by Thomas Perry
"I want to go with you."
"All right. Just do as I say for now." Jane practically pushed her out the door.
Jane thought for a few seconds. There was no way out by using the elevator or going down the stairs to the lobby. It would have to be up. She went out to the hallway into the stairwell, then climbed painfully up one level to the fourth floor. She knew that there was a pool on the fourth level, and she could see the door at the end of the hall. She went out through the door, and saw the lighted water moving gently, throwing a reflection on the white stucco wall. There was a sign that said, Lifeguard on Duty 8:00 a.m. Until 5:00 p.m. Beyond the sign she saw what she had hoped for. On a rack next to the lifeguard's elevated chair there was a circular life preserver with a long nylon rope attached to it.
Jane stepped to the side of the pool and looked over the low wall at the parking lot below. On this side were the four police cars parked in front of the entrance. She walked to the opposite side of the roof and looked down. There were two more cars, to watch the rear entrance. There was only one more side, and she went there, looked below, and found herself looking down at a flat roof. It was a one-story wing of the hotel that jutted out a bit from the main building. On it were various vents and ducts, and what looked like a big central air-conditioning unit. Beside it was a large enclosure with a high fence, and inside were two large Dumpsters.
She took the life ring and lifted its rope from the hook on the wall. She walked to the side of the pool above the lower wing, tied the rope securely to the iron railing, and slipped the life preserver over her head and shoulders so her arms were free. She took a last look down, then gripped the rope, wound it around her right forearm, and lowered herself over the railing. She rappelled down the wall of the hotel, pushing off and landing with her left foot only, taking it deliberately to keep from making noise or swinging too far out from the wall. She managed to lower herself about forty feet, but then there was no more rope. She looked down. She judged that the remaining distance was only about six or seven feet, so she carefully slipped her body out of the life ring, held on to it with both hands, then touched the roof with her toes. She let go, and her right leg gave a painful twinge.
She took a few seconds to verify that she had not injured herself, then walked to the edge of the roof and looked over. There was a set of steel ladder steps attached to the brick wall, so she sat down, lowered her feet to the first step, and descended cautiously. The steps stopped at the top of one of the Dumpsters. She stood on the closed steel lid and looked out over the fence at the lot beyond. She could see Jim Shelby's car out on the street, and she could see Iris in the black car in the parking lot. Iris was closer. Jane went around the fence and moved along the side of the building until she was far enough, then limped to the row of cars where Iris was parked, and continued up the row until she reached Iris.
She opened the door and sat in the passenger seat. "Drive," she said. "Go out to the street at the exit over there. Go no more than ten miles an hour."
Iris drove slowly and cautiously. Jane watched the hotel entrance, the police cars, and the cars in the street, but she saw no reaction, except one. As Iris pulled out into the street, Jim Shelby's car started.
"Good," said Jane. "He sees me." After they had moved off a hundred yards, Jane watched through the rear window while Shelby pulled out and followed.
Jane said, "Okay, my runner is following us. We'll keep going for a few minutes to be sure we haven't been spotted. Then you're going to have a choice."
"A choice What is it"
"The man behind us was convicted of murdering his wife a few years ago in California. I know he didn't do it, so about a week ago I broke him out of a Los Angeles courthouse where he was supposed to testify about another crime. He and I were the ones the police were looking for tonight."
"Oh, my God."
"There are also some other men paid to kill him, because it will close the case and nothing will ever happen to threaten the real murderer. They're the ones who shot me and then tortured me."
"Oh, my God, Melanie."
"Jane. Call me Jane."
"But what am I choosing"
"You can take this car and drive someplace where you will start a new, quiet life and try not to get found by your ex-husband. That would be the most sensible thing you can do."
"What's the other choice"
"You could go with us. Park the car in a lot somewhere, and then send the keys to Sarah at the Lifeboat, so she can send someone to pick it up. Then get in the other car with us. I'll try to get him settled somewhere, and then do the same for you. That's what I do professionally. So I might be able to make you better at disappearing. But it's a very harsh trade-off, because being with us is very dangerous. You would also have to protect my secrets and my runner's secrets, even if it kills you." She added, "And it might."
"I'll go with you."
"You're not giving yourself time to think."
"I know what I'm doing. There's no question in my mind that Steve will find me again. He's very good at these things. He used to work as a private detective-got a license and everything-but he got fired. If he finds me, he will give me all the pain and suffering he can while he's killing me. You got away from the police, and from the people who want to kill your friend. But I know I can't get away from Steve. I need your help."
"All right," Jane said. "Get onto the interstate and follow the signs to the airport."
Iris drove the black car to the long-term parking lot, and Shelby waited outside in his car. Jane and Iris walked out to the street and got into Shelby's car. Shelby drove off toward the interstate.
Shelby glided onto the entrance ramp and accelerated. He merged onto the right lane of the highway, then moved another lane to the left. Jane turned and stared out the rear window for a full minute before she faced the front again and settled comfortably in her seat.
"Jim, this is Iris. Iris, Jim."
"Pleased to meet you," Iris said. "Thank you for letting me come along."
"Nice to meet you. But don't thank me. Jane made the decision and took all the risk."
"I'm sorry," Iris said. "I'll do my best not to contribute to the risks. I just have to get away from my troubles and start over."
"Me too," he said.
"Jim," Jane said. "When you checked in at the hotel, did you have to write down your license number"
"No," he said.
"Have you driven this car since you arrived"
"No. I made one quick stop to buy some food and supplies at a supermarket on the way, in Provo. I didn't want to have to go out and show my face here, so I figured I'd take one chance and then stay in until you caught up."
"Good. This car is probably still safe for the moment. If people recognized us, they didn't connect us with this car."
"What do we do to be sure"
"We can't be sure," she said. "What we can do is keep moving. We'll take turns driving and sleeping. Every day or so we'll steal new license plates and change them. We'll pay in cash for the few things we need, and use the restrooms at gas stations. We'll get to your sister as quickly as possible."
"Agreed. I don't mind driving the rest of this shift," said Shelby. "You can go to sleep."
"Are you sure"
"I've been restless, waiting to get on the road. It feels as though we're making progress, not just waiting for them to catch up with us."
"As long as we're moving, we're okay. Wake me up if you get sleepy. We've got nothing to do but drive." In a minute, Jane was sound asleep. A short time later, so was Iris.
8.
It was late night in Chicago. Wylie lay on one of the two big beds in the hotel room, watching a rebroadcast of a baseball game. He didn't care at all about the fate of the Chicago Cubs, but he was too tired to keep pressing the remote control to search for something better. He supposed watching the Cubs lose was the price for watching them play.
Maloney seemed nervous tonight. He was standing on the balcony, starin
g out over the parking lot, waiting for Gorman to get out of the shower so he could have his turn. Maloney wasn't a good traveler. The constant motion and long hours seemed to make him tense, and it took him a long time to unwind before he could sleep.
There was a quiet knock on the door, and Maloney charged across the room to answer it. He squinted to look through the peephole. "It's Mr. Martel." Maloney moved his head back and forth to see if their visitor had brought anyone with him, but he realized that looking gained him nothing because he would have to open the door anyway. He pulled the door open wide and said, "Welcome, Mr. Martel." Martel was about forty, but he looked younger, with smooth, unlined skin that was always so evenly tanned it looked almost unreal; thick, dark hair; and a tall, fit body.
Martel brushed past him into the room, then turned and closed the door himself, as though he didn't trust Maloney to do it. "Turn that off."
Wylie sat up and clicked the remote control, and the screen went black. Maloney closed the big sliding window to the balcony, then the curtain. Next he went to the bathroom door, opened it a few inches, and called, "Mr. Martel is here." After a couple of seconds the shower stopped. While they were waiting for Gorman to appear, Maloney seemed to feel he had to fill the silence. "I was watching the parking lot but I didn't see you pull in."
Martel looked as though he had never before realized what a moron Maloney was, and the realization was painful to him. He went and sat down in the armchair in the corner of the room. It was the only place in the room for a person to sit with any sort of dignity, so Maloney stood. After a few more seconds a damp Gorman emerged from the bathroom wearing a white terry-cloth bathrobe with the hotel's logo embroidered on the chest. He sat on the bed beside Wylie.
Martel said, "I understand that you discovered that the woman who got Shelby out of the courthouse is worth something."
"Yeah," said Wylie. "We were amazed. As soon as we realized she'd pulled it off, we grabbed her off the street. Maloney and Gorman pretended to be cops. We figured she could tell us where Shelby had gone."
"So"
"She wouldn't. First she jumped out of the car screaming for help, so all Maloney could do was act like a cop and shoot her in the leg. After the doctor patched her up we started working her over to get her to talk. We beat her up, burned her, shocked her, got ready to cut her, and she said nothing. Zero. I was curious about her, so I sent out some e-mails to guys I know, describing her and saying what she'd done. I got two answers right away, and two more a day later."
"What guys" Martel said it with a hint of irritation.
"I never let anybody know who I was working for, or what we were doing."
"I asked what guys."
"One is a private detective, only he lost his license. His name is Jack Killigan. He still works for some of his old clients, and he's done some searching for people. He gets so he knows who's worth finding. Another is Van Springer. He works as a go-between who buys things for people. One time it will be a clean car or a few guns, another time it's something else. Sometimes he gets asked to find somebody in particular. Another is a guy named Hosper, a bounty hunter."
"Okay. I get the idea. What did they say"
"That when we got this one we hit the lottery."
"Really"
"Yes. We just wanted to know where Shelby would be headed. When she wouldn't talk I thought if we found out where she was from, we could look there. But both these guys said they had clients who would pay seven figures for her. About five hours later, two more were sniffing around. Then I got an e-mail from a guy I didn't even know. He runs a big security company."
Martel said, "This is really interesting, Wylie. You amaze me sometimes. Most of the time you don't. When were you going to tell me about this woman"
"I did tell you."
"You told me after she got away. You had already started negotiating with all these buyers. You were going to sell her yourself."
"No," said Wylie. "I wasn't. I was just trying to find out what we had on our hands, so I could give you the whole story."
Martel stared at Wylie for a few seconds, not glaring, but looking at him calmly and evenly. Then he said, "We have a different situation today. You don't have him or her, and I want them both. They're probably together again by now. I assume they don't know that we've got his sister's new address-or even that we know he has a sister."
Wylie looked uncomfortable. "Well, yes. The woman knows that we know there's a sister. When we had her, I said if she didn't talk we'd get the sister to talk."
Martel slowly shook his head. "Then if you know where the sister is right now, why the fuck are you in a hotel in Chicago instead of on the way to her"
"We've been on the road for days, after cleaning up the place where we had her, and we were tired, dirty, and hungry for a decent meal. We'll do better if we feel better."
"Wylie. I want you to remember that the reason you're chasing around the country is that you fucked up. Repeatedly. Now you know the address, and here you are, resting up. I'm astonished. I'm sure you know that if you go up there and get Shelby and this woman, there will be a big payday for all three of you. I want her alive, and him dead. If you don't succeed, I'm done with you. I'm giving you a way to fix your mistakes."
Martel sat in the armchair staring at Wylie. Then he slowly moved his head to look at the other two. "Are you waiting for something"
Wylie said, "You want us to leave now"
Martel said, "Can you possibly think I don't"
The three men hurried around the room picking up clothes they had thrown on the floor, filling their pockets with keys, wallets, and change they had left on the furniture. "As soon as you're ready you can just go. Leave your room keys and I'll check out for you."
He waited in silence while they finished putting their belongings into suitcases and headed out the door. When they were gone he stood up, went to the window, and waited until he saw their blue Crown Victoria pull away from the building and drive to the exit from the parking lot onto the highway. He put the three room key cards in his pocket and went to the door.
It was these small, day-to-day decisions that made the difference between them and him. They avoided extending themselves if there was any discomfort, let themselves be distracted, stopped trying the minute they felt they'd expended exactly as much effort as they had to.
It depressed him that he had to pay men like these to solve problems for him. Eleven years ago he had started his business with the idea of never doing anything that would attract the attention of the authorities. That would allow him never to hire criminals. But here he was, years later, with not only these three but nine more on his payroll-a dozen men who were engaged in applying various levels of force to protect his interests.
He'd had the simplest sort of business plan. He had started a medical supply company and given it a name that sounded old and established. In order to have merchandise, he would induce a young salesperson from a pharmaceutical company to sell him medical drugs. He specialized in the obvious ones-Oxycontin, methadone, morphine, Vicodin, Valium, and a few others that were in such high demand he could charge huge markups and sell them instantly. For eleven years he had been an enormously successful drug dealer without ever having to step on a dark street or deal with anyone who used drugs.
He always paid the pharmaceutical company's bill on time. That kept the salesperson in the clear and the pharmaceutical company happy. He would produce paperwork that listed small resales to a large number of genuine hospital pharmacies, clinics, medical groups, and universities. The government looked closely at every prescription written for drugs like these. The prescription had to be written by an MD personally on a numbered prescription slip that carried the doctor's medical license number. But no prescriptions were ever written. In theory, the drug just stayed locked up in these institutional facilities for years. The hospital pharmacists had never ordered or received any of these drugs, so they never wondered where the drugs went. The drugs never got onto an
inventory, so they were never reported missing.
Martel's companies never had his name on them. The officers and managers were all doctors. One of his brilliant observations that made his business possible was that it was absolutely futile to go to mature, practicing physicians and present them with a scheme to make extra money. They had money. And the ones who were corruptible were already working schemes of their own and didn't need a partner.
Instead Martel sought out very young doctors, men and women still in medical school or interning. Some were still paying tuition or huge student loans. If they agreed to be on the board of one of his companies, they would receive good pay for doing very little. They might notice at some point that their names appeared on other papers-on the letterhead of company stationery, or even as a signatory of a letter. But they would not know that their credentials were being used to get the company licensed to handle narcotics. After three or four years, the young doctor might move on to another part of the country and forget the relationship, but Martel's companies would not forget him.
Martel had operated some of the companies for as long as eleven years without raising much suspicion. The only way the authorities might find discrepancies was by comparing sales data from the giant pharmaceutical manu-facturers with the records of the hospital pharmacies to which Martel supposedly had sold small amounts of a drug, a form of check that seldom happened. When it did happen, he could produce receipts or drugs on demand. He knew that given the tiny amounts of drugs involved and the age of some of the orders, the authorities would see no point in an investigation.
Whenever it seemed to him that questions were about to be asked, he would dissolve the company or have another company he owned buy it and take over. On some occasions he had even made a show of turning over unsold drugs to the local authorities to be destroyed. When he did that, the bottles were full, but not necessarily full strength. At times he had such quantities of narcotics going through his companies that he could have made a fortune just diverting the number of bottles and pills that would constitute normal breakage from shipping that never took place.