Trust Me, I'm Trouble (17 page)

Most of the cells are empty, but a few are occupied. I follow the guard to the end of the row. I’m not sure what I expected to see when I looked through the bars, but the man sitting on the Ikea futon was not it. His hair is stringy, his cheeks hollow, and his eyes stare straight ahead at nothing.

This isn’t normal. He shouldn’t have deteriorated this drastically. Prison’s rough, sure, but this is…this is weird.

“Mr. Antolini?” I say, revising my game plan. I expected him to be hostile, or at least withholding. I don’t have a contingency for him being mentally incapable of answering.

“You’ll have to sit out here,” says the guard, pointing to a chair adjacent to the cell.

“I thought members of the clergy were allowed to see the prisoners without supervision.”

“I’ll be at my station if you need me.”

I mumble a quick thanks and turn my attention to the catatonic inmate. He hasn’t even looked at me. This is going to be harder than I thought.

“Mr. Antolini, your wife sent me to talk with you. She wants you to know that she is worried about you and would like to see you as soon as possible. Do you have a message you’d like me to take back to her?”

He looks at me blankly, then returns to his scrutiny of the concrete wall. So much for the gentle approach.

“She thinks you’re here because NWI brainwashed you into stealing money. Do you think that’s true?”

He doesn’t look at me this time, but he starts to rock back and forth. He’s mumbling something, which I can’t quite make out.

“Mr. Antolini—”

Before I get out the next question, he stands and shuffles over to the wall. The collar of his too-big shirt shifts down, revealing an angry welt on his neck. I flinch, but force myself to watch. He draws on the wall with his finger. His mumbling increases in volume, so I can just make out what he’s saying.

“…eight two one two eight four nine five seven zero nine eight six three NWI three six eight nine zero seven five nine four eight two one two eight four nine five seven zero nine eight six three NWI three six eight nine zero seven five nine four…”

By about the third repetition, I catch on that he’s reciting a pattern. I pull a receipt out of my wallet and borrow a pen from the guard’s desk. The guard doesn’t look happy about me asking, but I give him a certified clergy glare, and he hands me one. I thank him and head back to Mr. Antolini’s cell. I hold my breath as I draw close, afraid that he’s reverted to his catatonic state. But my luck seems to be holding thus far—he’s still repeating the numbers.

I write down the sequence and stow it in my pocket for Sam and Murphy to analyze later. But a random string of numbers is not exactly what I came here for. I’ll try one more time to break through before giving up.

“Mr. Antolini,” I say, standing close to the bars of his cell. “My name is Julep and I’m trying to get you out of here. Is there anything you can tell me about NWI or the blue fairy—”

Suddenly, Mr. Antolini grabs his head and starts howling. The sound is earsplitting and awful, and the other inmates on the cellblock are getting agitated. I stumble back from the bars, hands over my ears. What did I say? The blue fairy? What the hell happened to this guy?

A couple of guards and a medical technician rush in and take over. My escort guard firmly ushers me out.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Remember to sign out when you get to the front desk,” he says curtly before abandoning me on the other side of his checkpoint.

There’s nothing I can do but follow his orders. I walk swiftly back the way I came, fighting guilt as a madman’s cries chase me down the halls.

As I near the front desk, I pull out my phone and call Mrs. Antolini.

“The number you have reached is no longer in service.”

I check the number and try again, but I get the same recording. Something’s not right.

When I go through the turnstile, I take a chance and ask the new security guard manning the desk if he has Mrs. Antolini’s contact information. He seems greener than the last guy, more nervous but also more pliable.

“We’re not supposed to give out personal information, Reverend,” he says, looking distressed. I bet he’s a believer.

“I have her number, my son, but my phone ran out of battery power. I’d like to discuss her husband’s situation as soon as possible. You would be doing your inmate and his grieving family a kind service.”

He’s waffling. One more solid nudge and I’ve got him.

“I will pray for you, my son,” I say coolly, bowing my head slightly at him and turning to walk away.

“Wait, Reverend.”

Slam, and dunk.

I hear typing behind me. I turn back, giving him a benevolent smile and Mr. Antolini’s name.

His typing slows. “Um, Reverend,” he says, sounding confused. “According to our records, Gerald Antolini has no family.”

• • •

“Dani!” I yell as I rush up to the passenger’s-side door of the Chevelle. “We’ve got—”

I pull the handle, but the door is locked. I knock on the black-tinted window but nothing happens. I cup my hand to block rays from the setting sun and peer through. No Dani.

I look frantically around the parking lot for any sign of her. The killer didn’t get her, did he? My heart lurches at the thought.

Then she emerges from the interior of the prison. She must have been looking for me, though I wasn’t gone that long. Then she touches her face gingerly.

I rein myself in from running up to her and demanding to know what the hell she was thinking, going anywhere near that prison without me. I meet her halfway, keeping my pace to a brisk walk, and only then do I see the cut on her cheek, the swelling under her eye.

“What happened?” I say, trying to modulate my anger.

“It is nothing. A conversation with an inmate.”

“A conversation involving assault?”

She shrugs.

“What was it about?” I reach out to touch her injured cheek.

She pulls her head away, which causes a strange and painful tightening in my chest. I let my hand fall, but the urge to reach out again is strong—like I won’t know for sure she’s okay without the tactile input corroborating the visual and auditory. But I know better than to push it. What I don’t know is where all this feeling is coming from. Her being hurt bothers me a lot more than it should.

“You,” she answers, as if she hadn’t pulled away from me, as if she hasn’t just scraped my heart the way someone cut her cheek. “I interrogated Petrov. I believed his contacts in Chicago might know something about your contract. He landed a punch before the guards restrained him, that is all.”

“You did
what
? He’s
here
? At this prison?”

“This is the closest maximum-security prison.”

For some reason, the idea had never occurred to me. The thought of how close he is—just beyond a few feet of concrete—gives me the heebie-jeebies. I fold my arms to keep my hands from trembling.

“Petrov knew who put the hit out on me?” I shiver anyway.

“No. But he had heard of it. Not who ordered the hit, but who took the contract. Now that I know a name, I can find him and extract more information about his employer.”

I don’t really want to dwell on what she means by
extract,
but knowing we have a lead is somewhat comforting. Except…

“Why would Petrov tell you the hit man’s name? Why would he help me?”

Dani looks away, her jaw clenching. “It is unimportant.”

“Tell me you didn’t make a deal with him,” I say, ten degrees colder than I was a moment ago.

She doesn’t answer, but her expression confirms it.

“Damn it, Dani! You should have talked to me first.”

She’s still not saying anything, which makes me nervous that the hit man’s name wasn’t the only favor she was granted. But there’s nothing I can do about it now. Petrov is still behind bars, and will be for some time, so whatever Dani promised is not going to come due for a while. Long enough for me to figure out how to get her out of it.

“We should go,” she says, eyeing the parking lot like I did a few minutes ago. “It is not as safe here as I would like.”

I follow her to the Chevelle and get in. “We would have noticed if we’d been followed,” I say.

“Better to not take chances.” She exits back onto the freeway in the direction of Chicago, flipping the Chevelle’s lights on against the darkening sky.

“I’m not going to just let you go after a contract killer on your own.”

She arches an eyebrow at me. “You do know what I do, right?”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. Besides, you’re just an enforcer. You’re not a professional killer.”

“But I have killed people. My job is to enforce the rules of the organization. I do what it takes to gain compliance.”

I shiver again. “Look, I know that you can take care of yourself. But you’re not invincible. And I don’t want you going after this guy without someone having your back.”

She snorts. “Fine. I won’t go after him alone….”

“Good.”

“On the condition that you call Ramirez and tell him what’s going on.”

Son of a— “You think putting me in a government safe house is the answer? Why not just leave me back there at the prison? It amounts to the same thing.”

“It is not the same thing at all! Why are you being so stubborn? I am just trying to keep you s—”

A loud pop interrupts our argument and the Chevelle starts listing to the side.

Dani starts swearing in Ukrainian.

“Flat tire?” I say as she swerves onto the shoulder.

“Stay in the car,” she barks at me as she kills the engine and gets out. She opens the trunk.

“I’m not staying in here while you jack up the Chevelle,” I say, and follow her out. I pull my phone from my pocket and tap to open the browser. “Crap. There’s no signal out here.”

“Just…” Dani flows into Ukrainian again for a sentence or two. “Keep your head down and stay close to the car.” Then she disappears under the car to look for a place to set the jack.

I sneak a few feet away to find a signal. There has to be one. We’re not
that
far from Chicago. We’re close to Joliet. I think. We’re on the edge of a quarry, and the only quarry I know about in this direction is the Joliet quarry. I guess I’d better find a mile marker so I can tell the towing company where to pick us up. I walk a few more feet to the mile marker, note the number, and then veer off into the grass, still looking for a signal.

My life was a whole lot simpler before I met these freaking Ukrainians. Dad was free, I didn’t have an arrest on my record, and Dani hadn’t pried open the cage around my heart and muscled her way in.

Ugh, why did I just think that? I was arguing with her not five minutes ago and now I’ve got this unacceptable warmth spreading through my chest. I can’t give in to it. The last time I felt all skittery and strange about someone, I got him killed. I will not allow that to happen again. Dani is still Dani, and I’m still trouble.

The trees around me darken the blue of twilight to black shadow. It’s not pitch-black, but it’s darker than it was even a minute ago. I must have wandered farther than I meant to. Dani’s going to be pissed if I don’t get back before she notices I’m not right by the car. I wave my phone a final time, knowing it’s futile but trying anyway.

Then something crunches behind me—a footfall where no footfall should be. I whirl just in time to hear the gunshot.

T
he bark on the tree next to me splinters and flies apart. I can’t tell where the shot came from, but I can still hear it ringing in my ears, silencer or not. I duck behind a different tree, praying my attacker isn’t hiding behind it.

Another shot blasts through a bunch of leaves to my right, and I veer in the other direction. Is he trying to kill me or herd me? It doesn’t matter. I can’t lead him back to Dani. There’s no cover on the open road. I just have to hope she’s heard the shot and will come to us. Or maybe I shouldn’t hope that. All I can see in my mind’s eye is Tyler’s face. Alive one minute, covered in blood the next.

The crunch of running steps behind me speeds up in time with my heart. I tear my hair and hands on oak and switchgrass. But better that than the alternative. My thoughts distill to run, cover, duck, and darkness. And pulse-pounding
fear.
I keep stumbling forward, getting slower and slower in my desperation to escape.

My ankle turns on a loose rock, and I collapse in a quivering heap. I crawl a few more feet, but a throat clears behind me, and I know that I am about to die.

Click.
A round goes in the chamber.

“Sorry, kid. A paycheck’s a paycheck.”

But instead of a gunshot, I hear a dull thud and squelch behind me. I muster enough courage to roll over, then hiss in terror and scramble backward into a tree.

The hit man’s body lies limp on the ground, the point of a long sword sticking out of his chest.

“Are you all right,
jang mi
?”

No!
I want to scream.
No, I’m not all—
Wait. I know that voice.

I jump up. “Ralph?”

“I’m afraid it is,” he says, his voice the same but his accent different. Instead of Korean, it’s British. He bows to me, the palms of his black-gloved hands pressed together. “I’m sorry for the dramatic entrance, but I’m glad I arrived in time.”