“No.”
“You sure?”
“Christ, yes, I’m sure!”
“The three in the house. What are they doing at this minute?”
“Corey’s in the kitchen. Getting dinner ready. Brad’s in the living room next to the kitchen, playing Halo or some damn thing. There’s an office upstairs. Last I knew, Curt was there, checking e-mail or porn, I don’t know.”
We spent another minute or two, discussing the layout of the house, and then I stood up. Time was slipping away like ice melting in my fingers. “Here’s how it’s going to be. You stay put for at least the next half hour. Do anything else, and I’ll hurt you. Either now or later. After the half hour is gone, do what you want.”
“How the hell am I supposed to know when thirty minutes have passed?”
“You’re an educated man, figure it out,” I said. Then I looked down at him and said, “What happened to you? And why did your house get burned down?”
He shivered. “I had screwed up. After the demonstration at the power plant, I was supposed to drop out of sight, so the cops and you and anybody else couldn’t question me, couldn’t keep Curt’s name in the papers. But I didn’t want to leave campus… and they punished me. Now, I’m stuck with them until things cool down.”
“Then what? Go back to being a tenured revolutionary?”
“Going back to school, being a resource and advocate for true change.” His voice grew defiant. “And don’t bother asking me who Curt works for or who pays him! You won’t get that out of me!”
I holstered my Beretta. “News flash, professor. I don’t care.”
I was now at the stone wall, ghillie suit still off, equipment bag in hand. I quickly got to work. I was sure the three over there were expecting the not-so-good professor to return for dinner at any moment. I had on plain black sneakers, green fatigues, black wool watch cap on my head, light amber shooting glasses, light black leather gloves. I had adjusted my leather Bianchi holster so my 9mm was across my chest for easy access. On my left arm I had put four lengths of sticky gray duct tape. At my belt was another weapon, and an open net bag for a few other items.
I suppose I should have said a prayer or a word or something, but I had no time.
I went over the stone wall and started running to the house.
In a matter of seconds, I was at the rear door.
It opened up easily enough.
There was an entryway and pantry, and I went through there quickly. No time for sneaking or stealth. The men in the house were expecting someone coming back, a snotty professor full of himself and his thoughts.
Into a wide kitchen. Warm and the smell of beef being sautéed. Pots and pans hanging from ceiling beams. Open door to the left. Big island counter in the center. Man at the right, stirring something in a Calphalon pot over a huge gas stove. Not looking over. Pistol on his hip. Jeans, sweatshirt, short blond hair. He said, “Jesus effin’ Christ, Heywood, what took you so long?”
A matter of steps. He was big, he was smart, and he moved whip-fast when he realized that I wasn’t Knowlton.
But it was too late for him. When I got into the kitchen, my right hand went into the open net bag, came out with a black instrument the size of a large TV remote, an Acadiana stun gun, gotten the other day from Felix. I clicked it on and by the time Corey swung to the right and was reaching for his pistol, I shoved the stun gun into his ribs and pulled the trigger.
He grunted, arched his back, and fell to the tiled floor. On the ground, I nailed him again. Another spasm, and fortune favored me, because he rolled to his side. Back into my cloth bag, out with two plastic Flex-Cufs. I slipped one over his arms, drew it tight, did the same for his ankles. I tore off one of the duct tape strips, slapped it over his face. I looked to the left, through the opening. Noted windows, ornate door leading outside, assorted couches and chairs, and loud sounds of things being blown up.
“Hey, Corey!” a voice said. “You drop something in there?”
I grabbed his bound ankles, dragged him across the tile floor, made sure he was hidden behind the center island. I moved around and yelled out, “Yo! Brad! C’mere!”
On the other side of the island, I stood up, waited by the open door. Brad came through; he was wide and big, legs like tree trunks, wearing jeans and a tight red T-shirt. He moved faster than Corey when he realized something was wrong in the kitchen, and even without spotting me, he spun and flashed out with a long arm and heavy fist. He caught me on the side of the head, knocking me into the wall, but I managed to stun him on his arm. He swore and fell back, rubbing his arm, shaking it, and I pushed myself off the wall and went at him. He swung again and I ducked down, slipped and fell on my knees.
My knees hurt like hell.
I gasped from the pain.
But I slammed my right arm up, stun gun still held firmly, and caught him in his flat belly.
He cried out, sank to his knees. I got up, woozy and light-headed. I jolted him in his ribs, his hands and arms drawn up, and he collapsed. He tried to struggle as I Flex-Cuffed and gagged him, but in a couple of minutes he was on the floor, near his companion.
I went to the stove, turned the flames off. I was sweating and breathing hard, and my knees and head ached, but there was no turning back.
I was committed.
I put the stun gun away.
The 9mm Beretta was now in my hand.
I went hunting.
The living room was clear. Bookcases, bar, some old landscape paintings, fireplace, and large screen television, showing some imaginative alien landscape, frozen in motion, sound still blaring. On the other side of the room was a wide staircase, leading upstairs. I took a series of deep breaths, went to the staircase, and stayed to the left, moving as fast and as quietly as I could.
I went upstairs at a light trot, keeping to the left side of the stairs. My Beretta was held out in the approved two-handed combat stance. Top of the stairs.
I moved left, to the office that Knowlton had mentioned.
Wide wooden desk. Computer and monitor. More bookcases. Long draperies.
It was empty.
Damn.
Whirled around, sped down the hallway, past one open bedroom, bathroom, and—
To the right. Closed door. Sound of movement inside. I leaned over, twisted the doorknob, kicked the door open.
Curt Chesak, standing by a bed. Hair wet. Fresh out of a shower. Fully dressed, bulky black turtleneck sweater, khaki pants.
Pistol and waist holster on the bed in front of him.
“Hey,” I said.
He laughed. “The avenging angel has arrived. Creaky knees and all.”
“Knees are hanging in there. You know who I am, don’t you.”
“Christ, yes.”
“And you know why I’m here.”
“Oh, spare me. You don’t have the balls.”
“You killed a college student, nearly killed my best friend, and have raised all sorts of hate and discontent. That’s all I need.”
He shrugged, grinning. “What can I say? Born to be bad, I guess. You know, Lewis—”
“Shut up.”
It all happened so very, very fast. He was good. He leaped to the bed and I saw it all in my mind’s eye: Curt grabbing the pistol, rolling to the floor, moving up, weapon in hand, spraying all twelve rounds in my direction.
Gunfire broke out, loud and ear-shattering.
Curt looked very surprised.
I shot him once, twice, and then three times in the chest. He fell back against the near white plaster wall, eyes stunned.
Some, I suppose, would have felt a sense of triumph, or closing the circle, or getting the job done. But I didn’t have the luxury to wait around and figure everything out. I didn’t wait.
I reached down, picked up my three empty and warm cartridge casings, and got the hell out of there.