He’d thought he covered his tracks such that his involvement would never be discovered.
Vian could only nod, certain it was far too late for him to deny it. At least, he thought, I will not die denying the only decent thing I’ve ever done.
“Good. I’ve been further instructed to glean from you, if possible, whatever I can about who else may have been involved in your unacceptable performance.”
“Why on earth should I cooperate with you?” Vian spat. “You’ve already told me you plan to kill me, and my wife is too public a figure for you to harm, which means you’ve no longer any leverage.”
“That’s not entirely accurate,” the stranger said, and then he shot Vian in the knee.
Vian shrieked. Every muscle in his body tensed at once. He jerked out of his chair, spilling onto the floor. The pain in his knee was white-hot, exquisite. It spread up through his groin and settled like lead in his stomach. Waves of dizziness and nausea shook his body, and unconsciousness encroached, spotty black at the edges of his vision. And all the while, beyond the soundproofed walls of his office, the party continued unabated-his guests oblivious to his suffering.
Somewhere, a thousand miles away it seemed, a mobile phone chirped. The stranger looked startled for a moment, and then reached into his suit coat, removing from his inside pocket a cheap, pre-paid burner phone.
“Yes?” the stranger snapped, impatience hiding puzzlement.
“This Engelmann?” The voice was coarse, uneducated- American, to his ear.
“Where did you get this number?”
“My organization has worked with you before,” he said.
“You’re with the Council?” Engelmann asked. They were the only Americans for whom he’d ever worked. The Council was a group of representatives from each of the major crime families operating in the United States-Italian, Russian, Cuban, Salvadoran, Ukrainian, you name it. Though their organizations were often rivals, Council members convened on occasion to handle issues on which their respective organizations’ interests aligned. American organized crime was often too parochial to tap someone such as Engelmann; each family had their own little fiefdom, their own way of doing things-their own hitmen should any hitting be required. Only rarely when they came together did they deign to hire outside themselves-and even then, Engelmann suspected, it was simply so they needn’t decide which family got the job, the risk, the blame should the hit fail, or the glory should it succeed.
But on the rare occasion they did hire out, they paid very, very well.
“That’s right,” said the American. “We’ve got a job for you.” He paused a moment then, noting for the first time Vian’s anguished wailing in the background. “I, uh, catch you at a bad time?”
“Not at all,” said Engelmann. “In fact, you’ve just rescued me from the most dreadful party.” Then he held the phone to his chest, covering the mouthpiece, and said to Vian, “I’m sorry-I have to take this.”
The silenced firearm jumped three times in Engelmann’s hand-each report no more than the popping of a champagne cork-and Vian’s cries ceased. Such a waste, thought Engelmann; given time, Vian would have told him anything he asked. But in reality, the loss was minor-Vian was hardly the worthiest of subjects for Engelmann’s more esoteric ministrations, and the bonus he’d been promised for any information obtained would doubtless pale before the sum the Council would likely offer.
“Now,” Engelmann said into the phone, “where were we?”
3
A single drop of rain smacked against the windshield of Evelyn Walker’s Jetta as she turned off the narrow country road and onto her rutted dirt drive. Seconds later, the sky opened, unleashing sheets of heavy rain. Evie sighed and turned her wipers on as fast as they would go, but still her visibility was reduced to nothing. She slowed to a crawl and felt her tires sinking in, the ruts they traveled now twin rivers of churning, muddy water. Rain pounded on the car’s roof as loud as hail.
It was sunny when I left Warrenton, she thought with a sigh. Still, she shouldn’t have been surprised. During summer in Virginia, the weather had a habit of turning on a dime.
The Jetta fishtailed as Evie rounded the bend that brought her rambling, buttercream farmhouse into view, her groceries jostling in the backseat. The trees that crowded the length of the driveway gave way to rolling lawn. Evie pulled in next to Stuart’s pickup and waited a moment, car idling, for the rain to abate before deciding it wasn’t likely to slow anytime soon. So she thumbed the ignition and the car shuddered off, heat and humidity encroaching immediately once the air conditioner stopped.
Getting out of the car was harder than it had been a few months ago, before she’d started to show. Took three tries and one decidedly un-ladylike groan. As soon as she stepped out, one wedge-heeled sandal sank into a mud puddle. Muck, cool and slimy between her toes, yanked the sandal from her foot as she took a step toward higher ground.
By the time she got the rear door open, her shirt clung heavily to her swollen belly, and her hair was plastered to her face. She hauled the groceries out of the backseat- standing cockeyed with one sandal on and one bare foot- and glanced toward the deck, where the French doors stood open. There was still no sign of Stuart. Strange. Ever since he’d seen that blue plus sign four months ago, Evie hadn’t so much as opened a pickle jar or carried a load of laundry- at least, when Stu was home to stop her. To be honest, his constant hovering drove her nuts, even though she knew that it was well intentioned. She was surprised he hadn’t rushed out to lend a hand the second she’d pulled in. She thought the sight of her carrying two overflowing bags of groceries would be enough to bring him running, hollering at her to put them down.
Figures, she thought. The one time I actually need some help.
“Honey?” she shouted toward the open doors, the light on within.
Stuart didn’t answer.
“Hon?” she called again, hobbling up the stairs to the deck-the bags sodden in her arms, her gait loping and awkward now that her left leg was down a couple inches from her right. She reached the open doors and peered inside through the screen. The house was ablaze with light- just like Stuart, she thought; you’d swear he thinks those switches only work in one direction-but Stuart was nowhere to be seen.
Evie eyed the screen-door latch and heaved a sigh of consternation. Then she contorted herself into an awkward crouch-turn-an upside-down comma-so that if she squeezed the bag with her forearm and twisted her wrist just so, she could maybe kinda sorta get a grip on it and… crap. The bag in her left hand tore, spilling groceries everywhere. A tomato rolled across the deck. Egg white oozed from the upturned egg carton.
Where the hell was Stuart, anyway?
Evie stuffed the groceries back into the torn bag and yanked open the screen door. She put the bags down atop the kitchen island and turned to close the door behind her-trailing muddy footprints across the tiles-only then realizing she could have simply set the bags down on the patio table and then opened the door with ease.
Damn pregnancy brain.
A click of nails on hardwood, and Abigail trotted into the kitchen with as much brio as a six-year-old bulldog can muster.