“He was going to shoot you,” she said unsteadily. “Shoot you in the back.”
Jason had not noticed the weapon on the ground at the man’s feet.
That left one…. There he was, slipping silently toward Judith among the shrubbery that concealed him. Since he hadn’t shot her, Jason had to guess he had it in mind to take a hostage. But he might change his mind in a hurry if Jason warned her.
Jason stooped, reaching inside the loose jacket of the dead man. His fingers closed around what he was searching for.
By the time Jason was on his feet, the man was within a few feet of Judith. Time for a single try.
Something made Judith’s would-be assailant turn toward Jason at the last instant. He raised his weapon. Too late. The metal was arcing through the air, a comet in the quad’s light. He grunted as the Spetsnaz fling knife ended its flight, piercing his throat, severing his left carotid artery, and effectively nailing him to the door. His gun clattered to the cement of the porch as a fountain of blood painted the stone a dark black in the artificial light.
Judith saw him for the first time and gave a mousy squeak of horror. “He’s pinned to the door!”
“The eight a.m. tort class is in for a surprise. C’mon, time to go.”
She reached out, feeling the throat. “He’s still alive. I might be able to help.”
“Why would you?”
“Hippocratic Oath.”
“Nobody tried to kill Hippocrates.”
He took the Glock still in her hand, returning it to the holster in the small of his back. “We need to leave before we wind up explaining this mess to the cops.”
“We haven’t done anything wrong. We were just defending ourselves.”
For the first time, Jason noted the sole survivor, the man he had wounded, had disappeared. “Not only ‘defended,’ but defended well. You’re a better shot than I could have hoped.”
He had her hand now, leading her away.
“I killed a man,” she murmured. “I’ve never done that before.”
Jason started to say she would never completely recover from it, that the act was a chasm between civilization and barbarity that could not be re-crossed. But that would provoke a lot of questions he would prefer not to answer.
Hours later, he rolled over in Judith’s bed. Lovemaking had been furious, urgent. It almost always was after a violent death. Perhaps he and Judith, or anyone who had witnessed bloodshed, felt a need to go through the motions of procreation to replace the life snuffed out. All Jason knew was that with Judith, as with Maria, he enjoyed the clamant need and the magnified release.
Maria.
He was staring at the ceiling, where shadows cast by the streetlights outside created abstract patterns.
What the hell would he tell Maria?
Are you nuts? The inner voice asked. You’ll tell Maria nothing. By the time she comes back from whatever she’s doing in Iceland with whatshisname …
Sevensen.
Yeah, him. By the time she gets back to wherever you choose to live next, this Major Ferris, J., MD won’t even remember your name.
Whaddaya mean, won’t remember my name? After—
After what? After you nearly got her killed? Well, she may remember you for that. But a one-night stand? Get real!
In one way, Jason suspected the voice might be right. He certainly didn’t have room for two women in his life. But not remember his name?
38
The area abutting the western edge of Georgia Tech’s campus consisted of student-friendly eating establishments, low-end retail, and a few of the original bungalows and Craftsman cottages of the blue-collar neighborhood now largely swallowed up by the school. Many of the latter housed student organizations or displayed ROOM TO RENT signs as did the gray shingle cottage into whose driveway Jason pulled the rented Ford. The dirt yard behind the house served as a parking lot for a pair of motorcycles, a scooter, and a pickup truck whose tires showed more cord than rubber.
Jason locked the car and walked along the edge of the building past a laboring air-conditioning compressor. Three steps led him up to a porch across the front, facing the street. A gray cat jumped from an old-fashioned glider, giving Jason a disapproving look. The animal seemed to be trying to decide whether to flee or stick around as it watched Jason ring the doorbell. He was not surprised the chimes played the first couple of bars of “(I’m a) Ramblin’ Wreck.” Neither was the cat. It sat statue still except for its tail, which waved as if to a rhythm only it heard.
The door behind the screen door opened, revealing a stocky woman with closely cropped hair. She wore a Georgia Tech T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. A black-and-white cat circled her left ankle, a tabby her right.
She stooped to shoo them away at the same time she unlatched the screen door. “Well, hello, Mr. Peters! Long time no see. I was surprised when I got your call.”
Mind appearing to be made up, the gray cat dashed inside the open door.
“Good to see you, too, Sybil. Still keeping your feline menagerie, I see.”
She opened the door wider. “About sixteen at last count. But that was a week ago. Could be more by now. Critters multiply faster than I can have them neutered or spayed. C’mon in.”
Jason followed her down a corridor dark in spite of sunlight pouring through a window at the end. He imagined dozens of pairs of cat eyes peering out of the gloom. There was a smell of one or more litter boxes somewhere near.
Sybil stood aside, ushering Jason into the room at the end of the hall. A large and very comfortable-looking chair sat behind a dining-room table from which the faux mahogany veneer was peeling. On the floor underneath it were what looked to Jason like multiple computers. And cats — three of four of them. There were several more on the couch, the only other piece of furniture visible. The wall to his right was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, most of the titles relating to computers, as far as Jason could tell. The other wall displayed diplomas, certificates, and photographs of Sybil shaking hands or draping arms around people Jason did not recognize. There were also a number of pictures of Sybil in her Tech softball uniform, several trophies, and, not surprisingly, a cat that was staring down curiously from its perch on the top shelf.
Sybil had come to Tech on a softball scholarship, majored in computer science, and excelled at both. If Jason remembered correctly, the Lady Jackets had won a national championship behind her pitching, and her grades had been good enough to warrant a graduate scholarship to Stanford. She returned to her alma mater to teach advanced computer science, a curriculum Jason gathered was designed for students who simply outpaced existing courses and that Sybil made up as she went along. In his few visits and conversations with her, there had been no hint of a boyfriend, partner, or companion of any description. As far as he knew, she rented out rooms, sought only the company of her cats, and designed computer programs for several governments and organizations including the United States and Narcom. Momma swore she was the best hacker that had ever been.
Sybil indicated the couch as she slid into the chair. “Have a seat.”
Jason eyed the streaks of cat fur that would attach to his summer-weight wool Italian slacks and the light jacket he had worn against the chill of the airplane’s air-conditioning. “I’ll stand if it’s all the same.”
That served as the niceties that precede most business conversations in the South.
A cat vaulted effortlessly into Sybil’s lap. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Peters?”
Jason handed her the matchbook cover. “I want to see their guest list for the last, say, three months.”