The Jackpot Page 11

  Within a minute of his 911 call, a phalanx of police, fire and rescue vehicles descended on the scene. Five minutes later, the entire block was taped off, and an FBI agent had escorted Walter Guillen to a makeshift command center that had been hastily assembled. Guillen sat on a metal folding chair and sipped on a cup of extraordinarily bad coffee. His formal education had ended with his high school graduation, but he wasn't a stupid man. He knew what had happened. This hadn't been some disgruntled employee with a gun. This was one of America's worst fears realized. Suddenly, the south side of Chicago was downtown Jerusalem, and this incident would lead every newscast around the country for the next week. For all Walter Guillen knew, city buses were exploding all over America.

  But weeks passed with no other attacks, and a relieved nation started to relax. News of an embarrassing viral video involving the Speaker of the House quickly dominated the headlines, and so the populace's collective consciousness was drawn to other matters. The buses kept running, and people kept riding them, mainly because the people who rode buses had no choice but to ride them to get to where they were going.

  The various three-letter agencies of the federal government fell over both themselves and each other trying to piece together the events leading up to the New Year's Day bombing. Every single item in Khouri's small Chicago apartment a few blocks from the site of the bombing was packed up and inventoried. Millions of e-mails and thousands of hours of intercepted telephone calls were analyzed, scrutinized, cataloged and mostly forgotten. Federal agents poured into Arab communities around the country, interviewing and watching and following and listening. They found nothing. As could be expected, part of the investigation involved a descent upon Ziad Khouri's next of kin – his parents, Omar and Zaina Khouri, small business owners from central Virginia.

  Unfortunately for the Khouris, their biological and uncontrollable association with the bomber destroyed business, because no law-abiding American, of Arab descent or otherwise, wanted to be associated with terrorism. They couldn't take the chance that said association would destroy their own businesses, their own reputations. Success for Arab-Americans did not come easily nor did it come cheaply.

  Six months after the bombing, a blue-ribbon commission appointed by the President made the following findings regarding the New Year's Day bombing:

  1.Ziad Khouri had acted alone.

  2.Khouri was a below-average student who dropped out of the University of Illinois-Chicago after one semester.

  3.Khouri worked as a pizza delivery driver.

  4.He had no contact with any of his relatives in the year leading up to the bombing.

  5.Khouri was not nor had he ever been a member of any known terror cell.

  6.Khouri was not on the FBI Terrorist Screening Center's watch list nor had he ever been associated with anyone who was on it.

  7.Khouri had never been to a mosque.

  8.One month before the bombing, an American-born Egyptian woman, with whom Khouri had had one dinner date, told him that she was going back to her old boyfriend, a young man of Anglo-Saxon descent.

  9.Khouri's family considered him a thief, a liar, and a cocaine addict.

  10.Khouri hated the White Sox.

  The commission was unable to identify a single individual of any race, creed, or ethnicity who had counted Khouri as a friend, acquaintance or associate. The commission also determined that Ziad's family in Richmond had no advance knowledge of the attack and cleared Samantha's family of any wrongdoing.

  Samantha had known even then, however, that nothing in the final report of the New Year's Day Bombing Commission could undo that damage. She remembered the first local newscast on the NBC affiliate the morning after the attack, breathlessly proclaiming that the bomber was tied to a Richmond family.

  The image of her father at dinner tonight, quietly picking at the dry piece of pita bread, haunted her as she sped down the dark highway after Carter Pierce.

  * * *

  A few minutes out from the gas station, a thought took hold in Samantha's mind like a hearty weed and began to grow.

  Carter was planning to steal the ticket.

  She supposed she had known this from the moment that Julius had called her from the Exxon bathroom. She suspected that Julius knew this as well. Carter had brought along the big man as muscle, perhaps help to facilitate a peaceful if nonconsensual surrender of the ticket. Or a violent and nonconsensual surrender, if necessary.

  Police! She could call the police. Report a kidnapping. Get it on the record that Julius had won the ticket. No matter what happened from here on out, Julius' interest in the ticket would be documented. Still, a twinge of doubt salted her thinking process. Could she be so sure that Carter was planning to steal it? Maybe Carter knew what he was doing. Was it even her problem anymore? And why would he even want to steal the ticket? He made a million bucks a year. He had two vacation homes. What more did he need? Why take such a chance?

  Because he was Carter Pierce, that's why.

  Time to call the cavalry. Thank God for cell phones.

  She picked up the phone and began to dial 911, but the screen was dark. Strange, she thought. Then a spike of fear stabbed her in the stomach as she suddenly realized that she hadn't charged it in days. The battery. She held the power button down, praying for the familiar beep of its power up. Nothing. Now fully seized with panic, she dug around the center console for the car charger. Ahead of her, Carter's Hummer slid into the right lane. Careful not to let him get too much asphalt between them, she pushed down on the gas a bit.

  "Damn!" she muttered, her hand finding the console empty. The first time in her life that she had actually needed a cell phone, and the battery was dead. Now she had no choice but to continue her James-Bond-like pursuit of her boss, whom she was now certain was committing a number of felonies, including, but not limited to, the biggest robbery of all time.

  As she was making her peace with the useless Blackberry and her boss' felonious proclivities, Samantha noticed the Hummer decelerating. She eased off the gas and dropped back two hundred yards, careful not to risk being spotted. There wasn't much traffic out here at this hour. Another hundred yards up the road, Carter slowed even more and activated his right turn signal.

  If she didn't do something soon, Carter was certainly going to notice the car pacing him. Unable to think of a better option, she slammed on the brakes and killed her headlights. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Ahead of her, Carter crept along. Just before its taillights winked out of view where the road dropped into a shallow valley, the Hummer made a sharp right turn and disappeared from the road. She hit the gas and kept her eyes pinned on the dirt roads that interlaced with the smooth asphalt like the top of a checkered pie crust.

  She nearly passed it when a cloud of dust, illuminated by the red taillights, caught her eye. She drove her foot into the brake pedal, causing the Audi to fishtail on the slick blacktop. The little coupe came to rest in the middle of the two-lane highway.

  * * *

  Samantha parked on the side of the road and changed into a pair of running shoes that she had in the trunk. Running shoes that hadn't seen either pavement or a treadmill in more than a year. It was cold, it seemed extra cold away from the buildings and the lights of the city, and she didn't like it. Typically, she loved getting away from the city, but tonight, she felt alone and vulnerable out here. Snowflakes dusted her hair and coat, and a cold wind blew across her face.

  Her shoes tied, she started jogging down the dirt path. Within a minute, the sound of two male voices stopped her cold. The voices continued unabated in what sounded like an argument. Quickly, she realized that out here in the boonies, voices carried a long way in the dark, chilly air, and the men's voices had easily drowned out the approaching footfalls of Samantha Khouri, crime fighter. Still, she continued up the side of the path closest to a copse of trees, a little more lightness in her step. She heard a door slam shut, and the voices went silent.

  Even in her hea
vy turtleneck sweater and leather jacket, she was shivering with cold and fear. A substantial part of her was screaming for her to turn around and go back to her car. But she couldn't. Even if Carter wasn't planning on stealing the ticket, she deserved an explanation from Carter, reassurance that Julius would be the one cashing in the ticket on Wednesday. Now that she thought about it, she should have told Julius to ditch Carter at the gas station. She should have told him to just walk away.

  Another few seconds up the path brought a lick of artificial light. This was yellow light, like that coming from a porch. A bit farther, and she reached the trail's end. Quickly, she took cover behind a large fir tree. Where it broke through the trees, the path opened up on a circular clearing that fronted the cabin. There was room for several cars, but only Carter's sat here now, the engine still hissing like a snake as it cooled down. Through a window, she could see a figure pacing back and forth. Carter.

  She thought about marching right up to the front door and demanding to know what the hell was going on. As long as Willett & Hall employed her, Julius was her client, too, and she would be remiss in her professional duties not to look after her client's interests. If Carter had a better idea about what to do about Julius, fine, but she wanted to know about it. Yet she remained rooted to the spot. It's not like they're going to cash the ticket in the house, she told herself. From here, she could scope things out, get a lay of the land.

  This was what she told herself so she wouldn't have to address the fact that she was so scared she was about to go pee-pee in her pants.

  Get it together, girl. She took a deep breath, which burned her lungs in a way that was not entirely unpleasant. Throughout the day, her nasal passages had been sealing up with congestion, but the cold, moist air was opening things up a bit. Her nerves bucking like wild mustangs, she tried to think about something else for a minute. Immediately, her thoughts drifted to her parents. Was the store really in trouble? Was it going to go under? How much could she afford to give them? Would it be enough? How much could she help them if she lost her job?

  And just like that, she wondered what things would be like if she, rather than Julius, had purchased the winning SuperLotto ticket. The thought broadsided her like a truck running a red light – she had had no time to react. Yeah, she thought again, the truck backing up to T-bone her again, it would've been nice to win that money.

  But you didn't, Sam thought. Julius did. And you need to help him. A few more cleansing breaths, and she was ready to, well, she was ready to do something. She just didn't know what.

  When she was confident that no one was lurking outside, Samantha scampered across the clearing to the back bumper of the Hummer. Samantha had long thought that the vehicle was an eyesore and the environmental equivalent of a serial killer, but tonight, she decided she had never seen anything so beautiful. It was huge, much bigger up close than she had imagined, and its shadows simply swallowed her up.

  She edged along the driver's side to the left front bumper. From there, it was a quick hop to a thick boxwood bush under the large front-facing window. Still tucked away in the shadows, Samantha could see directly into the main room without fear of being spotted. She hoped. Carter and his colleague – who was he? she wondered again – were talking loudly, but the windows muffled their words.

  When she saw Julius Wheeler tied up in a chair, a piece of duct tape plastered across his mouth, she decided it was safe to assume that Carter had indeed gone bonkers.

  * * *

  Damn lawyers, Julius thought. He should've known better. After the big fella had tied him to this chair, Pierce had taken the ticket from his shoe and hadn't even had the courtesy to put the shoe back on. Now Julius was stuck like a bug in candle wax, and his right foot was numb with cold.

  Four hours ago, he had made what he thought was a smart decision. Hire a lawyer, one of these rich downtown jackasses whose offices he cleaned and never even gave him the time of day. They could have charged him a million bucks in legal fees, and that would have been fine with him. At least he would know that the money was taken care of. But no, he had found these two idiots, who in all likelihood, were going to kill him before the night was over.

  And to make it worse, they had started arguing. Once upon a time, Julius had hoped that his time behind bars had put him square with the house, that his debts with the universe were settled.

  Karma was a bitch.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Friday, December 21

  11:11 p.m.

  Since they had arrived at the cabin, Carter was becoming increasingly concerned with the way that his brother-in-was looking at him. A couple times, he caught Todd staring at him and looking away quickly when Carter caught his gaze. Todd! For God's sake, he had stood up as a groomsman at Ashley and Carter's wedding!

  The bitch of it was that his growing suspicion of Todd was chipping away at his focus on his favorite new game – imagining his new life with the money. All his debts, gone. Blinky, out of his life forever. Ashley set up for life and out of his life. The girls, taken care of, forever. He wouldn't have to worry about paying for college. He wouldn't even have to worry if they went to college.

  His ailing parents would get round-the-clock medical care in the best facilities, and he wouldn't have to think about them anymore. Even his grandkids' grandkids would be able to enjoy the wealth. He wondered how much he would make on the interest alone if he just stuck the money in an ordinary checking account. And the most glorious perk of all – he would never have to practice law again. In fact, and he giggled a bit when he thought about it, it was entirely possible that he had billed his last hour, billed his last minute, practiced the last bit of law in his life.

  Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with the urge to buy a private jet.

  "Hey, fucko," said Todd, interrupting Carter's frolic aboard his new Gulfstream V. There had been two topless flight attendants on Carter's special flight, so he was not terribly pleased with this interruption. "What say you let me hang onto the ticket?"

  "Why?"

  "I'll make sure that no one will take it from me," he said. "From us, I mean."

  "Who's gonna take it?" Carter asked.

  "Who the hell knows? You never know these days. That economy is in the shitter," Todd continued, punching a finger into the palm of his hand with each word.

  "No one else knows we have the ticket," Carter said. "Why do you need to hold it again?"

  "Just let me hang onto it," Todd said. "Look, you've already screwed up once tonight."

  "That so?"

  "Yeah, I told you to get all the paperwork on this guy out of the chick's office, and you forgot."

  Todd's words scraped against Carter's insides like a match, sparking a tiny flame of anger. This was his ticket. This had been his idea. Who the hell did Todd think he was? Todd didn't want to protect it. Todd wanted to steal it from him. Todd wanted to keep it all for himself, hang Carter out to dry.

  "No."

  "What?"

  "You're gonna steal it from me."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Oh, I think you know."

  Carter glanced around the largest room of the cabin that his brother had called home for the past two years. The walls were wood-paneled, as one might expect to find in a cabin out in the middle of nowhere. A large fireplace was cut into the north wall like a giant cave. On the hearth stood a rack of fireplace tools, a poker, a long-handled pan, and a brush. There was a small kitchenette, but it didn't appear to have been used in some time.

  This was why Todd had brought them out here. He was going to kill them both and steal the ticket. Probably stab them to death with the fireplace poker and dump their bodies in the woods for the bears. There were bears out here, weren't there? It was like the Yukon outside the front door. He hated the wilderness.

  "Steal it from you?" Todd asked. "Why would I do that?"

  "So you can keep it all for yourself!"

  "You're insane, Pierce," Todd barked. "Tha
t ticket's got you all fucked up. Maybe I really should hold onto it. For your sake, you loon. You give it to me, you just relax. Take it easy. We're gonna be set up for life. Plenty to go around, 'kay, buddy?"

  "Oh, no, you stay away from me," Carter said, the fire raging inside him now. "It's my ticket. You keep messing with me, you won't get a dime."

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa," Todd said. "A deal is a deal, my friend. You wouldn't even have the goddamn ticket it weren't for me. You try and cut me out, I'll end you."

  The fire inside Carter's belly exploded out of control.

  * * *

  As she spied on her boss, Samantha wondered what she was doing out here. She should be in bed, slurping down chicken noodle soup and watching reruns of Cheers under about ten blankets. She shivered again, but she didn't feel quite as cold anymore, probably because her temperature was on the rise again. Despite the spiking fever, or maybe because of it, a door suddenly opened in her mind, revealing the identity of Carter's colleague. It was his brother-in-law, Todd or Ted or something like that. She recalled a picture on Carter's desk of the pair on a drunken golf outing, both sunburned and glassy-eyed. She had only met him once and had disliked him almost instantly.

  This was bad, this was very bad. And the deeper she'd gotten into this mess, the more difficult it had become to extract herself from it. She needed to get back in her car, back to civilization, where she could get the police involved. Let them deal with this. She could vouch for Julius, corroborate his claim to the ticket, if indeed Carter's plan was to steal it. If it worked, great, Julius would be a very wealthy man. If not, she had done what she could. She could live with that. That was that. It was time to go home.

  She had made her decision to vamoose, get the hell out of Dodge, when a bloodcurdling howl stopped her cold. It had come from inside the house. Samantha froze and swung her gaze back toward the window, through which she witnessed the ticket claim more human life, not for the first time, and although unbeknownst to Samantha, not yet for the last.