The store employee had mentioned drawers full of knives. There was only one guard on my door, and surprise would be on my side. Maybe if I could … Wait. Who was I kidding? The guard was a trained Homeland Security agent. And he’d have a gun. There could be ten of me and a hundred knives, and it would make no difference. No. If I was going to survive, brawn wasn’t the answer. I scanned the room, looking for something that could be. My eyes settled on the pair of microwaves. An episode from my past came rushing back to me. And I set off toward the fridges, moving as quietly as I could manage. Because now I knew what was going to save me.
I rummaged through the first fridge. I was thorough. But I didn’t find what I needed. And had no luck in the second fridge, either. Was this the universe’s way of telling me my time was up? Peever had just said as much. And then I remembered something a friend had told Carolyn in response to her gleeful account of my mishap with the egg.
I grabbed a container of dressing from the second shelf—it was the only thing I could see with a screw-down lid—and dumped the contents on the floor. I poured in a cup of milk and made sure the lid was fastened extra tight. Then I ran across to the nearer microwave, shoved the bottle inside, selected full power, and jabbed the ten-minute button three or four times.
The next thing I needed was cover. I figured the wall that partly separated the pantry area might work, but as I hurried toward it I spotted a white apron and hat. They’d been dropped on a sack of potatoes, so I altered course to grab them.
For the next ninety seconds I did nothing but slip off my shoes and put on the hat and apron. Then I took a deep breath and called to the guy Peever had left outside the door.
“Hey! Homeland Security? Are you there?”
The guy didn’t respond.
“I know you can hear me. And you should know this. I do have a hostage. Peever was right. I’ve got a gun, too. And I’m going to blow her away unless you back off and let me leave.”
“Mr. Bowman?” The agent took a couple of steps closer. “I understand what you’re saying. And I don’t want you to do anything hasty. Can you tell me your hostage’s name?”
I didn’t reply.
“Can I speak with her? To confirm she’s OK?”
“The gun barrel’s in her mouth, so, no. She can’t speak to anyone right now.”
“OK. No problem. Remember, don’t do anything hasty. And listen. We have a negotiator on his way. He’s the best we have, and he’ll be here very soon. He can help you get what you want. Let’s just relax, stay calm, and wait for our guy to arrive, OK?”
“Screw your negotiator. I’m coming out. Now. And if I see you, I’ll spray this woman’s brains all over the ceiling.”
“Let’s not overreact here, Marc. You want to leave? I get that. Hell, I want to leave, too. But are you thinking this through? If you come out of the kitchen, what’s next? How will you get out of the building? We need time to let the other law-enforcement guys know what’s going on, so they don’t shoot you by mistake. Or your hostage. That would be an irony, right? And what then? Maybe you need a car? A driver? Some cash? If you just hold on a little longer, our guy can help you with all this stuff. He can coordinate everything. What do you say? Don’t you think that would be a better way to go?”
The guy was annoyingly good. Even though I was bluffing and I knew he was lying through his teeth, I still felt a crazy desire to agree with him. My mouth was open and words had twice begun to form on my tongue when the pressure in the bottle of milk became critical. The lid could withstand it no longer and the container was ripped apart, tearing the front off the microwave and sending it cartwheeling across the kitchen in a jet of superheated steam.
Parts of the oven were still in mid-air when the door to the room crashed back on its hinges and the Homeland Security agent rushed in, his gun sweeping jerkily around as he struggled to make sense of the noise and the damage. He stopped after half a dozen paces, but that was far enough.
It meant I was behind him.
And after that, I was just another scared-looking employee in a rush to get somewhere safe.
Saturday. Early evening.
THE PARKING LOT WAS SWARMING WITH POLICE OFFICERS.
There were detectives, too. Peever and Brooking would be prowling nearby. And overhead I could hear at least two helicopters. Getting away on foot was a definite non-starter. My car was out of the question, too. It was a wreck. Panic was beginning to blossom inside me, then I spotted something I’d missed before. Around the side of the building, near the loading bays, there was a line of delivery trucks. Five in total, left stranded by the afternoon’s events.
The first truck was from a liquor distributor. It was locked. As was the second, from a fish wholesaler. But the third—from a local bakery—was not. I rolled the door to its cargo area up just high enough to climb inside. I kept it open for a few extra moments, memorizing the layout of the interior. Then I shut myself in and navigated through the darkness to a space between two racks of shelves.
The van sat motionless for what felt like days, but when it finally got under way I was quickly wishing for stillness again. It was even louder and more uncomfortable than the back of the prison truck had been, and once again I had no idea how long I was going to be trapped inside. The only advantage it had was not being locked, so when we did finally come to rest I was able to get out without having to wait to be released.
I rolled up the door, ready to run if anyone saw me, and found we were at the back of a roadside restaurant. Someone was yelling at the driver for being late. Another toxic side effect of mixing with Marc Bowman, I thought.
Although this guy was still alive, at least.
I made my way deeper into the shadows and pulled out my phone. I asked Information to connect me with a cab company, but hung up before the first ring. I’d ridden my luck too often already. And besides, a safer alternative was right there, staring me in the face.
The van driver was still out of sight, returning the other unseen guy’s ire in spades. His keys were still in the ignition. So, with a silent apology and a muttered prayer that the argument wouldn’t end any time soon, I slid in behind the wheel.
THE NIGHT BEFORE, I’d been appalled to see Carolyn’s car in the driveway outside LeBrock’s home.
This time, I was devastated to find it wasn’t there.
LeBrock opened his front door before I was halfway up the path. His feet were bare. His hair was uncombed. A bruise mottled the skin beneath his left eye. And his paisley dressing gown hung open over a pair of crumpled pajamas. He looked twice as old as the guy who’d fired me on Monday.
“You better leave.” His voice was hoarse. “I’ll call the police this time.”
“I’m not looking for trouble, Roger. I just want to see Carolyn.”
“She’s not here.”
Something Weimann had said started to ring in my ears. We may rake in the dough, but it’s hard to compete with power. And it struck me, gazing up at his glass and steel palace—LeBrock had both power and money. What chance did I have?
“How long’s it been going on? Between you?”
“Marc, you idiot! Carolyn and I aren’t having an affair.”
“I saw you together. Yesterday. Here. In your living room.”
LeBrock made no attempt to deny it, and after a few seconds he stepped back and headed toward the rear of the house. I followed, and found him in a kind of study area—a horseshoe of pale wooden bookcases surrounding a glass desk with a task chair on one side and a pair of cream leather armchairs on the other.