“I fell on a rock, landed on my knee. I don’t think there’s any structural damage, but it’s swollen and sore.” That was an understatement. What she wouldn’t give for an ice pack and two aspirin.
“You came to the right place,” said Gena, trying to sound chipper and failing miserably. Her face was pale, her eyes sunken. “This is the orthopedic section.”
“She’s right,” said Neenah, leaving Creed’s side to come to her. “Let’s get you cleaned up and see how that knee looks.”
“I don’t have any clothes to change into,” said Cate, too tired to really care.
“I’ll take care of that,” Maureen said as she helped Cate to a chair in another section of the basement where she could pull a sheet across for privacy. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll send Perry back for it.”
“The poor man. He’ll be exhausted from running back and forth.” Cate closed her eyes and let them undress her down to her underwear, standing on one leg when they helped her up so they could remove both pairs of pants. It was soothing to feel a cool washcloth being stroked over her face, arms, and hands.
“The swelling is really bad,” Neenah murmured. “You probably shouldn’t be using this knee at all.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“I know, but you do now. We’ll arrange some cushions to prop up that leg and support it, so you’ll be more comfortable.” The cloth was dipped in cold water again and laid across her knee. It wasn’t an ice pack, but the cold water was soothing. Maureen appeared with two tablets in her palm; Cate took them without asking what they were, without caring.
Together Neenah and Maureen moved some cushions, boxes, and piles of folded clothing, making a sort of recliner on the floor, then they helped her to it. She sat on the cushions, leaned against the boxes, and the piles of folded clothes were placed under her knee. The support was wonderful. They covered her with a blanket and left her alone.
She went to sleep immediately, not hearing Perry when he returned.
Creed woke her a short time later, hobbling to her “room” with the aid of a cane and dragging a chair with him. Neenah followed, holding the Dopp Kit and giving him an exasperated look “He won’t listen to me,” she complained to Cate, though beneath the exasperation she looked strangely content.
“I know the feeling,” Cate said wryly.
“Is this the right shaving kit?” Creed asked, taking it from Neenah.
Cate nodded. “There isn’t another one in the house. Did you find anything?”
“Nothing. I dumped everything out, opened everything that would open—”
“And some that wouldn’t,” interjected Neenah.
He slanted a quick look up at her, a glance so laden with intimacy that Cate almost sucked in an audible breath. When had this happened?
Well, the answer to that was obvious: the same time it had happened for her and Cal.
“There’s nothing here,” said Creed. “I’ve felt the seams, the zipper, practically ripped the damn thing apart. If there was anything valuable, incriminating, or remotely interesting in this kit, I haven’t found it.”
Cate stared at the kit, forcing her tired brain to work. “They only think it’s here,” she said slowly.
“Think what’s here?” Creed’s tone was sharp.
“I don’t know. But whatever it is, they think it’s here because when they checked Layton’s suitcase his shaving kit wasn’t in it. Layton has it—the thing, it, whatever. He took it with him. When he climbed out the window and left, he was running, so of course he took whatever it is with him.”
“Do they know he climbed out a window and took off?”
Slowly she shook her head, mentally going over what she’d told the mystery man when he’d called that day, pretending he worked for National. “At the time, I thought Mr. Layton must have had an accident somewhere. When some man called looking for him, I told him Mr. Layton had disappeared, that he hadn’t checked out or returned for his things, and I thought he must have had an accident in the mountains. I didn’t mention that he’d left by way of the window.”
“Which puts an entirely different outlook on Mr. Layton’s disappearance,” said Creed. “If they’d known about the window, they’d have realized he bolted, and logic says he took what they’re looking for with him. So now they think you still have it, and even if you tell them differently, they won’t believe you, not after all this.”
All this. Seven people dead. Creed wounded. An untold amount of damage to houses and vehicles, all for something that wasn’t even here. Suddenly overwhelmed, Cate buried her face in her hands and wept.
Yuell Faulkner was more worried than he’d ever been in his life. He hadn’t been able to get in touch with either Toxtel or Goss for three days now. He’d sent them on a simple retrieval, but they’d been gone a week. They should have been back days ago.
Bandini would be expecting to hear from him, and Yuell had nothing to tell him. He couldn’t say they’d recovered the flash drive or that they’d found Layton—nothing.
He was spooked; he admitted it. He left a light on in his office to make it look as if he were still there, in ease anyone was watching the window, and left, by a basement exit that put him in an alley. Fine with him. He wasn’t getting in his car and leading any watchers to his home, anyway.
He walked a couple of blocks and hailed a cab. After thirty minutes of aimlessly driving in circles, he got out, walked another couple of blocks, and got another cab. He watched carefully both times. No one appeared to be following. He took the precaution of exiting that taxi several blocks from his home and waited until it was out of sight before he turned in the correct direction.
At last he let himself into his house. The dark, familiar spaces enfolded him. Usually he could relax here, but until he heard from either Toxtel or Goss he wouldn’t be able to relax anywhere. Damn it, did he need to go out to Idaho himself? If they’d screwed up, why hadn’t they just called and admitted it? He’d think of something, some way to fix the situation, but he had to know what was going on.
He turned on a lamp and thought longingly of a nice stiff drink, but he needed to be in top form if anything went down. No drinks at all for him until he heard—
“Faulkner.”
Yuell didn’t turn toward the voice, the way most people would have. He dove to the side, toward the doorway.
It didn’t work. The cough of a silenced weapon only slightly preceded an explosion of pain in his back. He forced himself to keep rolling, moving through the pain and shock, and felt another bullet enter. His legs jerked wildly, spasming out of control, and he crashed heavily into the wall. He tried to reach for his weapon, but nothing was where it was supposed to be and his hand sort of floated in the air, grasping at emptiness, which was damn stupid.
A dark, faceless shape loomed over him, but Yuell knew who it was. He knew that voice, had heard it in his nightmares.
The shape pointed at his face, and there was another cough, but Yuell didn’t hear that one—or anything else, ever again.
Chapter 31
Cal lay on his stomach to the North of where he’d mentally marked the location of the farthest firing position. It was a good place. Strategically, it was where lie would have placed a shooter if he wanted to prevent someone from coming down that side of the land spit and either making it into the cut or slipping behind him. The long, narrow groove was like a bowling alley lane, without a lot of great cover—for thermal scopes, that is. He’d guessed right about them switching to regular scopes and binoculars during the day, though, and it took a sniper a helluva lot more skilled than these old boys to spot him when he didn’t want to be spotted.
Creed had always called him a naturally sneaky son of a bitch. Nice to know some things never changed.