In Death's Shadow

by Stephen Davidson

  In the car, she was sandwiched in between the men in the backseat. The third man, who had been sitting in the car and looked much like the first two, started the engine. They drove five or ten minutes through back streets until they hit Memorial Drive. Taking a right, they went east into town. Minutes later, they turned into a motel with drive-up rooms and a dark parking lot.

  The driver got out, went to one of the rooms, and opened it. A man on each side of her, Ree was then dragged inside. The lights were already on. The room was small, with two beds and a table with two chairs.

  The taller of the two men threw her down onto the farthest bed, taped her ankles together, and pushed her back down flat. She didn’t resist. There was no point.

  The tape bit into her skin.

  The two men sat in the chairs by the table and watched television, an HBO movie. The third left. She had seen no signs of the other man, the one from her past, since earlier in the afternoon.

  At least now she felt clearer, more like she could do something if the opportunity arose. She was determined. She would get that son of a bitch. Doing it slowly, she tensed and relaxed her arms and legs trying to work the tape loose.

  The effects of the drug had worn off. Earlier in the day, she had been fed a cheeseburger and fries. They’d even given her more water to drink. Then they had made her take a shower and had given her new clothes. At first she’d resisted, but they’d shoved her into the small shower stall and made no attempt to bother her.

  The clothes she’d been provided, a pair of jeans and a blouse, fit reasonably well. They had returned her the tennis shoes she had been wearing. What had happened to her old clothes, she didn’t know.

  Yes, given a chance, she was going to bolt. At the moment, the most she could do was roll over. The men changed the channel and now were watching Jeopardy! and calling out the answers. They were wrong on most of them. That at least was pleasing.

  Twenty-Two

  Dr. Thomas Rendon strode through the doorway into his lodgings, and stripping his coat off, he threw it on the couch. He didn’t bother to turn on the light. The air in the apartment smelled musty and felt cool. He’d spent little time there lately. The office in the health department had begun to seem like home. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button on his shirt. Then, changing his mind, he pulled the tie off and tossed it on the couch.

  Walking to the kitchen in the dark, he bumped into the recliner and finally trudged back to turn on the overhead light and look around. On the coffee table lay strewn a dozen professional journals. All of them were open to articles on retroviruses. All were ones he had brought back from the office. Despite reducing his time for sleep even more, he’d skimmed each one. None of them had helped. He walked to the table and swept the entire pile onto the floor. No known retrovirus could survive in a dry powder like the drug, and that was certain. The “Stripper’s Death” must have mutated from something else down in the moist environs of the tropical forest. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Outside, he heard the distant rumble of a thunderstorm. Early for such a storm, he thought, but spring was coming close, and with it the games that wouldn’t be.

  He cursed.

  They just needed more time. That was all. More time to identify the virus. More time to find the man who had brought the drug into the country and learn who it had been distributed to and if there were any other sources. More time to assure themselves of how it spread.

  He sat on the couch and put his feet up on the now empty surface of the coffee table. Next to his left foot a small, thick white circle stained the wood. He moved his feet over to cover it.

  What could he do? He’d made all the calls he could. The woman from Grady still wasn’t talking. Tony or Joey or whoever he was had still disappeared in Jamaica.

  There had been no more cases reported. They had talked to every one of the people on the ad exec’s list. Everything you could do, they’d done in triplicate. In the morning, the group would call and interview all the ones on Gaines’s list again. Rendon didn’t even begin to believe they’d get anything.

  There had to be something. Desperate measures were needed.

  He flicked on the television. Perhaps watching something mindless would stir his mind. He had to do something. The president did not want the games canceled.

  But what else could they do? They couldn’t take the risk of that many people being exposed to the virus.

  The next rumble was louder. Rain started to beat on the little greenhouse window that protruded from the living room. A minute later there was a loud crack. The hair on Rendon’s neck stood up; the lights went off, and the television went black with a sudden, loud pop.

  Rendon cursed silently, ran his hand through his hair, and closed his eyes. They had to take extreme measures and immediately—but what?

  Harry couldn’t sit down. He felt excited and absolutely panicked. He had to find Ree. Doubt ate away at his stomach, a burning cauldron of acid-filled doubt. What if she were already dead? What if they killed her before she could be rescued or just as they were attempting to rescue her? Could he stand to watch her die?

  What if he screwed up and he caused her death?

  That was the one that ate into his gut, twisted and turned, a sharp point of horror. He paced some more, his shoes sliding across the wall-to-wall carpeting with a muffled sound. The long rectangular space of his living room felt more like a prison than his home. Everything was different now. He’d found Ree. He had to have her back.

  Maybe when this was over, he would move somewhere else, out of this dismal apartment. She would move in with him, he thought. She loved him.

  What would life be like waking up to her small body cuddled in his arms every morning? Her saucy smile. What if she were dead now?

  He sat down in the chair she had sat in that first night when he had met her. She’d still had that ridiculous blond wig on. How could he have ever believed that was her hair? Her skin was far too dark for blond hair.

  She’d looked so thankful when he’d gone upstairs that night and not bothered her. Had that been the beginning of her feelings for him? She had said that she liked the way that he respected her.

  In the distance he heard the faint rumble of thunder. A storm must have been hitting somewhere up north in the rich-folk country—either that or it was a jet somewhere. He stood and started pacing again. How could he make sure that she was rescued? That it went all right.

  He needed help, a backup—but who? He went through his friends and crossed each off in his mind. Stern, his friend from college, was the closest to being someone who could help, but Harry still had ideas of writing a story afterward, maybe using the story to launch a career as a real reporter, no longer a weekly scribe of the flower-club circuit. Stern would want the story for the Atlanta paper. Besides, Stern was hardly the athletic type. Overweight, he’d be of little use if you had to move fast.

  Harry considered Sergeant O’Heartlan and remembered Ferenzi’s warning about the police. Besides, O’Heartlan would want the whole story, and Harry was not prepared to do that, not yet at least.

  For that matter, anyone he got to help him would have to remain hidden from Ferenzi, or Ferenzi might call off the whole deal.

  That effectively eliminated talking to the wheelchair maniac. If he were in on the deal, he would surely want his men there. Ferenzi might cancel everything.

  Ree would die. No. That must never be.

  The thought of Ree that first night when he’d seen her dance popped into his mind unbidden. She was beautiful, sweet candy for the eyes. She had been good at dancing, using the strobe to her advantage. She had been good at working the customers. She had also obviously been well liked by the staff at the club. The bouncer had been very protective.

  Evan—the bouncer.

  Harry got to the phone book and looked up the number for the club. A woman answered and
promised to find Evan. Harry waited, his breath coming fast. Evan would be perfect. He was big and probably knew how to use a gun.

  “Evan.” The music on the other end of the line made the man’s voice just recognizable.

  “Evan, this is Harry Adams, the one who took Ree—”

  “You! I wish I could break your neck over the phone. Where is she?”

  “Wait. Let me explain. She didn’t come back because people were after her, friends of Denny Felder’s. I tried to help hide her, but somebody found her. I need some help.” Harry spit the words out like machine-gun fire. He had to convince the man and do it quick.

  The bouncer didn’t reply. Harry could imagine the huge face of the man staring blankly at the phone.

  “Evan, listen. What I’m telling you is true. You knew about Felder. Well, he got involved in some bad stuff. He got killed for it. But the same people were after Ree. They thought she knew something, but she didn’t. We went down south trying to hide from them. I thought we’d lost them. I don’t know how, but they found her in Savannah. When I was out of the motel room, they broke in and kidnapped her.”

  “Saying I believe even a little of what you’re saying, what do you want?”

  “I need a backup. There are some people who are after the people who kidnapped her. They gave me a deal. They’d let me go in and get her out while they get the people who took her.”

  Harry stopped for a moment. The story sounded unbelievable. People who were after people? On the other hand, this Evan lived in a profession near the criminal edge. Maybe “people after people” was an everyday kind of occurrence to him? Harry worked to ignore his doubts and keep them out of his voice.

  “All I need,” he continued, reaching with his words for something credible to say, “for you to do is come with me and stay out of sight. If I blow it, then you take over and get Ree out alive.”

  “Who is after who?” the bouncer asked.

  Harry clenched his fists. He couldn’t explain it all. No one would believe it. “Look,” he said into the phone, “it’s too complicated, and I’ve got to get out of here, now. I’ll explain it to you in the morning. Are you willing to help Ree? That’s all I’m asking.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then give me a number where I can reach you in the morning. I’ll call and come and tell you where to meet me. Then, I’ll explain more.”

  “Make it good,” the man growled. Evan provided a number, and Harry collapsed on the couch with a sigh of relief. Evan could help. The man was huge. He looked like a lineman for a football team. As a bouncer, he must know how to fight.

  It was a start. Still, Harry couldn’t settle the unease in his mind. He paced again. What of Ferenzi? Could he be trusted? With that thought, Harry paced faster. The more he considered the situation, the more absurd it seemed.

  Ferenzi had said he was working for some millionaire and trying to prevent the games from being sabotaged. If that were true, and Harry did believe it—his instinct felt good about that—then other than to get an innocent person out, why would Ferenzi want Harry’s help? Why would Ferenzi care about an innocent person?

  Harry went into the kitchen and searched for something to drink in the refrigerator. Nothing looked good, and he poured himself a glass of water and drank it with distaste. The refrigerator still stank. As with most things that were good for you, the water’s lack of taste tasted awful.

  He went back into the living room. How believable was it that Ferenzi really needed him to pull out Ree? Maybe, Harry decided, and maybe not. Then why would Ferenzi want Harry there?

  He went over in his mind a dozen different possibilities, chewing at each one until it was ragged. The last that he thought of sounded the best, or maybe it was the worst thing he could think of, and that’s why it sounded so plausible.

  Ferenzi didn’t seem a trustworthy character.

  If things didn’t work out, if the operation went awry, Harry would be there, right on the scene. He could be blamed. He was the escape valve. Nor would Evan help for that. Who would believe the bouncer from a strip joint? Harry needed someone with instant face-value credibility.

  The phone rang, and Harry picked it up, wondering who could be calling. “Hello?”

  “This is Dr. Rendon from the CDC. Is this Harry Adams?”

  “Yes,” Harry said and took a deep breath. “Am I glad you called. There’s been a break, and we might be able to find out more about the virus, but I need your help tomorrow.”

  The night had little light. The air smelled fresh and clean. The thunderstorm had washed the odor of exhaust from the environment. In the storm gutters, odds and ends of paper and cans sat enmeshed in leaves and branches. Now and again the moon peaked out from the dark, but scattered clouds remained of the storm. An occasional drop of rain plopped onto the pavement as a reminder of the pouring torrent of moments before.

  Less than a block from a small drive-up motel located in the outskirts of Decatur, a gas station sat abandoned. Boards shrouded the windows. The pumps had been long removed. High in the air above the station the sign read: “Regular Unleaded: 55 cents/gal.” The pavement was fractured, and long thin tails of straw-colored dead weeds inhabited the concrete cracks.

  A tall man in a light-colored raincoat pressed into a phone booth just beside the station. The colored glass walls of the booth hid most of his upper body. He held his mouth close to the phone, his lips moving rapidly in hushed speech. The occasional gust of wind blew the skirts of his coat up in the air to reveal gray trousers.

  “Listen, I’ve got to hurry,” he said. “Jerry was suspicious. Get the rest of this quick.” The man listened a moment and then replied, “No, look, no more questions. It’ll be out there. He’s told the guy he’ll give him the data in exchange. The fool believed him. The reporter will see the whole thing. He’ll provide all the evidence needed. There won’t be any other witnesses left.” The man paused and listened. “What? How the hell am I supposed to do that? Ferenzi plans to kill her. The only way I could would be to blow the whole plan.” He stopped again and grimaced. “Whatever. If you want it to go on, then fine. I’ll stay in the background and get out as soon as I can. Wish I could keep her alive. There’s something weird with Ferenzi and that girl. It might be useful to know what the connection is. She recognized him. Tell Cee I will get the disks, though.” He listened to the voice on the other end and scowled. “All right, doesn’t matter to me. You’re the boss.”

  The man hung up the phone and then walked rapidly back to the motel. He knocked on a door and was let inside a room lit only by the flicker of a television screen.

  Ree strained against the tape that bound her and then stopped when the man came in the door. He sat down on one of the chairs and watched the television with the other guard.

  She began trying to loosen the tape again. She’d made progress on her ankles. She could move her legs a little.

  Sweat covered her body. They’d kept the raincoat on her, and it made her hot. Some of the sweat had rolled down to her wrists and was helping her loosen them. She struggled as her mind slowly flailed into rage at being bound. The rage grew as she fought against her bonds. She would kill the man who’d killed her father.

  She held the thought. When it left her for a moment, fear paralyzed her. They were going to kill her. She knew it.

  Somehow, she would kill the man.

  She worked at the tape again. She could move her arms a little now. If she kept at it, she might be able to get loose. When her guards slept, she would make a run for it. She would take one of their guns. Then, she’d find their boss. She knew where the warehouse was. She’d take the gun and kill the man. With all her strength, she moved her arms back and forth, breaking a little more of the seal of the tape on her skin.

  Slowly, it worked. She moved her legs and felt the tape give a little on her ankles. Progress. Later, she would escape.

&n
bsp; The man who had just come in got up from the bed and walked toward the bathroom. As he passed, he looked at Ree.

  She held her breath. He stopped and grabbed at her feet. She tried to roll away, but he had her tight.

  “Jerry, come over here will you, and bring that roll of tape,” he said.

  Jerry came over with the roll of gray duct tape in his hand. He grinned.

  “Hold her still while I cut off this old stuff,” the first man said. “The little bitch thought she was going to escape.”

  Twenty-Three

  “The Awful Egg,” a name Harry had personally bestowed on the restaurant, was crowded with people at seven thirty in the morning. Many of them looked like this was the end of a long night, not the beginning of another day. The smell of bacon and coffee wafted through the air.

  A sign on the door indicated that parties of one were not welcome in the booths. Harry sat in one anyway. At least he had not had to wait for a seat. A large individual of difficult-to-discern sex with many tattoos on his or her arms had gotten up right as Harry came in the door. Harry sat on the opposite side of the table from where the tattooed individual had sat.

  The waitress took Harry’s order without a blink of the eye at his solo commandeering of the booth. Nor did she seem to care that two people were going to meet him. His food, two eggs scrambled medium and toast, arrived at the same time as Rendon. The doctor sat down and started talking at the same moment.

  “When will be able to talk to these people?” he asked.

  Harry swallowed a bite of eggs. “Fairly soon. I received a call from Ferenzi, and he said I was to meet him in about an hour. The location is not far from here.”

  “And you think they’ll know something about the spread of the drug?”

  “Yes, I think so, though I can’t guarantee it. From what Ferenzi said, it sounds like the drug was a part of a terrorist plot to destroy the games.”