I smile, then type:
Something hard and implacable comes into my father?s eyes as he reads the words, and I know that the first person who tries to break into my house will take a lethal bullet from a man who knows exactly where to aim.
I type.
?You?re heartbeat?s slowing a little,? Dad says. ?How do you feel??
?Better. I think I just want to sit here in the tub awhile.?
He nods understanding. ?I'?ll just go watch some TV in the den. If the nausea doesn?'t ease up, give a yell, and I'?ll give you a shot of Vistaril.?
?Thanks, Dad. Jesus, this really scared me.?
?Don?t thank me. You?re not out of the woods yet.?
I start to walk past him, but he grips my arm with startling force, pulls me back to the MacBook, and types:
He?s right to ask. If I leave this house, no matter how stealthy I try to be, I might be signing my death warrant.
I start to leave, but then I add,
He stares at the screen for a long time, and I see his jaw muscles flexing. Then he shakes his head and types:
I use the rear basement window to leave my house. The lower halves of those windows sit in a narrow concrete moat that sur
rounds the house, and I am thankful for it tonight. I see no one as I sneak out of my backyard, but as I prepare to slip across Washington Street two blocks from my house, a cigarette flares at the corner of my block, illuminating the pale moon of a beardless face. Knowing the watcher will be night-blind for a few moments, I dart across the road and into the foliage of a neighbor?s yard.
My destination is Caitlin?s guesthouse, a renovated servants? quarters that can be opened with the same key that opens her front door. I move carefully between my neighbors? homes, using my knowledge of pets and gardens to steer clear of problems. When I reach Caitlin?s backyard, I experience a moment of panic, thinking she returned while I was making my way here, but what I thought was her car is simply three garbage cans lined up for collection.
A rush of mildewed air hits me when I open the guesthouse door. Leaving the lights off, I move carefully across the dark den, toward the glowing red light in the kitchenette. With all hope suspended, I lift the cordless phone and press the ON button. A steady dial tone comes to me like a lifeline thrown into a black ocean.
Taking my cell phone from my pocket, I check its memory for the number of Kelly?s employer in Houston, then enter it into the cordless landline. The phone rings twice, then a cool female voice answers, ?Blackhawk Risk Management.? She?s wide-awake at two thirty in the morning, and this gives me some confidence.
?This is Penn Cage calling. I was given this number by Daniel Kelly. He?s a personal friend.?
?Yes, thank you. Did Mr. Kelly give you a code word??
I close my eyes in silent thanks to Kelly. ?It?s been some time, but he once told me to say
if I had an emergency and couldn'?t reach him.?
?Thank you, transferring you now. Please remain on the line.?
There?s no hold music, only a hiss cut short by a squawk. A male voice says, ?Call me Bill, Mr. Cage. Dan Kelly is on assignment at this time. What is the nature of your emergency??
?It?s life or death. I wouldn'?t call otherwise.?
Bill seems unfazed by this; he continues speaking with the practiced calm of a fighter pilot. ?Are you in danger now??
?Yes, but I can talk.?
?How can we help??
?I'm in Natchez, Mississippi. Five fifty Washington Street, a residence. My family has been threatened by men who committed murder tonight. I'm not sure I can trust the police. I need someone to take my mother and daughter to a safe location. Can you do that??
The pause is brief. ?We can do that. We have some operators arriving for Stateside rotation, and we can send a team. What?s the time frame??
?How soon can they be here??
?Seven hours by road. Our company planes are committed at this time. If danger is imminent, I can charter a jet, but cost may become a factor to you at that point.?
I think quickly. If Jonathan Sands has somehow overheard this call, he can retaliate even before a jet gets here. Annie?s safety lies in my getting back to my house unseen and playing out my bluff. ?Cost is no object, but seven hours will work fine.?
?You?ll have a team at your front door in seven hours or less. Have the packages ready.?
?I will.?
?Should we expect opposition??
?I think the opposition will be too surprised to act quickly. But your men should be ready just in case.?
?Understood. Mr. Cage, while we were talking, I messaged Dan Kelly via secure digital link. His reply says that if you can remain at your present number, he will call you within thirty minutes.?
I stand and pace the floor of the guesthouse in the dark. ?I can do that. But under no circumstances should Kelly try to call my cell phone or home phones. Those are compromised. It?s this line or nothing.?
?Understood. We?ll see you in seven hours. Six, if we can manage it. Stay well.?
I feel a rush of relief so powerful that my face goes hot. ?Thank you.?
Waiting in the dark with my hand on the phone, I sense the fragility of those who matter most to me, as though they'?re barely clinging to the planet as it spins through its orbit: my mother and daughter sleeping across the street with only my aging father to pro
tect them; my sister in England, going through her day without even a hint that she could be in danger; Julia Jessup hiding in or near the city, or running for her life with a fatherless child to protect. Swirling around them are people whose paths I can neither control nor predict: the men watching my house, who may realize I'm gone and call their master; Caitlin, who might return at any moment and discover me; Sands himself, who might decide he can?t trust me after all and consign me and mine to Tim Jessup?s fate.
The half hour I must wait for Kelly?s call is measured in clenching heartbeats, rapid-fire eyeblinks, startle reflexes, sudden bowel constrictions, and drops of sweat. When I don'?t see the ghostly white dog peering at me through the guesthouse window, I see images of my friend?s brutalized body, or his wife and young son hiding in terror and grief. Strangest of all is my memory of last night?s dream of Tim on the ice sheet, and the white wolf watching me. How did I dream of an animal I?d never seen before? Or
I seen that white dog around town somewhere, perhaps even with Sands, and stored the memory in some reptilian neurons, where they waited to be triggered by Tim?s twisted tale?
When the phone rings, I jerk it to my ear so fast the chirp fades almost before it?s begun.
?Hello? Hello!?
