The women have gathered around us, and they nod and move in until we're all such close buddies. Wouldn't be surprised if we started holding hands and singing Kumbaya.
“Have you read my work?” He's still grinning at me.
I have an urge to shove the barrel of my gun into his mouth.
“Uh, no, I have not,” I say, then add, “but I have been meaning to.”
If I worked the conversations with ladies at the bars this well, I really would be a virgin still.
“Oh, there's a table out in pre-function. I'll let the nice lady out there know to send you home with a copy of my books. Here, let me give you my info.” He slips out his wallet, grabs a business card, and hands it to me. “It has my email and phone number.”
His tone is like he just gave me directions to Jesus' tomb. The women are not-so-discreetly trying to sneak a peek. Just to be a jerk, I fold the card in half and stuff it in my front pocket.
“Thank you,” I say. “I'll let you know how I enjoy the books.”
“Yes, please do.” He clasps my shoulder and leads me away from Team Phil. He lowers his voice. “We are opening up internships this summer, and I would be delighted if you would apply. It's a marvelous opportunity to get first-hand experience and network.”
I still don't even know what Phil
does
, besides talk about people who whistle like canaries or something.
But I play along by nodding and saying, “I'll do that. Should I email you for details when I get home?”
“Yes, yes. At your first chance,” he says. “Let me know, and I'll put in a personal recommendation for you.”
If I didn't already hate Phil for being a wife beater, I would be happy to off him just because he oozes so much goodwill he must keep the heads of children in his basement. Yin and yang.
“Great, thank you.” I nonchalantly pull away from his grasp, then add in a casual tone, “So, you headed home now?”
He chuckles, though he sounds tired. I have a solution for this. A permanent one.
“Not heading home until tomorrow. Drinks with some of the other professors first, then back to my hotel for the night.” He shakes my hand again. “It was good meeting you, um, what was your name?”
“Ralf,” I say, and it amuses me that a guy named Ralf is going to have a gun to his forehead in a few hours.
I would like to ask him what bar he will be visiting or what hotel he is staying at, but both questions pose a risk of sounding alarming. I'll do it the traditional way then.
We have a long night of hanging out—Phil.
***
Phil drives a silver Lexus. The guy keeps adding to my reasons I want to pop one in his brain. I trail him in my rented Yaris to a place that claims to be a bar, but is more like a big restaurant that happens to have liquor.
Phil crosses the parking lot, meeting with a group of old men. They talk and laugh so loud I can hear them like they are in the backseat. And that's with the hum still giving a private one-note audition in my skull. Finally, they turn and head inside.
Time to move.
I grab my jacket and slide out of the car. The papers from my file on him are still in the passenger seat. I'm such an amateur.
I lean back in and shove the papers next to the console, then lock the car and slip on my jacket. The gun weighs down one side and the silencer the other. Interior pockets rule.
I do a quick Google search on my cellphone for the number to the restaurant and give them a call.
A pleasant female voice answers “Hello,” on the third ring.
“Yeah, how long is the wait?”
“For how many?” She's all southern honey. It's kind of hot.
“A party,” I say. “Five or six.”
“About fifteen minutes. Can I get a name?”
“No, thanks,” I say. “That's all I needed.”
I hang up, then step over the curb and onto a grassy knoll.
On the other side lays another parking lot. It's dimly lit. Perfect for hanging out until I'm certain Phil and friends have been seated. I can't stay in my car. My nerves are twitching.
The breeze sweeps through, messing up my hair and causing a small shudder.
I pull my jacket close and keep walking. People make their way between cars and buildings, chatting and being loud, the New Orleans nightlife well underway. Of all the cities I've been in, which, to be fair, number less than a dozen, New Orleans is definitely a favorite. If I get lucky, Karl will want to off a lot more people around here. I could roll with that.
I pull my phone from my pants pocket. It has been on silent this whole time. Maybe Syd has texted me. Maybe many times. She might be angry. The idea gets me a little riled up, and I tap the screen to see what I'm in for with the crazy woman.
There are no new messages.
***
Fifteen minutes passes incredibly slowly when standing in the middle of a poorly lit parking lot with nothing to do. It also passes incredibly fast when preparing to kill someone. I feel like I'm going to implode.
But now is the most nerve-wrecking part. I cross over the knoll and back to the Yaris, then hasten around the side of the restaurant. Collar up and head down, eyes slanted to look into the windows as I stroll by. If all goes well, I will see where Phil is seated but he won't see me. That's the idea.
Being spotted wouldn't be a big deal if I hadn't engaged my target already. Since Phil and I are all but blood brothers now, I have to be careful. I need the element of “Oh, shit.”
His group is occupying two tables near the back of the restaurant. I pick up my pace and complete my loop to the front door.
Inside, the lobby is warm and filled with people. The clattering of dishes, the scent of onions and garlic. A group of waitstaff are clapping and singing a birthday song.
A woman asks, “Table or booth?”
It's southern honey. I turn to where she stands at a counter. She has smooth, dark skin and gorgeous brown eyes. God damn. Maybe I can delay my return trip and take my twenty-four hour me-time here in the south.
She straightens. I'm busted. Stealth isn't my thing in any situation.
“Uh, no, thanks.” I snag a menu. “Just looking for my party.”
I hurry into the dining area before she can reply. The restaurant is busy, but there are a few seats to choose from. I slide into a booth and slouch down. I can see Phil, but he won't see me as long as he doesn't stand up.
A waiter brings me water and offers an appetizer. I say yes and wave him away. Not a clue what I just ordered. Don't care.
Actually, I kind of do. The menu is all sorts of southern goodies—the hostess excluded—but I can't kill on a full stomach. I did that once. It ended poorly.
Lucky for the guy he was already dead.
The waiter comes back with a soda. Apparently I ordered that.
He pulls out his notepad. “Have you decided what you would like?”
I glance down at the menu. This isn't the type of place that will let me sit around sucking down drinks and not order food.
“The manager's special,” I say, assuming there is one.
He nods and tries to take the menu.
I slap my hand on it. “I'd like to keep it. Please.”
“Sure.” He shrugs and walks off.
Halfway across the restaurant, Phil is living it up with pints of beer and platters of food. I would be envious that he gets to eat without worrying about emptying his stomach on a fresh corpse later, except he's going to be that corpse. It's sort of a fair trade.
My appetizer, as it turns out, is fried artichokes, which is about as exciting as a garden hose. The manager's special is surf and turf. Too bad I shouldn't eat it. What a waste of a perfectly good artery-clogging meal.
So I just sit here watching a bunch of old guys violate doctor's orders. Phil is having a good time for someone who is going to have a bullet for an after dinner mint.
With a small groan of irritation, I slump in my seat. The shrimp on my plate are taunting me, so I cave and snack on them with the cocktail sauce. Phil continues with his merriment. I've had more exciting visits to the dentist. Less painful, too.
I consider checking my phone, but I need to stay focused. Plus, I'll probably do something stupid if Syd hasn't texted yet. Like call her.
So much for learning about southern hospitality. That hostess up front is gorgeous, but I'm ready to get back to jumping my claim in the southwest.
After I've gone ahead and eaten all the shrimp, fried cheese sticks, and half of the steak, Phil is finally ready to leave. I scramble for the menu buried under my plates and hold it up. I'm not James Bond. I have no nifty moves. I just do what works. And a menu shield works pretty damn well.
It works well enough that Phil leaves the restaurant without seeing me, though he didn't have to get too close, anyway. I tune pass the hum as best as possible and listen for his voice. A moment later, the sound of the front door, and then his talking fades out.
That's my cue.
Dining and dashing is a dick move. I wouldn't do it in a normal situation.
This does not count as a normal situation.
I dined, and now I dash. Through the dining area, out the double front doors, and across the parking lot. I skid to a halt at my Yaris, unlock the door, and peel out.
The silver Lexus is on the move.
And I have had more than enough of this stupid game of Duck, Duck, Dead.
Half of the stupidity is my fault, though. I had a plan—and this was it. Follow him until the opportunity to pull the trigger arises.
I never said I was good at killing people. I just have to keep the damn hum from evolving. Once that happens, life becomes unpleasant.
The Lexus, a few cars lengths ahead, swerves a little. For all his brilliance, Doctor Phillip Ballantyne is a jerk waffle. He won't be a problem for much longer. I hope.
I trail him no more than five minutes. Then he pulls into a hotel parking lot. Decent place. I should be staying here. Bet the showers have better water pressure.
I brake in the parking lot entrance and slouch down until I can just see over the dash. Phil gets out of his car, fumbles with his briefcase and the door lock, then stumbles toward the hotel. I swing my car around the other direction without headlights, park, and get out.
He enters through a glass back door. I dart up the steps, a few yards behind him. He's too drunk to notice me. Just as I reach the door, it falls shut. I yank the handle, but it won't budge.
Shit.
Something jingles behind me. I turn as a woman comes up the walk.
“Hey, I left my key in my room.” I wave her over. “Can you swipe this for me?”
“Sure, of course,” she says.
People are just too helpful sometimes.
She opens her purse, peers inside, shifts around the contents, pulls out her hotel key card, flips it over, and—two seconds before I snatch it from her—finally swipes it across the reader.
The door clicks unlocked.
I burst through, into the bright hallway, and take off, jacket thudding against the back of my legs. The hum bounces in my brain. I round the corner, muscles tensed for a fight, and stop short.
No one is there. At all.
I've lost Phil.
My heart pounds in my chest. The gun and silencer are heavy in my coat. And this persistent little hum is going to be a raging bitch in the morning.
I smack my palm against my head and mutter, “I'm trying, I'm trying, god dammit.”
Not like it helps. Never has. The hum knows my intentions. It knows I'm hunting Phil. But the hum gets pushy after a while. Grows a little louder, pulses a little deeper.
Then it gets wicked.
Murmuring catches my attention. I listen around the hum. One of the voices sounds familiar.
Phil is talking with someone.
I try to soften my footsteps as I hurry toward the next turn. I peer down the corridor. Phil is standing with another old man outside a room. The other guy is wearing dark pajama pants and nothing to cover his gut. They chat away like they're at a barbeque.
Looks like Phil knows everyone in this damn city. Their conversations carries, but I can't make out their words. Mainly because I don't care. I need Phil to say goodnight so I can put him to rest.
I crouch down and dare another peek. The two men shake hands. Phil trips over himself to another door, then fumbles with his key card until the lock opens. The door thuds closed behind him.
I check my phone, trying to ignore the fact I still don't have any new messages from Syd, and start the countdown. Five minutes. That will give Phil enough time to take off his shoes, have a piss, generally get comfortable. Relaxed. Unsuspecting.
My leg goes numb, so I stand up and shake it out. A few more minutes. I'm so close to fulfilling this wish. Then the madness in my head will be silent again, and I can go home.
I miss my bed. My house. Even my Accord, though the Yaris is kind of cool for the short term.
Tick, tock. After three minutes, I lose patience. The hum won't shut up and seems louder while I stand in the empty corridor. Phil is drunk, so he's probably already passed out anyway.
I stride down the hall, stop at his door, and knock. I might be nervous, but I'm focusing on the hum. Home in on it.
I knock again.
I can't hear anything but the hum. I don't want to hear anything else. This is when I need the insanity it brings.
The door opens. Phil looks . . . surprised.
I shove him back and slam the door shut with my foot.
He stumbles into the luggage rack. It goes over, and he lands ass to the floor.
His mouth is moving.
All I hear is the hum, but I nudge it back. Just enough to make out his words.
He's stuttering. “Ralf? Why are you here? Ralf?”
I grin a little. I'd forgotten about that: Ralf is going to kill him.
“Please, whatever you want, just take it.” His eyes dart about. “Are you needing a fix?”
I suppose I do look like a druggy. I pull the gun from my jacket with one hand and the silencer with the other and screw them together.
I should have done that already, but who cares? What is Phil going to do? Whistle at me?
He skitters back a few feet. “Please, Ralf. You don't want to do this. Let me help you.”