Cavanaugh saw a box of tissues on a side table. He grabbed several and gave them to Rutherford. "Cough deeply and spit into these."
Rutherford did. "Lord Almighty, that hurt." Cavanaugh inspected the spit in the tissue. "No blood. Lie down on the sofa." Cavanaugh helped him over to it and then pressed gently against Rutherford's abdomen and chest. "I don't feel any swelling. Have you got any pain you're suspicious about?"
"It's been long enough; if they broke anything inside me, I'd have passed out by now." Rutherford massaged his wrists, where the blood circulation had been almost cut off.
"Where's your first-aid kit?"
"Under the sink in the bathroom."
When Cavanaugh returned with the kit and a soapy washcloth, Rutherford was making an effort to sit up. "You haven't introduced me to your friend."
"Meet Jennifer. Jennifer, this is John."
Jamie showed no reaction to being introduced by a false name.
"Pleased to meet you. Mighty glad to be alive to have the pleasure," Rutherford said.
Cavanaugh opened the first-aid kit and paused when he found three syringes among the bandages and ointments. He held them up and then realized why they were there. "From when your wife was alive?"
She'd been a diabetic and had injected herself daily with insulin, Cavanaugh knew. Ironically, a car accident had been what killed her.
"I gave away a lot of Deb's clothes to the church. I threw away a lot more stuff, old shoes and things that she knew weren't worth keeping but she'd hung on to anyhow. Except for a few of her favorite dresses, which I kept, I didn't have any trouble parting with most of it, but somehow those syringes made me think of her more fondly than anything else. I couldn't bring myself to throw them out."
Cavanaugh put them back in the first-aid kit and began to clean Rutherford's face.
"You got my warning-my second MSG remark?" Rutherford asked.
"Nicely done."
"I'd have let them kill me before I'd have sent you into a trap."
"I know," Cavanaugh said.
"The people I asked about Prescott and his lab said they'd never heard of him." Hours of having been gagged made Rutherford sound raspy.
"I'll get you some water," Jamie said.
When she returned, Rutherford took several deep swallows, wetting the dried blood on his lips and causing it to trickle. "Then I searched our computer database." Another swallow. "I came up with nothing."
"Then how did-"
"These guys must have an informant in the Bureau. Either that or they hacked into our computer system, looking for anybody who'd made inquiries about Prescott. When I left my office to go home, they were waiting near my car in the parking area." Wincing, Rutherford fingered the side of his jaw where his tooth had been knocked out. "Somebody called my name from the next row. I turned to see who it was. All of a sudden, a van stopped next to me. While it screened me from view, three guys grabbed me from behind and shoved me inside."
"The man who shouted. The three men who grabbed you. The van's driver. A total of five?" Cavanaugh asked.
"No." Rutherford swallowed more water. "There's a sixth guy, the one who runs the show. He calls himself Kline."
"I recognize your two guards. They were with the first group that went after Prescott."
Rutherford frowned past Cavanaugh. "Jennifer, you look sick."
Cavanaugh turned toward her. "You're pale. You'd better sit."
"What I had in mind was kneeling." She went through the bedroom and into the bathroom.
A moment later, Cavanaugh heard the muffled sounds of her throwing up.
"Her first time on an operation?" Rutherford asked.
"Yes."
"She did good."
Cavanaugh nodded.
When she came back, he held her.
"I didn't let you down," Jamie said.
"You didn't let me down." And I didn't let you down, he added silently.
As the mustached man moaned on the floor, Jamie stepped over him, easing into a chair across from Rutherford. "Don't mind me. Go on with what you were saying while I try to convince myself that I'm still alive."
Cavanaugh's hands had been steady as long as he'd had something to do. Now he had to concentrate to keep them from shaking. "Yes, what happened next?"
"After these guys worked me over enough to prove they meant business, they put a gun to my head and gave me a choice-either I'd tell them why I wanted Prescott or they'd kill me." Rutherford held the wet washcloth to his bruised cheek. "I explained I didn't want Prescott. A friend of mine did. They gave me the same choice-tell them who my friend was or they'd kill me. I didn't use your name. All I said was 'a man who'd been part of Prescott's security.'"
Cavanaugh nodded.
"That got them extremely interested," Rutherford said. "They couldn't wait to get their hands on you."
"Sure. They thought I might know where Prescott had gone."
"I told them you were trying to find him, too, that you didn't know anything more than they did."
"But they didn't buy it?" Cavanaugh asked.
"No way. They put the gun to my head again and ordered me to tell you Prescott's lab was at a place called Bailey's Ridge in Virginia."
"And now four of them, including Kline, are at Bailey's Ridge, arranging a trap for me?"
"They left as soon as your phone call was over," Rutherford said.
Jamie leaned forward. "When nobody shows up, they'll wonder what went wrong. They'll come back here and hope you make contact again, as you promised."
"Yes," Cavanaugh said. "They'll want to set another trap."
Rutherford reached for the phone.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Cavanaugh reached to stop him.
"Getting help."
"No."
"But the Bureau can-"
"We don't know who else is involved in this."
Rutherford hesitated.
"You said Kline might have an informant in the Bureau," Cavanaugh said. "Suppose Kline got word we were waiting for him. This'd be the last place he'd come near."
17
When the intercom buzzed, Cavanaugh waited a few seconds, then pressed the button. "Yes?"
The security guard's voice was tinny. "Mr. Kline and another gentleman to see you."
"Send them up." Cavanaugh released the button and went back into the living room.
"Two of them," Rutherford said. "The other two must have stayed at Bailey's Ridge in case you showed up."
Jamie glanced at her watch. "Just past noon. Earlier than you expected."
"After being on a stakeout all night, Kline must really be annoyed that I didn't do what I said I would. Now he wants another heart-to-heart with John. Are we ready for guests?" Cavanaugh directed his question toward the skinhead and the mustached man, who were tied to chairs. It had taken the men an hour to regain consciousness. Insistent questioning had revealed only that they were contract operators and knew nothing about why Prescott was important.
On two occasions, the skinhead's cell phone had rung, Kline angrily checking in. Cavanaugh had rehearsed with the two captives, making sure they knew exactly how to respond if either of their cell phones rang. With his pistol to the skinhead's temple, Cavanaugh had watched the man's eyes as he spoke into his phone. If Cavanaugh had detected even the slightest attempt to warn Kline, he'd have shown keen displeasure.
The skinhead now wore a baseball cap to hide his gashed scalp. "I asked you"-Cavanaugh tapped the cap-"if you're ready to receive guests."
The skinhead winced and nodded.
"I'll see you in a few minutes," Jamie said. Following instructions that they'd worked out earlier, she left the apartment. Rutherford locked the door.