They started into the finer details of the mission.
Lonsdale's police radio chattered occasionally in the background. He was on duty around the clock if he was needed, but apart from that proviso, his hours were flexible. The main issue on the radio seemed to be where the two officers on duty should meet up for lunch.
The phone rang. It was Lee Cochrane calling from Washington.
"Developments, Hugo," he said, his voice sounding tired and serious. "You'd better get back here fast."
"Anything you can talk about?"
"Negative," said Cochrane firmly. Tension and fatigue could be detected in his voice. "Some serious shit is going down. So ASAP, Hugo."
"Roger that," said Fitzduane. He replaced the receiver.
Outside, on the deck, Lonsdale was standing talking intently into his radio. He finished as Fitzduane emerged into the bright sunlight.
"Come on, Hugo. Let's go!" he said.
Fitzduane looked at him. "I've got to get back to Washington," he said. "Something's happened."
"You don't have to go back to Washington for kicks," said Lonsdale savagely, buckling on his gun belt and clipping the radio to it. "The fucking bank has been robbed. I'll never get away if this is not sorted out. Are you carrying?"
Fitzduane nodded, trying to suppress a smile. "I thought nothing ever happened in Medora."
"Nothing does except when you're around, Hugo," said Lonsdale. "Come on! Let's move!" He headed down the stairs that led from the deck to the yard below.
"What are we doing?" said Fitzduane, following in Lonsdale's footsteps.
"We're going to try and cut them off," said Lonsdale, getting into his vehicle. "There are four of them in a jeep, and they are headed out of Medora this way. Lots of places to hide out in. This is big country."
"Armed?" said Fitzduane.
Lonsdale roared away, leaving a bunch of disturbed-looking snakes in his wake.
"Of course they're armed," said Lonsdale irritably. "I don't know how they rob banks in Ireland, but goddamn it, Hugo, this is the United States. Guns are the American way. The right to bear them is written into our Constitution. So far we have one dead bank guard and a teller who is not looking so good."
"What kind of firepower?" said Fitzduane.
"Assault rifles and shotguns and doubtless a few handguns," said Lonsdale. He grinned. "And they seem quite happy to use them. So if the shit hits, shoot fast and often."
"Very nice," said Fitzduane. "But don't forget to tell them that I'm a tourist."
12
Kathleen had not expected the violence. The possibility was always there, she knew, but she had rationalized that it was remote.
North Carolina was not some combat zone. Outside the high-crime areas, the United States was relatively – mostly – fairly peaceful. She was vacationing, relaxing in the warmth of the day. Her depression had passed. She had been feeling mellow and outgoing, and it was in that spirit that she had picked up the perky army sergeant who had been hitching back to FortBragg.
The shock of the assault had stunned her.
The hitchhiker she had picked up had been alive and chatting to this lost Japanese tourist, and a short while later she was spewing blood all over Kathleen, her throat gaping open like some obscene parody of a mouth.
Her eyes were still alive and her body was dying, and she knew and was afraid and there was nothing either of them could do. It was only a few seconds, but it seemed an endless horror. And then the light went from her eyes and her face grew slack and she was no longer a human being. And Kathleen screamed.
"My b-"
My baby! My baby!
Her words were cut off half spoken and unheard as a fist slammed into her mouth. Dazed, she was dragged from the rental, thrown to the ground facedown, and then bound and gagged in seconds. There was no time to resist or protest. She felt a needle and she was unconscious.
She had a faint recollection of the beating of rotor blades and of vibration, and then there was an increase in tempo as the helicopter took off. The flight seemed to be short. She had been thrown onto the floor and handcuffed to the metal frame of the seat. She was injected again and lost consciousness.
She woke up as someone was chaining her hands. She had thought at first that she was still on the aircraft, but then realized that the floor was different. She was now lying on rough concrete and the air was hot and dry and there was no drone of an aircraft.
Shortly afterward, she felt someone put chains on her ankles and she started to sob and was slapped in the face. She could see nothing. She was blindfolded. She could hear voices. One language, she thought, was Japanese, but she also heard Spanish.
She was sure about the Spanish. Both sexes were speaking. One voice was authoritative, a woman's. Other voices were agreeing with her orders.
She was thirsty and called for water. None came, and the hours passed. It grew cold and she started to shiver, and her thirst grew even greater. It was a nightmare, but she was awake and there was no end. She slept until she was kicked awake. Then bliss: She could taste water, a whole mouthful of water.
She held up her chained hands to grasp the plastic bottle, and just as she touched it, it was pulled away from her and there was laughter and she could feel the water pouring over her body and draining onto the floor and she pressed her face to the wet floor and licked it until her tongue bled.
Always, there was The Voice. Oshima? Could it be her?
She had tried to keep time by counting meals, such as they were, and sleep, but after a while she realized that her captors were deliberately varying food intervals and were also keeping her from sleeping for a natural length of time. She had an impression of weeks rather than days, but there was no certainty in this thought. She was kept blindfolded and chained, and there was no point of reference.
The blindfold was totally opaque and was taped in place, and she had not even the relief of light percolating through to tell whether it was day or night. She tried to tell by the temperature, but sometimes the heat of the day seemed to last so long that she was convinced they were heating her cell at night to further disorient her. She cried at the thought. She had almost run out of tears, but this was such a petty, malevolent act. They were leaving her nothing.
She grew thin and very weak on the minimal rice-and-water diet she was fed, but every so often, when it seemed she would faint from hunger and escape from her suffering, her food allocation would be increased for several meals. There would be refried beans and perhaps an orange, and occasionally some tinned fish. They wanted her to suffer but not to die as yet. She was being kept like an animal in a cage, a curiosity. She was far from sure there was any other purpose.
She almost got used to being kicked and slapped and beaten, but The Voice brought her to the edge of despair. Since her body was held captive, she focused on her mind, and The Voice followed her there seeking to destroy any positive thought, any remaining hope. And The Voice was without pity. Remorselessly, it focused on destroying her until nothing would be left but despair.
The Voice, to Kathleen, was the true embodiment of evil, and it never seemed to go away. She could hear it when it was not speaking. She could hear it in her troubled dreams.
The Voice would taunt her to her grave. It reminded her that no one knew where she was. Perhaps no one even cared.
She would be kept chained and blindfolded until she died. After her spirit was broken, then would come pain. She had pain to look forward to. Pain was her future.
After pain would come death, Kathleen thought, and she began to long for pain and the eventual release it would bring.
No, said The Voice. After pain would come the recovery and then more pain. Pain would be her world for a very long time.