The man stepped out from the shelves, knife blade up and out, just as Nick hurled another metal folding chair at him. The chair bounced off the man’s arm, causing him to shout in pain. Nick threw another chair, but this time the man just sidestepped it, cursing in Spanish. When Nick pulled an entire shelf down between them, the man tried to leap over it. He tripped and fell, but he didn’t drop the knife. He got to one knee and looked up just in time to receive a blast of chemical powder directly in his face. He rocked back on his knees and dropped his knife, screaming and wiping at his burning eyes. Then Nick stepped forward, holding the fire extinguisher he’d ripped off the wall, and brought the metal cylinder down on the man’s head. The impact drove the man flat to the floor, where he lay, unmoving.
Gasping, Nick leaned back against a wall. Yellow dust from the fire extinguisher covered the floor and the unconscious man, and there was an acrid, ammonia-like smell cutting the air. Nick was drenched in sweat and his hip was on fire. He would have a spectacular bruise there by tomorrow. Too old for this, he thought.
A faint alarm rang in the back of his mind, but by the time he remembered the other man, he felt cold metal pressed against the side of his head.
“Don’t move,” the man said. “Hands out and away from your body, now.”
Nick complied, the gun barrel still pressed to his head. Then he heard the man behind him murmur, “I’ve got him. Poncho’s down; I’m gonna need—”
“Freeze!” a voice shouted from the hall.
As soon as the man spun around, taking the gun away from Nick’s head, Nick dropped to the floor in a fetal position and covered his head with his arms. A gunshot roared, the short hallway amplifying the sound and nearly deafening him. A second gunshot, and then the man fell on the floor, right in front of Nick. His chest was bloody and he gaped like a fish who had been yanked out of a river and tossed onto the bank. As Nick watched, the man’s mouth moved in an effort to speak.
“I wanted …” the man said. “I wanted to take her … to Malibu.” And then he just stopped, his eyes fixed on a spot above Nick’s head.
Through his ringing ears, Nick could dimly hear cries and shouts from farther back in the library. He slowly started to sit up.
“Don’t move,” he heard, and Deputy Sams stepped out of the hallway, holding a revolver in a two-handed grip. The revolver was pointed directly at Nick.
“Thought you were off duty,” Nick said. His own voice sounded muffled to him, and he felt hot and nauseous. His shirt clung to his back with sweat.
Sams took one of his large hands off the revolver, which he kept pointed at Nick, and crouched down next to the man he had shot. With his free hand he touched the man’s neck, checking for a pulse. After a few moments he withdrew his hand and returned to a two-hand grip on his revolver.
“Thought you were just a professor,” Sams said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As jails went, the Highlands Police Department jail was spartan but very clean. The cell consisted of three cinder-block walls, a concrete floor, two metal bunks built into the back wall, and a stainless-steel sink-and-toilet combination that gleamed as if it had just been polished by a crack team of Cub Scouts. Currently Nick was the only inmate, and so he had his pick of the two bunks and the toilet all to himself.
The fourth wall of the cell was entirely made of white metal bars, a portion of which was a hinged door, now locked. Outside the cell stood five men, two of them engaged in conversation, all of them ignoring Nick, who was sitting on the lower bunk.
“I want my phone call,” Nick said.
“In a minute,” Chief Ted Davies said. Chief Davies was pushing sixty, with the eyeglasses and haircut of a successful accountant. He wore a white uniform shirt with a black tie, his chief’s badge, and a salad bar of multicolored service ribbons. With him were Deputy Sams, two Highlands police officers in dark-blue duty uniforms, and a man with wind-tousled blond hair in a linen suit and pink tie who was the town manager, Bill Kettle.
“The mayor is apoplectic,” Kettle was saying. “A shootout in the library? In Highlands? Do you know what kind of panic this will cause? How much media attention this will draw?”
“I’m well aware, Bill,” Chief Davies said.
“Then you know what kind of fallout we might have. Summer just started, and we’re barely up from last year in terms of visitors. Restaurant reservations are still down, hotels, guides—”
“I’m aware of that too,” Chief Davies said. He glanced at Nick, who was still sitting on the lower cell bunk, then returned his attention to the town manager. “I’ve already talked to the mayor. We’ll issue a statement within the half hour, saying this was an isolated incident and that we have the participants in custody.”
“What about him?” Kettle said, pointing at Sams, who was flanked by the two Highlands police officers. “A sheriff’s deputy from a neighboring county walks into the library like it’s the Wild West and starts shooting up the place?”
Sams spoke, his voice flat. “I told the suspect to freeze.”
“And then you shot him,” Kettle said. “And now he’s in the county morgue, and there’s another man in the hospital.”
In the cell, Nick raised his hand. “That one was my fault.”
“You can just shut it,” Kettle said. “Chief, why isn’t Deputy Sams sitting in there with Mr. Anthony?”
Chief Davies’s patient expression was wearing thin. “I spoke with Sheriff Faye over in Jackson County. There will be an incident review board hearing for Deputy Sams, and he will be on administrative leave in the meantime.” Kettle opened his mouth, but Chief Davies cut him off. “And he’ll be cleared, Bill. It was a justified shooting. The perp was pointing a handgun at a civilian. When Deputy Sams ordered him to freeze, the perp turned the handgun on him. He had no alternative.” He looked at Sams. “You doing okay?”
Sams just nodded, looking at the floor. He kept jiggling his foot.
From his cell bunk, Nick said, “Deputy Sams.” Everyone looked at him, Sams more slowly than the others. Nick paid attention only to Sams. “Deputy, can you hear me?”
“I … yes,” Sams said.
“I’d like you to take your left hand and touch your right ear,” Nick said.
Sams blinked, then lifted both of his hands and considered them.
“He’s in shock,” Nick said. “Difficulty following simple commands, jittery, disconnected.”
Kettle scoffed. “Are you a doctor?”
“Actually, yes,” Nick said.
Kettle’s voice rose. “You’ve got a PhD in history.”
“Josh,” Chief Davies said, cutting Kettle off. “Let’s get you some coffee. Earl, can you take Deputy Sams with you to get some coffee?”
One of the two Highlands police officers stepped forward. Sams looked at the officer, then at Chief Davies, took a deep breath, and followed the officer out of the cell area.
“Can I get my phone call now?” Nick said. “And I’d like to know why I’m being held in jail.”
Kettle regained his footing. “You were involved in a public brawl that resulted in one man’s death, another’s hospitalization, and damage to public property.”
“It was self-defense,” Nick said. “And I didn’t kill anyone, justifiably or otherwise. Am I being charged with anything?”
“Not at the moment,” Chief Davies said. “But until such time as we talk with the DA about charges, which should be fairly soon, you are our guest.”
“Then I need to make a phone call,” Nick said. “Please.”
Chief Davies looked at the remaining officer, who nodded and walked to a nearby desk and retrieved a cordless phone. He approached the cell door and put the phone on the floor just outside the bars. Nick stood and stepped forward, then slowly reached his hand out between the bars and picked up the phone. “Thank you,” he said. He returned to his bunk with the phone and dialed the number he had called earlier that day. When the same woman as before answered, Nick said, “DDA
Bhandari, please. It’s Nick Anthony.” This time he only waited fifteen seconds before Bhandari got on the line.
“What?” she said. “It’s been two hours. I’m not a fucking miracle worker.”
“I’m in jail at the Highlands Police Department,” Nick said.
He had to hold the phone away from his ear because of the loud and profane response. After several seconds he brought the phone back to his ear to hear Bhandari say, “… listen to me about staying put, you asshole.”
“Wasn’t my choice,” Nick said. He didn’t want to go into more detail in front of the police chief and others. “Two men started a fight with me in the library. A cop shot one of them. I need your help, Rita.”
There was a pause. “Pain in my ass,” Bhandari said, and hung up.
Nick looked up at the men on the other side of the bars. “All done,” he said.
The remaining officer stood by the bars and Nick handed him the phone, thanking him. The chief was still trying to placate the town manager, both of them heading out of the cell area. “Chief?” Nick said. Chief Davies and Kettle both stopped and turned back. “The guy in the hospital,” Nick said. “Is he going to be okay?”
The chief nodded. “Got a concussion and maybe a hairline fracture in his skull, but no brain damage. He’s stable, in intensive care.”
“They came in a Suburban,” Nick said. “There was a driver and maybe one other man. They dropped the two men off and drove out of the library parking lot and turned right. The Suburban had a Georgia tag, but I didn’t get the plate number.”
The chief considered him. “Sams did,” he said. “We’re looking for it.”
Nick nodded his thanks, ignoring a glare from Kettle, then lay down on his bunk. The others left, the door swinging shut behind them. Nick heard one of the police officers turn a key, locking the door. He moved his head from side to side, stretching his neck, then sat back down on the lower bunk, wincing at the pain in his hip.
The men in the library had been professionals, of that he was sure. What he was not sure about was whether or not they had been looking specifically for him. When the two men first saw him in the library, they hadn’t seemed to recognize him. It was more that they had identified him as someone of interest, or perhaps a threat. Could they have found him because of the flash drive? Those weren’t traceable, as far as he knew. Perhaps when he tried to open that secured file, an alert had been sent. But how had they known exactly where to go? They must have been in the area beforehand—he hadn’t been on the library computer long before they showed up. And then he understood and closed his eyes in disgust—he really was getting old. Annalise’s iPhone. When he had plugged it in to recharge, it must have pinged a cell tower. That plus any alert from the secured file might have given them enough info to track him, if they had the right tech and access and skills.
So they were after Annalise. And he was stuck in here.
Briefly he wondered what information was on that flash drive that was valuable enough to send a team after it, a team willing to hurt and kill to retrieve it. Something about the Saudis and the Ghawar oil field. Halliwell Energy was wrapped up in it too. He had some ideas, but he wanted to let them fall into place without forcing them. He tried to relax and let his mind drift. His body ached from the library fight, especially his hip, but he was more immediately concerned about Annalise. She must be going stir-crazy, he thought. And she was alone, unprotected. Which was why Chitrita Bhandari had better be moving heaven and earth to get him out of here.
However, underneath all of these concerns ran a darker current, an emotional response to the violence of the struggle in the library. It was a response Nick had worked long and hard to suppress, but now it stirred within him.
It was pleasure.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
After her uncle left for the library, Annalise lay in bed, willing herself to go to sleep to make time pass and instead growing more and more furious, with whom she wasn’t sure. Her uncle for being a typical clueless guy. Herself for having her period. Her parents for getting themselves killed. She had heard what her uncle had told her on their hike yesterday, about the dangers of walling herself off, of being angry. But it was easier to be angry with her parents, because if she stopped being angry, she was afraid of the emotions that would rush in to fill anger’s place, and so she kept stoking that anger until she felt like a stockpot of marinara on constant simmer. Maybe not the best metaphor, she thought, because she was bleeding like a slaughtered pig, and oh my God where was Uncle Nick with the damn tampons?
She took a quick shower and then fashioned a homemade pad out of toilet paper, wondering how women had dealt with menstruation back in the frontier days before tampons. This was the sort of thing she would happily spend a half hour researching on the internet, except, oh, yeah, Uncle Nick didn’t have Wi-Fi or even a phone. Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, how isolated could you get?
After an hour of that, Annalise got out of bed with a groan, the wad of toilet paper in her underwear like the world’s most ginormous diaper, and roamed around the house. She still felt weak and a bit light-headed, but she was on the other side of her fever and would be fine, if she didn’t die of boredom or combust from emotional turmoil.
She heated up a can of chicken-and-rice soup and made more toast—God, she was getting sick of toast—and ate it all, and after cleaning the dishes, she went back into her uncle’s office and looked at the old photographs of her father and uncle and grandparents, carefully examining their faces as if trying to decipher her own emotions. She opened the desk drawers to check that she hadn’t missed any other photos and discovered her uncle’s pistol, back in the top drawer. Had she really pointed it at Uncle Nick yesterday? And then, a more troubling question: would she have shot him if he’d said the wrong thing or tried to hurt her? She closed the drawer, putting the pistol out of her mind, and tried to distract herself by perusing the bookshelves.
Eventually she went outside onto the back porch and looked at Whiteside, the cliffs crossed by sun and shadow, then sat in a rocking chair and, for lack of anything better to do, started reading a copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight that she’d found in the office. After the first few pages, the story pulled her in. It reminded her a little of Neil Gaiman, a blend of heroism and horror written with a sense of playfulness.
She must have fallen asleep reading, because she came to with a snort. She shivered and saw that the angle of sunlight on Whiteside had changed and grown more golden. At the same time, she heard a car engine approaching. Uncle Nick, finally. The thought sent a shot of adrenaline through her heart. Chill, girl, she thought. She stood up, her legs a little stiff, then went back inside, changed her pad of toilet paper, and wandered into the kitchen. The digital clock on the oven said 6:47. That made her heart stutter-step for a moment. Her uncle had been gone for over eight hours. What had taken so long? She stood by the door to the carport, arms folded across her chest in what she thought was an appropriate pose of annoyance. How long did it take a man to buy tampons, for God’s sake.
The engine shut off, and she heard a car door open. She unfolded her arms to quickly wipe her palms on her jeans before returning to her annoyed pose. A minute went by. Annalise tapped her foot, scowling. This was ridiculous. He had left her alone all day, with little food and nothing to do and no tampons, and now he was dicking around outside? She marched to the kitchen door and flung it open, buoyed by the dramatic moment. “Where have you—” she began, then was struck dumb by two realizations. The car, a red Jeep Renegade, was not her uncle’s. And the older woman who held some sort of oven-mitt-wrapped pot or dish in both hands, standing by the open driver’s door, was definitely not her Uncle Nick.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Cole was furious.
In all his years fighting in the worst places on earth, his team had rarely been hit so hard, and never by so few people. Winslow had been a necessity, true, but his death was still a loss. And now Poncho was in the hospital
and Dawes was smoked. By a fucking off-duty cop, for Christ’s sake.
But it wasn’t the deputy Cole was upset about. It was the stranger who had beaten Poncho unconscious, the man who had the girl’s phone and apparently the flash drive too. The man whose photo Cole was now staring at on his phone.
It had been a risk, staying in town once the cops came down on the library like a hammer. After dropping Dawes and Poncho off at the library entrance, Cole and Zhang had driven off and parked on the other side of the block where they had a clear view of the back of the library. Cole had handled the comms while Zhang remained on his laptop to monitor the girl’s phone and his email for another alert in case someone tried to access the flash drive again. Sitting in the Suburban had tested Cole’s discipline and focus, but they couldn’t all go into the library at once.
Then Dawes had reported that a man had been sitting at the desktops until just a few minutes before they arrived. And then he had eyes on the man—white or possibly Latino male, midforties, green shirt and blue jeans. Dawes and Poncho moved to intercept the man, and that was when it all went to hell—thuds, cursing, a roar of static. Cole had very nearly gotten out of the Suburban, but then Dawes reported in, saying he had the man but Poncho was down.
At that point Cole heard someone else shout Freeze over his earpiece, followed by gunshots. Then he heard Dawes, his voice weak and clogged as if with phlegm, say I wanted to take her to Malibu. And that was all.
As soon as he heard that, Cole had driven away. Almost every instinct of Cole’s had insisted on saving his men, but having a protracted, public firefight was the wrong call. Poncho and Dawes knew the score, had known ever since they’d joined Cole’s team. Now Cole had to salvage the situation as best he could. He pulled the Suburban into a church parking lot that backed up to the library, and he put on a ball cap and walked around the block, ambling up to the library, where a small crowd had gathered in the parking lot.
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