The Midnight House Read Online Free PDF Page B

agent might have a legitimate need for protection.
    Jyoti’s mansion sat on two acres in Sea Cliff, probably the most exclusive neighborhood in San Francisco. It didn’t look like much from the front, flat and wide and two stories high. But the property opened onto a priceless view of the Pacific and the Golden Gate Bridge. Though maybe priceless wasn’t the right word. Fisher had checked the property records, found that the place was assessed for 21.5 million dollars. It had a squash court and a pool. The rooms were stuffed with high-end Indian art, bronze Buddhas and paintings of fierce-looking gods. Jyoti knew how to live, Fisher gave him that much. He knew how to stay married, too. His wife wasn’t much of a looker, but he seemed devoted to her, never even checked out other women. Fisher would have to ask him the secret sometime.
    Seven ten. Another cool San Francisco morning, fifty-five degrees with a touch of fog. By mid-afternoon the city would be in the low seventies, the Valley a bit warmer. Perfect for a hike or a mountain bike ride—Fisher had seen the first biker of the day go by just a couple of minutes before, headed up the hill toward Golden Gate Park, then turning out of sight.
    Fisher took a quick check of the Lexus, making sure it was clean, no papers or receipts in sight, the leather in the front passenger seat showroom-new. Jyoti liked to sit up front with him, his nod to Fisher’s equality. Fisher appreciated the gesture. He would have appreciated even more not driving the guy to work.
     
     
    HIS CELL PHONE RANG. A blocked number. He looked at it, decided not to answer. He didn’t want to be on the phone when Jyoti showed up. He sent the call to voice mail and tucked the phone away.
    A few seconds later, it rang again.
    Blocked again. Strange. He flipped the phone open. “Hello.”
    “Jack.” The voice was unfamiliar, eerily high-pitched. Fisher wondered if they had a lousy connection or if the guy was disguising his voice. “Jack Fisher.”
    “Who’s this? ”
    Silence.
    Fisher hung up. He looked at his phone irritably, as though it were a misbehaving dog.
    For the third time, the phone rang.
    “Jack Fisher? ”
    Again the unnatural voice. Fisher reflexively slid his hand toward his shoulder holster, then realized he couldn’t hold the phone and grab the pistol. He stayed with the phone.
    “Who am I speaking with? ”
    “Look to your right. At the house.”
    Fisher leaned right, looked out the passenger-side window. Nothing. Suddenly he knew he was in trouble. Gun. Now.
    He dropped the phone on the passenger seat. He reached his right hand across his body, trying for his shoulder holster—
    And a tap on the driver’s-side window twisted him back.
    No.
    A pistol. With a silencer screwed to the barrel. A gloved hand held the gun and—
    He’d fallen for it. Look right. He should have looked left, why hadn’t he looked left—he couldn’t die like this, it was impossible, not now, not as a goddamn chauffeur —
    He didn’t hear the bullet, and he didn’t see it, of course. But he felt it, a rush of fire in his lungs. His training told him he had to go for his pistol. The pistol was his only hope. But the pain was too much, especially when a second bullet joined the first, this one on the left side of his chest, tearing a hole in his aorta. Suddenly Fisher felt an agony he could never have imagined, his heart clutching helplessly, unable to pump, crying its bitterness with each half-finished beat.
    Fisher screamed but found that the sound he made wasn’t a scream at all, merely a whimper from high in his throat. His head flopped forward. His tongue lolled out. The world in front of the windshield raced away from him as if he’d somehow put the car—no, himself—in reverse at a million miles an hour.
    The door to the Lexus was pulled open. Fisher sagged sideways in the seat. Already the pain in his chest was fading. But he wasn’t dying quickly enough for whoever was holding the