as he instinctively tried to protect the wound. He put his right hand to his belly and felt blood, his own blood, trickling through his fingers. Barely a second had passed. Wyly didn’t understand exactly what was happening, much less why it was happening, but he knew he was in trouble.
Wyly tried to raise his arm to defend himself, though he felt the power leaving his legs. In a few seconds, he’d be on the floor—
“No—” he said. “Ple—”
He didn’t even get to beg. The second shot caught him higher up, breaking two ribs and tearing into his right lung. His muscles collapsed. He went down hard, no acting job, no slow-motion fall into the beer puddling on the clean wood floor. No noise from the shots. A silencer. The gun, the pistol, hidden under the Domino’s box. Wyly got that much but no more. He understood the how, but not the who or the why. Wyly tried to raise his head and look at the shooter, the killer, since he knew now that he was dying, would be dead very soon.
Then the pistol spoke its lethal whisper twice more. Wyly twitched and died. Behind him, the ESPN anchors introduced SportsCenter ’s top ten plays of the day.
THE SHOOTER SLIPPED the pistol, silencer still attached, into the empty pizza box, and pulled the door shut and walked to the Toyota in the driveway and slipped inside. And the car rolled out and disappeared into the blurry Los Angeles night.
4
BERLIN, NEW HAMPSHIRE
D on’t take your guns to town. . . .”
Wells was pulling himself up a steep rock face, when Johnny Cash’s voice erupted from his cell phone. The dream left him, and he found himself in his cabin. He couldn’t remember why he’d been climbing, or what waited for him at the peak. He squeezed his eyes, hoping to recover the mountain. But the phone kept ringing—or, more accurately, singing—until Wells swept an arm across the bedside table and grabbed it.
“Hello.” The word stuck in his throat . His tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. His pulse hammered in his skull, a metronome gone mad. He wondered how much he’d drunk the night before. Three beers, a couple shots. Hadn’t seemed like all that much. He supposed he wasn’t used to drinking.
“I wake you? ” Shafer sounded amused. “Long night, John? ”
Wells lifted his head, an inch at a time, peeked at the clock by the bed: 12:15. He hadn’t slept past noon in at least twenty years. Then he remembered the martini. The martini had done him in. Anne had ordered it for him at last call, over his protests. Shaken not stirred, she’d told the bartender. Then she’d winked at him. He’d wanted to be irritated, but the truth was he’d been flattered. He’d told her who he was two beers before. She was twenty-nine, a cop in Conway, divorced two years before and remaking her life. She seemed amused that he’d wound up in a cabin in New Hampshire.
“Shouldn’t you be in the other Berlin? Chasing Russians? ”
“The cold war’s over, sweetheart.” Sweetheart said like a 1950s movie star.
“Germans, then. Back in high school, I wanted to go to Berlin, see the Love Parade.”
“That big rave? ”
“That big rave. I read about it, and it sounded like the coolest thing ever. Remember, I was sixteen. Instead, I got stupid, fell in love, married Frank Poynter, and now look at me. Stuck in a bar with a guy pretending to be John Wells.”
“I am John Wells. At least I think I am.”
“Sure you are. I bet you run this scam all the time.” She laughed and kissed him. Even before the martini, they both knew she was going back to the cabin.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT, ELLIS?” But he knew, without knowing, what Shafer wanted. This call was overdue. He ignored the jackhammer in his skull and sat up. Anne reached out, ran a hand down his back.
“I want you,” Shafer said. “Your presence is requested down here.”
“Mmmph.”
“Soon as possible. If you can tear yourself away from your social obligations.”
Wells
Wyly tried to raise his arm to defend himself, though he felt the power leaving his legs. In a few seconds, he’d be on the floor—
“No—” he said. “Ple—”
He didn’t even get to beg. The second shot caught him higher up, breaking two ribs and tearing into his right lung. His muscles collapsed. He went down hard, no acting job, no slow-motion fall into the beer puddling on the clean wood floor. No noise from the shots. A silencer. The gun, the pistol, hidden under the Domino’s box. Wyly got that much but no more. He understood the how, but not the who or the why. Wyly tried to raise his head and look at the shooter, the killer, since he knew now that he was dying, would be dead very soon.
Then the pistol spoke its lethal whisper twice more. Wyly twitched and died. Behind him, the ESPN anchors introduced SportsCenter ’s top ten plays of the day.
THE SHOOTER SLIPPED the pistol, silencer still attached, into the empty pizza box, and pulled the door shut and walked to the Toyota in the driveway and slipped inside. And the car rolled out and disappeared into the blurry Los Angeles night.
4
BERLIN, NEW HAMPSHIRE
D on’t take your guns to town. . . .”
Wells was pulling himself up a steep rock face, when Johnny Cash’s voice erupted from his cell phone. The dream left him, and he found himself in his cabin. He couldn’t remember why he’d been climbing, or what waited for him at the peak. He squeezed his eyes, hoping to recover the mountain. But the phone kept ringing—or, more accurately, singing—until Wells swept an arm across the bedside table and grabbed it.
“Hello.” The word stuck in his throat . His tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. His pulse hammered in his skull, a metronome gone mad. He wondered how much he’d drunk the night before. Three beers, a couple shots. Hadn’t seemed like all that much. He supposed he wasn’t used to drinking.
“I wake you? ” Shafer sounded amused. “Long night, John? ”
Wells lifted his head, an inch at a time, peeked at the clock by the bed: 12:15. He hadn’t slept past noon in at least twenty years. Then he remembered the martini. The martini had done him in. Anne had ordered it for him at last call, over his protests. Shaken not stirred, she’d told the bartender. Then she’d winked at him. He’d wanted to be irritated, but the truth was he’d been flattered. He’d told her who he was two beers before. She was twenty-nine, a cop in Conway, divorced two years before and remaking her life. She seemed amused that he’d wound up in a cabin in New Hampshire.
“Shouldn’t you be in the other Berlin? Chasing Russians? ”
“The cold war’s over, sweetheart.” Sweetheart said like a 1950s movie star.
“Germans, then. Back in high school, I wanted to go to Berlin, see the Love Parade.”
“That big rave? ”
“That big rave. I read about it, and it sounded like the coolest thing ever. Remember, I was sixteen. Instead, I got stupid, fell in love, married Frank Poynter, and now look at me. Stuck in a bar with a guy pretending to be John Wells.”
“I am John Wells. At least I think I am.”
“Sure you are. I bet you run this scam all the time.” She laughed and kissed him. Even before the martini, they both knew she was going back to the cabin.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT, ELLIS?” But he knew, without knowing, what Shafer wanted. This call was overdue. He ignored the jackhammer in his skull and sat up. Anne reached out, ran a hand down his back.
“I want you,” Shafer said. “Your presence is requested down here.”
“Mmmph.”
“Soon as possible. If you can tear yourself away from your social obligations.”
Wells
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