The Bricklayer Read Free

robe. “Who are you?” Then shenoticed his gloved hands. In the left was a take-out cup of coffee. In the right was a gun, which hung indifferently. She tightened her grip on the front of her robe. “What do you want?”
    He laughed noiselessly. “Certainly not that.” She searched his eyes for any flicker of motive. They were gray and sad. Slowly the rage behind them became evident, not the sort that flashes for a moment, but the kind that doesn’t burn out in a lifetime. There was little doubt in her mind how dangerous this man was.
    She released her robe and let her hands fall to her side with a calming reassurance. Her voice mellowed. “Then what can I do for you?”
    “Your story about the FBI brought me here. You really did a job on the agency.”
    “The story was true.”
    “Yes, you’re a real patriot.”
    The remark seemed sarcastic, but she wasn’t sure. His voice was emotionless, containing none of the contempt that ensured the depth of the insult. “The story was true,” she said again, as if testing his ability to be rational, the repeated defense the only one necessary for a logical person.
    “Careers were destroyed,” he said. “How about your career? On the upturn, I would imagine.”
    “Who are you?”
    “Someone who wonders why you hate the FBI?”
    Even though he asked the question in the same flat tone, she felt an increased possibility of violence. “I—I don’t hate the FBI. Why won’t you tell me why you’re here?” She stole aglance toward the door, measuring its distance and his range of fire from the chair.
    He tipped the muzzle of the gun up at her. “Sit down on the bed.”
    Paralyzed by his sureness, she realized she wouldn’t make it and did as instructed. Attempting a smile, she said, “Sure, whatever you say.”
    He took a swallow of his coffee. “I’m here for the same reason that you did your little story—to make the FBI pay.”
    “If we want the same thing, do you really think a gun is necessary?”
    “Unfortunately, yes. I’m here to provide you with the means of really damaging the FBI.”
    “I don’t understand. How?”
    “I’m sure you believe in what you did. That it’s critical to the well-being of the country to expose the FBI. And this has to be done no matter the cost. That is what you believe, isn’t it?”
    “Sure, I guess.”
    “See, we want the same thing. Only you’re going to have to make the ultimate sacrifice for your—or should I say, our —cause.”
    “What, you think you’re going to kill me?”
    “Unless you can find some way to kill me. But since I’m the only one in the room with a gun, I seriously doubt that.”
    Her eyes locked onto him as her head tilted appraisingly. “You’re from the FBI, aren’t you? You were senthere to intimidate me. That’s what this is really about.”
    He took the last drink of his coffee, tipping it up to ensure it was empty. Then, balancing the gun on his right leg and without taking his eyes from her, he pried the lid off the cup and set both down on the table next to him. With the gun back in his hand, he glanced at her, then carefully readjusted the cup’s position on the table. “Not really. Women like you are too irrational to ever be intimidated.”
    “Women like me. You mean a bitch .” She threw her head back and laughed as though trying to embarrass him with his inability to show emotion. “This is Hollywood, moron. Without the bitches in the middle of everything, this town’s major export would be fat-free yogurt. From someone like you, ‘bitch’ is the ultimate compliment.”
    “In that case, you’re the queen.”
    “Damn right.”
    Again his face mimicked laughter without a sound. Glancing once more at the cup, he rotated the automatic slightly until the ejection port was exactly where he wanted it. “Personally, I would have chosen a different epitaph, but who am I to argue with royalty?”
    He fired once, striking her in the middle of the upper lip. She fell