Alec dropped to the ground, belly to soft earth, and brought up his binoculars. He counted six men right off the bat. No. Make that eight. Six soldiers, uniformed and armed. Four patrolling the grounds close to the house, two posted near a second, stand-alone structure, much smaller and to the left.
About them all, tension charged the air. He sensed something about to happen. Or just over.
One possibility was the last two men. Not soldiers. But standing in pits already two or three feet deep, digging. Alec held his breath, afraid to speculate on the purpose of those holes. Eventually the diggers climbed out, leaving dark gaps in the earth, and went into the detached building—which looked like a combination garage and storage area for equipment.
Alec shifted back to the soldiers around the mansion. Still there, still on edge. Pacing the grounds. Checking doors and windows. Scanning the surrounding area.
Movement caught his eye, and he quickly refocused on the smaller building as the two men reemerged, each with a wrapped bundle that they carried to the open earth and dropped inside.
Alec’s stomach clenched. Graves.
He thought immediately of Cody Sanders and dug the fingers of his free hand into the dirt. If one of those bundles contained a young boy’s body, Alec was already too late. Racing down there, intent on seeking revenge would only get him killed. And the tragedy of Cody Sanders’s fate would remain a mystery.
So he watched, his chest tight, while the men filled the holes with dirt, patted them with the flat of their shovels, then retreated. This time to the mansion.
Alec sighed and put down the binoculars.
Somehow he needed to get down there, past the security cameras, to see whose bodies were in those graves.
Again, motion brought his attention back to the scene below. One of the diggers had come back outside, hurrying across the opening between the two buildings, stopping only as a guard stepped into his path.
Alec was too far away to hear any of it, but the men’s body language told him enough. They weren’t exchanging pleasantries. The guard waved his gun toward the mansion, but Digger held his ground, even taking a step forward and poking a finger at the armed man’s chest. The guard, smaller by a full head, took a backward step, intimidated despite his weapon. In the end, Digger threw up his hands, then stepped around the guard—who turned, as if trying to decide what to do—as Digger marched into the storage building and slammed the door.
For several long moments, Alec held his breath.
Until a large door slid up on the side of the garage, and he realized it was only one of six such doors. Then a flashy white import—a BMW—nearly leapt out through the opening and sped up the road toward the front gate.
Alex had just found his way in, a means to discover what had happened here and whose bodies were in those graves. And maybe what else was going on.
Pushing back away from the edge of the trees, he kept down until he was a good ten feet into the woods. Then he stood and raced toward the wall and over it, faster than was wise in the dark. He knew he wouldn’t reach his car in time to follow the BMW, but he’d have to try to catch him.
As Alec expected, by the time he reached the road, the BMW was long gone. Hesitating, he considered which way to turn. Left was north, and there wasn’t much that way for a hundred miles, except the Potomac and the Maryland bor-der. So chances were Digger had gone right, heading south for Middleburg.
Alec turned right.
Though he questioned the decision a half-dozen times as he slid through the empty countryside with no sign of the other car. If Digger was running, he might be going for the state border. But he’d looked like a man anxious to get somewhere, not run from something. So Alec kept on toward town.
He was still on the outskirts of Middleburg when he spotted the BMW outside an all-night convenience store. Pulling in alongside it, he parked and went inside. Digger was filling a small handbasket from a shelf toward the back of the store.
“Evening.” Alec nodded to the clerk and headed for the coffeepot, his eyes on Digger two aisles over.
“Sorry, man, the coffee’s pretty stiff,” the clerk called from across the store. “I can make a fresh pot, if you want.”
“Sure.” It would buy Alec some time and give him an excuse to linger. “That would be great.”
The clerk, a kid in his midtwenties, shuffled out from behind the counter and started to put together the new batch of coffee.
Alec walked over and studied the display of ready-made sandwiches. “I should have stopped for dinner a long time ago. Now you’re the only game in town.”
The clerk threw him a quick, knowing grin. “Well, if you’re desperate, those won’t kill you. Otherwise . . .”
Alec laughed and grabbed a sandwich.
“Been on the road long?” the kid asked as he finished with the coffee and headed back to his stool and cigarettes.
Alec followed him. “Since early this morning.” He nodded to Digger, who’d been waiting at the cash register. “I’m trying to get back to D.C. My wife went into labor this morning.” He leaned against the counter, supposedly waiting for the fresh coffee.
“Hey, man, that’s great.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Digger had unloaded his basket. Rubbing alcohol. Iodine. Topical antibiotic. Aspirin. Ibuprofen. Gauze-pad rolls. A couple of Ace bandages.
“It’s a boy,” Alec said, eyeing the items, thinking they wouldn’t do a dead body any good. Then he took his shot. “We’re gonna name him Cody.”
Digger flinched.
“Wow,” Alec said, not giving the man time to recover. “Looks like you’re stocking up for World War Three, fella.”
Digger looked at him, his face hard and unmoving.
Alec lifted both hands, palms out. “Just kidding. It’s good to be prepared.”
Digger’s lips turned up in a tight smile. Hesitated. Then he leaned down, grabbed a half-dozen candy bars, and dropped them on the pile with the rest of his items. He looked at Alec then. “These are for my son. Ryan. But he has a friend named Cody.”
“Really.” Alec didn’t take his eyes off the other man’s face. There was intelligence in those eyes, and something else. Fear maybe. But determination, too. “Well, I sure hope you’ve got good dental coverage, ’cause those things will rot your teeth.” He paused, for half a heartbeat. “If you’re not careful.”
“I think there are more dangers than bad teeth.”
“Maybe.”
Digger shrugged, then paid for his purchases and headed for the door.
Alec grabbed a napkin and scribbled a number on it. “I’ll be right back,” he said to the clerk and hurried out the door after the other man. “Wait.”
The big man stopped, turning slowly.
“My name’s Alec,” he said. “Alec Donovan.” He shoved the napkin into Digger’s shirt pocket. “This is for your son, for Ryan. And for his friend. I can help. In case all those candy bars rot his teeth. Call anytime.”
XXV
VOICES PULLED AT HIM. Distant. Hushed. Dragging him up toward . . . toward something he couldn’t remember. Something important. He tried reaching them, but the darkness beckoned as well. A deep depth of silence that promised oblivion and peace. While the voices echoed with fear and memories best left forgotten. He wavered, caught between two worlds.
In the end, he chose the darkness.
Pain pulled him from the dark place a second time. Hours. Days. Years later. He didn’t know or care. It drew him toward the surface with a slow recognition of a body. His? Damaged and hurting. No voices this time. Just the agony of awareness. Like a living, breathing entity, separate from himself, yet part of him as well. He couldn’t remember what it was like not to feel pain, to live without it. Nor could he remember where it started. When? Or how?
It just existed.
He reached for the darkness, but it eluded him. Until the body moved. And the pain streaked through him, bringing momentary clarity. And memory.
Just before the darkness took him again.
When Ryan finally came back to himself, there was nothing gradual about it. Suddenly he was awake, conscious of the world around him and the way his body ached with each breath. He opened his eyes, but there was little difference between the darkness he’d just left and that which surrounded him.
His memories came intact as well. His decision to make a run for it. Going to Cody’s room. Their race across the wet grass, the dark trees beckoning, promising freedom. The black shadow of a dog. His teeth viciously tearing at Ryan’s arm. Cody facing the animal with nothing more lethal than a jagged stick. The crack of a rifle shot and spray of blood that had saved both boys’ lives.
All relived like pieces of a film Ryan wished he hadn’t seen.
He preferred the emptiness, but it was too late for that. As his eyes adjusted, the black eased to gray, revealing the boundaries of his world. Though not a cell, it was without question a prison. Four stone walls and a floor of cold concrete. A door he didn’t need to try to know it was locked. No window. And a cot, where they’d put him to await whatever fate the General doled out.
They would kill him.
He had no doubt and could only wonder why he was still breathing. Unless the voiceless men who guarded this place waited on the General’s order. Or his presence.
Funny, that the thought of dying no longer frightened Ryan. He was so tired. Tired of simply breathing. If he could make it happen with just a wish, he’d stop the air from filling his lungs. But the body—his body, he reminded himself—refused to let go, leaving him trapped in its shell of agony.
He guessed he was in one of the mansion’s deep cellars. He’d been down to the basement before, once while looking for a stray kitten the dogs had chased into hiding. But he’d never been this far down, never been tempted to explore beyond the cook’s store of canned goods.
He thought of Cody.
Where would they have put him? Back in his own room? Why not? He was a valuable piece of merchandise, and without Ryan’s help, the boy wasn’t going anywhere.
Suddenly, there was a rattling at the door. Keys. And the turn of a lock.
Ryan closed his eyes. Better to let them think he was still asleep.
The door opened, squeaking on its ancient hinges.
“Still asleep.” A woman’s voice, familiar. Yet Ryan wouldn’t risk opening his eyes to confirm the housekeeper’s presence.
Except, the smell of food teased him.
“Wake him. There’s not much time.” A second voice, male, but not unkind. And Ryan remembered the hushed voices from his dream.
Still, fear kept his eyes closed. Though the food was closer now, set on something near the cot. And he remembered Cody’s determination to keep up his strength by eating.
A weight settled beside him. A rough hand touched his face.
“Boy. You must wake.” The woman again, the housekeeper who’d let him take her key without reporting him.
He opened his eyes, the light they’d brought with them hurting and making him squint.
She smiled. “See, he pretends only.”
The man standing over them grunted and moved back to the door, which had been left partway open.
“You are well?” she asked, with more English than Ryan had known she could speak. Evidently he wasn’t the only one with secrets in this place.
“I’m alive,” he answered. “But no, not well.”
Another grunt from the butler near the door. “He will live.”
“Only if he goes,” said the woman in response.
Ryan shifted his eyes back to her. “Is Cody all right?”
“Cody? The boy? Yes. Though angry.”
Ryan almost smiled at the image, picturing the younger boy yelling and screaming, pounding at the hard wooden door until the General’s guards were tempted to shoot him and be done with it.
“It was a brave thing you tried,” she said. “Very brave.”
“Stupid,” came the rumble from the door, and Ryan had to agree with the man’s assessment. Though he knew he’d do it again if given the chance. At some point he couldn’t name, he’d crossed some invisible line and couldn’t go back.
“The dogs,” he said. “I used rat poison to put them to sleep. What happened?”
“Asleep? No. The . . .” She searched for the English word. “Female? Yes? She ate poison. Is dead.”
That saddened him. He hadn’t wanted to kill the animals, no matter how much he feared and hated them. “But I put the poison in both food dishes.”
She shrugged. “A guard fed other meat. He not eat dog food.”
“And is he . . . ?”
“Ja. The guard is good shot. Come.” She reached behind his shoulders to lift him. It hurt to move, but her hands were both gentle and strong, so he ignored the discomfort and let her ease him into a sitting position. She set the tray on his lap. Rich stew. Thick bread. Cody could have his Whoppers.
“Eat now.” She gathered a spoonful of stew for him, but he took the utensil away from her. He had one good hand, his clumsy left, but he could still feed himself.
“Good.” She nodded her approval. “Get strong. Tomorrow you go.”
“Go?” He managed a mouthful without spilling any. “What do you mean ‘go’? How?”
“We have way.” She nodded toward the man standing watch at the door. “Herrick take you.”
“But the General. He’ll send you home. Or worse.”
“Maybe.” She shrugged. “Maybe not. I stupid country woman. I cook. I clean. I know nothing about bad boys.”
Ryan grinned, almost laughed. Except he knew he’d pay for it if he did. “Were you the one who helped me the night Trader was here? After he . . .” Beat the shit out of me.
“Herrick found you. Carried you to your room. I . . .” She touched his freshly bandaged chest.
“And the food and aspirin. And this?” Ryan lifted his right arm, bound tightly where the dog had mauled him.
“No more talk.” She nodded toward the tray, indicating he should eat. He did, gladly, quickly, imagining himself getting stronger with each mouthful. When he finished, she took the tray and started for the door.
“Wait,” he said, not wanting them to leave. “What’s your name?” He couldn’t believe he’d lived here two years, in the same house with this kind woman, and didn’t even know her name.
“Felda.”
“Thank you, Felda.”
She gave a smile, broad and warm. But as the door closed behind her and darkness settled back around him, fear crept in as well. And anger. He’d been better off before Felda and Herrick’s visit because they’d given him hope, which was so much harder than surrender.
XXVI
CATHY HART MET THEM in McLean, the next town north of Arlington, in a strip-mall parking lot. From there, Erin followed her through predawn suburban streets to a small, unremarkable two-story house set among a neighborhood of similar houses. Agent Hart had claimed it had only recently been added to the FBI’s ever-shifting number of safe houses.
They parked inside the garage, closing the doors behind them before climbing out of their cars.
“Where are we?” Claire asked, waking as Erin opened her door.
“Someplace safe. Come on.” She helped Claire out of the car and into the house. It was a drab place, sparsely furnished and smelling of industrial cleanser.
Agent Hart had just finished making a sweep of the house. When she saw Erin and Claire, she holstered a 9mm automatic, her expression apologetic.
“Hi, Claire,” she said. “I’m Special Agent Cathy Hart, with the FBI. And I’m here to help keep you and your sister safe.”
Claire glanced at Erin, who nodded.
“Let’s sit down for a minute.” Cathy moved toward the kitchen. “And I’ll explain what’s going on.”
The three women settled on chrome-and-vinyl chairs around an old Formica table, Claire’s hand tight in Erin’s.
“There’ll b
e four agents here at all times,” Cathy explained, still talking to Claire. Kindly. But like one adult to another instead of the way most people talked to Claire, as if she was a child. “Two on the inside, two out. We do this all the time. No one will get past them.”
“What about you?” Claire asked.
“I’ll be checking in regularly, but I’m going to spend most of my time trying to find the man you saw yesterday.”
“And you’ll catch him,” Claire said.
Cathy hesitated. “I’ll do my best.”
Claire studied her for a moment, then nodded, accepting that she could expect no more.
“Meanwhile,” Cathy said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Claire tensed.
“I know you’re tired, but anything you can tell me will help.”
Claire visibly struggled, and Erin tightened her hold, willing her strength to pass to her sister. But Erin wouldn’t push, wouldn’t ask anything more from Claire than she could willingly give. It had to be her decision, one way or the other.
“I know it’s hard on you, Claire,” Cathy said, again kindly.
“Yes.” Claire’s voice was shaky but determined. “But you have to catch him, don’t you? And you can’t do that without me.”
“You’re right.” Cathy’s expression tightened. “He must be stopped. He’s . . . a very evil man.”
“Yes, that’s a good way to describe him.” For once, Claire sounded certain, mature, like the woman she would have become if things had been different.
“Tell me about him.”
“I don’t remember much.” Claire closed her eyes, her hand trembling as she concentrated on some vision only she could see. “Except his hands. They were so . . . quick.”
“Was he tall?”
“Yes. And very clean.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Cathy asked questions, and Claire answered, doing her best, exhibiting a reserve of courage Erin hadn’t known her sister possessed. But in the end, her answers wouldn’t help find the Magician. She described two different men, contradicting one answer with the next, mixing a little girl’s memories with those of the woman.
Out of Reach: A Novel Page 20