“He and I aren’t on speaking terms.”
Keefe poured two fingers of tequila into the glass and returned. “This is good stuff. I won’t argue with you there.”
“A buck a bottle.”
“No shit. Hope you don’t mind if I help myself to the other one.” Keefe propped Tank up and put the glass to his mouth. Tank tried to take a sip, but the tequila no longer smelled so enticing. It came to him that if he hadn’t stopped to take a drink, he would have gotten away. Right now he’d be driving somewhere near Hutto with the article on the seat beside him and Hal Stark’s files safe and sound on the key and the tablet. He thought of Mary and her girls and knew that Keefe, or someone like him, would be visiting them very soon.
With the last of his strength, he pushed the glass away.
“What is it?” said Keefe.
“I can’t,” said Tank.
Keefe shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He drank down the tequila with relish, then stood. “You ready?”
Tank laid his head down. For the first time in many a year, he prayed. He prayed for Mary and her girls. He prayed that Ian Prince and Edward Mason would die terrible deaths. And he prayed for forgiveness. It didn’t take long.
“Now’s as good a time as any.”
There was the hollow thump of footsteps on the porch. Keefe moved eagerly toward the door. “Who’s that? Mary Grant still here?”
Keefe raised his pistol and yanked the door open. Tank saw his eyes widen. There was a terrific, ear-splitting noise. Fergus Keefe dropped to the floor as a hail of machine-gun bullets tore up his chest.
Don Bennett advanced into the cabin, firing a second burst into Keefe’s prone body.
“Not you, too,” said Tank, his heart sinking.
Bennett knelt at Tank’s side. “Hang on,” he said. “We’ll have an ambulance here soon.”
An older man with shaggy gray hair and a belly followed. He picked up the key to the LaFerrari off the floor. “This it?” asked Randy Bell.
“Is it, Potter?”
Tank nodded. “It’s all there.”
Bennett shouted for Bell to get a first-aid kit out of the car, then returned his attention to Tank. “I’m sure we’ll read about it in the paper.”
But by then Tank wasn’t interested in the paper or in writing an article that would win him the Pulitzer Prize or in pulling down a hefty book contract. He took hold of Bennett’s arm. “Find Mary.”
95
The Mole touched the blade to the pouch of flesh below Jessie’s eye. Her skin was so smooth. She was pure. Untouched.
“Stand up. I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your mother.”
He saw the hate in her eyes and he felt himself stir. The Mole pushed the point against the skin. He saw fear, too, and this excited him more.
Jessie stood.
“Go into the bedroom.”
Mary Grant rose to her feet and charged. The Mole kicked her and she fell backward over the coffee table. He was on her in a second, the knife puncturing her neck, a rivulet of blood besmirching the blade. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. If I hear you, I’ll bury my knife in your baby girl’s belly so deep it won’t ever come out. And then I’ll bury it in yours.”
The Mole flipped the knife in his hand and brought the weighted handle down on her forehead, shutting those pleading eyes. He had plans for Mary, too.
He stood and pushed Jessie forward toward the bed.
He closed the door behind them. But not all the way. If Mary Grant made a noise, he’d be listening.
–
Seconds after the door closed, Mary struggled to her feet. She was dazed, nothing more. If anything, the pain acted as a prod. She slid off her shoes and glided soundlessly across the room to where her purse lay on the floor. She got to her knees and opened it, and her bound hands delved inside, pushing aside her wallet, the envelope containing $36,000 before finding the grip of the nickel-plated.38 revolver. An old-fashioned Saturday night special-$295 at the Pawn Stars shop.
She freed the pistol and, using both thumbs, cocked the hammer. Step by step she advanced toward the bedroom. Her neck was bleeding terribly, leaving a crimson trail on the marble floor. The door stood open an inch. She saw his naked buttocks. She moved faster. She would not allow anyone to hurt her daughter.
–
She was beautiful.
She was his.
The Mole held his phone in his left hand and the knife in his right. He wanted to film his first time. He looked forward to watching it again and again. Watching was better.
Jessie lay on the bed as he’d told her. He approached warily, ready for any outburst. He slipped the knife beneath the Ninjaneers T-shirt and cut it open down the center of her chest.
“That’s right,” he said. “Stay still and look at the camera.”
He drew nearer, smelling her, wanting all of her.
Jessie kicked out at him. He dodged her blows easily, pressing the knife against her.
“Now take the other shirt off,” he said.
He wanted to kiss her, too, but he couldn’t risk taking off the tape. He’d kiss her later, when she was still warm.
Jessie didn’t move, and he nicked her cheek.
“Next time it’ll hurt more.”
Jessie pulled off her shirt and looked away.
“Eyes open, Jess,” he said. “I want you to see everything.”
Later, when he watched, he wanted to see the life drain out of her eyes.
The Mole laid the knife against her bra, then slid it lower, against her jeans. He felt powerful, in control. He was in charge, no one else. Not Briggs. Not Ian Prince. The world was doing as he commanded, no differently than if he’d programmed its every action.
“Now these.”
Jessie tugged off her pants. He looked into her eyes as he touched her. A flicker of fear, of apprehension. And then the fear vanished. He caught a reflection in her iris, a flash of movement behind him.
Jessie wrenched her head to one side and squeezed her eyes shut.
Something hard and cold touched the base of his skull.
The Mole began to protest, desperately needing to see who was behind him, who was disobeying his program.
There was a bright light. The sun.
Then darkness.
96
Mary held Jessie in her arms and let her cry until there were no more tears.
“How’s Grace?” was the first thing her daughter asked. “She sent me a message saying she was going to the hospital.”
“We don’t know yet.”
“But you’re here with me.”
Mary nodded. “Of course I am.”
At this, Jessie began crying anew. “I love you, Mama,” she said.
“I love you, too.”
Mary had moved Jess back to the living area. The door to the bedroom was closed.
Jessie sobbed a last time and wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I should have told you I was coming. I knew you’d say no.”
“You were right. But we can talk about that later, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And about that e-cigarette, young lady…”
Jessie drew back. “You looked in my desk?”
“Jess.”
“It’s okay. I know you were just worried.” She sat up straighter. “So why are you here? Why does Ian Prince want to hurt us? Is this because of Dad?”
“Dad was investigating him,” said Mary. “Ian Prince had your father killed to stop him.”
It took Mary ten minutes to tell Jessie everything that had happened over the past forty-eight hours. She left nothing out. She spoke to Jessie as if she were an adult because that’s the way the admiral would have spoken to her. In a few months Jessie would be sixteen. If she was anything like her mother, she was as good as gone the moment she passed her driver’s test. There comes a point when you have to let go. Mary wasn’t ready yet, but she didn’t have a say in the matter.