The Successor Page 12

  As the man looked up into the trees, he dropped the barrel of the gun slightly.

  Christian grabbed Beth’s hand and pulled her toward the river. “Come on!” he shouted, racing down the gentle slope beside the ravine. He heard the pop-pop-popping of the man’s pistol over the noise from above and bullets whining around them, pinging off branches and strafing through leaves. But he kept running, kept dragging her along until they reached the riverbank and the trees fell away. They stumbled out onto a point of smooth, round rocks and waved frantically just as the helicopter roared overhead, only a few hundred feet above them—MARYLAND STATE POLICE painted in bold, black letters on the bottom of the mustard-colored aircraft.

  “Don’t move!”

  Christian and Beth whirled around. The man was behind them, at the edge of the trees, pointing the gun at them.

  “Nice try—”

  The sound of the helicopter had faded fast as it raced past them and upriver, but now it grew louder again as it made a quick, sweeping turn to the left over the river.

  “Shit!” The man jammed the gun into his belt and disappeared back into the trees.

  STEVEN SANCHEZ reviewed the Christian Gillette file for a fourth time as he sat on a chair beneath the palm trees enjoying the Florida sunset. The west coast was nice. The ocean was like a big pond here, barely even a ripple on the surface as far as the eye could see. Just small waves rolling the last few feet up onto the beach. He’d enjoyed bodysurfing as a younger man, so he’d hung out on the east coast when he came to the States then. But now that he was older—in his early fifties—Sanchez liked the calm, preferred lying on a float being rocked by the gentle swells while he read a book or reviewed a file. Now he went to Miami only when he had to.

  As the orange sun dipped toward the horizon and a gentle evening breeze swayed the huge palm leaves above him, he put the file down on his lap and relaxed, taking in the last few rays of the day. He’d been on the west coast for the last two months, preparing—and doing a little stalking.

  When the sun had almost disappeared, he saw the couple walking hand in hand along the deserted beach. An intense excitement surged through his chest. He’d been waiting a long time for this. After all these years, he still had it. Still had that incredible patience to wait for just the right moment. And that sixth sense when it came to hunting, when it came to anticipating which way the prey would go.

  The young man could have gone south, toward town, but Sanchez had sensed he wouldn’t, that he’d go north. The man was wooing a pretty girl he’d met on the beach today—while Sanchez watched—and Sanchez was certain the young man would try to make love to her out here. The public nature of it would excite him. Anyone with his money could have done it in a nice hotel suite, but he wanted to do it where they might be seen, maybe even caught, because that would be much more titillating for him—and her, though her feelings probably didn’t matter to the little rich boy. Of course, he wouldn’t do it where they would obviously be seen, he’d be careful about it. He’d go north, take her for a sunset stroll in that direction, then convince her to go into the trees back from the beach. Sanchez had analyzed it all so carefully. The way he always did.

  As the couple moved past, Sanchez rose from his chair and dropped the file on the sand, still imprinting Gillette’s image on his brain, trying to remember every detail of the face, every mannerism noted in the file. Sanchez stole through the trees, glancing ahead of the couple down the beach as darkness closed in. No one around, just the three of them. This was better than sex for him—now that he was older. Well, almost better.

  When the couple stopped to kiss, he stole across the sand—already starting to cool now that the sun was down—until he was just a few feet behind the woman. She was an unsuspecting victim in this whole thing, but he felt no remorse. There were 7 billion people on the planet. The world wasn’t going to miss one less.

  Sanchez ran the twelve-inch, serrated blade into the woman’s heart from the right side, from underneath her rib cage. She slumped forward instantly, dead.

  For a moment the young man didn’t realize what had happened, actually kept kissing her even as she went limp in his arms. Then his head came back and he allowed her to fall to the sand.

  “Damn it,” he cursed. “Shouldn’t have let her drink so—” He saw Sanchez. “Oh, Jesus.” He tried to run but it was too late.

  Sanchez whipped the first two inches of the long blade across the front of the young man’s neck with a deft, cat-quick move, slicing the throat wide open.

  The young man gasped and brought his hands up as he slowly sank to his knees, unable to shout for help as blood gurgled out of him and poured down onto his pressed, white shirt.

  Sanchez grabbed the young man’s hair and pulled his head back, opening the wound wider at both ends. Then he let go and stepped to the side, allowing the man to fall face forward into the sand.

  IT WAS DARK when Christian and Beth finally pulled into the Grayson’s Market parking lot in the back of a Maryland state trooper car. In the headlights Christian could see Quentin leaning against another patrol car, arms crossed over his chest, talking to an officer. Christian hopped out even before the vehicle had come to a full stop and hurried to where Quentin was.

  “One hell of an afternoon,” Quentin said angrily. “Thanks for leaving me.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry, I—”

  Quentin patted Christian on the shoulder and gave him a quick embrace. “Shut up, pal. I’m just glad you’re all right. Is the girl okay?”

  Christian nodded toward the trooper car he’d climbed out of. “She’s fine. Her name’s Beth, by the way.” He saw the strange look Quentin gave him, as if to ask why he needed to know what her name was. “What happened here?” Christian asked as the trooper Quentin had been talking to stepped away to speak with the one who had given them a ride back. After the chopper had whisked them off to the closest barracks for questioning.

  “It was weird,” Quentin answered. “When you took off into the woods after the girl and the two guys chased you, the other two came at me. We got into a shoving match and we yelled at each other a little, but they backed off real fast. It was like they just wanted to make sure I didn’t go after you. A couple of minutes of that and they were gone. I went into the woods looking for you, but there was no way I was going to find you at that point. I figured the best thing to do was come back here and wait. I called the cops while I was traipsing around in the trees and told them who you were and who you’d just met with at Camp David, and I guess we got action pretty fast.”

  “We sure did.”

  “What happened to you two?”

  “Like you said, those guys were chasing us and I thought we’d lost them, but one of them caught up to us down by the river.” Christian motioned in the general direction of the store, now closed. “Down the hill, past the store. Anyway, he had a gun and I thought we had a problem, but then this state police chopper showed up and scared the guy off.”

  “What the hell were those guys so pissed off about?” Quentin asked. “Why were they chasing her?”

  Christian glanced through the darkness toward the Austin-Healey. Beth had headed over to the car to get a bag. “She was having an affair with an older guy and his wife found out,” he explained in a low voice. “The Mrs. didn’t take it too well. Caught them in the act, I think.”

  Quentin whistled. “Still. Seems pretty drastic to send four guys with guns after her. Not to mention just having four guys at your disposal to do that.”

  “Yeah, right?” Christian agreed. “She wouldn’t tell me who it was. She was too scared. I guess it’s a pretty powerful couple.” Christian stopped talking when Beth walked up to where they were standing. She was wearing a windbreaker the police had given her at the barracks. It had gotten chilly since the sun had gone down. He introduced her to Quentin, then smiled at her. “You ready?”

  “Yeah. I really appreciate this.”

  “What’s going on?” Quentin asked.


  “We’re giving her a ride into Washington.” He pointed at the Austin-Healey. “It’s not hers. I really don’t think she ought to be driving it at this point.”

  “HOW DID IT GO? ”

  Melissa Hart took off the windbreaker and laid it over a chair. It was warm in here. It felt good. “I’m sure you know by now.”

  “I’ve gotten reports, but I want your take. Obviously, I’m most interested in that.”

  Melissa sat down and crossed her legs carefully. She was still wearing the white miniskirt. “It went off perfectly. We connected. Christian even gave me a little kiss when he dropped me off at the train station.”

  “Good. You don’t think he recognized you?”

  Melissa shook her head. “No way.” She smiled grimly. “If he had, he would have been the first. I guess this face doesn’t make as much of an impression on people as I thought it did.”

  “Fame is fleeting.”

  She glanced down in her lap, wondering where her Oscar statuette was now. Probably sitting on someone’s mantel, a conversation piece at dinner parties. “Yeah,” she agreed quietly. “Fleeting.”

  “How’s your money holding up?”

  “Okay.”

  “Let me know if you need more.”

  “I will.”

  “When will you see Christian again?”

  “Later this week,” Melissa replied. “I told him I was going to be in New York seeing some friends. We’re going to have dinner.”

  “Very good.”

  She shrugged. “It’s what you wanted.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Christian had risked his life for her. At least, as far as he knew, he had. She’d almost been convinced herself that she was running toward the river for her life this afternoon. Those bullets had come awfully close—too close. And he hadn’t acted judgmental about her having an affair—a completely made-up story, but again, he didn’t know that. Now she needed to get close to him so these people could spy on him, so they’d know his every move.

  “Can I go now?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked as she stood up.

  “You seem…distracted.”

  “Just tired.”

  “Don’t feel anything for him. Do you understand?”

  Melissa’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t feel anything for anyone.”

  THE GULFSTREAM took off from Reagan National toward the east, toward Chesapeake Bay. Christian sat on the left side of the plane in a big leather chair, looking out over the city lights.

  “What are you thinking about?” Quentin asked. He was sitting on the other side of the plane.

  “Nothing, really.”

  “Beth?”

  Christian turned away from the window as the plane reached the cloud cover. A front had moved in during the last few hours, and as they’d been driving back from the store, it had started to rain. He thought about denying it for a few seconds. “Maybe.”

  Quentin wagged a finger at him. “Forget about her, man. She’s trouble. She seemed nice in the car on the way back and all, but I’m telling you, she’s trouble. It just follows some people, and she’s one of them.”

  The thing was, Quentin was right. Trouble did follow some people. But there was something about Beth, something compelling that kept him thinking about her. Something familiar, too. “I’m having dinner with her later this week in New York.”

  Quentin groaned. “What are you doing, man?”

  “It’s not a romantic thing. I think I can help her, I think I can be her friend.”

  “You don’t need another friend. Besides, men and women can’t be just—”

  “I know, I know.” Christian had heard Quentin say it so many times. “Men and women can’t be just friends.” He hesitated. “Well, I guess we’re going to test your theory.”

  9

  “WHERE WERE YOU YESTERDAY? ”

  “Quentin and I had an errand to run,” Christian answered. Allison seemed tired this morning, or worried. He couldn’t decide which, but she was definitely on edge. Not her usual happy self. “You okay?”

  “Not even going to tell me what part of the world you were in?” she pushed.

  “Washington, D.C. I was seeing Senator Estes from Minnesota.” Which was true. He had stopped by the Russell Office Building to see Estes—at the senator’s request—before driving out to Camp David. Several months ago one of the Everest portfolio companies had announced plans to build a massive new manufacturing facility that would create thousands of new jobs. Minneapolis was one of the two finalist locations. “The senator wanted to tell me that he would be grateful if we built that plant in his state and to remind me three times that he’d been helpful in getting the Energy Department off its ass on the Laurel Energy deal. Claimed if he hadn’t made a few phone calls, we still wouldn’t have our money.”

  “Think he’s telling the truth?” Allison asked. “Think he really called anyone?”

  “I’m sure he made the calls. Whether it made a difference or not, I don’t know.”

  “Well, there’s no reason to get him angry.”

  Christian eased back into his comfortable office chair. It seemed like at this level, no matter how hard you tried not to, you pissed somebody off. The other possible location was outside Sacramento, and he’d gotten an earful from the California senators, too. “I agree, except that both of the distinguished senators from California called me several times in the last two weeks to let me know that they would look upon us building the plant in their state very favorably, too. And to remind me of the ways in which they’ve helped Everest Capital in the past and want to continue to help Everest in the future. How they don’t want to see anything get in the way of their continuing to support us. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they were saying.”

  “Well,” Allison said with a sigh, “that’s why you get the big bucks, Mr. Chairman. To make sure all the kids play together in the sandbox without killing each other.”

  “Speaking of big bucks,” he said quickly, spotting an opportunity to change subjects, “I’m making the Laurel Energy distributions today.”

  “So I understand.”

  Christian heard aggravation in Allison’s tone. Why the hell would she be aggravated about getting money? “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What?”

  “Why’d you say it like that?”

  She looked at him as if he were crazy. “Like what?”

  “Come on, Ally, don’t be like that with me. I’ve known you long enough to hear that tone in your—”

  “It’s a bummer to hear about your making the distributions from someone else,” she admitted. “I thought you told me everything about what was going on at Everest.”

  “Who told you about the distributions?”

  “Sherry Demille.”

  “That associate who works with you all the time?”

  “Uh-huh. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you remembered her so fast since you offered her a ride in your limo a couple of days ago.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what she told me.”

  “Well, she’s lying.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  Christian shrugged as he picked up his reading glasses and his to-do list off the desk. There were thirty items on it today—which actually wasn’t too bad. Normally, there were twice that many. “I don’t know. Ask her.”

  “Next thing you know she’ll be telling me she saw you walking along Fifth Avenue arm in arm with some underwear model.”

  Christian looked at her over his glasses. “What the—”

  “Are you telling me you didn’t ask Sherry if she needed a ride?” Allison demanded, leaning forward in her chair.

  “All I did was hold the door open for her downstairs as I was walking out.” He put the list down. “Aren’t you more interested in what your share of the Laurel distribution is than figuring out why some associate’s trying to get a rise out
of you?”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m really interested in. How you got those scratches on your face and hands.”

  Christian held out one hand and gazed at the thin, red lines zigzagging across his fingers. Plowing through sticker bushes while he was running for his life yesterday in western Maryland, that was how he’d gotten them. But he wasn’t going to tell her that.

  A Maryland State cop had called early this morning with some follow-up questions. Apparently Beth hadn’t told the police much when they’d interviewed her yesterday evening at the barracks while he waited outside the interview room. They seemed keenly interested in getting to the bottom of why the men were after her. Christian had gotten the impression from the investigator who had called this morning that he thought the men chasing them might actually have been after him. Maybe because Quentin had told them over the phone from the store parking lot that he and Christian had been on their way back from Camp David at the time. Christian had asked the investigator several times not to call the Secret Service. He didn’t want Jesse Wood finding out about this. He was excited about helping the president with the Cuba mission, and if Jesse found out what had happened, he might decide to use someone else, worried that Christian couldn’t stay under the radar. If worse came to worst and the cops did contact the Secret Service, he’d get Quentin to call some of his old friends down at the White House and hopefully keep news of the whole thing under wraps.

  “I was working outside at my house on Long Island over the weekend,” Christian explained. “You know, clearing some brush.” He grimaced and scratched his arms through his shirtsleeves. “Think I might have gotten some poison ivy, too.”

  “Clearing brush?” Allison asked incredulously. “Since when did you grow a green thumb? I thought you hated working in the—”

  “Forty million bucks, Ally,” he interrupted. “That’s the number.” Her reaction was almost the same as Quentin’s. A blank stare for a few moments, then a deliberate shake of her head, as though suddenly she couldn’t think straight. Since she’d been cut off by her family, money suddenly meant something to her again. And this was real money. This was flip-your-family-the-bird money. “That’s what you’re getting from the Laurel profits.”