William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

The man’s eyes did not open, but Travis saw them move under the eyelids—a sign of life, however slight.

He cut the ropes with a pocketknife he’d picked up at the pawnshop. After the man was free, he hauled him out of the steaming water.

It was at just that moment, when Travis’s arms were wrapped around the body and there was nothing he could do to defend himself, that he heard quiet footsteps immediately behind him. He felt a heavy blow on the top of his head, and before he passed out, he had a brief sensation of his face plunging into scalding hot water.

63

5:30 P.M.

THE SHORTER, BEEFIER OF the two men checked his watch, then frowned. “I don’t think he’s coming.”

“He’ll come,” Staci said defiantly. “I know he will.”

“Just a few more hours till midnight.”

“Plenty of time.” Despite her outward show of strength, Staci was scared to death. Why was Travis taking so long? Why wasn’t he here yet?

They were in a crummy hotel room somewhere in Dallas—Staci and the two men who grabbed her outside Aunt Marnie’s house. There were two other men in an adjoining room who popped in from time to time. Staci didn’t know anything about any of them, except that they all looked like crooks and they were all carrying big guns.

After she had regained consciousness, she had found herself tied to a stiff-backed, uncomfortable chair. They hadn’t let her move since.

“Maybe he didn’t get the message,” Staci suggested.

“Unlikely. It was in the paper, right?”

The tall man with the long scar down the side of his face nodded. “My man at the newspaper never fails me.

“Maybe Travis doesn’t have time to read the papers,” Staci suggested. “He’s been real busy.”

“If I were gettin’ the press coverage he’s gettin’, I’d read the paper,” the shorter man said. “Wouldn’t you, Kramer?”

The tall man’s eyes widened. In one sudden, savage motion he clubbed the man on the side of his face.

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “Jesus Christ! What was that for?”

“Names,” Kramer whispered under his breath.

“Oh, shit. I didn’t think.” He looked down at Staci.

“ ’Course, that isn’t his real name, you know. We all use aliases around here.”

Kramer rolled his eyes. “Unlike you, she ain’t a complete moron.” He cast his eyes down at the girl. “You just signed her death certificate.”

Staci only understood about a fourth of what the two men said, but she fully understood the import of that last remark. “What did he call you? I didn’t even hear it. And I wouldn’t remember it if I had. I’ve got a real short attention span. Really. It’s certified and everything.”

“It ain’t gonna make much difference, in the end,” Kramer said grimly. “Even if Byrne does show up—”

“He will. I know he will.”

Kramer raised an eyebrow. “Then what’s takin’ so long?”

“I don’t know, but I know there’s a reason.”

“I think Byrne has deserted you.”

“He has not!”

“Maybe I screwed up. Maybe he never cared about you.”

Staci’s face flushed. “You geekwad .”

The short man raised his fists eagerly. “She can’t talk to you like that, boss. Should I hit her?”

“Of course not. Idiot.” Kramer stepped forward and, just as suddenly as before, swung his fist into Staci’s face.

Afterward he rubbed his hand and smiled. “Rank has its privileges.”

Staci began to cry. Her teeth and jaws ached; she had accidentally bitten her tongue.

“Stop bawlin’!” Kramer barked.

Staci tried, but she couldn’t. It hurt too bad.

“Fine. Gag her.” The short man stuffed a towel in Staci’s mouth.

The door to the adjoining room opened, and a third man leaned in. “Simmons just called in,” he said, looking at Kramer. “He’s been talking to Mario.”

Kramer’s eyebrows rose. “What does Mario want?”

“He wants you to come to his home immediately. Didn’t explain why. He left an address.”

“Wow!” the short man exclaimed. “I ain’t never been invited to his home. I didn’t think anyone got to go. What do you suppose happened?”

“I dunno,” Kramer murmured. “But it must be bad. He wouldn’t call me unless the whole operation was in trouble.” He grabbed his coat. “I’m leavin’.”

“Fine,” the short man said. “I’ll watch the girl.”

“No. Take her to the CEO.”

“Really?”

Kramer nodded. “You know where he lives?”

“Sure, but—why?”

“If Mario is in danger, our CEO also may be threatened. You will deliver this invaluable insurance policy to him.”

“Should I stay there with her?”

“No. She isn’t going anywhere. You’re needed here.”

“What if Byrne shows up and there’s no girl?”

Kramer made a steeple with his fingers. “What does it matter, really? We can kill him just as easily, whether she’s here or not.”

64

5:45 P.M.

WHEN TRAVIS AWOKE, HE was lying faceup, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure where he was. The only things he could be certain of were that he wasn’t in heaven and he wasn’t in the overheated hot tub.

He touched his face; it felt tender and raw. Probably swollen and burned, too, but at least all the parts still seemed to function.

He rolled slightly to one side, sending shooting pains up and down his abdomen. Never mind, he thought to himself. I’m not drowning, and I’m not being burned alive. Maybe I’ll just lie here for a moment.

He heard a soft rhythmic sound behind him—steady breathing. Twisting his head, he saw Cavanaugh hunched over the man he had dragged out of the hot tub. And—what the hell? She was kissing him!

He rolled his eyes to the back of his head. What an idiot he was sometimes. She wasn’t kissing him—she was giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. And it was working. Travis could see water spewing out of the man’s mouth, and could see his arms and legs beginning to move.

An intense aching radiated through Travis’s skull, reminding him that he’d been clubbed over the head. Cavanaugh must’ve hauled him out of the tub. Cavanaugh seemed to have everything under control. He’d just remain still and try to pull himself together. Who knew—maybe he could get some mouth-to-mouth for himself.

About half an hour later Mario sat on a beanbag chair in the rec room hunched over a half-filled brandy snifter. Travis pressed a fully filled ice pack to his forehead. Cavanaugh stood between them and listened.

“Moroconi hates me,” Mario murmured. He spoke in short, breathy bursts, a few syllables at a time. “He left me to die. Must’ve clubbed you on his way out.”

“What did he want?” Cavanaugh asked.

“He wanted an address. One he couldn’t find on the list.”

“There it is again,” Travis said. “That damn list that everyone wants. What is it?”

“It’s a list of squealers who were given new identities by the Federal Witness Relocation Program. Once the witnesses are relocated, there are supposed to be no traces of their former lives. No trail to be followed. But someone in Bureau 99 kept a list.”

“Why?”

Mario inhaled the brandy fumes. “Don’t ask me. Some overzealous bureaucrat, probably. Maybe it was necessary to forward payments, to make periodic checks. All I know is that the list exists. And Moroconi got it.”

“Why did he want it?”

“He’s looking for someone. Someone who turned state’s evidence four years ago. Jack.” He paused. “Moroconi wants revenge against Jack.”

“Wasn’t Jack on the list?”

“He was, but the information was incorrect.” Mario swirled the brandy around his mouth and down his throat, savoring the artificial comfort. “The FBI are not the only ones who know how to relocate.”