The Givenchy Code (26 page)

T
he doorknob rattled, and I bit my lip, afraid that if I didn’t, I’d open my mouth and scream.

I stood off to one side but relatively near the door. I figured he’d expect me to be as far away as possible. I also figured he was pissed as hell and just wanted me out of the picture. That said, I expected him to come in with his gun drawn, sight me, and take me down.

I hoped that, by being this close to the door, I’d buy myself a few precious seconds.

I’d see soon enough if I was right.

The doorknob rattled again, this time with more persistence.

My heart picked up tempo, the beat so loud I was certain the guests in surrounding rooms would hear it and dial 911.

Silence.

No shaking of the knob. No heavy breathing. No click of a gun chamber being pulled back.

I waited, my body tense, my breath coming in shaky bursts.

Nothing.

I tightened my grip on the towel bar.

Nothing.

I shifted my stance for better leverage.

Noth—
crash!

The door flew open, and Lynx stepped in, entering with his gun, his feet following. He turned, saw me, and I swung. At the same time that he fired, he put his foot down, landing in the slick surface of soap I’d spread on the floor. His feet shot out from under him, the gun discharging into the ceiling instead of my face.

I didn’t even have time to congratulate myself. My towel bar was already on the move again, and I caught him about shoulder height. He bellowed and the gun went flying, sliding along the greased-up floor to rest under the clawfoot tub, way back by the wall.

I didn’t try to get it. I just ran.

I followed the soapless path I’d left for myself, racing out into the room toward the safety of the door. Almost there. Almost there.

Almost—

His hands closed around my ankles, and I went flying to the floor. I twisted, kicking wildly as he tried to get a grip on my ankles or legs with his now slippery, soapy hands.

“Bitch! You fucking bitch!”

He was screaming wildly at me, one hand scrabbling for purchase somewhere on my body, the other popping open a hunting knife.

I landed one good kick and got him in the face. As he howled in pain, I managed to get to my feet, knocking a coffee table over in the process and sending a lamp to shatter against the floor.

I ran toward the door faster than I’d ever moved before.

He’d bolted every lock, and my fingers slipped over the cool metal. He was up now, coming after me.

I got the first lock open.

If he caught me with that knife…

My fingers fumbled, but I got the chain off. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, coming at me, knife drawn.

I pulled the door open, and there was Stryker.

“Down!”

I hit the ground. He fired. And Lynx went down.

Stryker stepped around me and stood over Lynx’s motionless form. He aimed his gun and fired one final shot into the bastard’s head.

This time, it really was over.

Stryker held a hand out and helped me up. I took it gratefully, then folded myself into the strong comfort of his arms.

“Good timing,” I said after an eternity had passed. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. I came back because I thought you deserved a sunset ride through the park in one of those horse-drawn carriages. I went in and…” He dangled the sheet of paper with the code. “It was on your desk.”

I tilted my head back and flashed him a weak smile. “You interpreted it?”

He laughed and kissed my forehead. “Codes are your territory, remember? I just thought it was fucking strange. And when I heard the crash…”

I put my arms around his neck and kissed him. I remember thinking, when this whole thing started, that I needed a knight in shining armor. Thanks to Stryker, I had one.

I
t rained the day of Todd’s funeral, which was appropriate, considering my mood. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, I took Stryker’s hand, and we headed back toward the car he’d rented to drive me to the funeral and then to the airport.

“You okay?”

I shrugged. “I’m glad to know Todd wasn’t involved. I just wish he were still alive.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

They’d found Todd’s body in the East River about a week ago. Apparently Thomas or Grimaldi or some other behind-the-scenes asshole had tossed his name into the game mix. Just a little red herring to keep things interesting.

I still felt a little numb from the now-certain news of his death. A little numb about everything, really.

“You sure you’re up to this?” Stryker added.

I knew what he meant. “Yeah, I’m sure. Besides, a week with my mom will make me forget all my troubles. I’ll have new troubles to deal with, or I’ll be focused on her troubles. But it definitely won’t be all about Melanie.” I managed a little smile. “Besides, I promised them an explanation.”

I knew more now, so I could tell a good story. I knew that the cops had found nothing in Lynx’s computer that would identify the person pulling the strings. Neither Stryker’s computer nor Jenn’s laptop had been any help either. All had been confiscated and were now somewhere with the FBI.

We paused by the passenger side of the car, Stryker trying to keep the umbrella over my head while he opened the door.

“You don’t have to drive me, you know.” I knew what a burden an airport drive was. I was solidly in relationship territory. I wasn’t, however, certain that Stryker was aware of that unspoken little rule. We’d seen each other almost every day since he’d shot Lynx, but were we in a relationship? I really wasn’t sure. And I didn’t have the heart to ask. I didn’t want to be disappointed. “I can catch a cab,” I added.

“I can drive you,” he said, ushering me inside. “And I have something for you.” He bent down and retrieved a packet of papers off the floorboards.

I took the packet and riffled through the pages, then looked up at him quizzically.

“Applications,” he said. “I put the NSA application on top.”

“I see that.”

“You’re good, Mel. Teach if you want, but don’t limit your options. Not yet.”

“Thanks,” I said. The gesture almost moved me to tears, and I didn’t tell him that I’d already downloaded a ton of applications. They were in my suitcase, and I’d already planned to get busy on them while I was hanging out with my parents in Houston.

“We’d better get going,” he said. But before he closed the door he added one last thing. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll meet you after your flight back next week and drive you home. We can grab dinner on the way. Spend the evening together. The next morning, too.”

“Sure thing,” I said. I tried to sound casual, but as he walked around the car to the driver’s side, I allowed myself fifteen seconds of thinking that this was a very, very good sign.

And as we sped through the rain and away from the cemetery, I couldn’t help but think that it was time to put the past in the past, because I had a fine man and a fine future waiting for me.

Good-bye, Gap. Hello, Givenchy.

I’ve never been fond of interviews—I’m always afraid I’ll stumble over my words or not say something witty or pithy enough to be remarkable. So when I found out that I had to interview myself about
The Givenchy Code,
I was, naturally, nervous. After all, who better than me knew that I had edited my school paper for over three years? That my college major started as journalism (before switching to film)? Clearly, I was a hard-hitting reporter. Would I be able to survive such an incisive, cutting interview, pitted as I would be against someone like myself?

You can imagine the state of my nerves when I sat down across the table from myself, praying that I’d be gentle in my interview technique. Here’s how it went:

ME: Have you always wanted to be a writer?

ME: That’s it? That’s your hard-hitting question?

ME: Hey, give me a break. I’m just getting warmed up.

ME: Yeah, right. Probably can’t think of anything more interesting.

ME: Are you going to answer the question, or what?

ME: The answer is yes. I’ve wanted to be a writer from the time I was tiny. I had a few detours wanting to be a veterinarian(allergic to dogs; ruled that out) and a Broadway musical theater diva (can’t sing), but from the get-go I wanted to tell stories. More, I wanted to tell them on paper. I wrote long “novels” at the age of three, banging out nonsense on my dad’s typewriter. Later, I started writing short stories, taking up an entire legal pad, front and back, with my handwritten scribbles that my mom would patiently type up for me. (I realize now just how patient my mom was, as the stories, while not horrible, weren’t exactly fabulous. My handwriting, however, was). I wrote poems, I started and abandoned novels, I wrote screenplays. I pretty much piddled around with writing my whole life, never doing much with it, and going in fits and starts, with long stretches too filled with other things (specifically, law school and the subsequent pressures of a big-firm job) to allow for any leisure time to accommodate writing.

ME: So if you had no time to write, how’d you end up getting published? Ha! How’s
that
for hard-hitting? Caught you, didn’t I?

ME: You are
so
not Woodward or Bernstein! The fact is, there just came a point when writing became more important to me than not writing. When I knew that I wanted to be an author more than I wanted any other job. I pretty much gave up all my leisure activities, and my non-work time was consumed with writing.

ME: And now?

ME: Now I’ve reclaimed some of my leisure time. As of the summer of 2004, I’m writing full time!

ME: What was the job you gave up?

ME: I was an attorney.

ME: Ah.

ME: “Ah”? What’s “ah” supposed to mean?

ME: Just that there seem to be a lot of attorneys out there writing books.

ME: What are you insinuating?

ME: (Innocently) Not a thing.

ME: (Glares suspiciously)

ME: OK, let’s move on. How about the idea of the book? How did it come about?

ME: I’ve always loved treasure hunts. The idea of following a clue to another clue, and then to another. The first birthday party that I remember, my mom sent all us kids on a hunt. It was fabulous (My mom now tells me that from her end it was hell, but I guess that means she loves me!). When I was in high school, I actually sent some friends on a treasure hunt. Yeah, I know, it sounds geeky and weird, but I
was
geeky and weird, so there you go. I’d write out clues and if my friends interpreted them, they would be led to the next clue, and on and on until they found the final prize. Amazingly, no one suspected that it was me pulling the strings of this hunt.

ME: The book, Julie. I was asking about the book.

ME: Right. At any rate, I’d had this vague idea that a “Follow the clues” book would be fun. But the stakes needed to be really high. I wasn’t pursuing the idea actively, just letting it simmer. And then one day, Melanie appeared in my head along with her story. A woman forced to solve codes in order to stay alive.

ME: The book is told in both first and third person. How did that come about?

ME: Actually, I tried to write the book entirely in Mel’s point of view, but I just couldn’t do it. Stryker wanted his fifteen minutes of fame, too. And so did Lynx. I originally wrote Stryker’s first scene more or less as it is, then tried to translate it into first person from Mel’s point of view. Didn’t work. And so I finally realized that this particular story needed to be told from a mix of first and third person.

ME: Why not write Stryker’s point of view in first person, too?

ME: I have absolutely no idea. All I can say is that it didn’t “feel” right.

ME: How did the codes come about? Did you make them all up?

ME: Yup. And some of them were just serendipitous. OK, spoiler here, so don’t read the rest of the answer if you haven’t read the book. I included the equation for the catenary curve without any clear idea of where it was going. So I had a reference to St. Michael and to St. Louis. I knew I wanted the characters to go to St. Patrick Cathedral’s because I
had
to include the reference to the 666 address. But I had no idea how to get them there. So I checked the Internet and Oh. My. Gosh, it turns out that there is a St. Michael and St. Louis altar in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I’d had no idea. It was like kismet.

ME: What about the 666 address? Why did you “have” to use it?

ME: OK, this is a really weird story. St. Pat’s is on Fifth Avenue, and the first time I was in New York City, I was a sophomore in high school on a drama club trip. At the time, I was writing pretty bad poetry in my spare time. So we’re walking around, and I see that from the cathedral’s front steps, you can see a building that has prominently displayed the address 666, which, if you’ve seen
The Omen
, you know has scary implications. After the trip, I went home and wrote a poem about that juxtaposition. (And no, I won’t include the poem here. Maybe, sometime, if I’m feeling like baring my teenage angst soul, I’ll post it on my website.)

Fast-forward a few (very few, ahem) years to the writing of this book. I’m including NYC stuff, so, of course, I put in a reference to the 666 across from the cathedral. Then, after the book is turned in, but before I’d done revisions, I visited New York. I went to Fifth Avenue to check that location and…gasp!…no 666. I freaked. My editor assured me she didn’t think I was nuts, even though she didn’t remember the 666. I, of course, thought that I must be insane. Fortunately, the Internet came through again. I did a search and found other references to the odd congruence of church and address marker. The address is gone now (don’t know why) but it
was
there, and if I can remember it, so can Melanie!

ME: Are we going to see more of Mel and Stryker?

ME: Absolutely. They show up again in
The Manolo Matrix,
though they aren’t the main characters. Right now,
Manolo
is scheduled for March 2006 (but be sure to check my website in case that changes: www.juliekenner.com) and I’m working on the book right now!

ME: Okay, that about wraps this up. I’m thinking Pulitzer for my hard-hitting analysis.

ME: I’m thinking not…