The Constantine Conspiracy (10 page)

A power bar in one hand and a Coke in the other, Charbeau watched the monitors and weighed what he’d do when he found Rick Carson. Mr. Augustine wanted him captured without harm, but circumstances didn’t always allow such tidy outcomes. If Carson resisted, which Charbeau fully expected, he might have to take him down, and he felt no qualms about that. Better to displease Mr. Augustine than let Rick Carson mess him up.

Charbeau’s eyes landed on the monitor trained on Rebecca Carson’s door as a food server carried a dinner tray inside. The view flipped to the suite’s interior as the server closed the door and spoke a few unheard words to Mrs. Carson. Charbeau watched the server’s back as he placed the tray on a table and laid out the dinner. After a moment, Mrs. Carson sat down, placed a black cloth napkin into her lap, picked up her silverware, and started to eat. The servant waited, his presence a precaution against any misuse of the knife and fork on Mrs. Carson’s tray.

Charbeau wished he had ears in the room, but the surveillance didn’t provide audio, so he focused on the server’s lips, hoping to read a word or two if he spoke again. The server’s lips moved, and Charbeau set down his Coke and leaned closer to the monitor. He sensed something odd in the man’s manner but couldn’t put his finger on it, so he waited, momentarily unsure of what to do. Although he cared nothing about the CEO’s warnings, he didn’t want to cause any unnecessary disturbance. Trouble brought attention, and with so much about to happen so soon, he felt like a coon in a swamp at night, the less noticed the better.

The server bent nearer to Mrs. Carson, almost to her shoulder as if speaking into her ear, and Charbeau’s suspicions sounded a low alarm as he studied the server more intently. He looked about the same height and weight as Rick Carson, but the camera angle made it impossible for Charbeau to identify him for sure. Plus, the dark hair and beard didn’t fit the photos Charbeau had studied.

The server placed the palms of his hands on the table and said something else, and Charbeau’s heart skipped. Then he dropped the power bar and bolted for the door, his mind clicking with a thousand scenarios of what he might do next.

“Mom!” Rick said, leaning to her as she sipped from her water glass. “I need you to pay attention. It’s me, Rick, and I have to tell you something. It’s sad, Mom, hard to say.”

Her eyes widened as she faced him, but he still saw no sign of recognition in them.

“Dad’s dead,” Rick said, hoping to shock her into lucidity. Her head snapped back as if slapped.

“I’m sorry,” Rick continued. “But somebody . . . murdered him.”

“Steve,” Mrs. Carson said, her hands on her pearls.

“Yes, Mom, and I’m Rick. I need to ask you some questions.”

“Steve’s dead?”

“Yes, Mom.” Tears flooded Rick’s eyes, but he wiped them away. “Dad left a note, three words, ‘I could not.’ That mean anything to you?”

“Murdered?”

“Yes, I’m sure of it.”

“Murdered, murdered, murdered!” Her voice rose with each word, and she popped up and paced around the table, first one direction, then the other. Rick took her by the arm to hold her still.

“Dad typed four capital letters on his computer. CONS. Those letters mean anything to you?”

Rebecca pulled her arm from Rick and circled the table again, around and around and around. “Cons, cons, cons, Steve murdered, dead, I could not, Cons, dead and gone, Steve dead and gone, he could not.”

“Mom!” Rick grabbed her once more. “The cops want to question me about Dad’s death. They think I killed him. I need your help. Does anything I’ve said make any sense to you?”

“Sense, what makes sense? Steve dead, gone, Cons, he could not, I could not, nobody can, not that, not ever, too long, too much, could not, Cons, always Cons, forever Cons, who could, I ask you that, who could? Steve could not, not then, not ever. Who could?”

Charbeau reached the fifth floor and shoved open the door to the hallway, his mind churning. If the man in Rebecca Carson’s room wasn’t Rick, it was somebody sent by him. No way a normal employee talked so directly, acted with such familiarity with a woman of her station.

Charbeau counted six people in the hallway, a couple of menial employees, their uniforms making their status obvious, plus three residents and one doctor. Although he wanted to sprint, Charbeau decided against it. No reason to arouse attention if he could avoid it. His hand moved to the Glock 19, the fifteen-round magazine pistol strapped to his left side under his black jacket. If all hell broke loose in the next few minutes, he had just the right weapon to calm things down again.

“C-o-n-s, Mom,” Rick insisted, knowing he needed to hurry. “Does it mean anything to you?”

“Cons, cons, consequences, constipated, conscription, cons, cons, cons . . .”

Rick hung his head, unsure what to do next. If his mother knew nothing, or knew but couldn’t remember, he possessed no plan B. All caution gone, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Anybody watching now knew he wasn’t a server, but time for subterfuge had ended.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered. “About Dad’s death, about neglecting you. When this is over, I’ll come for you, I promise. I should have done it long ago. I’m a bad son, I see that, but I’ve never known what to do. Everyone said this place was good for you, but I don’t believe that, don’t think I ever did. I’ll bring you home—that’s a vow, me to you. You won’t have to live alone any longer.”

Rebecca looked up at him, her eyes suddenly softer. “Rick?”

“Yes, Mom, it’s Rick. And I’m going to take care of you now that Dad’s gone.”

“Steve’s gone?”

“Yes, I told you. Dad’s dead, murdered.”

She sucked in her breath. “Murdered. Steve gone. Could not. Cons, could not. Conserve, consecrate, conspire, cons, could not, conspiracy, cons, conspire, cons, conspiracy, conspiracy, conspiracy.”

“Conspiracy?” He leaned away and searched her face.

Her eyes seemed to recede within her skull, to disappear into a dark and empty space. “Conspiracy, conspiracy, cons, I could not, he could not, Steve could not, Steve murdered, could not, conspiracy, conspiracy, conspiracy.”

Glock in hand, Charbeau broke into the room and spotted Rick holding his mom, Mrs. Carson’s back to him, Rick behind her.

“Mr. Carson,” Charbeau said, closing the door, his weapon aimed. “So glad to make your acquaintance.”

“Who are you?” Rick asked, neither he nor his mom moving.

“I’m not the police, if that’s what concerns you.”

Rick studied him for several seconds, and Charbeau saw strength in his eyes, more than he expected.

“You were in Montana, weren’t you?” Rick asked.

“Don’t jump to no conclusions there, Golden Boy.”

“Did you murder my dad?”

Charbeau shrugged. “Murder is such a harsh word. Your father, what can I say, he proved to be a fly in the ointment of bigger issues, wasn’t strong enough to shoulder his share of the load.”

“He could not,” Mrs. Carson whispered, turning to face Charbeau.

“So you killed him,” Rick said, backing slightly away from his mom. “But why?”

“He’s dead, let it go at that. How doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“It does to me. You’re a hired hand—somebody above you ordered the assassination. Am I right?”

Charbeau shook his head, tiring of the exchange. The police, even as dull as they were, would eventually check in with Mrs. Carson, and he wanted this matter concluded long before that occurred.

“You need to come with me,” he ordered Rick, the Glock pointed.

“Not likely,” Rick said.

He moved into the room, closer to the them. “But I insist.” “And I refuse.”

“I have the leverage,” Charbeau said, indicating the Glock.

Mrs. Carson took a half step closer to Rick, her body squarely between him and Charbeau. “Protect my son,” she whispered. “A mother protects, protects.”

Charbeau smiled at her. “You surprise me, Mrs. Carson. Such a clear head. Watching out for your boy as he hides behind his momma’s apron.”

“Follow me,” she ordered Rick, reaching back quickly to grab his arm. “A mother protects.”

“No, Mom!” Rick exclaimed, not willing to put his mom in danger.

“No argument! Stay behind, behind, behind.” She positioned herself directly between him and Charbeau, her posture allowing no discussion.

Charbeau watched, his Glock trained on Rick as Mrs. Carson started to move, Rick’s steps reluctantly mimicking hers as she edged toward the door. He considered shooting Mrs. Carson, but then rejected the notion. Not even he and Augustine were immune from the law if a woman of her status ended up dead. Besides, his momma had always told him never to hurt a woman, and he felt bad when he went against what his momma would have wanted.

“I have no qualms about taking you out too,” he said, deciding to fake it.

“Take me out,” Mrs. Carson said, still moving. “Take me out, out, out.”

Charbeau waved the Glock, but Mrs. Carson reached the door anyway, her eyes trained on him the whole way, Rick behind her.

“You surprise me,” Charbeau said to Rick. “Putting your momma in danger.”

“You won’t shoot her,” Rick said. “Easy to see that.”

“Go,” his mom whispered. “Go.”

She turned quickly, jerked the door open, and pushed Rick through it. “Go now!”

Rick bolted down the hall and Charbeau sprinted after him, knocking Mrs. Carson to the floor as he rushed past.