by Cat Connor
Mac kissed me on the cheek and stood up. “I’m going with you.”
Bob smiled and firmly said, “No, you’re not.” They hugged before Bob vanished into the night, his footsteps muffled by the grass verge of the driveway.
“Come on.” Mac took my hand and helped me to my feet. “Let’s go back inside.”
We used the front door rather than trying to get by the agents, crime scene investigators, and medical examiner by the back door.
Mac checked on his Mom, who was sleeping. We tiptoed from the room.
“How can she sleep through this?” I wondered aloud.
“She’s medicated. Otherwise, she doesn’t sleep at all.”
“Oh.” That made sense and after seeing her in action, I guessed the only real peace Bob found was when she slept. If I were him, I’d be tempted to medicate her during the day as well.
Mac and I located Caine and made sure he knew we were going back to our room; while we were with him I asked about the identity of the victim.
“One of ours.” Caine’s lips pressed together. He was a very unhappy camper. “One half of the decoy team that aided your covert escape from Rockbridge.”
“Who?”
I hadn’t recognized the cloudy dead eyes I’d seen earlier. He’d dangled from a tree, partially obscured by branches, and I didn’t get a good look. I knew the next time I saw him he’d look fabulous. It amazed me how morticians could make the dead appear as if they’re simply asleep.
“Lane McNab.”
“He was supposed to be me?” I knew him; he wasn’t a big guy and a few inches shorter than me.
“Yes, he was. We had him wear a cap like yours with a long blonde wig under it.”
“How’d he get him in a tree?” He would’ve been five feet six tops and had a slight frame was – almost weedy – but dead weight is hard to maneuver.
“He looped a rope around McNab’s neck then threw the rope over a thick branch and pulled. It was tied off to a lower branch. It wouldn’t have taken him long to hoist him up. With no dogs and lots of trees and shrubbery in this neighborhood, he could’ve easily come in through neighboring properties, unseen.”
“But carrying a dead weight, a man?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized he might not have been whole.
“Half a man. His lower body was missing from the waist down.”
I had nothing to say to that. “We’ll be in our room.”
Mac and I walked away. I shushed Mac as soon as he started to speak, “Let’s wait till we know.” His face betrayed his need to apologize for the conversation I’d overheard, and there really was no need for him to do so.
I sat on the bed and watched him pacing, surprised he didn’t wear a track in the carpet. We suffered the longest twenty minutes in history. We even checked our email twice, but there was no word this time from the Unsub. Just as the waiting began to take its toll we heard Bob’s voice outside the door, “I’ll be right with you, Caine, let me just talk to Mac for a second.”
The door opened, Bob hurried in and handed me the mascara. “This is it, and the number on it is ZYC-4225.”
I held the innocuous object in my hand and I didn’t know if I was shaking externally, but all my internal organs jumped at once and took their time to settle. I decided it was time I changed mascara brands. Bob excused himself to speak with Caine.
“Now what?” Mac’s arm slipped around my waist as he sat behind me on the bed.
“I have to get to Washington. I need to run that number.” My stomach churned with the possibility of the device being one of ours.
“Can’t you do it from here?”
“Nope, I don’t have access to the entire system from my laptop.”
Mac was thinking. I felt his chin on my shoulder, and his jaw clench. “I’m presuming you don’t want Caine or anyone else knowing where we are going?”
I had given this as much thought as I was able and had a semi-formulated plan. “There is a way. We can use the tunnel.”
Mac moved to face me. “The old tunnel under Fairfax hospital?”
“Uh huh.”
“How far does it go?” Mac asked. “Can we get into DC under the river?”
I nodded. “After you told me a year or so ago about the tunnel, I did some checking. Remember I said there was a tunnel under the White house?”
“Jesus! It goes to the White House?” The surprise was evident in his voice.
“It links to the White House-Capitol Hill tunnel.”
“Jesus!”
“It’s a bit of a walk and may be wet in parts, but it is a quick way to get into the city undetected.”
Mac frowned. “Ellie.” He shook his head. “There is no way we can walk that far and get back in a reasonable time frame.”
“I know but here’s the cool thing ... Fairfax hospital is right across Gallows Road from Mobil Oil Corp, yes?”
He nodded.
“They have an underground parking garage. Our tunnel goes under Mobil, there’s a gate inside the parking garage.”
And I used to think my mind contained useless information, gleaned solely to amuse myself.
“Okay.”
“You used to ride motocross, yes?”
He nodded again.
“Know anyone who’ll lend us a bike?”
Mac grinned. “Hell, yeah, I do.”
“There you have it!”
“Apart from a bike, we need anything else?”
“Bolt cutters.”
“I’ll get Dad to get the bolt cutters from his garage.”
“Groovy.”
“What are we going to do with that?” Mac referred to the mascara in my hand.
“Leave it at the hospital; that’s where everyone will think we will be.” I smiled and tapped my head. “Looks like this concussion of mine is going to need monitoring.”
Eighteen
Needles And Pins
Mac shut the bedroom door. His Dad was down the hallway ready to intercept anyone heading in our direction. We had a plan to put into action. It involved calling his friend Davy and borrowing his Suzuki motocross bike.
I love it when a plan comes together. The theme from The A-Team rushed through my mind, and I felt about as nuts as Howling Mad Murdoch. I ended the A-Team vision with a well-placed “pity the fool” and let my mind drift into MacGyver and settle. This was way more of a MacGyver situation than an A-Team one.
Mac moved the telephone to the bed and dialed. He pressed the speaker button as he did so.
“Speaker?” I queried.
“We’re running out of time, this way I can carry on getting our stuff together.”
“Okay.” I settled back against the pile of pillows and waited for the ringing to stop. My stuff was together, and I had my gun, badge, wallet and mascara. I stuffed the mascara and my wallet into my jacket pocket.
A sleepy voice came from the telephone, “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Mac replied.
A waspish reply replaced the sleepiness, “Go figure!” Davy sucked in air and continued in a manner that conveyed real concern. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling, I even went by—”
I watched Mac’s face as he listened. He frowned but said nothing and shoved his arms into his brown leather jacket. He adjusted the collar with a deft flick of his wrists.
“There was police tape all over, I go to your dad and he tells me ‘Davy, don’t worry’– what the fuck?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I bet. It’s nearly eleven p.m. You woke me up. I got time.”
“Can I borrow the RM?”
“Now?”
“Uh huh.”
“You want it now? The middle of the fuc’n night?”
“Yep.”
“You in some kind of trouble?”
Mac looked at me, with a “How do I answer that?” expression. I shrugged. It changed to “You’re a fat lot of help.”
Davy’s voice was clear as he asked agai
n, “Mac? You in deep shit?”
“Nah, ankle depth is all. I need the bike, Davy.”
“You got it, where and when?”
“Mobil on Gallows Road, in half an hour. We’ll meet you just inside the main entrance.”
“We?”
“Ellie and I.”
“Ellie, the blonde chick you had coffee with at Borders about a month ago?”
I spoke, “Hey, Davy, and yeah, that Ellie.”
“Ah. Hi, Ellie.”
“The bike?” Mac fastened the dome snaps on his sleeve cuffs.
“I’ll be there. This is a story I really wanna hear.”
“Thanks, Davy, take care.” He turned off the speaker and returned the phone to the top of the bureau. “You set?” Mac patted his pockets.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, and grinned. “Your wallet is on the bed.”
“Thank you.” He paused and looked at the bed. His eyes narrowed. “Lie down, and look sick, dammit!”
“Okay.”
I lay down and attempted to look sick. I’d been feeling better and better, so it wasn’t as easy as I first thought.
“I’m going to get Caine and Dad. Sick, remember?”
“I can vomit if you want.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary but thanks so much for the offer.”
Closing my eyes, I wondered what Mac had in his pockets. A pack of gum? And some string maybe? A Swiss army knife? I wouldn’t have been surprised to find he did have sticks of gum, string and a Swiss army knife; he was very MacGyver-like. MacGyver dreams carried me into real sleep.
Mac whispering in my ear successfully brought me back from dreamland. “Keep your eyes closed. I’m going to carry you out to the car. Caine’s watching.”
I listened to Caine give instructions about staying with me, then the car door closed and the engine started.
When I opened my eyes, we’d passed the end of the street and were headed toward the hospital.
Mac and I were in the back seat, with my head on his lap. I sat up.
“Everything go okay?” I asked.
“Yes. He didn’t argue at all.”
Of course he didn’t. It’s Caine. I’m part of his team. He’s all about the team.
Mac said to Bob, who drove, “How far away are we now?”
“Almost there, boyo.”
“You’re enjoying this aren’t you, Bob?” I couldn’t help it, he was like a pig in muck, and it was obvious.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I see Davy’s truck,” Bob said as he turned into Mobil.
“Me, too,” Mac said. “Two bikes? No way!”
We exited the vehicle and joined Davy by the tailgate of his truck. A big guy, tall and solid in appearance, his head sported a dark colored ball cap. I wouldn’t have been surprised had it been a coonskin cap. A red flannel shirt peeked out from under the turned-up collar of his sheepskin-lined brown corduroy jacket. Mac and Davy shook hands and did the man-hug thing. It involved a lot of backslapping. I just bet he had a rifle in his truck. Drizzly rain settled on us, not enough to be wetting but just enough to be annoying. I expended great effort to rid myself of the Ballad of Davy Crockett.
“You might need help with whatever it is that got me out here at zero-two-thirty.” Davy said then turned to Bob and me. “Good to see ya, Ellie. Bob.”
Not quite trusting myself to speak yet, for fear of what craziness might pop out of my mouth, along the Davy Crockett path, I smiled at Davy.
“I appreciate it, Davy, I really do, but not this time,” Mac replied and turned his attention to the bikes. “No way! That can’t be my old bike.”
Davy grinned. “Hell, yeah, it is. Still got y’number on it an’ all.”
Speechless, Mac’s mouth moved but sound eluded him.
I felt the need to intervene. Mac’s jaw flapped in the breeze. I hoped I could speak without breaking out with the Ballad of Davy Crockett.
Just don’t say his name.
“We appreciate your help but we have to move – we don’t have much time.”
“I hear ya, Ellie,” he replied, and undid the tailgate then removed the tie-down straps from Mac’s bike. Everything was slippery from the light rain.
“Bob, before you head back, fill Davy in as much as you can.”
“Will do.”
Mac ran his hands over his bike leaving a finger trail in the wet. He knelt down and traced the number still visible on the side, number thirty-seven. I wished I had a camera to capture the look of disbelief on his face. He straightened up when Davy tapped his shoulder. “Lids,” he said, handing us a helmet each. “Safety first.” For some reason, hearing those words come out of Davy’s mouth amused me.
Bob helped me put on the backpack. It was light and contained essentials, bolt cutters, flashlights and a first aid kit. We both wore holsters and guns. I had the magic mascara in my jacket pocket, which I pulled out and handed to Bob. “Find somewhere safe for this, in the hospital.”
“I know just the place, don’t worry about it.”
I had confidence in Bob and believed nobody would find the bug, and our signal would suggest we were in Fairfax hospital. “Three hours, we’ll be back within three hours.”
A plume of blue smoke poured from the exhaust of the bike. The smell of two-stroke filled the damp air. I fastened my helmet and climbed up behind Mac. Like most motocross bikes, this one was built for speed not for the comfort of pillion passengers. I kicked the pegs down and felt lucky to have them at all, then tapped Mac’s shoulder.
“All set?”
“Yep,” I replied. I slid my arms around his waist, shoving my hands in his jacket pockets for warmth.
We cut the first lot of chains with the bolt cutters a matter of minutes after entering the underground parking garage. I had estimated we would find eight gates. We found and opened seven. Some were very old. The iron was rusty, but not the chains securing them. It was a quick trip into Washington. I began to count markings on the wall knowing we would soon approach the White House underground. There were rusted-iron ladders rising up the sides of the cold, damp tunnel at irregular intervals.
I tapped Mac and said loudly, “A hundred yards.”
“Okay.”
We planned to leave the bike and climb one of the ladders. With any luck, it would emerge right next to the old executive building or, more precisely, between the executive building and the White House. Would be good if the old rusty ladders held our weight too.
Mac killed the engine. We removed our helmets and left them with the bike, sure we had reached the correct ladder. Even so, I crossed my fingers.
We were in a dark damp tunnel that seemed to run on forever, the only discernable markings being faint numbers that dated back to the civil war, so I wasn’t entirely certain where we were.
Mac’s hand slipped the flashlight from mine. He shone the beam all the way up our chosen ladder. It was intact, which was a good sign. He gave the ladder a forceful shake. He applied a little weight to the bottom rung, then a little more. To our relief it held. Mac grabbed the edges of the ladder and jumped on the bottom rung. It shook and groaned but held firm. He shone the flashlight back up to the top again.
“What’s up there?”
“Manhole cover.”
“Okay.” He shone the beam around a little more. “Will we be visible when we exit?”
Not if I use my superhero power of invisibility.
“It’s sheltered; we should be okay.” I crossed my fingers tighter.
“All right, up you go,” Mac said as he shoved the flashlight into the backpack then slung the backpack over his shoulder. “I’m right behind you. Count off eighteen rungs then wait.”
It was pitch dark, and the rungs were slippery causing me take extreme care with my footing.
I reached the eighteenth rung and called down to Mac, “Eighteen.”
A question I should have considered earlier popped into my mind as I clung to the cold ladder, how were we go
ing to open the manhole? A second later, I felt Mac’s feet on either side of mine, and his body pressed against me. He reached over my head. The ladder groaned under us as he applied force to the manhole cover. I swear that man has superhuman upper-body strength. The cover above our heads creaked ominously and gave way to the force applied by Mac. With much MacGyver skill, he climbed over me as he shoved the cover aside.
All I could see was a dark form crouched above me. His hand reached down. “Come on.” I climbed the last few rungs and water dripped onto my face. Miserable rain fell. As soon as I cleared the tunnel Mac slid the cover back. We stood in the dismal Washington night and surveyed our position. We were where I hoped we’d be, on the White House side of the old executive building.
“Let’s get going.” Mac took my hand. “Who knows what’s lurking in the shadows of the city at this time of night.”
We walked, hand in hand, towards the Hoover building. The streets appeared mainly deserted, apart from a few small groups of unsavory-looking characters. They served to remind us why no one in their right mind would walk through Washington DC after dark. Unless they were armed and on a mission.
Yeah, right! Like that would protect us. Damn, I did it again!
My mind picked up on the Mission and the Blues Brothers theme song rampaged through my head.
We’re okay.
The rain fell steadily by the time we reached the Hoover building. We hurried up the steps and into the foyer. I grabbed Mac’s hand as we walked to the elevator leaving a trail of water behind us.
“Why is there no one around?” Mac asked as we stepped into the elevator. I pressed the second floor button.
“Dunno. I don’t often wander about here at this time of night.”
The door opened onto another deserted floor.
“It’s creepy.”
“Yep,” I replied, leading the way down the corridor to a large office at the very end. “This is it.” I tried the door. Locked. I fished a key card from my pocket and swiped it then swung the door open.
Mac’s eyes widened, “Where’d that come from?”
“Fell out of Caine’s wallet earlier this evening.” I shut the door behind us. The only drawback to using Caine’s card was that the computer now registered him as being in the building. On the plus side, it meant it didn’t register me.