MORTAL COILS (7 page)

From
this slight shadow resolved a Samoan man in a black suit, dark gray shirt, and
a black tie with a tiny emerald skull tie tack.

Robert
thought it was funny that he noticed that little detail—because this guy was
seven foot, easy, and there had to be four hundred pounds of him poured into
that Armani.

“Damned
weird?” the man said in a rumble of a baritone voice. “An interesting choice of
words.”

Robert
wanted to panic, that’s what his hammering heart urged him to do. But Welmann
had trained him: made him read a hundred Vault of Horror comics and watch every
D-grade Italian slasher flick. Robert, at least in theory, was ready for the
unexplained and unexpected . . . and a guy that could flatten a professional
NFL linebacker stepping out of nowhere certainly qualified.

There
was no way they could fight this guy. Nowhere to run. That left two options:
shoot him or bluff.

Robert
swallowed; his throat was sandpaper. “Hey, how’s it going?”

The
smiling Samoan puffed on his cigarette. “I am fine, young man.” He nodded to
Welmann. “Set the pistol down. What are you looking for?”

Robert
realized he was in Welmann’s line of fire. Rookie mistake. He moved two steps
to his left.

Welmann
glared at the guy and gripped his Colt tighter.

“I
detest unnecessary violence,” the man said.

A
chill ran up Robert’s spine as he got the impression this guy probably
considered most violence “necessary.”

“If
you will allow me?” The man reached into his coat.

“Careful,
buddy,” Welmann growled. “Two fingers.”

The
man nodded. He plucked out a business card and held it out to Robert.

Big
guys like this weren’t usually fast. So why did Robert imagine one of those
massive hands grabbing him lightning quick and snapping his neck like
Styrofoam?

Robert
snatched the card.

On
one side there were letters so black they didn’t look like ink, but darkness
coalesced. It took Robert a second to focus on them.

Mr.
Uri Crumble

On
the reverse side was a holographic logo. The ink was red-black and didn’t look
quite dry. Robert smelled blood, thick like a slaughterhouse. This odor stuck
to the back of his throat and he gagged. He couldn’t focus on the design: lines
and tiny symbols that stretched into the air and deeper into the card.

Welmann
hissed so loud that Robert swore he felt it on the back of his head.

Robert
backed across the room and handed the card to him.

Welmann
took one look at the thing and muttered, “Oh, hell.” He lowered his aim a notch
and carefully looked over Mr. Crumble.

“Indeed.”
Crumble puffed on his cigarette.

Welmann
rubbed his face with his free hand. His ruddy cheeks drained of color as he
holstered his gun.

Robert
had never seen Welmann look scared and never seen him lower his gun. He was a
gladiator—kill or be killed—it was genetically hardwired into him. Now suddenly
Welmann looked like a little boy with his hand slapped.

And
this Crumble, what was his deal? Sure he was the size of a bull ox, but nobody,
not even someone that size, stared down the muzzle of a .357 Magnum without so
much as a blink.

It
was as if all the fundamentals that Robert had learned were being rewritten.

“What
are you people doing here?” Welmann asked.

Crumble
flashed a set of blindingly white teeth. “Looking for someone. Same as you,
Driver.”

Welmann
opened his mouth to say something, then shut it with a click.

No
one was supposed to know who they were . . . or what Welmann was.

“Your
so-called car,” Crumble explained, “parked in the alley. Such a vehicle with
its modifications, here, tonight, could only belong to an errand boy.”

He
meant Welmann’s 2005 Mercedes Maybach Exelero, the thing he prized more than
his immortal soul. The one-of-a-kind four-door version had been handcrafted and
purred with a twin-turbocharged V-12 that cranked out seven hundred horses. The
Exelero was armored and fitted with bulletproof glass. The interior was
butter-soft leather and koa wood. Outside she was sculpted mirror-chrome steel
and black enamel so deep she made midnight jealous.

“You
said you were looking for someone?” Welmann asked.

Mr.
Uri Crumble nodded toward the filing cabinets on the far wall. One had its lock
popped. “What was your interest in them? I wonder.”

Robert
made a mental note of “them.” His and Welmann’s current mission was to dig up
information on one missing little old lady: Audrey Post. There was no “them.”

Robert
glanced at Welmann. He had on his poker face, but he’d bet Welmann was thinking
the same thing.

Robert
looked back to Crumble and noticed his cigarette wasn’t burning. Well, it was;
it smoldered and smoke curled from the tip . . . but there was no ash and it
was the same length as when he’d first stepped from the shadows.

Crumble
pulled a long drag from the curious never-and-ever-burning cigarette and caught
Robert’s stare. He exhaled, saying, “Perhaps we should share what we know and
learn more.”

Welmann
frowned and adopted his best stupid, noir-detective act. “Buddy, you’re
speaking Greek, and I barely understand English.”

Crumble
grunted smoke. “Very well.” He moved to the door, brushing aside a large steel
desk as easily as Robert might have moved an empty cardboard box. Crumble
paused and said, “After you report your failure tonight, your employers will
not be pleased.” He chuckled, the sound a subsonic ripple. “Keep my card. Give
us a call. Our organization always has a use for qualified people.”

“That’ll
be the day,” Welmann replied.

“Yes
. . . it will.” Crumble turned sideways to fit through the office doorway and
left.

Robert
noticed he was holding his breath, so he exhaled. What did he mean by “report your
failure”? This guy didn’t even know whom they were looking for.

Welmann
muttered a string of obscenities and looked down the hallway. “Gone,” he said,
and closed the door. He moved quickly to the filing cabinets.

Robert
saw the one with the popped lock was labeled PA–PO.

“That’s
who we’re looking for, right? Post? Probably the same old lady.”

Welmann
ignored the question and reached for the handle. He recoiled. “Stand back.”

Robert
moved closer to get a better look.

Welmann
grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and pulled the drawer. Smoke and plumes
of sparks flew into the air. The files inside had been reduced to a pile of
smoldering ash.

He
slammed it shut.

Welmann
glared about the office and nodded at the computers. “Get to work, kid.”

Robert
understood that now was not the time to ask questions. He moved from desk to
desk, feeling the aluminum cases of the desktop units. “Got a warm one,” he
told Welmann. He sat and booted the machine.

Welmann
hovered over Robert’s shoulder, as if he didn’t trust him to turn on a
computer.

A
blue screen flashed on the monitor.

“BIOS
setup,” Welmann muttered. “The drive has been wiped.”

“So
let’s pull it, take it back, and scan it.”

“Don’t
bother. When those guys erase something, it stays erased . . . permanently.”

Robert
repressed a shudder. He got the feeling that hard drives weren’t the only
things Crumble “erased.”

“Who
was that guy?”

“Works
for another side,” Welmann replied.

“What
other side?” Robert turned around.

“I
thought our boss and the others didn’t have sides.”

Welmann
scrunched his lips into a single white line. “I don’t got all the answers, kid,
but there are others. There’s a truce between his people and ours. No one
sticks their noses into each other’s business. Capisce?”

“So
this Crumble guy wasn’t exactly what he appeared to be?”

Welmann
shrugged, which meant yes, and said, “We got to be careful not to get caught
between some big wheels. Might get ground to a pulp.” His gaze moved from desk
to desk. He got up and felt under the top of one. With a rip he pulled free a
CD case taped there.

He
handed it to Robert. “Lawyers always keep backups.”

Robert
wheeled his chair to a nearby computer and snapped it on. He spotted a sticky
note on the monitor with the password and typed it in. He then inserted the
disk, and scrolled through the list of folders that flashed on-screen.

“‘Post,’”
Robert said. “There’s a file on her . . . no, wait. For ‘Post, F and E.’” He
looked back through the folders. “No Audrey Post, boss. Sorry.”

“Open
the file,” Welmann suggested, and pulled up a chair next to Robert’s.

Robert
did as he was told and legal gobbledygook crawled over the monitor. After
skimming a few pages he got the gist of it. “Trust-fund stuff. Some rich kids
getting money from their great-grandmother. Blind accounts in the Caymans,
Geneva—all over the world. Lucky brats. Not who we’re looking for, though.”

Welmann
squinted at the document, too. His practiced Neanderthal scowl melted as he
donned wire-rimmed reading glasses. He hit the page down key a few times.

“No,”
Welmann muttered. “Crumble said ‘them’ . . . that he was looking for ‘them.’
What else do you have on”—he tapped the page up key thrice—“Fiona and Eliot Post?”

Robert
tabbed back to the file folders. “Got a missing-kid kit. One of those jobs you
can fill out and give to the police if little Johnny and Jane here ever get
lost in the woods.”

“Let’s
see it.”

On
screen two photos appeared: one of a teenage boy, the other a girl. The
pictures were head-and-shoulder shots with strong light and a dappled
background. The subjects had forced smiles snapped at the precise wrong moment.