The Cyclops Conspiracy (29 page)

Christine lowered her face into hands. “This is not what I wanted to hear!”

“I know it’s not. But it’s the truth.”

Thoroughly confused, her emotions listed from side to side like a ship’s mast in a hurricane. Her hatred for Jason was being battered by the realization that he’d tried to do the right thing, the best thing, considering the circumstances. “Damn you!” was all she could say again.

Jason continued. “The whole matter was never made public. I guess it was part of whatever settlement was reached. The State Board of Pharmacy was never notified. If they’d found out, I would’ve lost my license to practice.” Christine felt Jason’s hand touch her elbow. The contact seared her skin. She hesitated, then moved it away again.

Jason didn’t let up. “I loved you very much. I’ll always wonder what would have been if we’d stayed together. I think about you a lot, even more now that I’ve been able to see you again.” His voice cracked on the word “think.”

Christine felt the room begin to spin. She summoned the courage to meet his eyes, which revealed the roiling emotions he was trying to keep at bay. The last time she’d seen him this tormented was the day on the bench down by the river, when he told they were through.

She sat paralyzed. Part of her wanted to revive her dead father and tell him off, to give him the type of tongue-lashing the Pettigrews were known for. Another part wanted to slap Jason. Still other parts, those being trampled on by her selfish, unfulfilled wants, were trying to understand what kind of choice Jason had been asked to make.

He said softly, “I’m sorry, Chrissie.”

A third time, his hand glided toward her. She pulled away again. As she did, she saw Jason’s eyes register something over her shoulder.

“Oh, no. Not again,” he said.

Christine turned and saw Sheila Boquist, eyes narrowed and fists clenched, storming toward their booth. Her rage was palpable.

Sheila arrived at the booth and—without uttering a word—pummeled Jason with her fists in a clumsy, spastic attack. She landed several futile blows. Unhappy with her mosquito-like punches, Sheila swung her purse in wide arcs, landing it about his head. She paused and screamed for the whole restaurant to hear, “You lying piece of shit! You invite me to dinner, just to humiliate me in front of this tramp!” Sheila jabbed at him four more times as Jason covered his head with his arms. “It’s not bad enough you dump me, you have to rub my face in it. You fuckin’ weasel! You want to see how it feels—”

“That’s enough!” Christine shrieked. “Stop it!”

Sheila paused at the sound of Christine’s voice. It was as if Sheila realized she was expending her energy bashing the wrong person. Sheila wound up, arcing her heavy cloth purse at Christine’s head.

“Shut up, you stupid bitch!” Sheila screamed.

Sheila stormed about her bedroom. She ripped her pump from her right foot and fired it against the far wall, screaming obscenities. She tromped back and forth lopsidedly, shedding clothes, imagining the wonderful, dreadful deeds she’d like to inflict on Jason. Ten minutes later, she was in the shower, letting the steaming water pummel her skin. She thought about the chilled Chardonnay sitting on her nightstand. Her heart had begun to slow, along with her heavy breaths. The wine would glide down her throat easily, calm her nerves. With the wine at her side, she’d phone Amy and tell her what the horse’s ass had done.

She stepped out of the shower, still muttering to herself. After toweling off, she walked naked into her bedroom. Then she halted, as if hitting an invisible wall. She instinctively covered her breasts.

Two hooded figures clad in black stood among the discarded clothes. One was tall and lean, with breasts protruding from under her dark sweater. The other was shorter, more masculine.

Her self-consciousness did not last long. “Who the hell—” Sheila stammered. She spun and raced back into the bathroom, trying
desperately to slam the door. The short one threw his body into it before it closed, knocking the door and Sheila backward. Wood splintered. Screws ripped from hinges. Sheila stumbled to the cold tile and scooted away, attempting to put precious inches between her and the intruder. He was too fast. Grabbing a fistful of her ruby hair, he wrenched her up by their roots.

His fist pounded her face, knocking her down again and into the wet shower stall. The plastic curtain popped from its hangers, cascading over her. Blinded by the curtain, she kicked wildly. Her foot connected with flesh, but the short man cast the blow aside with ease. He clamped two hands around an ankle, kicked the fallen door out of the way, and dragged her back into the bedroom. Sheila yelped in fear and pain as he nearly tore the hair from her head, yanking her to her feet.

“Restrain her,” the masked woman commanded her companion.

Behind Sheila now, the man wrapped an arm around her neck while pulling back on her hair, thrusting her chin into the air. The man leaned against the wall, wrapped his left leg around Sheila’s left knee, and repeated the procedure with the other side. He released her hair and slid both his arms around her, pinning her arms to her side. Her right arm was slung behind her back, exposing her right side. Sheila’s panicked gasps filled the room. The masked woman moved in, her left arm hiding something behind her.

Sheila struggled with every ounce of strength she possessed. Her spasms were puny and weak against the man’s restraint.

“It’s too bad such a beautiful body has to go to waste,” said the woman, bringing the knife into view. The glint of the short, steel blade flashed.

Sheila tensed, redoubling her efforts to break loose. Panic boiled into sheer terror. She whimpered, cried, and groaned all at once. The woman removed her hood. Sheila stared into two black eyes contemplating her naked body.

“The least I can do is let you look into the eyes of the person who’ll send you to hell.”

The woman sank the four-inch knife to its hilt, piercing the perfect skin. Sheila shuddered. Her green eyes widened, whites on all sides, as she realized death was at hand. Every muscle contracted. Sheila seized, clenching as her killer sliced toward the midline, stopping when the blade connected with the sternum. In her last, terrifying moments, Sheila saw the murderess’s eyes sparkle.

As the life ebbed from her, Sheila heard the woman whisper, “Simoon.”

Then everything went black.

* * *

Jasmine Kader released the knife, leaving it protruding from the wound as blood pulsed over the handle. The woman’s muscles relaxed, and Sam released her, letting her fall to the floor. The woman landed on her side, literally dead weight, and half rolled onto her chest. The knife, taken from Jason Rodgers’s kitchen and imbedded in her ribcage, stopped a complete roll onto the stomach. Blood oozed onto the carpet, creating a dark crimson puddle. Urine dribbled from the bladder.

Fairing stepped over the body. Kader produced Rodgers’s stolen gun from her waistband, a Smith and Wesson 645 semiautomatic. She removed it from the clear plastic bag and dropped it onto the carpet. The crumpled typewritten invitation followed. Kader strolled out of the bedroom to the top of the stairs, retrieving the small plastic bag she’d left there. From it, she removed the wine glass taken from the Southern Belle coated with Rodgers’s fingerprints. She placed it beside Boquist’s glass. Kader smiled at her good fortune. Allah had truly blessed them. The woman had decided to have a glass of wine. Perfect.

The brother and sister assassins departed through the back door, sneaking through backyards to Kader’s waiting Lexus. She removed a cell phone. It had been purchased this afternoon under an assumed name by Oliver.

“Nine-one-one operator. What’s your emergency?”

“There was yelling and screaming coming from next door. It was a woman. Then a man ran out of the house. He was driving a red Mustang. I think she’s been hurt.” Jasmine was aware that Jason had not been driving his Mustang in the last few days. By mentioning Jason’s vehicle, she would cement his fictitious presence at the woman’s house.

“What address are you calling from?”

“I’m calling from a cell phone. But I can give you the address.” Kader gave the dispatcher the house number and street.

“And what is your name, ma’am?”

Kader gave a phony name.

“I’ll send a unit out there right away. Can I have your phone number, please?”

Kader recited it, then added, “Please hurry. It sounds bad.”

The small, beach parking area sat across the street from the Windsor Towers. A tall hedgerow at the edge of the lot, combined with the landscaping and shrubbery of the towers, obscured the view. Pettigrew’s GPS locator beacon was active and still transmitting a signal from somewhere on Fairing’s Lexus, which was parked across the street in the Windsor Towers lot, and had been for some time. Apparently, Sam wasn’t aware of the beacon’s existence.

Jason had reconnoitered the parking lot, spied Fairing’s vehicle, and returned to the SUV. Peter in the backseat, Waterhouse behind the wheel, and Jason in the passenger seat were perched in a Dodge Durango waiting for the Lexus to move. Waterhouse had decided it would be best henceforth not to use their own vehicles, in order to avoid Jason’s tail and any tracking devices they might have used. Waterhouse had borrowed the SUV from an associate he contracted with occasionally. Neither the parking lot nor the lower fourth of the Windsor Towers were visible from their vantage point. The only other
car in the beach parking area was a sedan parked four rows away, and as far as Jason could see, it was empty.

When Sheila had begun hitting Christine with her purse in the restaurant, Jason had stood up, wrapped his arms around her, and literally carried her out of the restaurant. Jason returned, paid their bill, and sneaked out a back door with Christine, while the manager of the restaurant argued with an apoplectic Sheila out front.

Christine distanced herself from Jason and sped off angrily as he climbed into his new car, the Saturn SL1. He caught a glimpse of her face before she turned away. Tears glistened on her cheek.

Numbness overwhelmed him as he drove straight to Waterhouse’s to meet up with the private eye and Peter. Jason pushed aside his emotions, and explained his hunch to Peter and Waterhouse.

“Are you sure about this?” Peter asked, expelling a lungful of smoke out the window.

“I wouldn’t bet the house on it. But pretty sure,” Jason answered. “I told you, Winstead dropped off the prescription on the fourteenth. The next night Pettigrew died. Thomas followed Fairing to the Lions Bridge. Fairing stopped for ten minutes, then went home. Pettigrew saw something he wasn’t supposed to, and that’s why he was killed.”

“And you think the same thing is going to happen tonight?” Peter persisted.

Jason explained again, “The prescription dropped off at the Colonial is a signal for a meeting or a pickup. If my guess is correct, Fairing will be leaving shortly to go to the Lions Bridge.”

As if on cue, the device in his hands beeped. The beacon began to move. “Fairing’s car is leaving the parking lot,” Jason bragged.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Waterhouse said as he turned the ignition.

“He’s at the intersection, just up ahead,” said Jason.

“We’ll let him make the turn and then we’ll catch up. We can’t lose him with that thing,” the private investigator advised.

Two minutes later, Fairing turned right onto Mercury Boulevard from Riverdale Road. “If he takes the most direct route,” Jason said, “he’ll go north on Warwick.”

Waterhouse drove to the intersection. When the light turned green, Jason announced Fairing had taken the off ramp to Warwick Boulevard. “He’s waiting at the light there. Make sure you stay out of sight. We don’t want to get too close.”

Fairing’s Lexus followed the exact route to the bridge Jason had predicted. Waterhouse, a half mile behind, stayed out of sight. Three minutes after Fairing parked on the north end of the bridge, the Durango rolled over the span.

“Keep going,” Jason instructed. All three craned their necks. The Lexus was there, but unoccupied. Waterhouse turned left onto Museum Parkway, out of sight.

Just past the bend, they parked and exited, jogging back to the corner. They kneeled near a tall, wide pine tree, watching and waiting. Minutes later, Fairing descended the knoll, walking down the slope past the statue of the man and the rearing steed.

“He’s carrying something,” Peter whispered, pointing.

Fairing carried a flat, dark package under his arm. He looked around, climbed in the Lexus, and backed out. “Let’s go see what he did,” Peter commanded.

“No, wait,” Jason ordered, stopping Peter and the investigator. “If I’m right, there will be another car shortly. Someone’s going to retrieve the prescription bag. Let’s give it thirty minutes.”

Fifteen minutes after Fairing had backed out of the parking spot, a pair of headlights rounded the bend on the far side of the bridge.

“That’s not Fairing coming back, is it?” Peter asked.

“No, it’s someone else,” Jason answered, examining the GPS monitor.

The vehicle was a dark blue or black sedan. It was hard to be sure in the dim moonlight. The driver exited the car and jogged up the incline to the entrance of the Noland Trail. He returned two minutes later carrying the slender, waxy-white prescription bag.

“We need to find out what’s going on in there,” Jason whispered. “And what’s in that package.”

Fairing had driven directly from the Lions Bridge to Zanns’s mansion. The three men were watching the mansion from a quarter mile away.

Waterhouse walked to the rear of the borrowed SUV and opened the hatch. He climbed back in holding a large black bag filled with electronic gear. He withdrew a small, satellite-dish-like contraption and a camcorder. “We can use these,” he announced.

“What is it?” Jason asked, taking the gadget.

“Parabolic microphone with a high-intensity laser. It works off of the vibrations in the window. We can record what we see with this small camcorder. Hopefully, they’ll discuss what’s in the package, and we can nail ’em.”