Glenn Cooper - Library of the Dead aka Secret of the Seventh Son

“Is this some kind of fraternity initiation, Mr. Secretary?”

“Do I look like a goddamn frat boy?” the SecDef had barked. “This is the real deal, and by tradition it belongs to the navy, so it belongs to you, and God help you if there’s a leak under your tenure.”

Lester’s shirt was so starched it crackled when he sat down at his desk. He smoothed his black and silver striped tie, then ran his hand over what was left of his hair to get the strands all going in the right direction, before reaching for his rimless reading glasses. His assistant came over the intercom before he could crack his first folder. “I’ve got Malcolm Frazier calling from Groom Lake, Mr. Secretary. Do you want to take him?”

He could almost feel the acid squirting into his stomach. These calls were killing him but they couldn’t be delegated. This was his issue and these were his decisions. He glanced at the clock: it was the middle of the night out there. The usual time for nightmares.

The Mercedes arrived at their last appointment in the late afternoon, pulling into a semicircular drive at a Mediterranean-style property.

“I think this is going to be the one!” the Realtor exclaimed with boundless energy. “I’ve saved the best for last.”

Kerry was dazed but happy. She checked her hair with her compact and said dreamily, “I loved all of them.”

Mark dragged himself behind them. A prissy looking listing agent was waiting, tapping his watch in admonition.

Mark was reminded to check his own.

Nelson Elder was making the loop with a marketing VP from the Wynn organization, the city fire commissioner, and the CEO of a local medical device company. He was a fair golfer, a fourteen-handicapper, but he was having an outstanding round, which was tipping him toward elation. He made the turn at forty-one, the best nine he’d shot in years.

The freshly sprinkled Bermuda fairways were the color of moist emeralds in the brown desert. The bent-grass greens were rolling true, and blessedly, he could do no wrong. Even though there was water galore on the course, he was keeping the ball straight and dry. The sun was dancing off the glassy surface of the Wynn Hotel, which towered over the country club, and as he lounged in his cart sipping a bottle of iced tea, listening to an artificial brook flowing and gurgling, he felt more satisfied and tranquil than he had in a very long while.

The Mediterranean villa on Hollyridge Drive was making Kerry crazy. She ran from room to glorious room-designer kitchen, step-down living room, formal dining room, library, media room, wine cellar, huge master suite with three other bedrooms-saying, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” and the Realtor at her heels cooing, “Didn’t I tell you! It’s all redone. Look at the details!”

Mark didn’t have the stomach for it. Under the suspicious gaze of the listing agent, he headed for the patio and sat down beside the sparkling water of the vanishing pool. The patio was flanked by manzanita bushes, and hummingbirds flitted on delicate baby-blue flowers. The vast canyon stretched below, the grid of streets indistinct in the afternoon light.

Over his shoulder, above the roofline, high on a distant ridge, the tops of the letters of the Hollywood sign were visible. This is what he’d wanted, he thought ruefully, what he dreamed he’d be doing when he made it as a writer, sitting by his pool, in the hills, under the sign. He just thought it would last longer than five minutes.

Kerry rushed out the French doors and almost wept at the view. “Mark, I love this one so much. I love it, I love it, I love it!”

“She loves it,” the Realtor added, coming up behind.

“How much?” Mark asked woodenly.

“They’re asking three-four, and I think that’s a good price. There’s a million-five in renovations…”

“We’ll take it.” He was expressionless.

“Mark!” Kerry screamed. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him a dozen times.

“Well, you’ve made two women extremely happy,” the Realtor said greedily. “Kerry tells me you’re a writer. I think you’re going to write a lot of great scripts sitting right beside this gorgeous pool! I’m going to submit your offer and call you tonight at your hotel!”

Kerry was snapping photos with her cell-phone camera. It didn’t sink in right away, but when Mark realized what was happening he sprang up and snatched it out of her hand. “Did you take any pictures before?”

“No! Why?”

“You turned the phone on just now?”

“Yes! What’s the big deal?”

He hit the off button. “You’re low on power. Mine’s dead. I’m trying to conserve in case we need to make a call.” He handed it back to her.

“Okay, silly.” She looked at him reproachfully, as if to say: Don’t be acting weird again. “Come and look inside with me! I’m so happy!”

Frazier was dozing at his desk when one of his men tapped him on his shoulder. He awoke with a thick snort.

“We got a ping from Hightower’s phone. It was on and off, real quick.”

“Where are they?”

“East Hollywood Hills.”

Frazier clawed his unshaven cheek. “Okay, we caught a break. Maybe we’ll get a second one. What’s DeCorso’s status?”

“He’s in position, waiting for authorization.”

Frazier closed his eyes again. “Wake me up when the Pentagon calls back.”

Elder was lining up his drive on the eighteenth hole. Back-dropping the green was a thirty-seven-foot-high waterfall, a magnificent way to finish a round. “What do you think,” he asked the Wynn exec. “Driver?”

“Oh yeah, let the big dog play, Nelson. You’ve been crushing it all day.”

“You know, if I par this, it’ll be the best round I ever shot.”

Hearing this, the fire captain and the CEO edged a little closer to check out the ball path.

“For Christ’s sake! Don’t jinx yourself!” the Wynn guy yelped.

Elder’s backswing was slow and flawless, and at the top of the arc-a moment before a bullet ripped through his skull, splattering the foursome with blood and brains-it occurred to him that life was extremely good.

DeCorso confirmed the kill through his sniper scope, then efficiently broke the weapon down, tossed it in a suit bag, and exited the eleventh floor hotel room with its desirable view of the pristine golf course.

When they got back to their suite, Kerry wanted to make love, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He begged off, blaming the sun, and retreated to take a shower. She kept nattering through the door, too excited to stop talking, while he let the powerful shower drown out the sound of his crying.

The Realtor had told Kerry that Cut, the restaurant in their hotel, was to die for, a comment that made him wince. She pleaded to go there for dinner, and anything she wanted, he was going to give her, though his fervent desire was to hide in their room.

She looked stunning in her red dress, and when they made their entry, heads turned to see if she was a celebrity. Mark carried his briefcase, so the betting-man scenario was an actress meeting her agent or lawyer. This skinny fellow was surely too homely to be her date, unless, of course, he was filthy rich.

They were seated at a window table under a massive skylight, which by dessert time would bring the moonlight flooding into the room.

She wanted to talk of nothing but the house. It was a dream come true-no, more than that, because, she exclaimed, she never dreamed such a place even existed. It was so high up it felt like being in a spaceship, like the UFO she’d seen as a girl. She was like a kid with her questions: when was he going to quit his job, when were they going to move, what kind of furniture would they buy, when should she start acting lessons, when was he going to start writing again? He would shrug or answer monosyllabically and stare out the window, and she’d race to the next thought.