Having travelled alone to triathlons all over the world, Skylar knew how to take care of herself. Present circumstances notwithstanding.
She set the scissors on the right side of her seat, uncapped the tiny tube of ointment, and began examining her wounds through the burn holes in her clothes.
Chase U-turned the car and headed toward the highway.
The burns were in bands about twelve inches apart, with the first across her shoulder blades and the last on her calves. The worst were on her buttocks and shoulders.
She pictured the pattern in her mind. It reminded her of grill marks on a steak. Her mind flashed to the last place she’d been, and the last thing she’d seen. As the implication registered, her throat started closing and her flesh began to crawl. “Oh my God! Was I— Did he—” She couldn’t complete the questions.
Chase reached out a hand but stopped short of her thigh. Second-guessing himself, he withdrew it. “You’re okay now. It was a close call, but you’re safe. I’d try not to think about it if I were you.”
“What am I supposed to think about? How could I possibly think about anything else, knowing—”
“Where did Tom approach you? The first time? How did you meet?”
Skylar would never forget that encounter. “It was on a run. There’s a twenty-six–mile loop I do along Clearwater Beach, from Belleair to Treasure Island and back. He met me at the Treasure Island turnabout and kept pace. After a couple of miles by my side, he motioned for me to take out my earbuds so we could talk. Assuming he was about to hit on me, I complied.”
Chase gave her a look.
“He’s very athletic. I find that attractive. He pitched me from Madeira Beach to Indian Rocks. We were doing six-minute miles and yet he was talking as comfortably as I am now.”
Chase pulled into the restaurant parking lot, but made two laps before parking. On the first lap, she watched him inspect the parked cars. On the second lap, he studied the customers visible through the windows. The precaution put her at ease. As did the fact that he’d given her a choice of restaurant, come to think of it.
He slipped his suit coat over her shoulders as they approached the door. “Probably best if your burn holes aren’t on display.”
“Good thinking.”
They grabbed a corner booth and ordered coffee. On a whim she also asked for a short stack of pancakes. His mention of IHOP had triggered a craving for maple syrup. Not that the brown goo in the plastic bottle would have any relation to the sap of Canada’s national tree. What was the relation between high-fructose corn syrup and maple syrup? Something analogous to second cousins thrice removed? Why was she thinking about such silly stuff at a time like this? She knew the answer. Her mind was spinning its tires, looking for traction on friendly ground.
With that priming behind her, Skylar met her patient savior’s eyes and noted that there were no lenses in the frames of his glasses. He was in disguise. She mapped a path to the door and plotted possible defensive moves. “How did you happen to save me?”
Chase deciphered her gaze and removed his glasses. “Part of a disguise. As is this ridiculous hairstyle.” He rolled his eyes.
Skylar immediately felt better, but was anxious to hear his explanation of what came next.
“I’m investigating the disappearance of my college roommate. I don’t know all the details because he, like you, must have been sworn to secrecy on pain of imprisonment. But I’m pretty certain he also got a pitch to join an elite group within the CIA.”
Her pancakes arrived. She requested more coffee without taking her eyes off Chase. “So what Tom was doing to me—it wasn’t his first time?”
“At the very least, it was his second.”
“But why? For what purpose. I don’t have money or any kind of influence.” She got an idea. “Was your college roommate male or female?”
“Lars de Kock was all man.”
“De Kock?” she repeated, looking for a bit of levity.
“It’s Dutch for The Cook, but you can imagine the grief he got. And before you ask, Tom didn’t do anything to you beyond the obvious. I wasn’t watching, but I know he had no time.”
“I almost wish he had,” Skylar muttered. “That would be terrible, of course, but I don’t remember it, and at least I’d know it was an extraordinary act of perversion. Now, well, I have no idea, and I don’t mind saying that it’s creeping me out. What do you think he was up to?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. But I’ll tell you this, I’m not going to stop investigating until I find out.”
35
Bad Connection
STARING AT HIS COMPUTER SCREEN, Tory felt the blood pressure building behind his eyes. He was the worst kind of mad—mad at himself.
He’d blown it big-time by failing to make a connection in time.
His laptop displayed three photographs side by side. The first was the picture he’d taken in the mortuary. The intruder he’d spared. The man still breathing because Tory wasn’t a wanton killer—or one to kick a hornet’s nest. If the intruder had truly been an FBI agent, his murder would have incited a swarm of investigation likely to leave Tory stung.
Back at the crematory, with his foe doubled over and an easy escape at hand, showing restraint had seemed so sensible, so professional, so wise. But that was before he made the connection.
The face in the second photo on his laptop display matched the face in the first one. It was a twin found by his computer program—and it came coupled with the name Zachary Chase.
Chase was actually ex-CIA rather than current FBI. In some ways that was better, in others worse. Especially in light of the third photo.
The third photo put the whole replacement project in a new light. Or rather, an ominous shadow. It was the picture David had snapped at a stoplight in Santa Monica. A picture of his motorcycle man. A man Tory now knew to be Zachary Chase.
Tory had made the connection just seconds ago while staring at photos one and two. At first, second, and even third glance, the tousled-haired, scruffy-faced, leather-clad motorcycle rider from Los Angeles bore little resemblance to the clean-shaven, suit-sporting, bespectacled man with slicked-back hair that Tory had encountered in suburban Virginia. But when he placed the pixels side by side and focused strictly on the faces, the resemblance was unmistakable. They were the same person.
How was that possible?
What did it mean?
Tory did not know. Not yet.
That was a serious problem.
Tory refused to make another bad move based on incomplete information. Irksome as it was and painful though it might be, he had to let prudence rule. He would place the remaining replacements on hold until he figured out what Zachary Chase knew.
36
The Start of Something
THEY DIDN’T KNOW WHERE TO GO, so they stayed in the booth at Denny’s, paying their rent one snack or beverage at a time. The server seemed accustomed to this freeloading behavior—and happy to accommodate. There were plenty of empty booths during the witching hours, seats with no prospect of generating tips.
While Skylar sat in shock, Chase filled her in on everything he knew. He seemed to sense that she needed time to absorb the unbelievable turn of events, and obliged her by doing the talking. He told her about bumping into his roommate at Berret’s, and the motorcycle chase in L.A. He described the stakeout at the bar, and spying from an adjoining room. Finally the funeral home, the fight with Tom, and the loss of his cell phone and gun.
Skylar felt whiplashed, mentally speaking. Physically, she literally felt whipped. That was what lines of burns felt like, whip marks. And unfortunately the worst ones were on the parts of her body in contact with the red vinyl booth.