watching him, hungry, as if something had changed between them and she couldn’t wait to comfort him. Or devour him. He wasn’t sure which. He probably would have let her. No, that wasn’t right. He was as hungry as she was, maybe even hungrier. He wouldn’t have just
That was the end of his hunger. At least the hunger for Reggie. The note from Wanda Chinkle made his throat tighten and his stomach roil with pain. The last time he’d felt this way he’d killed four people and beaten another one close to death. So he looked up at Reggie and told her the kind of help he wanted her to give him now. She didn’t say a word, just nodded and smiled. A smile that said they both knew what additional kind of help would be waiting when he wanted it. Then he made a call. To Colonel Eugene T. Zanesworth. He wasn’t put through at first, but he stressed how urgent it was, and finally Zanesworth got on the phone. Chilly at first. No. Icy. Justin told him he had crucial information about Hutchinson Cooke’s murder, and when the colonel still resisted, Justin said he knew what had happened and they needed to talk. He wouldn’t go to Andrews, he insisted they meet someplace neutral, someplace, he said, where he’d be sure to be safe. He wanted a restaurant, he told Zanesworth, someplace with a lot of people, very public. The colonel scoffed, said, “Are you saying you don’t trust me?” and Justin, knowing he had to play this just right, knowing he had to appear smart but not too smart, said, “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Colonel. Try not to take it personally. Right now I don’t trust anyone. And I want a suit- and-tie kind of place. Calm and fancy, so if there’s a disturbance it’ll be obvious.” So Zanesworth picked a place, Justin agreed, said he’d fly out in the morning, would get to the restaurant by twelve-thirty.
And that’s when he said good-bye to Reggie, because he had no intention of leaving in the morning. He was, he hoped, a lot smarter than that. He threw a toothbrush, a shirt, a pair of socks, and some underwear into a gym bag, then he drove straight to La Guardia, caught the 10 P.M. shuttle to D.C., checked into the hotel. Justin knew that as soon as they’d arranged their meeting, Zanesworth would call someone, FBI or private cops, whoever had been talking to him up until now. And he knew the cops would immediately make a precise and detailed plan. He figured they’d want Zanesworth to get to the restaurant an hour and a half early, maybe even two hours, hoping to set up before Justin could. But he didn’t believe in taking any chances whatsoever, so he’d prepared for as many alternatives as he could, and was in position several hours before he expected Zanesworth to move. There could be no mistakes.
Of course, while he waited, he did nothing but think of all the things that could go wrong.
He’d mapped out the route from Andrews to the restaurant Zanesworth had chosen, and driven it, round trip, seven times before he felt comfortable. He knew it only made sense for the colonel’s car to make a right turn coming out of the Air Force base. And he was certain Zanesworth would come to the base in the morning-he was a business-as-usual kind of guy. That’s why Justin had made the meet for lunch, so the officer wouldn’t just take the first part of the day off. And Justin knew the way cops handled this sort of thing-they’d be at the meeting place, have it staked out from hell to high water, expecting Justin to show up there early if he were trying to be clever. He had it all figured out, absolutely. Unless Zanesworth knew a shortcut and made a left or the colonel decided to stay home until the big meal or unless these cops were different and smarter and came with Zanesworth, picked him up from the departure point rather than at the meet.
No. He had to try to put all that out of his mind. This would work. It would definitely work. Wouldn’t it?
Yes.
It was working.
At least so far.
Ten-twenty-two and there was Zanesworth’s car. He had a driver, which Justin had figured on, probably the young officer who’d escorted Justin to his parking space the time he’d come to meet the colonel. Justin started up the engine of his rental car. Waited. Let them get half a block ahead. There didn’t seem to be any cars accompanying the colonel. It was definitely working.
About five blocks from the base, they reached one of the streets that Justin had decided would suffice-it was quiet but not too quiet; he wanted a few people around so things didn’t appear suspicious right from the start-and then he stuck the baseball cap he’d brought along on his head, and sped up. When Colonel Zanesworth’s driver stopped at the stop sign, Justin didn’t slow down. He rammed straight into the back of the officer’s car. Without hesitating, Justin hopped out of his car, sauntered up to the car with the smashed-in back fender. He knew the colonel was expecting him to be in a suit and tie-as Justin had specified over the phone-so he figured he had an extra few moments before he was recognized in his jeans and baseball cap. He went to the driver’s window, saw that Zanesworth’s chauffeur was indeed the same officer escort Justin had already met, but it was the back door that opened a few inches. The colonel stuck his head outside and started his sentence with, “We’re involved in government business right now, we can’t-” but he stopped speaking when the muzzle of Justin’s gun was placed firmly up against his left eye.
“Shove over, Colonel,” he said. And when the officer hesitated, Justin added, “I probably won’t shoot you in the head but I sure as shit’ll put one right in your knee or someplace that’ll hurt like hell. So just do what I say and it’ll be fine.” And as he slid inside the car to sit next to Zanesworth, Justin said to the driver, “Keep both hands on the wheel until I tell you different. If one finger so much as comes loose, I’ll cripple your colonel for life. You got that?”
The young officer said, “Yes, sir,” and Justin closed the door behind him.
“Make a right turn,” he told the driver. “Go slow, as if you’re just pulling away from the accident so you don’t block traffic. Then go two blocks and make another right.”
The colonel started to talk but Justin tapped him with the gun-not as lightly as he might have, he wanted it to hurt. “Shut up,” he said, and he was almost embarrassed how satisfying it was to speak those words. He then did a quick frisk, took a pistol out of Zanesworth’s shoulder holster.
The driver had now made the second right. Justin told him to go one more block and make a left. They went about ten blocks farther, turning a few more times. Justin saw that no one was following them, so he told the driver to stop and pull over. They were in a business area near a strip mall and a few small stores.
“Colonel,” Justin said, “get down on the floor, facedown, hands interlaced behind your back. Once you’re there, if I see you move, I’ll shoot you.”
Justin opened the car door on his side, stepped outside, and watched Zanesworth settle into his position. Then he tapped the driver on the back of the head with his gun, said, “Okay, Junior, I’m going to open your door. Keep your hands completely visible at all times and get out of the car.”
They managed that maneuver. Justin took a pistol off the driver, made sure he had no other weapons, then he said, “Step behind the car here and get undressed.”
“What?”
“Give me the keys to the car first, then take your clothes off.”
“Why?”
“Here’s the way it works in the real world. Say another word and I’ll beat you senseless. Now get out of your clothes. Fast.”
The officer clamped his mouth shut, kicked off his shoes and removed his shirt and pants.
“Underwear and socks, too,” Justin told him.
The young officer glared but said nothing. And then he was completely naked.
“Okay,” Justin said. “Crouch down behind the car, here on the curb side.”
The young officer followed instructions. Then Justin went around to the street side, opened the door, reached inside the car, and grabbed Zanesworth by the neck. He pulled the colonel roughly out onto the street, then quickly
