Читать книгу Mr. and Miss Anonymous - Fern Michaels - Страница 13

It was like a Halloween night—wet and cold, the naked, arthritic trees bending under the torrential rains falling like raging rivers from the black hole in the sky.

The windowless concrete building had its own symphony of sounds to match those of the elements: rats skittering across the floor, the howling wind invading the dark space through the many cracks in the deserted old building. Even the cement floor offered up its own set of weird, frightening sounds.

It was obvious both occupants of the room were nervous because they jumped when an owl hooted its displeasure at the weather invading its space in the tree outside the concrete building.

The witches and goblins this night were mortal. One wore a power suit and shiny wing tips, and carried a briefcase that cost more than most mortals earned in a month. The other goblin—more boy than man—it was hard to tell—looked like he had just stepped off the soccer field, with the grass stains to prove it. And yet, he smelled like Ivory Soap.

Even in broad daylight, it would be hard to tell either person’s age—a teenager perhaps or a thirtysomething with a baby face. A nonthreatening goblin.

The power suit was a plain-looking man. Possibly in his late fifties. Definitely a pampered individual. Plain face, plain, thinning hair, plain stature. It was the suit, the shoes, the briefcase that shrieked power and money. Then again maybe it was the man’s arrogance, or the man’s defiant eyes—eyes black as the night.

The other man/boy hated the plain man. Hated and distrusted him. He waved his wrist in the general direction of the man—a test. A test to see if the power suit had any idea at all that what he thought was a heart monitor on his wrist was really a miniature digital recorder. In this line of business, you never knew what could go down in the blink of an eye. Satisfied, the man/boy held out his hand. The plain man slapped a thick brown envelope into his palm.

“It’s all there,” the plain man said.

“Yeah, well, I never take things for granted.” The man/boy stuck the small penlight between his teeth so that the powerful tiny light beamed down on the thick stack of currency inside the envelope. The man/boy counted slowly and methodically, spitting on his index finger from time to time when the bills stuck together.

Outside, the owl hooted again and again. The rain continued to river downward. Holes in the roof allowed spits of water to hit the dirty concrete floor with delicate little plopping sounds.

“I told you it was all there,” the plain man said when the man/boy shoved the thick envelope inside his zippered Windbreaker.

“Nice doing business with you,” the man/boy said as he pretended to kick an imaginary soccer ball.

The plain man in the power suit looked at the man/boy, whose job description was “contract killer,” and winced. “I hope you remember the rules,” he said coldly.

The man/boy laughed. It was a pleasant sound. “ ‘Go to the main library every Tuesday and Friday morning and check out the James Bond book Never Say Die, and if you need me, there will be a yellow Post-it on page two hundred telling me the time and the place for our next meeting.’” Like he was really going to do that. He’d be outta there the minute he hit the highway. He’d done a clean job with no loose ends. His first rule of business was, “Never stick around to watch the cleanup.”

In the far corner of the concrete building, two rats screeched at one another. The owl hooted again. The minute the door opened, lightning ripped across the dark night like a spaceship gone amuck. Both men ran toward their vehicles, the plain man to a high-powered Mercedes, the man/boy to a junkyard pickup truck.

The last sound to be heard was the eerie hoot of the owl before the night turned totally black.

The plain man’s house was palatial, even by the standards of the megarich. He shed his soggy power suit jacket and tie, kicked off the sodden wing tips, and yanked at his soaking-wet socks before walking up the circular staircase to his bedroom. He stripped off the rest of his clothing as he made his way to the bathroom. As always, he took a moment to stare at the room. It was a grotto, featuring a sunken whirlpool, with vines and plants somehow growing out of the brick walls. Water trickled down the stone walls and into a trough that led into the whirlpool. It was such a soothing sound he felt his eyelids start to droop. He pinched his stomach hard as he stepped into the shower. First the icy-cold spray, then steaming spray so hot his skin felt like it was on fire. When he thought he couldn’t stand the heat one second longer, he switched back to the icy-cold. At least it woke him up.

Shivering, he towel-dried himself and dressed in a pair of flannel pajamas decorated with fat white bunnies, a gift from one of his grandchildren. He couldn’t remember which one.

That night he had the California house to himself. His family and the two full-time servants were back East in an almost identical house. He liked it when he was alone.

Wearing slipper socks, he padded down the circular staircase to the state-of-the-art kitchen, where he made himself a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of hot chocolate. People were always surprised that he knew how to cook.

As the plain man chewed his sandwich, he noticed that his hands were trembling. As he was always in control of his emotions, the tremor bothered him. He realized for the first time that what he was experiencing was fear. He didn’t like the feeling at all. Not one little bit.

He stared across the room at the huge bay window in the breakfast nook that took up one entire wall of the kitchen. All he could see was total blackness. A shiver ran up and down his arms as he tried to remember if he’d set the alarm when he entered the house. He slipped and stumbled as he made his way to the foyer, where he quickly punched in a set of numbers.

Alarms were a joke. If someone was intent on entering a house, alarm or not, they’d get in. Like that lowlife he’d just paid off.

The slipper socks slapped at the imported marble floor as the man made his way back to the kitchen.

The black window drew him like a magnet. Was someone out there watching him? Now, where did that thought come from? he wondered. Though he could see nothing, he could still hear the pouring rain.

Suddenly, the man felt vulnerable, standing exposed in his bunny pajamas at the window. He moved rapidly to turn off the bright overhead lights. When the kitchen was as dark as the night outside, he slithered to the side of the window. Did he just see movement by the bougainvillea trellis? He felt trapped as he crept back to the entry hall, where he reached up for the panic button that was held in place by a magnet. He clasped it in his hand as he made his way to the second floor.

At the top of the steps, he pressed a switch, and the entire first floor lit up like a football field at a night game. The light made him feel a bit better. But only for a moment. Even if he pressed the little red button on the panic gizmo, he could be dead before the police arrived. He must have been out of his mind to hire that psycho.

He entered his home study. He looked at his computer and wondered if there was some wiseass out there who could find what he’d gone to such great lengths to hide. He cursed his father then, in all four languages in which he was fluent. If it wasn’t for him, he wouldn’t be there sweating like a Trojan. A fearful Trojan.

Like the old man cared. Crippled with arthritis, Parkinson’s, and a weak heart, he was going to die soon and leave his son holding the bag. “And there go all my political aspirations,” he mumbled as he turned on the computer. “There goes the goddamn White House!”

Senator Hudson Preston sat down in his ergonomic chair and leaned back to wait for the computer to boot up. He felt proud of himself that he’d personally contacted Peter Kelly and harnessed the man’s expertise in setting up foolproof firewalls that, according to Kelly, even the Pentagon couldn’t penetrate. And in return for that expertise, the senator had ordered thousands of computers to be sent to the local school system, all compliments of Preston Pharmaceuticals.

Peter Aaron Kelly didn’t like him, and Preston knew it. “Tough shit, Mr. Kelly,” the senator said aloud.

He started to type, recording everything that had happened in the past three days. When he finished, he raced out of the room to his bedroom, where he’d tossed his keys on the dresser. He grabbed them and removed the memory stick that looked like a child’s whistle painted in psychedelic colors. To anyone who asked about the strange doodad hanging from his key ring, he said it was a gift from one of his grandchildren. He removed the memory stick, plugged it into the computer, and copied the file he’d just created. When he was finished, he returned the two-inch cylinder to his key ring and laid it on the top of his dresser.

The senator deleted all the files and turned off the computer. He was ready to go to bed. He crawled between the covers, knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to sleep. But he had to try because he needed to forget all the carnage he’d seen on the news. If he tried, he could almost live with that. What he couldn’t live with was the picture he’d seen of Peter Aaron Kelly on the evening news, along with Lily Madison.

The senator started to shake under the covers.

PAK Industries versus Preston Pharmaceuticals.

One winner. One loser.

Unless…