Spectre Black (29 page)

Landry rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger. It felt like any other cloth material he’d ever felt, but he knew the recorders and the projectors were sewn inside, held together by a net that was too small to be seen by the human eye.

Carla came to stand behind him. She rubbed her arms. Shaking. Tears seeping from her eyes, rolling down over her elegant cheekbones.

She said, “I knew he wouldn’t live long.”

Landry looked at her.

“Jace was the best lover I ever had.” She held Landry’s eyes. “And you’re
nothing
like him.”

Landry was silent, thinking about their strange encounter—more of a marathon than a sexual romp.

He wondered if there was something odd about her relationship with her father, Miko Denboer. Maybe he had molested her.

Or maybe it was someone else.

Or maybe it was nothing.

Carla was holding a tennis ball in her hand. Squeezing it along with the beat of her heart.

“Where’d you get the tennis ball?” he asked her.

“From your duffle.”

“I’d be careful with that.” His eyes met Jolie’s. She knew about the tennis balls. A little magic of his own.

It seemed as if everything was standing still.

Landry looked around for Eric, but knew he wouldn’t see him. Eric was hidden, keeping an eye on them, covering them with his sniper rifle.

Making sure.

He knew they would meet up later.

The police were on their way. Had to be.

The police department was way across town. He assumed there would be plenty of cars patrolling the area, though.

“What are you going to do now?” Landry asked Carla.

She shrugged. “I’m finished as an FBI agent.”

He knew that was true.

“The funny thing is, I loved my job. You know?” She swiped at the tear near the corner of her eye. “It all went bad with Atwood. I hate men who prey on women.”

Landry knew that something else lay behind that statement. Something besides an FBI agent who hated sex killers.

“God, I hate this place!” Carla said.

Her hand squeezed the tennis ball. Landry opened his mouth again to tell her not to do that, but realized it didn’t matter. The only way to arm the ball was with the racket.

Jolie stared at the body, at the cloak. She seemed to be memorizing every line of it.

Pretty soon the police would drive up the winding road from the city below.

No sirens.

Yet.

Landry looked at Carla.

“I think I can help you out.”

She looked at him, bewildered.

“Wait here.”

Landry went back down to the colonnade and collected his duffle. Inside the duffle were the rest of the tennis balls and two rackets. He walked back up the short hill.

He handed them each a racket. Asked Carla, “Can you hit the house?”

“What is this? A test?”

“Can you hit the house?”

“Sure I can.”

She hefted the ball in her hand. The neon yellow-green orb shimmered in the darkness. And then she whacked it, hard and true. Hit the Spanish tile roof of the covered walkway.

An explosion.

Ignition.

Fire. It started under the eaves and quickly spread, flowering up before running for fresh air.

Carla stared at Landry. For a moment, Landry could see the child she must have been.

Carla picked up another tennis ball. She held it, ready to hit, then looked at Jolie.

“Why don’t you take a shot?”

She handed Jolie the ball.

Jolie tossed the ball up and whacked it hard against the glassed-in atrium. The atrium exploded, big and small shards of glass shattering, turned into sharp, jagged missiles.

They hit tennis balls until they were all gone, until flames consumed the whole Spanish monstrosity of a house.

It was
then
that Landry heard sirens. They were far away, but they were coming.

Carla’s eyes were bright, avid, as she watched the Denboer palace burn.

“Now what?” Jolie said to Landry.

Landry looked at his watch. “Is there a place in town that serves breakfast at night?”

Jolie considered him. Finally, she gave him the smile he loved to see. No one could smile like Jolie.

“I’m sure we’ll find something,” she said.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

So many people have helped me with this book, or supported me as I wrote. Many thanks to my mother, Mary Falk, and my husband, Glenn McCreedy, for always being there for me.

Thanks to John Peters, whose knowledge and advice have informed my stories in so many ways, and to William Simon and Pam Stack, who are always there to help me turn possibility into an actual book.

I am especially grateful to Kevin Smith, my editor extraordinaire.

Thanks to Kjersti Egerdahl, who shepherded me through the editing process at Thomas & Mercer, and to the Thomas & Mercer team: Jacque Ben-Zekry, Marketing; Tiffany Pokorny, Author Relations; Sean Baker, Production; and Justine Fowler, Merchandising.

Special thanks to the fine people at Gelfman Schneider, especially my agent, Deborah Schneider.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2013 Galen Evans

Hailed by bestselling author T. Jefferson Parker as “a strong new voice in American crime fiction,” J. Carson Black has written fifteen novels. Her thriller
The Shop
reached #1 on the Kindle Best Sellers list, and her crime thriller series featuring homicide detective Laura Cardinal became a
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestseller. Although Black earned a master’s degree in operatic voice, she was inspired to write a horror novel after reading
The Shining
. She lives in Tucson, Arizona.