Trust Me

by Jeff Abbott

  They’d parked Aubrey’s car in the small adjacent lot. ‘This is certifiably insane,’ Aubrey said as they walked toward the building. The wind, which had been cooling all afternoon, bellowed and they drew closer together, without thought.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘so no one will be expecting it.’

  The air park’s offices were dim and, surprisingly, slightly shabby, as though all the money had gone into the architecture and design and there had only been stray pennies left for the furnishings. At one desk, a man in his thirties sat peering at a computer screen. He was of Asian descent, compactly built, a thin scar marring the corner of his mouth. He frowned at the screen – which Luke could not see – as though puzzling over bad news.

  Luke took the lead. ‘Hey, I’m Eric Lindoe, I had a flight chartered for today.’

  ‘With who?’ The man cranked a crooked smile.

  First roadblock. ‘Mr Drummond.’

  ‘Hi, Mr Lindoe. I’m your ride.’ He offered his hand. ‘Frankie Wu.’

  Luke shook what he hoped was a dry hand with Wu’s. ‘This is your other passenger, Aubrey Perrault.’

  ‘Hi.’

  Wu shook hands with Aubrey. ‘You’re shivering, Ms Perrault. You scared of flying? Don’t be.’

  ‘Terrified,’ Aubrey said, with a glance at Luke.

  ‘You and my wife. Actually she’s more scared when I’m driving. You’re in excellent hands.’

  Aubrey offered a smile. ‘I feel better already.’

  ‘We’re fueled up and ready to go, Mr Lindoe.’

  Where the hell are we going? He wanted to know. But he could hardly ask.

  ‘You don’t have more bags?’ Wu asked, glancing at their cheap knapsacks. They’d stopped and bought a couple of changes of clothes and nothing more. Luke had the gun and the laptop and the money they’d taken from Eric’s house in his pack, Eric’s key ring jangling in his pocket.

  ‘We travel light,’ Aubrey said.

  ‘Please explain that virtue to my wife.’ Wu shut off the computer, scribbled a note on the clipboard.

  ‘I only hope I brought the right clothes,’ Aubrey said. Good, Luke thought.

  ‘The weather in New York should be fine. Paris might be rainy by tomorrow.’

  New York. Paris. Not one destination, but two. Was someone joining them in New York to go on to France? Luke felt a surge of panic – neither he nor Aubrey had passports. Paris wasn’t going to happen.

  Paris. Where Jane was, the mastermind behind their kidnappings. He glanced at Aubrey; she gave the slightest of nods.

  As he, Aubrey and Wu walked outside, across the tarmac to the waiting plane, he thought: don’t do this. Turn and run. Aubrey’s right, it’s crazy.

  He kept walking toward the plane.

  If he turned and ran, he would never know why the man he thought of as a father betrayed him. He’d never know who was after him; he’d be forced to live a half-life, always afraid, branded a murderer. No more turning or dodging. This lavish, expensive plane that was a dead man’s escape route was going to take him straight into the heart of the matter.

  His throat tightened as he looked at the plane. A private jet. Much like the one his father died in. A swirl of painful memories churned in his head; the rainy night in Washington, hugging his father goodbye and breathing in the Old Spice scent of him; finding his mother red-eyed at the breakfast table the next morning, bearing her grief alone because she wanted Luke to sleep through the night; the letters pouring in from the universities where he had been a guest lecturer, Cairo, Bonn, London; the news footage of the salvage ship off the North Carolina coast, hauling the wreckage aboard out of the gray depths a week after the crash. The eulogies about what a wonderful teacher his father had been, listening to them, his mother holding his hand so tight he could feel the skip and beat of her pulse under her skin.

  And Henry, introducing himself to Luke at the reception, a plate of chicken and salad in his hand, offering the other cool palm to Luke to shake, saying how much he had admired his father. How much he would miss him. As if anyone could miss him more than Luke and his mom.

  He wondered, with a jolt, how life would have been different if he had not run away three days after the service. He had given Henry an easy, sympathetic key to wriggle his way into the family. If he had stayed home, maybe his mother would never have become friends with Henry Shawcross.

  They followed Frankie Wu onto the plane. The Learjet was larger than Luke had expected; with a private cabin and cockpit. The cabin seated ten. A small galley was at the front of the aircraft. Aubrey sat down and he sat next to her, his heart thrumming in his chest.

  Wu completed his final inspections, walking around the plane. Aubrey and Luke waited in silence. Wu walked, a cell phone pressed to his ear. He said a few words, then listened while he completed the inspection.

  ‘He’s letting someone know we’ve checked in,’ Aubrey said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Luke said. He wasn’t sure what he would say if Wu asked for Lindoe’s ID. Say he’d lost it. A bead of sweat trickled past his ear.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘My dad died in the crash of a plane like this. A mechanic named Ace Beere worked for the charter service. He had extremist views he shared at work; he found out he was going to be fired. He sabotaged my dad’s flight. Him and several of his professor friends, they were flying down to Cape Hatteras for a retreat and some fishing. I’d wanted to go; he said no. Beere damaged the plane’s systems so it lost pressure midflight. Everyone on board suffocated, died from hypoxia. The plane kept flying, far past the coast, until it slammed into the Atlantic.’ He glanced around. ‘Yeah, this plane’s real similar.’ His throat tightened.

  ‘Oh, my God, I’m sorry. Are you going to be all right?’

  ‘I’m okay.’ He gripped the seat. Suddenly his father was like a physical presence in his chest.

  ‘You’re pale.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Tell me about your dad. What made him cool.’ She put her hand on his knee.

  He savored the strength in her grip. ‘He always listened to me. He always had time for me. He was gone a lot, teaching overseas, and we didn’t always get to travel with him. But when he came home, I felt like the most important person in the world. Like he breathed in every word I said. He took me fishing, shooting – old school stuff that dads don’t do much with their kids any more. He always expected the best from me. That was a kindness, not a cruelty.’ He stopped, embarrassed, closing a hand around the Saint Michael’s medal on his neck, hidden under his shirt. ‘The man that killed him, I always wanted to understand why. How do you just snuff out innocent lives, how do you justify that decision? He committed suicide, so I could never know. But that shaped my life. My career. If I hadn’t been interested in the psychology of violence… I never would have been able to put together the Night Road for Henry. It all comes back to my dad’s death. It’s everything that has made me, shaped me.’

  Wu stepped back aboard. He flexed the smile back on. ‘Looks like all the masking tape and glue is in place.’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ Aubrey said.

  ‘Did you check the baling wire?’ Luke asked.

  ‘Sealed it with spit,’ Frankie Wu said. ‘We’ll depart in just a couple of minutes.’ He vanished into the cockpit and shut the door.

  Luke leaned into Aubrey’s ear and whispered, ‘He may be able to hear us over an intercom.’

  Aubrey nodded. She said, in a clear voice, ‘Eric, hold my hand. Mr Wu might not have checked all the masking tape.’

  Luke took her hand. It felt strange and right all at once. He was Eric Lindoe, at least for the next few hours, until he met his kidnapper’s benefactor.

  Ten minutes later they arrowed into the sky and blasted toward the east.

  She slept and Luke watched her. He wanted to sink into the warmth of sleep but he couldn’t.

  New York. Paris.

  He looked out the window, past the thin haze of clouds, over th
e glow of heartland light, as Illinois became Indiana, the diamond towns and the clouded black spreading beyond to Ohio and Kentucky. The low hum of the plane lullabied him.

  He went to the cockpit and opened it. Frankie Wu was speaking softly into a radio and stopped, turned with a smile.

  Luke asked, ‘Can I use my cell phone on this flight? I didn’t know if the rules were different for private jets.’

  ‘There’s a phone in the cabin you can use, yes.’

  ‘But not mine.’

  ‘No. I’m surprised you’d be wanting to call anyone, Eric.’ Like he knew Eric was running, Eric was in trouble.

  Luke said, ‘I need to tell someone goodbye.’

  Frankie Wu turned back to the controls without comment. Luke shut the door. He had no intention of using the cabin phone; it could be monitored and he didn’t want Wu overhearing this call. He sat at the back of the cabin and opened the phone he’d taken from Eric, the lifeline to Jane, and dialed Henry’s number.

  ‘Hello?’ Henry sounded exhausted. The reception was spotty.

  For a moment he couldn’t speak. He listened to the sound of Henry’s breathing.

  ‘Hello?’ Henry repeated. He sounded nervous.

  ‘You sorry ass excuse for a human being.’

  ‘Luke. Thank God, thank God, you’re alive.’

  ‘I am never, ever going to forgive you for what you’ve done to me.’

  ‘Luke. Listen to me. I can help you. I’m your best hope.’

  ‘Your sorry bastard. You knew I had been kidnapped, you listened to me beg you for help and you hung up the goddamned phone. I saw you on TV…’

  ‘My clients – they’re not who I thought they were. They used us both. And they wouldn’t let me do anything but damn you to the public. But meet me, we’ll figure out how we can both get out of this mess.’

  ‘Mess? This is beyond a mess. You sent Mouser and Snow after me like dogs to hunt me down. They tried to kill me. They’ve killed people trying to kill me.’ His voice broke. ‘Well, I shot one of your dogs and stabbed the other, and I’m going to do the same to you.’

  ‘Don’t cut me out. Don’t. Tell me where you’re at. I’ll send you money; I’ll send you whatever you need to hide. Mouser was only supposed to find you and bring you to me. So I could make you… understand.’

  ‘Understand what? That you used me to knit together a terrorist network? Are you kidding me, what do you think I’m supposed to understand?’

  ‘I can deal with Mouser and Snow, and anyone like them who bothers you. But there is another man who’s hunting you. Drummond. Stay the hell away from him, from anyone connected to him or a group called Quicksilver.’

  The breath gelled in Luke’s chest. ‘I… I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Listen carefully to me. The cabin where you were held, it was paid for by a company called Quicksilver Risk. Stay away from them. I am begging you to listen to me. I know I screwed up but I never wanted you hurt. Ever.’

  ‘I hope you die, Henry, and I hope I’m there to see it.’

  ‘For God’s sakes, Luke.’ Henry’s voice rose. ‘I have been your father for ten years.’

  ‘You’re not fit to say the word “father”,’ Luke said.

  Henry forged ahead as though Luke’s contempt was mist. ‘I am not trying to get you killed, I’m trying to save you. I’m trying to find out who’s attacking us, who’s using us. Quicksilver is behind your kidnapping. Stay away from them.’ Then a pause, while Luke’s head spun. ‘The man in Houston who was killed. His name was Allen Clifford. I knew him. So did your dad. We once worked together. On a special project for the government. Everyone who died on your father’s plane, they were part of the project. It was called the Book Club.’

  ‘What do you mean, worked for the government?’ The air left Luke’s lungs. ‘He was a history professor, for God’s sakes.’

  Henry’s words burned as unrelenting as a fuse. ‘After the accident, there were only three members of the Book Club left. Me. Allen Clifford. And Drummond.’

  ‘He was a teacher. A scholar. Just more lies from you-’

  ‘Every word is truth,’ Henry thundered. ‘Drummond thinks you’re part of the Night Road. He blames you for his friend’s death. He came to me, threatened me if I didn’t turn you over to him. He has significant resources to find you. And I know this man – when he finds you, you will vanish forever.’

  ‘You can’t tell me all this and expect me to believe it.’ He stood, went to the back of the plane, fought down the scream that wanted to roar up from his lungs.

  ‘I’m trying to show you I’m on your side. Son, please.’

  ‘Don’t you call me “son”. I’m not your son. I never was. If you were on my side, you never would have gotten me involved. I was your needle and thread. Stitching together a whole bunch of killers and freaks and fringers for you. I met your buddy Chris. You actually went and shook hands with these guys who think an American al-Qaeda’s a great idea, met them with open arms, planned to give them money.’ He leaned his head against the plane’s wall. ‘You are funding terrorists to the tune of fifty million dollars. You are such a piece of shit.’

  ‘I didn’t lie to you. My clients lied to me. They are using the research in ways I didn’t consider. I need you to meet me.’

  ‘No, Henry.’

  He heard a long intake of breath. ‘I love you like you were my own child. I didn’t at first, because you were such a pain. Spoiled, contrary, too smart for your own good. But I grew to love you as much as your own father did, Luke. I have only tried to protect you. To do right by you. Meet me at a place of your choosing and we’ll work out a plan to get your name clear and you safe. Together.’

  ‘You weren’t brave enough to help me. You could have gone to the police, to the FBI, and you didn’t. You left me to die.’

  ‘I am trying to save us…’

  ‘Prove it. Hellfire, Henry. What is it?’

  Silence.

  ‘Tell me what it is, give me your greatest secret, and I’ll believe you want to help me. I know it’s separate from the attacks that are happening now. It’s bigger, isn’t it? What is it? Bombs? Airplanes? Bioweapons? God help me, is it a nuke?’

  A silence again, a stillness heavy enough to crush a heart, to flatten a family. Then: ‘I don’t know that term Hellfire. I swear to God I don’t know.’

  ‘Goodbye, Henry.’

  He took the phone and he broke it apart, scattering its components on the floor. He saw no point in talking to Henry again, no value in talking to Jane. What was he going to do: beg them for his life back? Screw pleading and begging.

  A rage and a despair he had never felt filled him. He imagined what it would be like to kill his stepfather. But the image of Henry’s face, distorted in fear and remorse, the thunder of Luke’s own heartbeat in his head – vanished in a snap.

  You can’t kill him because then you’re him.

  He stood over the broken phone and the rage changed to a hardness in his heart, a welcome toughness.

  He sat on the floor in the back of the plane while Aubrey slept, knees drawn up to his chin, wondering what darkness he was flying into, salvation or death. For a moment his hand closed on the Saint Michael’s medal. Strength, the ability to face and overcome evil of the basest sort. He had to find his courage, fan its flame, keep going. He slipped the medal back under his shirt. The hum of the plane worked through his exhaustion and he closed his eyes to ponder his next move.

  30

  The Night Road was cutting its path through the heart of America, as Luke headed toward New York.

  The high school football game in suburban Kansas City had been targeted because the attacker was a neo-Nazi and the high school had been named for a soldier who died early in the war in Iraq. The soldier was Jewish. The neo-Nazi hated seeing the Jew’s name on the sign when he drove past every morning on his way to work.

  The football game was a close one, and the neo-Nazi sighed in relief: a rout might have le
d to more people leaving earlier. Instead the game – he could hear the distant rumble of the announcer, voice tense with excitement – had been decided in the final three seconds by a field goal. The target school’s team had won. The neo-Nazi rubbed at the dark tattoo across his neck – a highly stylized swastika – gritted his teeth and thought: And no one will remember that. As the crowd spilled out into the lot, waving flags, banners, girls laughing and clutching at boys’ arms, he pressed the first button.

  The trunk of the car he’d parked in the middle of the lot popped open.

  He saw a white girl, holding onto the arm of a boy who looked Mexican, glance over at the popping hood. The neo-Nazi gritted his teeth again. The world would go mongrel in two generations, if people didn’t realize they just couldn’t do what they wanted, he thought.

  He waited until a bigger mass of people had spilled out into the lot, but before many of them had gotten into the protective cocoons of their cars.

  He pressed the second button.

  The bomb was not big; it had been built the month before by Snow. The neo-Nazi, who had picked it up from her the previous week, packed her creation with nails, bolts and screws.

  Chaos. A flash that burned his eyeballs. Screams and a distant heat and, he imagined, the whistle of thousands of flying blades whittling through flesh and bone. And then he heard the screams, much worse than even he had dreamed they would be. A glimpse of hell.

  He got into his car and drove away, careful to stick to back roads. The emergency responders would be creating a traffic headache. He drove south and dialed a phone number. ‘Mine is done with success,’ he said by answer. ‘I get to be in Hellfire.’

  Henry Shawcross – but the neo-Nazi did not know him by this name – said, ‘There has been a change in plans.’

  ‘Is Hellfire canceled?’

  ‘No. Check the following email account.’ Henry gave him a Gmail account name and password. ‘It will contain the name of a city. Drive there, call on a fresh prepaid phone when you arrive, and await further instructions.’