Fear

by Jeff Abbott

  ‘But then when I spoke to him he didn’t want to set up a meeting. He seemed… confused. But he did say he knew where Frost was, it would take time, but he’d call me back.’

  ‘Then he’s wanting us to squirm to drive up the price.’

  ‘If he goes public…’

  ‘No drug company could produce a medication based on illegal testing,’ Quantrill said. ‘We have to bury how Frost was tested. It would kill the research in its tracks. Years before anyone would touch it again or bring it to market.’

  Years Amanda didn’t have. ‘Then the money has to be his motivation. Otherwise he would have gone public already.’

  ‘Find him. Say you’ll pay him five million for Frost. You’ll have to make sure he hasn’t passed the information on to anyone else. Obviously you can’t leave him alive.’

  ‘I’ll get out the screwdriver.’ He hung up and Groote checked his gun and his watch. First try the gallery for Michael Raymond, then try the apartment. A gallery. It didn’t fit a guy who Allison Vance would ask for help. And that bothered Groote. He didn’t like walking into the unknown.

  He fitted his gun into his jacket holster and headed for the parking lot.

  SIXTEEN

  Groote walked into the gallery. He surveyed the art on the walls with indifference: portraits of Navajo and cowboy, landscapes of burnished New Mexico desert and wildflower-dotted fields. He read the price tag on one landscape of a stone-choked creek. Eleven thousand dollars. He’d killed a man for less once.

  He stopped and listened with care. He guessed there were two people in the gallery, from the murmur of voices. A woman, a man, talking softly from the rear of the gallery. He left his sunglasses in place – no need to be easily recognizable. He went back to the door, flipped the OPEN sign of engraved, polished metal to CLOSED, turned the dead bolt. He hoped he didn’t have to kill everyone in the building. He’d prefer to get Raymond out of the building, get him alone. But better to be prepared.

  He headed for the back office, listening to the man’s voice, unsure if it was Raymond’s. He scanned the floor plan. Two exits off the hallway, a set of stairs going up to another display room of art, three more rooms to his left, a short hallway and a set of French doors to his right.

  He stopped at the back office’s door. A fiftyish woman, brightly pretty, and a man in his thirties stopped talking and both smiled at him, ready to part him from his money for one of the paintings outside. They were clearly mother and son; the family resemblance was striking. There was a third desk in the corner, empty.

  ‘Hi, may I help you?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I need to see Michael Raymond. I promised to buy a painting from him.’

  The woman seemed to freeze for a second, then said in a rush: ‘Well, I’m sorry, Michael’s not here this afternoon. I’m Joy Garrison, the owner; this is my son Cinco. May we assist you?’

  Groote glanced at Cinco, who opened his mouth as though to interrupt the woman, then shut it.

  ‘Mom-’

  ‘Cinco, it’s fine,’ Joy said in a tone that brooked no discussion. The phone rang; Cinco picked it up, said hello, and started answering a question about the gallery’s operating hours.

  ‘Which painting were you interested in?’ Joy asked.

  The woman must want to scoop the commission, Groote thought. ‘The landscape by the front door. How odd. Michael told me he would be here today. But I’d like to talk to him about it, make sure he gets the commission.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry he’s not here.’

  ‘When’s he expected back?’

  But then she snapped her fingers. ‘Oh. Wait. You’re right. He will be here today. Around six, right before we close. Picking up his paycheck. I forgot he told me.’

  Groote nodded. ‘Okay, then, I was sure I’d lost my mind.’ He laughed politely. ‘I’ll check back with him around six.’

  ‘Did you want to leave a name, sir?’ Cinco hung up the phone.

  ‘Jason Brown,’ Groote lied, because to refuse a name would be suspicious.

  The phone beeped and Joy Garrison punched a button. ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Of course I can get you that painting, sir, yes…’ and started to nod, jot words down on a notepad.

  It still seemed wrong, but he heard a rattling at the door, another customer testing the knob in surprise at the early closing, so he went back to the door, flipped the sign and opened the lock, keeping his back so Cinco and Joy couldn’t see what he’d done. He said, ‘Excuse me,’ to two turquoise-bedecked tourists, slid past them, headed for his car. Time for Plan B – go to Michael Raymond’s home address, see if he was there, and if not, search the place for an idea of who he was. Then come back around six for a private talk with Michael Raymond.

  Groote was ten blocks away when he realized his mistake, and he powered the car hard around in a screeching U-turn.

  SEVENTEEN

  Miles, coming out of Joy’s office up on the second floor, saw the man, saw him flip the sign and lock the door, and thought: He’s here for me. He took four silent steps back from the railing, ducking behind a sculpture of a crouching cougar and wondering if this was the man who had chased him from Allison’s apartment. The shooter.

  Then the man spoke to Joy and Cinco, asking for him by name, and Miles was sure.

  He had no weapon, but he grabbed a small sculpture – an iron figure of a Sioux warrior. The rider rose high above the horse, a spear thrusting forward, and Miles decided he’d hit the shooter in the temple, where the bone and flesh were weakest. He couldn’t let the man hurt Joy and Cinco.

  But then, God bless Joy, who said he wasn’t there. Cinco played along. Miles listened to the conversation, heard her parry with and then lie to the guy. Then he crept back to the office, thinking, He won’t kill anyone if he thinks they’re on the phone. So he lifted the handset, punched in the extension for Joy’s desk, heard it give off its internal buzz; Joy, smart, acted as if she’d gotten an outside call and Miles said to her, ‘Get busy, he’ll leave.’

  Then a rattling on the door, and he heard the footsteps of the shooter leaving, heard him offer a polite excuse-me to a customer at the door.

  He counted to ten, started down the stairs. Joy rushed past two women, possibly ignoring a buyer for the first time in her life.

  ‘Who was that?’ she said.

  ‘You lied to him,’ Miles said in surprise.

  ‘I didn’t like him. The sunglasses, the way he asked for you. I know trouble when I see it. You don’t do sales. So I knew he was lying.’ She grabbed his arm, hurried him to the back, told Cinco to go deal with the browsers. She slammed the door behind her. ‘Could a bad guy from your old life be hunting you?’

  He knew she meant the Barradas but it was easier not to explain. ‘Yes. Listen to me. Close the gallery right now. Leave. In case he comes back at six. And I’ll make sure he leaves you alone.’

  ‘I’ll take you wherever you want to go.’

  ‘No. I’m not involving you further. Just go. Now.’ His face burned. ‘Thanks, Joy, for being my friend, you don’t know how much you and this job meant to me. Don’t tell Cinco about me, okay?’

  ‘I’ll make up a good story.’ Tears in her eyes, she tiptoed up and kissed his cheek. Then she opened the door, announced to Cinco and the ladies that they were closing immediately, nicely shepherded the two women out of the door, told Cinco to go home.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Cinco demanded.

  ‘Get your mother home,’ Miles said. ‘Now.’

  ‘Would you please tell me why we’re all panicking?’ Cinco asked.

  ‘Michael, let us give you a ride…’

  ‘No. Go, Joy, please.’

  Joy squeezed his hand and then she hurried Cinco to her car. They drove off in a peal of tire.

  The shooter knew his name. Andy, seated on Cinco’s desk, said, ‘Game’s over, Miles.’

  Miles ignored him, grabbed a University of New Mexico Lobos baseball cap from Cinco’s desk, p
ulled it low on his face, and then ran around to the back of the building. He needed to get back to his hotel. The gallery next door was owned by three potters – and he remembered that one always biked to work. He’d call her and tell her where the bike was later. He still had his lockpicks in his pocket and he worked the bike lock open in ten seconds.

  ‘Reduced to being a bicycle thief,’ Andy said. ‘Shame on you.’

  Miles jumped on the bicycle, awkwardly – he hadn’t ridden one in ten years – found his rhythm, then sped around the building’s corner, out onto the lot, onto Canyon Road.

  And saw the shooter behind the wheel of a car, heading back up Canyon, veering straight toward him in a scream of rubber.

  EIGHTEEN

  The buzz instead of a ring. It was a setting on office phones. The call Cinco took when Groote first walked in gave off a ring; Joy’d gotten a buzz for that second call, but she’d pretended it was an outside call. His instincts told him the woman had been lying. The idea of Michael Raymond coming back at six was just to get him out of the gallery.

  So he veered hard, ignoring the horns laid down around him as he narrowly missed clipping a truck, vroomed back down Paseo de Peralta, and took the hard right onto Canyon.

  And right ahead of him, an idiot on a bike, a baseball cap practically covering his eyes, riding and balancing awkwardly in the middle of the street. Groote just missed him as he steered the car hard into the parking lot for the collection of galleries.

  Groote saw the CLOSED sign hanging crooked in the Garrison Gallery’s door. He ran up to the door, tested the knob. Locked. He broke the pane of glass closest to the knob; an alarm wailed. He opened the door, drew his gun, ran through the gallery, upstairs and down. No sign of anyone.

  The police would arrive within minutes. He tucked his gun into his holster under his jacket, went out the back, saw a woman standing with hands on hips, frowning at the noise.

  ‘I’m a friend of Joy and Cinco’s,’ he said to her before she could speak. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘My bike’s gone.’ She gestured toward the gallery door, the shrieking whine. ‘Is it a break-in or a false alarm?’

  The guy on the bike. Outmaneuvered by an art hippie lady and a guy on a fricking bike. He ran past the woman and hurried to his car.

  Groote bolted onto Canyon, then Paseo de Peralta. Had to choose and took a hard right. He drove two minutes, running red lights, looking for the guy on the bike. Wheeled hard around and went the other way, cursing. He backtracked, tore up side roads at eighty miles an hour. His heart caught in his throat, he pounded the steering wheel in fury.

  I was this close to him. To finding Frost.

  No bike on the street. No bike anywhere. Michael Raymond was gone.

  NINETEEN

  Miles carried the stolen bike up to the hotel room with him, washed his face. The cache of money and equipment he kept at the bus station in case he ever needed to flee town on his own – now was the time to go fetch it. But if the shooter was prowling the roads of central Santa Fe, riding the bike was a risk; he couldn’t outrun a car.

  A fist pounded his door. DeShawn, ordering him to open up.

  He answered and DeShawn pushed in, frantic-faced, slamming the door behind him. ‘We’re moving you to a new city, getting you a new identity. Right now. Grab your bag.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve been disclosed, Miles. Your cover’s blown. The police found a laptop in Allison’s car trunk. It contained a scanned copy of your entire psychiatric file from Allison. Including the fact that you’re a federal witness and your real name.’ He shook his head. ‘It omitted the fact that you lied to me, of course.’

  DeShawn’s urgency had nothing to do with the shooter’s appearing at the gallery.

  ‘I-’

  ‘You’re done in Santa Fe. Let’s go.’

  Miles rocked on his feet, the news a punch in his gut. ‘How would Allison know my real name?’

  ‘You sure you didn’t tell her?’

  ‘No. I never did.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. You told me you didn’t even tell her you were a witness!’ DeShawn’s voice was cold. ‘You lied to me, Miles. She knew your name, she knew where you were from, she knew what you were, and now she’s dead.’

  ‘I never told her.’ The confession – signed with his real name – was still in his pants pocket. ‘You said a scanned file? Like a paper file scanned for a computer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sorenson, opening and closing the file cabinet yesterday afternoon. He’d taken something. Miles’s file. But it had apparently been full of information he’d never given Allison. ‘Jesus and Mary,’ Miles said.

  ‘You done lying, Miles? Your face. You weren’t in a fight. You were close to her office when it exploded.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You tried to call her pager right after the explosion – I got the records. Explain that timing.’

  ‘She wanted to talk to me…’

  ‘You were supposed to be there when the office blew, Miles, weren’t you. You were supposed to die with her, don’t you see it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You told her who you were. And then she started digging into your past, to understand you, to help you, and she tipped off the Barradas. Maybe by accident. But if you’d kept your mouth shut that you were Miles Kendrick, she’d be alive right now.’

  Miles shook his head. ‘I never told her my real name! And even if I did, why kill her? Why hurt her?’

  ‘You dumb shit!’ DeShawn yelled. ‘Do you know how many people want you dead? The Barradas, sure. Then all the crime rings you screwed over spying for the Barradas, they want your ass: the Razor Boys, the Duartes, the GHJ ring… Miles, she knew and she died and she left behind a record of your old name. That’s all that matters. You’re compromised. Welcome to your next exciting new life.’

  Miles went and picked up his bag. His mind raced. No, he couldn’t leave now, he couldn’t get on that plane. ‘What if I say no to relocating?’

  DeShawn’s voice went cold. ‘Now I speak as your inspector. WITSEC’s voluntary, Miles. You can walk away from our protection anytime you want. But as your friend, you’re dead meat if you stay. The press will get hold of this, eventually, her death is too big a story here. As your friend, I’m worried you’re not thinking straight, that you remain mentally unbalanced and unable to make a cogent decision, and I will knock your ass out and put you on a plane to save your life. That’s all off the record, of course.’

  ‘Of course. I-’

  ‘Nothing to keep you here,’ Andy said from the corner. ‘She’s dead and gone. Quit being helpful, Miles. People get killed.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ DeShawn said.

  ‘Nauseous.’ Miles went to the sink, jetted water into a glass.

  ‘First you fail her, now you run,’ Andy said. ‘You’re an A-one piece of work, Miles.’

  Miles drank his water, ignored DeShawn and Andy both. No. He wasn’t going anywhere, not until he knew the truth about Allison’s death. She needed him. He had failed to help her in time, he had failed to be the man she needed him to be. What had living a lie gotten him? Nothing. He’d lost this new life as easily as he’d lost his last one. The decision was clear and strong in his head, crowding out his fear, silencing Andy’s murmurs.

  Escape was the only answer. He had to avoid DeShawn, at least for a few days. Hide out in Santa Fe, find the shooter, uncover the truth. The WITSEC higher-ups might very well boot him out of the protection program for running; but he thought they might not. He was a mental patient and critical to their remaining cases against the Barrada ring. He had saved two FBI agents from certain death. But he was breaking a cardinal rule of WITSEC. Disobeying an inspector, running on his own.

  ‘I’ll go with you. But first I need to talk to Joy. Please,’ Miles said.

  ‘You can call Joy from your new location.’

  ‘I want Joy and Cinco protected.’

  ‘Did you t
ell them your real name too?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I guarantee you they’ll be safe.’

  ‘Make the call now. I want deputy marshals staked at Joy’s house, at Cinco’s, at the gallery.’

  DeShawn saw it was Miles’s price of compliance. ‘Okay, man, I’ll make the call.’ He dialed, spoke softly into the cell phone while Miles shoved his few belongings back into his bag.

  DeShawn clicked off the phone. ‘The Garrisons will be protected. My guarantee.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Miles hoisted the bag onto his shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’

  DeShawn walked ahead of him, opening the door, and Miles drove hard into him.

  ‘Miles, don’t try it!’ DeShawn yelled as he slammed into the door. He howled in pain, his hand caught between the frame and the latch. Miles hammered a fist into the back of DeShawn’s neck. Once, twice, and then DeShawn got his feet anchored, freed his hand from the door’s trap, and cannonballed into Miles.

  ‘Major mistake,’ DeShawn said, drawing back his fist. A hard punch to the chest, to the jaw, two hard blows to the stomach, left Miles heaped on the bed.

  ‘Goddamn, you hurt my hand.’ DeShawn stood over him, shaking the sting out of his fingers. ‘What the hell got into you?’

  Miles didn’t answer, closed his eyes, told himself to ignore the pain. He made his breathing labored.

  ‘Assaulting a federal officer,’ DeShawn said. ‘Never mind you were supposed to be my friend.’

  Miles kept his eyes closed. He heard the soft clink of handcuffs.

  ‘Quit playing possum,’ DeShawn said, grabbing Miles’s wrist. ‘Open up your eyes and stop-’

  Miles pivoted and kicked out with both feet, hard. One foot caught DeShawn in the nose, the other in the throat, and he staggered back. Miles spun off the bed, pain fueling him because he couldn’t lose now, DeShawn would rightly beat him senseless.