by Meg Gardiner
I reversed course. “Tell Dr. Swayze the guy downstairs . . .”
The two men milling in front of the desk turned in unison. They filled out their suits extraordinarily well. One was Caucasian, late forties, with a sleek haircut and a scar that ran through his eyebrow. His gaze was weightless. The second was African-American, mid-thirties, with a shaved head and a goatee. They should have struck me as sales reps, men who spent off hours buffing up in the gym. But that wasn’t how they carried themselves.
It was their hands. They kept them free at their sides, the way a martial artist does walking down a dark alley, or a cop does when it nears time to reach for a weapon. A noise ticked inside my head. Federal government. The white man was looking at my visitor’s badge, reading my name.
They weren’t wearing visitor’s badges.
The receptionist said, “Hang on, Dr. Swayze,” and put her hand over the receiver to peer at me. “Yes?”
The black man looked at his watch. “We’ll stop back later.”
Without another glance they strolled to the elevator.
The receptionist said, “Miss?”
They weren’t FBI. If they’d been with the Bureau they would have asked me what I was doing here.
I walked toward them. “Excuse me.”
They ignored me. The elevator chimed.
“Sir? Can you wait a minute?”
The doors opened and the men got in. “Sir. Hey.” Scar pushed the button. “Wait.” The black man stared at me and the doors slurred closed.
I turned to the receptionist. “What did those guys want?”
“To join a meeting. They looked at my sign-in sheet to see who else was here for it.”
I crossed back to her desk. My skin prickled. The sign-in sheet had only two names: Dad’s and mine.
“Call security back,” I said. “Ask Archie who they were.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Something’s funny. They didn’t have visitor’s badges. Do it.”
She phoned the lobby. After a moment her expression sharpened. She eyed me.
“They did not check in with the desk. Archie doesn’t like that.” Into the phone she said, “Yeah, they’re coming down.”
I gazed at the elevator. My palms were sweating. “Stairs?”
Still on the phone, she pointed to the right.
“Have Archie tell my boyfriend to stay in the lobby and watch for these guys.”
I took off at a run.
Careering down the stairs, I heard my shoes pound on the concrete and my breathing echo off the walls. The elevators were erratic, so maybe I could beat the two men to the lobby. Gravity and adrenaline were working for me.
They were feds; I felt it like a rash. Why did they U-turn when I walked up?
I reached three and kept going, feeling winded. It was no good. Even with fickle elevators I wouldn’t beat them downstairs. When I hit M2, I slammed the bar on the fire door and bolted out of the stairwell onto the upper mezzanine.
A walkway ran around the floor. The lobby echoed below me and the atrium soared above. To my right, stairs descended to the lower mezzanine, which curved around to a broad staircase down to the lobby.
I ran to the railing and looked down. The painters were on the scaffold near the entrance. Archie was hoofing it toward this bank of elevators, hitching up his droopy gray trousers. He struck me as watchful but only intermittently alert, and I doubted that two federal agents had found it tough to slip past him. Jesse was on the far side of the lobby, waiting at the second bank of elevators.
“Blackburn.”
My voice echoed in the atrium. I waved and he spotted me. He raised his hands, gesturing, What the hell?
Still leaning over the rail, I looked up. Here came the elevator. I caught the scenic view of two blue suits aboard. White face, black face. Salt ’n’ Pepa.
What the hell indeed? What did I plan to do—confront them?
Find out why they wanted to check up on Maureen Swayze and why they’d taken note of my name, that’s what. I backed away from the rail and hit the elevator call button. The feds and I could ride down to the lobby together. Two floors wouldn’t give me much time. But they apparently disliked conversation, so I could skip the pleasantries and boot them straight in the crotch.
Probably just verbally. I put myself in front of the doors. The elevator thrummed, approaching.
And kept going, right on past.
Damn. I ran back to the railing. One floor below, the bell went ding. The elevator stopped and the suits got out.
I ran for the stairs and headed down. Ahead, Salt ’n’ Pepa sauntered along the lower mezzanine toward the broad staircase that curved down to the lobby. Jesse called my name and I pointed at them.
I broke into a jog. “Agent Mulder. Your fly is open.”
Pepa turned, bald head shining like a bowling ball. He spoke to Salt and they picked up their pace.
“Come back and join the meeting,” I said. “We’re serving doughnuts. With sprinkles.”
Below us a group of people walked across the lobby, chatting loudly. Jesse was behind them, looking at me with confusion. Salt ’n’ Pepa reached the staircase and began jogging down, taking the stairs two at a time. I was about to do the same when I saw a janitor’s sign: CAUTION, WET FLOOR. Abruptly I pictured myself tumbling like Scarlett O’Hara down her mansion stairs and losing the baby. Grabbing the rail, I walked down carefully, placing each step so as not to slip.
Below us Archie came across the lobby at a trot, hitching his trousers. “Hey, fellas. Don’t go nowhere.”
People began filing through the revolving door out to the plaza. Salt ’n’ Pepa fell in with them. I reached the bottom of the stairs, hearing Jesse call my name just as they pushed through the door and strode away, surrounded by the crowd.
I hit the revolving door at the same moment as a couple of people coming in from the plaza. They blocked my view, and I pushed around the door leaning sideways, trying not to lose the agents in the pedestrian crowd. I sensed the man on the opposite side of the door focusing on me. I glanced across. His face was turned away. I saw the back of a baseball cap on a blond head.
The sun flashed off the glass in the door and I rushed outside into heat and traffic noise. Where were the feds?
Wrong. Something was . . .
I turned and looked back at the building. The revolving door was still spinning. The blond man in the baseball cap was walking into the lobby, his back to me.
I felt a disconnect.
He had been staring at me. I felt the remains of his gaze like a low-grade electrical buzz. A strange gaze, an old gaze, one that felt as though it had first fallen on me a long time ago.
Sound seemed to vanish. I saw the plate-glass windows reflecting the flash of passing cars. The revolving door spinning to a stop. The painters on the scaffold, lowering cans with a pulley. The stranger walking away, heading straight toward Jesse, who was angling for a side door.
Jesse frowned. Through the glass he mouthed, Ev?
I blinked and put my hand to my forehead. The stranger walked past him. I pointed.
Jesse turned to watch him go. Gave me another glance, as if to say, You want me to do this, right? He called to the man. The stranger kept walking.
Jesse headed after him. Near the scaffold he came up behind the stranger, reached out, and put a hand on his arm. The man stutter-stepped.
Mistake. I’d just made a mistake. Sound boomed back, cacophonous. I ran toward the revolving door.
The stranger yanked his arm away from Jesse. He darted toward the pulley, grabbed the paint can, and swung it straight at Jesse’s head.
“Oh, God.” I shoved through the door into the lobby.
Jesse ducked. The paint can flew past him and smashed into the plate-glass window. With a horrid crack, the glass spidered white. Red paint gushed over it like a wound.
A painter shouted, “Shit!”
The stranger grabbed Jesse by the arms and shoved. He s
ailed backward and crashed into the scaffold. The painters lurched.
“Christ!”
“Hell—”
One fell, grabbing for purchase, and paint cans and rollers and trays crashed down. The painter caught the platform on his way down and grabbed hold, swinging below it, swearing wildly. Scarlet light rippled over him from the fractured window. Archie came running, and a uniformed security guard, and me. The glass wept paint. Below the scaffold debris littered the marble.
In the middle of it Jesse sat frozen, pressing the heels of his hands against the sides of his head, eyes squeezed shut. He was splattered red.
I ran up to him. “Babe.”
He was panting for breath, fighting for air like a stutterer grasping for words.
The uniformed guard stepped forward. “Is that blood?”
I grabbed Jesse by the shoulders. “Are you hurt? What did he do to you?”
The guard pointed. “Damn, he’s bleeding.”
Helplessly I looked at the red mess splattering Jesse’s sleeve and jeans. I wiped my fingers across it.
“It’s paint.” In my voice I heard not relief but confusion and an edge of panic. “Did he hit you, spray you with something, what?”
I looked around. The stranger was gone. I waved at the guard.
“Find the guy. Blond, baseball cap.” I pointed toward the far side of the lobby. I was nearly shouting. “Don’t just stand there. Come on, he’s getting away.”
For a second he hesitated. Then he ran off, pulling a walkie-talkie from his belt.
Jesse battled for air. His heel began bouncing up and down. His right hand drew into a fist and began shaking.
The painter stared at him. “Oh, man.”
Archie backed away. “Crap. He’s having a seizure.”
Jesse’s hand was spasming. He seemed desperate to figure out how to breathe. The lightbulb went on.
I looked up. “Get me a paper bag.”
The painter said, “Stick something in his mouth so he doesn’t swallow his tongue.”
“A paper bag. Come on!’ I put my hands against his cheeks. “Slow down.”
He was hyperventilating. I leaned close to his face.
“Slow. Do it with me.”
Archie waved his arms. “Put my belt in his teeth. No, lay him on the floor.”
Jesse squeezed his eyes shut. I felt him get a handle on it.
Archie backed toward the desk. “I’m getting the paramedics.”
Jesse’s eyes jumped. “No.”
It came out as a cough instead of a word. His expression was pleading and shot through with embarrassment.
“No. It’s okay,” I said.
Archie shook his head. “He’s having a fit. I ain’t messing around with that. I’m calling nine-one-one.”
“Don’t.” Jesse stared at his shaking fist. He breathed out, and in. His foot was still jittering. He pressed down on his knee, trying to stop it.
Archie waved at him. “I don’t want no lawsuit over him having a seizure in my lobby.”
Jesse gritted his teeth. “Do not. Call. The paramedics.”
He forced his fingers apart. His foot kept bouncing. I remembered the same thing happening to me the time I hyperventilated. Too much oxygen, too little carbon dioxide: Blood chemistry shifts and bam, muscle spasms.
I put my hands up appeasingly. “Please. It’s okay.”
“Then I’m logging this as your responsibility, lady.”
Jesse leaned on his knees. Pulled his elbows right back off, noticing for the first time that his jeans were sloppy with red paint.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “What did the guy do to you?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. That sound . . .” He drew a slow breath.
I looked at Archie. “The man in the baseball cap. What the hell did he do to Jesse?”
He and the painter stared back blankly.
“Didn’t you see him?”
The painter shook his head. “Felt the scaffold jerk and then everything crashed down.”
Archie pointed at the revolving door. “I was following those guys who walked out without answering my questions.”
I looked around the lobby. There was no sign of the stranger or the guard who had run after him. I nodded at Archie.
“Call the guard. See if he’s found him.”
Archie took a walkie-talkie from the desk and clicked a button. “Ramos?”
Jesse put his hand on my arm. “Forget it. I’m okay.”
“You don’t understand.” My nerves were crawling. “It was him.”
My father’s voice echoed across the lobby. “Kit, what the hell’s going on down here?”
He was striding toward us. Maureen Swayze was with him, frowning at the mess and the shattered window.
Archie clicked the walkie-talkie again. “Ramos, come in.” The hair on the back of my neck was standing up. “I think Coyote’s here.” I turned to Archie. “The man’s dangerous. Warn the guard.”
“The hell you talking about?” Archie said.
Swayze crossed her arms. “My sentiments exactly.”
Dad looked only slightly less doubting. I grabbed his arm.
“You have to believe me.”
He looked at me, hard, and then at Archie. “Call nine-one-one.”
Archie waved at me derisively. “She told me not to.”
Dad stepped toward him, pulling out his cell phone. “Then take your finger out of your nose and shut down the building.” He punched numbers and put the phone to his ear. “I need the police.”
He spoke rapidly to the dispatcher. My pulse was jumping and gooseflesh was pinching my arms. I glanced nervously around the lobby. Archie huffed behind the desk, looking overtly miffed. Taking a key ring from his belt, he unlocked a cabinet on the wall and pushed a series of buttons on a control panel.
“I’m shutting the garage,” he said.
His face said, Happy now? He trundled toward the far side of the lobby, jingling the keys in his hand, and kept calling the guard on the walkie-talkie.
Dad, still on with the police, turned to me. “What did he look like?”
“Blond hair. Slight. Pale.” I ran my hand into my hair. “I didn’t see his face, but he freaked me out, something about him . . .”
He put a hand on my arm. “Focus and remember. How tall was he?”
“Maybe my height? But not huge. Slight.” My hands were cold. “Ask Jesse. The guy grabbed him.”
Jesse looked up. “The guy who swung the paint can? I just saw the back of his head.”
“What do you mean? He shoved you into the scaffold.”
Dad stepped toward him. “For Christ’s sake, it may be the killer.”
I put out an arm to block him. “He stared you in the face for three or four seconds.”
Jesse looked as though a crushing weight had just landed on him. “No. I don’t remember seeing him.”
At the desk a buzzer went off. Dimly, we heard an alarm ringing. Swayze went behind the desk and bent over a control panel, frowning.
“It’s the parking garage elevator.”
We heard a fire door slam open. Archie came stumbling around the corner, hands out, mouth wide. The buzzer and alarm continued ringing.
“What is it?” I said.
He stumbled to the desk and grabbed a phone. His hands were shaking.
“Ramos.” He stared at the phone as though wondering how the hell it worked. “He’s downstairs in the parking garage elevator. He’s . . .”
His fingers hovered over the numbers. He was panting. He dialed 911.
Dad and I looked at each other and took off around the corner. We ran down the stairs to level one of the parking garage, pushed the door open, and looked around. The garage was an echo chamber of concrete. At the exit ramp a mesh grate had come down, sealing the way out. We ran to the elevator.
“Oh, shit,” I said.
The door was slowly opening and closing, like a pair of clapping hands. Ramos lay inside
, with his head in the doorway. The doors closed, bumped his head, and slowly opened again. Dad jammed himself in the door to stop it. He hit a button inside, locking the door open. Bent down and put his fingers to the guard’s neck.
“He has a pulse.” He looked around at the garage, and back at me. “I’m sorry, Evan.”
He didn’t doubt me anymore.
Eighty miles east, the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department helicopter hovered above the field. Two hundred feet up, rotors beating, it turned so the scene off the I-10 came into full view. Two sheriff’s cars were stopped on the shoulder, a riot of lights flashing blue and red.
On the freeway shoulder an officer was interviewing the man who’d discovered it. The man was sitting on the ground. From the radio chatter, he’d almost had a heart attack running back to the freeway and flagging down another driver with a cell phone.
Two officers were walking across the field, weapons drawn. The chopper stayed high to keep from flattening the grass with its downwash. Cutting through the yellow grass were tire tracks. They ran off the freeway and angled across the field for a hundred yards, ending at a copse of trees. From up here, the back end of the green Volvo wagon was visible. The officers approached the car.
14
Coyote strode down the alley behind Argent Tower, putting distance between himself and the underground parking garage. The security guard had dropped like an amateur. The mesh grate had rattled down far too slowly to keep him from running up the exit ramp.
What was going on?
The woman coming through the revolving door, she was China Lake. One of them. The man he’d shoved into the scaffolding as well. They were trying to stop him. He stared at the sleeve of his button-down shirt. The man had touched him. He should not have done that. His lips drew back over his teeth. He pulled off the shirt and balled it up and shoved it into a Dumpster.
He had seen the two agents striding across the plaza. They were nowhere near invisible.
This was wrong.
They wanted to get to Sway. He could not conclude otherwise. They wanted to interrogate her, suck out the information she could provide. And that would point them toward the mission. No. He could not allow that. Sway was his.
The China Lake people—they should not have been able to draw the connection between Sway and the mission. No, this was something that had to be fixed. Fast. Nobody could be permitted to stop him.