Breathlessly he followed her orders. She pushed herself close against his back. Reaching around him with her left hand, she began to do things she knew would utterly transport him.
"Close your eyes," she whispered. "Relax."
Within seconds, sure that he was now lost in sensation, she reached her right hand high to a tiled ledge and a small lacquered box. There, from inside the black-and-red box, she quickly withdrew a small. 22 automatic. As she placed the barrel at the base of his skull, time slowed down to let her observe every detail of the scene. There was her hand wrapped around the mother-of-pearl pistol grip. There was the red dot showing the safety off. And his wet brown hair in need of a trim.
"A little present from Mother," she whispered in his ear.
As Corey dragged his body from the bathroom, dread hung like black sheets at the edges of her mind. Then her certainty returned: She had rid the world of a weakling who didn't believe in her cause; Denny would have broken the first time they squeezed him, would have copped a plea to save himself. And she would've gone to jail, or worse.
Denny's absence wouldn't be noticed for months-and perhaps not at all. She had checked his background as carefully as she had planned his demise. A drifter with no family outside a sister who hadn't seen him in years, he had no close friends and only a few acquaintances in the entire county. He had called himself a cowboy-she supposed because he had a hat. She buried him in the woods behind the house, grateful that no one who mattered had ever seen them together.
After it was over, after she had covered the corpse in the hard clay hole by the charred stump, after she had mopped up the blood and scrubbed herself clean, she sat on the shower floor, exhausted, once again letting the warm water pour over her, letting the blackness fill her head.
The sound of the ringing phone barely penetrated the soothing shower sounds.
"How did it go?" There was a nervous edge to the deep accented voice. She was certain the man was German. It wasn't the usual time for his call.
"Not good. Some stud the size of a mountain gave her the money. He was ready for a fight. They followed us partway up the hill."
"What happened?"
"I blew them off the road with a. 300 Weatherby Magnum, that's what happened. Right front tire. They went over the bank."
"Are they dead?"
"Probably. Nothing on the police bands."
"Why did you put a transmitter in the briefcase?"
Her breath caught in her throat. "What are you talking about?"
"You put a transmitter in the briefcase?"
"The hell I did."
"We took care of it," he said. "That's all that matters. What about Denny? What's he know?"
"Nothing. Besides he up and left. Headed for Florida."
"Are you sure?"
"I said he left for Florida." She didn't trust the German voice-especially after today. "Why is industry paying McCafferty? I mean what exactly does she do for them?"
"If you figure it out, let us know. Maybe she just gives in to their demands if what they pay her is right enough."
"I doubt if it's that boring," she said. "Did you know the courier would be built like a brick shithouse?"
"Had no idea."
"You wanted me to get away with the money?"
"Came for our share, didn't we?"
''Why'd they build a big Cyclone fence around that complex of theirs in the Highlands?" She thought she heard a deep sigh. "It's Amada, isn't it?"
''Don't know anything about it. What do you think?'' She was sure the voice was tighter. Or was it her imagination?
"Why did you hesitate? What do you know about this?"
"That's not the nature of our arrangement." The voice came back icy. "So if you value our relationship, all the tips, the money, perhaps you would be wise to tell us about this fence."
She needed time to think and wished she hadn't brought it up.
"I know that men come and go. Mostly at night. I know that they have a big permanent staff and I know they spend most of their time inside, not outside. Something glows, iridescent, in the night. I can see it like a halo through the trees."
"Interesting. What else?"
"Guys come in the night. They put on protective suits and unload stuff into the buildings. They work in the dark, never with a light. There's an old mine shaft nearby. They go into that as well. Around the shaft they also built a fence and they're working there during the day."
"What do you think they're doing?"
"At first I thought they might be making Taxol from the bark of the yew tree-like they tell the government. You know, latest cancer drug. I got some government documents under the Freedom of Information Act. They're distilling Taxol, but I don't think that's all they're doing."
"And how do you see all this if it's dark?"
"Government surplus infrared night-vision goggles."
"You see the glowing with these goggles?"
"No, that's with the naked eye, looking down from up in a tree."
"So how did you find out in the first place? You creep around with goggles, or what?"
She was feeling nervous. This guy seemed a little too interested in the mechanics. But she'd gone this far.
"I was watching the Highlands. They were building a so-called research road, which was actually a logging road. Before the fences were done, I told you they were doing work around the mine shaft during the day."
"What sort of work?"
"Just carrying stuff in and out. Guys with clipboards standing around.'' She waited for some comment. Some hint that the man on the line knew something. "And they've had a couple pipes going into the mine. Now, what do you know?"
"I told you, that's not the nature of the relationship."
There was a click and the line went dead.
7
Dan never lost consciousness, but his memories remained hazy. He had the presence of mind to toss the receiver into the brush after he hit the ground and to feign unconsciousness when he heard the voices. The men said nothing of interest, only grunted and complained that Dan was heavy.
At some point he felt a needle prick his arm and remembered nothing more. Blackness for only God knew how long.
He came to with a bright light in his eyes, its intensity magnified by a throbbing headache. He tried to sit up.
"Hey, hey, take it easy there," a deep male voice said. A hand on his shoulder kept him lying flat.
The voice belonged to a gray-haired, white-coated man who looked all business. The age lines in his face were faint but discernible, teeth not quite even. He was carefully dressed in a starched white coat over a pressed blue shirt and his demeanor said "doctor." Two other men, big guys in blue jeans and muscle-filled T-shirts, stood back, saying nothing.
"How many fingers?"
He held up his hands. "Where's Maria?"
"Right here," she groaned. He looked to his left and saw her lying on a folding cot. Glancing around the room, he could see white cupboards with masking tape on the doors with various labels, like flasks, beakers, dewars, and a lot of names for materials or equipment that he didn't understand. He was also on a narrow, folding cot, narrower than a twin bed, perhaps four feet away from Maria. Everything was white. For some reason he couldn't quite articulate, it appeared they were in a modular building in a room about twenty by thirty.
"She appears to be fine other than a lot of bruises," the man said. "Now, how many fingers?"
"Seven."
"What year is it?"
"2002."
"Who's the president?"
"Dick Cheney."
"Sense of humor's intact."
"What was the last thing you remember?"
"Climbing a tree."
"Why were you trespassing?"
"Where am I?"
"You're in the facility you were spying on."
"What facility?"
"That's private."