The Cyclops Conspiracy (2 page)

Christine caught his eye, excused herself from the women, and walked toward him. As she approached, Jason’s stomach flipped as if he were on the first death-defying plunge of a roller coaster.
God, she’s still gorgeous
, he thought.

Her lips formed a thin line. “Jason,” she said. “I’m glad you could come.” Her eyes were rimmed in red as she forced a smile and took his hands in hers.

Her voice sparked something in his chest. “I’m so sorry about your father, Chrissie. He was a great man, and a giant in pharmacy,” he said softly. “He gave me my start.”

“I remember, Jason. I was there,” she replied, releasing his hands. “Come into the kitchen.”

They faced each other from across a small island.

“How are you?” she asked stiffly. “Are you still over at Keller’s?” Her eyes alternated uncomfortably between the counter and Jason.

“Actually,” he replied. “I’m sort of between jobs right now.” He didn’t mention that, only three days ago, he’d resigned from his position as pharmacy manager at Keller’s Food and Drug. The poor and potentially dangerous working conditions, which he’d tried so hard to redress, had finally defeated him.

“Really? Daddy told me a year or so ago that you seemed to love it over there.”

“How would he know? I hadn’t spoken to him in years.”

“He had a lot of connections in pharmacy. He kept tabs on you, I’m sure. So, why the change?”

“Well,” he said, ignoring the question, “I’m not completely out the door yet. They’re trying to lure me back.”

“Interesting.” The word had an ominous tone. Unasked questions and issues floated beneath the surface like submerged icebergs.

“The question is, how are you?” asked Jason. “I know how hard all this is.” He meant to sound solicitous. But after all this time and his lengthy absence, it sounded lame to his own ears.

“Thanks. It’s easier than it looks.”

“What do you mean?”

Christine waved the question away. The old woman returned with a glass of iced tea for Jason. “Would you like some swedish meatballs or finger sandwiches?” she asked Jason.

“No, thank you.” Jason set the glass on the counter and ignored it.

The woman looked at them. “Christine, if you need anything I’ll be in the living room.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Liggieri.”

“She seems like a big help,” he said, when they were alone again. He thought about the woman’s earlier comments and cringed.

“You have no idea. The night Daddy died—” She choked. “I came to the house looking for him. When I couldn’t find him, I called the police. Mrs. Liggieri came over to make sure everything was all right. Later, after we found out he was—dead—she helped me with
everything. I think she enjoys it. She knows how to bury someone properly.” Moisture glistened in her eyes.

Jason smiled and said, “Old people always do.”

Christine chuckled, blinking back tears. He wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her. But he was too far away, physically and emotionally, so he stood frozen in place.

Mrs. Liggieri reappeared. “Christine, honey,” she said, “Ms. Zanns and her doctor friend have stopped by.”

On the heels of the old woman strutted a small, elegant woman dressed in a navy business suit. She wore no expensive jewelry or rings, yet wealth and authority oozed from her. Her prim ensemble contrasted oddly with an ancient-looking amulet hanging from her neck. Wisps of gray dotted her temples, but her smooth skin gleamed like tan porcelain. The woman appeared irritated at the slow gait of Chrissie’s neighbor, as if she were late for a meeting and did not have time to be held up.

Close behind the new woman followed a tall, lithe, and much younger woman. They were introduced to Jason as Lily Zanns and Dr. Jasmine Kader.

“Please,” Zanns instructed Jason when he used their last names. “It’s Lily and Jasmine.” Zanns turned to Christine. “I apologize, Christine, but Sam couldn’t be here. With your father’s passing, we have a hole in our staffing. He’s covering the pharmacy until we can find a suitable replacement. Of course, I don’t think anyone could replace your father.” Her thick Mediterranean-French accent was roughened by a guttural throatiness.

Christine forced another tight smile. “Thank you, Lily.” Mrs. Liggieri motioned to her once again. “I’d better go see what my neighbor needs. Excuse me.”

Kader, Zanns, and Jason smiled stiffly, enduring a pregnant awkwardness.

Jason broke the silence. “So you own the Colonial now?” It was more statement than question. Thomas Pettigrew had sold the Colonial
Pharmacy to this woman three or four years earlier. Pharmacists Jason had spoken to over the years had given her stewardship mixed reviews.

“Yes,” replied Zanns. “For three and a half years now.”

“And Thomas stayed on to work for you?”

“Yes, he said he wasn’t quite ready to retire.” She paused, then added, “His death was so…tragic.”

Jason nodded solemnly. Jasmine Kader caught his eye. They shared an awkward smile.

“And how is it that you knew Thomas?” Zanns inquired.

“I was a pharmacy student of his.”

“Of course. The pharmacy profession, like most, is a small community, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. In fact, I work at Keller’s, and I’ve filled many of the prescriptions your colleague Jasmine here has written.”

Zanns’s dark-brown eyes suddenly seemed to become alert with possibility. “I see,” she said slowly. Then she quickly excused herself and moved off to speak with someone who was waving at her. Jasmine wandered in the direction of the food, leaving Jason alone.

The urge to bolt was formidable; he felt as if his sins against Chrissie were being broadcast on a moving teletype across his chest, like sports scores, for all these strangers to see. And naturally, Chrissie was distant, distracted and in mourning.
She just buried her father
, Jason thought.
Had you truly expected…?

He ambled through the house, trying to shake off his uneasiness. The mere act of walking eased his anxiety slightly. The dining room table was covered with potluck platters, which were largely being ignored. He scanned faces, hoping for a friendly port in which to drop a conversational anchor. But he was miles from shore, and the seas were choppy. He circled twice.

On his final lap, he noticed a tall man who looked as out of place as he did, standing alone in a corner. With a gray, fuzzy ponytail, a fraying tweed jacket, and cratered skin, the man looked like a cross between a beardless Abe Lincoln and Willie Nelson. His eyes darted
about, studying everyone, and locked on Jason’s. They each nodded, kindred souls stuck in the abyss of social awkwardness.

Jason was about to drift over and strike up a conversation with the fellow misfit, when he spotted Christine, moving through the kitchen into the dining room. She was alone, trying to find some privacy. Tears lined her cheeks. She was overcome with emotion. Jason entered from the living room. Though it was not his to give, he wanted to offer understanding, support. A small voice inside him cautioned him to leave her alone, but he ignored it, intercepting her near the oak buffet.

Christine spotted him, wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, and avoided his eyes. She let out an exasperated sigh, communicating with a wave of her hand what words could not. Jason reached for a paper napkin from a stack on the table and handed it to Chrissie. “Come with me,” he said. He grasped her hand, and an electric jolt coursed through his body. He led her out the back door onto the porch, and sat on the top step. He patted the spot beside him. “Sit.”

Chrissie complied. They stared out at the backyard in silence for a long moment as Jason tried to organize his thoughts. “I remember how hard it was burying my father five years ago,” he began. “He had a massive heart attack. Died where he was standing and was gone before he hit the floor. I know how you feel, Chrissie.”

Chrissie studied the steps and did not speak. Jason saw her lower lip quivering. “Jason, why did you come by today?”

“You invited me when I saw you at the funeral. Remember?”

“I know that. I didn’t think you’d actually accept.”

“I guess I owed it to your father…and you,” Jason replied. He turned to look at her. “Why did you invite me?”

Christine sighed. “Seeing you at the funeral brought me back to happier times. At least, they were happier until you…” Her voice trailed off.

Jason scanned the backyard. The lawn was dying, yellow, and overgrown, sprouting weeds. He wanted to crawl into it and die himself.

“Maybe someday I could explain it all to you. But I know now’s not a good time.” He removed a Keller’s business card from his suit and scribbled his cell number. “When you’re ready, let me know.”

Christine accepted the card and turned it in her hands. “We’ll see,” she whispered.

Jason cleared his throat and changed the topic. “I hadn’t spoken to Thomas in years, but I think about him every so often. Was he in good spirits before the accident?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she replied. “Daddy and I weren’t close in the last few years.”

“Really? Why not?” Jason remembered how Chrissie had adored her father and hung on every word he uttered.

“Daddy changed. It got worse with each month that passed.”

“I know it’s none of my business, Chrissie, but I have a hard time believing what I read in the papers. The article said he was drunk and ran off the road. Is that what you’re talking about? Because that’s not the man I knew.”

“Tell me about it. I grew up with him. I got all the Southern Baptist lectures.” Christine squeezed her nose with the napkin. “I’m not talking about drinking. There were other things about Daddy that were strange.” She placed her hand on Jason’s arm. Her touch was magnetic through the sleeve of his suit. “I’m talking about his obsession.”

“What obsession? What are you talking about? Your father wasn’t the obsessive type.”

“Daddy changed. It’s complicated—and somewhat embarrassing. I can’t get into it here, I have to get back to my guests,” she said.

“I understand.” Jason studied her swollen eyes. “Chrissie, if there’s anything I can do…”

Christine held up the card he’d just given her. “Maybe we’ll have that conversation and we can talk about…the past. And I could tell you about Daddy’s transformation, as disconcerting as it was. But it would be much easier if I showed you.”

As Lily Zanns smoothed her bulky sweater in the mirror, she heard Oliver, her powerful jack-of-all-trades, moving about above her in the yacht’s command center. She knew that he was watching the weather radar and the electronic jamming equipment like a nervous mother.
Vengeance
shuddered as the keel scraped the bottom of the hidden cove. They were well beyond the Coleman Bridge, miles into the York River.

Her stomach tensed. After she’d made the appropriate, polite appearance at Thomas Pettigrew’s house after the funeral, she’d raced back to the mansion with Jasmine Kader. They’d changed clothes and hopped on the waiting yacht. This was their seventh cruise up the river to discuss the details of their plan. If all went well, there would be only one more before the fateful day.

The intercom crackled with Oliver’s rich voice. “We are in position, Ms. Lily.”

Sam Fairing and Jasmine Kader waited, sitting on the cushioned seats lining the main salon inside Zanns’s sixty-eight-foot motor yacht.
The sun had descended behind the treetops, and the moonlit water sparkled through the large windows.

Zanns scuffed her leather deck shoes into the thick carpet and regarded herself in the mirror a moment longer. Rather than evaluating her appearance, though, her thoughts wandered to the secret faction led by the mysterious man with only one name. Hammon. The word was of Greek derivation and meant “hidden one.” It was an apt description. The only portal through which Zanns could contact Hammon was the weasel, Steven Cooper. Cooper was Hammon’s eyes, ears, and mouthpiece. Through him, Hammon had expressed his deep concern over Pettigrew’s discovery of the drop site and the archaic delivery method they were employing. Of course, Pettigrew hadn’t known what he’d stumbled upon, thinking it merely a prescription scam. Their plans were put on hold while steps were taken to bury the nosy bastard. Several tense days of dialogue with Hammon through his intermediary had ensued. She’d finally managed to convince both of them that all was in order.

They had come too far and sacrificed too much to turn back now. Her lover, the man for whom she was carrying out this mission, had been executed nearly three years ago. Their plan had been hatched before he was gone. The time of reckoning was nearly at hand. Three long years of work and worry would be rewarded in a mere nineteen days.

On the table in the center of the room rested a map and a package. Moving from the mirror, Zanns checked the coordinates she’d given Oliver an hour earlier. It was time to take the next step. She faced her two illegitimate children, studying them with analytical aloofness.

Jasmine Kader broke the trance and walked to the table beside Zanns. She was taller and younger than her brother, floating with the graceful, long-legged stride of a prima ballerina. Long black hair hung down to her perfectly formed breasts, framing a face that rarely smiled, and black eyes that devoured weakness.

Sam Fairing, on the other hand, was shorter and seemed to be constructed of rigid, inflexible fibers. Every part of him was exact,
never out of place. Zanns studied his eyes as he took a spot beside his sister. Both of them possessed the black, soulless eyes of their dead father. She had grand plans for her son. Their mission would vault him onto the world stage and catapult him into the vacuum created by his father’s death.

Zanns’s gaze was not that of a loving, nurturing mother. She did not recall with fondness bygone days of birthday parties, graduations, and recitals. No, Zanns analyzed and evaluated her children as perfect killing machines. They were weapons that would deliver fatal blows and bring—as the yacht’s name so succinctly described—vengeance for all the world to witness.

“This is the second-to-last delivery,” she said, running her hand over the torn plastic of the package. “The information has been confirmed and is finalized. The words and diagrams on these pages will allow us to seal the fate of the two cowardly infidels and leave our mark on history.”