The Constantine Conspiracy (12 page)

His mind reeling, Rick weighed his options. He could turn himself in to the police. But what would that accomplish? He’d make bail, but the cops would force him to stay in Atlanta, prevent him from investigating further. He could tell the authorities what his mom had said, but they’d almost certainly reject the ravings of a disturbed woman. And, if they really did see him as a suspect, a trial would follow; huge publicity but not the favorable kind. And who knew how a trial might end? With the stock market falling apart and people losing homes and jobs by the millions, regular people liked to make examples of the über-rich these days, take a pound of wealthy flesh as revenge for what they’d recently suffered.

Rick rolled over and threw his feet to the floor. Big things were at work here and he didn’t have a clue how to handle them. He grabbed Tony’s cell phone and punched in his grandfather’s number but again reached an answering machine and left no message. Where was Pops? Avoiding the media, he concluded. Pops disdained the fawning of the cable channels as much as Rick enjoyed them. But still, somebody on Pops’ staff should have answered the phone.

Rick started to close the cell but then realized something— he’d called Pops on Luisa’s phone, then on Tony’s. Both were unfamiliar numbers and he’d left no messages, so Pops had no reason to return the calls. He considered calling Pops again to leave a voice mail, but then rejected the idea. Since he’d missed his chance to break the bad news to his grandfather, it made more sense to leave him alone for now. Pops would just insist that he turn himself in, something he wasn’t ready to do yet.

Rick tossed the phone onto the bed and ran his hands through his hair. A dead father, a delusional mother, a beloved but sometimes distant grandfather—a family tangle fit for a whole season of Dr. Phil episodes.

Rick’s spirits suddenly fell. How fast things changed. Alive one minute, dead the next. A celebrity one day, a fugitive the next. Everybody’s friend one day, nobody to trust the next. People all around one day, alone in a cheap hotel the next. He felt like a man who owned everything he wanted but possessed nothing worth having.

Fighting off the mood, Rick stood, trudged to the window, and stared out at the parking lot. Rain had started to fall. For reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, he suddenly knew who he wanted to call. But that made no sense. What good would it do to call a park ranger in Montana, a woman he’d barely met, and not under the best of circumstances at that?

But where else could he turn? Something about Shannon Bridge beckoned to him, the confidence she exuded, the self-assurance with which she’d given him her number.
She knew
I’d remember it
, thought Rick,
expected me to do exactly
that.
But why? Thinking on it now, it seemed totally out of place. She’d given him her number like a pilot dropped food to a lost survivor on a deserted island; like she knew he’d rush for it when he became desperate enough.

Rick recalled the number, then moved back to the cell, picked it up, and punched it in. A second later, Shannon Bridge answered.

“Shannon Bridge?” he asked.

“Rick Carson,” she said, almost like she had expected him to call. “Whose phone is this?”

“Don’t worry about that. You ready for that gelato?”

“It took you long enough.”

“I’ve been a little busy.”

“You okay?”

“Still breathing but not sure for how long.”

“I know how that feels,” she said.

“How so?”

Bridge’s voice caught, but then she answered. “Not your problem.”

Rick hesitated, suddenly feeling foolish. “I’m not exactly sure why I called,” he stammered.

“My charming personality and excellent figure, I’m sure.”

“Those too, but there’s something else. I . . . we need to talk.”

“I’d like that. I found a DVD in your dad’s desk.”

“A DVD?”

“Yeah, after you left, Luisa brought me a key.” Bridge quickly told him how she’d found the DVD. “I . . . well, I kept it. Didn’t say anything to the police.”

“Is that legal?”

“It seemed the right thing at the time.”

“You see what’s on it?”

“Nope, tried a little while ago but it’s password-protected. Any idea what your dad used for passwords? Most people pick one or two and repeat them over and over.”

Rick studied the matter but nothing jumped out at him. “Need some time to think about that. Could be a lot of things.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“I should get off the phone,” he said. “Cops track these things pretty easily.”

“Thought you wanted to talk.”

“I’d prefer face-to-face.”

“You want me to come to you?” she asked.

“Thought that would be best. You willing to do that?”

“I have some vacation coming to me. Where are you?”

Rick hesitated, surprised by her quick acceptance of his invitation and distrustful of her because of it. “You agreed awfully fast to come to me.”

“Your excellent figure and charming personality.”

Rick didn’t respond and Shannon quickly got serious again. “You’re right,” she said. “You have no reason to trust me. But I’m on your side, believe me.”

“Why should I?”

“I can’t answer that, not yet.”

“What if I said you had to?”

“I’d say let me come see you. We can talk then, clear up a few matters. You won’t be disappointed, I promise you.”

Rick paused one more second, but then, seeing no option, gave up. “Fly to Atlanta, call me when you land, I’ll give you directions,” he said.

“I’ll bring the DVD, and a computer. Couple of other things too,” she said mysteriously.

“What things?”

“Wait until we meet; I should be able to catch a flight in the morning.”

“See you then.”

“Stay safe.”

Rick hung up and lay back on the bed. His eyes closed a few minutes later and then, somehow calmed by his short talk with Shannon Bridge, he fell asleep to dreams filled with a woman wearing green and a bloody sword shaped like a cross.

14

Wednesday, 7:00 a.m.

S
omebody assisted him,” Augustine said, his angular frame lounging in his chair in his New York office.

“True,” Charbeau said, his thick face filling the plasma screen on Augustine’s wall. “He had his ducks in a row at Rolling Hills; the van, the uniform, the rope from the roof. A smart dude, have to give him props on that.”

“I’m paying you to bring him to me, not give me his résumé.”

“I’m working on that, but these things take time.”

Augustine stood and pulled a cigar from the monogrammed silver case in his breast pocket. “Time’s not our ally,” he said, lighting the cigar and replacing the case. “We have to finish this before we move to the final phase of our present advance. Do you have information on who provided these preparations that you admire so much?”

Charbeau cleared his throat. “It seems that Luisa Gonzalez, Golden Boy’s personal cook, has a son who manages the staff at Rolling Hills. He seems a likely candidate, wouldn’t you think?”

Augustine pulled a drag from his cigar. It pleased him that Charbeau had discovered what he already knew; proof again of his excellent judgment when it came to hiring assassins. “And what is your plan for handling Mr. Gonzalez?”

The camera on Charbeau pulled back, revealing a larger view of the room where he stood. Another man appeared in the frame, this one strapped to a metal chair, his mouth covered with tape, his wrists tied to the chair, his ankles bound and covered by a bucket of water, a wire attached to each of his ear lobes. Blood poured from his lips and his head slouched to the right.

“I snatched him up late last night,” Charbeau said. “Been working him over since then.”

“No complications?”

“Mr. Gonzalez is a single man; nobody else to handle.” Charbeau stepped to Gonzalez, lifted his head, and peered into his blank eyes. “Where is Rick Carson?” he bellowed.

Gonzalez said nothing, so Charbeau slapped him across the face. “Tell me about your involvement with Rick Carson!” he demanded.

Gonzalez moaned but didn’t speak.

“He seems uncooperative,” Augustine said.

“A mite,” Charbeau agreed, dropping Gonzalez’s head and stepping back. “I tried a bribe but he refused; surprising for a man in his tax bracket. Then I jacked him up for a while. But Mr. Gonzalez is stubborn as a swamp stump.”

“He grew up with Mr. Carson; apparently considers himself a friend.”

“Of course you’re his friend,” Charbeau barked at Gonzalez. “Bosom pals and all that jazz. But what’s he done for you lately? I’ll tell you what—nothing. He left you hanging when he skipped off to college and he’s never hauled you to any of his Oscar parties, never hooked you up with any of his leftover supermodels. You’re a sucker, taking on the pain I’ve laid on you. He’s not worth it!” He slapped Gonzalez once more and the captive’s head snapped back against the chair.

“Enough!” Augustine called. “Killing him won’t accomplish anything!”

Charbeau rose to his full height and gazed at Augustine. “You know of another way to make him talk?”

Augustine brushed a hand through his hair. Although he didn’t particularly like to kill and had never actually taken a life himself, he had ordered assassinations more times than he could remember. Part of his role, he reminded himself, a necessary measure for one in his position. Quite honestly, life didn’t mean much to him, so he didn’t lose any sleep over it when somebody else lost theirs. Since he believed that death led to nothingness, he didn’t think it mattered much when it started. True, some people grieved when a loved one passed, but that just showed weakness on the part of the living. Life, death, what did either mean? Both were pointless, mere segments of time that carried no lasting content or consequence. He’d considered taking his own life a multitude of times, had considered a variety of methods to do the deed. A pistol, a lethal injection, a leap from his office ledge, a hair dryer in his bath tub, let him count the ways. He’d actually talked to a doctor once about the least painful method of dying; had gone so far as to place himself inside a giant refrigeration unit with a needle filled with a strong sedative in hand. He’d placed the needle to the vein in the inside crook of his elbow, pricked the skin with its point. But then he stopped; he couldn’t do it yet, not before he finished his leg of the centuries-old journey he’d chosen to walk. He had pulled the needle back, wiped the thin sliver of blood from his arm, and stepped out of the freezer.

He stubbed out his cigar and focused on Charbeau once more. “Is Mr. Gonzalez your only source of information on Mr. Carson?”

“For the moment, yeah. Carson has vanished.”

Augustine eased back into his chair and stared at Charbeau. Although it irked him to admit it, even the best of men had limitations, including Charbeau.

“Gonzalez’s mother,” Augustine sighed. “Where is she?”

Charbeau shrugged. “In Atlanta, I reckon.”

“I don’t pay you to reckon. Are you not sure?”

“Reasonably so. Where else would she be?”

Augustine ground his teeth but hid his frustration as he spoke. “You’re correct with your guess. Mrs. Gonzalez is at the estate at this moment but will return to her condominium later this afternoon.”

“Are you suggesting—?

“Yes!” Augustine bellowed, his patience gone. “If Mr. Gonzalez will not cooperate, then you need leverage on him. If Mr. Gonzalez cares nothing about his own pain, he will most certainly care about pain inflicted upon his mother.”

“But you’re not keen on harming a woman, least that’s what you always told me.”

Augustine ground his teeth as a sharp pain cut beneath his shoulder blades. Recent visits to the doctor had reminded him that he had precious little time, and men like Charbeau wearied him with their dim-wittedness. “We are drawing near to the conclusion of our efforts,” he said. “What I normally would not do I now find myself forced to consider. Use Mrs. Gonzalez if you must; you of all men know the value of a threat.”

“And if Mr. Gonzalez proves immune to such a threat?”

“Then you must act in accordance with what must occur. Nothing and no one is so valuable that they can stand between us and the conclusion of our objective. Am I clear on that?”

Charbeau nodded and Augustine shut off the monitor and slouched into his chair. A wracking agony pierced his chest and he held his breath until it stopped. Then, picking a picture of his dearly departed Margaret off his desk, he closed his eyes and kissed the image in the frame. Oh how he missed her, the warmth of her smile, the lilt in her generous voice, the smell of her body, pure and without perfume. “Always like honeysuckle,” he often said to her, “even when you’ve just awakened, you always smell like honeysuckle in June.”

He opened his eyes and stared at her picture as twin tears slid to his cheeks. “I wish I believed in heaven, my precious,” he whispered to the picture. “I truly wish I did.”

15

B
y the time Shannon landed at just past 2:00 p.m.,

Rick had slept ten hours, showered and put on a sweat suit Tony had left him, and eaten most of a delivery pizza. When Shannon called just after noon, Rick gave her his address and quick directions, then hung up. He watched the news while he waited and learned two new things: one, an expedited autopsy and toxology screening—paid for by his family—had revealed a highly elevated level of an unnamed sedative in his father’s body, and two, a memorial service had been set for 1:00 p.m. on Friday. The reporter described the service as a private burial at the family graveyard followed by a public reception of friends at the Carson Estate in North Atlanta.

Rick tried to reach his grandfather on the room phone this time, but once again, nobody answered. He wondered about that—wouldn’t the cops have the phone lines manned? Tapped? But maybe not. Given Pops’ colossal influence in local politics, he might have said no to that idea.

Trying to fill time, Rick watched the news a while longer. The cops had located, shot, and killed a man named Buster Will, the guy who gunned down the abortion doctors. Another example, said the smug reporter, of people influenced too heavily by Christian dogma.