by Dee, Bonnie
He dropped down on a chair and put his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. What would Foster do in this situation? Without manacles on his hands or feet, Captain America would be a force to be reckoned with. “Asshole would probably punch his way through the wall. Or clobber the next guard to come in the room.”
He sat up. That was it, the slim chance of getting out. Ian was a pretty good fighter. He could handle Preston … maybe.
He unsheathed the hooked piece of metal from inside his pants and hid it in his palm. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, he banged on the door. “Hey, Preston. Open up. I need to use the john again.”
“No,” came the muffled answer.
“Come on. I’ve got some kind of intestinal thing going on. Probably from nerves. If you want to deal with the result next time you come in here then go ahead and ignore me.”
There was a long pause. “Stand back from the door. Put your hands behind your head.”
Ian’s heart pounded. He breathed deeply again and blew it out slowly. He linked his hands behind his head. His palm was sweating and he was afraid the little piece of metal would slip. The idea of driving it into the guard’s body made his stomach turn.
The door opened. Preston entered the room, gun drawn, but his eyes signaled he didn’t perceive Ian as a real threat. “All right, hands down, behind your back.”
“Not the cuffs again. Come on, what do you think I’m going to do?”
Preston moved up beside him, holstering his pistol, the handcuffs loosely held in his other hand.
Suddenly Ian stomped on his foot with his heel and drove an elbow into his stomach. He spun around and jammed the base of his palm up into the guard’s nose. There was a crack of bone breaking and the sickening squelch of tissue rupturing.
The man’s head snapped back. He howled in pain and swung his arm blindly.
One end of the handcuffs hit Ian in the side of the jaw. He stumbled back a step.
The guard shook his head and blood sprayed from his broken nose. He pulled the pistol from its holster.
Ian surged forward with the strip of metal in his fist, aiming for the soft hollow of Preston’s throat. The flesh was tough but gave way under the force of Ian’s blow, the sharp pin piercing it. Preston let out a gurgling sound as he gasped for air. He clutched at the metal impaled in his throat and stared at Ian with shocked eyes.
For a second Ian couldn’t move, then he grabbed the guard’s gun and wrestled it from his grip.
Struggling to breathe, Preston fell to his knees. His fumbling fingers pulled the shaft of metal from his neck and a geyser of blood spurted out, quickly soaking the white collar of his dress shirt. He clutched his neck, trying to stop the flow and slumped to the floor as he continued to bleed out. In moments, his face was pale and slack. A puddle of scarlet haloed his head.
Ian had done a lot of bad things in his life, but he’d never killed anybody. For a moment, he simply stood over Preston, breathing heavily and staring down at the man’s still body and vacant eyes. There was blood everywhere. Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it back down and shook himself. This was no time to fall apart. He took the thin metal shaft from Preston’s hand, wiped the blood off on his shirt and put it in his pocket. The pick might still come in handy. Gripping the gun tighter, he turned away from the dead man. At the door he peered cautiously into the hall. It was empty from end to end—a long, white tunnel in which Ian would be a clear target.
He didn’t waste any more time, closing the door behind him and running in the direction of the elevator. Before he reached it, he passed a stairway, a better option. If he went in the elevator, he would be trapped. Anyone might be waiting for it on the next floor. Ian looked down at his blood-spattered clothes and hands. First he should wash off some of the blood so he could conceivably blend in with the other guests.
He looked around and almost immediately found what he needed, a janitor's closet. Maybe God was done using him as a hockey puck for a while. He slipped inside, rinsed his face and hands at a sink and dried off. Another nugget of good fortune dropped into his lap. A blue coverall hung on a peg. He put it on over his own clothes. A cap to hide his face would have been welcome, but there wasn't one. Grabbing a broom to use as a prop or a weapon if necessary, he ventured into the corridor again. It was still eerily empty. Ian dashed for the stairway. The kitchen exit where they’d been brought into the building was only a flight above and a couple of turns away. Once outside, he could go around the front to the parking lot and boost a car.
It sounded simple.
Chapter Eleven
Having no idea where the Center for Wellbeing was located, Mira stopped at a gas station. The clerk bagged her pretzels and juice and gave directions to the retreat center.
“Can’t miss it. There’s a big sign.” The young woman handed Mira the bag. “You’re so lucky. I’m saving up to go on a retreat. Every time I hear one of Mr. Brody’s commercials I get a chill. He’s really special. He knows stuff, ya know?” She leaned toward Mira and dropped her voice confidentially. “The minister at my church would say it was blasphemy, but I think Mr. Brody could even be, like, the second coming of Christ or something. Nobody said there had to be lightning bolts to announce Him. Look how Jesus walked among people the first time around, real low key—well, except for the miracles and such.”
“That’s true,” Mira agreed, trying to sound impressed at the idea of Ray Brody being Jesus Christ reincarnate.
“Can you imagine if this is the End Times and He’s chosen to appear right here in Indiana?” The clerk sounded excited at the prospect. “I’ve just got to go see him in person.”
“Mr. Brody is quite a speaker,” Mira said. “But sometimes people aren’t what they represent themselves to be. I’m a journalist investigating Mr. Brody’s organization. There’ve been some serious accusations made about the Center for Human Wellbeing, and I want to find out the truth.”
The clerk’s face went stony. “The press,” she sneered. “What’s the matter with you people? Always looking for dirt.”
“Just searching for the truth.” She reached out and touched the girl’s hand resting on the counter. “Keeping an open mind is so important.” She concentrated on beaming that thought at the clerk, wondering if it wasn’t hypocritical to use mind power to try to free a person from Brody’s spell.
The girl blinked and frowned as Mira took her hand away. She didn’t say anything more as Mira walked away.
Outside, she breathed in a deep draught of exhaust-fumed air and got behind the wheel of the sedan. Her plan to rescue Ian was vague and ill-formed. All she knew was she had to get back to where he was being held as soon as possible.
A tenuous psychic connection linked them and she could feel his panic and distress even at a distance. He needed her and she must go.
* * * *
Ian lay underneath the bed, pressed back against the wall, listening to the man snoring above him, a rattling, adenoidal wheeze that sometimes stopped completely. He held his own breath waiting for the loud, inevitable snort that jump-started the man’s respiration. He’d been lying on the dusty carpet beneath the bed for anywhere from three minutes to thirty; should have been counting the man’s breaths to measure the long night.
He’d emerged from the stairwell to a busy hive of activity and shuffled down the hall, broom in hand, head down to hide his face. People came and went around him, ignoring him completely. He’d almost made it to the kitchen exit when he saw a face he recognized. A couple of the guards walked toward him, talking to one another. One was the man who’d accompanied them from California.
Ian ducked his head even lower, turned around and began sweeping back the other direction. Then he heard Murav’s voice behind him, calling out to the other men and the hair rose on the nape of his neck. A visceral twist of fear knotted his gut. He quickly entered the first door he came to, finding a hall that led away from the staff area toward the guest rooms.
When he reach
ed the wing full of bedrooms, Ian was surprised at how quiet and empty it was. Everyone must be at some spiritual seminar or pep rally. He glanced down at his janitor coverall. This might be a good time to switch to street clothes so he could blend in with the retreat guests. Not that it would be easy with his beat-up face.
Ian tapped at one of the doors. “Housekeeping,” he called. There was no answer. He tried the door and found it locked then pulled the pick from his pocket and inserted it into the old-fashioned keyhole. With a few deft twists, he had the door open and stepped inside.
His eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room and he saw humped shapes under the covers in the twin beds. The sound of steady breathing came from one bed and snoring from the other. Shit! Ian backed out into the hall.
“So I told her, no way, I’m not moving in with you…”
Ian jumped as a door at the opposite end of the hall banged shut. Glancing down the hall, he saw two men approaching. He practically leaped into the room and closed the door behind him. Squatting down, he pressed his ear to it.
“Are they finished in the south wing yet?”
“Yeah, Baxter and his crew got through in record time.”
“Damn, how do they do it so fast? We’re never gonna win the bonus at this rate. They must be cheating, only tagging half the marks or something.”
“No way. The numbers would be off if they weren’t tagging everybody. It would show up on the tracking program when the guests didn’t match what’s on the computer. Brody’d have their asses on a platter.”
The voices grew louder as their owners approached the room in which Ian was hiding.
“You take the left side. I’ll do the right.”
Doors open and closed and then there was silence in the hallway. What the hell kind of tagging were the men doing?
He crouched by the door, listening to the silence in the hall and wondering if he should make a break for it, but a few moments later more doors opened and closed. The men seemed to be going room to room. Footsteps sounded in the hall again, drawing closer.
Ian crawled across the floor and underneath the bed against the far wall. A couple of seconds later the door to the room opened and someone entered.
The man crossed to one sleeper’s bed and did something. From under a curtain of blanket, Ian saw the man’s feet approach the bed. Dust tickled his nose. His eyes watered with the effort of suppressing a sneeze. He held his breath.
Above him there was a rustling noise as covers were drawn away from the snoring retreat guest—sleeping too deeply for it to be natural. These people must be drugged. There was a small clicking sound then the man moved away. He was almost out the door when his pager went off. “What the fuck? I’m working here,” he muttered.
“Hey, Al, did you get a text message just now?” His buddy’s voice called from down the hall.
“Yeah,” the man in the doorway answered. “What’s all this about?”
“I heard about it earlier from Jennifer. Supposed to be a big secret, but apparently the security goons brought in three people who have some information Brody needs. Now it sounds like one of ‘em is loose.”
“Well, shit! I didn’t sign up for this.”
“I feel ya.”
“So are we supposed to keep on tagging people, start looking for this guy, or both?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure Murav will be all over it though, throwing his weight around, acting like it’s somehow our fault. He’s such an asshole.”
The bedroom door closed and both voices became muffled, receding down the hall.
Mother fucking, goddamn, shit! Fifteen minutes more and he could have made it out of the building. Now he had the whole staff looking for him. He was so royally screwed!
And so Ian lay listening to the man snore above him as minutes ticked past and he remained frozen, unable to decide whether to make a run for it or keep hiding. Perhaps he could pass himself off as a retreat guest and walk right through the front doors if he hung out here until morning. The space underneath a bed had always been a friendly, safe den for him. It was an ingrained pattern for him to go to ground when threatened. At the moment he wanted to stay here forever … or at least as long as it took for Brody to forget he existed.
Ian closed his eyes. Lulled by the man’s snores and the woman’s quieter breathing, he almost fell asleep. After a few seconds he jerked awake. Jesus, what was the matter with him? Lying here pretending the bad things would go away if he made himself invisible was not the way to get out of here alive. What would a real man do? A superhero like Justin Foster wouldn’t be cowering and hiding.
Ian rolled out from under the bed and rose slowly, but neither the man nor woman stirred. He crept across the room to the closet and searched inside, fumbling in the dark until he’d located a shirt and suit.
He shucked the coverall, tossed it under the bed and replaced it with the button-down Oxford over his own bloodstained T-shirt. After three failed attempts, he gave up trying to knot the tie. Ian had never had occasion to wear a tie in his entire life. The man’s pants were loose around his waist and too short on his long legs. He let them slide halfway down his hips, tucked in the shirt and covered the top of the pants by buttoning the suit jacket. His shoulders stretched the back of the jacket and the sleeves hung short, but it would do. The man’s dress shoes pinched his feet, but tennis shoes would be a dead giveaway.
Ian ran his hand through his hair, hoping there were no bloodstains on his face, and walked to the door. He hesitated. Now what? They were searching for him out there. Probably everyone had been provided with his picture by now. Did he dare take a chance and try to pass as an employee?
Bending his head, he closed his eyes and came as close to praying as a he ever did. Jesus, get me the fuck out of here and I promise I’ll never do bad shit again.
He squared his shoulders and opened the door.
* * * *
Mira pulled over to the side of the road. She’d gotten herself lost. After missing her exit, she’d tried to navigate the highway back to where she needed to be and instead ended up in the middle of the godforsaken cornfields.
She had to hurry. Deep inside, she sensed Ian’s urgency. She had to get to him and for more reasons than simply saving his life.
From her mental connection with him the previous night, she’d learned a fundamental truth about Ian. He believed himself worthless. No one had ever cared for him and he’d lived a throwaway life. It was up to her to show him he was worth coming back for, worth saving. He needed to know he mattered to someone even more than he needed to be rescued physically.
Mira opened the glove compartment and thanked the Divine when she found a tattered Indiana road map. Turning on the overhead light, she unfolded the map and found her location. It wouldn’t be too difficult to get back on track.
She put the car in gear and did a U-turn, heading back toward the city.
* * * *
“We’ve got to recapture him before morning. If the guests wake up and Black is still on the loose, it will be a disaster,” Ray said to Murav, standing by his side.
He spoke into the microphone, broadcasting throughout the building. “This facility is not that big, people. Find him!” His voice echoed out of a nearby speaker, sounding confident and assertive instead of as panicked as he felt. That was good. “But, be careful.” Ray added a note of concern for his employees. “This man is dangerous.” He turned off the PA system.
Ray’s stomach rolled and growled. He crunched down another pair of Rolaids and thought about all the blood that had come out of Preston. It was nauseating. How had he so underestimated Black? A ridiculous lowlife petty criminal had duped him, Raymond Brody, the master of manipulation.
Murav cleared his throat. “Sir, now that we know Black invented the amulet, don’t you think more of our efforts should be concentrated on recapturing the Keeper and the box? There’s no way Black can get out of here without being caught. It’s just a matter of time before we find him. In
my opinion, sir, he’s not the top priority.”
Ray stared at Murav. “We don’t know there isn’t an amulet. Just because it’s not in the motel doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I have to know for sure. And we must apprehend him tonight before all these people regain consciousness.”
“Yes, I realize that, sir. But the box…”
“I’ll be the one to decide what the top priority is.” Ray heard his voice rising shrilly but was helpless to stop it. “I’ve got it under control. I’ve got everything under control.” He clamped his mouth shut and counted to ten, straightened his tie then rose from his desk.
“I’ve got everything under control,” he repeated quietly.
* * * *
Ian walked down the hall, resisting the urge to scuttle along the wall or dart from one doorway to the next. He must try to look as if he belonged there. Surely every member of the staff didn’t know each other by sight.
He headed for the kitchen exit. No doubt there were security cams at every entrance to the building, but if any place was likely to be less guarded it might be this rear door.
He rounded a corner. Coming toward him down the hall were a man and woman, deep in conversation. Ian kept walking, keeping the injured side of his face toward the wall. As they drew close, both glanced up. He nodded casually. “Hey. Any luck?”
“No. This is such bullshit,” the guy said. “My shift was over half an hour ago.” Ian recognized his voice. It was the man who’d tagged the sleepers in the room where he’d hidden.
“And no overtime. I hear ya.” Passing them, he forced his legs to stride steadily when they wanted to run.
The woman’s voice whispered urgently behind him then the man’s raised voice said, “No way.”
“Fuck!” He walked faster.
“Hey, wait up.”
Ian played deaf and sped up, turning another corner, the trace of cooking smells leading him toward the kitchen. There was the door. And there were two big goons guarding it.