Forty-Eight

When the elevator opened, no one was in sight.

Peyton stepped out and moved toward room 418. She walked past the room and rounded the hallway corner, where she met Stone Gibson, who had removed his Oakley sunglasses, and Mike Hewitt, who had tossed the glasses frames and Bass Pro Shop cap.

“Crime and Punishment?” she said to Stone, shaking her head. “Not exactly inconspicuous.”

“Who was the guy meeting Kvido?” Hewitt asked.

“That’s Tom Dickinson, Mike. Remember him?”

“No.”

“The guy who met Stone’s sister, Sara, at Tip of the Hat. The guy in witness protection. He was at the diner when Kvido was the only other person there besides me and Stone. It was the day Chip showed up. Before Chip could enter, Kvido went outside to stop him. I thought it was because I was there, but maybe it had something to do with Dickinson.”

“What’s he doing here? And how the hell does he know Kvido?”

“I have no idea. You heard my conversation with Chip?”

Hewitt nodded. “Yeah. Hammond tapped both rooms.”

“You stirred the pot pretty good,” Stone said.

“Chip had no idea Sam is Kvido’s son.”

Stone shrugged. “He does now, and he’s upset. We can use that to get him to turn on Kvido.”

They heard the elevator stop. Peyton leaned out and saw Chip walking down the hallway with both hands thrust in the front pocket of a gray sweatshirt.

Peyton leaned back out of sight. “It’s Chip.”

The footfalls stopped at room 418. Chip took a deep breath. Then he knocked hard on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Open up!”

The door opened, then closed. Peyton looked around the corner. Chip was out of sight.

Hewitt reached into the breast pocket of his fishing shirt and retrieved a small speaker. Peyton and Stone huddled around it.

“Who are you?” It was Chip speaking.

Tom Dickinson’s voice: “Nobody, man. I was just leaving.”

“No.”

“Chip, this is my accountant. Let him go.”

“Kvido, tell me about Sam.”

“What do you want to know? Please put the gun down, Chip.”

Without a word, Hewitt was sprinting, his .40 out. He nearly knocked Peyton over in the process. She grabbed her .40 and followed, Stone right behind her.

Hewitt kicked the door on the knob and it burst in, banging against the wall. Then he was inside, crouched in a shooter’s stance to the right of the door.

Across the room, Kvido and Tom Dickinson stood facing Hewitt. Kvido had lost the swagger he’d possessed in their meeting earlier that day. He was sweating, his eyes pleading.

Chip was facing them, his back to Hewitt. He never turned around, as if he’d not heard the door frame splinter and the doorknob hit the inner wall.

Peyton moved in to cover Hewitt, crouching to the left of the door frame, her .40 drawn. She peered into the room.

Chip had a pistol pointed at Kvido.

“Drop the weapon,” Hewitt said.

Tom Dickinson had both hands in the air.

“Don’t shoot him,” Dickinson said.

Kvido was saying, “I’m not a bad man, Chip. I’ve helped you.”

“You helped me? Explain that.”

“I paid off your home.” Kvido’s hair was matted against his forehead; sweat beads crawled down his cheeks.

“You took my wife. Now you’ve humiliated me. Sam is your son?”

“I was going to tell you.”

“No you weren’t. Neither was Sherry.”

Peyton was looking at Hewitt. The shot was there. Chip had his back to him, and he had two hostages.

Hewitt looked at her, and she realized what he was doing: He was waiting to hear the conversation, trying to learn as much as he could, risking Kvido’s safety to gain information needed to build a case against him. He had taken Sherry out when the opportunity presented itself, but not here. Situational ethics could make even routine decisions difficult. And when those decisions could be life-or-death, they became gut-wrenching. She had seen it when Hewitt spoke about having to kill Sherry.

“Put the gun down,” Dickinson said with an air of authority that made Peyton take her eyes off Chip momentarily.

“We were going to tell you,” Kvido said.

“You turned Sherry into a killer. Freddy told me this afternoon. He said you paid for bombs. You put them in the woods. You killed that game warden. You’re insane. Do you know that? A minefield? It’s crazy. I don’t know what Sherry was thinking to go along with it.”

“You didn’t think it was so crazy when your wife bailed you out with her ‘book money.’ ” Kvido’s navy blue shirt was black with sweat now.

“Drop the weapon,” Hewitt said.

Chip never turned around.

In the confined space of the suite’s main room, the pistol shot reverberated for what seemed an hour. There was no second shot. Chip fell to his knees, his hand going limp at his side, the pistol falling to the floor. He stared at the hand that had held the pistol as if it were foreign to him.

Tom Dickinson leapt on him and pushed his face into the carpet. “You stupid shit.” He pulled Chip’s arms behind him. “Give me some cuffs.”

Stone Gibson ran to him and cuffed Chip.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Dickinson said. “Anything you say can—“

“What are you doing?” Hewitt said.

“I’m Greg Harris,” Dickinson said, “CIA. I’ve been following Kvido Bezdek for two years. And it ends like this?”

Peyton had gone to Kvido. Chip hadn’t been a skilled marksman, but he had pointed at the center of the mass, and from ten feet, that was good enough.

Kvido lay on his back, legs splayed before him, his eyes open and blinking. Peyton felt his wrist. The pulse was weak.

“Look at me,” she said. His eyes rolled toward her. “Stay with me, Kvido.” His eyes blinked once more, then remained open.

The slow pulse beating against her index finger stopped.