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“Because they probably wanted my death to look like an accident. Like I was some dumb two-bit cokehead actress who went out cruising late and ended up rear-ending some poor father of three or something.”

  “Why go through all that trouble?”

  Lane looked at him. “I told you, I don’t know. Why did that deranged idiot shoot John Lennon?”

  Hardie tried to keep an open mind, swear to God he did. But even the slow, lazy lizard part of his brain was screaming BULLSHIT at every turn.

  The kind of killers Hardie encountered back in Philly were idiot scumbag husbands who beat their wives with baseball bats and tried to dump their bodies in storage lockers registered to their real names. Gangbangers looking to make a name for themselves, undercutting one another with cheaper and cheaper hits to the point where you could take out a witness in a major drug case for about the price of a fucking iPod. Drug-gang hitmen, Russian-mob enforcers. The killers he knew didn’t work in coordinated packs, and they certainly didn’t try to make their work look like an accident. That was the whole point. A death was not supposed to be an Act of God—it was meant as an Act of Vladmir, To Teach You Not to Steal From His Stash.

  “Let me take a look outside and see if I can’t put your mind at ease, huh? And then we can get to a hospital.”

  “No. No fucking way. That’s what they want. God knows what they’ll do to you the moment you set foot outside. Don’t you understand? These people operate on a completely different level.”

  Hardie muttered:

  “They.”

  Factboy gathered more intel on Charles D. Hardie. Slowly, it painted an interesting, if kind of sad and deadbeatish, kind of picture.

  Hardie had been filing tax returns as a “house sitter” for the past twenty-three months.

  He didn’t make much.

  The address on the rental agency turned out to be for a house that had been on the market for twenty-seven months.

  The house was crap.

  Debit-card statements revealed that he lived in hotels or the places he watched.

  He didn’t spend much. Movie rentals.

  (Who the hell went to an actual store and rented movies anymore?)

  All bills went to a PO Box in Philadelphia.

  The person who paid for that box lived at 255 Dana Street, Abington, Pennsylvania.

  So far, no connection between Madden and Hardie, outside of a few DVD rentals on Hardie’s debit card. Nothing from the past three years. But previously he’d rented some romantic comedies where Madden was featured in a supporting role: How to Date a Zombie, The Hook-Up, Never the Bride.

  (Factboy’s wife had made him sit through that last one. He wanted to use a fork on his eyeballs, just to escape the theater.)

  Anyway, it was safe to assume that Hardie recognized her. Also safe to assume Madden had shared the events of the past few hours with him.

  Factboy told all of this to Mann, who disconnected without a word of thanks or good job or anything. Good thing he wasn’t in this business for the ego-boosting. Factboy pretend-flushed, then rejoined his family, who were hot and cranky, and tired of waiting around for him.

  Mann needed this production concluded immediately. Another, much bigger and more complex job on the other side of the mountain was pending. This silly little bitch was taking far too much time and money.

  Somewhere in all of this, there would have to be a visit to an ophthalmologist. The mobile doc who’d patched it stressed he wasn’t an expert but thought it could be a severe corneal abrasion—definitely something that needed proper attention, not a quick fix. The wound burned and itched like crazy; it was all Mann could do not to scratch or rub around the edges.

  Another reason to move things along.

  The bright, warm sun helped distract Mann from the pain. She rubbed more sunscreen on her breasts, dried her hands with a white terry-cloth towel she’d found in the house.

  Then a voice spoke into her ear. O’Neal.

  “Heads up, y’all. We’ve got another guest.”

  The driver of the Dodge Sprinter kept the engine idling as he engaged the parking brake. For a precarious moment, the van seemed like it would roll back down Alta Brea and crash into something that cost millions of dollars. But the brake held. The driver, in shorts and a company polo shirt, stood up and stepped into the back, wiping his face with a sleeve. He looked like he’d been up all night.

  O’Neal spoke quietly: “Uh, anybody expecting a package?”

  Mann, down below, said, “Keep watching.”

  After a few seconds the driver emerged with a piece of luggage. He hopped out of the back, checked his computerized clipboard, typed in a few things, then popped out the long handle and started rolling the bag up to the house. The wheels bumped on the uneven paving blocks.

  “Courier’s got a bag,” O’Neal said, “and he’s headed to the house. Repeat; headed right to the house.”

  “Hang on a minute,” Mann said.

  “We don’t have a minute. I need to know what you want.”

  Mann said nothing.

  Which pissed O’Neal off. Not that it mattered, killing the delivery guy. But it was one more detail, one more annoying errand extending this job into super-bugfuck-crazy overtime. If that was the case, then Mann should let him know right away. If not, O’Neal should have the opportunity to coax him away from the place. Jokes aside, this was literally a matter of life and death.

  The delivery guy pushed the handle back down into the bag and steadied it against his leg.

  “Okay, he’s there,” O’Neal said. “About to knock.”

  Mann’s voice, in his ear:

  “Good. Let him.”

  8

  I’m kind of a big deal.

  —Will Ferrell, Anchorman

  THE KNOCKS were rapid-fire gunshots that echoed loudly in the big, empty top floor. Hardie hated to admit it, but his entire body did an involuntary jolt. So did Lane’s. Their heads both whipped around at the same time. Hardie stood up from the toilet seat. He felt blood trickle down his chest.

  “Okay,” Hardie said. “You stay here.”

  Lane grabbed him by the wrist with both hands and pulled him toward her.

  “No! This is where you leave, and then somebody kills you, and then they come in after me. Don’t you ever watch movies?”

  Hardie rolled his eyes.

  “Could be a neighbor, coming to see if the power’s out.”

  “Could be the people, oh, I don’t know—trying to kill me! Look, neighbors don’t talk to one another up here. They certainly don’t go knocking on one another’s doors.”

  “I’m not going to open the door. I’m just going to take a look through the peep-hole.”

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  “What?”

  “You put your eye up to that and they’ll shoot you through it. Blow the brains out of the back of your stupid fucking head!”

  No, Hardie wanted to tell her. That is not how they do it. They don’t knock, they don’t get all clever with peepholes. They just pull up to your front door and shout your name and open fire and take away everything you’ve ever cared about…

  “Wait here,” Hardie said.

  Hardie didn’t have a real weapon, and the kitchen was utterly disappointing. He opened a drawer and saw nothing more lethal than a bunch of plastic utensils from takeout joints, still sealed in plastic. Freeze or I’ll spork you to death, motherfucker. He’d feel better with something vaguely deadly in his hands. He checked another drawer, then another. Best Hardie could find was a little plastic corkscrew, ninety-nine cents at finer liquor emporiums everywhere. But not exactly deadly. The thing would probably shatter in his hands if he tried to use it.

  There were three more knocks—just as loud as the first three.

  Lane limped into the kitchen, steadied herself against a counter.

  “Promise me you won’t open the door.”

  Hardie slid the cover of the corkscrew into a hole on the base. He tucked it between
his fingers. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. If things got ugly up close, at least he’d have a shiv.

  “Promise me!” Lane repeated.

  Hardie told her to please be quiet, and to go hide somewhere and leave him alone for a minute. Let him do his job. Which was protecting this house.

  First Hardie checked the front windows, angling his head around so he could see the entranceway to the house. Was there someone— one of THEM!—crouched down, waiting to pounce? Or maybe a guy with a knife in the shrubs along the concrete pathway? Or maybe someone suspended above the doorway, Tom Cruise/Mission Impossible–style?

  No.

  Instead, Hardie could see a courier van, big-ass Dodge Sprinter, parked in front of the house. A delivery dude in polo shirt and shorts, clipboard in his hand. And Hardie’s missing bag, leaning up against the delivery guy’s leg.

  Delivery Dude looked around, knocked again. He looked impatient and sweaty. Dude had the look of a hangover about him, and Hardie was pretty damn near an expert on them.

  Lane appeared by his side. Scared the fuck out of him.

  “Who is it?”

  “Delivery guy,” Hardie said. “He’s got my bag.”

  “What bag?”

  Hardie craned his neck for a better look. Certainly seemed like his bag. The right color and design. The white airline tag stuck to the handle, fluttering in the breeze. And there was the telltale sign: a Spider-Man without a head. His boy had slapped a sticker on there years ago. The head came off; Spidey’s body was left behind, now fused to the fabric of the bag and drained of almost all color thanks to months of constant travel. Hardie left it there because it helped him ID his bag when it came off the carousel.

  His bag. Brought by the airline, as promised.

  Not Them, Delivery Dude.

  Hardie walked back to the vestibule and squinted through the peephole mounted in the middle of the door for a better look. He was either a delivery guy or a hired killer. Us or Them. As if to answer, the guy called out—

  “Delivery!”

  —and knocked again, as if it were the last time.

  Could he be one of Them? Lane said it would be easy for them to dress up in uniforms and pretend to be cops, or whoever they wanted. No big deal to scrounge up a big ugly truck, a clipboard, and a goofy-looking polo shirt. But then, where did his bag come from? What, was the airline in collusion with these killers?

  No.

  The very idea was ridiculous, and Lane Madden here—well, clearly she had some issues with reality. She wouldn’t be the first actress to have that kind of problem. Hardie felt lighter; this could all be over in a minute. Not only did Delivery Dude have his bag full of underwear and T-shirts, but he probably had a way of communicating with his dispatcher. LAPD could be up here in a matter of minutes, and then Lane Madden would become their problem. See you in the tabloids, honey.

  (Delivery Dude could also have a Glock tucked into the waistband of his cargo shorts and be waiting for you to open the door to give him a clear target! Remember what happened last time someone called out for you, and you looked outside?)

  “What are you doing?” Lane asked.

  “Saving you from Them.”

  “Goddamnit, no!”

  Hardie put his hand on the door handle, took a breath, then pressed the latch with his thumb and pulled open the door.

  The device mounted on the door frame was called a wasp’s nest.

  Nothing fancy, really. You simply mounted it at face level, set the trigger mechanism, and then you were good to go. All the target had to do was open the door, and, boom—load in the face.

  The load, though… now, that’s what made the wasp’s nest fancy.

  The spray was a weaponized poison that rendered you unconscious within a second, then killed you about a minute later by temporarily shutting down the part of your brain that regulates your heart. After it finished its job, the poison broke down into little untraceable pieces of nothing. A coroner could order all the tox screens he wanted but wouldn’t find jack shit.

  And the targets almost never saw it coming.

  Something clicked and hissed—

  PSSSSSSSSH

  —and Hardie felt cold drops spray his face. Even before his brain could form the thought, his body knew something was Real Fucking Wrong. His hand fumbled with the door handle and he felt crazy-weak all of a sudden, overcome with chills and drowsiness, and he didn’t know what was happening, screaming NO NO NO at his mind as if he could talk it out of shutting down and

  9

  They will stop at nothing…. They are ubiquitous

  and all-powerful.

  —Geoffrey O’Brien, Hardboiled America

  ONCE, IN his early twenties, Hardie had an operation to fix a deviated septum. A young nurse with soft skin and pretty eyes held his hand as they wheeled him to the cold, bright operating room. For a moment, Hardie didn’t care that his face was about to be mauled with sharp knives. At that moment he was under a warm blanket and holding a young girl’s hand and then she let go and somebody asked him to count backward from ten but he couldn’t even remember saying nine and then he was blinking and waking up and the pretty girl’s hand was still holding his and she smiled and said, see that wasn’t so bad?

  That’s what it felt like now—he had a dim memory of being with a pretty girl.

  But now that he was awake, he saw there was no pretty girl.

  He was wrapped up in black plastic.

  Actually, a body bag.

  And with that realization came another: Hardie couldn’t get air into his lungs.

  There was no air in here at all, like he was a kid hiding under a thick blanket, and the boogeyman was outside, and as much as he wanted a lungful of clean, fresh air he didn’t dare lower the blanket.

  Frantic, Hardie’s fingers searched for a seam, a zipper, something, anything. But his fingers didn’t appear to be working right. Finally his fingertips found the opposite end of the zipper, the one without the little thing you pull on. He pushed it with his index finger, trying to get it to move. Come on. His finger trembled. He pushed harder. He needed air. If he didn’t get air soon, he would pass out again. And this time he probably wouldn’t wake up. Hardie pushed again. The zipper moved a quarter of an inch. It was enough.

  He jabbed his finger through the opening and ripped downward, which killed his chest, but it didn’t matter, because his chest would really fucking be out of luck if he didn’t get any air into his lungs.

  Number of accidental suffocations per year: 3,300.

  Hardie sucked in oxygen greedily, then pulled the plastic womb down over his head, then shoulders, then body. Hardie realized where he was. By the front door. He’d passed out here and somebody had put him in a plastic body bag. That same somebody had just left him here, like garbage waiting to go out. Hardie didn’t know whether to be pissed or insulted.

  Hardie didn’t know what time it was—power was still out. He couldn’t even hazard a guess as to how much time had passed. Sun was still up.

  He listened; the house was eerily silent.

  And then he saw he wasn’t the only thing on the floor.

  Next to him, in another black plastic bag, was something suspiciously body-shaped. And next to that bag was another black bag, too small for a body but big enough for, say, a human head.

  Hardie opened the zipper on the bigger bag first, fully expecting to see the face of a famous actress. In which case he would owe her a serious apology. Because she was right. Hardie should never have opened the door. He should have stayed hidden in the bathroom.

  Instead, it was a guy inside, and it was a fuzzy second or two before Hardie realized, oh shit, the delivery dude. Somehow they’d dosed them both and wrapped them up in body bags faster than you could say duck, you suckas. Which meant that the small black plastic bag probably contained his luggage. Maybe his shoes.

  The house was utterly still. Was somebody in the house on another floor? Or were they outside, getting ready to walk back
inside at any moment?

  They.

  Hardie climbed to his feet, his joints popping, head swimming. He half expected to look down and see his body still there, proving he was dead and this was an out-of-body experience. Next he’d see a bright light up on the ceiling and hear some short, pudgy lady telling him not to go into it. But no. There was no body on the floor; Hardie was still using it.

  A few steps forward, toward the front door.

  Just go, he told himself. Don’t think. Go. Walk away from the house. Remember, they stole your car. So you have to walk. Or run. Running would be good. I mean, what else are you going to do—stay?

  Stay and do what?

  You can barely breathe. You’ve been beaten and impaled and sprayed with some knockout shit and left for dead. The smart thing to do is not be the hero. Remember what that got you last time? It damn near got your stupid ass killed, that’s what. It got everybody else’s asses killed. You’re never going to forgive yourself for that, and you know what? You shouldn’t.

  So what are you going to do? March back inside, charge through the house, your chest bleeding and your head still swimming, to try and play the hero? They’ve probably already got her. She’s probably in a plastic bag, just like you were a few seconds ago. They’re just cleaning up, because they’re anal killer types who don’t want to leave any forensic evidence. When they finish, they’ll come back up for you. So now’s a good time to leave. You want to be a hero? Leave the house and run until you find a cop. Report everything. Let the professionals handle it.

  Get out. Get out now, you idiot. While you still can.

  What are you waiting for?

  Hardie took a few steps toward the front door, then froze. Probably a bad move to open that up. Last time he opened it, he had ended up in a body bag. Only insane people repeat an action and expect a different result. Insane people, and Hardie’s mother-in-law.

  But somebody had to walk into the house. Somebody had to zip up Hardie and Delivery Dude into body bags. Somebody was making little creepy fucking noises downstairs. What did they do, go across the roof and in through the back deck doors?