Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

“That’s because we were thorough, Lissy. We cleaned up after ourselves, wiped everything down.” He paused. “Not that anyone is likely to go up those stairs at Gatewood for the next fifty years. I mean, why would they? If by some crazy chance they do, they won’t find a thing. Well, maybe that FBI agent’s body, eventually. Then they’ll know what we did, how we fooled them, but they still won’t know who we are.”

Victor raised his fist to the heavens and sang out, “I am the champion! I am the champion! Of the world!”

You mean we, don’t you?

“No, I’m the one who did the heavy lifting in Willicott. Give your mouth a rest, Lissy, I’m tired.”

You’re not the only one who’s tired. Drive, drive, drive. I was bored, and you know my belly hurts. The staples dig in and pinch.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He could practically see Lissy getting ready to blast him even more and said quickly, “Okay, both of us are champions.” He sat cross-legged on a blanket and watched the fire bloom, tried to distract Lissy by whistling Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe,” an ancient song from the hippie era Lissy’s mom was always humming, until she got shot through the neck. He hadn’t minded that at all, the crazy witch. But he’d never say it to Lissy.

He’d picked a good spot, quiet and peaceful. They could even see a slice of Greenbrier Lake through the trees, its flat dark water smooth as glass. His only worry, a small one really, was that the girl park ranger would come sniffing around, threaten to fine him or toss him in jail. Victor cracked his knuckles. Let her come, maybe he’d strangle her with her ridiculous long hippie braid. He knew he could do it, no doubt in his mind, not since he’d whacked Octavia Ryan on the head and shoved her overboard into Lake Massey, two heavy bricks tied by a rope around her waist so she wouldn’t float to the surface. That was what you had to do to keep a body under the water. He pictured himself standing in the rowboat, looking down at the flat surface of Lake Massey for any sign of her, and he’d felt better in that moment than he had in a long time. He was a winner. He sent his fist again to the sky. Yes, he’d thought of everything.

He looked through his small, cold bag and frowned. He didn’t want to eat the last two hot dogs for dinner. No, it was time to celebrate. That meant dessert. He hummed as he made himself a s’more and set it on the small grate he’d carefully placed over his fire pit. The graham crackers were on the stale side, but the marshmallows and the Hershey’s chocolate bar were prime. Lissy loved s’mores, a treat her mama had always made her when she was thirteen, licking her lips, to tease him, he knew.

He chewed slowly, swallowed, wiped his mouth. It was a wonderful reward for a guy who’d gotten the job done, accomplished what he’d set out to do. And better yet, he had the money to prove it. He looked into the small fire and said softly, “Don’t worry, Lissy, I’m making you a s’more, too. Mine are better than your mama’s.”

About time, Victor. You ate the first one, didn’t even think to offer it to me. I don’t know, Mama’s were pretty good.

“Sorry, Lissy, but I wanted to celebrate my success. And it was mine, not ours—you saw what I did.” He preened. “I killed that bitch lawyer like I promised. And don’t feel bad about that FBI agent who was screwing her, either—the guy tried, I’ll give him that, came close but he failed. After that, I kind of liked stuffing him in that closet. I decided he deserved to die long and slow. I mean, he had the rotten taste to hook up with that lying witch, didn’t he? I even have the agent’s gun. Not that he’ll ever need it again.”

To his surprise, rather than criticizing him like she always did, she said, I like what you did to the FBI agent. You ma de the punishment fit the crime. You know what else I like? I like how you waited for that girl park ranger to take a break. That was smart. You fooled her good.

Victor felt a burst of warmth inside. He’d pleased her. She’d actually praised him, without reservation, wi

thout criticism. It had to be a first. He smiled into the glowing embers. Victor realized he’d been smiling a lot today. He could get used to it. “I wonder what the FBI agent is thinking about now, all cozy in his closet? About his mama? About Octavia, wondering what I did to her? Hey, I wonder if fish eat lawyers?” He laughed and began constructing another s’more for Lissy.

Nah, Porto’s thinking about himself, no one else, not even that frigging lawyer he was screwing. He finally understands there’s nothing he can do. He’s helpless. It’s all over. He’s toast. I bet he’s wondering how long it will take him to die.

“A good long time,” Victor said, “at least three days.”

She fell silent, but it wasn’t a comfortable silence. Victor knew she was examining every action he’d taken to find fault, as she usually did when something was his idea, not hers. First praise, then the spurs. Sure enough, she pulled close and said, her voice sharp and critical, Lookie here, Victor, what you did may have felt good, but I’m thinking you should have put his lights out with a nice clean bullet, instead of trying to prove you can think on your own. You know how hard it was for you to haul him up those stairs and leave him in that stupid closet. He weighs lots more than you do. He could have got his brains back together at any time and taken you down. Did you even think about anyone coming to Gatewood, maybe finding him before he’s croaked? I mean, you did sink the rowboat right there off the Gatewood dock. What if someone saw you or finds that sunken rowboat? They’d investigate, wouldn’t they? They’d look around and they’d find the agent, and maybe he wouldn’t be dead yet. You tried to be cute. You should have shot him with his own gun, wham, right between the eyes, and that FBI bastard would be gone forever, no chance for him to rat you out. It was stupid, Victor.

“Shut up! Stop your criticizing, Lissy. You know I hate it. It was my idea, my plan, and it was perfect. Keep your trap shut. You remember how sometimes I had to punish you for not respecting me?”

19

* * *

She didn’t say anything. Maybe that would shut her up for a while. Maybe it meant she was ready to see him now as he was, as he saw himself. Victor smoothed out his fists, flattened his palms on his legs.

Suddenly, she laughed, right in his face, a match to the flames. Yeah, that’s you, Victor—the big man. You think you’re so cool. Without me you’re a putz, and don’t forget it.

He nearly burst with rage. He began hitting his fists against his legs, once, then again and again. “Don’t rag on me, Lissy! It was a good plan. Just because it was my plan and not yours, you have to criticize me, make me feel bad. No matter what you think, I got it done, didn’t I? You know as well as I do nobody’s going to find the lawyer’s body, nobody’s going to see the stupid rowboat, and nobody’s going to go to the third floor of Gatewood. Everyone’s scared of that big old house. Porto will rot in that closet, long and slow. I did that without you, without your crazy mama. One dead and gone, one left to rot. What more could you want?”

My mama wasn’t crazy! She was smart—

“Your mama got her head nearly shot off! You told me how her neck exploded and blood spurted out everywhere.” He heard low shattered sobs. He whispered, “I’m sorry, Lissy, I know you loved your mama. I’m sorry. She wasn’t crazy, exactly. She was different, that’s all.”

The sobs stopped. Silence, then, Well, dead is dead, after all. Mama went out in a blaze of glory. I heard that once in a movie—a blaze of glory. She would have liked that, maybe.

Victor, you know what I want. I didn’t care about that lawyer, Ryan. She was your demon, not mine. I never could figure out why it was so important for you to kill her. So why did you?

“Be quiet, Lissy. You don’t know anything.”

She laughed, high, vicious, and too loud, right in his ear. Then her voice became a sneer, and he could feel her hot breath against his cheek. All that poor cow Ryan ever did was tell the truth, Victor. You couldn’t stand to hear the truth, could you? It made you feel small, like a worm. But Ryan didn’t hurt you, not like Savich hurt me. He didn’t only hurt me, he killed me.

Ryan saved your butt, made the judge cry for poor little Victor Nesser, bossed around by his sixteen-year-old girlfriend, mashed down under her dainty thumb. Ryan played the judge perfectly, got you declared incompetent to stand trial. I would have sent her a bottle of champagne. Face it, Victor, you killed her because she told the truth and you couldn’t stand it.