“You seem to enjoy that. Keeping a journal.”
Still writing, I said, “Yeah, my memory’s getting so bad, it helps.”
“I know better.”
“The book’s from you. There’s the main reason I like it.”
That made the kid smile. Nice.
… there’s a fireproof locker under my bed. You’ll find an envelope addressed to you. It contains information that’ll keep you safe for a long, long time. If I don’t make it back, keep a weather eye on Lake…
My son asked, “You think there’s a chance you’ll get down to Central America after the holidays? Tomlinson says the surfing on the Pacific Coast of Panama is unbelievable.”
My turn to smile. “I’ll make a point of it. Lake Nicaragua-you need to see that place. We’ll go together.”
I tore the page out, folded it. I’d leave it for Tomlinson with the receptionist on the way out. I told Lake, “I called the limo guy. He’s under way. You’ll be back on Sanibel by ten-thirty. Still time to get something to eat, then pack. Jeth’ll take you to the airport tomorrow.”
I hate good-byes. I saw that my son was no different; both of us not eager to part but eager to get this process over with. He stood facing me, holding the magazine.
“In the lab, I printed out a couple of sample pages from Dr. Applebee’s documents. Six pages, paper-clipped, next to the computer. Take them to Central America, work on the code. But do not copy the files. And don’t tell anyone you have those pages. Understand?”
Lake nodded.
“I’ll talk to the hospital security people. They’ll let you know when the car’s here. I’ll make sure they check out the driver.”
“You don’t have to do that, Dad. I can take care of myself.”
“I know. But you’re valuable property.” He stuck out his hand but I pushed it aside. Gave him a hug; my cheek tight against his head. “Crack the code, son, and I’ll buy you something very cool. You’re one of the few people smart enough to figure it out.”
As I picked up the keys, Lake said, “You don’t have to buy me anything. I’ll do it because it’s what you want me to do.”
I exited at the front of the hospital, not the ER entrance, which was closer to where I’d left the Magic Bus. I walked through the parking lot to a side street, then began to jog, using tree shadows as cover when I had the chance.
An adult male walking alone at night, or sprinting, draws attention. But joggers are part of the landscape-local jocks who own the street no matter the time of day or night.
My fishing shorts and T-shirt weren’t a perfect disguise, but close enough.
I circled the hospital, crossing the street to avoid the brighter lights of a strip mall, then crossed again to a sidewalk that fronted low-income ranch houses in a subdivision that was once middle class. Ficus and oak trees, probably planted in the fifties, had outgrown their domino lots. They hung dense over concrete that was in slow upheaval because of the roots beneath.
There was an ambulance sitting at the ER entrance, lighted sign above-EMERGENCY ONLY-and I began to slow in the gloom of trees, scanning the parking lot. I spotted a wedge of the Magic Bus beneath security lights. Could see its camper top, plus surfboards, above nearby cars. Could see its VW logo on the blunt front end, a peace sign painted there; white paint that became strawberry in the sodium haze.
The parking lot was half full, but felt deserted because of the absence of activity. There were EMTs in their blue coverall uniforms busy at the back of the ambulance, floodlights there, three people in scrubs watching, but no other movement. No security people in gold carts, which was unexpected.
I stopped, keys to the VW in my hand. I stood alert to anomalies-a car parked on a nearby side street, an inhabited vehicle, people waiting in shadows. Maybe Reynolds’s Tropicane truck, but that was unlikely. If this was a setup, he wouldn’t be that obvious. Or stupid.
A block away, a car turned the corner, lights panning. I knelt to tie my shoes, hiding my face until it’d passed.
A white sedan with black antenna, dorsal-like, on the trunk.
An unmarked squad car? It had that look.
I waited, feeling the quarter moon brighten, then sail behind clouds. Waited until the car turned in the distance, and I began to jog again.
I made one more lap around the block. Stopped briefly near the hospital’s front entrance and watched two security guards escort my son to a black Lincoln Town Car. I felt an uncharacteristic surge of emotion as one of the guards held the rear door open for Lake. The other chatted with the driver while also inspecting what I assumed to be his chauffeur’s license.
Good men. It explained the absence of security in the rear parking lot.
My son was getting his ride in a limo. A small surprise from his father. A parting gift.
At a faster pace, I jogged past the strip mall a final time, cut through the parking lot, and approached the Magic Bus from behind. Curtains covered the side windows of the VW, so I peeked in the rear. It was impossible to be certain, but it looked empty.
I touched fingertips to metal, sensitive to any slight movement, a shifting of weight.
Nothing.
Nearby cars also looked empty. I decided that if this was a setup, the X spot-where they’d hit me-would be somewhere on the dirt road that led to the canal.
More likely, though, I’d overanalyzed Reynolds’s phone message. I’d probably find the cops still searching for the cell phone, suspicious of my motives, just like he’d said.
I unlocked the driver’s-side door, then started to slide in behind the wheel when I realized the dome light had not come on.
Uh-oh.
In the same instant, I heard a car start a few spaces to my left, and was simultaneously aware of someone running-light-footed, on asphalt-before the car’s engine grew louder, audibly thumping into gear.
Trouble.
I turned to see the silhouette of a woman closing on me, as a pale-colored car appeared, lights off. It was timed to let the woman pass before the car pulled in tight behind the Volkswagen, shielding my view of the EMTs at the ER entrance, and also any chance of anyone seeing what was happening to me.
Professionals…
It was the Russian woman charging me. The one who’d taken such pleasure in torturing Jobe Applebee. I got a flickering look at the short blond hair, the feral eyes, her skin glazed orange with industrial light. She had something in her hand. An aluminum flashlight?
It made no sense. Even if it were a gun, she couldn’t be planning to take me down all by herself.
Where’s her partner?
The driver’s-side window of the blocker car was tinted; I could see a vague male shape at the wheel as the woman stopped abruptly a couple of yards away. As she lifted her hand toward me-maybe it’s a weapon-I reached for my cell phone, feeling for the keypad, hoping to hit the redial button, any number would do. I wanted there to be some record of what was happening here.
I tensed, expecting to hear a gunshot. Instead, a laser-bright light blinded me momentarily. From behind, two huge, hairy hands grabbed me from inside the van, one of them locked around my windpipe. I didn’t have a chance to bury my chin against my chest but managed to wedge a couple of fingers between my Adam’s apple and the man’s hand, hearing the woman whisper something harsh in Russian.
An instant later, my back muscles spasmed as if voltage charged when I felt a sickening, hypodermic pain-a needle had been driven deep into the side of my throat. I felt the gagging pain for several long seconds before the needle was removed.
More whispered Russian as I coughed and heaved reflexively, feeling woozy-headed, eyes blurring… I was aware of a flooding weariness as my brain struggled to translate the grotesque images that gradually appeared before me.