by Alex Kava
50
Rebecca should have trusted her gut instinct.
Even before she got into Dixon’s car she knew something wasn’t quite right. He didn’t turn to look at her directly, and instead, kept the left side of his face out of her sight. Yet if she had seen his black eye she still would have gotten into the car. She would have been concerned and would’ve wanted to hear what had happened.
No, it wasn’t that he wouldn’t look her in the eyes. It was something else. A tension, a fear so palpable she had felt it.
However, her gut instinct could never have predicted a gunman crouched in the backseat. Nor would she have predicted that the woman from the van, the one who had called her Becky and offered her a ride, would be slamming her face down into the snow and binding her wrists with plastic ties.
Now all alone in what felt like a dark, cold hole with the smell of gasoline all around her, Rebecca’s mind raced. Who were these people? Why were they doing this? Had Dixon been involved in the mall bombing? Was Patrick? What did they want with her? She didn’t know anything. She hadn’t seen anything.
Her eyes started to adjust to the darkness. It was a cellar or a crawl space. Wood rafters for a ceiling that wasn’t even four feet from the floor. Not really a floor, just cold, hard concrete. The walls were concrete blocks. No windows. One small three-foot-by-three-foot door above. A trapdoor with no stairs. It didn’t fit tight or in the rush, was left askew. Light from above seeped in around the left side. They had flung her down and with her wrists tied together she landed hard on her wounded arm. She felt a trickle of blood and knew some of the sutures had ripped. The pain was secondary. Nothing could override her fear.
Up until now she had been with Dixon. They left his car in the long-term parking lot at the airport. It had still been snowing. Rebecca searched for signs of life, security vehicles, a shuttle bus, other motorists, passengers returning to their vehicles. There was no one. Even if she dared to scream no one would hear her.
The woman in the van had followed close behind. It was there, in between the vehicles of the parking lot, that the woman pulled Rebecca from the car and pushed her down into the snow, binding her wrists so tight Rebecca felt the plastic bite into her skin. They shoved Dixon and Rebecca into the back of the van. The gunman crawled up beside them.
Dixon wouldn’t meet her eyes. He looked awful. His lip was split on the same side as the black eye. His hair stuck up in places where it had been yanked. In the headlights of passing traffic she saw that his coat had been ripped and his jeans stained at the knees.
She wanted to ask him what was going on. She wanted to make him look at her and tell her whether he had anything to do with the bombing. But the panic had closed off her throat. It took all her effort to breathe, to keep from hyperventilating. Her arm throbbed.
They had parked in a long narrow alley, some place downtown. Again, there was no one to see them hustled from the van through the back entrance of a building, a brick building four—maybe five—stories high with long, dark corridors, institutional linoleum, blank sterile white walls. Rebecca tried to notice everything. Isn’t that what they did in the movies? Even blindfolded and gagged they’d remember how many railroad tracks the car had bumped over or the sound of water under a bridge. Noting and recording her surroundings made her concentrate on something other than the pounding of her heart.
Now she tried to do the same thing here, alone in the dark. It simmered her panic.
She could hear muffled voices. Thumping footsteps overhead. Not just footsteps. It sounded like they were moving furniture. In the room above, she remembered metal desks and rolling chairs, file cabinets and a shelf with electronic boxes. There were several computers left on, their screen savers the only illumination in the room when they first entered. Everything had looked new, the walls a freshly painted white, plain and sterile like the corridors. Oddly there had been nothing personal in the room. No coffee mugs, no jacket over a chair, no container with pens, no plaques or pictures. It looked almost as if someone had quickly put together a makeshift office that was meant to be temporary.
Her eyes stared at the trapdoor, first waiting for someone to reappear. As time passed she still watched, wondering if the door wasn’t closed properly and was out of line to cause that sliver of light, then maybe it wasn’t locked. Could she shove it open? A bit of hope fluttered until she realized that with her hands tied behind her back she’d never be able to push it open or climb out.
She started looking around the musty area for something sharp to rub the plastic tie against. There had to be something here. That’s when she noticed why the smell of gasoline was so strong. There were pools of it on the hard, cold concrete floor. She must have fallen in it because now she could smell the damp spots on her jeans and coat. Two cans marked gasoline sat on a shelf with their caps off. But they were set upright, not tipped over.
Rebecca realized this crawl space hadn’t been splattered with gasoline by accident. Someone intentionally poured it out all over the floor.
CHAPTER
51
Saint Mary’s Hospital
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Henry Lee wanted to continue pacing. He had been able to pace all he wanted downstairs in the cafeteria, watching for the FBI agent while pretending to sip coffee and burn off nervous energy. Not much of a ruse—he had been nervous, anxious and angry. Pacing helped.
Though disappointed, he felt a slight bit calmer back here, sitting at Hannah’s side, holding her hand and listening to the machines wheeze and hum. There were still too many machines attached to her. But she was sleeping, resting, breathing on her own, now that the tube had been removed from her throat.
Henry glanced at his wristwatch. He had waited in the cafeteria ten minutes longer than his own self-imposed deadline, though the whole time he had been anxious to get back to Intensive Coronary Care. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the FBI agent didn’t meet his request. She must have thought he was some psycho and had passed on the message as a hoax.
Probably just as well. The hospital cafeteria had been a bad idea. He hadn’t been thinking clearly. It was risky. They might be watching him. He couldn’t see them, couldn’t pick them out, but he wondered if they were here. After all, they must have taken Dixon from the hospital. If they had recognized the FBI agent from the TV news clips and saw him talking to her, they would most certainly kill Dixon.
Henry wasn’t sure what he’d do now. He had five hours before they would allow him to talk to Dixon again. He had called his cell phone number anyway. It rang five times before it clicked over and he heard his own voice ask if he wanted to leave a message. He called it three more times. Each time it was the same. That meant they had left the phone on, left it somewhere to ring, probably just out of Dixon’s reach, taunting him, reminding him who was in control.
Henry was worried sick about the boy. He tried to keep from conjuring up images of what they were doing to him. These were ruthless people who didn’t mind blowing up innocent women and children in a shopping mall. People who had an agenda beyond what they were hired to do. He feared they would kill Dixon whether Henry “behaved” or not.
Maybe it was the fatigue, maybe it was sheer madness, maybe it was the realization that he had nothing to lose. They could take the project and twist it into their own selfish scheme, but by God, he would not allow them to take his grandson down with them. They had crossed a line and for that, he’d send them all to hell even if it meant he had to go along with them.
A nurse had left when Henry returned to the room. He’d lost track of the in-and-out traffic. Now a white-coated doctor came in, still gowned up from surgery. Henry ignored them all unless they spoke to him first. He didn’t want them interrupting his thoughts.
This doctor checked the machines, like all the others. Then she stood on the other side of Hannah and did something that surprised Henry. The doctor took a tissue from the side table and gently wiped a small line of drool that had escaped
down Hannah’s chin.
Henry raised his eyes to meet the doctor’s. “Hello, Mr. Lee.”
Henry simply nodded. At first he thought she was just another doctor, a polite one taking time to introduce herself. But she held his eyes and little by little he recognized her beyond the black square-framed eyeglasses and the hair that was slicked back to accommodate the surgical cap. She looked smaller in the scrubs, white coat and blue paper shoe covers, but she had donned the role of doctor or surgeon with an air of grace and confidence that had fooled him.
It was too late to hide his surprise or the sigh of relief. She’d come, after all.
CHAPTER
52
“How did you find out my name?” Henry Lee wanted to know, but Maggie could see he was pleased rather than upset about it. “And how did you find me?”
“There’s a consult room next door. Security key card entry only,” she told him in the same calm voice she might use had she really been one of his wife’s doctors, updating him, comforting him. “It’s already been swept for bugs. We have it for the next twenty minutes.”
He stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language and he needed an interpreter. Finally he nodded. She waited while he tucked his wife’s hand under the covers. He had been holding it all this time and looked reluctant to let go. Then he followed Maggie without further hesitation.
“I’m sorry about your wife,” Maggie told him as they settled into comfortable chairs in the next room. “It sounds like she made it through surgery quite well.”
“That’s what they keep telling me.” He sounded like he didn’t believe them.
She reminded herself that his wife’s condition wasn’t her concern, though she admired his obvious devotion to her.
In the short amount of time since his phone call, Maggie had learned quite a bit about Henry Lee. With David Ceimo’s connections as the governor’s chief of staff, he had been able to track the anonymous phone call to Maggie’s cell phone. The call had come from a waiting room in Saint Mary’s Hospital’s ICC.
In their brief conversation the caller had let it slip that his wife had just had surgery. On the day after Thanksgiving, there were no planned surgeries. Maggie had been able to find out that there were, in fact, only two emergency surgeries. One, an appendectomy. The other, a triple bypass. Another quick phone call to ICC—this one a bit of a finagle—and Maggie was able to get the patient’s name. From there she discovered her anonymous caller’s name. While David Ceimo took care of getting her hospital credentials and security clearance, Maggie searched everything she could find about Henry Lee by using her smartphone’s Internet connection.
Turned out the man had an outstanding reputation as a business mogul, taking several companies and building them into national Fortune 500 successes. Now retired and remaining chairman of his empire, he used his clout to lobby for homeland security measures. He was far from the wacko she had expected.
“I’ll only tell you what I know if I’m promised immunity from prosecution.” He said it like it was something he had memorized, perhaps rehearsed. There was none of his earlier passion in this request.
“I don’t have the authority to make that promise.”
In the past A.D. Cunningham had backed her up with any deals she believed necessary. She was pretty sure A.D. Kunze would not.
“I can assure you that I’ll talk to the authorities about your cooperation,” she told him, “but that’s as much as I can promise.”
He studied her with tired and hooded, watery blue eyes. She could see him evaluating his options. She waited while his eyes left hers, darted down to his wringing hands then back to hers.
“They have my grandson,” he said and cleared his throat, an unsuccessful attempt to hide the hitch in his voice. “Will you at least try to get him back?”
“I’ll do everything in my power to try to get him back.”
Then Maggie sat forward and waited, not wanting to throw out questions that might limit the information he gave.
“I’m a patriot,” he chose to open with.
It surprised Maggie, but she kept from showing it. One of the companies Henry Lee owned was a security provider. From the brief background search, she had expected to come here and get information from him that might involve some breach of security or perhaps a failure to report a warning.
What Maggie O’Dell didn’t expect was a confession.
CHAPTER
53
Nick stood at Jerry Yarden’s side as Yarden gave his long-winded and animated version of what security had done to try and foil the attack. The Chapmans nodded, thin-lipped and unblinking. Nick was relieved when his cell phone started ringing.
“Sorry, I’ve got to take this call,” he told them, excusing himself and escaping down the hall without even looking to see who was calling. “This is Nick Morrelli,” he said with just a hint of importance mixed with a dab of irritation for the Chapmans’ benefit.
“Finally. I can’t believe you answered.”
It was his sister, Christine. True enough, he had ignored her previous calls and not returned any of her messages. He hadn’t been ready to divulge any details that he suspected the news reporter in her would be wagering for.
“Yeah, sorry. It’s been crazy here.”
He glanced back down the hall. The Chapmans had forgotten him already and were focused on poor Jerry. Nick took another hallway, searching for somewhere a bit quieter.
“We’ve been watching,” Christine said. “It’s hard to imagine. I can’t even pretend to know what it must be like to be there in the middle of it.”
He found a small, empty room off the elevators and ducked inside. Stacked, dirty coffee cups filled a table. Folding chairs were left in no particular pattern. Nick sat down in one against the wall.
“The director of security and I were just getting our asses chewed by a couple of the owners of the mall.”
“You’re kidding. What did they think could have been done?”
Nick heard the interest in Christine’s voice and immediately hoped he wasn’t sorry he had told her that.
“It’s kind of late,” he said, glancing at his watch and wanting to prevent any follow-up questions. “Is everything okay?”
“I didn’t want to add to your stress, but I knew you’d want us to call you.” He didn’t like the change in her voice. “We had to have Dad taken by ambulance to Lakeside Hospital’s emergency room.”
Nick shot out of the chair, gripping the phone tight against his ear.
“Is he okay?” He found himself bracing one hand against the wall.
“They’ve got him stabilized.”
“What happened?”
“Mom noticed his breathing was more…I guess raspy. That’s how she described it.” There was a long pause.
“Nick, I don’t think she’s gonna be able to take care of him from here on out. It’s getting harder and harder.”
He needed to sit back down. Found the chair again.
“Okay,” he offered as his best gesture of agreement. “What are you thinking?”
He’d never been in on these conversations. It had always been Christine and his mom making the decisions regarding his dad’s care. He had been off in Boston, 1300 miles away, up until several months ago when he moved back to Omaha. Now he realized how lucky he had been all those years, and he couldn’t help but wonder why Christine decided to foist this on him this time?
That wasn’t fair. He knew that wasn’t fair. But he was exhausted, overwhelmed and 400 miles from home. What could he do about it?
“You know she won’t agree to moving him anywhere outside of home,” Christine said. “But she’s being stubborn about having some outside help. She keeps saying Dad doesn’t want some stranger helping him pee. It’s ridiculous.”
He glanced around the room. He wanted to ask her why all of this needed to be decided right now? He was safe, stabilized, she had told him. Christine was always worrying about things before th
ey happened.
“How long will they keep him in the hospital?”
“His doctor wants to run some tests. Probably through the weekend.”
“Can we talk about it when I get home?”
Silence. Had it been the wrong thing to say? “Sure, that’s fine,” she finally said.
Nick recognized that tone. It meant waiting was anything but fine. Passive aggressive. Wasn’t that what they called it. Both of them had the symptoms. Number one on the list was “hates confrontation.”
“It’s just that I’m a little overwhelmed right this minute,” he tried to explain and knew it sounded lame as soon as it escaped his mouth.
“I just wanted to talk to you about it, Nick.” She was upset but doing her best to keep it from her voice. “I’m fully aware that when it comes time to actually fix it, that I’ll be the one doing it by myself.”
He didn’t know what to say. He felt like she had slugged him in the gut. He felt like an asshole.
“I’ve gotta go,” she said and he heard the click before he could respond.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. He wasn’t good at this family stuff. That’s why they’d never asked him before. But if Christine knew that, why was she expecting something different from him? Why now?
CHAPTER
54
Maggie tried not to interrupt Henry Lee. She refrained from crossing her arms or any other nonverbal gestures that might stop him. Her psychology background had taught her to listen without giving any indication of prejudice. Sometimes an impassive listener gathered more valuable information than a seasoned interrogator. Human nature dictated certain behaviors, like filling in long silences or attempting to please a receptive listener.
“My daughter, Dixon’s mother, was one of the 168 people who were murdered on April 19, 1995. Four thousand eight hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate and jet fuel driven right up to the front of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City.”