by Diane Castle
“I can’t see!” he yelled, and slammed on the brakes.
“No! You have to keep driving!” I grabbed the steering wheel. “Hit the gas! I’ll steer!”
I yanked the wheel back and forth, trying to shake the guy off while Miles leaned out the window, trying to loosen his grip.
No luck. He held on like a leech, or one of those particularly disgusting suckerfishes.
The guy’s hand jumped from the hood and grasped the side of Miles’ window. His fingers curled inside.
“Roll up the window!”
Miles did, but the smooth electronic close was way too slow to catch the guy’s fingers. His hand flew loose. For a minute, I thought he’d fall. But he caught himself again and held on with two hands on the neck of the hood.
I circled back around towards the garage. After all, we couldn’t just leave Nash and Lucy there. Maybe Nash would see us coming and shoot this guy off my car. Better him than me. I didn’t want another body on my conscience.
“More gas,” I told Miles.
Miles put a little more foot into it, hands over his face, eyes closed. I gripped the wheel and steered for my life.
“Do something!” Miles said. “I can’t hold him anymore!”
The garage loomed ahead. I didn’t see Nash, but I had a plan.
I adjusted the steering wheel and aimed the car straight for the tire stack.
I just wanted to shake the guy off. Maybe the tires would cushion his landing.
The tire stack seemed to grow ever larger as I careened toward it. We were approaching way too fast.
“Less gas! Foot off the pedal!”
Miles didn’t appear to hear me. The car didn’t slow down.
I fought the urge to close my eyes. If I was about to kill myself, I wanted to see what the end of my life looked like. On the other hand, if I was about to kill another guy, I also didn’t want to watch. I settled for shutting one eye and squinting the other one half open.
The car crashed into the tires, and I saw an explosion of white as the airbags deployed.
The man’s body flipped backwards. He sailed over the sea of tires rolling away in every direction and landed on the cement with a crack.
A rogue tire rolled up over his arm, did a little spin, and came to rest, doughnuting his head.
In the dim light, I could barely make him out. But it was bright enough to spot a small pool of blood oozing out from underneath the tire.
I felt woozy. I had never so much as punched a man before, let alone killed one. And here I had killed two guys in the space of five minutes. I wasn’t too worried about legal repercussions, assuming I ever got out of this alive. Clearly it was self defense. But the sense of permanent destruction, of having done something so intense and so final, something that could never be taken back, had already started to haunt me.
But even stronger than the urge to stop the violence was the urge to protect myself and find Lucy and Nash. I grabbed another gun from the back seat and got out of the car, positioning myself between an old, rusted-out Buick and my Lexus. Miles did the same. We hunkered down behind it waiting, watching for more shots.
After a minute or two, I decided the coast was clear. We were sitting ducks in the middle of the garage lot. If anyone was out there, they’d surely be shooting at us by now.
“Lucy!” I called. “Nash?”
Silence.
Nothing moved. I heard no sounds.
Not good. If Lucy were around, surely she’d have come running. I held on to one small hope. Lucy was afraid of loud noises. Sometimes, if it thundered, or if I set off the smoke detector while cooking, she’d run and hide and wouldn’t come out no matter how much I called her. I could only hope that the gunfire and the car crash had scared her into hiding, where she’d be safe.
I was anxious for Nash, but less worried about him than Lucy. He had a gun, after all, and he knew how to use it.
I called out again. We waited for what seemed like ages.
A light popped on inside the garage.
Through the gaping front door, I saw a silhouette emerge. Nash.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God! He was okay!
Nash walked slowly forward. He looked anxious, like maybe he was worried about us.
I rushed toward him to tell him we were all right.
Not until I crossed the threshold did I see the barrel of the gun pointed at his head. Too late.
CHAPTER 21
Delmont had escaped to his office at the break of dawn. He couldn’t sleep, and the old battleax had burned breakfast again, anyway. No use staying around to eat that. Honestly. The woman couldn’t cook, she was no good in bed, and she didn’t make any money. To top it all off, PetroPlex had been ringing his phone so much lately he was worried she’d begin to suspect he was having an affair. If she started nagging him about it, he was done with her. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
He started to think maybe it might be better just to tell his wife he was having an affair and get a divorce. That way he could beat Chloe Taylor to the punch. The only problem was, if he did that, the gossip mill would start running and all the town ladies would badmouth him. Then he’d never get elected again, no matter how much money PetroPlex put into his campaign. Much better the old ball and chain should meet with some kind of accident. It was either that or move to a state that appointed judges instead of holding elections for them. But then there’d be no PetroPlex kickback money, so that didn’t seem like an option either.
Maybe an accident really would be best, but that wouldn’t be without its own set of drawbacks. An accident would mean he’d be single again, and all the little old ladies would be inviting him to lunch and trying to fix him up with other respectable old maids who also couldn’t cook, made no money, and were no good in bed, and that sounded like a real hassle. Delmont sighed. No, he decided, it would be better just to stay married and keep a slut on the side.
Anyway, it’s not like the old woman was good for absolutely nothing. She ran errands and stuff. As the morning progressed, Delmont felt more and more hungry, especially since breakfast had been ruined. Delmont figured she owed him a trip to the donut shop. Everybody loved it when his wife showed up with donuts. And it wasn’t like she was doing anything else this morning. It’s not like she had a job. Her job was taking care of him.
He picked up the phone to call her when it rang in his hand, startling him.
“What now?” Delmont said to the familiar voice.
“You’ll never believe this, but the guys we’ve got on our ex-employee just found Nash and Taylor.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. You can tell your friend Scott to cancel that APB.”
“Where are they?”
“At an old car garage in Dallas. Did you know they were working with Gilbert?”
“Had no idea. Are you sure they are?” Delmont eyed his whiskey decanter. Was it too early in the day to start drinking?
“It’s the only explanation that makes sense. Even though that Dorian Saks character got nothing out of her yesterday, that means she’s gotta know something. If she knew enough to go after Gilbert, she knows about the virus. And if she knows about the virus, she knows about me and you and Scott and the rest. If she has Schaeffer’s evidence and gives it to Gilbert, I don’t have to tell you what will happen.”
“So what are you gonna do?” Delmont asked.
“Get her to give up the evidence, turn over the virus, and lead us to Gilbert.”
“What if she won’t?”
“We’ll be very persuasive.”
Delmont had no doubt. “And then?”
“What do you mean ‘and then?’ You know very well what then.”
“All right, but do it in Dallas. I’m sick of bodies showing up in this town. If I have to listen to Chief Scott moan and groan anymore about how things are about to go downhill, I’ll go berserk. If things keep up like this, I’ll be tempted to just blow the whistle myself and put him out of my misery.”
“No, I mean my misery! Pay attention!”
“Look, I’m working pretty hard here to keep us both in the clear, and I’ve been going out of my way to keep you in the loop. The least you could do is show some gratitude.”
“Maybe I don’t want in your loop,” Delmont said. “Maybe I’m sick of your loop. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your concern and all, but you’ve really got to start being more careful. Things are getting out of control.”
“Things are never out of our control. Forty billion a year buys a lot.”
“You just keep telling yourself that. And you see to it that you keep your word on it.”
Delmont hung up. Then he cleared a new line to call his wife. High time for those donuts.
CHAPTER 22
The sun was starting to come up, and the shadows were long and deep, which is why I hadn’t seen the gunman earlier. He was a tall, lean man who wore a black suit with a white shirt and a black tie.
Two more men in black t-shirts, obviously black-suit-man’s subordinates, stepped forward and flanked Nash, guns drawn, aiming for me and Miles. One of these guys had a shaved head, like Miles. The other one had a full head of dark hair and a respectable-enough looking face, but his forearms were covered in a solid mass of colorful tattoos, including a wide variety of skulls, dragons, and bloody daggers.
Black-suit man pressed a gun to Nash’s temple, effectively holding him hostage. “Drop your weapons,” the man said, “or you’re all going to get hurt.”
I looked at Nash for direction. He gave me a tense nod, so I tossed my gun on the ground. Beside me, Miles did the same.
I looked around desperately for Lucy, but didn’t see her anywhere.
“Hands up,” suit man said.
We raised our hands obediently.
Skinhead and tattoo guy pounced on us, guns drawn, trigger finger ready to shoot. Tattoo guy edged around behind me, put his arm around my throat, and flexed his muscles. I felt the squeeze on my neck and struggled to breathe. With his other hand, he pressed the barrel of his gun to my head. The steel cut into my scalp. The gun barrel was hot, as though the gun had recently been discharged.
I glanced over at Miles, who was now held captive in the same manner by Skinhead.
“Ease up, will you?” Miles said. “You’re gonna leave an imprint.”
Skinhead told him to shut up, using both “F” words in the space of one sentence.
Miles struggled, but he was no match for his captor. The guy was a half-head taller than him and much better built.
I looked back at Nash, who was frantically glancing all around us, presumably looking for anything that might give us an advantage. I waited for him to pull out some patented super-Nash move and regain control of the situation like he’d done before, but when his captor spun him around and cuffed his hands behind his back, I knew I couldn’t count on Nash for a rescue this time.
My stomach churned at the thought of what might be coming next. I didn’t know who these guys were or what they wanted. I wasn’t ready to die, even though my career was in shambles and I had no house to go home to. I thought of Lucy. What had happened to her? What if I had lost her, too?
Black-suit guy jerked his head toward Miles and Nash, and skinhead walked forward. He spun Miles around and cuffed his hands behind his back, too.
Then black-suit guy turned to me and wrenched my hands behind my back. A pair of cold metal cuffs clicked into place.
Tattoo guy calmly walked over to two rickety folding-chairs by the wall, dragged them into the middle of the room, and unfolded them. Then black-suit guy yanked me toward one of them and shoved me into it. He stood back and aimed his gun at my head.
Miles looked terrified as tattoo guy manhandled him into the other chair.
Having run out of chairs, skinhead secured Nash to a metal support pole that was holding up the roof.
A dim light bulb feebly lit the dusty room. The far corners of the vast space were dark.
I felt like I might start hyperventilating, so I closed my eyes and concentrated on taking deep, slow breaths.
Suit man was having none of that. I felt slaps across my face. Suit man grasped my head in both his hands and roughly peeled my right eyelid open with his thumb. He examined my pupils. Satisfied that I wasn’t going to pass out on him, he let go.
Under the light of the naked bulb, I was able to get a good look at suit man for the first time. He was white with dark brown eyes, dark hair, and a slightly crooked nose. No unusual marks. No disfiguring scars you’d typically associate with a villain or anything. He was pretty ordinary looking and wouldn’t seem scary if I’d met him on the street. But in this situation, I don’t mind admitting I was scared. I had seen enough TV to know that the fact that he hadn’t covered his face probably didn’t bode well for my chances of seeing tomorrow.
I eyed him and the two guys in black t-shirts warily. They certainly weren’t cops. But they didn’t look like run of the mill thugs, either. They seemed too clean-cut for a gang. They looked more like military, or private security.
Suit man crouched down in front of me and waited, to make sure I was focused and giving him my full attention. “Now,” he said. “Where is Cameron Gilbert?”
My jaw dropped. “You’re asking me?” I croaked. My mouth was dry. Throat parched. My head hurt, and my burns ached. “I haven’t got the foggiest idea!”
I watched, horrified, as the man slid the spaghetti strap of my camisole off my shoulder and peeled it down to reveal my bandages.
He stuck his fingernail under the corner of one and ripped it off. I winced.
“Leave her alone,” Nash said. “She’s telling the truth. She doesn’t know.”
“I am so not cut out for this,” Miles groaned.
Him? What about me? Sheesh.
Black suit man ignored him. “I think you do. Not only do I think you know where he is, I think you know what he knows.”
“Believe me,” I said, voice shaking, “I wish I knew both of those things, but I don’t.”
The man stood, grabbed my chin, and yanked it upwards. “I don’t expect your friend Nash over there to know anything. You just brought him along for the ride. Your pet paralegal, maybe. But probably not. You, on the other hand. . .
“You know me?” I asked.
“Oh yes. I know you. We’ve had our eye on you for some time. You’ve spent hours with Schaeffer, and Schaeffer has spent hours with Gilbert, and now here you are on Gilbert’s turf, which makes me think you’ve been working with him all along. I want to know where Gilbert is.”
“Why didn’t you ask Schaeffer that before you killed him?” I asked, now certain I was looking at the face of his murderer.
The man laughed—a laugh with no mirth. “I did. He gave me this address. After a little persuasion.”
I glanced at Nash, who was carefully avoiding my gaze. He hadn’t told me Schaeffer had been tortured. I had suspected as much, though. These thugs never would have found his file stash in the secret room if they hadn’t used methods I could barely bring myself to contemplate.
My stomach churned as I contemplated our situation. Even if suit man tortured me, I couldn’t give him any information because I didn’t have it. How long would it take for him to give up and realize that I had no information to extract? What on earth did he plan to do with me between now and then? Several scenarios flashed through my brain, none of which seemed remotely palatable. I wondered if I should just start begging him to kill me now. Would it make any difference? Would it shorten the agony?
Nash struggled against his bonds. “She doesn’t know anything, and even if she did, she has no evidence! You and your thugs destroyed all of Schaeffer’s files when you burned her house down. You know that. You’re wasting your time here.”
The man in black cracked his knuckles. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he said. “We came here looking for Gilbert. Unfortunately, he’s not here. But now, I have you, and you
will lead me to Gilbert.”
“I swear, we don’t know where Gilbert is,” I said.
“And yet here you are, so far from home.”
“I came here looking for him just like you,” I said. “We got the address from a friend.” The futility of my protest seemed to fill the room. Who was I kidding? This guy was never going to buy it.
Black suit man slapped me across my face. “You think I’m stupid. You think I’m stupid, huh? You expect me to believe you drove all the way up here just to visit an empty building? Huh?”
He pressed his finger into my exposed burn, and I screamed bloody murder.
“Stop this! Stop this right now!” Nash said. “She doesn’t know anything! We got the address and came here hoping to find answers. That’s all.”
I felt faint. My head lolled to one side. Beside me, Miles sat frozen, his face rigid with fear. I could feel the curtain drawing over my vision again.
Black suit man’s palms slapped me back to consciousness.
“Maybe you didn’t tell your friends,” he said. “But you know.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I swear. You have to believe me.”
“Where is the virus?” he asked.
The what? What on earth was he talking about? First Cameron, now some mysterious virus? I wondered just exactly how much I was supposed to know but didn’t. What else? What else could there be?
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Tell me,” suit man said, “or I will rip out your fingernails one by one and bury them in the wounds in your chest.”
The room swayed. I said nothing. What else was there to say? How could I possibly convince this crazy man of the truth?
“Pliers,” the suit man said to his accomplice.
The guy in the black t-shirt lifted a pair of pliers and walked toward me, then circled around to my back. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him crouch beside my tied hands, and I felt the pliers clamp down onto my right pinkie nail.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but not tight enough to hold back the tears.
“I swear,” I said, trembling. “I don’t know anything. Believe me, I wish I did. If I did, I would tell you. I really like my fingernails. I’d do just about anything to keep them.”