Dean Koontz - Breathless

“This afternoon.”

“As I told you, I’m only in Seattle on business until Wednesday noon. When will you do the job?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Tuesday evening.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Excellent. I’ll be having drinks and dinner with a client from six o’clock till eleven or later.”

“Your wife looks nice,” Neems said.

“Yes, she does, she’s a beautiful woman, but I should never have married. I’m not the marrying kind.”

“I want her.”

“You want her? No. Not a good idea, Rudy. You were acquitted, but your DNA is still on file from the court-ordered blood sample, it’s still in the system, you don’t dare leave semen behind.”

“I won’t.”

Four years earlier, in California, Rudy stood trial for the murder of a fourteen-year-old girl. Liddon was his defense attorney.

“It’s too risky,” Liddon reasoned, “because I got you off in the Hardy case. They find your DNA, they’ll know I hired this done.”

He had not merely won a not-guilty verdict for Neems, but he had also made two straight-arrow police detectives appear so corrupt that they were ultimately fired from the force.

A network-TV news magazine did a two-hour feature on the case that brought Liddon millions in business. The camera loved him. He was a natural. Now and then he watched a DVD of the program just to remind himself of how good he looked.

“Judy didn’t have any.”

Judy was Judith Hardy, the fourteen-year-old who was kidnapped and raped.

Liddon said, “Didn’t have any what?”

“Any of my DNA.”

“She was largely dissolved by acid in a pit on the beach. The best forensic team wasn’t going to get anything from that body.”

“So I burn Kirsten.”

Kirsten was Liddon’s wife.

“Fill the bathtub with gasoline,” said Neems.

Looking past Rudy Neems, Liddon surveyed the foggy fairway. No one was in sight. The course didn’t open for at least another hour. Nevertheless, this was taking too long. To minimize the chance of their being seen together, they needed to meet in places as discreet as this and keep the meetings brief.

“Bathtub of gasoline?” Liddon said, boggled by the flamboyance.

“Sink her, burn her,” said Neems.

“I’ve got a lot of expensive art, antiques.”

“And a fire-sprinkler system.”

“Still. A bathtub of gasoline.”

“Studied it,” Neems said.

Liddon looked at the manila envelope full of photos and details about the house, which Neems had returned to him.

“You’ll lose the bathroom,” Neems said.

“Obviously.”

“Master bedroom. Some attic.”

“What about water damage?”

“Sprinklers only go off in rooms with heat.”

“Ah. So there’s no widespread water damage. Smoke?”

“I’ll close the bathroom and bedroom doors behind me.”

Neems was as dependable as he was soft-spoken. He thought things through, cared about details.

“I guess the alarm system will get the fire department there in a hurry,” Liddon said.

“Probably under four minutes. They’re nearby.”

Because the apron of the putting green sloped up slightly to the surrounding fairway, the contours of the land pulled faint currents of morning air into the depressed green, where they circled, circled, drawing in a thicker knee-high scrim of fog that moved around Liddon and Neems, a slow-motion whirlpool, around and around.

“You really want Kirsten that much?” Liddon asked.

Neems nodded. “I gotta have her.”

“How long will you… take with her?”

“Two hours. Three.”

“You’re confident about this?”

“Absolutely.”

“It’s kind of wild,” Liddon said.

“So wild, it’s not the way hired killings are done.”

“Good point. Well… okay, then.”

Neems’s smile was so sweet, he would still be good for Christmas pageants. “Two things. First-you sure about Benny?”

Benny was Benjamin Wallace, Liddon’s three-year-old son.

“I’m no better at parenting than marriage,” Liddon said.

“There’s nannies.”

“I’d either end up with some harridan who ruins the mood of the house or some young thing who files a phony civil suit against me for sexual harassment. Is Benny a problem for you?”

“Why would he be a problem? He’s three years old.”

“I didn’t mean a physical problem.”

“I’m fine with it,” Neems said.

“All right. Then it’s set.”

“I just wanted to be sure you were okay with it.”

“It is what it is,” Liddon said. “What’s the second thing?”

“Just my curiosity.”

“I’ve got to get going.”

“You come to me for this-you had to know I did Judy Hardy.”

“Obviously.”

“When did you figure it out?”

“Before I took your case,” Liddon said.

“You did my case pro bono.”

“You didn’t have any money.”

“Thought you defended me because you believed.”

“In your innocence? No. Never.”

“So you did it pro bono because…?”

“What do you think, Rudy?”

“In case one day you needed someone like me.”

“There you go.”

“Were you married when you took my case?”

“Only a few months.”

“Did you know then that maybe…”

“No, no. I loved her then.”

“That’s sad.”

Liddon shrugged. “Life.”

“You do a lot of pro bono work.”

“I try to give what time I can.”

“So you have others like me?”

“A couple. If I need them.”

“Well, I want you to know I’m grateful.”

“Thank you, Rudy.”

“Not just for back then, but for this opportunity, too.”

“I know you’re meticulous. Now I better be going.” He took two steps across the green, toward the woods, then turned to look once more at the groundskeeper. “I’m a little curious, too.”

“About what?”

“Since Judy Hardy, have you…”

“Yes.”

“Often?” Liddon asked.

“I make myself wait between.”

“Is it difficult-waiting?”

“Yes. But then it’s sweeter when I do one.”

“How long is the wait?”

“Six months. Eight.”

“Have you ever come under suspicion again?”

“No. And I never will.”

“You’re a smart and careful man. That’s why I took your case.”

“Besides, people like me,” said Neems.

“Yes. They do. That’s always a plus.”

Liddon continued across the green, across the rough, to the footpath through the woods. He was two hundred yards from the most terrifying encounter of his life.

Henry.”

The dream was a montage of action close-ups: long bare limbs thrashing, blond hair tossing, red-nailed hands clutching with desire and striking out defensively, ripe mouth open in rapture but then shaping a silent scream of sublime terror.

As he woke, Henry Rouvroy thought he heard someone whispering his name.

“Henry.”

In sleep, he had slid onto his side. Now he sat up, his back against the closet wall.

The shotgun. He had let go of it. He fumbled in the dark, found the 20-gauge.

More likely than not, he dreamed the voice. He listened but heard nothing.

Beyond the open door, the bedroom was brighter than when he had taken up his post in the closet, but it wasn’t as bright as it would have been with a lamp on.

Dawn had come. Morning sun seeped around the edges of the closed draperies.

Wincing, flexing his left foot to defeat a cramp, Henry rose and moved cautiously to the doorway.

Again he listened. After a silence, he heard the thinnest of whistles-and his heart clenched for a moment, until he realized that the sound was his own flatulence.