Fun and Games

The woman lowered her head slightly. “Would it help if I told you the woman up in that house—the one you think you’re protecting—deserves to die?”

“What girl?”

The woman smiled.

“What girl. Good one, Charlie. But believe me, she’s pretty fucking far from innocent and deserves everything she’s got coming. If you knew what she did, you might even help us. Hold her down while we finish her off.”

Hardie had one of his usual take-stock-of-your-current-situation moments and realized he was standing on a downward slope of the Hollywood Hills, surrounded by multimillion-dollar upside-down homes, talking to a topless vigilante / killer. Okay. Just wanted to make sure he had it right.

“What about the dead delivery guy in the plastic bag? Did he deserve it?”

The woman sighed, shook her head. “No, he didn’t. Just like you, he’s an innocent victim, caught up in a tragic yet hopeless situation.”

A barking laugh exploded out of Hardie.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

The woman wrinkled her nose, then reached to her side and started to root through her bag. Here it comes, Hardie thought. Maybe a little snub-nosed revolver. Maybe a Taser. Maybe a cross-bow with flaming arrow, for all he knew. He took a step back…

The woman sat up and held out a fat plastic tube. “Here. Would you do the honors?”

The tube was sunblock. Ordinary brand-name, SPF 25.

“You want me to rub this on you?” Hardie asked.

“If you don’t mind.”

Hardie looked at the tube in her hands, then back up at the woman, trying hard not to make eye contact with her breasts. Anywhere but her breasts. Even when you’re negotiating with a killer, you had to have some standards.

“Where?”

“Where do you think? You’ve been staring at them long enough. The girls could use another coat. Come on, don’t be shy. Kneel down next to me.”

Hardie’s brain screamed: She has a weapon! She has a weapon! Still, Hardie found himself kneeling down. The only other option was to run, and if she did have a weapon, then what good would running do? This way, at the very least, he was closer to her phone. And if he could somehow grab her phone…

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You have the strangest look on your face.”

“I think I’m having what they call an existential moment.”

“You don’t need to make this complicated. Just open the top and squeeze into your hands, and let nature take its course.”

“You know what? I think I’ll pass for now.”

Hardie held the tube out for her.

The woman smiled. The edges of the bandage that covered her right eye—under the sunglasses—crinkled a little.

“Still the faithful husband. Which is really impressive considering how long since you’ve seen them.”

Hardie said nothing.

“Oh, don’t be coy about it. You’re still wearing the ring, and I know all about your wife, Kendra, and your son, Charlie Jr., who live at 255 Dana Street in Abington, Pennsylvania.”

A cold little ball formed in Hardie’s stomach. The address. God, she knew the address. How the hell did she know the address? How long had he been here—couldn’t be more than an hour and a half? And yet she knew the fucking address?

“Here’s the thing—and honestly, I’m done toying with you. Either we end this now or somebody will pay your wife and son a visit in the very immediate future. You can end this in a matter of seconds, or this can go on and on.”

This stranger knew the address, even though only two people in the world were supposed to know that address. What else did she know?

The woman pulled a syringe out of a small bag sitting next to her. They were so close, Hardie could just reach out and touch her. The sun was hot on his back.

She said, “Do you understand?”

Hardie nodded.

“You’re not going to make this difficult, are you?”

Hardie shook his head no.

“Show me your forearm.”

“What’s in that?”

“Does it really matter? I promise you, it’s painless. Think about your family.”

“I hate needles.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

She took the protective plastic cap off the syringe. Hardie made a fist with his left hand, pumped it a few times, then smashed it into her right eye. The lens of her sunglasses shattered. The force of the blow sent some of the plastic shards directly into her eye.

The good one.

She didn’t scream, to her credit. Instead, she sucked in a fortifying gulp of air and gritted her teeth and jabbed at Hardie with the syringe. But he anticipated the move and grabbed her wrist, freezing it mid-jab. Then Hardie punched her in the face again, knocking her earpiece loose. Hardie saw it bobbling there, half in, half out. He snatched it and tossed it down the hill. Now she screamed, a blast of sheer, angry red- hot rage, then turned and went scrambling, nearly naked, down the side of the hill. While she was distracted, Hardie grabbed her phone.

Hardie stood up. Maybe it was the knockout drugs, maybe it was the lack of oxygen to his brain, but he felt like the world had come to a screeching halt.

Kendra and Charlie.

Fuck.

Despite everything—the separation, the exile, the lack of communication, the precautions. They were in as much danger as they would have been if they had gone on living together, in their old row house—the one with all the bullet holes caulked over and repainted. All of the past three years had been for fucking nothing. The crazy topless killer bitch knew the address!

Not the address, thank God. Hardie didn’t even know it, and Deacon Clark had made the arrangements with the help of some buddies in WITSEC. They weren’t in witness protection; they’d “gone ghost,” which is what Deke and the rest of the FBI called it these days.

However, 255 Dana Street was Deacon Clark’s address—where Hardie sent all his checks and birthday cards and gifts. And if these creepy bastards could get to Clark, then it was only a matter of time before they would get to Kendra and Charlie. And that couldn’t happen.

Hardie staggered back up the hill toward the house.

11

Buddy, you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.

—Willem Dafoe, To Live and Die in L.A.