I looked at my watch, saw that I'd been waiting for only ten minutes. It seemed at least twice that long. With an eye on my surroundings, I called Amanda, told her where I was. Then I used my phone to do an Internet search, looking for any mention of Henri Benoit.
I came up with nothing.
I called Zagami in New York, told him I was waiting for Henri, got a crackly connection. I killed another minute as I filled Len in on the drive into the desert, the beautiful hotel, the state of my mood.
“I'm starting to get excited about this,” I said. “I'm just hoping he signs the contract.”
“Be careful,” said Zagami. “Listen to your instincts. I'm surprised he's late.”
“I'm not. I don't like it, but I'm not surprised.”
I took a bathroom break and then went back to the table with trepidation. I was expecting that while I was gone, Henri would have arrived and would be sitting across from my empty chair.
I wondered whether Henri was donning a new disguise, whether he was undergoing another metamorphosis – but the seat was still empty.
The waiter came toward me again, said that Mr. Benoit had phoned to say he was delayed and that I was to start without him.
So I ordered lunch. The Tuscan bean soup with black kale was fine. I took a few bites of the penne, ate without tasting what I imagined was excellent cuisine. I'd just asked for an espresso when my cell phone rang.
I stared at it for a moment, then, as if my nerves weren't frayed down to the stumps, said, “Hawkins” into the mouthpiece.
“Are you ready, Ben? You've got a little more driving to do.”
Chapter 77
Coachella, California, is twenty-eight miles east of Palm Springs and has a population of close to forty thousand. For a couple of days every year in April, that number swells during the annual music festival, a mini-Woodstock, without the mud.
When the concert is over, Coachella reverts to an agricultural flatland in the desert, home to young Latino families and migrant workers, a drive-through for truckers, who use the town as a pit stop.
Henri had told me to look for the Luxury Inn, and it was easy to find. Off by itself on a long stretch of highway, the Lux was a classic U-shaped motel with a pool.
I pulled the car around to the back as directed, looked for the room number I'd been given, 229.
There were two vehicles in the parking lot. One was a late-model Mercedes, black, a rental. I guessed that Henri must've driven it here. The other was a blue Ford pickup hitched to an old house trailer about twenty-six feet long. Silver with blue stripes, air conditioner on top, Nevada plates.
I turned off my engine and reached for my briefcase, opened the car door.
A man appeared on the balcony above me. It was Henri, looking the same as the last time I saw him. His brown hair was combed back, and he was clean-shaven, wore no glasses. In short, he was a good-looking Mr. Potato Head of a guy who could morph into another identity with a mustache or an eye patch or a baseball cap.
He said, “Ben, just leave your briefcase in the car.”
“But the contract -”
“I'll get your briefcase. But right now, get out of your car and please leave your cell phone on the driver's seat. Thanks.”
One part of me was screaming, Get out of here. Jam on the gas and go. But an opposing inner voice was insisting that if I quit now, nothing would have been gained. Henri would still be out there. He could still kill me and Amanda at any time, for no reason other than that I'd disobeyed him.
I took my hand off my briefcase, left it in my car along with my cell phone. Henri jogged down the stairs, told me to put my hands on the hood. Then he expertly frisked me.
“Put your hands behind your back, Ben,” he said. Very casual and friendly.
Except that a gun muzzle was pressed against my spine.
The last time I turned my back to Henri, he'd coldcocked me with a gun butt to the back of my head. I didn't even think it through, just used instinct and training. I sidestepped, was about to whip around and disarm him, but what happened next was a blur of pain.
Henri's arms went around me like a vise, and I went airborne, crashing hard on my shoulders and the back of my head.
It was a hard fall, painfully hard, but I didn't have time to check myself out.
Henri was on top of me, his chest to my back, his legs interwoven with mine. His feet were hooked into me so that our bodies were fused, and his full weight crushed me against the pavement.
I felt the gun muzzle screw into my ear.
Henri said, “Got any more ideas? Come on, Ben. Give me your best shot.”
Chapter 78
I was so immobilized by the takedown, it was as if my spinal cord had just been cut. No weekend black belt could have thrown me like that.
Henri said, “I could easily snap your neck. Understand?”
I wheezed “yes,” and he stood, grasped my forearm, and hauled me to my feet.
“Try to get it right this time. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Henri cuffed me, then yanked upward on the cuffs, nearly popping my shoulders out of their joints.
Then he shoved me against the car and set my briefcase on the roof. He unlatched the case, found my gun, tossed it into the footwell. Then he locked the car, grabbed my case, and marched me toward the trailer.
“What the hell is this?” I asked. “Where are we going?”
“You'll know when you know,” said the monster.
He opened the trailer door, and I stumbled inside.
The trailer was old and well used. To my left was the galley: a table attached to the wall, two chairs bolted to the floor. To my right was a sofa that looked like it doubled as a foldaway bed. There was a closet that housed a toilet and a cot.
Henri maneuvered me so one of the chairs clipped me at the back of my knees and I sat down. A black cloth bag was dropped over my head and a band was cinched around my legs. I heard a chain rattle and the snap of a lock.
I was shackled to a hook in the floor.
Henri patted my shoulder, said, “Relax, okay? I don't want to hurt you. I want you to write this book more than I want to kill you. We're partners now, Ben. Try to trust me.”
I was chained down and essentially blind. I didn't know where Henri was taking me. And I definitely didn't trust him.
I heard the door close and lock. Then Henri started up the truck. The air conditioner pumped cold air into the trailer through a vent overhead.
We rolled along smoothly for about a half hour, then took a right turn onto a bumpy road. Other turns followed. I tried to hang onto the slick plastic seat with my thighs, but got slammed repeatedly against the wall and into the table.
After a while, I lost track of the turns and the time. I was mortified by how thoroughly Henri had disabled me. There was no way around the bald and simple truth.
Henri was in charge. This was his game. I was only along for the ride.
Chapter 79
Maybe an hour, hour and a half, had gone by when the trailer stopped and the door slid open. Henri ripped off my hood, and said, “Last stop, buddy. We're home.”
I saw flat, uninviting desert through the open door: sand dunes out to the horizon, mop-headed Joshua trees, and buzzards circling on the updraft.
My mind also circled around one thought: If Henri kills me here, my body will never even be found. Despite the refrigerated air, sweat rolled down my neck as Henri leaned back against the narrow Formica counter a few feet away.
“I've done some research on collaborations,” Henri said. “People say it takes about forty hours of interviews to get enough material for a book. Sound right?”