He glanced around at the lunchtime crowds beginning to fill the streets. "Please, Nadia. Not so loud!"
"All right," she said, lowering her voice a trifle. "But tell me… let me hear it straight from your lips: did you have anything to do with Doug's disappearance?"
"No! Absolutely not!"
Panic sent his thoughts caroming through his brain. Oh, dear God, she knows about Dragovic, about Berzerk and all the rest! How can this be happening? Not now! Not when I am almost free!
"How about Dragovic?" she said.
Think! Think! Think!
"Nadia, one of the downsides of going public is that anyone can buy your company's stock. Unfortunately, Mr. Dragovic owns a large block of ours and—"
"What's his relationship with you?"
Luc felt as if he were on the witness stand, being grilled by a prosecutor.
"It is very complicated, and I will explain it in full to you someday if you like, but suffice it to say that Mr. Dragovic could not be involved in Douglas's troubles because I doubt very much he even knows Douglas exists."
A long pause. They'd reached the corner of Lexington; he guided her left… downtown… toward her home… away from his neighborhood.
Finally she said, "I think I'm going to have to go to the police about Dragovic."
No!
Luc fought to keep the panic out of his voice. "Please don't be precipitous, Nadia. You will cause much misery and embarrassment for many people, and none of it will bring back your Douglas one minute sooner."
"I'm not so sure about that."
"Please give it a little more time, Nadia—at least until tonight, I beg you. Milos Dragovic is a vile, vile man, but I swear to you by all I hold holy he has no connection to Douglas. And if you've been watching the television at all, you must know he's had other matters on his mind."
Another pause, longer this time, then Nadia closed her eyes and breathed a deep, tremulous sigh. "Maybe you're right. I don't know. I'm so worried, so frustrated, I feel I've got to do something!"
"Wait. Just give it until tonight. I'm sure you'll hear something by tonight. If not, then do what you must. But give the police just a little more time."
"All right," she said, her voice barely audible. "Till tonight."
She turned and, without another word, continued walking downtown on Lexington.
Luc stepped to the side and leaned against the front of an appliance store. Somehow Nadia hadn't been dosed with the Loki. Or if she had she was resistant to its effects. Whatever, she was out and about and more dangerous than ever.
His eyes drifted to the TVs in the front window of the store where the Dragovic footage was playing again. A moment ago he'd tried to imagine how small and utterly humiliated Dragovic must feel. If Nadia went to the police… he had visions of stepping off the plane and finding officers of the Surete waiting for him, of returning to New York in manacles, walking a gauntlet of photographers… He would no longer need to imagine how Dragovic felt… He would know firsthand.
He turned, found a public phone, and called a number he knew by heart. After three rings, Ozymandias Prather's deep voice echoed through the receiver.
"Prather, it's me." He needed to be discreet here. "I need your services again."
"Who is it this time?"
"A researcher. The fiancee of the last one. She suspects."
An odd laugh. "Do you warn people when you hire them that they might not have a future with your firm—or any future at all?"
"Please. This is an emergency. She could ruin everything."
"Really. That's a shame."
"Can you do it? Now?"
"In daylight? Out of the question. Too risky."
"Please!" He loathed begging this man but had nowhere else to turn. "I'll double the usual fee."
"Double, ay? And you say it's the fiancee of the last one. That presents possibilities. I'll need some information…"
Flooded with relief, Luc gave Prather what he wanted: name, address, phone numbers, whether or not she lived alone. When he was finished…
"I will send someone by within the hour to pick up the payment."
"I'll have it ready." He'd pay for this himself, draw out the money immediately.
"Excellent. And since you're such a good customer, I believe I can work this one to cover for the last as well."
"Really? How?"
"You will see. Remember: money in an hour."
Luc hung up and headed for the nearby Citibank. Most of his money had been transferred to his Swiss account, but he still had more than enough left to pay Prather.
He stopped and took a few deep breaths. This is what he got for trying to find a humane solution. If he'd put Prather on it in the first place, he wouldn't be in this state.
He glanced his watch. Noon. Ten more hours. Maybe he could find an earlier flight. As soon as he settled with Prather he'd call his travel agent. New York was becoming too dangerous for him.
7
Took Jack a moment or two to realize he was in a hospital room. The IV running into his left arm pretty much clinched it.
A small narrow room, semiprivate, but the other bed empty. A dark dead television screen stared at him from the opposite wall a few feet beyond the edge of the bed. Cracks in the ceiling, in the walls, chipped paint on the doors. This place had seen better days.
So had his head—it was killing him. The rest of him didn't feel so hot either. Sat up and maybe that wasn't such a good idea—the room swam around the bed; his stomach heaved; pain shot through his left ribs—but he grabbed the side rails and hung on for the ride.
While he waited for the walls to stop moving he tried to figure out what the hell had put him here. Slowly, in brief bright flashes and glittery pieces, it came back… a succession of cars, shots, collisions, cops, all suffused with an overriding giddy exhilaration mixed with murderous rage. Psycho time, a berserko bender—
Berzerk. That's right. Remembered now, remembered that he must have been dosed with the crazy-maker stuff, and the only way it could have happened was in the coffee Nadia had given him. Didn't make sense that she'd do it. Which could only mean that the dose had been meant for her.
Jack had a pretty damn good idea of who had meant it. He'd figure out the why later. Right now he had to get out of. here.
What time was it? No clock in the room. How long had he been here? Last thing he remembered was the cops chasing him and—
Cops… was he under arrest?
The near certainty of that sent a bolt of sick pain through his already throbbing head. Checked his fingertips—not the cleanest they'd ever been, but no sign of fingerprint ink. Yet. So far in his life he'd managed to keep his photo and fingerprints out of the criminal databases, and he desperately wanted to keep it that way.
He noticed a plastic wristband. "John Doe" had been typed in the patient name space. His admitting physician was a doctor named A. Bulmer.
John Doe… but you can call me Jack.
Next question: was he under guard?
Probably, but only one way to find out. Door to the hall stood open about a foot. A peek outside would give the answer.
Twisted the release on the side rail and slid it down. But as he swung his legs over the side, the room began to do the Harlem shuffle again. He let it finish, then eased his feet to the floor. Clinging to the IV stand for support, he stood. As the room swayed again—a slow dance this time—he felt cool air on his butt and realized that his shirt and jeans had been replaced by a light blue hospital gown with—check it out—full rear ventilation, monroe community hospital ran in black along the hem.
Monroe again. Somehow he kept winding up in Monroe. Maybe he should move here.
Not a chance.
Didn't feature having his bare back end exposed to the world and hoped his own clothes were somewhere near, but first he had to check the hall.