her back on his side.
“Jillian came to me,” he said. “She wants to help me. And you.” He paused, forcing himself to continue. “To bring us back together.”
“Really?”
He watched as Susan’s ravaged face lit up with such joy that he almost felt guilty.
Almost.
“The book, Susan. Where can we find the book?”
“What book?”
“The one about the bogeyman. The one you hid.”
She smiled, suddenly remembering. “I showed it to Ben, you know. I wanted him to see. To understand what kinds of monsters are out there, watching us. The demons who prey on children.” She stared directly at Pope now. “That’s why I did what I did. To protect him from the monsters and the demons. You can understand that, can’t you?”
Pope had to restrain himself from putting a fist through the glass. Unable to sit there anymore, he stood, turning away from her. He couldn’t stand the sight of her.
And even worse, he couldn’t understand how he’d lived under the same roof as this woman and not known how truly twisted she was. He had loved her then. But what he’d loved was a fraud.
She was the demon. And he’d failed to see that. Just like he’d failed to protect his son from her.
“What’s wrong, Danny? Did I say something wrong?”
He turned, his voice flat. “The book, Susan. Where can I find the book?”
“Ahh,” she said, and nodded. “I put it in the attic.”
“Of our house?”
“Yes. Under a floorboard. I marked it so I wouldn’t forget where it was. Every once in a while I’d pull it out again and look at it. To remind myself of what can happen to us if we aren’t careful.”
McBride leaned forward. “What kind of mark?”
Susan looked at her as if this were the most idiotic question she’d ever heard. “I swear to God, Jillian, sometimes you can be such a dumbo.”
Pope’s patience was at an end. He wanted to get the fuck out of here. “For chrissakes, Susan, just tell us.”
He knew he’d spoken too harshly the moment the words were out of his mouth.
She looked stung. “You don’t have to get mad.”
“I’m not mad,” he said, softening his voice. “I’m just anxious to get the book and bring it to you. You want it, don’t you?”
Another vigorous nod. “Yes. Very much.”
“Then, please, just tell me how you marked your hiding spot and I’ll go straight home and get it.”
She said nothing, as if weighing whether or not she could trust him. Then, glancing around the room to make sure no one else was watching, she pressed a finger to the glass and made a small, tight circle.
A wheel, Pope thought.
She’d marked it with a gypsy wheel.
3 2
The Ghost did not consider himself a violent man.
To violent men, killing things is a form of therapy. A release of stress. A need to be fulfilled at regular intervals, as the pressure becomes too much to bear.
The Ghost felt no pressure.
He was a businessman. And because his business was violence, many of those with whom he worked believed that he enjoyed himself while carrying out that business.
Unlike Arturo, however, who was a brute disguised as a gentleman, he found no joy in killing people. Derived no pleasure from a slit throat, or punctured kidney. Was not aroused by the smell of blood.
Certainly, he liked what he did or he wouldn’t do it. But his emotional satisfaction came only from a job well done, a plan well executed, not the infliction of pain. Unless his specific mandate was to elicit information, he tried his best to keep his target’s discomfort to a minimum.
It was always easier that way. Less messy.
Unless, of course, it was meant to be messy.
Although he had been working for Anderson Troy for several months now, The Ghost did not feel like an employee.
This had nothing to do with Troy himself. Troy treated everyone like a slave and expected unwavering loyalty.
But The Ghost was, as he always would be, a free agent. He had no respect for his so-called master. Considered him some thing of a punk, in fact. A spoiled brat who had no business ordering anyone around.
But Troy had money.
And that, in a nutshell, was what The Ghost respected. That, in a nutshell, was what all of Troy’s employees respected, save possibly Arturo, who wouldn’t take a shit without Troy’s approval and seemed to derive great satisfaction from the man’s constant abuse.
So Troy may have been a spoiled brat, but he paid well. And because Troy paid well, The Ghost did as he was instructed and asked no questions. Even when he thought those instructions were ill-advised.
Or downright stupid.
He did not offer advice or counsel. He did not pretend to be a friend.
He was a messenger. Pure and simple.
And his message, more often than not, was death.
The Ghost’s first assignment of the day had been a trip to a Las Vegas casino parking lot, where he had arranged a rendezvous with one of Troy’s law enforcement contacts. Two minutes into the meeting, the contact had been eliminated with a bullet to the brain.
This was followed by a drive to the Ludlow County Sheriff’s Department to assess any possible damage done by the twin defenders. Posing as their lawyer, he was able to learn that they were currently being held for assault and possibly attempted murder, but would not be formally booked until further investigation of the matter.
That investigation, however, was currently on hold because the department had its hands full with a multiple homicide across town. The family Pope had told them about.
Despite this distraction-or perhaps because of it-The Ghost was granted a ten-minute private conference with the pair. And when he walked into the room, they reacted much as he suspected they would.
With immediate, undisguised fear.
The Ghost assured them that he meant them no harm, but had merely been dispatched to secure their guarantee that they would remain faithful to their employer. For a special bonus, of course.
Not surprisingly, they told him they would. What they didn’t know was that they’d never have a chance to spend that bonus. But that was a project to be saved for a later date.
There was, unfortunately, the small problem of their cell phones, each of which had been programmed with Anderson Troy’s private number. And a search of their tax records would reveal that they were security consultants for the Oasis. But none of this linked Troy directly to the incident in question, and as long as they stuck to their story, Troy was in the clear.
That story, it was decided, would involve a private poker game between the defenders and Daniel Pope. A poker game that had resulted in a significant amount of money being owed to them by Mr. Pope. They had merely been trying to collect their debt when the hypnotist attacked them.
Based on his conversation with the deputy who brought them in, it was The Ghost’s understanding that Pope himself had yet to make a formal statement about the matter.
This was good news.
