“Freeze!” she called.
The monk ran straight ahead. Toward the railing. Toward the expanse of the two-story entry. He heard the gunfire, felt something strike his body, spinning him slightly. Still he kept running. He leapt as if hurdling. His foot landed squarely on the railing, and he propelled himself across the void, his head brushing the chandelier’s crystal prisms. There was no question of making the stairs. He focused on the balustrade, bringing up his hands, lunging for the width of wood. He caught it, his chest slamming into the railing. A rib cracked, but he held on. A breath to find his center, and he flung himself over the balustrade and rushed down the steps, leaping three at a time.
The old man was rushing to the house, struggling to pull a gun from his jacket. The monk leveled him with a forearm to the chest, sending the man sprawling onto his back. The monk didn’t slow. Eyes focused ahead, he charted a path through the orchard and down the hill. He felt a tear in his side, his muscles fighting him. He had been shot. The discomfort was considerable, but he had known worse.
A bullet whizzed past his head. A second clipped a branch nearby.
The monk ran faster.
And then he was out of range, dashing down the slope.
He reached the car minutes later.
“Brother,” he said, when his heart had calmed and he had driven a safe distance from the home. “I found him.”
“Who?”
“The cause of our problems.”
Only then did the monk lift his shirt to study the wound. He saw a bloody track across his side where the bullet had grazed him. Another millimeter and it would have entered his chest and killed him. The wound hurt, but no worse than many other pains he had suffered. He would live.
Alex knelt beside Astor, regarding the knife in his arm. “How is it?”
Astor could speak again. “Bad.”
Alex took the arm gingerly in her hands. “Impaled on the bone. Guess you move pretty fast.”
“I saw him behind me in the monitor.”
Alex removed a handkerchief from her pocket and unfolded it. “Hey,” she said. “Can you see Sully from there?”
“Where?” Astor turned his head, squinting at the bright light. Alex grasped his arm and yanked the blade free. He cried out as she clamped a handkerchief on top of the wound. “Just breathe,” she said.
Astor sank down into his chair, the pain reduced to a manageable level.
Alex settled down onto the couch. “I shot the son of a bitch and it didn’t slow him a step.”
“You’re sure you got him?”
“He was six feet away. I got him.”
John Sullivan limped into the room. “Prick knocked me down,” he said, resting against the doorway. “I got off a couple shots, but I never had a chance. Friggin’ jackrabbit.” And then he saw Astor’s arm. “What happened to you?”
“I got to be his pincushion.”
Alex held the knife by her fingernails. “He’s a very lucky boy.”
“I thought you said fast.”
“Fast and lucky.” Alex set the knife on the desk. “We just might find out who he was.”
“It’s him,” said Astor. “From Penelope Evans’s house.”
“You think?” asked Sullivan.
“I’m sure of it.”
“He wasn’t inside earlier. I’d swear it.”
“Don’t sweat it, Sully.” Astor wanted to say more, but his throat was tight and he was shaken. “Give us a minute.”
Sully nodded and stepped outside.
Astor picked up the gun off the floor.
“And whose is that?” asked Alex.
“Dad’s. I found it in his bedroom.”
Alex gently pushed the muzzle toward the ground. “You want to give it to me.”
Astor handed his ex-wife the gun. “Why are you here?” he asked.
“Forget why I’m here. I want to know why you crossed police tape to come inside here and who it was that jumped over this railing like Superman leaping a building in a single bound.”
“He’s a killer, actually,” said Astor.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s the man who killed Penelope Evans.”
“I’m sorry,” said Alex. “But you’re losing me. Who is Penelope Evans?”
“My father’s assistant at the Exchange. She was murdered yesterday in her home in Greenwich. It was all over the news.”
“I’ve been busy with a few things.”
Drawing a breath, Astor related the actions he’d taken since receiving the text from his father two nights before, beginning with his visit to the New York Stock Exchange and the theft of his father’s agenda and culminating with the certainty that the man he had seen standing close behind him was Penelope Evans’s killer.
“And Sully? He just let you traipse off without calling the police?”
“Leave Sully out of it.”
“He’s a cop. He knows better.”
“He was a cop. He works for me now. He was looking out for my best interests.”
Alex’s eyes narrowed. She knew about Bobby’s interests. She didn’t like them one bit.
“The killer got a knife into her heart before she even knew he was there.”
“Maybe more lucky than fast.” Alex put a hand on his leg, and her touch sent a jolt of electricity through him. She smiled, and for a moment he felt as if everything were okay between them. He knew it was her training. He was the victim. She was there to provide succor. As quickly, the smile faded. Her game face returned.
“My ex, the private eye. You must be doing something right if the bad guys send a contract man to kill you. Why didn’t you call me when you got the text in the first place?”
“You’d just been at the house. You said it wasn’t your case. I didn’t know what Palantir meant or if it would lead anywhere.”
Alex sat straighter, her shoulders tightening. “You knew it meant something yesterday afternoon when you found Penelope Evans dead in her house. It ends now. The amateur gumshoeing. The son tracking down his father’s killer. All that bullshit. You’re going straight to Janet McVeigh and tell her everything you just told me.” She paused, appraising her former husband, trying to sense whether he was hiding something. With Bobby, there was always another angle. “And if you leave anything out-I mean anything-I’m going to hold you responsible for whatever it is that’s going on here.”
Astor nodded. He’d been honest so far…to a point. He saw no reason for her or anyone else to know about Mike Grillo. “I understand.”
Alex shot him her “for real” glance, and Astor nodded solemnly. She relaxed. “You actually fell into your elevator shaft?”
Astor nodded. “Caught the cable. When the elevator came up, I let myself down onto its roof and managed to open the emergency hatch.”
“And if you hadn’t? Or if that knife had missed your arm and gone into your chest? Your daughter loses her father for no good reason.”
“I’m close to figuring out who killed Dad, Gelman, and Hughes. They were visiting the president for a reason, Alex. They’d discovered something. Some kind of plot. Something about an attack. Whoever is behind it was able to take control of their car, just like those people hijacked my elevator. They hear everything. They listen.” Astor stopped short, realizing he was issuing the same warning that Penelope Evans had given him.
“Who are ‘they’? What kind of attack? Where? When?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s certainly closer than your colleagues,” said the mechanized voice.
Alex shifted on the couch, peering around the office. “Who said that?”
“I did,” came the voice from the computer. “I believe Mr. Astor deserves some credit. After all, he found me before the vaunted Federal Bureau of Incompetence did.”
“He stole evidence that would have led them to the same place.”