The Pact (A Sarah Roberts Thriller Book 17) (5 page)

“That must’ve been hard,” Sarah admitted.

“It was,” Amelia said. “I’ve lived with guilt ever since that day.”

“I’m sorry.” Sarah wanted to go to her mother, hold her. Amelia sat hunched up, her shoulders curled over the top of her chest, bottom lip quivering.

“Vivian unselfishly did it for others, for strangers,” her father continued. “She gave up not just a piece of herself or some time, she gave up her life. A chance to grow up, to grow old. To get married. It really hit us hard when we read everything.” The dark circles under Caleb’s eyes led to tears as his eyes glazed over. “We can’t lose you, too. That’s why we called you right away and couriered that letter to Aaron, or Aarow as Vivian called him. She was bad with names. On Parkman’s letter she separated his name to say, Park Man. Vivian must’ve thought the message was for a man who managed or took care of the local park.”

Parkman laughed quietly for a brief moment. The tension in the room eased. It gave her father a chance to wipe his eyes.

“Excuse me,” Amelia said as she got up.

They watched her head to the guest bathroom.

“When’s my flight, Dad?”

“Tomorrow morning at eight.” He grabbed a couple of papers on the table to his left. “It’s all right here. In Toronto at five-thirty after a quick layover.” He handed her the itinerary. “Then off to Denmark. You’re to land in Copenhagen, transfer planes and fly to a small city called Billund. There you’re to find transportation to a city called Skanderborg. That’s all I was told. I did my part. Now you have to do yours and get on those planes.”

She took the rest of the papers from him. “Any idea why I’m to fly to Skanderborg?”

Caleb shook his head. “None. Sorry.”

“Parkman? Anything from you on this?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head too, truth in his eyes.

She gathered the sheets and folded them, taking note of the time. It was almost ten in the evening. She would want to shower and get to the guest room within the hour.

“I need one more shot of whiskey before bed.”

Caleb got the bottle and filled her glass.

“What I can’t figure out is the part about Vivian’s pact with me. Isn’t that what we already have?”

“I tried to figure it out as well, but couldn’t.” Caleb set the whiskey bottle back on the table. “And how is Aaron to be murdered by time? And how can pain be behind everything?”

Something clicked for Sarah. It occurred to her that they were looking at it all wrong. She jumped up from the couch nearly spilling her whiskey.

“I think I’ve got something.”

“Got what?” Parkman asked.

Sarah ran for the guest room, passing her mother on the way. Once she’d gathered the letter from Vivian, she went back out to the living room.

Amelia sat beside her husband, looking refreshed.

Sarah scanned the letter, rereading the parts she had misunderstood earlier.

“Sarah, you have us all in knots here,” her mother said. “What have you figured out?”

She looked up from the letter. “They are names. People’s names, or nicknames. Aaron will be murdered by the clock. Vivian means someone known as The Clock. A nickname. Someone known for being on time.” Sarah scanned the letter. “Pain is behind everything, Vivian says here.” She looked up. “Whoever Pain is, another nickname, he’s the one causing the problem. Find Pain, end this.”

Parkman sat forward on the couch. He was nodding. “That makes a lot of sense. Any idea who Oaf and son is yet? Or the Danish blonde?”

“No, but something tells me I’ll find out soon enough. I’m going to Toronto, right. As soon as we figure out who Pain and The Clock are, it’ll lead us to figure out the rest.” She drank back the rest of the whiskey. “Now, I need a computer and I need sleep. I need to see if someone named Pain or The Clock are known in Toronto. Especially The Clock. If I’m right, then he’s the bastard that wants to kill Aaron.”

Parkman jumped up. “I’ll help.”

Caleb held up a hand. “Sarah.”

She turned to him.

“Whatever you do, don’t die on us. The letter foretold it. But just don’t.”

Sarah hugged him. Then she hugged her mother tight, holding on a little longer.

“Nothing will happen to me. I won’t die. Vivian has had my back all this time. And even now when she’s not in my head, she wrote letters to keep me alive. It’ll all work out.” She kissed her mother’s cheek. “Don’t worry.”

When she got to the guest room and powered up her mother’s MacBook Pro, a shiver ran through her. She wasn’t so sure she would make it this time. How could she do this without Vivian in her head? The only way she’d stayed alive in the past was having Vivian in her head.

And now she wasn’t.

Chapter 5

The Clock got up at six in the morning on the dot. He rose on an elbow to reach for the cell phone on the end table.

No message from the client.

He laid back down, closed his eyes, counted to ten in his head, then lifted off the bed and positioned himself on the yoga mat he had prepared before sleeping. The time between the sleeping body to the waking body was a transition of consciousness. The former Navy Seal learned years ago in a boot camp that it took him ten seconds to go from one to the other.

After a forty-minute yoga routine that released toxins, awakened the body’s muscles and prepared him for his daily tasks, The Clock was ready. In the hotel restaurant, he ate a light breakfast of oats and berries mixed in yogurt, drank their rancid coffee—espresso beans only for him. Hotels weren’t as health conscious as he or the Italians were. He checked out with plenty of time to witness the dojo’s destruction at ten.

Downtown Toronto had plenty of small parking lots. He chose one on Shuter Street a few blocks from Yonge Street, and began walking to Aaron’s dojo. At just after nine in the morning, downtown Toronto was already bustling. The explosion he had planned would cause havoc and initially be blamed on a terrorist group. In fact, he had a colleague waiting to place an anonymous phone call after the explosion claiming a breakaway Taliban group was responsible. The young Justin Trudeau had pulled Canada’s military from their Syrian campaign, but Canadians still had to pay a price. The caller would announce new targets in Ottawa, Montreal, and Vancouver, but it was all a bluff.

The sun warmed The Clock’s face as he smiled at the thought. He waded through the stream of business men and women hurrying along the sidewalk to their stressful jobs and nondescript cubicles in office towers. They were completely oblivious to the Danish-born, American-looking Navy Seal sniper who was about to scare the shit out of them with his bombs and subsequent terror message.

Maybe he would walk right by Aaron. Wouldn’t that be a hoot? Meet the man who was set to die. If he did, he’d shake his hand, look him in the eye, talk to him about his line of work.

An idea formed slowly.

Why couldn’t he toy with his prey? Cats toyed with mice before eating them. The Clock could play with Aaron before he murdered him.

He hurried his pace. The Clock had to be on time.

A few minutes after nine-thirty, he turned the corner to Aaron’s dojo and headed up the street. At the front door, he slowed, pretending to study the pamphlets and brochures pasted to the outer window describing the various classes a new student of the martial arts could take.

The door opened. A bell chimed.

“Beautiful day,” a man said.

The Clock turned. Their eyes locked.

Aaron Stevens. His intended target.

“Yes,” The Clock said. “Quite.”

He had spent years in his youth focusing on his accent, making sure it was more American sounding than the Danish accent he had when he was a young boy. On a few words with the letter V, the Danish in him still crept in. If he was to say vampire, it came out, wampire. In order to fix that, he spent considerable time speaking the V to himself and avoiding the use of that letter in public when he could.

“Interested in a class?” Aaron asked.

“You caught me.” The Clock shot his hands out to the sides. “Red-handed.”

They exchanged a polite laugh. In that laugh, The Clock saw something strange in Aaron’s eyes. Did he know The Clock? Had Aaron located one of the hidden bombs? There was no way he could’ve located them all. Or was he being overly suspicious and Aaron was just having a bad day?

“Come on in,” Aaron said. “Let’s talk about what you’re looking for. Maybe we have something that’ll fit your needs.”

The Clock looked at his watch. “I think I’ve got time.” It was 9:42 a.m. “I have a meeting just after ten up the street.” He met Aaron’s eyes and studied his face for any sign of recognition. “It won’t hurt to talk for ten minutes or so.”

Aaron held the door open.

The Clock entered the dojo.

Chapter 6

Anton Olafson made it home without another phone call interrupting his drive to Skanderborg. He turned onto his street—Sølystvej—and drove down it slowly as the sun set.

Could he consider the call a prank? He didn’t think so. Did the authorities call him? The ones handling Damien’s case, in an attempt to get him to reveal his guilt, his crimes on tape? He didn’t think that was it either.

Wishful thinking made him believe his daughter would be home waiting for him and that this was all a nightmare.

He drove past the Skanderborg rowing club. The lake, Skanderborg Sø, was calm this evening. Usually an afternoon wind whipped it into a frenzy. He drove slowly past the Johnsen’s house, then came upon his own, two houses down from the rowing club.

No lights were on. The house seemed dark, lonely.

He eased the Tesla into the driveway and turned it off. Almost afraid to get out of the car, Anton waited, staring at the house, his mind racing with what ifs.

What if they were waiting for him inside the house? What if the police were on their way to arrest him because Damien opened his mouth? What if Clara was dead? What if, what if, what if?

He snatched his phone from the charger and got out of the car. His briefcase could wait. Entering the house empty handed made him feel better. What if someone lurked behind a door, waiting to surprise him? He needed his hands free to defend himself.

Anton closed the Tesla’s door gently and started for the house. The grass needed mowing. Weeds needed pulling. The paint chipped away on the frame of the front window. He wondered why he would notice such things now.

He unlocked the front door and swung it open. Before entering, he leaned inside and flicked the light switch.

The front hall lights came to life. At least the electricity still worked. Whoever was after him, whoever claimed to have kidnapped his Clara, they hadn’t invaded his home or cut the power. Not as far as he could tell yet.

Once he was inside, he closed the front door quietly. In the three-hour drive from Copenhagen, his running shoes hadn’t completely dried. With each step, they offered up a moist squishing sound. He’d only made it two steps inside the house when he stopped and listened. His heart raced in his chest, making him glad for all the time he rode his bike. At his age, exercise was necessary. Otherwise he would become a round blob of fat and his heart, which seemed determined to break a world beating record in his chest at the moment, would disapprove. Even the increased pulse pounding in his ears was louder than the silence of the house.

Even though he was convinced no one had violated the sanctity of his home, Anton remained in stealth mode, moving room to room, only stopping momentarily in Clara’s room. Once he cleared the house, retrieved his briefcase from the car, and secured the front door, he poured himself a glass of wine and headed down the hall to Clara’s room.

He stared at her bed, the rumpled sheets, the untidy desk, the cluttered dresser. He wasn’t too hard on her now as he was the only parent. Perform well in school. Aim for a well-paying job. Work in the government somewhere, just like her dad. Give back to the people. Do something. But don’t slouch around, get piercings—like your dad—or get tattoos. What worked for Anton did not always work for Clara.

Their biggest issue had been fashion. He knew fashion. He dressed better than ninety-five percent of all government employees and he knew it.

But try to tell a teenage girl that, or the budding woman Clara became, and she went into hysterics. Even though they resolved to let her choose her own clothes, he still advised her. Much to her chagrin, Clara listened to his advice several times over the past year or two. In her early twenties, their relationship had become more of an adult-to-adult understanding. He had actively stopped advising and stopped trying to teach her things. She had responded by being more responsible, more grown up. Mutual respect had formed between them as well as a higher level of trust.

The drive to Copenhagen yesterday morning had been wonderful. They had bonded as father and daughter, even listened to each other’s music. On the road yesterday, he played her his Harry Connick Jr. album and she played the Danish group, Nik and Jay, and then the new Danish phenom, Lukas Graham. He had to admit, he liked Lukas Graham a hell of lot more than he expected.