“Sounds like I could have saved myself a trip in that case.”
“Hey, it was your idea to drop by tonight, not mine.” Johnny tossed him a bottle of beer. “All I want to do right now is sleep. While you’re here, though…Super Con. That’s where the call Mel received last night came from. I checked it out. Means Superintendent Construction Site. There are four people in town who have that job. Two sites, two phones apiece.”
“Any of those phones missing from the sites this morning?”
“All of them. They’re left in the trailers at night. My gut’s telling me our caller’s the guy who wears fake camo, slicks his hair back with bear grease, and slaps mud on his face. That’s the description Pappy Laundy gave me of the man he thinks he shot and his dog Gomer bit.”
“So go to both sites and have every man there pull up his pant legs for a show and tell.”
“Laidlaw did that for most of today. So far, he’s batting zero. But then not every guy comes in every day, and who says our guy’s part of a construction crew? He could just be camped out in the swamp.”
“You could bait a trap, draw him out.”
“Thought about it.” Johnny took a deep swig. “But it’d have to be a screw-up-proof plan, seeing as Mel would be at the heart of it.”
“What about you and her relocating, taking the show on the road.”
“Thought about that, too. I’ll talk to Mel. It may be an option.”
Thunder rumbled in a blackening sky. McCabe glanced up as a streak of lightning forked through the clouds. “I’ve been rolling this over in my head. Ben Satyr’s vendetta versus James Mockerie’s patience—or lack thereof. I’m surprised Mockerie’s giving Satyr this much rope. Torture’s his thing, with the climax of death at the end of it. The more he thinks about it, the more he won’t like the idea of Melia being blown up. Kill her, absolutely, but not until he’s had his sick and twisted way with her.”
Johnny frowned. “What are you saying? That Satyr’s going against Mockerie’s orders?”
“Sounds like he might be. You could fuck up, Johnny. Satyr would love it if you did. But he wouldn’t love Mockerie’s reaction to a woman in pieces, a woman he never had a chance to slice up himself.”
Johnny took a slower, more thoughtful drink. “Meaning?”
“Satyr’s setting himself up for a fatal fall.” McCabe raised his own bottle in a salute. “Maybe someone should mention that to him.”
…
Satyr had a report on his computer—another failed attempt on Melia Rose’s life—as well as a message on his cell phone warning him that Mockerie wanted to meet with him, and not in the casino.
That meant no fun, no games, no distractions. This was business. If you could call getting raked over the coals business.
Some asshole—odds were on Johnny—had texted him that morning. The message said simply:
You succeed in blowing her up, Mockerie will roast your balls over a slow flame. Life’s all about choices, my friend.
Wrong. Life was about getting revenge. And, dammit, he’d earned the right to do it his way, without interference from an uninvited, uninvolved third party.
Would Mockerie understand that? Fuck, no. Could he be outmaneuvered? Redirected? Deceived? Possibly.
Satyr slammed the door of his sleek black Jaguar with its blood-red leather interior and a photo of Johnny Hunt impaled on a stake on the dash.
Mockerie’s office was in the basement of one of his hotels. It reminded Satyr of a tomb every time he visited, which wasn’t often. The place was top to bottom cold—white marble with black fixtures and finishes, a glass desk, and a single hardback walnut chair that looked to be handmade.
Three white fan blades sliced the air overhead as the elevator door swished open to allow Satyr direct entry into the office.
It was stark and lifeless. The temperature control was set at precisely sixty-eight degrees. Mockerie sat in the wooden chair, looking contemplative.
“You blew up her vehicle,” he said. “With a bomb. You tried to trick Hunt into looking elsewhere, then you set off an explosive device in her vehicle. Why?”
Satyr masked his irritation. The man knew too damn much about every damn thing. “As a warning,” he replied.
“Are you sure?”
“I know what I’m doing, James. Johnny wasn’t fooled.” Unfortunately. “I didn’t expect he would be.” But he had hoped. This time, he’d half wanted to reach the promised end.
Mockerie regarded him, his shadowed face devoid of expression. “If continuing the game is your goal, you’re relying rather heavily on the fact that Hunt will stay one step ahead of your legman in Deception Cove. He might just as easily have missed saving the woman tonight. Then where would that leave us?”
Us? Us! Satyr paced in front of Mockerie’s glass desk, because what the hell else could he do? There was no other chair in the office. “I know you want to watch her suffer. I understand you thrive on torture as much as I do on revenge. But in this case, my needs have to take precedence. Imagine yourself getting out of an Iraqi prison and discovering that the man who’s responsible for the death of the only woman you’ve ever loved is walking free.”
Mockerie’s teeth appeared. “I am imagining it. Your story gets better and more detailed every time I hear it. I’m not unsympathetic to your cause, Ben, but…well, maybe I am. However, the point is, I’m allowing you to take time out of your busy work schedule to do this thing. I expect recompense for that. I told you before I had to think about it. Well I have thought about it.”
“You want Melia Rose.”
“I want to watch her die. Name the time and place, and I’ll be there, knife in hand. You can watch, too, and of course, Johnny Hunt. The point I’m making is this—and understand me well when I say it. Melia Rose dies slowly in front of me. Period. This is my reward for benevolence beyond that which I would normally extend to anyone who works for me. You’ve been forewarned, Ben. Don’t fuck it up for yourself.”
Satyr’s blood flowed like ice water in his veins. His palms were damp with perspiration. Yet all he could see was red. And Johnny’s photo impaled on a spike in his Jaguar.
“Who’s your informant?” he asked. Each word he spoke dripped with venom.
Mockerie chuckled. “An old friend. Or, should I say, an old adversary. Sadly, taunting me is all he can do right now.”
Satyr frowned. “I only know the name of one old friend. Are you talking about McCabe?”
Mockerie merely continued to show his teeth. “Don’t fuck me around,” he said without inflection. “You really don’t want to know how I’ll react to that.”
Five silent seconds ticked by before Satyr gave a stiff nod and turned to leave. As the elevator door swished open, something flew past his head. The smooth steel actually brushed his skin.
He saw the knife embedded in the padded white leather wall directly ahead of him, heard Mockerie’s eerie chuckle behind. And kept on walking without a single backward glance.
…
Two explosions in a matter of two days in the quiet little town of Deception Cove, Florida. It was unthinkable. And yet it had happened. The news was a nonstop whirl of speculation, everything from a psychotic patient out to get Melia, to a former lover determined to kill her, to a family member furious that she’d caused the death of a mother, father, sister, or brother. Terrorism was thankfully far, far down the list.
Everyone she met had questions. Ailments and injuries fell by the wayside, usurped by curiosity and suggestions as to how she might protect herself.
Mabel urged her to buy a pit bull, maybe two, and teach them to attack first so she could ask questions later. She was also in favor of Johnny moving out and Ethan and Cas moving in.
Percy said that with help from AJ, he could rig up an alarm outside her house.
Gert—and probably Bette, as well—liked the idea of hiring a private investigator and having him skulk around town spying on people.