The Successor (12 page)

“Do you care as long as we lose those two guys back there?”

She shrugged as she ran. “I guess not.”

They took off through the underbrush, dodging thornbushes, branches, and roots. The sound of water was growing louder and soon Christian could see it through the trees, glistening in the late-afternoon sunlight. Then, suddenly, they were standing on the bank of a wide river, smooth, round, mud-colored rocks beneath their feet. It had to be the Potomac, based on the map of western Maryland he’d looked at on the way to Camp David. It was a couple of hundred yards across and appeared deep and fast in the middle. He was confident he could swim it, but not that she could—she seemed exhausted. And if the men chasing them had guns, they’d be vulnerable out there splashing across the surface. They might make it thirty or forty yards from shore before the men made it to the bank—a long shot with a pistol—but still he didn’t want to gamble. For all he knew they were marksmen. He couldn’t risk Beth drowning halfway across, either.

“What now, Columbus?”

Christian glanced over at the young woman. “Would you rather be on your own?”

Beth shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Because it sure would be a hell of a lot easier for me if I were on my own out here. But, hey, it’s like they say when the bears are chasing you in Alaska. As long as you can run faster than at least one other person in your group, you’re safe. I’ll bet I can run faster than you, even though I’m old enough to be your dad.”

“I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me here.”

Christian scanned the far shore, searching for any sign of civilization, but there was nothing. Just an unbroken wall of fresh green leaves scaling the hills until they met blue sky. “We’ve got to keep moving,” he said, heading back into the forest. “Sooner or later we’ll find something.” The bad part about this was that the farther they went downstream, the farther they got from the point of reference he’d given the 911 operator: the store. “I hope.”

They moved through the underbrush quickly but didn’t sprint, trying to stay as quiet as possible, keeping the river in sight through the branches. They stopped every hundred feet to listen, but the sounds of footsteps behind them had faded completely. Hopefully the two men had turned upstream when they’d reached the bank.

“Why are you helping me?” Beth asked, hunching over as she pushed a dogwood branch out of the way.

Christian was suddenly aware that the forest smelled good, full of sweet spring scents—and Beth’s perfume. “To tell you the truth, I really don’t know. I guess I’ve got this character flaw. When I see someone who needs help, I help.”

“How old are you?”

He sighed. Why were people always asking that question? “Forty-three.”

“Wow.”

His eyes moved to hers reluctantly. “Why’d you say it like that?”

“You don’t
look
that old.”

He didn’t like forty-three sounding old to her. Of course, he liked that she didn’t think he looked that old. She was probably just buttering him up to make sure he stayed with her while she was so scared. He winced. The investment world had jaded him. He was always looking for an ulterior motive, and sometimes there wasn’t one. Sometimes people were simply being sincere. But not often.

“Really? I don’t?” He tried to keep from asking the question—it might sound so pathetic—but he couldn’t help himself. “How old do I look?”

“Forty-two.”

Boy, he had that one coming. “Thanks a lot.”

She laughed, glancing back over her shoulder nervously. “I’m just kidding. Really, you look like you’re in your early thirties, max.”

“You’re just being nice.”

“No, I’m not. I’m serious.” She was quiet as they covered another twenty yards. “I like older men. I don’t date young guys. They’re too insecure, still too caught up in being macho. Still proving that they’re better than everyone else and that they’re right all the time. I like hanging out with men who already
know
they’re better and don’t have to show off for anyone.”

She sure was a smooth talker. “How old are—”

“The man I’m seeing now is fifty-two,” she interrupted.

“
Was
fifty-two.”

“What do you mean?”

“Based on how his wife came after you, he’s probably dead at this point.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“You going to tell me who she is?” he asked.

They came to the brink of a twenty-foot ravine. At the bottom was a small stream rushing its last few yards to the Potomac. Christian helped Beth down the slippery embankment—it had rained hard a few days ago and the slope was still muddy. At one point she fell against him and he noticed that she felt light as a feather. He found himself wondering right away if she’d fallen against him on purpose. She seemed coordinated. Not necessarily in great shape—she’d tired quickly running through the woods—but definitely athletic. And she was nice to look at.

“How old are you?” he asked as they climbed the other side, clinging to roots and saplings to pull themselves up to the top.

“I’m…oh, God.”

Christian glanced at Beth, then in the direction she was looking. Standing in front of them was one of the men who’d jumped out of the black sedan back at the store. He wore military boots, jeans, a blue windbreaker, and sunglasses. And he was leveling a pistol at them.

“Nice try, Ms. Garrison.” The man motioned with the gun. “Who’s your friend?”

“I’m Christian Gillette.”

The man stared at Christian blankly, no sign of recognition on his face. “Congratulations, Mr. Gillette. You picked a hell of a thing to get mixed up in. You should have left well enough alone.” He pulled out a yellow phone and pushed the walkie-talkie button. “Jimmy, get down here fast,” he said loudly. “I’m about a half a mile downstream from where we split up. They followed the river, just like you thought they would.”

“On my way,” the response crackled through the small speaker.

Christian watched the guy slip the phone into his front pocket, then suggested calmly, “Why don’t we go back to that store and see if we can work things out?”

“Why don’t you shut up?”

“I think once you find out who I am you won’t want to do anything rash.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass who you are. I have my orders.”

In the distance Christian heard a faint sound coming from the direction in which he and Beth had been headed. A
thump-thump-thump
that was growing louder by the second. He eyed the man holding the gun. The man heard it, too. Christian could tell by the way his eyes kept flickering toward the river and the noise, as if it made him nervous. A few moments later the sound was very loud, definitely headed right at them.

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.”