"Every cop in the country is looking for her. So let's get her sold and on her way before we all get put away."
Wylie frowned at him, but seemed to relent. "Gentlemen, I'd like to hear some bids."
She saw the bidders lined up before her, and it was like an inventory of her nightmares. She looked at Rhonda Eckersly's husband, and felt a wave of nausea. Rhonda had tried to leave him because of his cruelty. He was from an old southern family with lots of money and influence, so when she ran away, he simply reported her car stolen, and the police brought her back. He had put an iron ring in the floor of their living room and kept her chained to it by the neck. When he was tired of hurting her, he invited some like-minded friends and let each of them have a turn. Jane had taken her out of the world at least fifteen years ago. She had a new name, was married to a man who cherished her, and had two boys and a girl who were growing up fast. Every year she sent Jane an unsigned card that had something to do with "Indian Summer" from a different city to let her know she was still safe.
Eckersly looked old now, his cheeks sunken like an unwrapped mummy. He said, "A million."
Wylie frowned. "The bidding has begun at a million. And all the bidder wants is a chance to convince this woman that she made a mistake. Remember, everybody. She knows where somebody you want is hiding. But she also knows where somebody he wants is." He pointed at Eckersly. "And where somebody he wants is." He pointed at Phil Barraclough, the brother of the man she had shot.
Barraclough raised his hand. "Two million."
"I hear two million," said Wylie. "I want to remind every-one that all bids must refer to cash money. No checks, real estate, stocks, bonds, or precious stones; no gold or business partnerships." He looked around. "If you outbid Mr. Eckersly and Mr. Barraclough, you know they'll each pay you a couple of million to get the use of her, and find out what she did with someone they're hunting for. And you'll still have her."
The bidders looked at each other, as though each were trying to assess how much the others might pay. Grady Lee Beard said, "Three million."
Jane said, "You don't have that much."
Wylie's right arm straightened and he hit her, a punch on the jaw. The punch knocked Jane to the side, so she fell off the table, but Gorman leaped forward to catch her before she hit the floor in the midst of the bidders. Wylie shook his hand and blew on the knuckles as though they hurt him.
Grady Lee Beard said to Jane, "I'll have that and plenty more after I get you. I know a dozen guys like these who will pay big for a chance to talk to you. They just don't know we've got you yet."
"I've got a bid of three million," Wylie said. "You bidders might also think about the fact that she doesn't just know about somebody you're hunting for. She knows about you. She knows whatever her client knows about you-anything you might have done that wasn't strictly legal, and even what we're doing now. You can be sure she never tells any secrets that could put you away. Buying her is the only way to buy your safety. Her new owner will get every one of your secrets. What will it cost you to be sure that Mr. Beard, here, guards those secrets"
"Four million," Eckersly said.
"Four million to you, gentlemen. This is a slave market. Once you own her, you can do anything you want with her. If you hate her, you can show her how much pain can be inflicted on a person before she dies. Or you can find out what you want and then resell her to the next customer for a profit. Whoever wins the bidding tonight reaps the benefits, because she'll only get more valuable. Any more bids Do I hear five"
There was silence. Some of the men in the room stared at Jane, as though they were trying to read her mind and determine how much the contents of her memory were worth. She refused to let them make eye contact.
"The last bid was Mr. Eckersly at four million. Final offer"
The silence took on a resentful, shamefaced quality, the bidders looking down at their shoes rather than at Wylie. "Mr. Maloney, call our employer and see what he thinks of four million."
Maloney dialed a cell phone and spoke into it. "Hello, sir. The bidding is now at four million, and no counterbid. Is that an acceptable price" There was a pause while he listened. "Thank you, sir. I'll tell them." He put his phone in his coat pocket. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. At four million the price is not high enough. Our employer has submitted a token bid of eight million dollars. He's going to give you one final chance to do better. If nobody beats eight million, he'll take her off the market."
Phil Barraclough said, "I thought the rule was that you had to bring your stakes and pay off at the end of the auction."
"That's right," Wylie said.
"You're telling me that you've got eight million here in this house"
Wylie shook his head. "We brought the merchandise for him. She's worth eight million."
"That's just bullshit," said Barraclough. "He's wasting our time. He's not going to sell her."
"If that's how you feel, I can't say I blame you for dropping out. If anyone wants to go on with the auction, the bidding will start again at eight million."
"When do we have to hand over the money" asked Beard.
"When we get the cash, you'll get her. But we've got to be gone in twenty-four hours, so it'll have to be before then."
Beard looked around him at the others. "All right. I want to be in on this. There are people I've been looking for, and she knows where they are. I have two million in cash in this backpack. If a couple of you want to go in with me, we can get together and make eight million."
The other bidders were silent. Two million was clearly not a big enough percentage to make them risk an ongoing partnership with Grady Lee Beard. He was tall and rangy, with very light skin that had the ability to hold scars as raised pink lines, so the history of his dealings with others was written on his face.
Wylie said, "Our employer doesn't care how you get together, or who contributes what. All he wants is that we go home with upwards of eight million, and somebody else goes home with the woman."
A few of the bidders whispered together and there were muttered expletives, but no deal seemed to be concluded. There were frustrated scowls in parts of the room, as several bidders whose pitches had been rejected looked for each other in the crowd.
"Eight million and one thousand."
The whispering and murmuring stopped. One by one, the men in the room found the source of the words. Jane felt sick.
"Is that a bid" asked Wylie. "I believe we have a bid. It's eight million, one thousand dollars. Does everybody hear the bid"
The murmuring increased again, and this time Jane could see that the men were talking faster. There was some desperation as they tried to cobble together instant alliances to beat the bid. After a few more seconds, the side conversations died out and the men's attention was on Wylie. "Mr. Eckersly has bid eight million one thousand." Wylie was much more animated, and Jane could tell he must be delighted. His cut would be eight hundred thousand.
"Let's get our boss on the phone," Wylie said, looking at Gorman.
Gorman leaned into the alcove that led to the kitchen and talked into his phone rapidly, with his free hand covering his ear so he could hear above the hum of side conversations. He nodded and said "Okay." He held the phone up so his boss could hear, and called out, "The bid is in range. He doesn't want to beat it."
This set off some more conferring as aggressive bidders tried once more to put together partnerships.
Wylie let it go on for a few minutes, until the voices began to die off. "I have a bid of eight million and one thousand. Do I have any other bids Does anyone want to beat eight million and one thousand Any bids for the woman who has hidden so many people for so long" He stood tall, moving to look over the heads of the nearby bidders who had been walking around to talk to others. "No bids Then it's going . . . going . . . gone! For eight million one thousand to Mr. Eckersly."