J.T. Ellison - Where All the Dead Lie

“Goodness. Planning on giving up all the state secrets? A fresh Wikileak from the FBI?”

“Seriously, Memphis. I need a favor.”

Memphis’s voice lost its jocular sarcasm. “What level of favor are we talking about?”

“One from the very top.”

Memphis sighed. “That would be Nigel then.”

Sir Nigel Ainsley was just the man he wanted to speak with. Knighted in his forties, subsequently involved in the arms-to-Iraq deal, Ainsley had been outed as an agent, then retired, so to speak, to MI-6, where he ran the men and women he’d previously been a peer of. He was an exemplary spy, well known for his genial manner and first-rate discretion.

Discretion Sir Nigel applied when arranging to use members of Atlantic’s Angelmakers. He’d been the last to engage the now-errant Julius’s services. Memphis didn’t need to know that.

“Good. That’s who I was hoping for. Can you ask if he’d be willing to speak with me?”

“I can. But why? What sort of scheming is the FBI up to? Speaking of which, I’m a bit chafed at you. Getting me pulled back to New Scotland Yard last month wasn’t necessary.”

“Wasn’t me. I swear it.” He was telling the truth, too, he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger. There had been concern about Memphis from other quarters. Granted, Baldwin had cheered silently when Memphis had been pulled off the Quantico counterterrorism detail, but it had come from within his own service, not from Baldwin’s end.

“Ah. Interesting. Why, exactly, can’t you call him yourself?”

“Classified.”

“Right.”

“I’m available by phone for the next hour if he can spare me five minutes.”

“Fine. I’ll call him. But I’m going to need a favor in return, then.”

“Anything within reason.”

“My case. I’m probably dealing with a religious zealot who is schizophrenic. I make this call, you give me some guidance on how to approach him. Deal?”

Hardly a big price to pay. “Deal.”

“Thank you. Have a pleasant evening, Baldwin.”

“Memphis, wait.”

“Yes?”

“How is she?”

There was a pause. “You were right. She’s exceptionally fragile. But stubborn. The essential spark of her is still there. She has a pure heart. She will get through this.”

Baldwin breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m glad to hear you say that. Please, let me know if anything changes.”

“I will. Good night.”

“You as well, Memphis.”

Keep your grubby paws off my woman, he added silently.

Memphis hung up the phone and stared at it a few minutes. John Baldwin, profiler extraordinaire, in need of a private chat with Sir Nigel Ainsley. The call was a ruse; Baldwin could get through to Ainsley anytime he wanted. He just wanted to check on Taylor.

He couldn’t say that he blamed him.

He placed the call, had Nigel’s assistant cum bodyguard roust the man from his nightly game of dominoes. It was late, but Nigel would be up, in his library, an untouched Macallan 18 at his elbow, engrossed in his game. He sounded slightly annoyed when he answered, though years of interruptions tempered his aggravation. Especially since the disruption came from the son of one of his oldest friends.

“Sir Nigel. A pleasure.”

“Ah, Lord Dulsie. It’s been too long. How is your father?”

“Just headed to South Africa as we speak. We celebrated his birthday yesterday.”

“I hope he received the Benelli 20-bore. I had that stock hand engraved by a company called A amp;A, in South Dakota. The real Wild West.”

“He did. He loved it. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him soon.”

“Ah, good, good. At our age, any birthday is preferable to none, and we all need our toys.”

“I’m sure it is. Sir, I have a request. A friend has asked to speak with you. Can you make a call?”

“I’m all tucked in for the night. Tell him to call me at the office tomorrow.”

“He’s an American. FBI. I trust him. If he needs you, it’s important. I’m assuming that he must speak to you outside of your official capacity.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Memphis decided to sweeten the pill. “Fancy a bit of sport? I’ll let you have the run of the estate, whenever you’re next north of the border.” Sir Nigel was as rabid about hunting as he was terrorists and other threats to Queen and country.

Sir Nigel chuckled. “Not above a bribe, are you?”

“Now that’s not a nice term.”

“All right, James. For you. Tell your father hullo and I intend to help him break that Benelli in. I’d best be going if I have any hope of finishing my game.”

Memphis imparted Baldwin’s information and hung up, pleased. A shoot on the estate was a small price to pay for a favor from Ainsley. He wondered if Ainsley suspected something was up already, and that’s why he agreed to talk with the strange American so easily. Ah, well. He’d find out about that in the morning.

He had a lovely outing planned for Taylor tomorrow. He forced away the waves of sorrow that had enveloped him since their postprandial chat. Told Evan’s ghost to leave.

Thought about Taylor’s glossy blond hair, and her eyes, the two mismatched grays competing for his attention. He didn’t know if he could win her or not, but he’d damn well enjoy trying.

She walked the corridor, the familiar length of the hall leading to Memphis’s office, the warm, crackly fire beckoning her in. She was barefoot, dressed in a long, silk nightgown with a richly embroidered robe atop it, her hair pulled into a braid that spilled down her back. Her stomach was distended, full of the child they’d created.

She was worried. Would he be there? The note said to meet him before dawn, before the house awoke. But the house never truly slept. Watchers were everywhere. She knew what foolishness this was, but couldn’t help herself. Just the thought of him, his eyes, deeper blue than any loch, the sharpness of his jaw, the gentleness of his hands. She needed him.

Her hand was on the door now. He was inside. She could smell him. The scent made her careless, and her heart pulsed between her thighs. She pushed open the door.

Blood. Blood everywhere. The room was drenched. The walls dripped with the scent of sex, of lust dampened by the coppery tinge. She tasted it on her tongue, turned to vomit. Once she finished retching, she forced herself inside the room, shut the door behind her. She knew what had caused this. She was to blame. She’d pushed and cajoled.

His body, upright in the chair.

Her lover.

She went to him, careful not to drag the trails of her nightgown in the blood. Her arms skimmed the walls; so much blood. Seeping, all around her. The floor was getting deeper, the tide rushing in, covering her feet now. She moved forward until she could touch his arm. One last time.

Memphis turned, his face a compilation of holes, empty. “Leave here,” he moaned. “Leave before it’s too late.”

She began to scream, louder and louder, until he raised up a bloody hand to quiet her, a hand with a gun, and she saw the muzzle flash as she yanked herself from his grasp, backed away quickly, heedless of the mess.

The bump of her body against something jarred her.

Taylor could feel her spine against the wooden paneling, her arms raised as if she were warding off an attack. She was drenched in sweat, her T-shirt sticking to her body like she’d been swimming in it.

Red, everywhere. Blood.

Her breath came short. She was dying. She could feel her body slipping away into nothingness. Feel the pain in her head grow larger, stronger, until the red was replaced by black.

She couldn’t breathe. She had to breathe.