From the woods at the back of the valley, the speck of a vehicle emerged. As it sped closer, crossing a field, it threw up dust. Then it reached the paved road, the dust drifting in the breeze, and even with the ringing in his ears, Cavanaugh could hear its engine getting louder. The vehicle was now close enough for Cavanaugh to recognize it as a big four-wheel-drive SUV, a Ford Explorer. With the sun angled in its direction, he saw the shapes of two people beyond the windshield: a broad-shouldered driver and a tall blond woman in her thirties, whose oval face and high cheekbones might have been attractive if her eyes hadn't been the coldest he'd ever seen.
As the Explorer skidded to a halt, the woman got out. She was around five ten, the same as Jamie. Her face had an athlete's tan and no makeup. Her hair was like an athlete's also, too short to be combed back. Her eyes were the blue of a glacier. She wore sturdy walking shoes, khaki pants, a matching jacket, and a beige shirt that gave her a military appearance.
While the camouflaged figures approached with their weapons, the woman told her driver, who was built like a weight lifter, "Search them."
The muscular man enjoyed his work, prodding Cavanaugh more forcefully than necessary, then pawing Jamie.
You'll pay for that, Cavanaugh thought, trying to use anger to balance his fear.
The driver found their pistols under their jackets and nodded at their nonreflective flat-black coating, evidence of the expert gunsmith work that had been done on them. The way he put them into his baggy hiking pants, it was obvious he intended to keep them as his own. He took their extra magazines and Ca-vanaugh's cell phone. He undipped the Emerson knife from the inside of Cavanaugh's front pants pocket, approved of that weapon also, and clipped it into his own pocket. He also took Jamie's car keys.
"Your names," the woman said.
"Sam Murdock." Cavanaugh gave her the name on the ID Karen had manufactured for him.
"Jennifer," Jamie said, using the false name Cavanaugh had assigned her at Rutherford's condo. Her ID was with her purse, which she'd left under the Taurus's front seat.
"Sam Murdock?" The woman studied the wallet the driver tossed to her. "That might be what it says here, but your professional name is Cavanaugh."
"I don't know what-"
"You're with Global Protective Services. You're the one who went to the warehouse to get Prescott."
So Kline was right, Cavanaugh thought. Somebody at Protective Services betrayed me. I was followed to the warehouse.
"Prescott?" Cavanaugh frowned. "What are you talking about?"
The woman nodded to her driver, who plunged a fist into Cavanaugh's stomach.
Gasping, Cavanaugh sank to his knees. His breath had been so knocked out of him that his vision turned gray for a moment as he struggled to inhale.
"You came here to see the lab," the woman said. "Fine. I'll show it to you."
She took what looked like a pager from her belt and pressed a button.
Behind Cavanaugh, a motor droned. He turned in that direction. Hydraulic poles tilted the concrete slab up, revealing steps that descended into darkness.
"The shots will attract attention," Cavanaugh found enough breath to say.
"Not around here. Prescott owns most of the land. The locals have been told he enjoys target shooting. Now go down to the lab, or else Edgar will throw you," the woman said.
"I'll take the first option, thanks."
Cavanaugh managed to stand. Nodding to Jamie, who looked paler and searched his eyes for assurance, he went down the steps with her.
"We stripped this place clean," the woman said, voice echoing. "Totally gutted it."
The armed men removed Surefire flashlights from their equipment belts. A little longer and thicker than a heavyweight boxer's index finger, the compact black tubes gave off an amazing amount of light for their size, revealing a long concrete corridor that had numerous openings on each side. The air was stale.
"We destroyed all the scientific equipment, the computers, and the files," the woman said. "We carted away the furniture. We disassembled the heating and air-conditioning systems. We even removed the lighting fixtures, the sinks and toilets, the carpeting, the false ceilings, the doors, and the wall panels." Taking a flashlight from one of the men, the woman aimed it at the ceiling, where insulated wires dangled from holes in which fluorescent lamps had presumably once been anchored. She pointed the flashlight in a different direction and showed wires projecting from small rectangular holes in the wall where light switches had been. "It doesn't get cleaner than this. No one could possibly guess what these rooms were used for. Hell, if the barn was still standing, you could put hay or animals down here."
"Then why would you care if anybody wandered onto the property?" Cavanaugh's voice reverberated. "There's nothing here to bother anybody and get you in trouble."
"That's exactly right. There's nothing here but bare rooms. I'm not sure you get the point," the woman said.
The armed men stepped closer, aiming the flashlights at Cavanaugh's and Jamie's eyes, backing them into the room.
"We're not here protecting anything. My men haven't been lying motionless under that rubble merely to demonstrate their skill and patience. We've been waiting."
Cavanaugh didn't react.
"But not just for anybody."
Cavanaugh still didn't react.
"For you."
3
Now Cavanaugh did react, but not in a way that the woman expected. Relying on his training, he said, "I need to know your name."
"What?"
"If we're going to reach an understanding, it helps me to know your name. To relate. To build a position of trust."
"Amazing," the woman replied.
"In that case, I bet I can guess your last name: Grace."
In darkness pierced by flashlight beams, the woman became silent for a moment. When she finally spoke again, she sounded annoyed. "Yes, all our research says you're good at using words to manipulate situations. In fact, that's what I want from you. Talk. A lot of it."
"About?"
"Prescott."
"How did you know we'd come here?"
"Teach him not to change the subject, Edgar."
Blinded by the flashlights, Cavanaugh couldn't see where the fist was directed. He expected another punch to his stomach and braced his muscles there, but this time the blow struck his face, knocking him to the floor. Stunned, briefly seeing more flashlight beams than were aimed at him, he spat blood. Again, anger helped neutralize his fear.
"We thought Prescott was dead, but we didn't find his body on the mountain after the fire," Grace said.
You punished me, but I still won, Cavanaugh thought. You're answering my question.
"So we decided to keep tabs on our rivals," she said. "They were still trying to find him, and they were very interested in anybody else who was trying to find him. Yesterday, we saw them kidnap an FBI agent. Then four of them, including the dead man outside, set up surveillance on a nearby ridge, obviously expecting somebody important to arrive. We hoped it would be Prescott, although we couldn't figure why he'd come back. But then two of the men went away. When the final two started to leave this afternoon, we interrogated them and learned about you and your interest in this place, so we did our own watching for a while."
"Why did you shoot Kline?"
"Was that his name?" Grace shrugged. "If he knew anything, he wouldn't have been so eager to get his hands on you. I didn't need him, except to make a point about how serious we are."
"But you need me, so you won't kill me," Cavanaugh said.
"Meaning how can we make you afraid enough to talk? Why doesn't Edgar have a heart-to-heart with your friend here. Maybe that'll make you talk."