The fact that there was no funeral made it worse. There was no closure to her grief, no outlet to pay tribute to the man who had not only been her boss, but often a second father. So she’d taken bereavement leave from her work for an unspecified relative’s death, locked herself in her apartment, and mourned in solitude.
Now, when the doorbell rang, she didn’t move.
It rang again, this time followed by a knock.
She looked up at the kitchen clock—9:18 a.m. Go away, she thought.
There was no knock after the third ring, only the quick sound of whoever it was rubbing something against wood below her peephole.
She almost let it go, but pulling off what had been left there—an advertisement, most likely—and dumping it in the trash would at least get her out of the chair.
She forced herself up, and shuffled through her apartment to the door. When she opened it, she found no one there. Not a surprise. She’d assumed the person had moved on. Was glad, in fact. The surprise came when she looked at what had been left behind. It wasn’t an advertisement at all, but a notification from the post office.
She pulled it off and took a closer look. It was for a certified letter that she had to sign for. She stuck her head into the corridor and looked both ways. The postal worker who’d left the note was nowhere in sight.
Couldn’t be far, though. If she could catch him, it would save her a trip to the post office, something she hated doing even when she wasn’t mourning a friend’s death.
She slipped on her gym shoes, grabbed her keys off the little table by the door, and went in search of her letter. She found the postman on the first floor, filling the mailboxes.
“You left this on my door.” She held out the notification.
The postman kept stuffing the boxes. “Let me finish this first, then I can help you.”
She watched him move slowly from box to box—two letters here, four there, mailers from the neighborhood grocery store, catalogs—and had to stifle the urge to take his bag from him. When he finally finished, he shut the main door, locked it in place, and turned to her.
“Let me see that, please.”
She handed him the notice.
He read it, and said, “Right. This is you? Misty Blake?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
He handed it back. “You’re going to have to sign it.”
“Oh, um, I don’t have a pen.”
He rolled his eyes and pulled a pen out of his pocket. “Don’t you walk off with that when you’re done.”
“I won’t.”
She signed the slip, and held it and the pen out to the postman.
“Just hold on to it for a second.” He pulled an envelope out of his bag. “Gotta sign this, too.”
There was a green card attached to the front. As she signed it, she glanced at the return address. It was typed—address only, no sender’s name.
Raleigh, North Carolina. She’d never been there, and, as far as she could remember, knew no one who lived there.
The postman took the card, snagged his pen back, and said, “All yours.”
“Thank you.”
As she neared her apartment, the weight of Peter’s death once more descended on her. She let herself in, and retuned to the kitchen table where she’d spent the morning. Her letter opener was all the way back on her desk in the bedroom, so she rustled up a kitchen knife and cut open the top of the envelope.
She wasn’t sure what she expected to find, but a second envelope was not it. She pulled the enclosed envelope out and began turning it around so she could look at the front. But when she caught sight of the handwriting scrawled in the center, she dropped the letter on the table.
The envelope spun as it fell, so that the front, while remaining visible, was upside down. Still, there was no mistaking what she’d seen. In blue ink was written:
Misty
She knew the handwriting as well as her own.
Peter’s handwriting.
She had no idea how long she stared at it. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. At some point she sat down, and used the tips of her fingers to turn the envelope so that it was facing the right way.
What could be inside? Why did it come now? How did it come now?
She double-checked the exterior envelope. No way Peter could have sent it. It was postmarked after he died.
A part of her didn’t want to open it, telling her by keeping it closed, in some small way, Peter was still alive. And while she knew she couldn’t listen to that voice, she was having a hard time convincing herself to pick up the knife and slice open the flap.
Peter sent this. Peter wanted you to open it. If you don’t open it, you’re dishonoring him.
That thought finally did it. Careful, so that she didn’t damage anything inside, she slit the top open. There was no additional envelope this time, just a white, three-by-five-inch index card. She pulled it out and set it gently on the table.
There were three lines of text written on it. The first was the oddest:
Y7(29g)85KL/24
Her mind was too muddy at the moment to even guess what it could mean.
The second and third lines, though, she could actually understand:
I need your help.
Call Quinn. A last assignment. For both of you.
She stared at the words, reading the message over and over.
I need your help.
She guessed the fourteen characters in the first line had something to do with the assignment, but she didn’t know what that connection might be.
Quinn must know what they mean.
She reached for her phone.
CHAPTER 5
ISLA DE CERVANTES
OVER THE OBJECTIONS of the medical staff, Quinn moved into Orlando’s room within hours of her initial surgery, sleeping in the chair pulled up next to her bed when he could no longer keep his eyes open. The rest of the time he held her hand, wiped her skin with a damp cloth, and read to her from a copy of The Man in the Iron Mask the hospital had in its small, mostly Spanish-language library.
Not once did she open her eyes or indicate she knew he was there, but at least there had been no setbacks.
The doctors waited eight days before performing the second surgery, this one focused primarily on her leg. When she was wheeled out of the room at five a.m., Quinn moved downstairs to the waiting room so he could be that much closer to the surgical suite.
It wasn’t long before Liz and Daeng joined him, and tried to distract him with conversation. But all Quinn could do was pace back and forth, as the helpless anger he felt continued to boil inside.
Dr. Montero finally walked into the room right before nine thirty a.m. Quinn stopped moving the moment he saw him. He tried to get a read on the doctor’s face, but Montero was as stoic as always.
“Well?” Liz asked. “How did it go?”
To Quinn, the brief pause that followed felt like it lasted a million years.
“As planned,” Montero said. “She’s being taken back to her room now.”
“And?” Quinn asked.
“I’m not going to lie to you. She will need a knee replacement when she’s up for it. But we’ve cleaned up what we could, and we’re confident her leg is otherwise going to be fine.”
“What about her overall condition?” Quinn asked, worried that the surgery would put too much strain on her system.
“Still serious, but she’s stable, and her vital signs are stronger.”
“So she’s going to make it,” Liz said.
Montero turned to her. “There are no guarantees.”
“Is she going to pull through or not?” Quinn asked.
“Time is the important factor now. If her condition continues to improve, her chances are considerably better.”
“How much better?” Quinn asked.
“That’s hard to say. I will make an evaluation—”
“Forty percent? Fifty? Sixty? Seventy? What?”
Montero
looked uncomfortable. “Sixty is a good number, I would think.”
The knot in Quinn’s stomach loosened a little.
Sixty-percent chance she would survive. That was considerably better than the number the doctor had given the first day.
“How long until she wakes up? Until I can talk to her?”
“Not for a few days.”
“A few days?” Quinn said.
“The thing that will help her recover most right now is rest. I think it’s best if we keep her sedated for a while.” Before Quinn could say anything, Montero added, “She will be constantly monitored. When everything looks good, we’ll bring her out of it.”
“How long until I can talk to her?”
Montero pressed his lips together, clearly not wanting to be backed into a corner. “Three days. Could be four or five.”
“Five days?”
Liz put her arm around her brother’s back. “They’re doing all they can. If Dr. Montero says this is for the best, then it must be.”
Even if his sister was right, Quinn didn’t know if he could last five more days not hearing Orlando’s voice, not seeing her smiling eyes, not knowing if she could hear him when he said, “I love you.” The frustration and anger building up inside his chest was almost too much to bear.
“I should get back,” Montero told them.
Quinn’s phone vibrated in his pocket.
“Unless you have more questions,” the doctor said.
Questions were all Quinn had, but he wasn’t about to keep the doctor from taking care of Orlando, so he shook his head and watched Montero leave.
In his pocket his phone rang for a fourth and final time. Twenty seconds later there was a long buzz indicating he’d received a voice mail. He didn’t bother checking.
“How about some breakfast,” Liz suggested. “We don’t want to go back to the room until they’ve got her all set up again, anyway. We’d only be in the way.”
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
His phone vibrated again, a double buzz for the receipt of a text message. Someone really wanted his attention, but he headed for the door, ignoring whoever it was.
“I’ll be upstairs if you’re—”
Once more, the vibration in his pocket. Another phone call.
What the hell? he thought. He pulled out his phone, ready to take out all his anger on the caller, but then he read the display: MISTY.
He closed his eyes and tried to calm down. While he was still annoyed that she was calling him right now, there was no way he could be mad at her. She had to be hurting just as much as he was, maybe even more.
He held the phone out to Daeng. “It’s Misty. Can you talk to her?”
The Thai man looked uncomfortable. “I don’t actually know her.”
“Tell her I’ll call her later.”
Daeng took the phone and pressed ACCEPT. “Hello?” He listened for a moment. “No, it’s Daeng. His friend. He’s a little…preoccupied.” Another pause. “She’s hanging in there. Just came out of another surgery…Yes, yes, that’s why…I’m sorry?” Confusion clouded Daeng’s face as he turned and looked at Quinn. “Hold on, okay?” He put a hand over the phone.
“What is it?” Quinn asked.
“I think you’ll have to talk to her.”
“I just…I can’t talk to her right now.”
“She received a letter this morning.”
“So what?”
“It’s…from Peter.”
Quinn furrowed his brow, and took the phone. “Misty? It’s Quinn. What’s this about a—”
“Thank God. I’m, um, I’m a little freaked out.” Misty’s words spilled out rapid fire.
“Relax. Just take a breath, okay?”
He could hear Misty force the air out of her lungs in a jagged torrent. She breathed again, not perfect, but better this time.
“Daeng said you got a letter from Peter,” Quinn said.
“It’s actually more of a note.”
“He told me you received it today.”
“The mailman knocked on my door about twenty minutes ago.”
“Misty, think about it. It can’t be from Peter. The timing is off. It must be some—”
“It’s from Peter.” She told him how the note had been contained in a separate envelope sent by someone else.
“Have you looked up the address?”
“No, I’ve been too busy trying to get ahold of you.”
He could tell she was on the verge of losing it again, so he said, “No problem. We can do that here. Give me the address.” Putting his hand over his phone, he repeated it for Daeng. “Find out what’s located there.”
“On it,” Daeng said.
To Misty, Quinn said, “Do you mind reading me the note?”
“That’s why I called you. It’s for both of us.”
“Both of us?”
“You’ll see.” She read off a string of letters, numbers, and symbols, then, “‘I need your help. Call Quinn. A last assignment. For both of you.’”
As she finished, Daeng held out his phone so Quinn could see the screen. The address belonged to a private P.O. box place in Raleigh, North Carolina.
“Misty, hold on.” Quinn covered the phone again. “Call them,” he said to Daeng. “No. Wait.” He looked at his sister. “You call them.” He quickly explained about Peter’s message and how it was delivered. “Tell them you’re Misty Blake, and you received the letter they sent. Ask them what their instructions were, where it came from, how long they had it. Can you do that?”
“Yeah, sure,” Liz said.
While Liz and Daeng moved to the other side of the room, Quinn brought his phone back up to his ear. “What does the message mean?”
“I was hoping you would know,” Misty said.
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Any ideas?”
“I was thinking it might be code, but the more I looked at it, the more it reminds me of the kind of passwords Peter liked to use.”
“If it’s a password, what’s it to?”
“Who knows?”
“You must have some ideas.”
“Off the top of my head…well, could be to one of the computers he stashed at his apartment or at the townhouse that we used as the Office’s backup headquarters.” When she spoke again, a hint of reluctance entered her voice. “I could go check, I guess.”
“Not alone,” Quinn said. “Let me see if I can get Steve to go with you.” Steve Howard was the DC-area operative who’d accompanied Misty the last time she went to Peter’s apartment.
“Okay,” she said, sounding relieved. “Thank you.”
“I’ll call you right back.”
After he hung up, he glanced at the other two, but Liz was still on the phone, so he located Howard’s number and gave him a call.
“It’s Quinn,” he said.
“Hey, can I call you back?” Howard said. “I’m a little tied up right now.”
“Are you on a job?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re not home.”
“No. Boston. I’ll be back late tonight, though.”
“That might work. Call me when you get home. I might have something for you.”
“Will do.”
When Quinn hung up this time, Daeng and Liz were waiting for him.
“Well?” he said.
“I talked to the manager,” Liz said. “Didn’t take much to convince him I was Misty, which, I’ve got to tell you, convinced me never to rent a box from him.”
“Did he tell you anything?”
“Oh, he was more than happy to share. Said he never met the sender in person. All their communications were by e-mail, except when he received the envelope he was supposed to forward. A messenger brought that in. The envelope was already addressed to Misty, with the mailbox place’s return address typed. His instructions were to send the letter if he received an e-mail telling him to do so within the next six months. If he didn’t, the
envelope was to be burned. The only other instruction was that it needed to be signed for.”
The skin on Quinn’s arms started tingling. A dead-man switch, only in this case not one designed to stop a machine from working if the operator died, but to trigger the e-mail that was sent to the P.O. box business in Raleigh upon news of Peter’s death.
How? Quinn didn’t know, nor, for the moment, did it matter. What did was the fact Peter knew he might die, and had a message he wanted to make sure was sent in the event of that happening.
Peter’s words echoed in Quinn’s head.
I have a pretty good idea where the leak came from.
That had been nearly the last thing he ever said to Quinn. He’d been talking about the list naming the members of the team who’d worked in the ill-fated Romero assassination, the list that had been leaked to Romero so that the madman could exact his revenge.
Ignoring the connection was impossible. Peter had apparently known his life was in danger just months before someone had handed him over to Romero. Could the message he had sent to Misty point to the identity of the leaker? The person may not have physically been on Duran Island torturing the men, but he or she was as responsible for what had happened as Romero and his people. No, more responsible. For Peter’s death. For the injuries suffered by Nate and Lanier and Berkeley and Curson.
And for nearly ending Orlando’s life.
Whoever it was had set the events in motion.
Quinn could feel an abrupt change to the anger coursing through him. No longer was it unfocused and debilitating. It was now directed at someone out there who needed to pay. Someone who needed to feel Quinn’s wrath.
The first step would be finding out what Peter’s message meant.
He looked at Liz and Daeng. “Dr. Montero said three days until Orlando wakes, right?”
Daeng nodded.
The only thing Quinn wanted more than tracking down those responsible was to be by Orlando’s side when she opened her eyes again, but sitting through days waiting for that to happen would be wasting time that could be spent hunting.
“Can you watch her for me?” he said to Liz. “Sit with her so she’s not alone?”
The Enraged (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) Page 3