Find You First

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by Linwood Barclay


  Stupid stupid stupid.

  He hobbled over to retrieve the gun that Sandy had tried to throw on top of the shipping container. He picked it up and gave it a cursory inspection. He’d have to fire it to be sure, but it appeared to be in working order. It was a wonder it didn’t go off when it was thrown.

  Then he looked over at Kendra.

  He limped to where she lay on the pavement and, with considerable difficulty, knelt down beside her. Had the girl killed her with a single blow to the head? She sure as hell had made a mess of her face. The woman’s nose appeared to have been turned inside out.

  “God damn it,” he said.

  And then she moaned.

  “Kendra?” he said.

  Her eyelids fluttered.

  Rhys took her hand. “I’m here. It’s Rhys. You’ve been hurt bad. Fucking bitch came at you with a bat.”

  Her lips moved but no words came out.

  “They got away. We fucked up.”

  Rhys noticed the rectangular bulge in the front pocket of her jeans and fished out her cell phone. He took her hand and pressed her thumb to the home button to unlock it. Then he went into the settings and deactivated the touch password so he could use it himself.

  The app they’d used to track the Roben kid’s van was open. He and the girl were already miles away, but Rhys could find them if he wanted to.

  But did he?

  His gut told him it was time to abort. At least temporarily. If Roben went to the cops, told them what had happened, they could be here very soon. Then again, he and the girl might be too scared to go to the authorities. If they still believed he and Kendra were police, they might lie low.

  But Rhys couldn’t be sure. He had to move.

  Except he had a wounded associate to deal with. He couldn’t take her to a hospital. And he certainly didn’t know how to treat her himself. Sure, Rhys had some basic first-aid skills, but Christ on a cracker, Kendra here needed emergency surgery. It was remotely possible there were under-the-radar local resources, someone outside of a hospital with medical training who could look at her. Retired doctors, or ones who’d lost their licenses to practice.

  Fucking veterinarians, if it came to that.

  Kendra moaned again. This time, she managed to open her eyes all the way and she trained them on Rhys.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Blerm,” she said, blood seeping out from between her lips.

  If he was going to have even a chance of saving her, he would have to run back for their rental, bring it here, load her into the back seat, get as far away from here as possible, as fast as possible, and get on the phone to see if there was someone who could tend to her wounds. Rebuild her fucking face, basically.

  Rhys thought about all that.

  And then said, aloud, “No time.”

  He bent down and whispered into her ear, “Sorry, Kendra. Only one way this can go.”

  Putting as much weight as he could on his good knee, he stood, aimed the gun at Kendra’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.

  Forty-Two

  New York, NY

  Roberta was in her first-floor office in Jeremy’s brownstone, sitting at the computer, trying to reply to several dozen emails but finding it very difficult to concentrate. This whole business with Nicky was dragging on too long. She understood Jeremy had specific people in mind for an assignment of this nature. This was a very delicate task, not the sort of thing to be left to an amateur, and Jeremy was willing to wait for a person with the requisite skills. Such a person was supposed to be coming soon.

  There were only a few people in the building who knew about Nicky. Herself and Jeremy, of course. The housekeeper, who was undocumented and definitely not going to call the authorities. And Boris, the security guard. Not even Antoine, who made the meals that Roberta took up to Nicky’s room, knew who that extra plate was for, and no doubt assumed it was for some random staff member.

  She was thinking about all of this when Boris came into her office and said, “Problem.”

  Roberta looked at him wearily. “What now?”

  “Front door.”

  Roberta pushed back her chair and followed him through to the front of the house. Along the way, Boris explained that a friend of Nicky’s was on the step, asking for her.

  Roberta opened the door and gave the girl standing there a businesslike smile. She was fifteen or sixteen, short black hair, and about the skinniest thing Roberta had ever seen aside from a garden rake.

  “May I help you?” Roberta said.

  “I’m looking for Nicky?”

  “Nicky?”

  “Nicky Bondurant? She’s a friend of mine?”

  “And who are you?”

  “Stacey.”

  “Do you have a last name, Stacey?”

  “Booker. Stacey Booker. Is Nicky here?”

  “There’s no Nicky here,” Roberta said. “Do you have the right house?”

  Stacey took two steps back and looked up at the number over the door. “Yup,” she said.

  “Trust me, no one named Nicky lives here.”

  “I didn’t say she lived here,” Stacey said. “I’ve been to her apartment. But I’ve walked with her to this address before. I’ve been trying to find her. She hasn’t been at school. They said she had mono but she’s not at her place.”

  “I’m sorry,” Roberta said. “We hire a number of people for functions, but we’re not hosting one at the moment, so even if we had ever hired someone named Nicky, she would not be here now.”

  “Well, would you know—”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” Roberta said, and closed the door in the girl’s face.

  She saw Boris standing at the base of the broad stairwell and said, “If she comes back, toss her ass onto the sidewalk.”

  Rather than go back to her office, she ascended the stairs, continuing past the second floor and on to the third, through the doors with the security keypad, down the wide hallway lined with erotic, black-and-white photography.

  She found Jeremy not at his desk but in the Winnebago. The door was open, and she saw him sitting inside at the tiny dining table, working on a laptop.

  Roberta poked her head in and said, “Permission to come aboard.”

  Jeremy looked away from the screen and smiled. “Permission granted.”

  She stepped in and squeezed onto the cushion bench on the other side of the table. Jeremy’s attention had gone back to the screen.

  “I love working in here,” he said. “A mini-office within the larger one. It feels like I’m somewhere else, on the road someplace. I’m doing a piece for the Times. Promised to get it to them by this evening. It’s for tomorrow’s edition, although they’re going to post it online soon as it’s ready.”

  Roberta, who didn’t give a rat’s ass about what her boss was pontificating about for the Times, did not ask. Although she had to give him credit: the man could multitask. He could keep a young girl prisoner in his home and still bang out a think piece for the country’s biggest newspaper. Nothing was going to stop him from sharing his brilliance with as wide an audience as possible.

  She said, “This issue has to be resolved.”

  A brief look of puzzlement crossed his face, as if wondering what she was referencing. Roberta glared at him, figuring he’d piece it together eventually.

  “Oh, yes,” he said.

  “We just had one of Nicky’s friends at the door, asking if she was here. One of the first rules of the house is, you don’t tell strangers you work here. That stupid Nicky. If she told that girl, who else might she have told? What if, at some point, someone in an official capacity comes knocking?”

  “I’d make a call. Get the chief on the line, tell him we were being harassed.”

  “That might not work. They come with a warrant, there’s really nothing we can do.”

  Jeremy strummed his fingers on the tabletop. “If somebody comes, gag her, sedate her, stuff her somewhere until they’re gone. Move her off the
property if you have to.”

  “And take her where?”

  “Roberta, why do I employ you?” Before she could offer a response, he said, “I pay you to solve problems. I pay you to put out fires.”

  “With all respect, Jeremy, this place is going to burn to the ground if you don’t sort this out soon.”

  Jeremy tented his fingers. “Sit tight. Help is on the way.”

  Forty-Three

  New Haven, CT

  They’d gotten off to a late start.

  Shortly after Miles had told Chloe to get ready to go, Dorian received two unrelated messages about ongoing issues at Cookson Tech—one was a frivolous lawsuit by another software developer who’d alleged one of Cookson’s travel apps infringed on its copyright, and the other was an update on a medical app that would help people self-diagnose—and Dorian felt strongly that Miles needed to make some decisions with regard to them.

  That ended up taking nearly two hours, and by then it was time for lunch, so they didn’t leave for wherever it was Miles wanted to go until nearly one in the afternoon. Chloe made two calls. One was to the diner to tell them she had a family emergency, which she chose not to elaborate on, and would be gone indefinitely. The other call was to reply to a voice mail from her mother, wanting to know where she was and when she would be coming home.

  “I’m gonna have to tell her,” she said to Miles.

  “Your call,” he said.

  So she retreated to the guest room for privacy and phoned her mother. When she answered, Chloe said, “I found him. I found my real father.”

  Her mother was stunned into speechlessness to the point that Chloe thought the call had dropped out.

  “Are you there?”

  Finally, her mother said, “Found out … who he is? Found out where he lives?”

  “Yes, and yes, and I’m with him right now.” She told her mother his name and where she was.

  Another moment of silence. “How did you—was it that WhatsMyStory thing again?”

  “Not this time. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home. And I’m okay. Trust me.”

  Chloe’s mother asked, “Is he … nice?”

  “Yes.” She paused to make sure she had control over her voice. “And he’s sick. He’s not so bad right now, at least most of the time, but he’s going to get worse.”

  Her mother’s voice softened. “Then it’s a good thing you found him when you did.”

  When Chloe ended the call, she sat on the edge of the bed and started to cry. She’d been caught off guard by her mother’s reaction. She’d expected her to be angry. But what really released the tears was telling another person Miles was dying. Verbalizing it made it all the more real.

  She’d known this man for such a short time, but she felt a connection.

  Chloe liked him.

  She realized that she genuinely cared about him, and hoped that they’d be able to get to know each other before his illness got much worse. She wanted to spend time with him, catch up on a lifetime of separation.

  She grabbed a tissue and dabbed her eyes. She didn’t want to head back out there having anyone think she’d lost it.

  Miles had explained to her earlier where they were headed: the ReproGold Clinic in New Rochelle. And he’d also explained why he wanted her to tag along.

  “You’re smart,” he’d said. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. If I lose focus, you can put me back on the right path. And with all that’s been going on, I feel better knowing where you are. At least you’re not going to disappear on me.” After a pause, he’d added, “And you’re good company.”

  So, after lunch, Miles and Chloe were in the back of the limo, Charise behind the wheel.

  “Mr. Cookson, Ms. Swanson,” she had said, opening the door for them. Charise had quietly asked Miles what Chloe’s last name was so that she could address her appropriately.

  “I think she’d be okay with Chloe,” he said. “And you can call me Miles.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Cookson.”

  Once they were on their way, Miles shifted in his seat so he could look at Chloe more directly. He reached into his pocket for his phone. “When we get to the clinic, I’m going to have a few questions for Dr. Gold. I’m going to asking him specifically about these people.”

  He opened a document on the phone’s screen and handed it to her. She looked at it and said, “Who are these people? I see my name and Todd’s and …” She looked at him. “Holy shit. This is them.”

  “Yeah.”

  “These are my half brothers and sisters.”

  “It’s time for you to know everything.”

  “Who are the missing ones?”

  “Katie Gleave, Jason Hamlin, Dixon Hawley. You recognize any of those names?”

  Chloe read through the list twice. “No.”

  “None of them have been in touch?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe Todd and me are the only ones who used WhatsMyStory. But this is for real? These are, like, these are your kids?”

  “Sounds funny putting it that way, but yes.”

  “So this clinic we’re going to, that’s the one you went to, way back when?”

  Miles nodded. “I went to see him once before, since I got my diagnosis. He wasn’t very helpful. I’m hoping he’ll be more so, this time.”

  Chloe grinned. “We’re going to rattle his cage.”

  “Something like that.”

  When they reached the clinic, Miles wondered if it had gone out of business. The waiting room was empty.

  But the receptionist Miles had seen here on his previous visit, the one who’d provided the list of names, was at her desk behind an open sliding-glass panel. Julie Harkin did a double take when she looked up and saw Miles standing there, Chloe just behind him.

  “I’m here to see Dr. Gold,” he said.

  “He’s not in today,” she said quietly. “He’s canceled all his appointments for the rest of the week.” Her eyes narrowed. “You were here before. You’re Mr. Cookson.”

  “Yes.”

  She glanced about, as though checking to make sure there really were no other people in the room, and when she looked back at Miles she spoke in a voice that was barely above a whisper. “You sent that woman.”

  Miles nodded. “I did. Thank you for helping.”

  Julie did not look like she was going to say, You’re welcome. She asked, “What did you get me into?”

  “Nothing,” Miles said. “I haven’t said anything about where we got the information.”

  “But things have started happening,” she whispered accusingly. “Bad things. And the doctor’s freaking out about something. And it’s all happened since you were here. What have you done?”

  Then Julie looked past him, as if noticing Chloe for the first time. “Who are you?”

  “Chloe Swanson,” she said, offering up a small wave. Then she looked about the room and glanced down the hallway at the doors to various visitation rooms. “So it all began for me here, huh?” She nudged Miles with her elbow, trying to lighten the mood. “Which room did you do it in?”

  “Stop,” he said.

  Chloe stopped.

  Miles said to Julie, “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe at home, maybe out drinking somewhere. I have no idea.”

  “I really need to talk to Dr. Gold. Please.”

  Julie bowed her head briefly, as though reluctant to look him in the eye. “You know, I looked you up. I know who you are. I wondered who’d have that kind of money, to pay for confidential information. Your name was on all those files. You’re trying to find your biological children.”

  Miles nodded. “I had different … motivations in the beginning. But now they’ve changed. You said bad things are happening, and you’re right. Those children I fathered, they’re in danger. I don’t know exactly why. That’s why I want to speak to Dr. Gold again.”

  Julie studied him for a moment bef
ore she made a decision to pick up the phone and enter a number. After about ten seconds, she said, “Dr. Gold? It’s Julie. I know, I know you didn’t—something has come up and I need to know—I can’t really say what it is, but if you—”

  Julie looked at Miles and Chloe. “He hung up.”

  “Shit,” Miles said.

  “But there was an echo,” she said. “Like the walls were metal. I’m betting he’s at his storage unit.”

  Julie wrote down the address on a piece of paper, then two other numbers. One was three digits, the other four. “That first one is the unit number,” she said, “and the second is for the keypad at the gate.” She looked defeated. “I was going to ask you not to tell him where you got the names, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m finished here.”

  The storage facility was not far, and Charise had them there in less than ten minutes. She drove the limo right up to the gate, powered down the window, entered the four-digit code into the keypad, and waited while the gate retracted.

  Once in the compound, she drove up to a drab, windowless, two-story structure. There were access doors at each end, both equipped with keypads.

  “If you need me, sir, I’m available,” Charise said as she held the back door open for Miles. She stood there, taking a stance. “One thing in my work history I didn’t mention was bouncer.”

  Miles couldn’t help but grin. “Good to know, but I think we’ll be okay.”

  Once they were inside the building, Chloe asked Miles to read off the unit number from the slip of paper Julie had given him.

  “It’s two-oh-four.”

  “Upstairs,” she said, checking the signs.

  They found a stairwell around the corner from a freight elevator, reached the second floor, and started looking for numbers.

  “This way,” Chloe said, grabbing Miles’s sleeve and taking him down a corridor in the opposite direction he’d been headed.

  About thirty feet ahead, a storage unit door was raised to the open position. Someone could be heard moving things around. There was a buzzing sound that lasted several seconds, then a pause, then the sound of more buzzing.

  They closed the distance and saw Martin Gold, in a blue suit and tie, feeding papers into a shredder that had been set up on the edge of a box, the spaghetti-like strips of paper being fed into a green plastic garbage can.

 

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