The Devils Punchbowl

My hands have begun to shake, but whether from fear or rage I don'’t know. “You still haven'’t told me what he stole.”

“And I don'’t intend to, do I? That'’s your job.”

“How can I find something when I don'’t know what it is?”

The knife pierces skin again. I tense, and Sands’s eyes flash. “Give me your best guess.”

“Documents?” I grunt. “Data?”

“Brilliant. It’s a disc, right? A DVD. Started out as one, anyway. The data could have been copied onto something else by now. USB drive, digital tape, hard drive, even a fucking iPod. What the data is, I won'’t tell you, but you’ll know it when you see it.”

“How?”

“It’s encrypted.”

The knifepoint withdraws a fraction of an inch. “Are you a betting man, Mr. Cage?”

“No.”

“Good. That'’s a sign of intelligence. I don'’t gamble either. Because the house always wins. People can’t seem to remember that. But I'm trusting you will.”

The knife again. I wince and try not to cry out.

“I know this is a lot to take in,” Sands says. “You lost a mate tonight, and that’s never easy. But the truth is, you cut yourself loose from Jessup a long time ago. And rightly so. The man was a header. Christ, he got weepy whenever he talked about how you two were lads together, watching the moon shots on the telly.”

The revelation that this meant so much to Tim almost brings tears to my eyes. I steel myself and keep my eyes on Sands’s face to avoid looking into the dog’s eyes.

“Listen to me now,” he says. “Let the rupies investigate Jessup’s death. Do everything you planned to do before Jessup died. Show the visiting CEO the town, give interviews, fly around in the balloons. But while you’re having your

craic,

you find time to find my property. If I find it first, I'’ll let you know. Remember, I'’ll be watching. And listening.” In a blur, he raises the knife and pricks the soft skin beneath my left eye. “Don’t play games with me, mate. Remember the first rule: The house always wins. And I'm the house.”

Sands bends and slips his pistol into an ankle holster, then takes my gun from the small of his back, removes the clip, ejects the remaining round from the chamber, and hands the pistol to me. As he slides the clip into my front pants pocket, his dog pushes off my chest, retrieves the ejected bullet from the flower bed, and drops the

brass into his master’s hand. Sands rubs the dog between its cropped ears, then drops the loose round into my pants pocket.

“One last thing.” Sands kneels at the edge of the porch, reaches down into the shadows behind him, and brings up a black leather briefcase.

“What’s that?”

“A quarter million dollars.”

“Why is it here?”

“Why, it’s the money you asked for.” Sands gives me a theatrical hug, then says sotto voce, “For the cameras, mate.” Then loudly again: “Like you said, you have the biggest job in town, and that’s why we pay you the big bucks.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Just smile and say thank you,” he whispers. “So your daughter keeps breathing.”

Given no choice, I accept it. “Thank you,” I mutter. What else can I do? Seamus Quinn could be upstairs with a knife, waiting for a signal from Sands.

Jonathan Sands pats my arm and walks down the steps as lightly as Fred Astaire, and again I sense the fluid efficiency of his motions. He waves airily.

“I wish you the pleasure of the evening. And I look forward to hearing from you.”

Only now do I realize that his upper-crust English accent has returned. The working-class Irish has vanished like a vapor trail, like it was never there at all.

As I stare after him, he stops and calls, “Oh, if you’re worried about the grieving widow, rest easy. If I wanted her out of the picture, she’d be room temperature already. The lad too.”

My face must betray something, because he adds, “Sure, I heard every word you said to her tonight. I know she doesn’'t have my property, so ring her up and tell her to get a good night’s sleep. In fact, if you find the disc before morning, I'’ll toss in a few quid for the widows and orphans’ fund.” He smiles at the thought, then gives me a parting shot in his native accent. “Have a grand night altogether, now.”

With that, Jonathan Sands strolls off down Washington Street, the massive dog walking at his heel like a royal escort. When Sands

pauses to study the smooth trunks of the crape myrtles in the pink glow of the streetlamps, the dog stops and sits beside him. As I watch, a long, black car glides soundlessly up to him, gathers up him and his dog, and rolls quickly out of sight, making for the river.

As I stare at the blackness where the taillights faded, I realize that I'm shaking uncontrollably. I can hardly grip my key to get it out of the lock.

I'm no stranger to threats. I’'ve confronted dangerous men in my life, some of them psychopaths. A few vowed to avenge themselves upon me for criminal convictions or for the executions of relatives. I once shot a man dead to prevent him from killing my daughter in retribution. But never have I experienced the paralyzing terror I felt while listening to the clear and passionless voice of Jonathan Sands.

God, what Tim must have suffered before he died.

With shaking hands I take out my cell phone and call Julia Jessup. I'm three minutes late, but she answers, sounding like she’s close to hyperventilating. I don'’t know what Sands’s promise to leave Tim’s widow alone is worth, but I must protect my own family now. After instructing Julia to seek refuge with Tim’s parents, I carry Sands’s briefcase inside, lock the door behind me, and race up the stairs to Annie’s door. In the night light’s glow, I see her tucked into the bow of my mother’s larger form beneath the covers. Relief washes over me, but fear quickly burns through it. As I watch my sleeping daughter, a disturbing certainty rises from the chaos in my mind. Tim was right about “Mr. X.” Jonathan Sands is not like anyone I’'ve ever faced before. I’'ve dealt with the man for nearly a year and not once suspected his true nature. But there’s no time for self-recrimination now. Or for doubt. Sands may have convinced himself that I'’ll be like the others he’s bought off or threatened into cooperating with him, but in twenty-four hours he’ll know different. Before I can act, though, I must get my daughter to safety.

Hurrying down the stairs, I lock Sands’s briefcase—which is indeed full of cash—in the safe in my study, mentally ticking off the obvious obstacles:

The house will be watched. My phones will be tapped—cellular and landlines. The house may be bugged or even covered by video cameras, considering that Sands was waiting for me when I got home. He could be checking my e-mail, text mes sages, and any other form of digital communication. So…what options remain?

For some people, mortal danger brings paralyzing confusion. For me—after the first minute of panic—it brings clarity. So it’s with utter certainty that I pick up my kitchen telephone and dial my father’s home number. The phone rings three times, and then a mildly groggy baritone voice answers, “Dr. Cage.”

Even before I speak, something in me arcs out over the wires, instinctively reaching for the protection of blood kin. “Dad, it’s Penn.”

From three miles away, I feel him come alert in the dark. “What’s the matter? Is Annie all right? Is it Peggy?”