Jericho's Fall, page 26
A chuckle. “I remember. He’s leaving us. Before the roof caves in. Very wise.” Cough. “Seems to me I told you to do the same.”
She smiled and kissed his clammy forehead. “I’m leaving, too. With you. We’re going to Vail.”
“Fat chance.” The golden eyes moved. “Dak was my protection. Without Dak, anything can happen.”
His fantasy had reversed. “I thought you said Dak was trying to kill you.”
“I never said that.” He shrugged, and coughed again. “Look. You should leave me here. You should go to Vail.”
“I am going. I’m just not planning to leave you behind.”
“Silly girl.” He said it sweetly.
She heard Pamela calling from downstairs. She helped him to his feet. “Jericho?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Who’s Max?”
“Who?”
“I overheard Dak on his cell phone. Somebody called him to say Max was coming. He seemed upset.”
He reached up and pulled the mask away. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” She saw his face. “What is it, Jericho? Who’s Max?”
“If Max is coming, you’d better get moving.”
But this time she would not allow herself to be played. She took him by the shoulders. “Tell me.”
The eyes lost their humor. Maybe it was never there to begin with. His voice, when he spoke, was as dry as a weather report. “Max is retired. Used to be a killer. A contract killer.” A sad grin. “Pretty good at it, too, so they tell me.”
A chill passed through the room. “Are you saying—”
“Quit.” He shook his head. “They all quit sooner or later. Except the ones who go nuts. Nobody can do that kind of work for too long without—” Another fit of coughing doubled him over. She hugged him and patted his back. He breathed the oxygen for a while, then pulled the mask off again. “Max worked for Dak. I bet he didn’t tell you that part, did he? Dak knows Max. If Max is coming, it’s probably at Dak’s invitation.”
Her head was whirling. “No. He was surprised. I heard it in his voice.”
“You heard what he wanted you to hear, Beck. Dak is no fool. He knew you’d run and tell me that Max is coming. The idea was to scare me. And you know what? It worked. I’m scared.”
Beck balled her fists. “Then let’s tell them. We can tell them what they want to know. Where you hid…whatever you hid.”
Jericho shook his head. “That would be wrong. Some terrible people did some terrible things. They shouldn’t get away with it.” He coughed. “Of course, if they’ve brought in Max, I would assume they disagree.”
“But how—how will we recognize—”
“Nobody ever recognizes Max. The trouble comes if Max recognizes you.”
“You were Director of Central Intelligence. You must know what Max looks like!”
His answer was curiously bureaucratic. “Now, that would hardly be fitting, would it? A man in my position could never have actual knowledge of matters at that level. The principle is deniability” The golden eyes grew kindly. “But I wouldn’t worry, my dear. Max and Saint Audrey were pretty close in the old days, so I’m told, and I’m quite sure—”
The explosion drowned the rest.
Beck raced to the window.
Out in the forecourt, the van was in flames.
And on her hip, the cell phone was vibrating.
CHAPTER 31
The Crisis
(i)
Every crisis is the same, although later we pretend that every crisis is different. A crisis begins unexpectedly threatens that which we value, and intensifies faster than the rational faculty can follow. A crisis is like a clever computer virus: when we believe we have guarded against its worst capabilities, it strikes off in an entirely different direction, forcing a mobilization of all we possess, in defense of all we love.
Sometimes the crisis wins.
Beck could not help herself. She left Jericho in the master suite and raced outside, Pamela at her heels, neither one capable, for the moment, of worrying about personal safety. They tried to get to the van, but the heat was too intense. Pamela kept lurching forward, screaming her sister’s name, her face a mask of sweat and tears. Rebecca had to hold her back. The nun’s body was there, in the flames, the broad shoulders perfectly recognizable, wrecking Beck’s last hope— that, through some miracle, Audrey’s bodyguard had kept her away from the wheel.
“We have to go back inside,” said Beck, mouth close to Pamela’s ear.
“No. No. No.”
“Come on.” Wrapping the slimmer woman in her arms. “Come on. We can’t stay out here.”
“We have to help her—”
“We can’t,” said Beck. “She’s dead.” But Pamela refused to be moved. Rebecca looked at the trees, wondering who was out there watching. Max is a killer. The cell phone, unanswered upstairs, began vibrating once more on her hip. She glanced at the other cars and the pickup but rejected them at once: if the van had a bomb wired to it, surely the mysterious Max would not have forgotten the others. “We have to get back inside,” she hissed.
“No.”
“We have to help your father.”
“He’s a monster. He can help himself.” But the flaming car was drawing the energy out of her. Pamela slumped to her knees. Beck knelt beside her. “I told you,” Pamela said. “I told you to go. But no. You had to send Audrey. You bitch.”
Rebecca blinked. This was the last thing she had expected. She tugged on the other woman’s arm. “We have to get in the house,” she said. “We don’t know who’s out there.”
At last, glumly, Pamela allowed herself to be led, face twisted toward the wreckage, the bright leaping flames reflected in her tears.
(ii)
They were in the security room. The mesh was closed. The external sensors were on. The monitors continued to show them trees swaying in the night wind and empty lawn, and, in the forecourt, one van, burning brightly in the night.
“They’ll see it from town,” said Pamela, wiping her eyes.
Beck looked at the screen. She remembered the view from Main Street. At thirty miles, Jericho’s property was not even a blip on the mountainside. “No,” she said. “We’re on our own.”
“Somebody will come,” said Pamela, doggedly.
“Maybe. But we have to assume—”
“They will.”
Beck took her wrists, pulled the hands away from the pale face. “We need a plan, Pamela. We need to protect ourselves.” A pause. “And your father.”
“They’ll come.”
“Pamela, listen to me. Listen. There’s a gun in my room. I’ll get it, and you should get the one from yours—”
“There isn’t one. Audrey got rid of them.”
“You had it Tuesday night.”
“Audrey took it.” Tears streaming. “Oh, God. Oh, God. It’s real. Oh, God.”
Beck lifted her face, sought out the golden eyes, which now looked lost. “Yes, Pamela. It’s real. Now, unless you want to really die, do what I tell you.” She hesitated, and felt her own tears threaten. For Audrey. For Nina. Anger rescued her. She wondered if Jack Notting had known that this Max was coming, and wanted Beck to stay the night for that reason; or whether yet another player was showing its hand. “Help me out here, okay?”
“Okay.” Listlessly.
“Good. Now, I’m going to get the gun and check on your father. You stay here. Watch those monitors. If anything twitches, give a holler.”
She hurried from the room, knowing that, whatever she said, only one of the screens would garner Pamela’s attention.
(iii)
Pamela was sitting with Jericho. Rebecca was downstairs, watching as the cameras scanned the lawn, occasionally patrolling the windows. The fire in the van had burned down. They had no idea what to do next. They were in one of the wealthiest states in the most technologically advanced nation in history, and they had no way to get in touch with the world beyond this patch of mountain to call for help. They had repeatedly pressed the alarm buttons, but they doubted that anyone had heard. They had considered and rejected one idea after another. The satellite phone in the safe made the most sense, but Jericho still could not remember the combination. Beck tried various permutations of her own birthday and, for good measure, Jericho’s and Pamela’s and Audrey’s. Nothing worked. At one point, Jericho grabbed her by the arm and drew her face close. “You should have run when I told you,” he whispered, breath hot and sickly. “Silly girl. Well, now you know. Loyalty can be expensive.”
After that, she left him to Pamela.
“At least let me have the gun,” Pamela had begged. But Rebecca was not about to share the Glock, least of all with a woman who, earlier tonight, might have been delighted to shoot her in the back.
The peculiar part was that she saw no movement. Whether checking the monitors or peering through the windows, she saw nothing but the occasional low, skittering shadow of a forest animal. But somebody was out there. All Jericho’s calculations were wrong. Somebody was out there, willing to kill the people Jericho thought he was protecting.
Wait.
She had an idea.
That business with the cell phone. Maybe it could work both ways. She picked up the phone. No bars, of course. But if a device existed to send messages, maybe it would also monitor her transmissions, bars or none. She pressed green and heard the vast emptiness of the ether.
“Anybody there?” she said. “Can you hear me?”
Evidently not.
“If you’re listening, we’re in trouble. We need help.”
No reply, not even the hum of dead air.
Try something else.
“Pamela!”
A moment’s wait, then a pale face over the banister.
“Let’s switch. I have an idea.”
“What kind of idea?”
“I have to talk to Jericho. You have to watch the monitors.”
“Does that mean I get the gun?”
“Just go.”
(iv)
Jericho sat, exhausted, in the armchair. His breathing seemed labored, though Beck was no expert. He was no longer coughing, but he was wearing the oxygen mask.
Beck crouched in front of him. The golden eyes flicked across her face. “Good evening, my dear,” he said from behind the plastic.
“How are you holding up?”
He lifted a hand, said nothing.
“Jericho, listen a minute, okay? Do you understand what’s happening?”
“Of course, my dear. No need to shout.”
But she had been whispering, and now pitched her voice lower still. “We need to get out of here.”
He managed a sad smile. The eyes were still moist, and his hands trembled. “I believe I made that point the night you arrived.”
“I have an idea.”
“I’m listening, my dear.”
“This killer—this Max—well, he isn’t here to kill us for the fun of it. He’s a killer for hire. You said so. And whoever hired him wants something, right? And if we give them what they want, maybe they’ll call him off.”
Jericho frowned. “We don’t bargain with terrorists. First rule of civilized government.”
“They’re not terrorists, Jericho. They’re your partners. The people you’re blackmailing. All they want is for you to stop.”
He coughed again, eyes half shut. “Too late for that, my dear.”
“No, it isn’t. I don’t believe that. Now, listen to me. Listen. You had your fun. You wanted the world to notice you again. Well, they’re noticing. They’re noticing so hard they hired an assassin.” The Former Everything showed no response. “You have to tell me, Jericho. It’s life or death now. You have to give me whatever you can that I can use to trade—”
“I told you already. It’s too late for that. Max doesn’t do deals. Max won’t bargain. Max won’t be reasoned with. Max does the job. Period.” He smiled. “We used to have a saying around the Agency. About who makes the best assassin. We said you need somebody crazy enough to pull the trigger, but sane enough not to miss. That’s Max, my dear. A wounded soul with a steady hand.”
(v)
The two women sat together on the stairs, drinking lukewarm coffee to stay awake. Upstairs, Jericho slumbered.
“We should nap,” said Pamela, yawning. “We could take turns.”
“You go ahead.”
“You’re afraid I might try to pull something, aren’t you? You’re more afraid of me than you are of whoever’s out there.”
Beck rubbed weary eyes. “Believe me, Pamela, I’m a lot more afraid of Max than I am of you.”
Jericho’s daughter shook her head. “I’ve made movies about hired killers,” said Pamela. “I never thought I’d be running from one.”
“So far, we’re not running. We’re sitting.”
A long silence, both perhaps thinking the same thing. It was Pamela who first put it into words. “We’re not going to get out of this, are we?”
“Come on.” Patting her leg. “Stop talking that way.”
“Audrey was supposed to be Max’s friend, right? Isn’t that what my dad told you? Well, if Max was willing to kill his friend Audrey, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill the two of us.”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m not giving up. I’m going to see my daughter again.” She found a laugh somewhere. “I can’t leave her for my mother to raise.”
Another silence. It occurred to Beck that they were not watching the monitors. Still, the sensors should tell them if anybody approached the house. Sooner or later, somebody would.
All at once, she grabbed Pamela’s shoulder. “Look. When we get out of this, please, make peace with your daughter. You have no idea how important that is.”
“Peace? I love Madeira!”
“Then stop bribing her and start raising her.”
Pamela’s color rose. She raised a hand, and Beck saw her own father’s twisted face before he struck. Then Pamela relaxed, and almost smiled. “I will. I’ll make peace with her.” She tilted her head toward the window. “If we get out of this.”
“When we get out of this.”
“When,” Pamela agreed. She laughed.
Beck was about to answer when the lights went out.
CHAPTER 32
The Prison
(i)
“The backup generator will come on in a minute,” said Pamela, with none of her usual confidence. They were in the kitchen, where an array of flashlights hung on the back of the closet door. Beck selected two apiece. The heavier of the pair, she said, could be swung as a club, the way the police do. Pamela laughed screechily but took the proffered weapon.
“We have to get out of here,” said Beck.
Pamela looked around. The mesh still guarded all the windows big enough for anyone to crawl through, including skylights. “We should wait.”
“Wait?”
“Whoever’s out there, they can’t get in. It’ll be light in a couple of hours.” Nodding jerkily as her own plan became clearer to her. “Daylight means visitors. A delivery truck, somebody from town, even another crazy journalist. You’ll see.”
Beck stared at her. When you have spent your life living according to whim and looking down kindly on those who cannot, it must be no easy matter to accept that you might be, even for an instant, at the whim of another. “Have you noticed that it’s still dark?”
“Because it’s just four-thirty in the morning—”
“I meant, the house. The generator didn’t come on.”
Pamela was hugging herself. “It will in a minute.”
“No. It won’t. No power, no generator. No security cameras, no sensors, no alarm. Whoever did this went to a lot of trouble. They didn’t cut everything off to wait until morning. No, Pamela. They’re coming in.”
“You’re wrong, Rebecca.” A flash of the old airiness. “The alarms and cameras have batteries—”
“Are you sure?” Beck had not heard this before. She had not bothered to visit the security room, assuming that nothing was on. Now she brushed past the other woman, and, sure enough, the monitors were still working. The alarm lights continued to glow. The gates in the basement probably worked, too, but they were designed less for protection than to trap an intruder. “How long do the batteries last?”
“Dad always said forty-eight hours. We can hold out a long time.”
“Pamela—”
“We should stay here. Shut ourselves up in the bedroom with my father, and just wait.”
Beck took her by the shoulders. Pamela was taller but, at the moment, too busy trembling to break free. “Listen to me. Just listen. We have power for the cameras. That means we might be able to plot a way out. But that’s all it means. They’re still coming in, Pamela. They blew up your sister. Do you think that’s why they’re here? You think they came to kill Audrey and then leave?”
“She could have been the target.” In the glow of the monitors, Pamela’s eyes had taken on her own father’s mad energy. “She used to be in the CIA. Maybe they came to get her. Maybe now they’ll be satisfied.”
“Then why did they cut the power?”
“I don’t know!”
“Well, I do. They cut the power because they’re coming in, and they’re coming in because your father has something they want.” Pamela only stared. “You told me before that you don’t know what Jericho’s hiding. Was that true, or was that just an act?”
The fire went out of Pamela’s gaze. She looked down and shuffled her feet. “No. It was true. I don’t know what he’s up to. I never know.” She wiped at her eyes. “If there was anyone he’d tell, it would be Audrey. She was always…around.”
“Audrey?”
“She was the one he loved best.”
“I think I understand,” said Beck, with quiet wonder. A helper in town. Always around. Audrey, helping him with the fake autobiography that turned out to be a fake will, the set of materials the lawyers had carried down to Denver for safekeeping.
“Audrey,” she repeated, shaking her head. Audrey, the repentant sinner, the reformed interrogator, helping her father to blackmail whoever had hired her old friend Max to put the toothpaste back in the tube. Beck still doubted that Audrey was the one harassing her with mysterious telephone calls—the nun’s repentance seemed genuine— but, the rest—
