Sea of Crises by Marty Steere Page B

old woman, Raen knew, was in her bedroom. She hadn’t left it for the past two days. He walked quietly down the hallway, slipping on a pair of silk gloves as he did. When he entered the room, he found the woman sitting in bed, propped up by a pair of pillows. It took her a moment to register the fact that he was there. Then her eyes, rheumy and heavily lidded, flew open.
    He walked over to the bed and casually took a seat next to her. She began to shake. He reached his left hand across his body and placed it over her hands, which were folded in her lap on top of the blanket. In a soothing voice, he said, “Excuse me, but there’s something that I need to do.”
    To his amusement, the woman actually relaxed.
    He reached his right hand up, placed the palm over her mouth, and, with his thumb and forefinger, squeezed her nostrils shut, cutting off her air. Impossibly, her eyes opened even wider, and she began to thrash weakly. He roughly shoved her head back against the tall headboard pinning it in place, and he held her hands in her lap.
    A long minute passed.
    Two minutes.
    As she twitched, he leaned in closer, studying her. The pain and the terror that mingled in her eyes were delicious. He felt himself becoming aroused. This was the best part, when the victim knew, with no uncertainty, that death was coming. And it would be capped by that perfect moment, the microsecond just before life ended, when the woman would effectively be dead, but still just alive enough to know it.
    He waited patiently as her struggles began to wane, staring into her eyes without blinking, not wanting to miss the precise instant. She spasmed one last time, then her pupils dilated and her corneas glassed over. He continued staring well after the moment, looking for something he knew had to be there, some eternal truth that could only be gleaned in this glorious passage from life to death.
    Finally, he took a deep breath and released his grip. She was now just a corpse. He’d wrung out as much as possible. And it had been good. But, still, he longed for more.
    He knew it would be coming through the front door shortly.
    He left the body slumped in the bed and rejoined Dacoff, who had retrieved the listening devices and the tap on the phone. There was a comfortable recliner in the living room, the well-worn leather marred only by a patch on the left arm that didn’t quite match the rest of the chair. Raen took a seat, crossed his legs and settled in for the wait.
    It didn’t take long. His cell phone buzzed softly. It was Ozaki. He put the device up to his ear and heard the one word message.
    “Jericho.”
    He was out of the chair in an instant, repeating the word for Dacoff, who also reacted immediately. They cleared the back door in less than four seconds and scaled the fence at the rear of the yard in under seven. The property behind the Gale house had an overgrown backyard and appeared vacant. A simple latch on a chain link gate to one side afforded them access to the street beyond, and they hit the curb just as Ozaki pulled up. They threw in their briefcases, their bodies followed. They were still closing the car doors behind themselves as Ozaki sped away.
    #
    From their spot a block and a half down the street, Nate, Peter and Matt watched quietly as police officers and other official looking people came and went. Their worst suspicions had been confirmed when the coroner’s vehicle had arrived. At that point, Patricia Gale had curled into a fetal position in a corner of the back seat. She remained there now. She had not spoken.
    “We should go,” Matt said. “We risk drawing attention. And,” he added with some obvious discomfort, “there’s nothing we can do here now.”
    Knowing that the house was under surveillance and concerned that whoever was after them might have already arrived, Matt had placed an anonymous call to the police department from a pay phone at the shopping center before they had started back. He’d reported