FaceOff (30 page)

Quinn shrugged. “Well, like I told you, I was a cop once. Still work with them—with one great cop, an old partner, Larue. He doesn’t want me to explain things like curses and Infernals—he just wants me to take care of them.”

“I tend to avoid cops—nothing personal. It’s just the less they know about me, the better.”

“You have warrants out on you?”

Jack shrugged. “Need a name on a warrant, don’t you?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Well, then, I guess not. As for the here and now, we should know how things pan out by tomorrow. You know a place I can bunk for the night?”

Quinn smiled, not at all grimly then. “Yeah, I know a great place. Right on Royal. And when Danni wants to know why I’m beat to hell, I can say, ‘You should see the other guy’—and then show her that other guy.”

Jack laughed. He could get to like this Quinn.

It didn’t take long to reach the center of the French Quarter. Jack was impressed with the historic building with the sign that read
THE CHESHIRE CAT.

But they didn’t enter by the front. Quinn hit a button on his dash, a garage door opened, and they moved through a beautiful garden courtyard to enter by a side door.

A woman was waiting there, tall and lithe, with a giant dog by her side.

“That’s just Wolf,” Quinn told him, greeting the dog, who accepted Jack right away because his master suggested he do so.

Quinn seemed a little awkward as he greeted the woman.

“Danni, you’re back early.”

“So I am,” she said, staring from Quinn to Jack and then back at Quinn again. “I guess you two should come in and get cleaned up—and patched up. And I guess you’re going to tell me that I should see the other guys?”

Jack looked at Quinn. They both smiled.

Jack said, “We
are
the other guys.”

“Interesting,” Danni said. “I’ll put on some tea and get out the whiskey. I’m looking forward to hearing all about it.”

Normally Jack would be looking for a beer, but after tonight, whiskey was definitely in order.

IN THE MORNING, QUINN TRACKED
down Larue by phone and learned he was at the hospital. He rounded up Jack and drove him there. The front desk gave them the room number and they headed up.

No surprise to find his old friend standing next to the bed where Chastain lay heavily sedated. His left arm was thickly
bandaged—and Quinn noticed with a start it was much shorter than it should be.

“Quinn,” Larue said, shaking his head. “I guess I expected to see you here at some point. Damnedest thing. Chastain—he of untold riches—suddenly went mad and cut off his own hand. You know anything about that? And who’s your friend?”

“Jack. Jack, this is Detective Larue.”

“Jack?”

“Just Jack.”

Larue studied him a moment, then shrugged. “Anything I need to worry about?” he asked Quinn.

Quinn stared at the pale, unconscious man. “He’s going to make it?”

“Minus his hand and wrist.”

“How did he wind up here?”

“He’s lucky he’s alive. Beat cop found him wandering the streets, mumbling incoherently. I was afraid we had a psycho out there somewhere, chopping on people. But according to the EMT who worked with him first, Chastain said he cut his own hand off because it had ‘betrayed’ him. Not sure what the hell that means—bastard wasn’t even drunk or on anything. Tox reports came back clean.”

“Anybody find the hand?”

Larue shook his head. “Gone. Dog might have run off with it. Or a big rat.”

“How about some jewelry?” Jack said. “Like, oh, say, a bracelet?”

Larue stared at them both. “What bracelet?”

Hell. That meant the Cidsev Nelesso was still out there.

Quinn shrugged and said, “Well, I was just thinking. If you
cut your hand off at the wrist, it might have been because you had something on the wrist that you couldn’t get off. You know—something that had ‘betrayed’ you.”

“I’ve got cops looking in Dumpsters—no hand,” Larue said. “Strange as hell, huh? Should I be looking for a bracelet?”

“If you find the hand, you’ll find something with it, I would think,” Quinn said.

Larue shook his head and glanced at both men. “You make sure I know if there’s something I should be worrying about, Quinn. Mr.—Mr. Jack, enjoy the city.”

Larue walked by them.

Quinn watched as Jack paused at Chastain’s bedside. “What goes around,” he murmured.

Quinn nodded. “No one dead. That works for me.”

And he now realized why he’d sensed nothing wrong about the bracelet: there hadn’t
been
anything wrong until it was activated.

Jack said, “Where the hell do you think the hand and bracelet could be?”

Quinn had an idea but kept it to himself.

“Need a ride to the airport?”

Jack shook his head. “The TSA and I aren’t on cordial terms.”

Now
that
was interesting.

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t have a private jet on hand like Chastain.”

“Didn’t figure you did. Guess I’ll rent a car.”

Quinn figured that meant whatever ID Jack was carrying was bogus.

“So, your ID’s good enough for Hertz but not TSA?”

Jack gave him a long look before shrugging. “It’s passed TSA before but I’m not one for tempting fate.”

“Long drive.”

Jack sighed. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to it, but I guess it’s a way to see some country.”

“I take it you don’t leave New York much?”

Jack shrugged. “What for?”

Quinn had to laugh. He felt the same about New Orleans.

Traffic was light. Thirty minutes later Quinn dropped Jack at the airport Hertz office.

“If you’re ever in New Orleans again,” Quinn said.

Jack shook his hand. “Don’t hold your breath.”

MADAME DE MEDICI STOOD WITHOUT
moving, admiring the Cidsev Nelesso. It remained clamped around Jules Chastain’s flesh where his hand, wrist, and distal forearm lay on a metal tray in her private museum.

She had told Jules last night that she’d be quite happy to see it on his wrist, and that had been true. In fact, she would always see it there. Chastain’s extremity had to be properly preserved, of course—she knew the ancient ways of curing flesh. After that, she would place the ensemble in the glass display case she had prepared for it.

She was not tempted to wear it—not in the least. She was no fool. But she was delighted to have it back in her collection.

She smoothed back a length of elegant dark hair, quite satisfied for the moment.

Chastain had wanted the Cidsev Nelesso so badly.

Now he would wear it.

Forever.

R
aymond Khoury’s decision to use Sean Reilly for this short story was an easy one. He’d first brought the FBI agent to life when, in 1996, as a budding screenwriter, he’d written his third (unproduced) screenplay—a modern conspiracy thriller that harkened back to the days of the Crusades called
The Last Templar
.

He then experienced the euphoria of being offered a small fortune
by a major New York publisher to turn his screenplay into a novel, only then to be gutted when the publisher said they’d like him to make a “small change” to the story.

Let’s lose the religion. It’s boring. Turn the Templars’ secret into gold, jewels, a real treasure.

Raymond decided that advice was no good, so he nixed the deal.

Smart? Gutsy? Foolish?

Maybe all three.

But interest in the screenplay did trigger a screenwriting career. So, for several years, Sean Reilly remained locked away in a dormant file on Raymond’s hard drive while he worked on movies and television shows. Then, in 2006, Sean Reilly was finally allowed to breathe again in
The Last Templar.
Raymond decided to write the story for himself, religion and all. The result was a global success, selling over five million copies in more than forty languages.

Which just goes to show—not all advice is good advice.

For Linwood Barclay the decision to use Glen Garber was a little trickier. Linwood hasn’t had a series character since he wrote four comic thrillers (from 2004 to 2007) starring Zack Walker. Since then each of his novels has been a stand-alone with a different hero. The obsessive-compulsive, risk-averse Zack Walker would not have been the best partner for Sean Reilly. Zack would have probably fled the story after the first paragraph, leaving Reilly to carry the load. But Glen Garber, the contractor (as in home renovator, not hit man) from Linwood’s
The Accident
(2011) seemed the perfect character to team with Reilly. He’s a tough, no-nonsense guy. Someone who’s not unfamiliar with loss, and not afraid to put himself on the line to protect those he loves. While he doesn’t have the kind of training Sean Reilly possesses, he’s no stranger to courage and wanting to see justice done.

This short story emerged from a single line that Linwood e-mailed to Raymond—which ultimately became the fiery incident that launches the tale. Both writers then batted the story back and forth, each writing one of the sections and seeding clues, while leaving the choice of where to go entirely to the other.

The result?

A free flow of imagination and an exhilarating ride.

G
LEN GARBER HAD BEEN GIVEN
his coffee, but was still waiting for an order of chicken nuggets for his daughter, Kelly, when a woman raced into the restaurant screaming that some guy was on fire in the parking lot.

They’d pulled in off the interstate at around the halfway point of their trip. Glen was being asked to bid on a farmhouse renovation about two hours out of Milford. It was Saturday, so he invited Kelly to come along for the ride. Not just because he liked her company, but because he wasn’t going to leave a ten-year-old on her own for the day. Glen had been paranoid enough when his wife, Sheila, was still alive, but being a single dad had upped his anxiety levels.

He always wanted to know where Kelly was. Every minute of every day. He could just imagine how much she’d appreciate this when she was well into her teenage years.

When Kelly saw the signs for an upcoming service center, she announced that she was so hungry she thought she might die.

“We wouldn’t want that,” her father said. “I guess I could use a coffee. I’ll make a quick pit stop.”

Turned out not to be so quick. Given that it was Saturday, and the middle of summer, the lot was packed, and the lineup deep when they went into the restaurant. When they finally reached the counter, Glen placed their order. The girl ringing up the sale said the nuggets would take a few minutes, but she had his coffee to him in seconds. Glen wrapped his hand around the takeout cup and quickly let go.

“Yikes,” he said. “We’ll be up there before this is cool enough to drink.” He put the tip of his index finger on the bottom lip, and his thumb on the edge of the plastic lid.

“Where’s my nuggets?” Kelly asked.

“The girl said they’d just take a—”

That was when the woman screamed, “He’s on fire! There’s a man on fire!”

The first thing Glen thought was, no way! A car on fire, maybe. Wasn’t unheard of for a car to overheat here along the interstate, especially when it was pushing ninety degrees out there. But a man in flames? That didn’t sound right.

The second thing he thought was, he had a fire extinguisher in his pickup, a Ford F-150 with the words
GARBER CONTRACTING, MILFORD
plastered on the doors. Should he run out, grab the extinguisher from behind the driver’s seat, and try to help this guy, assuming what this woman said was true?

Yeah, maybe. Except he wasn’t about to leave Kelly all by herself in a crowded, roadside fast-food joint, where someone could grab a kid, toss her in a car, and be God knows where in ten minutes.

“Honey,” he said to her, “we’re going to the truck.”

“What about my—?”

But by the way her dad pulled her arm, she knew something bad was going on. She hadn’t only heard the woman screaming about that guy, she could feel the anxiety sweeping the room. People trying to decide what to do. Whether to stay in there, flock to the window and gawk, or run outside and get a front-row seat.