David Dun - Overfall

Grady had only twelve more minutes in her bedroom alone. She closed her eyes and picked up the phone, determined to call Guy.

“Grady?” A knock at the door. It was Spring.

She put the receiver back. “Yeah?”

Spring opened the door, looking partly stern, a little sad, and slightly amused. Jill was with her.

“Why did you have to go and blow the rest of your time?” Jill asked. “Now it’s another one-hour run. Why don’t you tell me what you are doing? Don’t lie to me.”

“I was trying to make a call.”

“To whom?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Okay. Well, you know the rules. No calls until we have an agreement about calls.”

“And when does that happen?”

“When we trust each other,” Spring put in.

“That could be a long time.”

“That thought had occurred to us,” Jill said. “Now start your run.”

Devan Gaudet sat in the back of a dark-windowed van down the street from the Carter Building. The leaves were not yet showing autumn color, but the women were cloaking themselves for the season, and watching them was enthralling. They had style, and an aloof self-assurance that he found sensual.

An hour earlier he had seen a man named Shohei lurking around the apartment of Anna Wade. Shohei was a world-class bodyguard who sometimes worked for the man he knew only as Sam, a figure who was more apparition than man, hidden behind a cloud of emissaries, agents, and collaborators. This confirmed his hunch about the “Sam” who had found Anna Wade in the waters of British Columbia.

Had he been sure that Anna was involved with this man, he would have raised his price. When he last crossed paths with Sam he had nearly been caught, which meant that he had nearly failed in his mission. Having to move quickly made this one an especially challenging job.

For once the regular gumshoes rounded up by Chellis had been useful, setting up first-class electronic surveillance from across the street.

What he was doing now was risky and he knew it, far more complicated than simply killing her. In the new America there were more police, and the slightest hint of terrorism would bring in an army. Laws had changed and the American police had many more surveillance powers and greater numbers and were increasingly wary.

He stepped out of the van wearing gabardine slacks, a white shirt, and a name tag that said BRICKRIDGE TECHNICAL SERVICES. He carried a briefcase, a cell phone, and two pens. Salt-and-pepper gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard along with gold wire-rimmed glasses gave him the look of a college professor. Inside the Carter Building he took the elevator to the fifty-ninth floor.

After a quick survey of the hallways, he proceeded to the roof. The helicopter was no surprise; the people he was dealing with were far too clever to allow themselves to be trapped at the top of a high-rise. According to his sources this was the only office building in Manhattan on which a helicopter could be landed and it required a special permit. Quickly he moved back downstairs and entered the offices of Dyna Science Corp.

He greeted the receptionist who sat behind a large built-in island that looked like a breakfast bar in a modern kitchen. He smiled and showed her his name tag, while she transferred a call.

“Super sent us up here. We’re checking for spores. Stachybachus. There were some complaints on the fifty-ninth. I’ll just be taking some dust samples.”

“Spores?”

“Yes. If overly abundant they can cause a significant health risk. But we can fix it, even if the concentrations are high.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” said the young woman, a blonde with wonderful skin. She also had a name tag. Virtually everyone had a name tag these days.

The phone beeped quietly and she spoke into the headset.

He opened the briefcase and removed a tiny vacuum machine utilized in the collection of dust samples from carpets.

“Maybe I could just take a sample from under here,” he said, coming around behind the island. She looked slightly dismayed at having a man crawling around near her legs, but soon got caught up in another call. He pressed a small microphone onto the underside of her desk. It stuck on contact.

He went down the hall to the rest room, where he entered a stall and set up shop. From his briefcase he removed a Beretta semiautomatic with a silencer already affixed. Next he installed an earpiece and commenced the tedious job of listening to the receptionist. It was a full twenty minutes before he heard the serious-sounding male voice of Dr. John Weissman.

He placed the pistol in the briefcase and exited the rest room.

Alder leaves of yellow and mustard brown were strewn in the trail and the wet had matted them like carp scales, making the forest run almost quiet save for the wet thud of tennis shoes and the raspy breaths of tired lungs. Jill and Grady broke out of the park and onto a three-cornered beachfront road where a group of small shops attracted tourists.

“I’m going to use the rest room,” Jill said. “You be good.”

Grady saluted, and after Jill had disappeared into the ladies’ room she trotted to a nearby phone booth, punched in the number of Guy’s cell phone, and used her calling card number to make the connection.

“Hey,” she said when he answered.

“Where are you?”

“Way up the coast. Near Carmel, I think, maybe Big Sur. There aren’t any signs right here.”

“Are they holding you against your will?”

“I can leave any time I want. I’m okay. It’s rough but I’m okay. I could really use a hit but I guess that’s the whole point. Look, any second my keeper will be coming out of the can, and if she sees me I’m toast. So I just called to say I’m fine and I’ll call for a real talk as soon as I can.”

“Take your time. I know you’re working through things but I do love to hear your voice. You need to let me know where you are, just in case.”

She set the receiver in the cradle, knowing she could easily be caught. Then she ran toward the rest room door to put distance between herself and the offending paraphernalia. After a few strides Jill came out.

“Were you at the booth?”

Grady hesitated. For reasons she couldn’t get hold of she felt very uncertain about her response.

Jill stepped close and put a hand on Grady’s neck, then put her head next to Grady’s head as if they were huddling.

“Look, I’m starting to like you. Don’t let me do that if you’re going to disappoint me.”

For a moment Jill said nothing more. Grady figured she could be forgiven this one transgression. It was, after all, a nothing telephone call and unworthy of one of their foul punishments.

“You’re a druggie,” Jill began again, “and I know you probably still think like one-keeping that connection going with the old life. Calling your friends, telling them you miss the stuff. Come on, let’s run.”

Grady wanted to argue and explain that Guy was no druggie, but instead she put one foot in front of the other back down the trail with a half hour to go, too tired to lie or fight.

Seventeen

Anna sat in the limousine facing backward, as did Shohei. She wore a simple turtleneck sweater, a St. John knit given her by a fatally injured girl whose last wish was to meet Anna Wade. “Who would have ever thought that Shohei would sit on a seat with Anna Wade?” Shohei said.

“I don’t think it’s really such a big deal, Shohei. Wardy Long sat beside me, held my hand, and tried to propose before he threw up in my lap, and now he works in a correctional center making license plates.”

Shohei laughed and nodded. “Okay if I be impressed anyway?”

As they pulled to a stop, Shohei pointed. “Look at that guy over there.”