Keep him safe, but tell him as little as possible. Don’t get in his face, moy golub, unless you’ve got no choice about it. He’s smart and he’s a ruthless killer. It’s our great good luck his partner screwed up that bank robbery. Leave him to me; I’ll deal with him.
She hadn’t seen any sign of his smarts yet or his ruthlessness, and for a moment she doubted Sergei when he’d told her not to bother to try to break Manta Ray for the information, but then she’d looked into the Irishman’s eyes and seen nothing but a fathomless void. But maybe she could get him to let slip where he’d stashed the small locked metal box he’d taken from Cortina Alvarez’s safe-deposit box at the bank. After all, hadn’t Elena’s mother always told her she had a silver tongue because she could talk anybody into anything, even as a little girl? Elena shook her head. She hadn’t thought of her mother in years, not since she’d died with an empty vodka bottle clutched in her skinny hands in her dirty little Moscow apartment.
She looked over at Jacobson. She would have to keep him from trying to beat the crap out of Liam to find out about the metal box, or if Liam chanced to make a break for it. She didn’t think he would. He had to know their job was to keep him safe and take good care of him. Jacobson was throwing pebbles into the underbrush. Hadn’t he noticed the Irishman’s eyes? No, he hadn’t noticed, he hardly noticed anything unless he was going to kill it.
She realized Liam was looking at her, and he asked again, “Why’d you call me Liam?”
She dredged up a smile, locked in an admiring look. “I think Liam has gravitas, better fits a man who hit up a bank in broad daylight.” Give him respect, that’s what he wants. “I’ll call you Manta Ray, if that’s what you’d like.”
“Gravitas? I like that, Elena. Makes me sound important. Liam’ll be nice for a while, sure, go ahead.”
His Irish brogue had thickened and he gave her a potent smile, a smile she’d bet had nailed a lot of women. She smiled back.
If only this Irish shite didn’t hold all the cards. She continued, “I think you would have gotten clean away if your partner hadn’t been a moron and killed that bank teller.”
Manta Ray shrugged. “Marvin wasn’t that much of a moron, usually. He had this one problem: He was addicted to money. He saw it, he had to have it.” He raised his camp cup and saluted the silent air. “To Marvin. Goodbye, buddy. Too bad you couldn’t take it with you.”
“Take what? The money?” Jacobson asked.
Manta Ray nodded, said matter-of-factly, “Marvin Cass already had lots of money, a couple of million stashed with his mum. Now she’s rich. I wonder if she’d rather keep all of it or have her son back.”
“From the sound of him, I bet she’d vote for the money, no question,” Jacobson said. He took the last bite of his mac and cheese, swallowed. “Cass got you shot. How come you’re not pissed about it?”
“He paid the highest price, poor old bugger.”
Jacobson said, “I heard Cass had a habit of starting bar fights he couldn’t win, regularly got the crap beat out of him. Seems he wasn’t much into self-control.”
Manta Ray said, “Ah, you’ve heard of him then, have you? No, Marvin was a spur-of-the-moment kind of guy. In most things. But he told me he was planning a trip to Belfast and he wanted me to come with him, show him where I grew up, show him the Maze prison, where I vacationed for five years.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe when you’re dead, you can still dream, you think? Marvin can still dream about Belfast.”
Jacobson seemed to think about it, then shook his head. “Nah, dead is dead and that means you’re nothing anymore.”
Elena wanted to tell them they were both idiots, but she said, “Cass is dead, but you’re not, Liam; you were tough enough to survive, but we do owe him.” She raised her coffee cup. “To Cass. Without him none of us would be here.”
Manta Ray saluted her with his empty coffee cup, gave her another drop-dead-gorgeous smile. “Right you are. It’s one of life’s lessons—you do what you’ve gotta do.”
She heard a snort from Jacobson, shot him a look. He was ready to stick his oar in, the ignorant fool. He stared at Manta Ray, flexed his big hands. “It’s a lesson I know well,” he said, “so don’t think I’m not going to teach it to you all over again if you give me a reason.”
Manta Ray grinned at him. “I don’t take well to threats, mate, never have. Last time somebody tried to teach me what to do was in the Maze. They had to wash his brain matter off the wall next to my cell.”
“Shut up, Jacobson, you’re not in charge here.” Do you think you’re going to scare him after he survived five years in that hellhole in Belfast?
Manta Ray looked between the two of them, the muscle and the brain. It amused him to let Elena believe she was in charge. He saw she was watching him now, to see if he’d say more, respond in some way, maybe snap Jacobson’s neck for her? He was good at reading people, knew she was looking for an angle, a way to get him to open up to her. Jacobson was as easy to read as a child’s book, a tool that could kill without hesitation and with some skill, nothing more. But Elena was still a mystery. He appreciated their breaking him out of that marshals’ van, but he knew he had to be careful while in the control of people he knew nothing about. Torture wasn’t their plan, or Jacobson would have been at him already. Here was Elena, actually trying to gain his trust, and wasn’t that a good laugh? Why not let her try, use her to find out what he could? When they were finally out of this godforsaken wilderness, then he’d do what he wanted with her.
He stayed quiet, drawing Celtic letters with his finger in the dirt. He accepted a second helping of mac and cheese from Elena. It was bad, as bad as the prison food he’d eaten for the past month in Richmond, but he shoveled it down. When he was finished, he decided it was time to feed the animals. He smiled at Jacobson and Elena. “You guys did good, getting me away from the marshals this morning. Really good.”
“I planned it,” Jacobson said. “I’m thinking you could return the favor, tell us where you hid the crap you took out of that safe-deposit box.”
Elena wanted to pull out her Beretta and shoot Jacobson in the mouth. The buffoon wanted to take the lead? Did he honestly believe Manta Ray would give up the information that was keeping him alive because he asked him to? She said, “The boss was impressed you didn’t tell the FBI where you’d hidden the stuff, very impressed.”
“Relieved, more like, whoever your boss is.” Manta Ray shrugged. “The FBI were never a threat; they can’t break free of their own stupid laws and rules.” He spread his arms wide. “I love America.” Once again, the killer smile. “Anyway, it was a good job, mates. If you want to make this a lovefest, why don’t you tell me what the plan is? So we picked up all this camping stuff waiting for us in a car boot just outside the forest and now we’ve hiked to a nice spot by a creek. Are we going to see the boss tomorrow?”
Elena said, “No, not tomorrow. Consider this a camping and hiking vacation. All you need to know is that we’ll keep you safe from the FBI.”
“So we’re marking time in the forest until the heat is off? Not a bad plan. How long?”
“I’ll let you know,” Elena said.
Manta Ray hadn’t expected she’d tell him any more. He said nothing, took off his boot and his thick sock, and aimed his headlight at his foot.
Elena frowned, leaned toward him. “What are you doing?”
“My heel hurts.”
Jacobson was emptying a small bag of peanuts into his mouth. “What do you mean it hurts?”
“It’s red, and it hurts to touch it. I’m getting a blister. Why didn’t you get the right size boot?”
“It is the right size,” Elena said. “But you never can be sure about a fit unless you try the boots on and walk around in them for a while. Jacobson, give him the first-aid kit.”
Jacobson gave her a look but got the first-aid kit out of his backpack, tossed it to Manta Ray. Elena watched Manta Ray gingerly rub Neosporin on his heel, press some gauze o
ver the blister, and wrap an Ace bandage over and around his foot to hold it in place.
It was all she needed, an infected blister. She’d intended to keep their pace slow, no reason not to, since they were trying to kill time anyway. He was looking at his foot, turning it this way and that. She couldn’t believe it, but even his feet were beautiful, like Michelangelo’s David. She remembered the first time she’d seen Liam’s photo, remembered her hormones had come to attention. He was a looker, no doubt about it. She bet he had phenomenal success with women.
She gave Liam a bright smile. “It’s been a long day. Your heel will be better in the morning. Get some rest.”
He started to open his mouth but decided against it. He eyed the sleeping bag. No way did he want to zip himself into that skinny confining coffin. No, he wanted to stretch out and fall asleep by a nice cozy fire. He ended up lying on top of the sleeping bag. He watched Elena pull off her boots, crawl into the sleeping bag. He went over in his mind how he would deal with the boss. He knew he was the golden goose. If the boss forgot that, he was the biggest fool alive.
The air was still and warm. Jacobson was snoring. Manta Ray closed his eyes and remembered himself as a young man of eighteen, at home in the underbelly of Belfast, and for a moment felt the glow of exhilaration. And the winning, he’d loved the winning, and seeing the faces of those who knew he’d bested them, even if he had to beat or bludgeon a few to make them understand. And of course the money. His mum had complained about where it came from but she took it anyway. Then he was nabbed after beating a stupid copper and sent to the Maze prison, where real hunger was only a small part of the endless misery. Liam Ryan Hennessey, you are hereby sentenced to five years imprisonment at the Maze prison, commencing immediately.
He could still hear the gavel bang down, hear his mum weeping.
19
WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY NIGHT
Kara Moody had no more tears, not even anger toward the people who’d let that woman steal Alex. It hadn’t helped trying to fan her rage at the hospital, against fate, against God, against anyone she could think to blame. She found herself floating in a kind of blackness, with nothing to hold on to. Every few minutes a nurse came in to sit with her, repeating endlessly how the FBI would bring Alex back, and she pretended to listen, nodding her head occasionally. But deep down, she wondered if she would slowly dissolve into that blackness and let it carry her away. She stared across her room at the empty bassinet, Alex’s bassinet. Dr. Janice had been there, sitting with her, staying close, saying little. Of course everyone knew Alex had been kidnapped, because of the Amber Alert, and Dr. Janice had fielded calls for her.
It was late, but she couldn’t sleep, didn’t want to sleep really, so finally she got out of bed, pulled on the ancient pink robe Dr. Janice had brought her from home, slid her feet into her old tatty rabbit slippers, and slipped out of her room. The hallway was empty, the nurses’ station thirty feet away. She saw a maternity ward guard, not the same one who’d let them take Alex, but another, younger man who looked bored. She waited until he went to the break room and slipped down the stairs to the third floor.
When she stepped onto the floor, she realized she didn’t know what room John Doe was in. Then she saw a policeman down the hall, his seat tilted back against the wall, a magazine in his hand. She watched him awhile, decided he wasn’t going to go relieve himself anytime soon, and walked up to him. He saw her coming from the corner of his eye and became immediately alert, his hand going to the gun at his waist.
“Officer, I’m Kara Moody. I’m the woman the man in there tried to save.” I’m also the new mother whose baby was stolen. She couldn’t say those words aloud, couldn’t get them to even form in her mouth. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know his name.”
Officer Ted Rickman, night shift, said, “No one does. They’re calling him John Doe.” He eyed her up and down. “What are you doing here, Ms. Moody? It’s after midnight.”
“I know he’s unconscious, but I need to see him. However crazy he seemed, he believed he was saving me and my baby from something. May I see him?”
Rickman saw the empty shock in her eyes. He couldn’t begin to imagine what she was feeling. He knew there was no husband in the picture, knew this young woman was alone and here she’d had her baby stolen right out of the hospital. Rickman slowly rose and walked through the door. He nodded, pointed to the unmoving man on the narrow hospital bed. A dim light shone from a single lamp. Kara stared at him, whispered, “He’s not moving.”
“No, he’s not. He’s in a coma.” Officer Rickman thought of his own two small children, remembered the joy at their births, couldn’t imagine what he’d do if something had happened to them. Rickman’s cell rang. “Excuse me.”
Kara walked slowly to the bed and stared down at John Doe, the man she’d believed was crazy, who wanted to take her away to protect her. But from what? From whom? Whoever it was, he’d cared enough about her and her baby to risk his life for them. She saw Officer Rickman still on his cell, standing in the doorway, watching her as he listened. Did he think she’d lost it? She didn’t care. She pulled up a chair, sat down beside John Doe and studied his young face. There was still a bandage around his head, and his beard scruff had grown. Odd, but he looked somehow familiar to her now, but how could that be? He was breathing normally, evenly, looking peacefully asleep. When he’d forced his way into her house and tied her to the chair, she’d seen only a terrifying monster, not this motionless, slight young man who couldn’t be more than twenty-five.
Kara lightly touched her fingers to his cheek. His skin was warm through the stubble. She couldn’t remember the color of his eyes. Blue, maybe?
She stroked his hand and said quietly, “I’ve heard that people in a coma can hear people talking to them. Do you hear me? Do you know who I am? I wish I could remember exactly what you said, but so much of it didn’t make sense to me, and I was so scared.”
She sat silently, stroking his hand, studying his face, a handsome face, really. She let it come pouring out of her, how she’d been in labor even at the house and about her beautiful boy she’d named Alex, after her father. She told him about her father, what he’d been like and how much she missed him. Kara felt tears running down her cheeks, hadn’t even realized it until she tasted salt. She swiped the tears away with her fist. “I’m sorry about crying, but Alex is gone. Someone stole him. He’s just gone. Was it the people you were trying to protect me from? You’ve got to wake up and help me. I don’t know what to do. I wish I knew your name at least. Won’t you wake up and tell me?”
There was no movement, no sound except his slow, even breathing. She swiped her eyes again and began to lightly rub her fingers over his cheek. She talked about music, her art, how she’d painted a field of wild flowers during a rainstorm, about what she was planning when she and Alex were together again. She talked until finally, she laid her head against his shoulder and fell asleep.
She was standing in the middle of the field she’d painted, the rain cascading down over her, the only sound that of the raindrops splattering against her and hitting the earth. Then there was a sound rain wouldn’t make, but there it was—something niggled at her consciousness, something that wasn’t quite right. She blinked away sleep and slowly raised her head toward the door. It was closed. Nice of Officer Rickman to give her so much privacy. She heard footsteps and then the door slowly opened. He was coming to check on them. She relaxed, laid her face back down on John Doe’s shoulder.
Officer Rickman didn’t say anything, so she slitted her eyes open and saw a man she didn’t recognize, slim and military fit, easing his way into the room. He was wearing surgical scrubs and a mask over his face. At the sound of his footsteps, Kara realized he was wearing loafers, not the soft-soled shoes the nurses wore. He held a syringe in his hand.
This man wasn’t here to help her; he was the enemy.
He was looking at her, frowni
ng, and she quickly closed her eyes, heart pounding, readying herself. She heard him walking toward the bed, slitted her eyes again, and saw him raise his hand to inject something into the IV tubing tethered to John Doe’s wrist.
Kara jumped straight up, grabbed the pitcher off the bedside table and hurled it across the bed at him, yelling at the top of her lungs. An arc of water splashed on the man, and the pitcher hit him square in the chest. He leaped back, cursing, but came at her. She reared back and smashed her fist into his chest, sending him reeling off-balance, and the syringe went flying. She grabbed a chair and kept yelling, screaming, until finally he cursed and ran from the room.
When Savich and Sherlock burst into John Doe’s room fifteen minutes later, Kara was still holding him pressed against her. Two nurses, an orderly, and two security guards were trying to reassure her the danger was over, that she could let him go, but she was refusing, repeating over and over he wasn’t safe, until she saw Sherlock.
Sherlock made her way through the crowd, held out her hand to Kara, and gently pulled her away. She held her close, whispered, “It’s all right now, it’s over.” She eased her back. “Tell me what happened, Kara.”
Kara drew a steadying breath. “A man came into the room dressed like a doctor or a nurse. Sherlock, he was holding a syringe in his hand and he was going to inject something in his IV line. I knew he was going to kill him. Officer Rickman never came. Where was he?”
An excellent question. Sherlock cupped Kara’s shocked white face between her hands, kept her voice calm, matter-of-fact. “But you stopped him, Kara. You saved him, all by yourself. You are very brave. When John Doe wakes up, I’ll tell him all about how you saved his life.”
Sherlock saw Dillon on the phone and looked around for the Metro night guard, Rickman. She asked the night nursing supervisor checking John Doe’s vitals, “Have you seen the police officer assigned to guard John Doe?”
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