by Meryl Sawyer
“Tina,” she whispered again. “Please. I haven’t got long. I’m here. I love you. Steven loves you. So does Ariel. Wake up. Talk to us.”
Nothing.
“Where’s Ariel?” she asked.
“Still with friends.”
“Perhaps if she spoke to—”
“No. I won’t allow it. If worse comes to worst, I don’t want Ariel to remember her mother like this.”
Devon couldn’t argue. Until now, she’d always carried a mental image of Tina’s ceaseless smile. Seeing her this way would stay with Devon forever if her sister died.
Devon slipped into the hall to talk to Chad. He was turned so his back was to the security camera. He pulled Devon close to keep her out of range, as well.
“Tina’s still in a coma,” she whispered to him. “I’ve tried talking to her, but she isn’t responding.”
“It’s been only forty-eight hours. It might be days…”
“I don’t have that long.”
“There’s a red-eye tomorrow at midnight from Atlanta. That’s the latest we can stay, if you want to return to Honolulu without anyone realizing where you’ve gone.”
Two nurses rushed by them and charged into Tina’s room. A wild flash of panic ripped through Devon. “She’s dead.”
“No,” Chad assured her. “There wasn’t a Code Blue alert.”
Steven came out, his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched over. “Tina’s moaning. The nurses are checking her.”
They waited in the austere hallway frozen in silent anticipation for a few agonizing minutes. No one came out of the room.
Finally Chad asked Steven, “Have the police located the driver who hit Tina?”
“No. I called them from the coffee shop about an hour ago.” Steven shook his head, clearly disappointed. “No sign of the car.”
“It’s bound to have front end damage,” Devon said.
“True,” Steven agreed. “The witness gave a good description. A late model Lexus. Beige with Florida plates.”
Devon glanced at Chad. She knew what he was thinking. After forty-eight hours the odds went down that a crime would be solved. An elderly man in a damaged Lexus shouldn’t be this hard to find.
A nurse poked her head out the door. “She’s asking for someone named Sammy.”
Devon was momentarily speechless with surprise. Thank you, God. Thank you. Tina was asking for her.
She noticed Steven’s bleak expression and choked back an elated cry. She grabbed Steven’s hand, pulling him along with her. “She’ll ask for you any second.”
Inside, the nurse was adjusting the oxygen clip in Tina’s nose.
“‘Ammy.” A low, guttural moan. “Sammy?”
Her sister’s voice, a painful echo of the past when they’d been young. Happy. A thousand forgotten memories swept through her, in a second each was stamped with her sister’s image. She couldn’t control her spasmodic trembling. Tina was calling to her, the way she had when they’d been children.
A lifetime’s memories of childhood days played through her mind. Her sister, her best friend. Unlike some sisters who were sibling rivals, they’d always cherished their relationship. Over the years, it had become a priceless source of inner strength. When Tina needed someone to help during childbirth, she’d turned to her sister.
Luck had deserted Devon back in Houston and hadn’t been with her since. She’d been terrified her sister would be taken from her, as well. But Tina was speaking, calling her name. Didn’t it mean she was getting better?
Holding raw emotion in check, Devon leaned over the bed. “I’m right here, Tina. Can you open your eyes?”
Tina’s lids fluttered and she moaned again, louder this time. Her lids slowly lifted until they were at half-mast and revealed pain-glazed, unfocused blue eyes. A suffocating sensation tightened Devon’s throat. If only she could take her sister’s pain away. Make it hers instead.
“M-M-Moe’s…under…house. What’s he…doin’ there?”
Devon clutched her sister’s hand, careful not to dislodge the IV. “Moe’s not a boy, remember? She’s having kittens under the house.”
“What the hell?” asked Steven.
“Sh! She’s talking about a cat we had when we were kids.”
“It’s not uncommon,” the nurse assured them. “She’s reliving an event in the past. Now that she’s conscious, she’ll move forward in time.”
Tina groaned again and tried to move but the contraption around her broken pelvis held her in place. “Kittens? Daddy…won’t…”
“We can talk to Daddy, but I don’t think he’ll allow us to keep a kitten.”
“I—I…”
A middle aged man with a stethoscope draped around his neck barged into the room. He wore an expensive suit a shade darker than his gray hair and had an arrogant air that made Devon bristle inwardly.
“Dr. Wells,” the nurse said, her tone reverential. “The patient is regaining consciousness.”
“Everyone out.”
“I’m her—”
“Out!” he barked at Steven.
Devon followed Steven into the hall where Chad was waiting for her, his shoulder still braced against the wall, blocking the security camera.
“She’s awake, but her mind is in the past.”
“At least she’s regained consciousness.”
“I want Tina to know I’m here,” Steven said. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
Her brother-in-law’s voice was whiney. Always self-centered and easily peeved, Steven was now exhausted and upset that Tina had asked for Devon instead of him. No matter what happened, coming here had been worth the risk. She’d helped the sister she loved and missed so much.
Dr. Wells emerged from Tina’s room. “You’re Mrs. Layton’s family?”
They all nodded. The doctor didn’t seem the least fazed to be confronted with a powerhouse in a do-rag and a person whose sexual orientation was questionable. This was Miami. There were enough weirdos around to give L.A. a run for its money.
“I’ve medicated Mrs. Layton. She’ll sleep all night.”
“But she just woke up,” Devon protested. “Wouldn’t—”
“Her body needs time to adjust to the pain. When we reduce the medication in the morning, she’ll be more fully awake.”
“She’ll be able to talk to me?” Steven asked.
“I guarantee it. The worst is over.” The doctor checked his watch, obviously anxious to leave. “Go home. Get a good night’s sleep and come back in the morning.”
BROCK BUFFED THE HOOD of his red Gull Wing. It was already gleaming so brightly in the warehouse lights that it could have blinded someone. He didn’t care. It eased his tension to tend his babies.
The Gull Wing had been a hit in St. Louis, but the show had left him with a hollow feeling. His car was a sensation because Jordan’s Gull Wing had been scratched. Being second best put him in an even worse mood than he’d been in lately.
He’d tried locating Jordan using the XtremeX Web site. It was connected to an anonymizer that encrypted e-mail and rerouted it through a variety of servers until it was impossible to tell where a message originated. This was illegal, of course, and told him the bitch was probably trafficking in drugs or porn. Why else would she cover her tracks in cyberspace?
The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He’d kept it two days—a full day longer than he should have—because his operatives in Miami hadn’t checked in yet today. He had to give them the new cell number before he could ditch this one.
“251, this had better be you,” he said, his voice echoing in the large warehouse where he kept his cars.
“Numero Uno?”
“Right.” He recognized 251’s voice.
“We think Samantha Robbins visited her sister at the hospital tonight.”
“Think? Shit! Don’t you know?”
“The audio sounds like it.”
Brock choked back a curse. He’d devised an elaborate plan to t
ail Tina Layton and hit—but not kill—her. He’d even arranged for 251 to pose as a vacationing kid from Des Moines to give a bogus description of the car and the driver. He knew word would get back through WITSEC to the bitch.
“What do the security cameras show?” 251 had paid off a night worker at the security company to make copies of the ICU tapes.
“Hard to say. You know security tapes.”
Indeed Brock did. Most security camera tapes had no audio. They were often grainy and taken from an odd angle. Still, plenty of perps had been nailed with shots from security cameras.
“Copy what you’ve got to a disk and e-mail it to me at the office.” Brock pitched the used lint-free wipe toward the trash bin in the corner. “Same with the audio. I’ll enhance the video and get back to you. Go on standby mode.” He instructed 251 to call him back on the agent’s line at Obelisk or on the new cell number he gave him.
On the way back from the warehouse to his underground bunker at Obelisk, Brock drove by Jordan’s apartment to kill time while 251 converted the tape. There was a single light on not far from the window facing the street. He parked in the loading zone and rang the bell. Nearly a minute passed and no one responded. He rang again. Nothing.
Shit!
He couldn’t contact Jordan Walsh. He could highlight an ant on a leaf in the Amazon, but he couldn’t find this woman.
In a huff, Brock drove to Obelisk and was waved through the security check point. Brock parked in his space and noted no other executives at the company were working late. Well, what did he expect? They were home counting their money and fucking their girlfriends.
Not that Brock cared.
When this was over, he would have something better than a broad. He would have a one-of-a-kind Gull Wing Mercedes. Who needed a woman?
In his office, Brock pulled on his microfiber jacket, then wriggled his fingers into the gloves. He smoothed the lightweight material across his palms and made sure his fingers were free to work on the computer.
He had AgCom on his computer. The age progression software had been developed to show abducted children as they grew older, employing digital imaging techniques. He could take the most washed-out or shadowy photograph and enhance it until it was National Geographic quality.
He’d used AgCom to compare a photograph of Samantha Robbins with women in Western states who had applied for driver’s licenses. He hadn’t found her, but that didn’t mean it was AgCom’s fault.
The whir of the incoming field line alerted him to what had to be 251’s electronic transfer of the pictures of ICU taken by the security camera. The audio transcript captured by the parabolic mike would come through another system. It would be more difficult to analyze, but with the special enhancement equipment Obelisk had, Brock was sure to have a clear audio transcript by morning.
He peered at the incoming security tape. Miami-Dade Hospital couldn’t have ID’d Godzilla with their security cameras. The tape showed a tall man—well over six feet—wearing a prison gang’s do-rag around his head and a smaller male in his late teens.
He watched the tape as the twosome meandered with all the bravado gang members could muster toward the series of doors that led into individual ICU cubicles. Out came Steven Layton who greeted them.
What the fuck? Who were these jerk-offs?
This required a photo-analysis. He reversed the tape and froze it at the shot from the nurses’ station. It was a full-frontal shot of the tall man, but the teenager wasn’t facing the camera. What little of his face could be seen was shadowed by a Marlins ball cap and black-rimmed glasses.
He tapped a few keys, and AgCom converted the video to a still photograph. The computer would eliminate the security camera’s distortions and lighten up the shadows. Every photograph could be reduced to pixels—pinpricks of light—millions of them. The special software sorted through the pixels and deciphered their relationship to other pixels.
In less than a minute, a clearer image appeared on the screen. It was still disappointing. The square-jawed tall man’s features had improved slightly, and the shadows from the cap had been removed. But Brock still didn’t have a clue who they were.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DEVON LAY SPRAWLED next to Chad on the faded floral print bedspread in the Celebrate! Miami Motel. They were the other side of the city from the Golden Palms; Chad insisted they change motels for security reasons. They still were driving the battered Acura, but Chad had switched license plates with an auto in a used car lot that was closed for the night.
She wanted to sleep, but her breasts were aching and sore after they’d removed the tape holding them flat. She couldn’t feel sorry for herself, though. Think about Tina. She’d regained consciousness. With luck, tomorrow they would talk. It had been a lifetime since she’d been able to talk to her sister face-to-face. There was so much Devon wanted to tell Tina, and so little that she was allowed to say.
Next to her, Chad’s arm twitched. He wasn’t able to sleep, either, she realized. “You’re worried, aren’t you?”
He pulled her to him, and she bit the inside of her lip to keep from crying. His arm tightened protectively around her. “I know you need to see Tina tomorrow. I just don’t like hanging around.”
“And you don’t like the police not being able to locate the driver of the car that hit Tina.”
“Right. They should have been able to locate the old man by now.”
“Maybe they have more important crimes.”
“Police love no-brainers. It makes retirees and tourists feel safe. They’ve been working on this. Trust me.”
“If this was a trap, no one made a move to get me.”
“It was dark and you were well disguised. We’ll change disguises before you visit Tina again.”
Every instinct for self-preservation warned her that he was right, but somehow, she kept refusing to believe Rutherford and Ames were behind this. She didn’t want it to be true, she silently conceded. She needed to see her sister without the panicky feeling that she was hanging over the edge of a dangerous precipice—and likely to die any second.
Traffic thrummed along even though it was almost three in the morning, the noise seeping through the cracks around the swamp cooler that wheezed and blew whiffs of chilled air over the bed. The odor of industrial strength disinfectant came from the bathroom. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except Tina was getting better. Devon closed her eyes and was claimed by the deep, dreamless sleep of emotional exhaustion.
When she awakened, sunlight shafted through the break between the faded curtains. Chad was nearby; his hair buzzed so close to his skull that he was almost shaven clean.
“Hey, sleepyhead. Check this outfit. I picked it up while you were asleep.” He held up a yellow and lilac print dress nearly leached of all color and a white wig tinged with blue.
“You’re a grandmother,” he informed her.
“Whatever.” Devon boosted herself off the bed and hurried into the bathroom.
Her blond hair hung in matted hanks from wearing the wig. She found a comb and a disposable toothbrush in the dop-kit perched on the rim of the sink. She brushed her teeth and tugged the comb through her tangled hair.
She inspected the skin that had been beneath the duct tape. It was still scarlet and sore. Wearing a bra was going to hurt like hell. A small price to pay, she reminded herself.
What time was it?
She checked the tank watch with the wide rubber band Chad had given her as part of their gang disguise. Nearly noon!
Tina would be awake.
She opened the door. “It’s late. Tina has to be up by now.”
“I called the hospital. Your sister has been upgraded to improved.”
“Great. We’ve got to hurry.”
“Not so fast. If they’re watching the hospital, they’ll have expected you long before now. We need to take our time, put on the new disguises, and go over late in the afternoon.”
BROCK CALLED 251’s cell again. He
hated using cells but this situation was different. He’d expected the Robbins bitch to reappear at the hospital.
Nothing.
“Any sign of those two?” Brock asked when 251 picked up.
Late last night he’d relayed the information the AgCom analysis had provided and told them to watch for the tall man in the do-rag and the boy. Brock was positive the boy was Samantha Robbins in disguise. The identity of the man remained a mystery.
“Lots of coming and going at the hospital. No sign of those guys.”
“Call me the second you spot them.”
Brock gazed at the tall, overweight man on the computer screen. AgCom had refined the picture as many times as it could, removing all of the distortion. The computer had compared the image with the millions of bits of information stored in its data bank. It was a laborious task even for a computer that operated at top speed.
Finally the program converted the black-and-white photo to color. Beneath the do-rag the man’s hair would be dark brown, almost black, like his eyebrows. His eyes were an intense shade of blue. His skin was tanned, indicating he spent considerable time in the sun.
The expression on the man’s face troubled Brock. Maybe it was just an act, but the jerk radiated a certain ruthlessness that Brock didn’t like. He could present a problem for his operatives.
It was an eerie sensation. He knew he was right although there was no way to confirm it. The guy might be a little over-weight, but he could still cause a problem when they moved in to grab the bitch.
Who was he? A pro, or some sucker the Robbins woman had picked up along the way? Beautiful women had a way of doing that, he decided, thinking of Jordan Walsh.
It couldn’t be a WITSEC agent. They would never allow a witness to enter the “danger zone.” Weddings, funerals and ailing relatives were verboten. The bitch was AWOL.
Brock decided to run the man’s photograph through Home-land Security’s passport database. It was a slower program because HS didn’t have the funds Obelisk did. He wasn’t sure how long it would take, but chances were the dumb-fuck had a passport.
Brock studied the liquid plasma screen, currently on an uplink to the DoD satellite. He could watch the hospital, but he didn’t have the advantage his operatives on the ground did. They could see into the hospital from a horizontal angle from across the street. He could only watch from directly above until the satellite moved and gave him a better angle.