Authors: Eileen Dreyer
By the time Magnum started growling, Molly was sitting on the floor in the family room staring at the Picasso. She should get up, she thought vaguely. Magnum was probably telling her he needed to go out.
Well, hell, she thought. Let yourself out, you silly mutt.
So, Pablo,
she silently addressed the painting her parents had disliked so much.
You know a lot about fury and grief huh? Wait till you see the painting I'm gonna do after all this is over.
Magnum growled again, more urgently. Molly managed to turn her head in that direction, because suddenly she remembered that she'd forgotten to set the alarm again, and the press was still hunting for a quote. But she didn't see a reporter, and she didn't see Magnum. She saw two men standing in the doorway from the family room into the kitchen. One tall and big, the other medium and big. Wearing ski masks.
She laughed. "Oh, for God's sake. Get a real job."
"Get up," one said in a snarl.
Molly laughed even harder. "Honey, I'm as up as I'm gonna get."
Actually, she'd passed euphoria a long time ago and was swinging over the top of this particular Ferris wheel ride straight for depression. Like she needed any help.
She shouldn't do this, she thought, a lot too late. Not during summer. She never drank during the summer.
"I said get up."
Molly took another sip of her vodka and went back to considering the jagged edges of that screaming woman on the wall. "So," she said. "You from the hospital or from the pharmaceutical company?"
That seemed to stump her gentlemen callers. They didn't seem to want to come in, and they refused to go out. They just hulked in the doorway, cutting off the light from the kitchen.
"I'm real sorry you said that," the one said.
Molly nodded. "I know you are."
"It means you know everything."
"Oh, it does that."
"I'm not going to tell you again," the big one said. "Get up."
"And I'm not going to tell
you
again," she answered. "I can't. A quick look at the dead soldiers in the room will offer motive."
"We'll kill you right here if you don't get on your fuckin' feet!"
Molly did manage to swing her head around. "And ruin a perfectly good Picasso? How thoughtless. Tell him to come here."
Another pause in the conversation. Another silent communication between the two. It occurred to Molly that these guys reminded her a lot of the FBI guys, and that she'd never really seen them all in a room at the same time together. Wouldn't it be a kick if the FBI were involved? Heck, she'd have a contract with Oliver Stone for sure. Maybe even the "X-Files." The government so excited by a new drug that it sent in its agents to help keep the terrible truth from the hardy heroine. Considering the scope of what she'd learned today, it wouldn't have been that great a stretch to count them in.
God, she thought. She
was
drunk. If only she were enjoying herself.
"You know who it is?" the spokesman finally asked.
"I do."
"He only wants to talk to you."
Molly didn't even bother to justify that bit of trash with an answer. She just sat there.
Then Magnum started growling again.
"We're taking care of it," the one guy said over his shoulder.
"No you're not," the voice answered, obviously through the screen door to the backyard. "You were supposed to be in and out."
"Something you should know about much too well, Lance," Molly said.
There was a pause, and then a resounding, "Shit!"
Actually, she hadn't needed to hear his voice to recognize him. His scent had carried in on the wind. Eau de chicken soup. Quite an unforgettable smell in any circumstances. A surefire way to blow a stealthy approach.
"Come on in," Molly invited.
He must have taken her up on the offer, because suddenly there was a shuffling at the door and the scent wafted stronger. Lance was sweating. Molly knew that because Lance was always particularly pungent when he sweated. "Why didn't you pay attention to them the first time?" he demanded in a fury.
Molly noticed that his hair was wet and that one of his buttons had come loose. Not exactly the most terrifying image a hostage had ever beheld.
Molly ignored him, too.
"I don't think you understand, Molly," he insisted, stepping farther in, his voice a hiss of urgent conspiracy. "They want to kill you."
"I don't think
you
understand, Lance," Molly answered equably. "I don't care."
And that, finally, was the truth. After twenty years of struggling against the tide, she'd given up. 'Nam had won. Summer had won. All the sharp-eyed predators who had conspired to make her job so difficult and her life such a struggle, had won. She just didn't care anymore. She'd tried one too many times and had one too many lessons in how things were really run.
"I promise," he said. "You'll be safe if you just come along."
"And you'll respect me in the morning," she answered with a nod. "I know."
If she thought about it, this would be the easiest way. Kind of a reversal of the suicide-by-police scenario where people threatened a SWAT team just so they didn't have to pull the trigger themselves. All Molly had to do was piss these guys off enough and she wouldn't have to make another decision. She could just close her eyes and finally get a little rest.
There was just one more piece of unfinished business to take care of.
"I live here alone," she said. "I figure you parked out on Euclid so nobody knows you're here, so we have lots of time. You call him up and tell him that if he wants the disk back, he's going to have to come here and get it."
The big guy walked on in and stood right over her. "All we have to do is trash your house," he warned her, tapping a big black automatic against his leg, as if that were going to swing the vote.
Molly waved away. "Be my guest. It isn't here."
"Where is it?" Lance demanded again.
Molly lifted a wobbly finger. "Ah, the question of the hour. When he comes, I'll tell him."
The big guy squatted down, settled the barrel of the gun right between Molly's eyes. "You'll tell me."
Molly wondered why she wasn't sweating herself. She should have been puking scared. "No, I won't. I'll tell him."
And then she pushed the gun aside, which seemed to make her captor even more unhappy.
Lance stepped in. "Just tell me why."
Molly was stunned to feel tears in her eyes. "Because I want him to face me and tell me what the hell was so important about this."
This time, it was Lance who laughed. "Yeah, that's easy for you to say. You're sitting in a house worth fuckin' millions. What the hell do you know?"
"Good point." What did she know? She sure didn't know how to read people or listen to grapevines. When she interviewed for her next job, Molly was going to pass out a questionnaire for all prospective coemployees to fill out, just so she could avoid this kind of embarrassment again.
Uh-huh.
"Tell you what," Lance offered. "You tell us where the disk is and he can bring it with him when he comes."
"I don't think so."
"We're going to ruin your house looking for it."
"Just do it quietly or you'll get caught. A lot of nosy neighbors around here."
Lance stood there a minute, pouting much like he did when he had a patient with abdominal pain to work up.
"Watch her," he snapped. Then he spun on his heel and headed out of the room. Molly went back to her vodka, and the shorter guy perched on the arm of a chair. The other one contented himself with just standing right over her so she could see his gun real close up.
"Ain't that a Picasso?" the medium one asked.
"Like it?" Molly asked, feeling more and more distanced from what was going on. "It's yours. After I'm gone, of course."
The guy was shaking his head as if he hadn't heard her. "He was one crazy son of a bitch."
It must have been the vodka. There couldn't have been another reason Molly was laughing.
"He's coming," Lance announced, walking back in the room.
The big guy grunted in disgust. "There are more fun ways of doing this."
He reached over to stroke Molly's throat with the barrel of the gun, which Molly took to mean he was anticipating every one. Still, Molly felt no terror at all. Nothing more than weariness.
For a few minutes the four of them just sat in a stony silence, the only sounds coming from the trees in the backyard and evening traffic out on Euclid. Molly decided she wanted some answers. Especially from this quasi terrorist who had never had the motivation to go as far as the driveway to see a patient. Molly just couldn't get over the idea of his being part of an elaborate cover-up.
"Did he come to you or the other way around, Lance?"
Leaning his hip against the door, Lance peered at her, as if looking for the hidden meaning. "It was kind of a mutual understanding."
"Which means he told you what to do and you did it."
"I organized it."
"What, the entire smoke screen, or just my merry part in it?"
"You. Once we found out that you were nosing around. You're like a pit bull, ya know it? Once you've got a piece of pants leg, you just don't let go."
"I'll take that as a compliment. So you were in charge of scaring me away. Where'd you find these two?" she asked. "Central casting?"
"You don't need to know."
Molly nodded and poured again. Everything seemed to make more sense that way. Too bad her hand was shaking so badly. The vodka sloshed over onto the parquet flooring. "You know you're being set up, don't you?"
God, she thought. That was straight out of an Alan Ladd movie. Next, Barbara Stanwyck would pull a gat from her garter belt or something.
"Don't be ridiculous," Lance said. "I'm about to make a fuckin' fortune on this stock. You could have too, ya know. I could have worked it. I can still work it."
"A generous offer, Lance, but I doubt I'm supposed to make it through the evening, which doesn't give me much time to realize substantial fiscal gain. Before I go, though, let me clarify a thing or two for you. Argon was looking for a fall guy, in case things got hot. Somebody to go down with the proverbial ship and leave Argon virtually unscathed. You guys are the candidates."
"How do you do that?" the littler henchman spoke up again. "You got two bottles of Stoli in you and you sound like a fuckin' English teacher."
"I talk much better when I'm drunk," Molly assured him. "I talk the best right before I pass out."
"Don't be melodramatic," Lance said. "Argon isn't setting anybody up, and nobody's gonna hurt you."
Molly smiled at him. "Of course not. Argon is perfectly happy to have me running around publicizing their little peccadillo with the hottest drug since aspirin. I talk and half the city's economy goes bust."
"Then don't talk."
"Gosh," she said, closing her eyes. "Why didn't I think of that?"
Magnum barked, and all heads turned toward the door.
"He's here already," Lance said, coming to attention. Both gunmen got to their feet.
"Molly?"
It took Molly a full five seconds to register the voice. "Oh, my God." She groaned, twitching to sudden life. "Sam."
"He's not here already," the big guy corrected his weapon. Molly was already trying to pull herself to her feet.
"Do something!" Lance insisted in a hiss.
Molly stumbled toward the kitchen. "Coming, Sam!"
She damn near threw up on the spot. Her heart had just jump-started, and her hands were sweaty. She couldn't let Sam be exposed to this. "Stay right here," she told the gunmen. "I'll get him to leave."
The big guy, the one with the terrifying voice, leveled his gun. "Do that."
"You okay?" Sam asked through the screen door when he saw her. "After today, I thought I should ask."
Molly smiled blearily at him, hoping like hell he didn't hear her heart thumping because there were men around the corner ready to hurt him if she didn't do this correctly. Her dying tonight wasn't a problem anymore. Sam was another story entirely.
"I'm drunk, Sam." She smiled again. "It seemed like the thing to do."
Sam peered at her as if she were trying to change color on him. "You want a little company?"
"I'm no company at all, Sam. Thanks, but I'm just going to stare at the TV a while and hit the sack. I'll be by in the morning for tea and bagels. Okay?"
"Did you—"
She waved him off. "Tell you tomorrow. Right now, I think I'm going to be sick."
That tended to send any sane person in the other direction. Sam hovered a minute or two longer, then trudged the other way. Molly fought an urge to call him back. To apologize to him. To thank him for everything he'd been to her.
That was when she knew that this time, she probably meant it. This time, she just didn't see a way over the hill.