David ed. - Face Off (2014) Anthology

“I tend to avoid cops—nothing personal. It’s just the less they know about me, the better.”

“You have warrants out on you?”

Jack shrugged. “Need a name on a warrant, don’t you?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Well, then, I guess not. As for the here and now, we should know how things pan out by tomorrow. You know a place I can bunk for the night?”

Quinn smiled, not at all grimly then. “Yeah, I know a great place. Right on Royal. And when Danni wants to know why I’m beat to hell, I can say, ‘You should see the other guy’—and then show her that other guy.”

Jack laughed. He could get to like this Quinn.

It didn’t take long to reach the center of the French Quarter. Jack was impressed with the historic building with the sign that read THE CHESHIRE CAT.

But they didn’t enter by the front. Quinn hit a button on his dash, a garage door opened, and they moved through a beautiful garden courtyard to enter by a side door.

A woman was waiting there, tall and lithe, with a giant dog by her side.

“That’s just Wolf,” Quinn told him, greeting the dog, who accepted Jack right away because his master suggested he do so.

Quinn seemed a little awkward as he greeted the woman.

“Danni, you’re back early.”

“So I am,” she said, staring from Quinn to Jack and then back at Quinn again. “I guess you two should come in and get cleaned up—and patched up. And I guess you’re going to tell me that I should see the other guys?”

Jack looked at Quinn. They both smiled.

Jack said, “We are the other guys.”

“Interesting,” Danni said. “I’ll put on some tea and get out the whiskey. I’m looking forward to hearing all about it.”

Normally Jack would be looking for a beer, but after tonight, whiskey was definitely in order.

IN THE MORNING, QUINN TRACKED down Larue by phone and learned he was at the hospital. He rounded up Jack and drove him there. The front desk gave them the room number and they headed up.

No surprise to find his old friend standing next to the bed where Chastain lay heavily sedated. His left arm was thickly bandaged—and Quinn noticed with a start it was much shorter than it should be.

“Quinn,” Larue said, shaking his head. “I guess I expected to see you here at some point. Damnedest thing. Chastain—he of untold riches—suddenly went mad and cut off his own hand. You know anything about that? And who’s your friend?”

“Jack. Jack, this is Detective Larue.”

“Jack?”

“Just Jack.”

Larue studied him a moment, then shrugged. “Anything I need to worry about?” he asked Quinn.

Quinn stared at the pale, unconscious man. “He’s going to make it?”

“Minus his hand and wrist.”

“How did he wind up here?”

“He’s lucky he’s alive. Beat cop found him wandering the streets, mumbling incoherently. I was afraid we had a psycho out there somewhere, chopping on people. But according to the EMT who worked with him first, Chastain said he cut his own hand off because it had ‘betrayed’ him. Not sure what the hell that means—bastard wasn’t even drunk or on anything. Tox reports came back clean.”

“Anybody find the hand?”

Larue shook his head. “Gone. Dog might have run off with it. Or a big rat.”

“How about some jewelry?” Jack said. “Like, oh, say, a bracelet?”

Larue stared at them both. “What bracelet?”

Hell. That meant the Cidsev Nelesso was still out there.

Quinn shrugged and said, “Well, I was just thinking. If you cut your hand off at the wrist, it might have been because you had something on the wrist that you couldn’t get off. You know—something that had ‘betrayed’ you.”

“I’ve got cops looking in Dumpsters—no hand,” Larue said. “Strange as hell, huh? Should I be looking for a bracelet?”

“If you find the hand, you’ll find something with it, I would think,” Quinn said.

Larue shook his head and glanced at both men. “You make sure I know if there’s something I should be worrying about, Quinn. Mr.—Mr. Jack, enjoy the city.”

Larue walked by them.

Quinn watched as Jack paused at Chastain’s bedside. “What goes around,” he murmured.

Quinn nodded. “No one dead. That works for me.”

And he now realized why he’d sensed nothing wrong about the bracelet: there hadn’t been anything wrong until it was activated.

Jack said, “Where the hell do you think the hand and bracelet could be?”

Quinn had an idea but kept it to himself.

“Need a ride to the airport?”

Jack shook his head. “The TSA and I aren’t on cordial terms.”

Now that was interesting.

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t have a private jet on hand like Chastain.”

“Didn’t figure you did. Guess I’ll rent a car.”

Quinn figured that meant whatever ID Jack was carrying was bogus.

“So, your ID’s good enough for Hertz but not TSA?”

Jack gave him a long look before shrugging. “It’s passed TSA before but I’m not one for tempting fate.”

“Long drive.”

Jack sighed. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to it, but I guess it’s a way to see some country.”

“I take it you don’t leave New York much?”

Jack shrugged. “What for?”

Quinn had to laugh. He felt the same about New Orleans.

Traffic was light. Thirty minutes later Quinn dropped Jack at the airport Hertz office.

“If you’re ever in New Orleans again,” Quinn said.

Jack shook his hand. “Don’t hold your breath.”

MADAME DE MEDICI STOOD WITHOUT moving, admiring the Cidsev Nelesso. It remained clamped around Jules Chastain’s flesh where his hand, wrist, and distal forearm lay on a metal tray in her private museum.

She had told Jules last night that she’d be quite happy to see it on his wrist, and that had been true. In fact, she would always see it there. Chastain’s extremity had to be properly preserved, of course—she knew the ancient ways of curing flesh. After that, she would place the ensemble in the glass display case she had prepared for it.

She was not tempted to wear it—not in the least. She was no fool. But she was delighted to have it back in her collection.

She smoothed back a length of elegant dark hair, quite satisfied for the moment.

Chastain had wanted the Cidsev Nelesso so badly.

Now he would wear it.

Forever.

RAYMOND KHOURY

VS. LINWOOD BARCLAY

Raymond Khoury’s decision to use Sean Reilly for this short story was an easy one. He’d first brought the FBI agent to life when, in 1996, as a budding screenwriter, he’d written his third (unproduced) screenplay—a modern conspiracy thriller that harkened back to the days of the Crusades called The Last Templar .

He then experienced the euphoria of being offered a small fortune by a major New York publisher to turn his screenplay into a novel, only then to be gutted when the publisher said they’d like him to make a “small change” to the story.

Let’s lose the religion. It’s boring. Turn the Templars’ secret into gold, jewels, a real treasure.

Raymond decided that advice was no good, so he nixed the deal.

Smart? Gutsy? Foolish?

Maybe all three.

But interest in the screenplay did trigger a screenwriting career. So, for several years, Sean Reilly remained locked away in a dormant file on Raymond’s hard drive while he worked on movies and television shows. Then, in 2006, Sean Reilly was finally allowed to breathe again in The Last Templar. Raymond decided to write the story for himself, religion and all. The result was a global success, selling over five million copies in more than forty languages.