The Prophet (Ryan Archer #2) (14 page)

“Thanks, Dewey,” Webb said.

“Does Rosemary know where you’re at?” Archer asked.

“We aren’t on speaking terms today,” Webb said.
 

“Glad it’s not just me.”

“It’s probably safer to avoid her until tomorrow morning. How’s your head? You look like shit.”

“Everything is still attached, but I’m seeing double.”

“Nice. You certainly made a fine mess.”

“I didn’t start it. The guy in the FedEx uniform was in your building waiting for me to come out. Then they came after me in the parking lot. You’re lucky the action didn’t take place outside your window. Rosemary might have gotten shot. Or maybe your Prius would have been scratched.”

“You just gave me cold chills.” Webb lifted the beer and tilted it to his mouth. He wiped a spot of foam from his nose.

“So we have a second Mercedes and two new cell phone numbers registered to HMI.”

Webb nodded. “Right.”

“Have you talked to your friends at the FBI about the two stiffs I dropped in the street?”

“They weren’t carrying ID, so we don’t have names yet.”

“Sweet.”

“Isn’t it?”

Archer touched the paper towel to the back of his head. The brown paper was starting to disintegrate. Dewey handed him a damp cotton rag from under the bar.

“Try this,” Dewey said.
 

Archer made a skeptical face.

“It’s clean,” Dewey promised.
 

Archer pressed the rag to the back of his head and the fresh coolness felt soothing. Webb leaned around to inspect the damage. He lifted his glasses and squinted. Then whistled.

“You might need stitches, Arch,” he said.

Archer was staring at the tap where Dewey was topping off a cold one for an attractive redhead at the end of the bar. He could taste the suds, feel the alcohol entering his system. But the buzz wouldn’t last. It never did. And then there would be hell to pay. There had never been a good stopping point. He had learned long ago that he was better off dealing with the misery that naturally came with living life sober than he was numbing the misery with alcohol. Dewey delivered the beer to the redhead. She spotted Archer and smiled down the counter at him. He made a fist around the white rag. A tall, cold beer represented less problems to his life than the redhead. Pick your pain wisely, he thought.

There was bruising across Archer’s upper chest in the shape of a crescent. From the impact with the steering wheel. There was blood on his T-shirt. He felt like he’d been thrown down a flight of stairs. He stood and went to the restroom. Turned on the light and closed the door. Stared at himself in the mirror. Saw the FedEx guy again, reaching into the shipping carton. Saw the Uzi. Felt the rear end of the Land Cruiser lift off the road as he braced against the wheel. He lifted his shirt and grimaced. The bruising was green and yellow. He turned and dipped his head, probing around the gash with his fingers. The pain felt like it was inside his brain. He spit blood in the sink. Turned on the water and watched the pink swirl drain out of sight. He had a sneaking suspicion that a visit to his local friendly MD might not be a bad idea, but that wasn’t going to happen.

Eckhart angled his laptop so Archer could see when he returned. He was smiling a smile of satisfaction. The redhead hadn’t moved. Her eyes were still interested in Archer.
 

“Turns out HMI is owned by a parent company in Frankfurt, Germany. A big multinational called Neustadt-Traugott-Weismuller,” Eckhart said.

“Wow, that’s a mouthful,” Webb commented. “I’d like to buy a vowel, Pat.”

“Let’s call them NTW,” Eckhart suggested.

“Good call,” Archer said.

“They’re involved in everything from television, shipping, manufacture of micro processing chips, to wireless routers and servers. Literally hundreds of companies under one roof,” Eckhart continued.

“You are German, right?” Archer said. “Any relation?”

Eckhart ignored him. “HMI manufactures a number of different goods, including windows and chemicals used in household cleaning supplies. Nothing sexy or exciting, at least as far as I tell so far.”

“It doesn’t matter what they make or sell,” Archer said. “None of this has anything to do with HMI. Tell me more about NTW.”

“Right, okay. So they have defense contracts with several countries, including the US. Apparently some of their micro processing parts are used in guided missiles we purchase.”

“That will make me sleep better at night,” Webb said, arching his eyebrows as he tipped his beer for a taste.

“Annual revenues well into the billions. They own a piece of Daimler-Benz, so they’re into cars.”

Webb turned to Archer, put a hand on his shoulder. Archer nodded and said, “The black Mercedes.”

Eckhart continued, “It goes on and on. You could read this shit all day. My brain is numb just scrolling through pages of corporate minutia.”

It was the top of the fifth. The Dodgers were behind by three with a runner in scoring position. The crowd at the bar had thinned. The pain hadn’t lessened at all. Archer was losing faith in the Advil. He watched Dewey jerk the tap and fill another glass. The synapses in his brain were clicking, remembering the satisfaction of the first swallow. That first taste was always the best. Dewey scraped the foam and delivered the drink. The redhead was gone. Another billiards game had started. Archer heard the balls collide and dance around the table. A Keith Richards riff hung in the greasy air as Mick wailed incoherently about some girl he used to know.

Archer felt his cell phone vibrate. It was a number he didn’t recognize immediately but answered anyway.

“Archer,” he said.

There was a prolonged silence on the line, and he was about to end the call when a small voice spoke up.

“Mr. Archer.” It was Cory. Tatum’s friend.

The brassy punch had left her voice. She sounded small and afraid.

“Hi, Cory. Where are you?”

“I’m at my house.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I need to talk to you about my friend, Danielle. Do you remember her? She was one of the girl’s you met the other night.”

Archer sorted through the group of young faces and thought he had settled on the correct match.

“Of course I do,” he said. “What do you need to tell me about Danielle?”

Again the line was quiet.

“Are you still there?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“What’s going on, Cory?”

“I’m worried about her.”

“Okay. Why would you be worried about her?”

“I think she’s missing,” Cory said.

TWENTY

It should have been simple. All it should have required was a single bullet fired into the back of Ryan Archer’s head. Or a well-placed knife blade in the spine as one of them walked past him on the sidewalk. There should have been nothing complicated about the task. Nonetheless, Markovich and Walvoord had failed.

Viktor Klosko had already seen the overhead footage of the shooting scene filmed by a television news helicopter. He watched until his stomach spasmed and he walked away. Those fools!

Klosko walked to the glass enclosure where Petros the viper lived and stared down into the bed of wood shavings and grass. The snake was hidden in the shelter of a small, leafy bush. The heat was rising in his chest from the rage that boiled deep within. Markovich and Walvoord had been fine soldiers and excellent security men, and now not only were both of them dead, they might possibly have compromised the church’s security. The men had carried no forms of identification, and it would be virtually impossible for them to be traced back to the church. But still, their failure to eliminate Archer made him nervous.

Klosko had already made the call to summon reinforcements. Ryan Archer was very lucky to be alive. He wouldn’t be so lucky next time. Klosko intended to send a clear message. He intended to make Archer suffer.

* * *

 
Archer parked in front of Cory Overstreet’s house and eased out of his truck. Whatever internal damage he had done to his chest and the surrounding area, everything was beginning to tighten up and he was feeling it. The Advil had taken one thin layer off the pain in his head, but the clanging continued and every step he took felt like a slow ascent up Mount Everest. The Uzi had exploded the windshield, so he had folded it down and been forced to drive with the wind in his face, which wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He walked to the rear of the truck and inspected the bullets holes that ran in a perfect forty-five-degree angle across the painted metal. He would have to replace the spare. The rubber was shredded.

He brushed his hand along the bullet holes where the paint had flaked away and glanced up the street to where the kid had been working on the Camaro the previous day. The car was gone. He pitied the kid struggling to look cool in such a piece of shit.

The thin weeds along the sidewalk were brown from the sun. The lawn looked like it was lucky to get touched by a blade once a month. Archer went up the steps and pressed the button. He heard the doorbell chime. Turned and faced the street while he waited. Glanced again toward where the Camaro had been parked with the hood up. He could hear music inside, and wondered whether Cory had siblings and of the likelihood that she spent most evenings alone until mom got home.

There was a flash of movement behind the window blinds, then he heard the bolt turn and the door opened against a chain. He saw Cory’s small face, and he smiled at her.

“Hi, Cory.”

She pulled the door shut and he heard the chain slide in its track, then the door opened again and she backed away to welcome him in. Archer glanced around.

“Is your mother home?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

There was a small boy playing Xbox in the living room, so that answered the question of siblings, and also explained why she was home. She had to babysit.
 

Archer made a quick assessment and decided it might be appropriate to make the visit brief for appearances’ sake. A grown man alone in a house with a teen and her little brother had the potential to raise a few eyebrows.
 

Cory was wearing a tight pair of skinny jeans and a tank top. Her blonde hair was brushed back and without makeup she looked far less mature than she had previously. He followed her in to where her brother was absorbed in his video game. He looked about seven. He glanced at Archer once, shrugged, then ignored him.
 

“Have a seat,” Cory offered.

Archer sat in the center of a long couch, leaning forward and pressing the palms of his hands together. Cory dropped onto an ottoman, folding her legs under her and inspecting her fingernails.

“Talk to me about Danielle,” Archer said.

Cory sighed, as if she had been holding the breath for hours and was relieved to finally exhale. Her eyes closed and she placed her hands on her knees. When she looked up at him her blue eyes were glassy.

“Babs called me looking for her,” she said,

“Babs?”

“Sorry … Barbara. Danielle’s mother. She called last night. I wasn’t worried, because, you know, who the hell can keep up with Danielle, right? So I called her cell like a billion times.”

“Let me guess,” Archer said, “no answer.”

She nodded. “Still I wasn’t worried. But Babs called again a few hours ago and said she still hadn’t come home and no one has heard from her. Not even that nasty boyfriend of hers. I talked to him myself. He was royally pissed because he thought she was ignoring him.”

“Danielle was friends with Cecile, wasn’t she?”

“Cecile? Yeah, I guess. But that’s not my crowd. Danielle only hung out over there because her boyfriend is into pot and they’d go over there to get high and have sex.”

The thought of girls Cory’s age having sex already made him want to punch somebody. And he had little doubt that the boyfriend was several years older and wasn’t fond of taking no for an answer. Archer was thankful he didn’t have a daughter, because he would be smashing faces every time some punk made eyes at her. He’d always been overly protective of the women in his life.

“How well did you know Cecile?”

“Not at all. I’ve just seen her,” she answered, blinking away a tear.

“Danielle sounds like she runs around a lot.”

She nodded. “Sure, I guess. We all do.”

“So why so worried about her now?”

Cory twisted her face and shrugged. “I just have this kinda icky feeling in my gut, you know?”

Archer carefully measured his words before speaking. “Danielle’s friend Cecile was found dead yesterday morning. Did you know anything about that?”

“Oh my God!”

He watched her face. Watched her eyes. She was genuinely shocked.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Looks like it might have been a drug overdose.”

“Shit,” she sighed. “Was it an accident?”

“I don’t know, Cory. What do you think might have happened to Danielle? Could she be staying someplace with a friend?”

She dipped her head forward, her hair falling over her face. Then she pushed the blonde locks away using both hands. She puffed her cheeks out.

“Maybe. I don’t know, dude.”

Archer studied her. So far he believed she was telling the truth. Lies were easy to detect, and even the best liars in the world always gave something away if you knew what to look for.

“I need you to think really hard, Cory,” he said. “Did her mom say if they’d had an argument or if there might be some reason Danielle might want to steer clear of the house for a day or two?”

“She didn’t say.”

“And she’s not answering her cell?”

She shook her head. “It goes straight to voice mail.”

“Has she ever run away before?”

A tear spilled out from her eyes and she quickly swiped it away.

“I’m sad about Cecile,” she said, blinking away another tear. “That’s a really sad way to die.”

“I agree.”

She shrugged. “I don’t think she’s ever run away. Not like Tatum. She’s not messed up in the head like Tatum. She might spend a night away from her mom, but we all do. Parents make us crazy, you know? Sometimes we just need a little space. Maybe that’s hard for you to understand.”