’S EYES HAD retracted back into his head, he murmured, “This is the rape victim’s brother.”
“I know,” Cavanaugh said, nodding. “I saw him in the courtroom, remember? Just after he talked to you. I believe you described him as an obnoxious wimp.”
“Well, I got the obnoxious part right.” He tightened his grip around Curran’s neck. “Where’d you learn the commando tactics?”
“In the army,” Curran spat out. “Green Beret, for your information.”
“Where’d you get the spiffy CIA-issue equipment?”
Curran struggled futilely against Travis’s grip. “I’ve maintained a few connections.”
“Great. A man of mystery.” He withdrew a canister from Curran’s belt. “What’s this? A time bomb disguised as a roll of film?”
“Just a roll of film. For the cameras.”
Travis fingered the tiny binoculars. “And I guess this is how you spy on your neighbors.”
Curran ignored him.
“So what’s the story, super spook? Are you working for the Outfit or the FBI?”
A pained expression crossed Curran’s face. “Neither one.”
“Then what—”
“I’m on my own.”
“On your own? Not a Green Beret anymore?”
“I had a disagreement with my commanding officer. Several, actually.”
“But why are you following us? What do you want?”
Curran twisted his head around as much as Travis’s grip permitted. “I want you dead.”
“Me? Dead?” Travis stared back at him, dumbfounded. “What the hell did I ever do to you?”
Curran looked straight ahead and kept his mouth shut.
Cavanaugh pushed her gun into Curran’s ribs. “Answer him.”
“It’s not what you did to me,” Curran replied curtly. “It’s what you did to my sister.”
Travis released Curran’s neck. “I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to your sister.”
“You had everything to do with humiliating her in court. You’re doing everything you can to help Moroconi escape punishment for what he did to her.”
“I was defending Moroconi, if that’s what you mean. The prosecution’s case against him is flimsy at best. Even scum are entitled to a fair trial. If you take that away, the whole system falls apart.”
Cavanaugh stepped between them. “I don’t think he’s in the mood for a civics lesson, Travis. Look, Curran, I’m on the prosecution side of the courtroom. You can trust me. This desire to exact vengeance by projecting your anger onto the defendant’s lawyer is very common, although most people don’t do it with Puukko knives and laserscope rifles. But surely you can see you’re misdirecting your anger. Your beef is against the men who attacked your sister.”
“If I knew who those men were, I’d go after them,” Curran said. “In the meantime, I’ll settle for Byrne.”
“Great.” Travis slumped down beside the hot tub. “Just what I need. Someone else who wants to kill me.”
“There are others?”
“Take a number, kid. I’m not sure you’re even in the top five.”
“Look, Curran,” Cavanaugh said, “I’m sympathetic. I share your frustration. But I don’t think you understand what’s going on here. Why don’t we all put away our big guns and just talk for a few minutes? Then you can decide if you still want to kill Travis.”
Travis stared at her. “Put our guns away! And what if he decides he still wants to kill me?”
“One thing at a time, Travis. Can we talk, Curran?”
Curran frowned. “I suppose. As long as Byrne doesn’t try to get away.”
“He won’t. I’ve got the car keys. Mario!”
Mario crawled out from behind the pool table. “Yes?” he whispered.
“Show us to the den, Mario, and unlock the liquor cabinet. We’re going to have a nice, friendly chat.”
While Mario retired to his master bedroom to pull himself together, Cavanaugh tried to convince Curran that Travis was as much a pawn as his sister had been. She explained that Travis had been appointed to represent Moroconi, that he had precious little choice in the matter, and that once appointed, he had an obligation to do his best to exonerate Moroconi. Most important, she tried to convince him that the last thing on earth Travis needed was another person trying to kill him.