“Who is Devereaux?”
“A man who should be dead. He’s nothing to you, Trevor.”
“He fucking came to me, Henry. He knows I’ve seen you. He’s after you.”
“I know that. I knew that the minute you said his name. The point is, he can’t get me.”
“Is that true? Should I put this thing on hold? Should I go to the authorities instead?”
“Listen, Trevor, there’s nothing you can do now. You got your stock at eighty today and Carl Greengold is making his move in New York. All you got to do is hold on for a few days, a week, and you got enough to bail out, pay your creditors, and have enough to retire on. You could afford to pay taxes with the money you’re going to make out of this.”
Trevor nodded into the receiver.
“Trevor.”
“Yes.”
“Believe me.”
“I believe you.”
“Or believe this. If you get chickenshit on me, I’ll do to you what I told Matthew I would do to him.”
“I’m tired of threats.”
“I’m tired of making them. Especially when people don’t believe me the first time. Still believe in me, Trevor?”
“Yes,” Trevor Armstrong said.
“Good. Then don’t sweat Devereaux. He can’t do anything to you because he can’t do anything to me. And thanks for the warning, Trevor. I owe you one.”
45
Devereaux worked at the clothesline binding his left hand. It had seemed the most promising when he started.
That had been two hours ago.
The flat was silent. They were gone or sleeping.
The line had rubbed his wrist raw and each act of trying to slip the bond was accompanied by pain. But he thought it was working. It was difficult to tell because he couldn’t see his hand.
He strained and then relaxed; strained; relaxed. The principle was that all cloth ropes and strings have play in them if you can work at the play and have the time and patience. Each time he felt the line edge higher to the ridge formed by the back of his hand.
And then he was free, just like that.
He snatched the blindfold away and reached for the line binding his right hand. He managed to untie the simple knot and then sat up on the bed and reached for the ropes on his legs.
He crept out of bed and slipped into his clothes, which lay on the floor.
The next part was harder. Two murderous women with guns were in the house.
He went into the hallway. The flat was perfectly still in the darkness. He stepped on a floorboard and it creaked. He went down the hallway to the kitchen.
Sullen moonlight filled the room and made shadows on the white walls.
He went to the back door and studied the locks. There were two of them, one a deadbolt. He carefully turned the locks and they clicked and he thought the noise was too loud.
He heard a sound from another part of the flat. He opened a drawer and took out a knife. He went back to the kitchen entry and waited, his back pressed against the kitchen wall.
In a moment, he saw Maureen in the moonlight. She was naked, except for the pistol in her hand. She pushed open the door of the room where he had been tied up.
“Shit,” she said. “Fookin’ gone, he is.”
She passed down the hall toward the kitchen and Devereaux jumped her as she entered it. He grabbed her from behind, one hand on her right arm pushing the pistol forward, the other drawing the knife against her throat.
Maureen turned to struggle and the razor edge cut a line of blood across her throat.
“Don’t,” he said.
She stopped struggling. She held the pistol still but her aim and control were immobilized by Devereaux’s hand.
“Drop the pistol.”
“Then you’ll kill me—”
“Drop the pistol.”
She dropped the pistol, which clattered on the kitchen tiles. In that moment, Devereaux kicked her away from him and knelt to retrieve the gun. She came back at him with a snarl but now he had the gun.
“We shoulda killed ya, ya bastard.”
“Where is she?”
“Right here, love, right behind you.”
He turned and Marie had a pistol aimed at his chest. She was wearing a sleeping gown of white cotton that was too large for her. Her hair was tousled. Her eyes were very bright in the moonlight.
He held his pistol steady and looked at her. Maureen stood less than six feet away, her hands away from her body as though she were about to leap.
“I’ll shoot you,” Devereaux said in a calm, detached voice.
“Oh, yes, lamb, I believe that. I believe you’d never hold a gun unless you intended to use it. But it doesn’t matter what you intend. The gun isn’t loaded.”
The pistol was an automatic and there was no way to tell if Marie was lying or not. He stared at her. The gamine turned to Maureen and smiled. “You see, love, I don’t trust you either.”
“You fookin’ bitch, you and him are in something together—”
“I’m in everything for me, alone for me. I sent you to fetch Trevor Armstrong and you bring me back the wrong man. Should I trust you to do the right thing next time, dear? But maybe you’d think to do the wrong thing the next time. Why should I trust you, any more than Matthew O’Day should trust you?”
Maureen saw the way it was. Her tone changed. She took a step toward Marie. She held out her hand. “Look, you and I want the same thing.”
Marie turned the pistol toward Maureen. “Do we? What do you want, Maureen? You want the money for yourself, don’t you?”
Devereaux did not make a move. The two women had the scene.
“Come on. If the pistol’s not loaded, then off the fuckin’ pig. Do it now.”
Marie stared at Maureen.
“You’re absolutely right. There’s no point in waiting any longer.”
Maureen smiled at Devereaux.
Marie raised the pistol.
Devereaux pulled the trigger.
They all heard the sharp, short click of a hammer coming down on an empty chamber.
Marie fired once.
The bullet caught Maureen between her breasts and drove her backward, off her feet. Her eyes were simply amazed and they remained wide open after the moment of death. Her head struck the kitchen table but she didn’t feel a thing. She fell onto the floor.
Devereaux stood still.
Marie turned to him. A little smoke came from the barrel.
She said, “Henry wanted to kill me. He didn’t have to do that.”
“He wanted to kill me.”
“Yes. Henry likes bombs. I’ve come to learn that. He wanted to kill me and her and now I’ve done it to her because there was no other way. You see that?”
Devereaux said nothing.
“You have to see that,” Marie said.
“If you say so.”
“She was a terrorist. She would have killed you when she brought you back. I saved your life then, lamb.”
“I know.”
“And what should I do with it now?”
Devereaux waited.
“I could kill you. Oh, yes, I’m not afraid to do that. But then it would remind me that you saved my life. I should show how grateful I am. Would you like me? Would you like me to do things for you? I can do anything, you know.” Marie smiled.
“Including murder. How are you going to kill Henry?” Devereaux said.
“The quickest way I can. And get the money he’s cheating out of Trevor Armstrong.”
“I don’t care about the money. I want to get Henry McGee,” Devereaux said.
“Because of what he did to you.”
“Because of what he did to a woman.”
Marie caught her breath in surprise. Then she smiled. “What did he do to a woman? Some woman you liked?”