Authors: William Bernhardt
Travis heard clattering noises from the kitchen. He shut the front door and tiptoed through the living room.
She was facing the stove, her back to him, stirring something in a copper pot with a wooden spoon. As gently as possible, he placed his hands on her shoulders and whispered, “Don’t be scared.”
Cavanaugh screamed. Frantically, Travis covered her mouth, just as they’d instructed him at the academy. It barely reduced the volume. He grabbed a dishrag and shoved it in her mouth. This did a considerably better job of muffling her, but in the meantime, she began fighting back.
She stabbed him in the side with her spoon. Travis winced, and as his grip loosened she whirled around and opened a drawer. She grabbed a two-tined barbecue fork and thrust it toward his abdomen. Travis grabbed her wrist and tried to force it down to her side. He was probably a hundred and twenty pounds heavier than she was but, by God, she fought like a champion. She grabbed his hair with her free hand, jerking his head back.
He knocked her hand away and stomped on her right foot. While she was still reacting to that blow, he grabbed her right hand and forced it down hard against the kitchen counter. She dropped the barbecue fork.
Straining with all her might, Cavanaugh reached across the counter for her battery-charged mixer. Travis tightened his grip on both her arms and slowly brought them down to her side.
He twisted her head around and forced her to face him. “What’s wrong with you?” he spat out. “You know who I am. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Her response sounded something like
Mmmmhmphfrulummmmphmm.
Despite the restraint on enunciation created by the dishrag, he gathered the general tenor of her reply. “If I remove the rag, do you promise not to scream again?”
Her eyes burned straight into his, but she made no sound.
“Look,” he added, “I brought plenty of duct tape. I could wrap you up and leave you gagged all night, but I’d prefer not to. Will you promise not to scream?”
She continued glaring for a long time, then twisted her left wrist free, raised a finger, and tapped her wristwatch.
One minute.
“Fine,” Travis said. “That’s all I need.” He removed the dishrag.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Cavanaugh shouted. “Let me tell you, mister, I’m a charter member of Women Take Back the Night, I’ve had serious martial-arts training—”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You’re damn right about that. My boyfriend should be back any minute. And I’ve got a Doberman in the other room.”
“Oh? He’s awfully well behaved.”
“He’s trained to keep his distance. But the second you try to get rough with me,
pow
! He’ll be all over you like a bad dream.”
“Uh-huh. Look, Cavanaugh, I need someplace to spend the night.”
“You’ve come to the wrong place, you pervert.”
“I just want to hide out. With someone I can trust.”
“Then why the hell are you here? We barely know each other.”
“That’s more or less the point. Everyone I know well is being watched. Every place I would normally go is being watched. Or bugged. Or both.”
“Oh, please.”
“It’s true. Didn’t you wonder why I didn’t show up for trial today?”
“I assumed you were on the lam with your deviant client. That’s what the papers said.”
“Well, the papers were wrong. Why would I help Moroconi? You know what he is.”
“That hasn’t stopped you from representing him.”
“A judicial appointment. You were there at the time—you know I didn’t want the case.”
“I recall you didn’t object too strenuously.”
“It doesn’t make any sense for me to go on the lam with Moroconi.”
“It makes sense if you helped him escape. Which is what I heard.”
“Who’s starting these rumors? I didn’t even know about the breakout until it was already a fait accompli.”
“I heard he had inside assistance—”
“Does that mean I was the accomplice?”
“Coupled with your disappearance immediately thereafter …”
Travis clenched his jaw. “Look, all I need is a place to stay the night. I can’t go anywhere and I can’t sleep in my car—that’s what everyone will be looking for.”
“Who is this
everyone
!”
Travis hesitated. “I’m not entirely sure. Maybe the mob, maybe the police. Maybe both. And the FBI.”
“
And
the FBI? Wait, don’t leave out the CIA. And the military-industrial complex. What about Elvis? Or Lee Harvey Oswald? Maybe he was in on this, too.”
“You don’t have to believe me. Just give me a place to crash.”
“Open my door to a raving maniac who’s in contempt of court and wanted by the police, federal marshals, and possibly a federal agency or two. Yeah, what could be simpler?”
“C’mon. For old times’ sake.”
“What old times? You mean our face-offs in countless trials during the past year? In most of which, I might add, you’ve trounced me. Let me tell you, Byrne, those old times haven’t exactly endeared you to me.”
“Just for the night.”
“No way. I’m an officer of the court. A federal prosecutor, no less. I can’t harbor fugitives.”
“I’m desperate here.” He glanced at the roll of tape inside his jacket. “Don’t make me—”
“Don’t even think about it.” She struggled to pull away from him. “And don’t try any more rough stuff. I wasn’t kidding about my martial-arts training.”
“Cavanaugh, I’m at the end of my rope—”
“I’ll scream. Man, you can’t believe how I’ll scream. What you heard before was just a warm-up.”
“I can’t let you do that.” He reached into his coat pocket, pointed a finger, and pushed it forward. “If you scream, I’ll shoot.”
“Give me a break. I used to be a skip tracer, remember? I handled guys tougher than you on a regular basis. And I know the difference between a finger and a gun.”
“Are you positive?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” And to prove it, she screamed. True to her word, this scream was twice as loud as the previous one.
Travis clamped his hand over her mouth. Cavanaugh bit down on his palm.
“
Owww!
”
Cavanaugh ducked under his arm and ran out of the kitchen. Travis whirled around and raced after her, catching her about halfway across the living room. He tackled her around the legs and brought her crashing down to the floor, knocking over an end table and a lamp in the process.
“Goddamn you, Byrne, I’m calling the police—”
Travis shoved the dishrag back in her mouth. He pulled himself directly on top of her and pinned her shoulders to the carpet. Cavanaugh thrashed her head and twisted back and forth, but he maintained his grip.
With one terrific burst of energy, she bent forward at the waist and butted her head against his. Travis pulled back but not in time to avoid the blow. He clutched the carpet and tried to maintain his bearings. Next thing he knew, she was pulling her legs out from under him. He stiffened his muscles, but not in time to prevent her knee from connecting with his groin. He shouted and his eyes watered, but did not loosen his grip. He grabbed her arms and stretched them out flat on the carpet.
“Goddamn you, Cavanaugh.” He felt her chest heaving, her breasts pressing against him. He was suddenly keenly aware of her musky perfume. “If you keep this up, you’re going to spend the night taped to the radiator.”
She continued to struggle, if anything even more strenuously than before.
“Fine, you stubborn—” Pressing her arms down with his knees, he grabbed the duct tape and began wrapping it around her hands.
T
HE DARK-HAIRED MAN
carefully slid the nightscope onto his gun. It was more complicated than it looked; a number of minute notches had to be correctly aligned. It was designed to be difficult. With equipment on this level of sophistication, amateurs were not welcome.
He checked his night goggles—perfect operating condition. He strapped them onto his belt. Ditto for the Fujinon binoculars—lightweight, waterproof, and almost infinitely powerful. He strapped on a tiny Tessina minichip camera, just in case he wanted to memorialize a license-plate number.
He searched through his closet. What else? Better safe than sorry. He added a small but powerful Xenon flashlight. An electronic stethoscope. Tiny microportable transceivers.
It had been years since he last used equipment like this. He had almost forgotten the pleasure of being able to see in the dark, being able to hear what others could not, being able to sneak up on someone unawares. He checked all the devices and made sure he remembered how each worked. He supposed it was like riding a bicycle—you never forgot.
He tugged a Kevlar vest tightly around his chest, aligned his shoulder holster, put his shirt back on, then strapped the loaded Sam Browne belt around his waist. He checked the equipment still snapped in their compartments from the last time he had worn the belt—spare handgun, Puukko knife, Bianchi handcuffs, tear gas, Mace, brass knuckles, ammunition. A travel kit for commandos. And the whole thing, fully equipped, weighed less than ten pounds. It wouldn’t slow him down a beat.
Finally he examined the new SSI tracer bug; once it was activated, he could follow someone from as much as twenty miles away. It had cost him a pretty penny; in fact, it had cost him almost everything he had. But if he tracked down his quarry, it would be worth it. He had to assume he would need everything; after all, this time he was on his own.
No one was going to help him. Who could? No one else had managed to locate his prey so far. His buddy at the police station said the man was being tracked by the FBI—or someone calling themselves the FBI—as well as the police and some heavy-duty criminal types. But so far, no one had found him. Not that that meant anything. He had a few tricks up his sleeve that the others did not.
He had spent years at this kind of work; it was what he did best. Finding someone others couldn’t—someone who didn’t want to be found. Some jobs took longer than others, but he never failed.
He didn’t really need all this high-tech paraphernalia, but he was accustomed to it, and there was a certain comfort in it. As he had been told by his superiors so many times in the past: your best weapons are your eyes, your ears, your hands. Two skilled hands can kill more quickly, more efficiently, and with less chance of detection than all the electronic gizmos in the world.
He slid noiselessly out the door. Time to begin, before the trail became even colder. He had no actual clues to his target’s location; but he had contacts. Not much, but it would have to be enough. He had to find the man before the others did. If he got there last, or even second, it would be too late.
He slid behind the steering wheel of his Jeep and turned the ignition. He felt exhilarated to be back in action, doing something important. Perhaps more important than anything he had ever done before. He
would
complete this mission. Successfully.
And when he did, Travis Byrne would get exactly what he deserved.
T
RAVIS SMILED AT CAVANAUGH,
who was securely taped to a kitchen chair. He dipped her wooden spoon into the pot he had taken from the stove and tasted the contents.
“Mmm,” he murmured appreciatively. “What do you call this?”
Cavanaugh’s reply was something like
blmflkmbtk.
It was the most the dishrag duct-taped in her mouth would allow.
“Bell-pepper soup? Whatever it is, it’s good.”
Cavanaugh bowed her head in acknowledgment.
“Who would’ve guessed that the tough lady prosecutor would be a great cook?” His eyebrows bounced up and down. “I wonder what other talents you’ve been hiding?”
Her reply was muffled but nonetheless forceful. Upon reflection, Travis was grateful that he couldn’t understand what she was saying.
“Oh, I found your dog in the back room, hiding in the closet. Don’t worry, I fed him. He’s cute. Not exactly a Doberman, but cute.”
Cavanaugh’s eyes narrowed.
“I don’t hate toy poodles the way some guys do. You know, some people would rather have a pet rat than one of those yippy yappers. Not me. I like them just fine.”
He grinned, hoping she might return some indication of amiability. He was sorely disappointed.
“Maybe you’re bored. Is that it? Look.” He withdrew two large blue marbles from his coat pocket, placed them in his right palm, and held out his hands, knuckles up. He swirled his hands back and forth, over and under, up and down. “Okay, which hand are the marbles in?”
Cavanaugh’s expression did not change.
“Look, I’m sorry about taping you up. You left me no choice.”
Cavanaugh did not appear sympathetic.
“I’m not kidding. I didn’t want to bother you. Really. I just wanted your help. If anyone can figure a way out of this mess, I thought, Cavanaugh can. Got any suggestions?”
Her only response was communicated through angry, glaring eyes.
Travis sighed. He dipped the spoon back in the pot and slurped more soup. “I feel guilty eating in front of you. Can I get you some milk or something? I promise not to poison it.”
Cavanaugh kicked with both feet, then twisted from side to side, straining against her bonds. It was no use. She was securely fixed in place.
“If you agree not to scream, or call the police, or try to get away, I’ll untie you. You wouldn’t have to be civil to me. What d’ya say?”
No reaction.
“Oh well.” He finished the soup, then sat on the floor, his arms folded across his lap. “I’m going to tell you everything that’s happened to me since Moroconi busted out of jail. Maybe you can come up with some ideas. Okay?”
Cavanaugh glared at him with stony eyes. “Okay. Good. Well, it began when I got this phone call in the middle of the night. …”
T
HIS TIME KRAMER MET
Donny in the corridor outside Mario’s office. He snuck up behind him, grabbed a suspender, then let it pop.
“
Owww!
” Donny cried.
Kramer grabbed Donny by the throat. “Whatcha been up to, Donny-boy?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” His eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of his head. “You’re hurting me.”