Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle by Pauline Jones (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

me killed. If I hadn’t drawn it, the round-headed man wouldn’t have come after me—

My thoughts came to a screeching half. How had he known about the sketch?

I didn’t even know about the sketch. Not consciously. I frowned, my thoughts returning to my subterranean encounter with round head. No, I didn’t imagine it. He said something about me drawing him when he demanded my purse. I thought he was talking about the police sketch, but that didn’t make sense. Why would he need the sketch anyway? The police sketch was already out on the wires when—

Unless it was to protect someone?

That didn’t make sense either. No one had known about it. It had been in the hands of the CIA since the day I drew it—

The blood does drain out of your face when you receive a severe shock. Someone besides me had seen the sketch.

Willis.

He’d wanted the sketch. Asked for it repeatedly.

He called the round headed man Bobby that night.

Good cop. Bad cop.

He and Dillon had been seriously miscast in their roles.

I reached for the telephone by my bed, but the door opened.

“Hello, Miss Stanley,” Detective Willis said from the doorway. He walked in like he had a perfect right, letting the door swing shut behind him. He saw the sketch book in my hand and stopped. His eyes narrowed.

“So it didn’t get blown up in your car. Pity.” He came to me, snagged my chin and lifted it. His examination was cold and clinical. “You’ve put it together, I see.”

“The round-headed man said something to me about it at the convention center.” My voice sounded distant, but calm. My brain knew that Willis must have planted the bomb and shot up my pillows, but it hadn’t yet made that final link with the place where panic lived.

“Yeah, he told me about that.” The smile Willis produced was friendly, regretful, if I didn’t look at his dead, cold eyes. “Too bad I have to kill you. I like you. You’ve got a lot of spunk.”

He said it matter-of-factly, not at all like someone delivering a death sentence.

“You’ll have to get dressed. You do what I say, don’t give me trouble, I’ll make it easy for you.”

What a prince. I glared at him. “I won’t dress in front of you.”

He rolled his eyes, checked the bathroom—a private one this time, never let it be said the CIA didn’t learn from its mistakes—then gestured for me to go inside. “Hurry up.”

Sure. I was gonna hurry to my own death. I got a grip on the back of my hospital gown and slid out of bed. The bathroom door was one direction, the door to my guard the other.

Willis noted my look, shook his head. “He’s taking a break.”

There was little satisfaction in being right and Kel being wrong. If Willis got his way, I’d never get the chance to tell him, “I told you so.” I couldn’t let myself think about all the other things I wouldn’t be doing if Willis succeeded, not if I wanted to have a chance to stop him.

There was no lock on the door, so I dressed in a hurry, then did a quick search of the far too sterile bathroom. All I turned up was a bar of soap, another bottle of Phisohex and a toothbrush. Great, I could disinfect him to death. I used the soap to write “Help” and “Willis” on the mirror, then shoved the Phisohex in my pocket. I knew from personal experience it could cause pain.

Willis beat on the door. “What’s taking you so long?”

I opened the door. “I’m a little nervous about dying.”

“Like I said, you got spunk.” He grabbed my arm and shoved me towards the door. “Just don’t get carried away with it.”

I didn’t look back. I’d given it my best shot. Now I had to concentrate on warding off Willis’ best shot until the cavalry came. I just hoped the pissed off cavalry didn’t think I’d run off with Jerome again. Hard not to think about the story of the boy who cried wolf one too many times. In the movies, potential victims try to get their killers to talk. It was practically obligatory. The killers seem to like this, so when he pushed me into the parking garage elevator and let me go, I decided to try it. I rubbed my arm where he’d gripped it and said accusingly, “You’re supposed to be a good guy.”

He shrugged. “I happen to think I still am, in my way.”

“Your way? By selling guns to terrorists? By killing boys, math teachers, and innocent authors for filthy gain?” I didn’t mention his murder of the round-headed man. It weakened my case.

“This isn’t about money.” His response was quick and defensive. Had I found a weak spot?

“Oh? You’re killing out of the goodness of your heart? Or, let me guess. You have a great cause?”

He looked annoyed. “It’s too bad I missed you Saturday. You got a smart mouth.”

“So, what am I dying for?”

“You wouldn’t understand anymore than the Carter broad did.” He frowned. “Damn Bobby to hell for over-reacting.”

“I suppose he killed Paul Mitchell because he noticed armament was missing?”

He looked at me. I didn’t like the look and had to swallow a great wad of fear.

“You’ve found out quite a bit for a harmless author.”

“Maybe not so harmless as you think. I found the papers Mrs. Carter took, they were in a typewriter. The CIA has them now. They know about the embassies. So it’s all been for nothing.” I watched him carefully as I hauled out the tried and true bluff.

“Clever old broad. We wondered—”

“We?”

He smiled slowly. “Why, me and Bobby, of course.”

“You’re going to die. Just like he did. They know everything. Kel told me—”

“Your spook doesn’t know shit. He could walk up and lean on it and he still wouldn’t know. I didn’t start this, you know. They did.” His face darkened, his eyes taking on a weird glow that sent a series of tremors