by Jeff Abbott
Miles sat in the Austin Four Seasons hotel bar, Allison and Andy and now DeShawn sitting across from him, an accusing retinue, people dead from his mistakes.
He could not lose his grip now. Andy’s light-switch presence – on and off, on and off – made Miles sure that his sanity was a matter of nuance and fluctuation, but now with Allison and DeShawn haunting him he knew his mind was on the verge of breaking apart, slipping into fragments that could not be easily pieced back together.
He couldn’t let it show. Groote would kill him if Miles’s mind broke and he became unneeded weight.
He put his gaze on the window, watching the calm of Town Lake as it stretched past downtown. Think of your favorite things, like that assortment of pleasantries Julie Andrews sang about in that old song. He summoned good memories of Austin: Miles had been to this bustling, creative hothouse of a city once before, to an Austin City Limits Music Festival with Andy – Andy worshiped Oasis and Miles was a huge fan of The Black Crowes and they’d come, drunk beer, grooved to the bands. Andy scored backstage passes and Miles remembered Andy relentlessly flirting with a beautiful girl who was the girlfriend of a major band’s drummer. They got kicked out of the VIP tent and laughed about it all the way back to the Four Seasons.
‘Good times,’ Andy said.
‘Yes,’ Miles answered, under his breath. ‘Now hush.’ Sweat broke out along his back.
‘What are you going to do if he killed me, Miles?’ DeShawn said. ‘I have a right to know if I can count on you.’
‘Don’t talk to him in public,’ Allison said from the other chair. ‘They’ll haul his ass to a hospital, pump him full of antipsychotics, and maybe he won’t listen to us anymore.’
‘You don’t think a pill is going to make me go away, do you?’ Andy said. ‘Might as well trade a cow for magic beans, Miles. You know you and I are a team forever. Permanent odd couple. I’m the original fracture in your head, these newbies are just hangers-on.’
‘I’m going to kill you again,’ Miles whispered, ‘and this time it’s self-defense.’
‘It wasn’t the first time,’ Andy said. ‘Not really. Deep in your brain is the truth.’
‘Dying to come out,’ Allison said.
‘Shut up, shut up,’ Miles said in a soft mutter. He straightened his shirt. You could appear scraggly yet hip in the Four Seasons and not attract undue attention: Austin was a film and music town and dress did not often equal actual wealth. He was dressed, unthreateningly, in clean jeans and a T-shirt that promoted a music group so obscure he might pass for Austin-cool.
Eleven minutes later, he watched a man cross the lobby, carrying a briefcase, heading up to the elevators. David Singhal, returning from a cab ride he’d taken shortly after arriving at the hotel. Groote had followed him, also in a cab, then called Miles to say the guy had simply gone to a restaurant for lunch.
Groote hadn’t gotten back yet and so Miles followed Singhal through the lobby. Miles got in the elevator next to the man, folded his hands behind his back; Singhal had already pressed the button.
‘If you go to the Frost auction today,’ Miles said conversationally, ‘you’re going to be killed.’
‘Today,’ Singhal repeated in wide-eyed shock. The doors slid open at his floor. ‘I’ve no idea what you mean…’
‘I’m not wearing a wire. And don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re in deep trouble, Mr. Singhal, and only I can get you out of it.’
‘You’ve made – a mistake.’ Singhal walked past him. ‘Leave me alone or I’ll call hotel security.’
‘You go ahead. Then I’ll call the FDA.’ Miles followed him to a suite at the end of the hall. ‘You were going to buy Frost from Oliver Quantrill. Now you’re buying it from someone else who’s willing to take a smaller profit. It’s a mistake.’
Singhal kept a poker face. ‘Again, you’re confused.’
Miles pulled the gun from the back of his pants, hidden by his loose shirt, aimed it at Singhal’s stomach. ‘Then let’s talk privately and you can clear the air. Inside.’
Hands trembling, Singhal opened the suite door and Miles followed him inside. He ordered Singhal to sit on the bed, called Groote, told him to come to suite 409.
‘We have two minutes. You’re going to tell me where the Frost auction is. If you do, then I’ll make sure your pharma client gets an opportunity to develop it for free. I’ll give you the research – all I care about is that sick people get the medicine. But I have to know where Sorenson is.’
Singhal bit his lip.
‘Please take my offer. If you think I’m scary, wait till you meet my… friend. His daughter’s been kidnapped by the people running the auction.’ Not exactly accurate, but it had the effect he wanted: Singhal swallowed. ‘I need to know where the auction is.’
‘It’s an old private asylum, east side of town. Abandoned but bought by Sorenson’s people a month or so ago.’
‘When?’
‘Six P.M.’ Six hours away.
‘Do you have a pass, any special way to gain entrance to this auction?’
‘No.’
‘I’m the nice guy. The completely ruthless man on his way up is the bad guy. Please reconsider your answer.’
A knock on the door. Miles let Groote inside.
‘Who are you people?’ Singhal said. ‘If I know who I’m dealing with – we can agree to an arrangement.’
‘Here’s your arrangement.’ Groote grabbed the man by the throat, pushed him smoothly up the wall. Then he started punching Singhal, precise stiff-fingered chops. Steady as a metronome, in the kidneys, in the space between ribs, above the heart, and Miles thought, That shouldn’t hurt, but suddenly Singhal’s face purpled and he said, ‘My wallet. God, stop. Please.’
Miles pulled Singhal’s wallet free from his jacket and found a slip of paper in the wallet: an address in east Austin and an access code: 12XCD.
‘There’s a fence around the property. That’s the electronic code to get past the locks.’
‘What kind of security did Sorenson promise?’ Miles asked.
‘He… said we’d be safe.’
‘How many buyers coming?’
‘I have no idea… please. I have a family.’
‘So do I, asshole,’ Groote said.
‘Groote. Don’t kill him.’
‘Tell me about security.’ Groote raised his fist.
‘I was just assured… it would be safe… I don’t know, honestly.’
Groote shook his head at Miles. ‘He can’t be calling and warning Sorenson.’
‘Don’t kill him,’ Miles said again.
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘Goddamn it, you want to walk into a freaking ambush? Better him than us.’ Spittle flew from Groote’s mouth.
Miles punched Singhal. Hard. Singhal’s eyes rolled, the guy collapsed.
‘Good idea,’ Groote said. ‘He might start to scream, us discussing his lack of a future.’
The blow had hurt his hand and Miles worked out the pain with a shake. ‘You kill him, and we get caught, then you’ll never see Amanda again. The guy in Yosemite, shooting him you saved lives, and we’d all swear to that in court. But this would be cold-blooded murder, and I’m sure you’re not into that gig. It never pays.’
Groote shook his head. ‘He can’t warn Sorenson.’
‘Then help me.’ Miles tied up Singhal with the curtain cord, gagged him with a shredded pillowcase, stuffed him in the closet. He called the front desk, told them he was Singhal, he was sick with a vicious stomach flu, could they please be sure he wasn’t disturbed today. No housekeeping, yes, and please put no phone calls through.
‘I don’t like this,’ Groote said.
‘We have six hours before the buyers are due,’ Miles said. ‘Come on.’
They got their rental car and headed for I-35.
They didn’t see the car pull out after them, staying back a half mile but never losing sight of them.
Groote took the exit, three left turns, and drove along a street that held modest homes, most immaculate, a few slouching in disrepair. At the far end of the street, looming tall over the neighborhood, was a Gothic building of gray granite, forbidding. A stone sign that read YARBROUGH HOSPITAL EST. 1893 was worn with time, bedecked with graffiti. Above it, on wooden posts, a weathered, worn
sign advertising a fund-raiser Halloween haunted house called ‘Nightmare Hospital’ was covered by another, smaller board that said HORIZON PROPERTIES NO TRESPASSING.
‘Horizon,’ Groote said. ‘Same as the fake company that owned Dodd’s car.’
‘Sorenson killed Dodd and then uses his resources,’ Miles said.
‘Nice and efficient,’ Groote said. ‘You clearheaded, Miles?’
‘Yes.’
‘Take this.’ Groote handed him a small gun and an ankle holster. He’d acquired a modest armory with a phone call after their arrival in Austin. ‘Good to have if it gets ugly and you’re down or your clip’s empty.’
‘Thank you.’ Miles attached the holster, let the cuff of his pants drop over the weapon, surprised at the gift. ‘Groote?’
‘Yeah?’ Groote switched off the car’s ignition.
‘When this is done… we walk our separate ways. No need to hurt each other, is there?’
‘I can’t think of one, Miles.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Get my daughter where she can’t be hurt again.’
‘Then you should probably give up your war on the Duartes.’
Groote looked at him.
‘The people that hurt her and killed your wife. It was the Duartes, wasn’t it? You know they did it even if the FBI’s not sure.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘We don’t have time for subtlety, Dennis. I don’t want you putting a bullet in my back as soon as we get Frost.’
‘Why would I be so rude, Miles?’
‘Back in L.A. I asked you about the ring you blamed for hurting your family. You dodged giving me an answer, and it bothers me. Because there’s no reason for you not to tell me. Unless it was the Duartes. Because I’ve got a connection to them. You know about my work for the Barradas, spying on rival crime rings, including the Duartes. You were FBI. Of course you’d know.’
Groote gave him a sidelong glance.
Miles kept his gaze steady on Groote’s. ‘I am very sorry for your loss, but I have never hurt your family. I stole some financial information from the Duartes, and the FBI gave me fake files about the Duartes to use in a sting against the Barradas. I didn’t ever hurt the Duartes enough to bring them to a boiling point. I don’t know what aimed them at your family, but it wasn’t me. They were clearly already in the Bureau’s headlights. You don’t have a reason to blame me. So if you’ve got revenge on your mind, forget it.’
Groote’s mouth twitched into a smile that died after a moment.
‘I’m going to go back into Witness Protection, if they’ll have me. I still have to testify against the Barradas, what’s left of them. And then they want me to testify against other crime rings. It puts a lot of trash out of business. And it’s faster and easier than killing them off, one by one.’
Groote looked straight ahead.
‘I have a friend in WITSEC to call. You said you met him – DeShawn Pitts.’
‘Yeah,’ Groote said, his voice neutral.
Miles watched him for a sign of reaction. ‘I’ll tell DeShawn – since he’s a good guy – where Amanda is, if Sorenson knows. So we can get her protection immediately, get her to safety right away.’
Groote said, ‘That’s a kindness, Miles.’
‘You hurt my friends. You hurt Nathan, you attacked Celeste. I won’t forget it. But I know you were trying to save your daughter.’
Groote coughed into his fist.
‘I’m helping your kid, Dennis, and that evens any grudge you’re thinking of carrying against me. Clear?’
‘Crystal,’ Groote said.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me? Any reason I should have to be angry with you?’ Thinking, Did you kill DeShawn?
‘I can’t think of a single one,’ Groote said.
The silence hung between them like a curtain. Finally Groote spoke: ‘We keep the plan simple. If Sorenson’s there, we take him. If not, we take Frost if it’s there, or we hide ourselves in the hospital until Sorenson shows up and then we take control.’
‘Simple.’
‘Most things are.’
‘Come on,’ Miles said. ‘Let’s end this.’
FIFTY-EIGHT
Miles entered the keypad number from Singhal’s wallet. The lock holding the ancient iron gate beeped, disengaged, and Miles pushed the metal bars open, left it unlocked.
They ran across the overgrown grass to the hospital’s front door.
‘You first,’ Groote said, ‘since it’s your idea.’
The door was locked. Miles knelt down, tested the lock with Groote’s Mr. Screwdriver, worked it open. They stepped into the silence of the abandoned hospital.
Groote shut the door behind them. Both men held their guns out in front of them, pointing into the dim light. The opening foyer was dusty, scattered with junk – leftover papier-mache monster masks; bright orange flyers, fading, that promoted the haunted-house event and other long-ago October concerts in clubs; discarded paper cups and beer cans; a tattered banner, torn in half, that said: TO
CHAMBER OF HO
They stood and listened for a long minute. The silence made Miles’s ears ache.
Ho? Groote mouthed, pointing at the ripped sign.
Horrors, Miles decided. Chamber of horrors.
Groote tapped at his ear. Listen. And in the hush, he heard a quiet computerish hum from down the hall.
Miles saw Andy beckoning him along the hallway. Sweat broke out on his ribs, in the hollow of his throat, in his hair, and he realized he was more scared than he had ever been in his life. Scared of what would happen, scared of the psychopath standing next to him, scared of what he was becoming.
Groote gestured with his gun toward the hall. They went past several deserted offices. Tattered curtains, leftovers from the haunted house, hung in the windows, the rooms all empty. In the last one a laptop sat on a folding table. Miles moved to read the screen.
It displayed a PowerPoint presentation called ‘Research Options on Memory and Trauma with a Beta Blocker Approach.’
All the bloodshed, all the suffering, all the millions at stake, it came down to a PowerPoint presentation.
Miles put his mouth close to Groote’s ear to whisper, ‘We’re not alone. Sorenson wouldn’t leave this behind.’
Trap us in the hallway, Groote mouthed. He gestured down the corridor. Miles nodded and followed him.
A brick propped open a door at the end of the hallway. A large room loomed beyond. Perhaps once it had been the cafeteria, or a space for socializing. Now it wore false walls, shaped into a twisty maze, a setup of nightmarish paintings on black paint, and mirrors arranged to confuse and frighten. Junk, left behind by the Halloween fund raiser, probably with a thought to reuse it next year, before Dodd bought the derelict property.
Miles could smell the dusty aroma that seems to permeate open spaces long neglected. It had hung like a perfume in the fatal air in Miami, and panic seized his chest. He could not flashback now, no, Jesus, don’t lose control, he told himself, don’t let your brain be a traitor.
Groote nodded at him and Miles went through the door first, gun out, arms level, afraid to breathe, to think, to see. No Andy, no Allison, no DeShawn, please, he thought. Groote followed him. The haunted house-scape still stood in the large room, monster faces leering at them from plywood and black paint: howling ghosts, shambling zombies, big-fanged vampires, all the playthings of manufactured, false fear.
Miles tapped Groote on the shoulder. They hadn’t discussed what procedures to take if they needed to do a search. Groote jerked hi
s head to the right, pointed to Miles, jerked it to the left. Miles nodded. He moved to the left, Groote moved to the right.
Miles walked down a twisting passage. Black fabric, hung to mask the operations of the haunted house, hung in tatters. Silence again.
Andy stood at the end of the passage, and he frightened Miles more than any fabricated monster. ‘You can’t do this. Sorenson will kill you. I mean, you think you’re really going to stand there and shoot another person?’
Miles glanced behind him. Allison stood watching him as though to see what he would do next. He whirled back to Andy; but he was gone. He pivoted again; Allison had vanished. But the curtain moved, and there was no hum of air conditioner to sway it He sensed movement behind him and spun as Sorenson burst through the tatters of black fabric at the corner where Andy had stood, leveling a gun at him and firing.
The bullets needled through the meat and muscle of his arm and his leg. Miles screamed with agony and fell through the black curtain along the passageway, trying to simply put cover between himself and Sorenson. Two more bullets whistled above him, ripping holes in the black cloth. He went flat and he heard two shattering gunshots as he barreled headfirst to where a plywood wall met a wooden support pillar.
Trapped. No way to go forward or sideways.
Miles rolled back out into the passageway, bullets blazing above him as he tried to gain his footing, and he saw Groote take two shots, chest and shoulder. Groote staggered back, fell hard on the flooring, eyes wide, his teeth chomping into his own lip in pain and shock.
Miles turned.
Sorenson walked toward him, the gun locked on Miles’s head.
FIFTY-NINE
Miles fell back against the fabric, a plywood Dracula collapsing on him, Groote coughing and cussing behind him, yelling at him to find his gun and shoot the bastard.
Miles wriggled out from the fake monster as Sorenson charged at him. Miles tried to aim but Sorenson had shot him in his shooting arm and he fired and missed. Sorenson leveled a kick that nailed Miles’s wrist, knocked the gun past the curtains. Sorenson whipped his own gun across Miles’s face.