“Talk to me,” Philippe said, stepping through the study’s door, his back now covered by two men, unseen, behind him. The room smelled richly of oiled leather and bookbinder’s gum. Three thousand volumes of rare books ran floor to ceiling, encased in imported library shelving complete with air-bubble glass-panel doors and brass fittings. A single Heriz covered the parquet flooring. An antique globe and an Englishman’s partners desk faced a pair of worn leather chairs that dated back to American independence. Paolo occupied one of these chairs, looking completely out of place, a mutt among the pedigreed. The light fixture, four fogged-glass orbs, had been converted from gas to electricity at the turn of the twentieth century. A land baron, looking vaguely unhappy, loomed large in an oil portrait that hung over a wrought-iron grated fireplace.
“You said you’d get me a doctor,” Paolo said. He delicately touched the skin near his eye, then withdrew his hand.
Philippe reached up under his coat and pulled the.22 out from the small of his back. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was loaded with live rounds and was accurate. He remained out of reach of Paolo, knowing his fast reaction time. He did not provoke him, did not aim the gun directly at Paolo, but its presence said it all.
“Empty your pockets.”
“Sure.” Paolo, confused but not about to object, did as he was told. He placed several credit cards and some bills and change on the edge of the desk. The stub of a pencil. A small pocket watch with a badly scratched face. His cell phone.
“Behind your belt.”
“You said my pockets.”
“Everything.”
“Whatever.” Paolo slipped the razor blade out from behind his belt and placed it on the desk. He kept it within reach, his eye on the gun in Philippe’s lap.
“Show me the phone.”
Paolo took the phone off the desk. It was a clamshell design, not powered up, its small screen dark. This didn’t fit with what Philippe had just been told.
“Turn it on.”
“But…” Paolo said. “I mean, think about it. If they have a lock on me, they’ll pull a location. Why risk that?”
Philippe reached forward and swiped the phone out of the man’s hands, knocking it across the room. The battery came loose as the phone hit the floor. “When and where did they get to you?”
“What the fuck?”
Now Philippe aimed the gun directly at him. “When… and where?”
“How about who?”
“You needed a doctor,” Philippe said. “I can understand that.”
Paolo turned the injured side of his face toward Philippe. “Does this look like I’ve seen a doctor? What’s going on here?”
“The more you stall, the more you piss me off.” He made a point of the weapon. “Never piss off-”
“-the guy holding the gun.” Paolo knew Philippe’s inside jokes better than his teacher knew them. “I’ve had no contact with them. You hear me? None! They did not turn me.” He said earnestly, “Don’t you get it? All I want… all I want more than anything is to do this job for you. This woman… she did this to me.” He touched his face again. “It’s my turn.”
“What did you do with her cell phone?”
“I never had her cell phone. If I did, she’d be dead, and I’d be offering it as proof.”
Philippe had trained the man well: He showed no signs of breaking even under the threat of the gun.
“Let me help fill in some of the blanks,” Paolo offered.
“That’s the idea.”
He extended his arms. “Are you going to do this or not?”
Philippe lowered the gun. Paolo might have hidden her cell phone in the Mercedes, so that it wouldn’t be found on his person. But a second explanation presented itself, however improbable. “If it’s not a plant, then it’s her. She’s here. Could you have been followed?”
“No way.”
“Could the girl have signaled someone, gotten word to someone?”
“Impossible.”
“Because if she’s here, you have to tell me how she found us, you see?” Philippe talked to himself, working this out. “One of our guys could have given us up, I suppose.” He answered Paolo’s puzzled expression: “We suffered a setback last night in Florida. It was messy. Two of our guys and the professor. The phone could be her and this marshal, I suppose.” He considered this further. “Might even be intentional on their part. Or just plain reckless. We’d be stupid not to find out-to pass up the opportunity, if that’s what this is.”
“If she’s on this property, I owe her,” Paolo said. “Cut me in on this.”
“Your face? Your eye?”
“Can wait.”
“Collect your things,” Philippe said. “Hurry.”
Paolo scooped his belongings off the desk and jammed them into his pockets. All but the razor, which he delicately returned to its hiding place behind his belt buckle.
Philippe’s hand shook slightly as he returned the.22 to the small of his back. On this, of all nights…
“If she’s stupid enough to show up at the house, I’ll call you. We’ve got it locked down tight for the meeting. One marshal and a witness are not going to present much of a problem. You back up the bunkhouse, just in case this marshal’s luck holds out a little longer.”
“Consider it done.”
Philippe debated calling off the auction, but to do so would be a sign of weakness. He had ten men; Ricardo, another six to ten. If possible, they would sweep the property one more time before the meeting. He could put off canceling until then. If they caught and killed Hope Stevens in the process-the only remaining living witness who could give them all jail time-he’d have a major announcement with which to open the auction. This might help him to cover that he had only a partial list: eight hundred witnesses and their three thousand dependents. And it’d be a major public victory for him personally.
“Did you say something?” Paolo stood at the door to the study.
Had he? He wasn’t sure.
“The bunkhouse,” he said, then watched as Paolo walked briskly away. A man on a mission.