by Jeff Abbott
‘I don’t think I can face a new psychiatrist right now.’
‘Doctor Vance wouldn’t want your therapy to end.’
‘You’re right.’ She wiped the tears from her cheeks. ‘I think I’ll go check my e-mail.’
‘You spend too much time on the computer. One day I’m gonna unplug that monster and wheel it to the street. Might get you out of the house.’ Nancy squeezed her hand and went off to the kitchen.
Celeste sat down at the computer. Allison had sat here; she’d seemed nervous. Skittish. Now she was dead, under extraordinary circumstances. Maybe one didn’t have anything to do with the other. Just because you had a weird day, then you died, it didn’t necessarily mean anything.
But the day Brian died had been off kilter. The coffeemaker broke; it gurgled in protest and wouldn’t brew. She dropped the egg carton pulling it from the refrigerator, spilling shells and yolks across the tile. So Brian said, I’ll run to the store and I’ll swing by Starbucks, babe, because now she got recognized everywhere she went in Atlanta, there was a checker there who always wanted to make a big deal about seeing the winner from Castaway. So Brian was gone when the Disturbed Fan she believed was a friend knocked on the door with his easy grin and she let him into the house because she trusted him, he was her fan club’s president, and then he pulled the knife and the gun and told her she and Brian were going to die, just as soon as Brian got home with the dozen eggs and hot coffee.
She closed her eyes, steadied herself in the chair. Brian walking in, her tied up and the Disturbed Fan starting to tuck the fabric between her lips, Brian calling, Babe, I got Sumatra, I hope that’s okay, and then it all ended, her life wadded up and thrown away.
She swallowed past the mountain in her throat. She hit the space bar on the keyboard, awakening her computer from sleep. She could dig around the system, see what Allison had done. Before Brian died, Celeste had been an accomplished programmer; now her computer was her only friend, aside from Nancy.
She checked the Sent Items folder in her e-mail program. Nothing unusual there; Allison hadn’t e-mailed anything from Celeste’s account. Next she dived to her Web browser and checked the history.
The list of sites the browser had visited yesterday scrolled down the screen. Odd. Celeste had spent much of Wednesday morning on Amazon, shopping for new books on PTSD, and those pages were cleaned from the browser’s history. But the sites she’d visited after Allison’s visit: Victor Gamby’s blog and discussion board for PTSD sufferers, CNN, and eBay, those sites’ addresses remained in the history list.
Which meant wherever Allison had gone on her Web browser, she’d then erased the entire history. She hadn’t wanted to leave a trail.
Celeste opened the various Microsoft Office programs, surveying the listing of recent files, to see if there was a file name she didn’t recognize. None. So Allison had not opened a Word document or spreadsheet, or she had cleaned out the history of files opened in those programs.
What had Allison said? Celeste frowned, trying to remember: I have all the programs I need on this disk.
‘Celeste, your snack is ready,’ Nancy called. ‘Come sit in here with me while I finish making your soup.’
‘All right.’ She wondered if there was a way to recover the cleaned-out history file. She’d have to research that once Nancy left.
The kitchen smelled of broth and chiles and she sat down to a plate of wheat crackers and grapes and Havarti cheese. Food. She needed this more than hours of crying in bed, although Allison deserved grieving. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, sweetie.’
‘You’re right about finding another therapist,’ Celeste said. ‘Allison mentioned a Doctor Hurley at Sangre de Cristo. I’ll call him and set up an appointment.’
Nancy told her that was a good idea and took her leave. Celeste ladled out the simple soup into a bowl. It tasted wonderful; hot, spicy with green chiles. She ate two bowls of it and felt better.
She opened the Yellow Pages, found a number for Leland Hurley. She dialed the hospital, got connected to his voice mail, and left a message, asking him to call her regarding a doctor to take over her therapy. Then she added: ‘Allison acted… oddly the day she was here, Tuesday, and I need to talk to you about it.’ She felt disloyal but she knew Nancy was right; she couldn’t let her therapy stop. She wanted distraction, so she flopped on the sofa, powered on the TV, settled in to pass the time with an old Bob Hope comedy.
The doorbell rang. She clicked the TV to the channel that fed into the security camera on her front door. She didn’t know the man standing at her porch. He held up a sign to the camera, handwritten in block letters on white cardboard. It read I KNOW ALLISON’S SECRET.
She gaped at the screen in disbelief. The man gave the camera a polite wave.
She pushed the intercom button. ‘Who are you?’
‘Hi. My name is Miles Kendrick.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I believe you may have information relevant to why Allison died.’ He never let his eyes drop from the camera.
‘I don’t talk to people,’ she said. ‘Go away.’
‘I know you prefer to be alone. I understand. But I believe you’ll want to talk to me.’
‘How did you know Allison?’ she finally said.
‘She asked me for help.’ He produced another note, held it up to the screen. She read it; she knew Allison’s tight, neat handwriting.
‘How do you know what information I have?’ she asked.
‘Because Allison told me,’ he said, ‘that she was in trouble and that I could trust you.’
She studied his face for five minutes. Her hands trembling, Celeste got her gun, its weight unfamiliar in her hand, and opened the door.
TWENTY-THREE
Groote didn’t want to use the screwdriver again, but he didn’t have a choice.
Michael Raymond hadn’t run home, he hadn’t run back to the gallery, he wasn’t answering his phone. Wednesday night Groote had called the MR number listed on Allison’s cell, using a hospital phone; but there was no answer. He’d left a message that simply said, ‘You and I need to talk, Mr. Raymond, I’ll call you when your phone’s on.’ He’d called every hotel in town, checked flights outbound from Albuquerque. He had found where Joy Garrison lived and driven twice past her house. A Santa Fe police car sat outside. No help there. He drove on both times to avoid attracting notice.
Of course Michael Raymond might have abandoned his bike and left town by car. But – and the thought nagged at Groote – if the guy had killed Allison and taken Frost, had the research worth millions in his pocket, why stay in town on Wednesday, working at the gallery? He’d stayed a full twenty-four hours when he should have disappeared if he had the drug research. But the dink had gone back to life as normal.
He must have had a damned good reason to stay in town. I don’t have… Frost… but I might know where you can get it, Michael Raymond had said. Perhaps the guy hit a delay in putting his hands on Frost.
Nathan Ruiz might know the reason.
Groote found Nathan heavily sedated; he steered Hurley to Nathan’s bedside.
‘I need him talking,’ Groote said.
Hurley pulled his arm away from Groote’s grip. ‘I need him not screaming his throat raw. The other patients can hear him.’
‘Who gives a crap? Tell them he’s having a nervous breakdown.’
‘We’ve got another avenue to pursue,’ Hurley said with an irritating level of confidence back in his voice. ‘I got a phone call from one of Allison’s patients – Celeste Brent. She used to be famous, she won a reality TV show.’
‘A PTSD patient?’
‘I think so, given her recent past.’ He gave Groote a brief background on Celeste Brent. ‘The news accounts after she moved here say she’s agoraphobic, has made her house a fortress. She said Allison visited her Tuesday afternoon, acted oddly.’
Groote considered. ‘Presume she took the research Tuesday when she left.
Allison either hands off the research to someone else or hides it; she wouldn’t leave it in her office, because there and her home are the first places you’d search. Say she hid it, and Michael Raymond knows she hid it but he hasn’t found it,’ Groote said, ‘then it’s the best explanation for why he hadn’t left town yesterday.’
Hurley nodded. ‘So where would she stash it?’
‘Put yourself in her shoes. She had the research. She didn’t take it straight to the FDA or to the press, so she had a reason to keep Frost secret, at least for a few hours. Best if she could hide it in a place where she could get access to it but others couldn’t, at least not easily. Perhaps Mr. Raymond’s problem is one of access.’
Hurley saw where his idea was going. ‘She wouldn’t leave it at a patient’s house.’
‘But hiding something at a recluse’s house – where only you and a couple of others have regular access – is an interesting idea. You said she lives in her house like it’s a fortress. We need to talk to her.’
‘This is all speculation.’
‘I used to work in speculation all the time.’ Groote didn’t add that it had been part of his job at the FBI, trying to figure out connections between players to build the bigger case.
Hurley blanched. ‘You can’t go over there and bully her. She called me – I can find out what she knows.’
‘All right. Go.’
Hurley left.
Groote checked his watch. California time was close to four, Amanda would be in her room. He dialed the number; the nurse got Amanda and brought her to the phone.
‘Hey, Daddy.’
‘Hey, sunshine. How’s your day?’
‘I’m not sunshine today.’
‘What’s the matter, Amanda Banana?’ He realized he talked to her as if she were a small child, but he couldn’t help himself. The undamaged child was the daughter he saw in his mind’s eye, not this broken, sad teenager who needed more than he could give her.
‘I miss you.’
His heart tightened. ‘I miss you, too, angel, but this is an important trip for Daddy.’ Dare he raise her hopes? Hope was the greatest medicine of all, if it wasn’t dead in her heart. ‘Daddy’s working with nice folks that have a new way to help you.’
‘What way?’ She sounded suspicious.
‘It’s a pill, honey. A magic pill.’
‘Magic pill,’ she said dully. ‘Oh, please, Dad.’
‘It kills all the bad memories in your brain. But a very, very bad man stole the magic pills, and Daddy’s going to catch him.’
‘You’re making this up,’ she said.
‘No. I got to go slay dragons now and get that magic pill back. I think he hid it under a hundred mattresses a princess sleeps on.’
Now she laughed, indulging him, the sweetest music in his world. ‘You’re such a geek, Dad.’
‘I love you, Amanda Banana.’
‘I love you, Dad,’ she said after a pause, as though she had to find the words, recognize the emotions. ‘Go slay a dragon for me.’
‘I will, baby, I will.’ He clicked off the phone, pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath. He couldn’t fail her, he couldn’t let her rot in that hospital. Not when she could be fixed.
Groote went back down to the soundproofed room where Nathan Ruiz lay handcuffed to the bed. He wore a bloodied scrubs shirt and underwear. Four vicious gouges dotted his leg, where Groote had made his cuts and twisted his screwdriver. Groote closed the door behind him. Nathan opened his eyes and cringed.
He leaned over to Nathan’s face. ‘You’re gonna tell me the truth now, you’re gonna tell me everything you know about Michael Raymond. You tried to protect him, you went all those hours without giving me his name, which suggests to me that you know more than you’ve told me so far.’
Nathan spat at him, but the glob just landed on his own nose and lip.
Groote gently wiped the spittle from Nathan’s face. ‘Nice defiance. Piss me off and we’re moving on to power tools.’
‘I’m – I’m not afraid of you,’ Nathan said.
‘I know fear. You’re drowning in it, son. But you’re about to be drowning in pain instead.’ He lowered his mouth close to Nathan’s ear. ‘Where did Allison hide Frost?’
‘I told you, I don’t know anything about her taking your stuff.’
Groote didn’t want to go through hours more of torture; he wondered if the boy’s relatively strong courage was proof that Frost worked on him. So change tactics. ‘I don’t have to hurt you if you help me. Celeste Brent. Tell me about her.’
‘Who?’
‘She was one of the last people to see Allison alive.’
Nathan closed his eyes. ‘Don’t know her.’
A knock on the door announced Hurley; Groote noticed he didn’t look at Nathan. ‘What am I supposed to do if Allison did leave Frost with Ms. Brent?’
‘Call me. I’ll deal with her. People commit suicide when they lose their therapist sometimes,’ Groote said. ‘Unfortunate, but it happens.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Miles heard six soft clicks: dead bolts unlocking. Then the door opened. ‘Put the note down,’ a voice whispered. ‘Step back ten steps from the door. Count the steps aloud.’
He did as he was told.
The door creaked open another few inches, a hand reached out, swept the note inside. The door slammed closed. He heard the locks turn.
Three more minutes. He peered up at the moon showing its face from behind a heavy cloud, its light silvering the wildflowers that graced the beds. The dead bolts, all six of them, clicked and the door opened again. Now the hand held a gun, a sleek Glock. He could see her, only part of her face visible, standing there in a T-shirt with a Batman logo, faded jeans, her hair pulled into a thick ponytail.
‘You can come in,’ she said.
‘Guns make me nervous.’ He’d left his own in the car.
‘Everything makes me nervous,’ Celeste said. ‘Explain why she wrote you a note. Why not just ask for your help?’
He saw no reason to lie; she might slam the door in his face, but she might equally decide to trust him. ‘She didn’t want another person in the room to know she was asking for help.’
‘Who?’
‘A man named Sorenson. He said he was a doctor but he’s not. She passed me the note in a vial of pills.’
‘Pills? White pills?’ Her voice rose.
‘Empty shells. No medicine in them.’
Ten seconds passed. ‘We’ll talk. But by my rules. Hands on your head. Step inside.’
He obeyed. She eased back, keeping a healthy ten feet between them. Neither her voice nor her hand holding the Glock was particularly steady.
‘Shut the door,’ she said. ‘Don’t lock it – keep your hands on your head. Just shut it.’ He did, easing the front door closed with his elbow. He waited.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Can we talk?’
‘Sit.’ She gestured with the gun to a heavy armchair in the corner. He sat, she remained standing on the other side of the room, the gun trained on him.
‘I understand your caution, but that’s not necessary.’
‘Why did Allison turn to you?’
‘I used to be a private investigator. She believed I could help her.’
‘Used to be.’
‘I’m retired.’
‘She gave you pills. Were you a patient?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I’m Dealing With Issues.’
‘Don’t be vague. I don’t leave the house. What do you do?’
He swallowed. ‘A friend of mine tried to kill someone. I killed him. He follows me around.’
‘I prefer my life to yours,’ she said.
‘Allison asked me for help, she asked you to keep a secret, she got killed. We should compare notes.’
‘It’s too late to help her.’
‘I can’t walk away from it. I can’t. May I put my hands down?’
> ‘No.’
‘I’ll tell you why Allison was in danger if you tell me her secret.’
‘Why should I care? She’s dead.’
‘I can see you care. You’ve been crying. But, Mrs. Brent – Celeste – you might be in danger the same way she was.’
A sick, sad frown twisted her pretty face. ‘I’ve already survived attempted murder. It’s generally a once-in-a-lifetime experience.’
‘Me too. But you and me, we’re beating the odds.’ He told the events of the past two days: meeting Sorenson, Allison asking him for help, finding out Sorenson wasn’t a doctor, the confrontation and chase at Allison’s apartment, the shooter coming to the gallery looking for him. He left out that he was in WITSEC and hiding from the authorities. He didn’t want to scare her.
She listened without interruption.
‘This man that’s hunting me, he thinks I’ve got this research that Allison stole. I’m wondering if she gave it to you or talked about it to you.’
‘Backtrack a minute. You’re saying Allison was a thief.’
‘I know how it sounds. But she’s dead. Nathan Ruiz has been in this hospital, and if he’s telling the truth, she was helping him escape. He was part of this Frost research… he had FROST on his hospital bracelet. Allison was trying to get him away from the research.’
‘Nathan Ruiz could be lying.’
‘People chased and shot at us.’
After a moment, she lowered the gun and he found it easier to breathe. ‘Fair enough. But why would she bring this research here?’
‘Because if they were suspicious of her… she could only go places where she could be expected to go. She stole something of great value. She can’t keep it in her house or her office – this man, or this Sorenson guy, might be after it. She needed another hiding place, one that she can reach easily yet doesn’t arouse suspicion.’
‘And you think she hid this secret in my house.’
‘How long since you left your house?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ she snapped.
‘You’re right. But say she had to hide it in a hurry. If she showed up, unexpected, she could be sure you were home. Because you’re always home.’