was amazed to realize how much lighter his heart felt.
“All right, Devlin. Have you got a hammer and nails?”
Although he had a feeling that any answer would be the wrong one, Devlin answered that, yes, he had those particular tools.
“Good. Go get them. I’ll wait here.”
He opened his mouth to ask why—no, to tell Mrs. Carson that she could purchase her own hammer and nails for under twenty bucks at the hardware store on the corner—but some gremlin ordered him to keep his mouth shut. He left her standing in the doorway, then headed to the kitchen where he rummaged around under the sink until he found the small plastic tool chest. Dutifully, he lugged it back to the door, feeling a little like a prized puppy when she nodded approval and said, “Good.”
He started to hand it to her, but she didn’t take the thing. Instead, she pointed to the hook just inside the door, and the key ring hanging there. “You might want to lock up.”
“I might?”
“You can never be too careful, can you?”
He agreed that you couldn’t, and grabbed his keys, now fully aware that he was being handled.
“Want to tell me what we’re doing?”
“Does it matter?”
“I’m curious,” he admitted.
“Good. Means you’re alive.” She took her own key out—apparently she’d locked up even though she’d never been out of sight of her own door not ten feet away. “Spring cleaning. I’ve got stacks of boxes with things that need sorting, old bills to be filed, and at least a dozen pictures I need to hang.
You’re helping me.”
He honestly meant to protest, to tell his well-meaning but interfering neighbor that he’d be going back to his couch andGilligan’s Island or whatever it was. And good luck getting those pictures straight. But when he opened his mouth, all he said was, “It’s March.”
“I’m starting early.” She reached out and squeezed his hand, her wrinkled skin soft and cool in his palm.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t have any reason to. Because even though he might not want to admit it to her or to himself, the truth was that he knew this was about more than helping Annabel Page 27
Carson. It was about helping himself.
Chapter
11
JENNIFER
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Iknew from Mel that the real-life game was played almost exactly like the Internet version. And even though I’d disliked the online version intensely, I’d played it a couple of times, so I knew the basic rules.
Knowing the rules, however, didn’t mean that I knew strategy, and, in fact, the few times I’d played I’d lost badly.
On that encouraging note, I scooted my chair closer to the desk. Now was not the time for negative thinking. Success is ninety-eight percent attitude, right? And I’d beaten the pants off my brothers in
Nintendo dozens of times.That was a victory I could focus on.
The bottom line was that I knew how the game was played. Three roles: a target, an assassin, and a protector. The target is the one who, like the title sounds, is the “target.” The one the assassin is after.
The game starts when the target receives the first clue, also called the qualifying clue. Until the target solves that first clue, the assassin has to just sit tight. But once the clue is solved, all bets are off. And then the target has to follow clue after clue until—finally—the last clue is solved and the assassin is called off.
(Or the target dies, but we won’t go there.)
But what, you might ask, is there to keep the target from just ignoring the clue altogether? If the first clue is never solved, then the assassin can never hunt.
Yeah, you’d think that would be a good plan, wouldn’t you? So would I. But I know it’s not. I just can’t rememberwhy not.
Clearly, the first order of business was to get in touch with this Devlin Brady guy. My initial instinct was to call the FBI and just ask for the man. They’d know how to find him, wouldn’t they?
But
“All right, Devlin. Have you got a hammer and nails?”
Although he had a feeling that any answer would be the wrong one, Devlin answered that, yes, he had those particular tools.
“Good. Go get them. I’ll wait here.”
He opened his mouth to ask why—no, to tell Mrs. Carson that she could purchase her own hammer and nails for under twenty bucks at the hardware store on the corner—but some gremlin ordered him to keep his mouth shut. He left her standing in the doorway, then headed to the kitchen where he rummaged around under the sink until he found the small plastic tool chest. Dutifully, he lugged it back to the door, feeling a little like a prized puppy when she nodded approval and said, “Good.”
He started to hand it to her, but she didn’t take the thing. Instead, she pointed to the hook just inside the door, and the key ring hanging there. “You might want to lock up.”
“I might?”
“You can never be too careful, can you?”
He agreed that you couldn’t, and grabbed his keys, now fully aware that he was being handled.
“Want to tell me what we’re doing?”
“Does it matter?”
“I’m curious,” he admitted.
“Good. Means you’re alive.” She took her own key out—apparently she’d locked up even though she’d never been out of sight of her own door not ten feet away. “Spring cleaning. I’ve got stacks of boxes with things that need sorting, old bills to be filed, and at least a dozen pictures I need to hang.
You’re helping me.”
He honestly meant to protest, to tell his well-meaning but interfering neighbor that he’d be going back to his couch andGilligan’s Island or whatever it was. And good luck getting those pictures straight. But when he opened his mouth, all he said was, “It’s March.”
“I’m starting early.” She reached out and squeezed his hand, her wrinkled skin soft and cool in his palm.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t have any reason to. Because even though he might not want to admit it to her or to himself, the truth was that he knew this was about more than helping Annabel Page 27
Carson. It was about helping himself.
Chapter
11
JENNIFER
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Iknew from Mel that the real-life game was played almost exactly like the Internet version. And even though I’d disliked the online version intensely, I’d played it a couple of times, so I knew the basic rules.
Knowing the rules, however, didn’t mean that I knew strategy, and, in fact, the few times I’d played I’d lost badly.
On that encouraging note, I scooted my chair closer to the desk. Now was not the time for negative thinking. Success is ninety-eight percent attitude, right? And I’d beaten the pants off my brothers in
Nintendo dozens of times.That was a victory I could focus on.
The bottom line was that I knew how the game was played. Three roles: a target, an assassin, and a protector. The target is the one who, like the title sounds, is the “target.” The one the assassin is after.
The game starts when the target receives the first clue, also called the qualifying clue. Until the target solves that first clue, the assassin has to just sit tight. But once the clue is solved, all bets are off. And then the target has to follow clue after clue until—finally—the last clue is solved and the assassin is called off.
(Or the target dies, but we won’t go there.)
But what, you might ask, is there to keep the target from just ignoring the clue altogether? If the first clue is never solved, then the assassin can never hunt.
Yeah, you’d think that would be a good plan, wouldn’t you? So would I. But I know it’s not. I just can’t rememberwhy not.
Clearly, the first order of business was to get in touch with this Devlin Brady guy. My initial instinct was to call the FBI and just ask for the man. They’d know how to find him, wouldn’t they?
But
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