She wasn’t dying.
She was sedated.
I ran my hands up and down her body, searching for smoldering fabric. I found a few holes and bands of scorched flesh, but nothing that caused me to panic. She was going to be fine. Sore, but fine. I’d be happy to share my pain pills—if I could get us out of there, still free and breathing.
Should the police show up now and catch me carrying Skylar’s drugged and damaged body, my explanation would sound insane. Even after Skylar awoke, she could only partly corroborate my story, given that she knew nothing about me.
It would get ugly.
We would suffer delays.
And all the while Tom would slip further away.
The police weren’t our only immediate threat. The mortician posed another. Virginia was a stand-your-ground state. If Murdoch was in on this, he could walk in and shoot us without legal consequence. For that matter, Tom could be sitting outside, waiting to shoot us as we walked out the door.
I discounted both threat scenarios.
Tom had exhibited exceptionally rational and detached behavior. A true professional in full control. He hadn’t bothered with a combination blow. He’d applied exactly the amount of force required to disable me and enable an easy escape. Nothing more. No gratuitous kick. No gruff threat. No action that made it personal. He had classified his operation as blown, and exfiltrated. Win some, lose some, on to the next target. I had worked with a few guys like that. Ice-cold pros.
I grabbed a couple of tissues from a dispenser on the counter and wiped the blood from Skylar’s nose. Once it was clean, I returned to the cabinet and found a first aid kit. Automotive size. I stuffed it into the small of my back, then bent over her unconscious body.
With some effort, I hoisted Skylar onto my shoulder and headed for the exit. Pausing in the archway of the metal detector, I reached up to retrieve my gun. My fingers found nothing. No, please no!
As my stomach dropped, I laid Skylar gently in the hallway, freeing my fingers for a closer inspection of the crevice. Everything was gone. My gun. My cell. My watch. My car key.
I closed my eyes, and exhaled. It could be worse. Much worse. For me and for Skylar.
Latching onto that positive energy, I resumed the fireman’s carry and barreled out into the cool Virginia night. There was no sense in moving slow. We were screwed in any case if someone was waiting.
All appeared quiet. Crickets were chirping and the Mercedes was missing. Alas, without my cell phone, I had no way to track it.
I couldn’t risk carrying Skylar all the way to my car, given where it was parked. If I was spotted by a patrolling cop or Second Amendment enthusiast, on the side of a rural road, in the dark, with an unconscious woman over my shoulder, I was screwed. Any reasonable person would assume it was an abduction. When Skylar awoke, she would likely confirm as much, given that she’d never met me.
Come to think of it, we couldn’t avoid an unthinkable, unforgettable, unbelievable discussion. One for the record books. One we’d be telling our grandchildren. Whenever and wherever she woke up, the following few minutes were going to be surreal.
I laid her on the grass behind a bush at the top of the drive. Ignoring the growing pain in my ankle and knee, I ran for my BMW.
Years back, I’d attached a hide-a-key behind the rear bumper in a place you had to really hunt to find. I hoped it was still there, with its battery still sparking. For that matter, I hoped my car was still there.
It was.
I hung my suit coat on the side view mirror, put the first aid kit on the roof, and wriggled beneath the back end. Even knowing it was there, the grimy black box took a bit of searching to find. Twenty seconds after sliding back its slippery lid and retrieving my other belongings, I shifted the transmission into drive.
Stopping beside the concealing bush, I put the car in park but left the engine running. I ran around back to open the rear door—then found Skylar sitting up. She was clearly still groggy. As I moved closer to the center of her visual field, she began crab-walking backward. First she mumbled, then she screamed.
34
Reorientation
SKYLAR HAD NEVER BEEN so disoriented in her life. She’d come close once, when her breathing apparatus malfunctioned during the Drew Street apartment fire and she’d had to hold her breath while carrying a kid down six flights of stairs. That was impossible, of course, so she’d sucked in smoke and scorched her lungs before exiting in delirium.
This was worse than that.
She had no idea where she was or why she was there. She was lying on the grass under a night sky rural enough to reveal constellations. Her head ached like she’d just been popped in the nose, and various parts of her body felt like they’d been burned. She looked down at her clothes, half expecting to see firefighting gear, but recognized her interview suit instead.
Then an unfamiliar man appeared. He was wearing a suit and black rimmed glasses. His hair was slicked back in a style that hadn’t been popular for decades. Had he punched her in the face? Knocked her to the ground? Was she about to be raped?
She heard screaming, and realized it was coming from her own mouth.
The man spoke as she silenced herself. “It’s okay, Skylar. It’s okay. You’re going to be all right. But you need to calm down, and we need to get out of here.”
His voice was imploring. His movements strained, as if he were recovering from a marathon and his joints were hurting.
“Stay away!”
“Okay, okay.” He stopped moving and held up empty palms, but he didn’t back away.
“Who are you and where are we?”
“My name’s Chase, Zachary Chase, and I just saved you from Tom. We’re outside the funeral home. Do you remember coming to the funeral home? He fooled you into believing it was a covert CIA location?”
She did remember.
Her hand went to her thigh as the memory returned. She suddenly felt very afraid. “Where is Tom?”
“I don’t know. But he might come back, or send someone else. We should leave.”
“Send someone else? Why are you here?”
“That’s a long story, and I look forward to telling it once we’re safe. We are in extreme danger here.”
He seemed genuinely wary and concerned, but she wasn’t sold. “Where do you intend to take me?”
“Someplace public where we can talk without fear. There’s a Denny’s a few miles from here off 60. We can be there in five minutes. Or there’s an IHOP two minutes further up the road.”
Skylar wasn’t one to get into cars with strangers, but if Zachary Chase had wanted to harm her, he could have done so already. And what was her alternative? Walk down the road with her thumb out? She had no phone. She’d left everything but her wallet in Tom’s trunk. “Conversation and coffee sounds good. Doesn’t matter to me where—so long as there are other people around.”
Chase closed the back door of his car and opened the passenger door instead. By way of explanation, he said, “I didn’t know how long you’d be out.”
The horror of her near-death experience sent another shiver up Skylar’s spine. “What did he give me? What did Tom inject into my thigh?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t see it happen.”
He tossed a suit coat from the passenger seat into the back, then handed her a white plastic box labeled First Aid in red letters. “I’m hoping there’s burn cream and bandages inside. I haven’t had a chance to check.”
The box did have antibiotic ointment along with both Band-Aids and gauze. It also held a decent pair of blunt-tipped scissors. The kind used to cut off casts and bandages. Even without points, they would add authority to her punch if slipped around her middle and ring fingers.