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Chapter Eleven

He called the number, a local one. It rang only once before being picked up. Silence on the other end.

"Luis?"

"Richard?"

"Yes, it's me. Where are you?"

"Thank God. Oh, thank God."

He got the impression of Luis crumpling with profound relief. "Where are you?"

"He got them. He got them all."

"I know. Where are you?"

But Luis was unable to answer, choking into tears. He was not that weak of a man, but this was probably the first time he'd been able to speak to anyone. A severe reaction was only to be expected. Richard waited him out, quelling his impatience before it turned into anger.

"I—I'm sorry," Luis finally whispered. "I just—just . . ."

"It's all right. Tell me where you are. I'll come fetch you."

"What?"

"I'm in Dallas. I know what's happened. Where are you?"

Luis stumbled out an address and general directions to a roadside motel near Plano.

"I'll be there in thirty. Get ready to leave."

He got a meek, tired reply in the affirmative.

Richard dressed fast and shot down to his car, then pushed and repeatedly exceeded the speed limit. He pulled into the motel's lot five minutes early. The place was an ugly, no-frills model, its two stories overlooking only the freeway. It was a cut above a fleabag, but a very narrow slice. Richard drove slowly now, the window open.

A man broke away from where he'd been hiding next to a bank of soft drink machines, rushing over. He was in a rumpled dark suit, tie gone, clutching a leather laptop bag to his chest like a life preserver. He went straight to the passenger side and ducked inside. Richard gunned them away.

Luis sank down in the seat, his eyes shut. His face was flushed and sweating; he'd been drinking to judge by his breath. Quite a lot, apparently.

"Have you been there all this time?" Richard asked.

"Mm?"

"How long were you at that motel?"

"Since this afternoon."

"Where before that?"

"My car. I drove around. I didn't know what to do. My car's back there . . ."

"Leave it; you need to disappear."

A bitter laugh. "That does not work so well. God, Stephanie tried to tell me something was wrong."

And you didn't listen. But voicing reproach would help neither of them now. "Tell me what happened when you left work Friday."

"Friday?"

"You didn't go straight home after work. Where were you?"

"I had an appointment. I was looking at a horse for Stephanie. Her birthday present. The man and I got to talking; we had some beers. I called home to let her know I'd be late, left a message. I thought she'd just taken the kids out for pizza. When I phoned later, I got a recording that said the line was out of service. So I left. When I got there . . . it was gone, they were gone."

Luis spoke like a robot, dead-toned, dead-faced, then broke down, trying to stifle his sobs. He couldn't speak, struggled to master himself. Finally he opened the laptop case and pulled out a nearly empty bottle of brandy and drained the last inch from it.

Richard understood the feeling. He'd want to get drunk, too. "Then what did you do?"

"I don't remember much. I drove. I don't know where. I drove for hours, was afraid to stop. Spent the night in the car at some truck station south of the city. Heard the news report on the radio. It felt like everyone was looking at me. I kept seeing Alejandro's face. My own brother. I never really believed he'd do it, maybe kill me but not my woman, not my children." He was out of liquor, but tried to take a pull from the bottle anyway. He didn't seem to notice it was empty.

"Then what did you do?"

"Drove some more. I was tired. The motel looked okay. They took cash in advance, and I used a false name."

"Why didn't you call the police?"

"Alejandro. He'd have people looking for me to do just that. He knows how to buy people; he can buy anything he wants, even death. No place is safe from him. You said we'd be safe. How did he find us? Where the hell were you? Did you tell him?"

That would be the booze, grief, and anger doing the shouting. Richard waited until the momentum faltered. "Don't be foolish, of course not."

"That bastard. I will kill him. Somehow, I will kill him for this, for everything."

"Do you know where he is?"

"If I did, I would not be here." Luis slumped even lower and went silent. He remained so until New Karnak came into view, then sat up, full of alarm. "We can't go here! He will know this is where I work. This is where he will look for me!"

"He won't find you, I promise."

"No! Let me out! He will have people watching this place!"

"Then don't let them see you. You'll be safe once we're inside. Get below the window line."

"You're crazy."

"Luis, please do what I say."

Luis responded less to Richard's soft order and more to the fact that he had no choice in the matter. He cursed and grumbled and slouched low, remaining that way even after Richard parked and got out. He held the elevator door.

"All right—now."

Luis scrambled over, head down as though dodging a bullet. "This place is not safe. It can't be."

"Alejandro will be looking for you to return to your office, not my flat. He doesn't know about me." Not the truth, but Luis didn't need to hear everything just yet. He did need reassurance and another drink. He wasn't thinking straight, and the sooner he got thoroughly numbed into sleep the better. By morning he might be useful.

In the harsh light of the elevator he looked worse than bad: two-day beard stubble, the whites showing all around his red-rimmed eyes, the air of defeat. Rest would help, but not cure him.

The door hummed open, and they stepped into the penthouse. It was as Richard had left it: no intruders lurked in the corners. Richard went to the bar and cracked open a fresh bottle of brandy from the store of assorted bottles in the cabinet. He always kept a supply for guests. He poured a triple and handed it to Luis, who took it without comment and drank.

He'd never been up here before. He looked around incuriously until spying the framed photo of his daughters on the desk. Then he turned away. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"You hurt, too. I forgot that."

Richard motioned at the couch. "Sit down. I've some good news for you."

He didn't sit so much as back into it, then drop. "Good news? How?"

"Michael is alive."

"Michael . . . ?" Luis shook his head. "What? But how? The place was leveled."

"I found him hiding in the pump house. Just a few bruises. He's safe with a doctor now, getting first-rate care."

Unlooked-for hope flooded Luis's face, replacing disbelief. "Where? What doctor? Take me to him!"

"In the morning."

"No! Now! I must see him!" He dropped his glass and boosted up, trying to cross to the elevator, but was too unsteady on his feet. He bumped into a table, nearly sending it and himself over. He caught his balance just in time and stood swaying.

"Luis, he will be asleep; waking him up will only frighten him."

"He needs his father; he won't be frightened of me."

"That won't be a good idea just now." Not in your condition, my friend. 

"What do you mean?"

"He was very traumatized. I think he saw everything that happened, and it put him into some kind of shock. He's not been able to talk—"

"Then I must go to him."

"In the morning, first thing."

"But—"

"Look at yourself. Charging in the way you are now will upset him even more. He needs to know that his father is calm and in control of himself. When adults can't control their emotions, it frightens children. His world has been turned inside out; because of that you have to be strong for him."

"I can be calm." There was an edge in his tone.

"You'll be more convincing after you've slept. Clean up and get some rest. You've both been through hell. Show him it's possible to survive."

Luis framed his head with his hands, pressing hard on his temples. "How is it possible? Everything was fine yesterday. And now . . ."

Richard understood that all too well. He'd seen it far too often. "One hour at a time, then one day at a time, no more."

"I don't know if I can stand it."

"You will. For Michael you will."

"Yes." But his voice was dead. "Did he say anything to you at all?"

"No. He's cried a little, but he doesn't speak. The doctor will be finding him a specialist if he doesn't wake out of it soon. He'll need special care no matter what."

Luis took a step forward, seemed to think better of it and sank into an armchair. "And you found him? How did you come to be there?"

"I got an e-mail SOS from Stephanie early Friday morning. Like the one you sent me tonight."

"Yes, she taught me how to do that when we moved here. Made me memorize the code. For emergency. I didn't think to use it until tonight when I saw the motel had an access. I didn't know you were already here."

"I flew straight down." He'd not known that Stephanie had confided the code to Luis. Until now it had been his own private gift to her. For all the good it had done. "Just what disturbed her enough to call for help?"

He spread his hands. "Little things. The stable door was open one morning. I thought one of the kids did it. There were two hikers in the fields once. She said they hung about all day as though watching the house. That bothered me a bit, but only because I thought they might be burglars, so I just said to take extra care about the locking up. We each had a pistol in case of trouble. I was not worried. I wish I'd listened to her."

And I, too. "She told me to come to the house after dark as usual, but by then it was too late."

"How too late?"

"They . . . were gone by then. I arrived hours too late."

Luis looked steadily at him. "What did you see? Tell me."

"They'd been shot. It was quick. They could not have suffered. They likely never knew what hit them."

"Stephanie . . . was she . . . ?"

Richard instantly interpreted the unfinished question. "No. No one touched her."

"A small mercy from a man who knows none. An oversight, I'm sure. The news said it was an explosion, but you saw them."

"I was in the house, yes. I looked for you and Michael, then I smelled the Semtex. It went up just as I got out." Best to keep the truth short and the rest unsaid. Richard wished his own memory could be revised or at least softened.

"A wonder that you are alive."

"And you as well. I believe Alejandro's hit man was watching from cover and was waiting for you to come home. He mistook me for you and set the place off."

"My God."

"But I got clear, and he totally missed Michael. Alejandro is not all-powerful."

Luis shook his head, not ready to believe that.

"Tell me—why did you erase all the e-mails on your office computer?"

"What?" The subject shift confused him. He had to hear the question again. "You were in my office?"

"I was trying to find you. I noticed those files were deleted. Why?"

"I always delete everything at the end of a day. It means I've dealt with all the work. I don't leave until I've cleared it out."

"Your address book was clean, too."

"That I did later—at a coffee house."

"They had a phone line for that?"

"A public computer."

"At a coffee house?"

Luis shrugged. "It is a modern age. The young people go to such places. I was afraid Alejandro might somehow find the addresses, make trouble for the people, so I deleted that to be safe."

In the midst of his grief, Luis's survival skills had tardily kicked in. There was hope for his recovery, after all.

"Richard—have you spoken to the police?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"I don't want them to know about me."

"They need to know who to look for. You can tell them."

"That's already happening. Philip Bourland is helping."

"God, I forgot about him. I must call him. I should have called him before now."

"After you've slept. He's made arrangements to get Michael to Canada. He can do the same for you. We'll make sure Alejandro never finds you."

"How?"

"Because he will be dead."

Luis almost smiled. "Again—how?"

"I'll find a way."

"You are a clever man, Richard, but even you do not have the resources to cut down someone like Alejandro. Many have tried."

"If there is a chance to kill him would you have me pass it up?"

"No, of course not. But I could wish to be the one to do it. He is not my brother. He is less than an animal. I would blot him out and pray God he burns in hell forever."

"Amen to that."

Luis's head drooped suddenly. Between the drink and the glut of emotional stress, he was overdue to collapse.

"Come on, you need to sleep." Richard stood.

"But this place is not safe."

"You won't be staying here."

"Where, then?"

Richard went to the desk and drew out another magnetic key from one of the drawers. "I've a special retreat within the building. It's not fancy, but you won't be bothered there; no one else knows about it."

Mystified, Luis slowly followed Richard into the elevator. He swiped the key through the slot and pressed the penthouse button five times. They went down one floor. The doors opened again to darkness. The air was circulated by the building's climate system, but had that stillness peculiar to lack of occupancy. Richard flicked on the lights. It was a small room, fitted out like a studio apartment, with a folding sofa bed and kitchenette. The two other doors, he explained, went to the bath and the one-way fire exit. From the slanted window there was a view of the Dallas skyline in the distance through the half-closed blinds.

Richard drew the heavy drapes. "You'll be fine here for the night. If you need anything, come upstairs for it. I'm afraid there's no food here—"

"It's all right. I'm not hungry. What is this?"

"A bolt-hole I arranged some time ago. Access is only through the elevator. You can leave, if you must, through the fire exit, but you can't get back in again that way."

"Why do you even have it?"

"Why not? In my line of business I never know what might happen. It seemed a good idea to have a safe haven, so I had this place fitted in while the building was being refurbished. None of the tenants know it exists. It's sound-proofed so you won't hear each other."

Luis almost smiled again. "This is wonderful. Quite brilliant."

"It serves."

Richard showed him the sequence again on the elevator button, opened up the bed, and wished him good-night.

"But should you not stay here as well? To be safe?" Luis asked.

"I've work yet to do. Come up in the morning. We'll go see Michael then."

"God bless you, Richard," he blurted, just as the elevator door slid shut.

Past four in the morning and there was no sleep in him.

This must be what coffee does to people.

Luis's appearance had stripped away all Richard's fatigue for the time being. There was hope for him that Michael would respond to his father's presence. They would find out tomorrow.

In the meantime, Richard knew he'd only pace restlessly and be quite useless here. He had to be out doing something, and one unfinished errand readily presented itself.

Along with the usual hammer, pliers, and screwdrivers, he had a collection of unorthodox tools in one of the kitchen drawers. In a thick plastic carry-case was a fine selection of lock picks; in another, a glass cutter, tape, and some very sticky putty. Most burglars these days just kicked in the door to grab what they wanted; Richard had more subtle skills.

Traffic was thin on his drive back to Euless. That would change in a very short time. He did not relish the prospect of facing the bright dawn on the return trip, pocketing more sun block against it. He'd lost his Stetson during the fight at the bar and had rummaged in his closet for a replacement. All he found was a black baseball-style hat with "Black Hat Productions" stitched on the front in black thread. A forgotten gift from a friend. It would have to do when the time came, and would likely make better cover. Half the casually dressed men in the state wore such hats.

Nick Anton's complex was not stirring yet as Richard pulled in and parked, though lights showed in flats belonging to early risers and insomniacs. He crossed the lot to the walkway, eyes and ears alert for observers. There were none as he again slipped over the wall onto Anton's porch.

The place was well shadowed and he very quiet as he worked on the locks. The doorknob one was no problem, but the dead bolt took longer, snicking loudly as it reluctantly surrendered. For a man in his line of work, Anton should have had better quality stuff.

Richard listened hard before entering, mindful that the place might be unexpectedly occupied. It was with both relief and chagrin that he determined it to be empty. He expected that, but had Anton been there it would have simplified his task. A few direct questions were much better than an hour's search through someone else's life.

He made sure the blinds were shut—there were no curtains—then flicked on a light. Anton had all the basics, but with an expensive, oversized TV and VCR. A large collection of action movies and porn was piled hodgepodge into a bookcase that had never seen a book. His reading matter was limited to picture magazines, their subjects consistent with his taste in films, and scattered throughout the small flat. Richard's initial scrutiny confirmed to him that the man lived like a pig and this foray would take time.

He began with the wildly untidy mess surrounding the kitchen phone, home to business papers and bills. There was no address book, but lots of business cards, old and new, matchbook covers, cocktail napkins, anything that would take a scribble. Many were not readily identifiable, consisting mostly of phone numbers and first names, usually of women. The business cards were almost as obscure, the matchbooks coming from various clubs and bars. The more important ones were attached to the wall by thumbtacks, or slid in between the wall and corner molding of a cabinet. Among them was one for Bubba Rob's Texas Nights.

There was a thick notepad with more numbers and reminders to buy foods and household items. Richard tore off the top sheet, then confiscated many of the business cards, taking most of the top layer. An inconvenience, perhaps, to Mr. Anton, but Richard did not think the man would live long enough to discover his home invasion.

Not if I get hold of him for five minutes. 

The answering machine blinked patiently. Richard found a pen, ready to take down anything useful.

Three of the messages were from women, two from men. The ladies had only personal matters, it seemed, and did not leave numbers. One man was obviously a bill collector, the other was rather more oblique.

"I saw the news. You may tell our employer that I wish to cordially sever relations with him, so don't call me again."

No self-identification, no number. He spoke clearly, with precise diction, but possessing a trace of local accent, clearly expecting Anton to know him. Richard listened again to memorize the voice. The answering machine had a caller ID trace attached, but nothing came up for this particular message. The man at the other end either phoned from a public booth or had countermeasures in place.

His statement was cryptic, but given Richard's unique viewpoint, a possible meaning presented itself. The "news" might mean the excessive media coverage of the Addison explosion. If so, then the "employer" could be Alejandro. The man was taking a chance quitting him. Severance benefits tended to be rather violent and final in certain types of work.

A second go-through turned up nothing more of interest. The mine was exhausted, but he counted himself slightly ahead for these few vague leads, which he would soon look into on the computer. Tomorrow, after reuniting father with son, he could investigate Jordan Keyes. Richard hoped he'd prove to be a better source of information on Alejandro, else he'd have to camp out in Anton's grubby apartment against his return.

Dawn was just starting to become a real annoyance. He'd forgotten his sunglasses and was half blind from the glare as he drove to cover under New Karnak. He squinted and tried to rub away the pulsing afterimages from his vision. No good. He needed darkness and rest. A few hours of both could be had before Luis woke up.

Richard tapped the elevator control more from memory than sight, thought about making a quick check on Luis, then dismissed it. No sense in startling him awake, if he was even capable of waking. He'd had enough booze to knock him out for a goodly time.

The door hummed open; out of habit, he listened, mindful of the threat of Alejandro tracking him here. His eyes began to rapidly adjust to the gloom.

He went alert. He'd not shut the lights off before leaving.

The likely thing was Luis had returned, looking for food or more brandy or for Richard and had turned them off. Likely, but now was not the time to make assumptions.

He kept a gun in the bottom drawer of the desk, a Colt revolver bought decades ago. It was still there, loaded with wadcutters. The rounds would not easily penetrate the walls, being designed to create havoc on flesh instead.

He pushed away the small voice that said he was being too paranoid. He could deal with feeling foolish after he'd ascertained his caution was for nothing.

He sniffed the air, catching a slight difference from the usual filtered stuff from the vents. Booze and sweat. Traces left behind by Luis. He sniffed for Semtex, thankfully not detecting any.

Listening, he focused on the least little sound for a full two minutes before relaxing. If someone was in the apartment, he'd have heard their heartbeat by now and most certainly their breathing.

Lights still off, he eased over to the guest room and made a quick turnaround of it, the bath, and closet, then did the same for the kitchen. Last was his own bedroom.

Should anyone be hiding, this would be the best place, but they'd not be able to see him in the dark. His night vision was fully restored by now. He pushed the door open with his foot, all his senses forward.

The universe began to break down into separate little bits of data: the door's slight resistance to his push, a strangely familiar, but quite incongruous, click and thump . . .

. . . something slamming violently into his chest.

He staggered from the force of it, the breath knocked from him. He fell with a grunt, strings cut.

Fire in his chest. The horrific burst of it stunned him flat. He gasped for air. A terrible weight pressed him down, squeezing the life from him.

His hands flapped frantically against something . . . in . . . him. Slender, like an arrow, but not as long. It had missed his heart, but only just. He obeyed his first instinct, wrapping feeble fingers around it. His strength was going fast. He'd have but one try.

No breath to scream as he tore it free.

He lay inert, unable to move, waiting for the roaring aftershock to subside. He could just manage a little air, keeping it slow, shallow. Any more and he might cough. He had enough pain without adding to it.

After a few awful moments he sensed a gradual fade in intensity as his body slowly healed.

Shot. But by what? 

In the dimness of the room he made out the shape of a camera tripod. What was mounted on it explained the familiar out-of-place—and out-of-time—sound: a crossbow.

What the hell . . . ? 

He was recovered just enough to reach up and claw at the light switch, getting a clear look at the booby trap. It was beautifully set—simple, but lethally effective. The tripod was a heavy model with extra weights attached to the legs to add to its stability, allowing it to hold the crossbow firmly in place. A length of what looked to be thin fishing line or piano wire ran from the crossbow to the inside doorknob. The door swinging fully open pulled the no-doubt-sensitive trigger. Whoever set the trap could safely exit the room so long as he didn't open the door too wide.

It was fixed at the right level to take out a man of Richard's height.

Jordan Keyes. His file had him linked with just such an exotic weapon.

Too bad for him and Alejandro that I survived. 

Richard pushed himself up with an effort. It felt exactly like he'd been kicked by a very large angry horse. He'd been shot before by the damned things; depending on the bolt's point they usually left a much larger, bloodier wound. Not that this one was minor. There was quite a mess on the rug.

He opened his shirt and gingerly checked his chest. Blood there too, but no bleeding and . . . glass? He brushed tiny shards of it from his skin. The wound was closed and tender, but not as painful as it still should have been. It was less healing and more like numbness.

He found the bolt. The tip was odd, with a sliver of broken glass where metal should be. He sniffed for some trace of whatever liquid had been inside, but it was obscured by his own blood.

At least, I think I survived. 

His head suddenly felt like it'd been stuffed with cotton, his limbs going heavy.

Poison. If the bolt doesn't kill, the poison will. 

He had to dilute it. Quick.

His legs barely responded. He shambled to the kitchen like a drunk, reeling against the walls for balance.

He dragged open the refrigerator door, his hands clumsy and trembling as he scrabbled in the vegetable compartment for one of the blood bags. He tore it open, slopping some, then drank it straight down. He reached for a second bag, but his legs gave out. Gravity seemed to pound him into the floor. His arms refused to move.

The only light came from the refrigerator; the door, swinging to close itself, bumped against his body. Cold air flooded down on him.

The weight returned to his chest.

Curare. He uses . . .  

The stuff had already attacked his voluntary muscles, now it was paralyzing the rest. Breathing became more difficult. His heart throbbed painfully, struggling against—

Then he no longer drew any breath at all.

His heart pulsed on for a few faltering beats.

He felt the exact instant when it ceased.

He lay inert, a live brain in a dead body, consumed with panic as it sent frantic orders to unresponsive flesh.

He couldn't even blink his eyes. Nor move them.

Strange black outlines edged his blurring field of view.

Then the universe simply shut down.

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Framed

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Chapter Eleven

He called the number, a local one. It rang only once before being picked up. Silence on the other end.

"Luis?"

"Richard?"

"Yes, it's me. Where are you?"

"Thank God. Oh, thank God."

He got the impression of Luis crumpling with profound relief. "Where are you?"

"He got them. He got them all."

"I know. Where are you?"

But Luis was unable to answer, choking into tears. He was not that weak of a man, but this was probably the first time he'd been able to speak to anyone. A severe reaction was only to be expected. Richard waited him out, quelling his impatience before it turned into anger.

"I—I'm sorry," Luis finally whispered. "I just—just . . ."

"It's all right. Tell me where you are. I'll come fetch you."

"What?"

"I'm in Dallas. I know what's happened. Where are you?"

Luis stumbled out an address and general directions to a roadside motel near Plano.

"I'll be there in thirty. Get ready to leave."

He got a meek, tired reply in the affirmative.

Richard dressed fast and shot down to his car, then pushed and repeatedly exceeded the speed limit. He pulled into the motel's lot five minutes early. The place was an ugly, no-frills model, its two stories overlooking only the freeway. It was a cut above a fleabag, but a very narrow slice. Richard drove slowly now, the window open.

A man broke away from where he'd been hiding next to a bank of soft drink machines, rushing over. He was in a rumpled dark suit, tie gone, clutching a leather laptop bag to his chest like a life preserver. He went straight to the passenger side and ducked inside. Richard gunned them away.

Luis sank down in the seat, his eyes shut. His face was flushed and sweating; he'd been drinking to judge by his breath. Quite a lot, apparently.

"Have you been there all this time?" Richard asked.

"Mm?"

"How long were you at that motel?"

"Since this afternoon."

"Where before that?"

"My car. I drove around. I didn't know what to do. My car's back there . . ."

"Leave it; you need to disappear."

A bitter laugh. "That does not work so well. God, Stephanie tried to tell me something was wrong."

And you didn't listen. But voicing reproach would help neither of them now. "Tell me what happened when you left work Friday."

"Friday?"

"You didn't go straight home after work. Where were you?"

"I had an appointment. I was looking at a horse for Stephanie. Her birthday present. The man and I got to talking; we had some beers. I called home to let her know I'd be late, left a message. I thought she'd just taken the kids out for pizza. When I phoned later, I got a recording that said the line was out of service. So I left. When I got there . . . it was gone, they were gone."

Luis spoke like a robot, dead-toned, dead-faced, then broke down, trying to stifle his sobs. He couldn't speak, struggled to master himself. Finally he opened the laptop case and pulled out a nearly empty bottle of brandy and drained the last inch from it.

Richard understood the feeling. He'd want to get drunk, too. "Then what did you do?"

"I don't remember much. I drove. I don't know where. I drove for hours, was afraid to stop. Spent the night in the car at some truck station south of the city. Heard the news report on the radio. It felt like everyone was looking at me. I kept seeing Alejandro's face. My own brother. I never really believed he'd do it, maybe kill me but not my woman, not my children." He was out of liquor, but tried to take a pull from the bottle anyway. He didn't seem to notice it was empty.

"Then what did you do?"

"Drove some more. I was tired. The motel looked okay. They took cash in advance, and I used a false name."

"Why didn't you call the police?"

"Alejandro. He'd have people looking for me to do just that. He knows how to buy people; he can buy anything he wants, even death. No place is safe from him. You said we'd be safe. How did he find us? Where the hell were you? Did you tell him?"

That would be the booze, grief, and anger doing the shouting. Richard waited until the momentum faltered. "Don't be foolish, of course not."

"That bastard. I will kill him. Somehow, I will kill him for this, for everything."

"Do you know where he is?"

"If I did, I would not be here." Luis slumped even lower and went silent. He remained so until New Karnak came into view, then sat up, full of alarm. "We can't go here! He will know this is where I work. This is where he will look for me!"

"He won't find you, I promise."

"No! Let me out! He will have people watching this place!"

"Then don't let them see you. You'll be safe once we're inside. Get below the window line."

"You're crazy."

"Luis, please do what I say."

Luis responded less to Richard's soft order and more to the fact that he had no choice in the matter. He cursed and grumbled and slouched low, remaining that way even after Richard parked and got out. He held the elevator door.

"All right—now."

Luis scrambled over, head down as though dodging a bullet. "This place is not safe. It can't be."

"Alejandro will be looking for you to return to your office, not my flat. He doesn't know about me." Not the truth, but Luis didn't need to hear everything just yet. He did need reassurance and another drink. He wasn't thinking straight, and the sooner he got thoroughly numbed into sleep the better. By morning he might be useful.

In the harsh light of the elevator he looked worse than bad: two-day beard stubble, the whites showing all around his red-rimmed eyes, the air of defeat. Rest would help, but not cure him.

The door hummed open, and they stepped into the penthouse. It was as Richard had left it: no intruders lurked in the corners. Richard went to the bar and cracked open a fresh bottle of brandy from the store of assorted bottles in the cabinet. He always kept a supply for guests. He poured a triple and handed it to Luis, who took it without comment and drank.

He'd never been up here before. He looked around incuriously until spying the framed photo of his daughters on the desk. Then he turned away. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"You hurt, too. I forgot that."

Richard motioned at the couch. "Sit down. I've some good news for you."

He didn't sit so much as back into it, then drop. "Good news? How?"

"Michael is alive."

"Michael . . . ?" Luis shook his head. "What? But how? The place was leveled."

"I found him hiding in the pump house. Just a few bruises. He's safe with a doctor now, getting first-rate care."

Unlooked-for hope flooded Luis's face, replacing disbelief. "Where? What doctor? Take me to him!"

"In the morning."

"No! Now! I must see him!" He dropped his glass and boosted up, trying to cross to the elevator, but was too unsteady on his feet. He bumped into a table, nearly sending it and himself over. He caught his balance just in time and stood swaying.

"Luis, he will be asleep; waking him up will only frighten him."

"He needs his father; he won't be frightened of me."

"That won't be a good idea just now." Not in your condition, my friend. 

"What do you mean?"

"He was very traumatized. I think he saw everything that happened, and it put him into some kind of shock. He's not been able to talk—"

"Then I must go to him."

"In the morning, first thing."

"But—"

"Look at yourself. Charging in the way you are now will upset him even more. He needs to know that his father is calm and in control of himself. When adults can't control their emotions, it frightens children. His world has been turned inside out; because of that you have to be strong for him."

"I can be calm." There was an edge in his tone.

"You'll be more convincing after you've slept. Clean up and get some rest. You've both been through hell. Show him it's possible to survive."

Luis framed his head with his hands, pressing hard on his temples. "How is it possible? Everything was fine yesterday. And now . . ."

Richard understood that all too well. He'd seen it far too often. "One hour at a time, then one day at a time, no more."

"I don't know if I can stand it."

"You will. For Michael you will."

"Yes." But his voice was dead. "Did he say anything to you at all?"

"No. He's cried a little, but he doesn't speak. The doctor will be finding him a specialist if he doesn't wake out of it soon. He'll need special care no matter what."

Luis took a step forward, seemed to think better of it and sank into an armchair. "And you found him? How did you come to be there?"

"I got an e-mail SOS from Stephanie early Friday morning. Like the one you sent me tonight."

"Yes, she taught me how to do that when we moved here. Made me memorize the code. For emergency. I didn't think to use it until tonight when I saw the motel had an access. I didn't know you were already here."

"I flew straight down." He'd not known that Stephanie had confided the code to Luis. Until now it had been his own private gift to her. For all the good it had done. "Just what disturbed her enough to call for help?"

He spread his hands. "Little things. The stable door was open one morning. I thought one of the kids did it. There were two hikers in the fields once. She said they hung about all day as though watching the house. That bothered me a bit, but only because I thought they might be burglars, so I just said to take extra care about the locking up. We each had a pistol in case of trouble. I was not worried. I wish I'd listened to her."

And I, too. "She told me to come to the house after dark as usual, but by then it was too late."

"How too late?"

"They . . . were gone by then. I arrived hours too late."

Luis looked steadily at him. "What did you see? Tell me."

"They'd been shot. It was quick. They could not have suffered. They likely never knew what hit them."

"Stephanie . . . was she . . . ?"

Richard instantly interpreted the unfinished question. "No. No one touched her."

"A small mercy from a man who knows none. An oversight, I'm sure. The news said it was an explosion, but you saw them."

"I was in the house, yes. I looked for you and Michael, then I smelled the Semtex. It went up just as I got out." Best to keep the truth short and the rest unsaid. Richard wished his own memory could be revised or at least softened.

"A wonder that you are alive."

"And you as well. I believe Alejandro's hit man was watching from cover and was waiting for you to come home. He mistook me for you and set the place off."

"My God."

"But I got clear, and he totally missed Michael. Alejandro is not all-powerful."

Luis shook his head, not ready to believe that.

"Tell me—why did you erase all the e-mails on your office computer?"

"What?" The subject shift confused him. He had to hear the question again. "You were in my office?"

"I was trying to find you. I noticed those files were deleted. Why?"

"I always delete everything at the end of a day. It means I've dealt with all the work. I don't leave until I've cleared it out."

"Your address book was clean, too."

"That I did later—at a coffee house."

"They had a phone line for that?"

"A public computer."

"At a coffee house?"

Luis shrugged. "It is a modern age. The young people go to such places. I was afraid Alejandro might somehow find the addresses, make trouble for the people, so I deleted that to be safe."

In the midst of his grief, Luis's survival skills had tardily kicked in. There was hope for his recovery, after all.

"Richard—have you spoken to the police?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"I don't want them to know about me."

"They need to know who to look for. You can tell them."

"That's already happening. Philip Bourland is helping."

"God, I forgot about him. I must call him. I should have called him before now."

"After you've slept. He's made arrangements to get Michael to Canada. He can do the same for you. We'll make sure Alejandro never finds you."

"How?"

"Because he will be dead."

Luis almost smiled. "Again—how?"

"I'll find a way."

"You are a clever man, Richard, but even you do not have the resources to cut down someone like Alejandro. Many have tried."

"If there is a chance to kill him would you have me pass it up?"

"No, of course not. But I could wish to be the one to do it. He is not my brother. He is less than an animal. I would blot him out and pray God he burns in hell forever."

"Amen to that."

Luis's head drooped suddenly. Between the drink and the glut of emotional stress, he was overdue to collapse.

"Come on, you need to sleep." Richard stood.

"But this place is not safe."

"You won't be staying here."

"Where, then?"

Richard went to the desk and drew out another magnetic key from one of the drawers. "I've a special retreat within the building. It's not fancy, but you won't be bothered there; no one else knows about it."

Mystified, Luis slowly followed Richard into the elevator. He swiped the key through the slot and pressed the penthouse button five times. They went down one floor. The doors opened again to darkness. The air was circulated by the building's climate system, but had that stillness peculiar to lack of occupancy. Richard flicked on the lights. It was a small room, fitted out like a studio apartment, with a folding sofa bed and kitchenette. The two other doors, he explained, went to the bath and the one-way fire exit. From the slanted window there was a view of the Dallas skyline in the distance through the half-closed blinds.

Richard drew the heavy drapes. "You'll be fine here for the night. If you need anything, come upstairs for it. I'm afraid there's no food here—"

"It's all right. I'm not hungry. What is this?"

"A bolt-hole I arranged some time ago. Access is only through the elevator. You can leave, if you must, through the fire exit, but you can't get back in again that way."

"Why do you even have it?"

"Why not? In my line of business I never know what might happen. It seemed a good idea to have a safe haven, so I had this place fitted in while the building was being refurbished. None of the tenants know it exists. It's sound-proofed so you won't hear each other."

Luis almost smiled again. "This is wonderful. Quite brilliant."

"It serves."

Richard showed him the sequence again on the elevator button, opened up the bed, and wished him good-night.

"But should you not stay here as well? To be safe?" Luis asked.

"I've work yet to do. Come up in the morning. We'll go see Michael then."

"God bless you, Richard," he blurted, just as the elevator door slid shut.

Past four in the morning and there was no sleep in him.

This must be what coffee does to people.

Luis's appearance had stripped away all Richard's fatigue for the time being. There was hope for him that Michael would respond to his father's presence. They would find out tomorrow.

In the meantime, Richard knew he'd only pace restlessly and be quite useless here. He had to be out doing something, and one unfinished errand readily presented itself.

Along with the usual hammer, pliers, and screwdrivers, he had a collection of unorthodox tools in one of the kitchen drawers. In a thick plastic carry-case was a fine selection of lock picks; in another, a glass cutter, tape, and some very sticky putty. Most burglars these days just kicked in the door to grab what they wanted; Richard had more subtle skills.

Traffic was thin on his drive back to Euless. That would change in a very short time. He did not relish the prospect of facing the bright dawn on the return trip, pocketing more sun block against it. He'd lost his Stetson during the fight at the bar and had rummaged in his closet for a replacement. All he found was a black baseball-style hat with "Black Hat Productions" stitched on the front in black thread. A forgotten gift from a friend. It would have to do when the time came, and would likely make better cover. Half the casually dressed men in the state wore such hats.

Nick Anton's complex was not stirring yet as Richard pulled in and parked, though lights showed in flats belonging to early risers and insomniacs. He crossed the lot to the walkway, eyes and ears alert for observers. There were none as he again slipped over the wall onto Anton's porch.

The place was well shadowed and he very quiet as he worked on the locks. The doorknob one was no problem, but the dead bolt took longer, snicking loudly as it reluctantly surrendered. For a man in his line of work, Anton should have had better quality stuff.

Richard listened hard before entering, mindful that the place might be unexpectedly occupied. It was with both relief and chagrin that he determined it to be empty. He expected that, but had Anton been there it would have simplified his task. A few direct questions were much better than an hour's search through someone else's life.

He made sure the blinds were shut—there were no curtains—then flicked on a light. Anton had all the basics, but with an expensive, oversized TV and VCR. A large collection of action movies and porn was piled hodgepodge into a bookcase that had never seen a book. His reading matter was limited to picture magazines, their subjects consistent with his taste in films, and scattered throughout the small flat. Richard's initial scrutiny confirmed to him that the man lived like a pig and this foray would take time.

He began with the wildly untidy mess surrounding the kitchen phone, home to business papers and bills. There was no address book, but lots of business cards, old and new, matchbook covers, cocktail napkins, anything that would take a scribble. Many were not readily identifiable, consisting mostly of phone numbers and first names, usually of women. The business cards were almost as obscure, the matchbooks coming from various clubs and bars. The more important ones were attached to the wall by thumbtacks, or slid in between the wall and corner molding of a cabinet. Among them was one for Bubba Rob's Texas Nights.

There was a thick notepad with more numbers and reminders to buy foods and household items. Richard tore off the top sheet, then confiscated many of the business cards, taking most of the top layer. An inconvenience, perhaps, to Mr. Anton, but Richard did not think the man would live long enough to discover his home invasion.

Not if I get hold of him for five minutes. 

The answering machine blinked patiently. Richard found a pen, ready to take down anything useful.

Three of the messages were from women, two from men. The ladies had only personal matters, it seemed, and did not leave numbers. One man was obviously a bill collector, the other was rather more oblique.

"I saw the news. You may tell our employer that I wish to cordially sever relations with him, so don't call me again."

No self-identification, no number. He spoke clearly, with precise diction, but possessing a trace of local accent, clearly expecting Anton to know him. Richard listened again to memorize the voice. The answering machine had a caller ID trace attached, but nothing came up for this particular message. The man at the other end either phoned from a public booth or had countermeasures in place.

His statement was cryptic, but given Richard's unique viewpoint, a possible meaning presented itself. The "news" might mean the excessive media coverage of the Addison explosion. If so, then the "employer" could be Alejandro. The man was taking a chance quitting him. Severance benefits tended to be rather violent and final in certain types of work.

A second go-through turned up nothing more of interest. The mine was exhausted, but he counted himself slightly ahead for these few vague leads, which he would soon look into on the computer. Tomorrow, after reuniting father with son, he could investigate Jordan Keyes. Richard hoped he'd prove to be a better source of information on Alejandro, else he'd have to camp out in Anton's grubby apartment against his return.

Dawn was just starting to become a real annoyance. He'd forgotten his sunglasses and was half blind from the glare as he drove to cover under New Karnak. He squinted and tried to rub away the pulsing afterimages from his vision. No good. He needed darkness and rest. A few hours of both could be had before Luis woke up.

Richard tapped the elevator control more from memory than sight, thought about making a quick check on Luis, then dismissed it. No sense in startling him awake, if he was even capable of waking. He'd had enough booze to knock him out for a goodly time.

The door hummed open; out of habit, he listened, mindful of the threat of Alejandro tracking him here. His eyes began to rapidly adjust to the gloom.

He went alert. He'd not shut the lights off before leaving.

The likely thing was Luis had returned, looking for food or more brandy or for Richard and had turned them off. Likely, but now was not the time to make assumptions.

He kept a gun in the bottom drawer of the desk, a Colt revolver bought decades ago. It was still there, loaded with wadcutters. The rounds would not easily penetrate the walls, being designed to create havoc on flesh instead.

He pushed away the small voice that said he was being too paranoid. He could deal with feeling foolish after he'd ascertained his caution was for nothing.

He sniffed the air, catching a slight difference from the usual filtered stuff from the vents. Booze and sweat. Traces left behind by Luis. He sniffed for Semtex, thankfully not detecting any.

Listening, he focused on the least little sound for a full two minutes before relaxing. If someone was in the apartment, he'd have heard their heartbeat by now and most certainly their breathing.

Lights still off, he eased over to the guest room and made a quick turnaround of it, the bath, and closet, then did the same for the kitchen. Last was his own bedroom.

Should anyone be hiding, this would be the best place, but they'd not be able to see him in the dark. His night vision was fully restored by now. He pushed the door open with his foot, all his senses forward.

The universe began to break down into separate little bits of data: the door's slight resistance to his push, a strangely familiar, but quite incongruous, click and thump . . .

. . . something slamming violently into his chest.

He staggered from the force of it, the breath knocked from him. He fell with a grunt, strings cut.

Fire in his chest. The horrific burst of it stunned him flat. He gasped for air. A terrible weight pressed him down, squeezing the life from him.

His hands flapped frantically against something . . . in . . . him. Slender, like an arrow, but not as long. It had missed his heart, but only just. He obeyed his first instinct, wrapping feeble fingers around it. His strength was going fast. He'd have but one try.

No breath to scream as he tore it free.

He lay inert, unable to move, waiting for the roaring aftershock to subside. He could just manage a little air, keeping it slow, shallow. Any more and he might cough. He had enough pain without adding to it.

After a few awful moments he sensed a gradual fade in intensity as his body slowly healed.

Shot. But by what? 

In the dimness of the room he made out the shape of a camera tripod. What was mounted on it explained the familiar out-of-place—and out-of-time—sound: a crossbow.

What the hell . . . ? 

He was recovered just enough to reach up and claw at the light switch, getting a clear look at the booby trap. It was beautifully set—simple, but lethally effective. The tripod was a heavy model with extra weights attached to the legs to add to its stability, allowing it to hold the crossbow firmly in place. A length of what looked to be thin fishing line or piano wire ran from the crossbow to the inside doorknob. The door swinging fully open pulled the no-doubt-sensitive trigger. Whoever set the trap could safely exit the room so long as he didn't open the door too wide.

It was fixed at the right level to take out a man of Richard's height.

Jordan Keyes. His file had him linked with just such an exotic weapon.

Too bad for him and Alejandro that I survived. 

Richard pushed himself up with an effort. It felt exactly like he'd been kicked by a very large angry horse. He'd been shot before by the damned things; depending on the bolt's point they usually left a much larger, bloodier wound. Not that this one was minor. There was quite a mess on the rug.

He opened his shirt and gingerly checked his chest. Blood there too, but no bleeding and . . . glass? He brushed tiny shards of it from his skin. The wound was closed and tender, but not as painful as it still should have been. It was less healing and more like numbness.

He found the bolt. The tip was odd, with a sliver of broken glass where metal should be. He sniffed for some trace of whatever liquid had been inside, but it was obscured by his own blood.

At least, I think I survived. 

His head suddenly felt like it'd been stuffed with cotton, his limbs going heavy.

Poison. If the bolt doesn't kill, the poison will. 

He had to dilute it. Quick.

His legs barely responded. He shambled to the kitchen like a drunk, reeling against the walls for balance.

He dragged open the refrigerator door, his hands clumsy and trembling as he scrabbled in the vegetable compartment for one of the blood bags. He tore it open, slopping some, then drank it straight down. He reached for a second bag, but his legs gave out. Gravity seemed to pound him into the floor. His arms refused to move.

The only light came from the refrigerator; the door, swinging to close itself, bumped against his body. Cold air flooded down on him.

The weight returned to his chest.

Curare. He uses . . .  

The stuff had already attacked his voluntary muscles, now it was paralyzing the rest. Breathing became more difficult. His heart throbbed painfully, struggling against—

Then he no longer drew any breath at all.

His heart pulsed on for a few faltering beats.

He felt the exact instant when it ceased.

He lay inert, a live brain in a dead body, consumed with panic as it sent frantic orders to unresponsive flesh.

He couldn't even blink his eyes. Nor move them.

Strange black outlines edged his blurring field of view.

Then the universe simply shut down.

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Framed