hour, if you include driving time.
And why wouldn’t you?
She picks the back door lock so quietly the family dog sleeps through the process.
Until Callie opens the door.
When that happens, several things occur. One. The alarm panel beeps, which tells her the De Lucas have an alarm, but failed to set it. Two. The beep is sufficiently loud to wake the bullmastiff, who goes berserk upon finding a strange woman standing in the hallway. Three. Callie leaps atop the washing machine and spends the next twenty minutes hopping back and forth between the washer and dryer as the dog snarls, lunges, jumps, and tries to eat her ankles instead of the biscuits Callie keeps tossing to the floor.
Callie didn’t know there’d be a dog, but there often is, so she came prepared. The dog biscuits contain enough synthetic opiate analgesic to render your typical canine adversary unconscious within minutes.
Dosing is simple.
Each biscuit neutralizes twenty pounds of dog. For a ten-pounder, you break the biscuit in half. The dog currently trying to maim Callie is a seven-biscuit beast.
Ten minutes of jumping tires most bullmastiffs. Twenty minutes exhausts them. When the De Luca mastiff finally hits the wall, he eats the biscuits and hits the floor with a heavy thud.
Callie races to the kitchen and searches the drawers and cabinets till she finds the burglar alarm pamphlet where she rightly assumed the De Lucas recorded their alarm code.
She tests it.
It works.
She thumbs through the pamphlet and learns how to bypass the monitoring company.
She goes to the garage, finds Angie’s keys right where she expected to: in the console tray of Angie’s car. She removes the door key and slips it in the pocket of her jeans. Then searches the house, finds Frankie’s guns, removes the bullets.
Under normal circumstances, killing Angie and Frankie would be child’s play. But Creed wants her to torture Frankie, hoping to learn something he can use to justify Frankie’s death. If, for example, Creed can prove Frankie’s been skimming money, Sal would condone the hit.
She walks back to the laundry room, sits on the floor beside the dog, and strokes his head. This is an ugly-ass dog. First time Callie’s ever seen one that’s uglier asleep than awake. While Callie isn’t opposed to killing animals, she needs a better reason than its appearance. And killing this one would take the De Lucas out of their routine. They’ll come home, expect the dog to meet them at the door enthusiastically. If it doesn’t, they’re going to be concerned. Killing and torturing people works best when you catch them by surprise, while they’re following their daily routines. The fewer variables, the better.
If killing the dog’s a poor option, not killing him is even worse. He could start barking when Callie returns later tonight. If so, Angie might call the cops. Nothing worse than trying to torture a guy while police bang on the victim’s door, demanding to enter.
If she further sedates the dog, the De Lucas will come home, find their pet unconscious. They’ll panic, and rush him to the vet.
And Callie would break into an empty house.
The dog has turned this simple killing into a complete cluster fuck.
Creed’s original idea had been for Callie to oil the doors, test the floors for sound, and sneak back in at two a.m. while the De Lucas were sleeping. She’d creep into their bedroom, kill Angie quickly, before Frankie can react. Then torture Frankie, gain the information she needs, then kill him.
Callie sighs, removes a tiny disk from her back pack, peels off the backing, and attaches it to the inside of the dog’s collar. The disk contains a miniature blasting cap and plastic explosive that can be detonated remotely from Callie’s cell phone. Press a button and Fido’s head comes clean off.
She pats his head again and says, “I hope it doesn’t come to this.”
Then she goes into the kitchen and makes herself a sandwich.
17.
THE DE LUCAS’ FRIDGE yields thin-sliced smoked turkey fresh enough to pass her smell test. That, plus mayo and oat nut bread makes a meal. She’d prefer some lettuce and tomato, but beggars can’t be choosers. She grabs a bottled water, sits on a barstool by the island in the kitchen, and nibbles her sandwich while deciding what to do about the De Lucas and their dog. That done, her mind drifts to the conference call she received last night from Annie Lorber and Emerson Watkins, whose fathers co-founded Sensory Resources.
“Lou Kelly’s dead,” Annie said.
After expressing shock, Callie asked what happened.
“You know Rachel Case?”
“Creed’s former girlfriend.”
“
“Forget I said that. What about her?”
“You’re aware Lou was dating Rachel Case’s mother?”
“Sherry, right? What happened?”
“Apparently Lou and Sherry were infected by the same mercury poisoning Miles Gundy created for his terrorist attack in Memphis.”
“How’s that possible?”
“We believe Gundy combined dimethylmercury poison with a live HSV-1 virus and placed it on the barre of a dance studio. The dancers were infected on contact.”
“Lou was locked away at Sensory Resources, in Virginia.”
“He and Sherry went to Roanoke, on a date.”
“Still. Roanoke’s a long way from Memphis.”
“The contagion life cycle was four to five hours. A client took the class in Memphis, flew to Roanoke to visit her sister, and wiped out the whole family. Apparently Lou Kelly or Sherry came into contact with her at some point.”
“Wrong place, wrong time?”
“Exactly. But the reason we’re calling-”
“Lou’s job?”
“Exactly.”
“Have you spoken to Donovan Creed?”
“Not yet.”
“Why are you calling me? To vouch for his character?”
“No,” Emerson said. “We’re offering you the position.”
Callie laughed. “Creed’s the one you need.”
“He killed our fathers!” Annie said.
“
“We don’t know that for certain, Annie,” Emerson said.
“Yes we do.”
“Please dismiss that,” Emerson said. “We’re offering you complete control, Miss Carpenter. You’ll run the agency, Creed will work for you, should you care to keep him.”
Callie laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Why wouldn’t I keep Creed?”
“Keep him, kill him, your choice,” Annie says. “I hate the bastard.”
“Let me put an end to your anger,” Callie said. “Creed didn’t kill your father, Annie. Nor yours, Emerson.”
“You know that for a fact?” Annie said.
“I do.”
