Thirst No. 3 (16 page)

“And you like to drink,” I said as we settled in my living room. He sat on the couch beside me. Our feet were inches apart.

“Did Teri tell you that?”

“I saw you at the club last Friday, remember?”

“Did I drink much that night? I don’t remember.”

“Six Scotch and Cokes, before the second show.”

“I must have been drunk then.”

“Liar. I don’t think you can get drunk.” It was true what I said. He seemed like one of those rare people who can function with a large amount of alcohol in their system. Nevertheless, I knew I could drink him under the table.

“I notice you kept up,” he said.

“I was just being sociable. What brings you here this evening?”

“I told you, I was looking for Teri.”

“Uh-huh. Now tell me the real reason.”

He smiled. “You never give a guy a break, do you?”

“Not guys like you. You don’t need them.”

“That sounds like a backhanded compliment.”

“It’s a plain insult. Why are you here?”

He shrugged. “I wanted to talk, get to know you better. It’s hard for me to loosen up sometimes when Teri’s around. As I’m sure you’ve already guessed, she’s more proper than I am.”

“She’s a sweetheart.”

He stares at me and nods. “She’s also innocent. She has an IQ through the ceiling, and it sometimes hides the fact she’s only a year out of high school.”

“Are you worried I’m going to take advantage of her?”

“That’s not your style. I can see that already.”

“Then what’s bothering you?”

“You. You’re the mystery woman.”

“Don’t tell me I inspired that song you sang the other day.”

“Maybe. Let’s be blunt, Alisa. You’re clever at getting people to talk about themselves, but you don’t volunteer much about yourself. You know, we have no idea where you were born, where you went to school, who your friends are.”

“Do you really give a damn about that stuff?”

He holds my eye a moment longer before smiling. “I guess not. Shit like that doesn’t tell you who a person is. Still, my point is valid. You’ve burst into our lives in a big way. But who are you?” He reached out and touched my bare foot. “Tell me who you are, Alisa.”

“Careful. Touch them and you have to rub them.”

He didn’t hesitate. He pulled my feet into his lap and started massaging them. “Talk,” he said.

“Or you’ll pull out my toenails?”

“Something like that.”

I took a slug of my beer. “My past is complicated. I don’t like talking about it because I can give people the wrong impression. Let’s just say I’m not the person I used to be.”

“Do you have a criminal record?”

“Maybe. Do you?”

“No. Where were you born?”

“I thought that didn’t matter to you.”

“I changed my mind.”

“India. In the north.”

“You don’t look Indian.”

“I’m one of the original Aryans.”

“How did you get so much money?”

“How do you think?”

“I figure you must have inherited it.”

“Not true. I’m a great saver, and I know how to invest.”

“Do you play the market?”

“I love to play . . . it.”

My remark might have been suggestive, I don’t know. He pulled me closer and began to massage my calves. He had such strong hands and his touch was . . . well, it was ridiculously sensual. I felt myself getting aroused, and I would have had to be blind not to know he was excited. I swore I wouldn’t kiss
him. I knew if I did I wouldn’t stop. Still, he kept rubbing me higher, harder, and deeper.

“You like this?” he asked.

“Stupid question.”

“You know, I’ve never cheated on Teri.”

“I believe you.”

“But you’re thinking there’s a first time for everything.”

“I didn’t ask you to massage my feet.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I didn’t ask you to massage my legs.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

I leaned back. “Maybe you should.”

He leaned closer. He kissed me on the cheek, or else I averted my lips, I wasn’t sure. He spoke in my ear. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a phantom. I’ll be here for a while and then I’ll disappear. You don’t have to worry. I won’t hurt Teri.”

He sat back and stared deep into my eyes. “I think that’s the first time you’ve lied to me.”

I wanted to argue with him. I couldn’t.

Looking back, I realize Matt is obsessed with protecting Teri. He is attracted to me. His flirting is genuine. Yet he uses it for a deeper goal. To pry the truth out of me. And he’s good at it. He got me to reveal something I had no intention of revealing, and as a result he now knows I’m dangerous.

I wonder if he will warn Teri to stay away.

I suppose I couldn’t blame him.

I call Lisa Fetch last, at nine in the morning, and with Brutran still hard at work at her desk. I don’t worry my call can be tapped. I have a device on my cell that makes it 100 percent secure. Claire, my FBI friend, gave it to me.

Lisa sounds tired, and I doubt she got much sleep. I feel bad about having turned her life upside down, but I can’t think of another way to keep her safe.

“I still haven’t located Jeff,” she says.

“Did you call his house?”

“What do you think?”

“I think that might be a bad idea.”

“Look, Alisa Perne, or whatever your real name is, he may be dead to you, but I still have hope.”

“You have to take my advice seriously. Hope can be a good thing in many situations, but you have to admit it’s a bad sign he hasn’t left a message on your home voice mail, which I’m sure you’ve checked a hundred times.”

She’s tired and she’s hurting. It’s all there in her voice.

“You don’t have to keep rubbing it in,” she says.

“Okay. Let me ask you a question. How often does Ms. Brutran work around the clock at her desk?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sitting outside your building. I’ve been here all night and she’s never gone home.”

“That’s weird.”

“I take it this is weird even for her?”

“As far as I know. When the day is done, she usually goes home with the rest of us. At least as far as I could tell. I didn’t keep close track of her schedule.”

It is as I fear. Ms. Brutran is staying at work because of me.

“I’ll give her another night, see what she does,” I say.

“What are you going to do? Kidnap her the way you kidnapped me?”

“There’s no use whining, Lisa. I gave you plenty of cash. You can go home if you like. But I wouldn’t want to bet on your odds of being alive next week.”

Lisa’s tone softens. “I do appreciate what you’re trying to do for me. It’s just hard, you know, to be here all alone, not knowing what’s going on. Without Jeff.”

“I understand. I promise to call you tonight and give you an update. But for now, try not to use the phone to call anyone other than me. Okay?”

“I hear ya,” Lisa says.

We exchange good-byes and I stretch out and wait.

That night, finally, not long after sunset, Brutran leaves her office and heads for her car. I run for mine. It’s a mile away, but I set a world record getting to it. I’m not unduly worried about losing her in traffic. My ears are acutely attuned to every sound in IIC’s basement, where the firm stows their cars. Fortunately, the garage isn’t equipped with vacuum-plated glass, and I’m able to hear Brutran not only start her car, but say good night to the garage attendant.

To my surprise, Brutran heads north on Pacific Coast Highway, not south into Los Angeles. The road is winding, the traffic sparse. I hang back a mile. The woman drives a white BMW, one of the six brands of cars I sacrificed to the sniper and his Gatling gun. As I follow, I try to envision what type of security I will find at her home, and what I’ll have to do to defeat it. My heart beats with anticipation, and I realize how
anxious I am to get my hands on her, to get to the truth of IIC and its mysterious Array.

The woman has a remarkable ability to control her mind, but I’m confident I can break her. There’s a limit to how much pain any human being can stand. Plus her cavalier attitude toward assassinating innocent people angers me, and when I’m angry, my behavior knows no limits.

Brutran drives north along the coast until there’s a break in the hills on our right and she’s able to take a country road across vast farmland. From there she accelerates and races into the hills overlooking Ventura. I’m not surprised to see her turn up a long driveway that leads to a mansion sitting atop its own peak. The architectural style of the residence is the opposite of her workplace. This house belongs on an old Spanish plantation. Although technically one story, it’s spread over an acre of shifting terrain, giving it a half dozen different levels.

The view is beautiful: the glittering lights of the city below, the dark expanse of the far-off ocean. But what strikes me most as I sit in my car down the hill from her driveway is the silence of the spot. I hear a garage door open and close. Brutran turns off her engine and enters her home. Yet she talks to no one, because no one’s there. For the moment I’m bewildered. There’s no husband present, no children, no security guards.

I remember the conclusion I came to earlier, when I spoke to Lisa. That Brutran must have stayed at work because she was afraid of me. The idea seemed logical at the time. The
woman and I had a tense conversation, and then she went out of her way to spend the next thirty-six hours locked in her fortress. But now she’s come out in the open, and returned home to an empty mansion, without a soul around to protect her.

There’s something here I’m missing.

Yesterday afternoon, I was unable to read Brutran’s thoughts. Yet when I did catch a faint glimpse of her mind, it felt like a tight capsule of consciousness that intimidated even me. She wasn’t simply disciplined and calculating. It was her coldness that struck me the most. It was like she had been born without a conscience, or else had had it surgically removed from her brain because it no longer suited her goals.

I know nothing of her likes and dislikes, but I do know she’d leave nothing to chance. Yet she has met me, face to face, and felt the danger I represent, the same way I sensed the danger she represents, and now she’s left herself wide open to attack.

It worries me. No, it scares me.

What I’m missing is the unexpected.

Carefully, I park in a cluster of trees and get out and hike around the ridge where the house stands. I search for hidden cameras, scanning lasers, infrared sensors—any type of high-tech surveillance equipment. But I find nothing, which is odd. Nowadays, virtually anyone rich enough to own such a mansion would have installed a basic blanket of electronic security. It’s like Brutran’s so confident of what’s inside her that she’s no longer worried about what’s outside.

I hear Brutran turn on the TV. CNN.

My head tells me to wait, to learn more, to see what she’s up to. My heart burns with impatience. I not only want the truth, I want revenge for all those she’s so casually killed.

I step to a sliding glass door at the back of the house. It’s locked. I snap it quietly using brute force. Then I’m inside, my Glock in my right hand, the safety off, moving silently toward the sound of the TV.

Suddenly a little girl, with big green eyes, stands before me.

I’m stunned—I didn’t hear her approach.

“Who are you?” she asks.

I kneel beside the child. “A friend of your mommy’s.”

She holds up her doll. A beat-up clown with a sad smile.

“Mr. Topper can’t sleep. He’s having nightmares. He keeps waking me up.”

I pat the doll’s head. “Mr. Topper just needs a big kiss from you. Then his bad dreams will go away.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. Now go back to bed. I have to talk to your mommy.”

The girl nods and walks away. Strange little thing. Silent as a mouse.

I continue my hunt. Around a sharp corner, in an open living room with windows that reach from the floor to the ceiling, I see Brutran munching on a fruit salad and watching the news. There’s no sign of her husband. Then again, I never saw
Mr. Brutran in his office the last two days. And it was easy to identify his workplace. His office is next to his wife’s. I have to assume he’s out of town.

Her food is fresh, with slices of strawberries, bananas, oranges, apples, kiwis, and melons. I realize I’m starving. I don’t know whether to shoot her or to ask her for a bite.

Brutran lifts up the control and lowers the volume.

“Are you going to stand there or join me?” she asks.

I assume she heard me talking to her daughter, although we were both whispering. Of course, nothing about this woman makes sense. I decide to join her. Crossing the living room, I sit in a chair beside her, keeping a grip on my Glock but letting it lie in my lap. She’s changed out of her work clothes and taken a quick shower, and now she wears a fluffy white bathrobe. Most people would say she looks relaxed. But I’m blessed with an arsenal of subtle senses, and I’ve only to gaze into her dark eyes to know she’s not let her guard down an inch.

She gestures to the TV, leaving the volume down low.

“Do you keep up with worldly affairs, Alisa?” she asks.

“I watch the news and read the
New York Times
.”

“Do you like CNN?”

“I think they do a pretty good job of reporting.”

“IIC owns CNN. Of course, they don’t know that, and wouldn’t believe it if I told them. But they never make a major programming decision without input from the people we put on their board.” She points to the black newscaster. “We’re
thinking of promoting this man. He’s smart. He appeals to middle-aged women.”

“It must be intoxicating to have so much power. Or is it frustrating that you don’t get to brag about it?”

“I feel no need to brag.”

“Except to me.”

She shakes her head and reaches for a strawberry. “You misunderstand me. I’m trying to give you a sense of our reach, not to impress you, but so you can better understand us.”

“You brought me here to educate me?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Why didn’t you educate me yesterday when I was in your office?”