Robert Browne - Kill Her Again

Pope smiled, holding her gaze. “That explains a lot,” he said.

Jake Worthington was about a block from home when his cell phone rang.

He groaned, hoping it wasn’t someone from the office. After leaving Danny and McBride at the motel, he’d worked straight through the night on the Fairweather case, waiting for the crime scene techs to send him the latents off the gypsy’s stun gun. Then he ran them through the office’s automated fingerprint identification system, waited a good three hours for the results — and got a big fat donut.

No matches. Nothing.

He had killed the time by filing reports and filling out the paperwork to facilitate the interstate transfer of the two goons who had attacked Danny, cursing his dumb-ass cousin for getting involved with these idiots in the first place.

The rest of the time was spent spinning his wheels, thinking about all the shit he’d seen in the last several hours and how his whole concept of reality had been stood on its head. By the end of the night, all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and get a couple hours’ shut-eye before it all started over again.

He dug his cell phone out of his pocket, hoping it was Ronnie. Married for eighteen years, they’d known each other since they were kids, and he never got tired of hearing her voice.

But it was Danny’s name on the screen.

He clicked the receive button. “What’s up, Cuz?”

“You have any luck with those prints?”

“We got zilch,” he said. “If this guy was ever printed, it wasn’t in this century. Or the last one, either.”

There was silence on the line, and for a moment Jake felt as if he were in a cell phone commercial about dropped connections-except he could hear Danny breathing.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked.

“I wasn’t gonna tell you this, but Anna found a photo of our guy in the Powell University archives.”

Jake felt his pulse start to elevate. “And why the hell wouldn’t you tell me something that major?”

“Because I know exactly how you’ll react.”

Jake made the turn into his driveway, noting the red Toyota that Danny had parked there. He knew it wasn’t Danny’s car, and wondered what poor fool was waiting for its return. A woman, no doubt.

“Don’t you worry about how I’ll react,” he said. “Just get me a copy of that photo.”

“That was the Powell University Historical Archives to be more precise.”

Jake shut off his engine and climbed out. “And?”

“The photo was taken in the late 1800s.”

Jake stopped. “Say that again.”

“In Slavonia,” Danny said. “Sound familiar?”

Jake said nothing. Felt goose bumps travel from the top of his head down to his toes.

“It’s true, Jake. You can check it out online yourself.”

He listened as Danny gave him the Web site information. “This is nuts,” he said. “Who the hell are we dealing with here?”

“That’s what we’re hoping to find out. We’re headed to Allenwood.”

“Why Allenwood?”

“To follow up on a lead Anna found in Susan’s notebook. Somebody we’re hoping can shed some light on all this. Are you in?”

“Jesus, Danny, I’m running on empty right now. How solid is this lead?”

“On a scale from one to ten? About a four.”

Not very promising, Jake thought. He stood on his walkway trying to decide between a potential wild-goose chase and some much-needed slumber. If he remembered correctly, Allenwood was a fairly good distance away, and the drive wouldn’t be short. And if something more substantial broke here while he was gone, he’d have to run his investigation long-distance. Not something he wanted to do.

Besides, McBride was a professional. If this lead of hers panned out, he trusted that she’d ask all the right questions.

“Think I’m gonna pass, Cuz. I’m beat.”

“Sorry to hear that. But don’t worry about it; we’ll rent a car and let you know what happens.”

“Assuming you can wake me from my coma.”

They said their good-byes and Jake clicked off, trudging toward the front door.

He was already inside, the door closed behind him, when he realized that somebody was sitting in his armchair.

Jake froze at the sight of him:

A small, Hispanic-looking man with two black eyes and a badly broken nose, wearing a neatly tailored suit. He was holding a Beretta 9mm, with a suppressor attached.

“Where are your friends?” he asked.

“Let me guess. You’re not the owner of the Tercel.”

“I work for Mr. Troy.”

“That would’ve been my next guess,” Jake said.

“Your cousin and the FBI woman. Where are they?”

“Sitting with a police stenographer as we speak, you stupid fuck. Which means your employer is shit out of-”

The Beretta went off with a small pop.

Jake felt a dull, burning thud in his chest as he flew back, hit the door hard, then slid to the carpet.

Something felt loose inside him. Loose and leaking. And as the light started to dim, he knew he was about to get more sleep than he’d bargained for.

Thoughts about past and future lives suddenly filled his head, and if Danny was right about all this nonsense, he wondered what the next life would have in store for him.

In the end, he supposed it didn’t really matter.

Just as long as Ronnie was there.

“ The Deputy is dead,” Arturo said.

The voice on the line sounded thin and nasal. “What about the others?”

“He was alone.”

“Shit.”

“You’ve only yourself to blame. You had them all in one place last night.”

“What was I supposed to do? Pop them in my car? Don’t be ridiculous.” He paused. “So where do we go from here?”

“Not to worry,” Arturo said. “You have the ability to track a cellular GPS signal, yes?”

“I’ll have to jump through a few hoops.”

“Then you had better start jumping and put a trace on Pope’s cell phone.”

He recited the number from memory.

The voice on the line raised half an octave. “This is all getting a little out of hand, don’t you think? How many bodies do we have to pile up before Troy is happy?”

“As I recall, Captain Billingsly, you were the one who came to Mr. Troy, looking for a handout. Are you dissatisfied with the arrangement?”

“I–I didn’t say that,” Billingsly sputtered.

“Then stick to your commitment and don’t ask questions. We don’t like people who ask questions.”

“Sorry,” Billingsly said. “I’ll get right to work on that number.”

Arturo looked down at the dead man and smiled.

Compared to him, The Ghost had been a rank amateur.

In the end, it took them four hours to drive to Allenwood.

Anna rented the car, a Nissan Pathfinder, on her bureau account, which, to her surprise, hadn’t yet been suspended.

They took the I-15 past the Mojave National Preserve, then cut over to the 58, through Barstow and Boron and California City.

As she drove, Anna looked out at the desolate desert landscape and again wondered how people found themselves out here, living so far away, it seemed, from civilization. Yes, they had their shopping malls and their satellite TV, but the sun would bake you alive and turn your skin as rough as alligator hide, and she just couldn’t fathom the attraction this part of the world held for those who lived here.

About halfway through the drive, they switched off, Pope taking the wheel for a spell. Anna settled back in the passenger seat, trying to get some sleep, but was too keyed up to manage it.

She knew that Pope was doubtful about this trip. That he thought a visit to Antonija Zala was most likely a waste of time. And she appreciated his willingness to come with her anyway.