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Wiley's chest heaved to take in air, making a calliope wheeze. Emphysema from a gold case. "What research project?" |
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"I'm sorry, Dr. Wiley," he said in a measured voice, "but I can't tell you who I'm working for. As you can imagine, it's all very confidential. Nonetheless, if we are going to get to the bottom of things, we'll need your full cooperation." |
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The delicate plinkings of the Beethoven floated up through the floorboards. |
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"I'm not going to say anything unless I know who I'm talking to." |
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"But you've seen my card." It simply said Mars Investigative Services. Confidentiality Guaranteed. No address or telephone number. |
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"That tells me nothing," Wiley said. "Who are your clients?" |
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"If I name my clients, then where's confidentiality?" |
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Wiley started to get up. "I think I've heard enough." |
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"Very well," Jerry said. He unzipped the briefcase and pulled out the Glock 9, silencer in place. He held it at arm's length as if reading a calling card. "It says, Have gun, will travel." |
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Wiley made a kind of wheezy hiccup sound in his throat. "My God, you killed them . . ." |
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The midnight storm broke in Wiley's eyes. Sending electric ripples through Jerry's groin. "Yes," he said. "They chose not to cooperate. Silly of them." Suddenly he slipped to his knees, holding the gun on Wiley. He snatched the photographs off the table. "But you're not so silly, Dr. Wiley, now are you?" |
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"Something like that." Jerry rammed the gun into the pink folds of Wiley's throat. The man's eyes were so radiant that Jerry felt an urge to kiss him. Wiley nodded. For several seconds Jerry felt he was swimming in Wiley's eyes. They were grayish green and flecked with yellow like exotic flowers, and at the center, huge black pearls. "Talk," Jerry whispered. |
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"Please don't hurt my daughter. I beg you." |
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Jerry glanced at the eyes of the girl in the photo. He wondered what color they were. "Only if you tell me everything." |
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