David Morrell - The naked edge

He still had the newspaper from the waste bin. When he felt that it was safe to stop, he planned to study the personal ads and buy another used motorcycle. There was always the risk that he'd be recognized, but he would sense if that happened and make sure the man selling the motorcycle couldn't warn anyone. He didn't have enough cash to buy as good a bike as the Yamaha he'd abandoned in Mississippi, but then the bike didn't need to function long. His destination was only five hours away.

After Cavanaugh cancelled yet another assignment and set down the phone, he sensed the receptionist standing in his office doorway. "Yes?"

"You had a dozen more calls."

Exhausted, Cavanaugh glanced at his watch. The time was shortly after five p.m., and he had several more clients to talk to. "Anything urgent?"

"They all seem urgent."

At the desk, Jamie typed computer keys as William spoke into a phone, arranging an auction for the Gulfstream.

"One caller's more insistent than the others," the receptionist said, holding up a list. "So far, he contacted us eight times."

"Must be a really angry creditor. What's his name?"

"Lance Sawyer."

Cavanaugh straightened.

Overhearing, Jamie frowned. "But isn't that the name of the old man who taught you and Carl how to make knives?"

Cavanaugh grabbed the list and pressed the phone number on it.

William looked puzzled. "What's going on?"

Cavanaugh activated the speaker function on his phone. On the other end, the phone rang only once, its tinny buzz filling the room.

Immediately, the three of them heard a man's voice. "Hey, Aaron, how's it going?"

Cavanaugh clenched his fists as he leaned over the conference table. "Fabulous."

"Not likely. I read in the newspaper that you spent time in the slammer yesterday. Sorry to learn about all the trouble you're having."

"Try to sound sincere." Cavanaugh watched Jamie and William approach the phone, listening to the smooth voice that came from its speaker.

"Is the FBI trying to locate where this call's originating from, or are you and the government not on such great terms any longer?"

"To tell the truth, Carl, I was so eager to talk to you, I didn't think to alert them."

"The truth's always nice, not to mention rare, coming from you. Half the directional work's already been done for them anyhow. They know I'm in Chicago."

"Chicago?"

"Haven't you been watching television? The Carl Duran show?"

Instantly, Jamie went to a cabinet in a corner and turned on a television.

"Afraid I missed it," Cavanaugh said.

"Oh, it's getting big ratings. Lots of action, suspense, and mystery."

The television was tuned to CNN, where a reporter stood in what looked to be a train station, nervous-looking passengers going past. The words LIVE FROM CHICAGO appeared at the bottom of the screen. The program changed to video from a security camera mounted in a corner. The image showed passengers crossing the terminal. The picture became magnified, focusing on a man who resembled Carl (the cheeks were fuller) as he approached an exit. A policeman hurried toward him. A flash filled the screen. Even with the television's sound at low volume, Cavanaugh heard a powerful detonation. The crowd screamed, charging toward the doors.

"I'm watching it now," Cavanaugh said. "Nicely done."

"That's high praise, Aaron, considering that you don't believe anybody can do anything better than you."

"I always admitted you made knives better, and you're certainly a better swimmer."

"Gosh, all these compliments are going to my head."

"Turn yourself in, Carl."

"Right."

"You can't hide forever."

"I can give it a try. That abortion-clinic bomber lasted five years in the woods."

"Freezing his ass in the winter. Living off acorns and lizards in the summer."

"Yeah, good buddy, but he wasn't trained the way you and I were."

"I'm serious. Turn yourself in, Carl. I can arrange for you to do it safely."

"Golly. I appreciate your concern."

"You can bargain with the authorities. Give them information about the bastards who hired you. Negotiate for a bearable prison sentence."

"Don't I wish. See, the problem is, I don't have anything to reveal. I dealt with one guy. He told me nothing about his organization. I don't even know what his real name was."

"Was?"

"He's dead. An unfortunate plane explosion. Aaron, don't bullshit me. We both know, if I turn myself in, the government'll go for the death penalty. A thousand people are dead, for God's sake. The government'll snuff me the way it did that guy who blew up the federal building in Oklahoma City. I don't like that option a whole lot. My only chance is to play the game."

"Game?"

Carl lied. He wasn't anywhere near Chicago. His newly acquired motorcycle had taken him two-hundred-and-fifty miles west, where he now sat on a picnic bench, watching a shallow creek meander through autumn-brilliant trees while he spoke to the phone.

"The game, Aaron. That's all there is. That's all there ever was." A chill wind bit into him. "So here's the deal. I'm offering you one last chance to play. Tomorrow night. The usual place. But if you don't show up or you bring help, you'll piss me off even more than you already have. If you betray me again, I'll come to you, but the next time, you won't get fair warning. It'd be nice to meet your lovely wife."

Through the phone, Carl heard a noise as if a hand slammed a table.

"Now you're threatening my wife?" Aaron shouted. "You cocksucker!"

"That's the spirit, Aaron."

Carl broke the connection.

Hearing the dead air, Cavanaugh slowly lowered the phone and deactivated its speaker function. His heart pounded with rage. Gradually, he became aware of Jamie and William staring at him.

"'One last chance to play. Tomorrow night. The usual place'," Jamie said. "He's challenging you to a fight."

"Sounds like it."

"One on one."

"That seems to be the idea."

"Do you know the place he means?" William asked.

Cavanaugh thought for a moment. "Yes, I believe I do."

"Where?"

Cavanaugh didn't answer.

"You're not seriously thinking about accepting the challenge," Jamie wanted to know.

"I hate him so much. Everything he's done to us. You have no idea how much I'd like to."

"But," Jamie said, "you won't."

"You heard him. He's giving me a chance at him. If I don't take it, his target will be you."

"Not if you phone Mosely and Rutherford and tell them about this," William said. "It'll go a long way toward getting the FBI on your side again. They'll order the place-wherever it is-surrounded. A SWAT team will take care of this."

"But what if they can't. The place I think Carl means, there are too many ways for him to see if I betrayed him and brought help. Too many ways to escape. I'm willing to bet my life, but not Jamie's."

"Don't I have something to say about that? What if he wins?"

"Then he'll leave you alone. But he isn't going to win."

"Did he ever win before?"

"When we were kids."

"Well, you're not kids any longer! If the FBI doesn't get him, we'll deal with the consequences together. But I won't let you use me as an excuse to satisfy your hate and possibly get yourself killed."

Cavanaugh studied her.

"William," he finally said. "I assume it's easier for you to negotiate in person than on the phone."

"That's correct."

"Then arrange a meeting with Mosely and John as soon as possible." Cavanaugh picked up the phone and made a call of his own. When a voice answered, he said, "Get the Gulfstream ready to fly in an hour… Selling it? Not just yet."