Jack Kilborn & Ann Voss Peterson & J. A. Konrath

by Flee - a Thriller

  The door slid open. I heard the clatter of running footsteps, the bark of voices. Outside the lobby doors a circus of flashing lights exploded red and blue. Blue uniformed police officers blocked the exit, trying to control the crowd. Two officers pushed through the revolving door and into the lobby.

  I scanned the area, stopping on the yellow and black Best Buy sign just off the lobby. I started in that direction, willing Kaufmann to come along.

  For a second, his body physically swayed toward the cops. Then he focused on me, and we walked into the electronics shop. We blended with shoppers and minutes later, made it out the exit, swept by the crowd. A block away, we managed to flag a cab, leaving Hancock Center behind.

  “Debriefing is essential,” The Instructor said. “It’s not called the Intelligence business because people are smart. Knowledge is power. When debriefing, think like a reporter. Who, what, where, when, how, and why. And learn to know when a subject is lying. Everybody lies.”

  Settling into the cab, I got my first good look at Kaufmann. In the bright sunlight, he looked even more pale than he had in the parking ramp. His gray hair stuck to his forehead. He smelled of blood and the slightly metallic scent that accompanied fear. I cupped my hands over his, cradled in his lap. His skin felt cold and clammy, his pulse disturbingly fast.

  For a second, I thought about risking a hospital. I discarded the idea before we had traveled a block. I had to go with my training, not my emotion. And my training was telling me whoever had gotten to Jacob wouldn’t let police or hospital security get in his way. After my rescue of Kaufmann, they knew where I was vulnerable, and they would use him to reach me, just as Cory had. My only chance to keep him alive was protecting him myself.

  I gave the cabbie an address about a block from Victor’s apartment. Normally I would double back, change cabs, or do some other counter surveillance moves, ending up several blocks from my destination and walking the remainder of the distance. But Kaufmann had lost a lot of blood. I needed to get him to a safe place where he could rest and I could get my hands on first aid supplies. My friendly neighborhood EMT could provide both.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked, nodding to his hand.

  “I’ve had better days.”

  The cab took a right turn and the shifting sunlight brought out the depth of shadows under his eyes.

  “It’s later,” Kaufmann said, his kind eyes meeting mine.

  I nodded, knowing he was referencing the promise I’d made in the parking ramp to explain what I could.

  “Cory escaped from Stateville two weeks ago. He must have noticed you at his trial, figured out you were important to me.”

  Of course Cory had. Back then, he could read me like a billboard. I should have thought of that. The moment I heard of Cory’s escape, I should have made sure Kaufmann had some kind of protection.

  “I’m not asking about Cory. I could figure that one out on my own.” He glanced at the cabbie, then back at me. “Who were the men in the SUV?”

  I looked Kaufmann straight in the eye. At least I could answer this question truthfully. “I don’t know.”

  “But they have something to do with your job?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your job exactly?”

  I wished I could tell him. But while spilling my guts would make me feel better and less alone, it would only put Kaufmann in more danger.

  His brows dipped low. “You’re not going to tell me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Will more of them be after us?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Hopefully, not for a while.” At least with my phone stashed at the John Hancock Center, they wouldn’t be able to find me so easily. And I doubted they’d foresee me returning to Victor’s. That move was decidedly not by-the-book.

  “Does Cory have anything to do with them?”

  “I don’t know.” I’d been over and over it. I couldn’t see a connection no matter how I tried, but maybe Kaufmann could help shed some light on that. “How did Cory manage to abduct you?”

  “There was a knock on my apartment door. I opened it.”

  “When?”

  “About twenty minutes before he called you this morning. I opened the door, and he pushed inside.” He glanced out the window as if unwilling to meet my eyes. Or ashamed.

  I wanted to ask why he’d answered some random knock, but I held my tongue. Kaufmann was a smart man, but smart people could do stupid things when unaware of their surroundings. He obviously knew he shouldn’t have opened the door. The last thing I wanted to do was rub it in his face. “Did he hold you in your apartment?”

  Kaufmann nodded. “Until we left to meet you.”

  I hadn’t seen that coming. I’d assumed Cory would take him somewhere else, somewhere tougher for me to locate. Not that it mattered, since I hadn’t had much opportunity to storm Kaufmann’s apartment this morning. Maybe Cory didn’t really care where I caught up with him just so I did. “Did Cory seem to be working with someone? Taking orders over the phone or in person?”

  “He wasn’t taking orders. And he never talked on the phone except when he called you.” Kaufmann turned away from me and faced the window. “You haven’t asked how he got your number.”

  “That wasn’t your fault, Kaufmann.

  He faced me again, his eyes intent. “I didn’t give it to him.”

  “I believe you.”

  “He knocked me around, but I didn’t.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Kaufmann.”

  “He would have killed me. And I would have let him before I gave you up. But the girl found my cell phone, Found your number. It had your real name, not Carmen, or Judy, or Emma, or any of the ones you’ve used over the years. Stupid old man making stupid mistakes…”

  His eyes glassed over. I gripped his good hand, squeezing hard. “This isn’t your fault.”

  He sniffled, trying on a pathetic grin. “Sure as hell doesn’t feel that way.”

  “The only one to blame here is Cory.” I pictured the teenager who ran from the car after I’d shot out the tire. “Tell me about the girl.”

  Kaufmann’s voice grew hushed, the kind of tone reserved for disturbing tragedies. “She was the reason I opened the door. She said she needed help. Fourteen years old, the poor, misguided thing.”

  My stomach felt queasy, and I knew it had nothing to do with the adrenaline now ebbing from my system. A bad taste rose in the back of my throat. “She’s fourteen?”

  “Same age you were.”

  “Let me guess. She’s come from a lousy background, thinks she’s finally found someone who cares, is there for her. Her soulmate.”

  “Don’t know the details, but I’m sure you’re right.”

  I followed his gaze to the bloody t-shirt wrapping his hand. Emotion battered at the edges of my self-control. I’d found a way to move beyond all Cory had done to me, but the thought of him doing the same to another, the thought of him hurting Kaufmann to punish me…I heaved a long, cold breath. “As soon as I can, I’ll take care of Cory, don’t worry.”

  “I don’t care about Cory. I’m just worried about you.”

  If Kaufmann was anyone else, I would hate that he knew I once was that fourteen-year-old girl, that he could see the vulnerability in me now. But while I’d deluded myself into believing Cory was there for me all those years ago, over the years Kaufmann had proven he actually was. If not for him, I’d be nothing but a broken shell. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle Cory.”

  He tilted his head in acknowledgement. “And the girl?”

  “I just hope she ends up with a parole officer like you, old man. I’m just afraid you’re one of a kind.”

  Kaufmann pressed his lips into a tight smile.

  For a few blocks, he stared out the window and said nothing. The whisper of breath through his nostrils came faster. His blood loss over the last few hours was catching up with him. I watched the street behind us, looking for tails. I thought of asking the cabbie t
o circle the block once before dropping us off, but decided against it. I needed to stop Kaufmann’s bleeding and get fluids into him. I couldn’t have him going into shock.

  “You’re a spy, aren’t you?” he whispered.

  I shot a look at the cabbie, saw he was fiddling with the radio.

  “Sort of.”

  Kaufmann nodded. “I always suspected. No job, yet money to spare. Always moving. Changing names every few months. Then once and a while, disappearing for a few weeks at a time.”

  “Maybe I’m a bank robber.”

  He shook his head. “No. Not after what you went through with Cory. You wouldn’t do anything like that again.”

  I had a mini flashback. Being young and stupid, falling for the bad boy twice my age because my step-father didn’t give two shits what I did. Cory broke me in slowly. First sex. Then drugs. Then some petty crime. Busting open a vending machine. Robbing a bum. Snatching a purse from an old lady.

  Then it got worse. Then people starting dying.

  At the trial, I played the innocent, brainwashed victim. Forced to participate in a four-state crime wave. I never pulled a single trigger, never cut a single throat.

  But I never tried to stop Cory, either. I’d done everything he told me to do all because of my misguided, girlish crush. Whatever love I thought I’d had for him died the moment he shot that first bartender.

  I hadn’t tried to stop him. I hadn’t even tried to run away. I just went along, like I had before. Not for love any longer, but because I was scared out of my goddamn mind. And when it finally all ended—in a police car chase that wound up being broadcast on World’s Most Dangerous Criminals, with our car flipped over in a lake and sinking fast—I was still so afraid, I couldn’t move. Not even as the water seeped in and inched up my body. Not even as it covered my face.

  Not even when the police pulled me out of the lake and brought me back to life.

  I didn’t make a sound for three days after they saved me. My first utterance was sobbing, and that went on for two more days.

  I would have been thrown in the loony bin if it wasn’t for Murray Kaufmann, juvenile probation officer extraordinaire. Kaufmann had brought me back. Helped me get my head on straight. Helped me testify. I wound up getting two years in juvie hall, but Kaufmann saw me through that, too. He never gave up on me.

  And I’d be damned if I was going to give up on him.

  The cabbie stopped at the address I’d given. I paid him with cash from the yellow bag and helped Kaufmann out onto the sidewalk. Beyond the usual traffic noises, a dog yapped from a parked car and the thump of woofers rattled the windows of an apartment across the street. I detected no unusual scents, either, aside from the odors of blood, stress, and the faint whiff of the wintergreen lifesavers Kaufmann favored. No one seemed to be following. From what I could tell, ditching the phone had done the trick.

  I took Kaufmann’s arm. “Lean on me.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll be okay. Really.”

  Half a block later, I slipped my arm around his back, and he let me prop him up. It wasn’t easy, as I was coping with injuries of my own along with my duffle and the yellow bag. But we managed without falling.

  We approached Victor’s building from the opposite direction and limped into the back entrance. By the time we’d reached the apartment, I couldn’t help noticing Kaufmann’s lean was heavier, his steps growing more unsure.

  Victor was still unconscious when we entered. He lay in an awkward position on the floor, his wrists still bound behind his back with the zip tie, his knees bent, ankles similarly hitched together. For a moment I felt guilty for what I’d done to him. Then I stashed the emotion away. If Victor was the mild-mannered, Sox fan EMT he said he was, I would have time to regret drugging and binding him later.

  “Who is he?” Kaufmann asked.

  “A friend.”

  Kaufmann’s brows arched.

  If he was rethinking his friendship with me right about now, I wouldn’t blame him. “It’s complicated.”

  “Obviously.”

  A low trilling sound came from the hall.

  I spun in time to see Mozart rub against the door molding. She wound between Kaufmann’s legs and rubbed her fat, calico body against me from whiskers to tail.

  At least Victor’s cat thought I was all right. Somehow that pleased me more than it should.

  I ushered Kaufmann into the kitchen. The room was cramped, barely big enough for a small table slid against one wall. I smelled the faint odor of fried eggs, dish soap, and sour milk coming from the sink. Victor’s jacket hung on the back of the only chair. I guided Kaufmann to sit, and after checking the jacket’s pockets and finding them empty, I threw it around his shoulders.

  A search of the refrigerator turned up a bottle of orange juice. I opened the twist top and gave it a sniff. Satisfied it was fresh, I gave it to Kaufmann and ordered him to drink. At least that would hydrate him and raise his blood sugar while I focused on stopping the bleeding. “Let me take a look at that hand.”

  He set the bottle of juice on the table. Steadying himself with his good hand, he nodded and held out the other. “Go ahead.”

  I unwound the bloody t-shirt, trying to steel myself against the tight expression of pain pinching his face and the sweat beading along his hairline. His skin looked like wax.

  The strong copper-sweet odor of blood oozed over me, making my stomach hitch. I clamped my bottom lip between my teeth and forced myself to look at the damage I’d caused. Where his index finger should be, there was only a stub. Blood surged from the wound in time with his pulse. But as bad as it looked, I let out a breath of relief. At least Cory had taken the finger off at the joint and not severed the bone.

  “What are you going to do?” Kaufmann’s voice was weak, his words forced out between clenched teeth.

  “I’m going to disinfect it and put in a few sutures. I should be able to slow the bleeding, help it clot.”

  He took a long drink then set the bottle of juice on the table. Swiping his good hand over his face, he let out a sigh. “Got a bullet for me to bite?”

  “I was thinking of something more pharmaceutical…and effective.”

  “Thank God.”

  I led him into Victor’s bedroom. Once Kaufmann was comfortable on the bed, I dumped the yellow bag filled with money in the closet and pulled a clean syringe from my duffle along with the amobarbital I’d used on Victor. There was no need for Kaufmann to be clear-headed. Better to send him into a haze where the pain would be more bearable. Even better if he could sleep. And one of the best side effects of the amobarbital was the touch of amnesia it left behind. I couldn’t erase the trauma Cory had put Kaufmann through, couldn’t restore his finger, but at least he wouldn’t have to remember the next few hours.

  “Care to hurry with that?” He gave me a little smile, but I could tell the gesture had taken a good amount of effort.

  “By the time you wake up fully, the worst of this will have passed.” I rolled up his sleeve and gave him the shot. “I’m so sorry, Kaufmann. For your finger. For Cory. For all of it.”

  He shook his head. Raising his good hand, he brushed my words from the air. “No reason to be sorry. You saved me, just like you said you would. But even more, you saved yourself.”

  I narrowed my eyes on him, not following.

  “When I first met you, you were on a bad path.”

  “An understatement.”

  “You changed, turned your life around, made something of yourself. I don’t know the details of your job, and I don’t think I want to. But I can tell what you’re doing, it’s important.”

  A flush of heat pooled in my cheeks. I thought about the many men I’d killed. Bad men, every one, according to their dossiers. I could refuse jobs and had in the past. The only people I’d sanctioned had it coming.

  But still, a contract killer is a contract killer. Even one who worked for Uncle Sam. “Kaufmann, I’m not exactly a Girl Scout. I’ve…”

>   “Hush. I’ve been a parole officer for a lot of years. I’ve seen a lot of young people get caught by bad choices. Very few can pull themselves out. You did.” His words were a little slurred now, the amobarbital taking effect.

  I put my hand on his shoulder and guided him back on the bed. “Just relax.”

  “I just want you to know…” His eyes became hooded, as if he was fighting to keep them open.

  “Know what?”

  “Couldn’t be prouder if you were my own daughter.” Kaufmann’s eyelids dropped lower. “Just want you to know that.”

  I blinked and tried to swallow the tightness in my throat. I’d gotten him into this. All of it. And instead of blaming me, he’d given me what had to be the best words anyone had ever said to me.

  I opened my mouth to explain what he meant to me, how much I loved him like I loved my own parents who died when I was too, too young, but then I shut it without speaking, watching his breath settle into the steady rhythm of sleep. I replayed what he’d said in my mind, feeling the history, the emotion, the texture of each word, and then I folded and tucked them in the most private place in my heart. When he woke, I’d tell him all he meant to me, not that anything I could say would suffice.

  For now, I just had to hope he knew.

  I pushed up from the side of the bed and tossed the syringe into a waste basket. I had some basic supplies in my duffle, but from my earlier search of the place, I knew Victor had more. I rummaged through the bathroom medicine cabinet, collecting items I might need. When I stepped into the hall, I heard the stir of movement in the apartment’s main room.

  “I can help with that.”

  I jumped at Victor’s voice, my heartbeat launching into double-time. Pulling the pistol from my waistband, I slid into the room.

  Victor lay in the same spot, still tied. No one else was in the room but Mozart, curled on the back of an overstuffed chair, giving herself a bath. I detected a whiff of cat box I hadn’t noticed earlier. The theme music for Jeopardy wafted through the walls from next door.

  Satisfied the apartment was still secure, I put my weapon away.