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  Waking in the morning to the feeling of her fingers on my skin.

  Wiping out the traces of the people and the places that I’ve been.

  He remembered the first time they’d made love. It was in her room in her parents’ house right after the Homecoming dance. Her mom and dad were in New Jersey for some kind of family event, or something. He’s kissed her in the doorway and started to turn back for the car, but she’d stopped him and led him inside. It was his first time; hers too.

  It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. She’d gently coaxed him into a measure of confidence and they’d drifted off to sleep afterward. He couldn’t remember a time he’d been that happy since.

  Teaching me that yesterday was something that I never thought of trying.

  Talking ‘bout tomorrow and the money love and time we had to spend.

  “Roddie?”

  Loving her was easier than anything I’ll ever do again.

  “I’m sorry, Noelle. I…I miss you.” He saw her close her eyes, saw her breathe in. She stood up and started for the door. “No, wait. That’s not why I called you here. It just hit me when I saw you.”

  Coming close together with a feeling that I’ve never known before, in my time.

  She ain’t ashamed to be a woman nor afraid to be a friend.

  She stopped and looked back at him. Did he see a little wistfulness there? “Why did you call me here, Roddie? What’s going on?”

  “You make things happen, Noelle. There’s nobody I know who can find things out like you can. I need you to do some research for me.”

  I don’t know the answer to the easy way she opened every door, in my mind.

  But dreaming was as easy as believing it was never gonna end.

  He passed over a napkin. On it he’d scrawled the name Lester Twill, plus a couple of ebook titles. “I need to find this guy.”

  Noelle looked at the napkin, put it in her purse, and walked out.

  And loving her was easier than anything I’ll ever do again.

  For a while after she left, he watched the door, and then dropped a twenty on the table and walked out into the night.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sage was torn. Proper procedure required that he kill Norwood and cover the tracks. But he liked the guy. For decades, he had lived in the shadows without human contact, and Tommy Norwood had been the first real relationship he’d allowed himself to have. He didn’t know why.

  That’s a lie; I did it because Tommy was fat. The man was so fat he had to use one of those carts to move around. Sage had walked on the sidewalk on a Saturday afternoon, and the chair lift on the van had broken, spilling Tommy into the street. Sage had been the only one present strong enough to help lift Tommy back into his chair.

  That led to drinks and, well, it led to being able to tell someone, finally.

  Of course, Tommy thought all of the stories were made up, but he still got to tell them, got to say what they were.

  Tommy was the only guy who really knew Sage. Sort of. Tommy wasn’t the smartest guy, but he did a good enough job with the little books, and Sage liked the way he listened to his stories and turned them into words.

  Still, the picture was a problem. He must have found it with some of the background documents he’d shown him for the Panama story. He’d seen men killed for a hell of a lot less, and he really should kill Tommy.

  He’d have to use a gun. He couldn’t use a knife; too much fat to cut through to get to something vital. God damn it, Tommy! He knew he wasn’t going to kill him. It was a mistake not to kill him. Wrong. Still, he wasn’t going to do it. Fuck!

  Norwood answered on the second ring. “Tommy Norwood.”

  “Tommy, what the hell is your problem? I told you I didn’t want anyone to know I was writing this stuff.”

  “John? Hey, how are you doing?”

  “How am I doing? Jesus, Norwood! You put my picture on the cover of one of the books. Why the hell did you do that?”

  “Look, John. Nobody on Earth is going to believe a guy who looks like me could’ve written those books. Besides, you look good. What’s the problem?” It was maddening. Sage took a deep breath. “Oh yeah, we sold over a hundred thousand copies, uh, downloads, last month. I have your share right here.”

  “Okay, I’ll come and get it, but you shouldn’t have used the picture. Can you change it?”

  “I could change it for future sales, John, but there are already a hundred thousand out there. By the time the file-sharing sites are done, there’ll probably be a half-million out.” Jesus, a half-million electronic copies of the picture.

  “Well, change it, Tommy. I can’t have the picture out.” He sighed and rolled his neck around to crack the vertebrae at the base of his head. “I’ll be by in an hour or two for the cash.”

  “Okay, John, I’ll change it.” He heard the clicking of a keyboard. “Alright, how about a guy in cammies holding an M-16? I’ll crop it so only the chest and arms are shown.”

  “Yeah, that’ll work fine.” Maybe nobody had noticed it yet. He knew he should kill Norwood, but he just couldn’t. “I got a new story about an operation in Sierra Leone. Sorry to snap at you.”

  “That’s okay, John. But why do you care so much? The picture’s great. It looks just like—”

  “Tommy, I care because of the Leopard Project. I care because of the Carriage Team.” Sage shook his head. He knew he could take them, but only if they came two or three at a time. If they all rushed him, though – well, then it was over.

  “What?” Norwood wasn’t getting it. “You mean the super soldier shit Strike Fortley got? His attack team? Why the hell are you worried? The picture doesn’t make the books worse. It makes them better.”

  “I’m not afraid for the books, Tommy. I’m afraid for me.”

  “I don’t get it, John. What’s the problem?”

  Sage sighed. “I didn’t make that stuff up, Tommy. It’s all real. Fortley’s me. And let me tell you something, Tommy: there are a whole hell of a lot of people who would be happier if John Sage weren’t around to talk about it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  She must have come back, crawled into bed while he slept. He could feel her smooth skin, the softness of her breasts against his chest. He felt her hair over his face as she leaned down to nuzzle at his neck. “Oh, sweetie. What are you doing to yourself?”

  She was kissing his neck, tracing her lips up to his ear to nibble at the lobe. “Noelle, I—” He felt her finger on his lips. In the distance came the faint sound of Kris Kristofferson singing. She moved her finger from his lips and kissed him, letting her hands move downward under the blankets. “I’m so sorry, Elle.” He sighed. “I just—” She kissed him again and he pulled her on top of him, held her tightly to himself, and woke up.

  The blankets were bunched in his arms. It was still dark outside. He glanced at the clock: two-thirty. Impossible sadness washed over him: it had been nothing more than a dream. He could almost smell her next to him. He could almost feel her on top of him, and—oh, shit!—he had a boner the size of the Washington Monument.

  When was the last time he’d been laid? He’d had that call girl in Baltimore a month or two after he got disbarred. Drank too much gin and tonic and picked an ad at random off of Craigslist. He was so drunk he couldn’t even get it up, so did it count? No. The last time was with Sammi: her I’m leaving you, goodbye lay. Now that he thought about it, that time was tender, even sweet.

  He sat up and stretched. On the end table was a half-empty fifth of vodka, and he gratefully reached for it and took a long drink. Then he got up and walked to the bathroom, carrying the bottle by the neck. There, he saw himself in the mirror and flinched. He’d just got out of bed and still he looked like he hadn’t slept in six weeks.

  He splashed some cold water on his face, followed it up with another belt of the vodka, and walked back into the bedroom.

  He noticed his briefcase on the dresser and he put the bottle down long enough to br
ing it to the bed. He opened it up to find the money haphazardly stuffed back into the envelope. His eyes grew wide again and he pulled it out, smoothed out the bills, and began to count.

  Fourteen thousand, eight-hundred dollars. Probably fifteen thousand with a couple of hundreds in his car still, maybe under the seat. Or maybe not: he’d broken one at a gas station and then bought a load of vodka with the other. He opened his wallet. Inside were three twenties, a five, and three ones. He remembered leaving Muddy’s. He decided on vodka because he was already drunk and wanted to taste the scotch when he drank it.

  Alright, fifteen grand. He could give some to Nero, maybe hold him off for a few. He could also hire a few nobodies at a hundred a day and bill the Winslow’s at $300 per day each. That’s what ‘plus expenses’ meant.

  He took another sip of the vodka, but he realized it was warm and he walked out of the room to the kitchen. The apartment was a tiny one-bedroom place, and the kitchen wasn’t much farther than the bathroom had been. He opened a cabinet and pulled out a water glass. Then, he grabbed a few ice cubes from the freezer and dropped them in.

  As he poured the vodka over the ice, he tried to stop thinking of Noelle. It’s over, shithead. You blew it. The ship had sailed. The train had left the station. The—well, whatever other clichés there were to say it was too late.

  He put the bottle down and raised the glass to his lips.

  Before he could take the drink, though, he heard noises at the door. He walked over, glass still in hand and peered through the eyehole.

  There were two men outside. One wore a cheap outfit he probably got on special from one of those Armenian immigrant shops selling three suits for $299.

  The other one looked like, well, he looked how a high school drama club might costume a sneak thief. All his clothes were black and in mismatched textures, some flat, some shiny.

  Crane might have snickered at the pair if they weren’t both holding guns.

  Big guns.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ty had his hand on her back. His mouth was on hers, and he was trying to walk the two of them through the door and into her house. Noelle lifted her hands to his chest and pushed him back. “Not tonight, Ty. I need to do some work.”

  “What the hell, Noelle? It’s been three weeks almost. I’m tired of waiting.” He put his mouth on her again, and she had to push hard to get him to back away.

  “Listen, Ty, not tonight.”

  She turned to walk inside but he caught her arm and turned him around. His face was flushed, red. Her arm shouted with a stab of pain.

  “Listen, there are a lot of girls who would be happy to just be on call for me. Why do you act like such a stuck-up bitch to me?”

  “You’re hurting me.” She pulled her arm away and he let go. “Just because I don’t come when you call or sit or fetch or play dead doesn’t make me a bitch. You want a whore, go get one. You want a girlfriend, try acting like a man.”

  He recoiled like she’d slapped him. Then, his eyes grew narrow and his face grew cold. “I own half the politicians in this county, Noelle. The only reason I don’t own the other half is because they’re not worth anything to me. I make things happen and I keep things from happening. A fucking librarian should be grateful for the chance to—”

  “Grateful?” She shook her head. “You really think I should be grateful to have you?” She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. As she did, she realized her phone was ringing. Who the hell was that? It had to be close to three a.m. by now. “We can talk about this tomorrow, Ty. As for now, I’m getting to work and then getting to bed.”

  “Listen Noelle.” He leaned forward until he was only inches from her face. “You either go inside, get undressed, and get in bed with me, or there is no tomorrow for us.”

  Noelle shook her head and then smiled. “I have to hand it to you, Ty. You know how to make decisions easy on a girl.” Ty smiled and put his hand on her shoulder. He started to say something like, “That’s better,” or something like it, but Noelle shoved off his hand and stepped into the house.

  She slammed the door shut, almost praying it would catch a finger or his thumb, but he hadn’t moved. She looked at him through the peephole. He just stood on the porch with his mouth agape, an incredulous look on his face.

  Why was she with the jerk? Well, the answer to that was obvious. Rodney hated him and she wanted Rodney to hurt. It was stupid and it was petty. Still, it was done now. Ty could go find one of the throngs of women he had waiting in the wings. She’d have to grow up.

  It was hard. She’d left for college in love with Rodney and felt the distance between them as his calls grew less and less frequent. The holiday trips never quite worked out. The meetings somewhere halfway never happened either. When he finally called to break it off—called!, the coward—she asked him what had taken him so damned long.

  But she hadn’t stopped. As much as she wanted to move on, she hadn’t stopped loving him. The bastard. What happened? They were supposed to be married and happy and living in some small town in the middle of nowhere where she could run the community library and he could help farmers or ranchers or whatever with their wills and their trust deeds.

  And then tonight with the “I miss you” and the damn song playing. What the hell did he expect? That she’d drop everything and say, “Well, we missed out on six or seven years while you were busy making love to someone else and giving her a kid—”?

  She stopped, a stab of guilt hitting her like a punch in the gut. Sienna. The little girl, Rodney’s little girl, had died just six months or so after Noelle came back to town. She’d watched Rodney lose that last bit of joy that made him Rodney.

  She shook her head, willed away the thought. Enough drama for one night.

  The message light was blinking on Noelle’s answering machine. She crossed over to it, pressed the button.

  It was Rodney. “Hey, Elle. There are two guys with guns outside of my place. I … wait, uh … I’ll call you later.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Crane gently put the phone back on the cradle. Frick and Frack were fumbling with the doorknob now, finding it locked. Crane walked back to his room, picked up his briefcase and realized he was naked. At least the hard on is gone. He grabbed his pants, pulled them on, and stepped into his shoes.

  The shirt on the bed smelled like booze, but he slipped it on and walked to the window. His apartment was on the second floor, but if he climbed out, he could jump to the roof of the carport and then get to his car in short order.

  He spun the locks on his briefcase to secure the lid and tossed it out of the window onto the carport. He started to climb out, noticed the vodka on the dresser and walked back to drain the glass. Good thing, too, because his keys were next to it on the dresser. He shoved them in his pocket and returned to the window just as he heard the front door crack and the hinges squeak as it opened.

  He climbed out awkwardly and pushed off of the sill.

  The carport roof came up at him a hell of lot faster than he thought it would, and he reached out with his hands to grab on. They didn’t touch the roof; instead they hit his briefcase, sending it over the edge with him, and he fell backwards into the sickly brown shrubs that made up the extent of his landlord’s landscaping.

  He remembered the one time he’d tried out for football to try to please his father, to try to be a Crane child for the first time in his life. He’d been paired with a kid about five pounds lighter and two inches shorter, and he thought it would be an easy task to knock him over and make the team. The coach had yelled, “Go!” and Crane was on his back trying to get an unhappy diaphragm to work so that he could breathe.

  That’s what it felt like now as he lay next to the bushes. He was pretty sure he’d be happy to lay there for another six or seven hours.

  Rather than hours, it was six or seven seconds before he heard Mutt and Jeff upstairs. One of them was saying, “He’s not here,” and the other one was saying that his car was.
r />   Oh shit, the car.

  Crane stumbled to his feet, and looked around for the briefcase. It was only a few feet away, and he picked it up and limped around the carport wall. He set the briefcase down and fumbled with the keys for a minute until he remembered the window and just reached inside to open the door. He put the briefcase on the passenger seat and finally located the right key.

  He started the car, backed up and drove out of the apartment complex’s parking lot. He could see the shadows of the two men through his bedroom window, and he didn’t turn on his headlights until he’d pulled onto the street. Panic rose in him briefly, but it subsided when he opened the glove box and found a pack of smokes. Thank God for small favors. He rummaged around until his hand grasped a lighter and was happy to find a few airline bottles of Smirnoff in there as well.

  God, that trip was six months ago. Oh well, vodka doesn’t go bad, does it?

  He lit up a cigarette and headed North to Noelle’s house, draining both the bottles of vodka before he’d gone two blocks. He pulled over a few houses down from her place and fumbled with the briefcase until he had it unlocked. Then, he pulled out his cellphone and called her.

  He watched the light in the kitchen go on and saw her pick up the phone. It was the same house, the one she’d grown up in, the one she’d pulled him into, the one they’d both lost their virginity in. Her parents were gone now, moved down to Florida in some retirement village or something.

  “Hello?” Her voice was alert, not tired at all.

  “Elle, open your garage and shut off your lights. I’ll drive in in a minute.”

  There must have been something in his tone because she didn’t say anything, just hung up the phone and turned off the kitchen light. A moment later the garage door began to lift.

  What the hell was Nero thinking? A hundred grand might not be the biggest thing he had going, but it wasn’t anything to sneeze at either. If he killed him, he’d end up with nothing.