Kelley Armstrong - Omens

“You’re okay,” the girl whispered.

“S-someone was here,” Anita said. “Did you see him?”

Silence.

“Did you see anyone ?” she said.

“There was a chick and a guy,” the girl said. “Blond chick. Big dude. We passed them.”

The lawyer and the girl. Anita’s mouth went dry.

“When? Where?”

“Few minutes ago. Down the road. Darnell nearly smacked into the guy coming around the corner. Scared the crap outta him.”

The boy grunted. “Dude wasn’t that big.”

The girl chuckled.

“Anyone else?” Anita said. “Anyone running away just now?”

“Nah.”

“No, sorry, ma’am.”

Anita cursed under her breath. Had she imagined the whole thing? Memories of the acid attack sending her brain into a tailspin?

She brushed her fingers over the spot on her arm and winced with the jolt of pain. No, someone had been here. Someone had warned her. But this time, she wasn’t going to be frightened off.

We decided to drive to Fort Wayne, Indiana, to see Edgar Chandler, Evans’s former thesis adviser, and his boss during his years with the CIA.

“Does it do any good to suggest I drop you in Cainsville?” Gabriel asked.

“No.”

“May I find a hotel for you in Fort Wayne?”

“No.” I glanced over at his profile, dim in the gathering darkness. “Chandler is eighty-six years old. I’m not too worried.”

“He’s a former CIA agent in possession of potentially damaging information. Someone killed Joshua Gray, and while I’m not convinced the same someone killed Peter Evans and Jan Gunderson, I do believe Gray’s death is connected to what Peter told him.”

“But you don’t think Chandler himself killed Gray. That’s why you insisted on getting his contact information. Because he’s an old man and you plan to surprise him at night before he has a chance to retreat or get backup.”

“That doesn’t mean I think the excursion is without risk.”

A few more minutes in silence. Then he said, “I’m going to stop by my condo. I should change my clothing.”

“Sure. I wouldn’t mind a few minutes in a bathroom, if that’s okay. Past time to run a brush through my hair.”

A pause. A long one.

“Or if you don’t want me using your bathroom…”

“No, no. I was just thinking, we’re close to the highway. My apartment is out of the way. I don’t really need to change.”

“Go. I’ll stay in the car.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine. If we leave now, we’ll be there before midnight, which is preferable.”

So Gabriel didn’t want me seeing his apartment. Not the inside, at least, since he’d seemed willing to take me as far as the building, meaning he wasn’t secretly bankrupt and living in his Jag. Maybe the place was a mess. Hell, given how little I knew of Gabriel’s personal life, he could have a wife and kids there. I doubted it, but you never knew. None of my business, though I would have liked to clean up.

Edgar Chandler’s house was just outside the Fort Wayne city limits. It wasn’t easy to find, and it was past eleven before Gabriel located the long, dark drive with a dimly lit house at the distant end.

There was no way to “sneak” up that lane with the car, so he parked it a quarter mile away. I had my door open and feet on the ground before I realized he hadn’t turned off the ignition.

“I should have left you in Cainsville,” he said.

I sighed.

“If you were any other client, I would have come alone.”

“If I was any other client, I wouldn’t be investigating with you in the first place.”

“True. However…” He stared out into the night. “When I agreed to let you join me, I thought your enthusiasm would end with the first pointless interview. It didn’t. That impressed me and might have led me to allow and even encourage your participation when I should not have.” He nodded toward the distant house. “Case in point.”

“Because I’m the client, so you feel responsible for my safety.”

“If something were to happen to you on this investigation, I would feel … guilty.”

“I know the risks.”

“Do you?”

I met his gaze. “Yes. Maybe you should have left me in Cainsville, for your own peace of mind. But I’m here now and you know there’s no sense leaving me in the car because I won’t stay.”

More staring into the night, then without glancing over, he said, “Do you have your gun?”

“Of course. It’s in my purse.”

“Put it in your pocket.”

He opened the door and climbed out.

As we neared the lane, Gabriel caught my shoulder and pointed to the lampposts flanking the drive. The lights were turned off and I couldn’t see what was worrying him until he whispered “security cameras.” When I squinted, I made out pinpoints of red light just under the lanterns. I followed him across the lawn instead.

Edgar Chandler lived alone. He’d been married, but divorced his wife a half century ago. Two of his three children had predeceased him. The youngest lived in Tucson. Our research suggested Chandler employed a housekeeper/cook, but she lived in the city. He was a man who valued his privacy, even past the age when it was wise to live alone.

The porch lights had been left on, along with one interior light, which illuminated the drawn curtains on a huge bay window. The rest of the house was dark.

Before we reached the porch, Gabriel took out his cell. He would phone Chandler, tell him why we were here, and ask for ten minutes of his time. Yes, Chandler could call for backup, but it would take more than ten minutes for anyone to arrive.

Gabriel began to dial. Then his chin shot up, eyes narrowing.

“What—?”

I barely got the word out before a shadow lunged from the bushes behind Gabriel. I pulled out my gun and started to shout a warning, but Gabriel had the guy on the ground before I could.

I swung my gun behind me. I don’t know why. It was as if I’d heard something and reacted before I could process the sound. And on the other end of the barrel? An old man in a housecoat, with a gun aimed at Gabriel.

“Drop the gun now!” I barked.

When he didn’t move, I fired into the roses beside him.

“I said, drop it!”

“Oh my,” he said. There was no panic in his voice. No fear. “I do believe you mean it. I’m putting my weapon on the ground.”

He laid the gun on the porch slowly, as if the movement took effort. I readjusted my grip on the weapon, but my hands were dry and steady. Shock, I think, more than nerves of steel. I probably looked a little ridiculous, poised there like a badass movie cop. No one was laughing, though. Not the old man, straightening now. Not the big guy lying facedown in the grass, his own weapon pointed at the back of his head, a foot on his back. And not the bigger guy pointing that weapon at him.

“Now kick the gun over to me,” I said to the old man.

“My dear, I’m eighty-six years old. I cannot ‘kick’ anything without landing on my posterior and breaking a hip.”

“Back away then.”

He did. I retrieved the gun. It was a monster—at least .45 caliber. Even I’d fall on my ass if I fired it. I handed the gun to Gabriel and got a curt nod.

“You can consider yourself fired, Anderson,” Chandler said to the man on the ground. “I can’t have a bodyguard who gets himself thrown ambushing a trespasser.”

“I told ya I wanted to get a better look at them first,” the man whined. “I couldn’t see nothing in the dark.”

Chandler turned to me. “As we are now disarmed, I’ll ask that your bodyguard releases mine, and allows him to regain some semblance of dignity before I send him slinking into the night.”