The Spider

Page 15

A sharp knock sounded on the door. I whipped around on one knee, my bloody knife still clutched in my hand.
“Mr. Vaughn?” A muffled voice sounded through the wood. “Are you okay? I thought that I heard some sort of scuffle back here.”
So the guard had finally come to investigate after all.
“Mr. Vaughn? Are you in there?”
Any second now, the guard would turn the knob to try to come inside and check on his boss. When he realized that the door was locked, he’d probably become even more worried, maybe even break down the wood with his massive shoulder.
Time for me to leave.
I got to my feet and hurried over to the windows at the back of the office, making sure to grab the knife that I’d dropped earlier during my fight with Vaughn.
“Mr. Vaughn?” the guard called out again. “Are you okay?”
The knob rattled as he tried to open the door.
I should be getting while the getting was good, but I hesitated, my gaze flicking back to the safe. Finn could have cracked it if he were here, probably before the guard busted into the office, but I wasn’t as good with locks as he was, especially not with something a little more sophisticated like the safe. Besides, my escape was more important than any information that I might find.
So I opened one of the windows, slipped out of the construction magnate’s office, and disappeared into the night.
I made it through the compound, over to the opening I’d cut in the fence, and back down the block to where Fletcher was waiting in the van. I opened the passenger door and slid inside. He studied me, looking for injuries and taking in the blood that covered my vest, shirt, and gloves.
“Problems?”
I shook my head. “Vaughn used some of his Stone magic to try to fight me off, but I was able to get him in the end. I’m not even injured, so we don’t have to go to Jo-Jo’s tonight.”
I told him everything that had happened, including Vaughn’s mysterious visitor.
“Harry?” Fletcher asked, his green eyes sharpening with interest until they glinted like a cat’s in the semidarkness. “That was the cop’s name? You’re sure?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“No reason.”
Fletcher’s voice was as easy as ever, but he had hesitated a second too long before answering me. I studied him the same way that he’d looked at me when I’d first gotten into the van. I wondered what he knew about Harry that I didn’t.
“This cop gave Vaughn a file?” Fletcher asked. “What kind of file?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t get a look at it or any of the information inside before Vaughn stuffed it into his safe.”
“I’ll have to see if I can get my hands on a copy of the police report, then,” Fletcher murmured. “It might make some mention of the safe and what’s inside it.”
“But it doesn’t much matter now, does it? The job is done, and Vaughn is dead. You thought this assignment would be a problem, but see? Everything is fine—just like I’d told you it would be.”
Fletcher stared out through the windshield and drummed his fingers on the top of the steering wheel. Thinking. “Maybe. But I’d still like to know what was in that file that got Vaughn so hot and bothered, especially if it had something to do with the restaurant accident.”
“The cop, Harry, mentioned a crime scene.”
I deliberately used his name again to see if Fletcher would react, but he didn’t so much as twitch an eyelash. Maybe I’d only imagined his earlier hesitation.
“He had to be talking about the restaurant.”
“No doubt.” Fletcher nodded, as if he’d made some sort of decision. “But you’re right. The job is done—for tonight. Let’s get you home so you can get cleaned up.”
He turned the key in the ignition, and the van rumbled to life. Fletcher rolled out of the parking lot, turned right, and drove by the construction compound. The guards were no longer sitting inside their shack at the main gate, and it looked like all of the lights had been turned on inside the building. No doubt, the guards were searching every room, office, and hallway for their boss’s killer. But I hadn’t left anything behind for them to find—except Vaughn’s body.
I grinned, and more of that dark satisfaction surged through me. Vaughn was dead, Charlotte was safe, and the job was finished. Who ordered the hit and why, that was all just background noise now, and it would soon fade away.
Fletcher leaned over and flipped on the police scanner attached to the van’s dashboard. Another one of his safety precautions.
“We’ve got a call at Vaughn Construction,” a voice crackled over the line. “Dead body.”
Another voice crackled back. “Roger that. Just down the street from that location. On my way there now.”
In the distance, a siren started to wail. A few seconds later, a pair of flashing blue and white lights popped into view about three blocks away, heading toward us. My hands curled around the armrests, and worried tension replaced my satisfaction—I was still covered with Vaughn’s blood, and the cops could always set up a roadblock.
“Yep,” Fletcher said in a calm voice, completely unconcerned by the commotion. “Definitely time for us to leave.”
He stopped the van at the sign at the end of the block. The old man waited until the police car blasted by us, lights flashing and siren still wailing, then sedately made the turn toward home.
12
The death of Cesar Vaughn was big news in Ashland.
Bigger than I’d thought it would be, actually. Coverage consumed the newspapers and airwaves for the next few days, as story after story recapped all the grisly facts about the murder and then speculated about who had done it and why.
Of course, the most obvious thought was that one of the family members of the terrace collapse victims had decided to take matters into his own hands. The cops dutifully investigated each and every person who might have a grudge against Vaughn because of the tragedy, but they came up empty. Another reason that I’d decided to do the job on a Tuesday night: there was less chance of one of the victims’ loved ones not having an alibi. People tended to wait until the weekend to get up to no good.
That was also why I’d done the job at Vaughn’s office and had been so careful not to leave any evidence behind, so it would look exactly like the contracted hit that it was. I might be an assassin, but I didn’t frame people for the crimes I committed. That was another part of Fletcher’s code and one that I wholeheartedly agreed with. The people who’d lost their loved ones at that restaurant had already suffered enough. They didn’t deserve to get blamed for Vaughn’s murder too, even if one of them might have been behind the hit. Another reason that I’d used a knife on the job. That sort of stabbing attack was brutal, vicious, and, above all, up close and personal. Anyone could point a gun and pull the trigger from a distance, but not everyone could twist a knife into a man’s heart, face-to-face, and watch the light leak out of his eyes.
Still, the cops investigated, and they got nowhere, like I knew they would. Fletcher had a couple of sources in the police department, so he was able to keep track of the investigation. But I wasn’t worried. He had trained me too well, and no one had seen my attack on Vaughn.
The next day, I went about my regular routines as though nothing had happened. Waited tables at the Pork Pit, schlepped home to Fletcher’s for a few hours, then schlepped back over to the community college for my usual classes.
Going to college was another part of my cover, since that’s what most people my age did, and it was something that the old man had insisted on. Apparently, he thought that it would make me more well-rounded or something. You know, in case the whole assassin thing didn’t work out.
But I didn’t mind too much, especially when it came to the literature classes. Fletcher would read the same books that I was assigned, and then we’d talk about them during lulls at the restaurant. I loved our discussions, since it was another way that I could be close to him that Finn couldn’t—or wouldn’t.
Once my evening classes were done, I went back home for the night. And then I repeated the whole cycle again and again, just as I would until the next assignment came along.
The only thing I did that was out of the ordinary was read all of the articles about Sebastian Vaughn.
He appeared in story after story, both in the newspaper and on TV. And in every story, in every interview and sound bite, he was quite vocal about the piss-poor job he thought that the cops were doing in their so-far-unsuccessful attempt to find his father’s killer—me. Sebastian even vowed to hire his own team of investigators to track down the culprit, but I wasn’t worried. He’d never connect the waitress he’d flirted with once upon a time with the assassin who’d so coldly killed his father.
Still, I couldn’t help but watch interview after interview with him on TV, and I read every single newspaper article that so much as mentioned his name. Sometimes two or three or even four times over, searching for any hint in his words about how he was doing, how he was feeling, now that his father was gone. I’d felt such an intense spark, such an immediate connection with Sebastian. I supposed that I wanted to keep feeling it, even though I’d never see him again.
One photo that ran over and over again in the newspapers was of Sebastian leaving his father’s office the morning after the murder, a briefcase clutched in one hand. His mouth was set in a hard line, his dark eyes fixed on something outside the frame. He had his free arm around Charlotte’s shoulder, holding her close, as though he could somehow protect her from the hurt, shock, and bewilderment that the camera had captured in her young, heartbroken face.
I wasn’t exactly sure what prompted me to cut out that photo and tuck it in between the pages of the latest book I was reading, Murder for Christmas by Agatha Christie, for my detective fiction class. But the book and the photo stayed on my nightstand. Every night, I would read another chapter or two, before using the photo as a bookmark. Sebastian’s handsome, determined face was the last thing I saw before I shut the book.
Maybe it was crazy, but I wanted to reach out and help Sebastian, even though I didn’t dare to—and even though I was the one who’d caused him so much pain in the first place. Oh, I didn’t regret killing his father, not really, not when he’d been hurting his own daughter. But my heart still ached for the shock and suffering that I’d inflicted on Charlotte and Sebastian. So I kept tabs on him as best I could, hoping that his grief would slowly fade over time and knowing that he and especially Charlotte were better off without their father.
So life went on for me, Sebastian, Charlotte, and everyone else—except Cesar Vaughn.
Four days after the job, Saturday, I was alone in the Pork Pit and closing down the restaurant for the night when the bell over the front door chimed. I sighed, wishing that I’d thought to lock the door already, but I finished wiping down the counter, fixed a polite smile on my face, and turned around.
“Sorry, but we’re already closed—”
A bolt of shock zinged through me. My lips parted, but no words came out, because the very last person I’d expected had just walked through the door.
Sebastian.
He wore a somber black suit—a funeral suit—over a white shirt and a shiny black tie, and his wing tips were as glossy as the floor that I’d just mopped. His black hair was slicked back, and lines of exhaustion were etched into his face, like faint cracks in a smooth marble bust, making him seem older than he really was. Still, despite my shock and unease about why he was here, I thought that he’d never looked more handsome—even though I was the cause of his grief. Maybe that was a little twisted of me.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi, yourself.” I hesitated. “What are you doing here?”
Sebastian grinned, although his expression was more sad than happy. “I know I’m a little late, but I was wondering if we might have that date after all.”
I stared at him, my mouth still hanging open, not sure what to do, what to say, and especially what to make of the sudden hope that surged through my heart. My attraction to him was crazy, stupid, and utterly foolish, especially given what I’d done to his father. But it was there all the same, and I didn’t know how to deny it.
Or maybe I just didn’t want to.
“I’m sorry,” Sebastian said in a hoarse, ragged whisper. “For not calling or sending you a note. I know that I stood you up last night.”
Last night, Friday, had been the night of our date. I might have been secretly disappointed, but I hadn’t been surprised when he hadn’t shown up. I was absolutely floored that he was here now.
I stood frozen in place, my attraction to him warring with all of my training, not to mention my own common sense. I could almost hear Fletcher’s voice in my head, urgently whispering to me to get rid of Sebastian. Part of me wholeheartedly agreed with that plan. But there was another voice—my voice—that wondered what the harm of hearing him out would be.
Sebastian grinned again, although it seemed to be much more of an effort this time. “But I had a good excuse. You see, my father—”
“Is dead,” I finished so he wouldn’t have to. “I saw the news. I’m sorry for your loss, Sebastian.”
And I truly was, even though I was responsible for it.
He nodded, accepting my condolences. Then he grinned again. “You know, I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said my name.”
I looked at him, not sure what to say. He walked over to where I stood in front of the counter, a wet rag still clutched in my hand. Sebastian stared at me, a hungry look flaring in his eyes. Anticipation and attraction surged through me at his nearness, silencing Fletcher’s voice.