James Patterson - 7th Heaven

While I held her, another part of my mind was turning it all over. We had Twilly in custody for the attempt on Yuki’s life, but the reason we’d tailed him was because of what he’d hinted to Yuki this morning: that he’d killed Michael Campion.

What he’d told Yuki in the last ten minutes contradicted that.

Conklin stooped beside us, said, “So this was all a trap? He set Yuki up to create an ending for his book ?”

“That’s what that psycho said.”

And he’d almost done it. Now the ending was him . His arrest, his trial, and, we could always hope, his conviction.

Yuki tried to speak, but ragged sounds came from her throat.

She was struggling to breathe.

“What did he give you, Yuki? Do you know what drug?”

“Water,” she said.

“The medics will give you water in a minute, honey.”

Yuki’s head was in my lap when the chopper’s arrival sounded overhead.

I looked down to shield my eyes – and saw a glint in the path. I shouted over the racket.

“Twilly drugged the water . Is that what you mean, Yuki? He put it in the water ?”

Yuki nodded. Moments later Conklin had bagged the evidence, two plastic water bottles, and Yuki was in a carry-lift up to the chopper’s belly.

HAWK AND PIDGE left the car around the corner from the huge Victorian house in Pacific Heights, the biggest in a neighborhood of impressive, multi-multimillion-dollar homes, all with stunning views of the bay.

Their target house was imposing and yet inviting, so American it was iconic – and at the same time, completely out of reach for everyone but the very wealthy.

The two young men looked up at the leaded windows, the cupolas, and the old trees banked around the house, separating it from the servant quarters over the garage and the neighbors on either side of the yard. They had studied the floor plans on the real estate brokers’ Web site and knew every corner of every floor. They were prepared, high on anticipation, and still cautious.

This was going to be their best kill and their last. They would make some memories tonight, leave their calling card, and fade out, blend back into their lives. But this night would never be forgotten . There would be headlines for weeks, movies, several of them. In fact, they were sure people would still be talking about this crime of all crimes into the next century.

“Do I look okay?” Pidge asked.

Hawk turned Pidge’s collar up, surveyed his friend’s outfit down to the shoes.

“You rock, buddy. You absolutely rock .”

“You too, man,” Pidge said.

They locked arms in the Roman forearm handshake, like Charlton Heston and Stephen Boyd in Ben-Hur .

“Ubi fumus,” said Hawk.

“Ibi ignis,” Pidge answered.

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

Pidge twisted the gold foil tight around the bottle of Cointreau, and then the two boys advanced side by side up the long stone walkway toward the front porch. There was a card taped to a glass panel on the front door. “To the members of the Press: Please, leave us alone.”

Hawk rang the bell.

Bing-bong.

He could see the gray-haired man through the small-paned living room windows, followed his silhouette as the famous figure walked through the house, turning on the lights in each room, making his way to the front door.

And then the door opened.

“Are you the boys who called?” Connor Campion asked.

“Yes, sir,” Pidge said.

“And what are your names?”

“Why don’t you call me Pidge for now, and he’s Hawk. We have to be careful. What we know could get us killed.”

“You’ve got to trust us,” Hawk said. “We were friends of Michael’s, and we have some information. Like I said on the phone. We can’t keep quiet any longer.”

Connor Campion looked the two boys up and down, decided either they were full of crap or maybe, just maybe, they’d tell him something he needed to know. They’d want money, of course.

He swung the door open wide and invited them inside.

THE SIXTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD MAN led the two boys through the vestibule and living room, into his private library. He switched on some lights: the stained-glass Tiffany lamp on the desk he’d used in the governor’s mansion, the down-lighting above the floor-to-ceiling bookcases of law books.

“Is your wife at home?” the one called Hawk asked him.

“She’s had a very stressful day,” Campion said. “She couldn’t wait up. Can I get you boys something to drink?”

“Actually, we brought you this,” Pidge said, handing over the bottle of Cointreau. Connor thanked the boy, slid down the foil bag, and looked at the label.

“Thanks for this. I’ll open this for you if you like, or maybe you’d like something else. I’m having scotch.”

“We’re good, sir,” said Pidge.

Campion put the bottle next to Michael’s picture on the ornately carved mantelpiece, then bent to open the bowed glass doors of the vitrine he used as a liquor cabinet. He took out a bottle of Chivas and a glass. When he turned, he saw the gun in Hawk’s hand.

Campion’s muscles clenched as he stared at the revolver; then he looked up at the smirk on Pidge’s face.

“Are you crazy? You’re holding me up?”

Behind Pidge, Hawk’s eyes were bright, smiling with anticipation, as he took a reel of fishing line out of his back pocket. Horror came over Campion as suspicion bloomed in his mind. He turned his back to the boys, said neutrally, “I guess I won’t be having this.” He made a show of putting the Chivas back inside the cabinet, while feeling around the shelf with the flat of his hand.

“We have to tie you up, sir, make it look like a robbery. It’s for our own protection,” Pidge said.

“And you need to get Mrs. Campion down here,” Hawk added firmly. “She’ll want to hear what we have to say.”

Campion whipped around, pointed his SIG at Hawk’s chest, and squeezed the trigger. Bang .

Hawk’s face registered surprise as he looked down at his pink shirt, saw the blood.

“Hey,” said Hawk.

Didn’t these punks know that a man like him would have guns stashed everywhere? Campion fired at Hawk again, and the boy dropped to his knees. He stared up at the older man and returned fire, his shot shattering the mirror over the fireplace. Then Hawk collapsed onto the rug facedown.

Pidge had frozen at the sound of the shooting. Now he screamed, “ You shit! You crazy old shit! Look what you did !”

Pidge backed out of the room, and when he cleared the library’s doorway, he turned and raced for the front door. Campion walked over to Hawk, kicked the gun out of his outstretched hand, lost his footing, and fell, hitting his chin against the edge of the desk. He pulled himself up using the desk leg, then stumbled out to the vestibule and pressed the intercom that connected to the caretaker’s cottage.

“Glen,” he yelled. “Call 911. I shot someone!”

By the time Campion reached the front walk, Pidge was gone. The caretaker came running across the yard with a rifle, and Valentina stood in the front doorway, her eyes huge, asking him what in God’s name had happened.

Lights winked on in neighboring houses, and the wolfhound next door barked.

But there was no sign of Pidge.

Campion clamped his fist around the grip of his gun and shouted into the dark, “ You killed my son, you son of a bitch, didn’t you? You killed my son !”