"Oh, I'd welcome that."
"Your methods betray a certain… arrogance," said the Engineer. "Clever operators like you play a chess game with the target, following him around, moving your pieces into position. Suddenly, the man opens his eyes and he's in check. Now he has no choice but to move wherever you want him to." His mouth tightened. "Move into some safe house perhaps, with digital cameras everywhere, recording his every fart for posterity. That's not my way. I'm an artist, not a chess master. I simply find out what the target loves"-he licked his lips- "and I let my imagination soar."
"What do you love?" asked Thorpe.
"You just may find out, Frank."
"Stay on the PCH past Seal Beach." Thorpe croaked, his vocal cords bruised. "I'll tell you when to turn."
"I enjoy Southern California," said the Engineer. "I like the wealth and the women, the sunny days and the cool nights, but most of all, I like the absence of insects. No mosquitoes, no chiggers, no cockroaches. I grew up in South Florida in a home without air conditioning. The place was crawling with insects; all those little legs waving… you can't imagine what it was like. Roaches that fly, roaches the size of hummingbirds flying in your face when you turned on the light, and the sound of those papery wings… I used to check my bed every night, but there was always a surprise." He nodded at Thorpe. "What about you? Where did you grow up, Frank?"
"Is this the part where I realize that we're not really all that different, and we kind of sort of become best buddies?"
"How much farther?" snapped the Engineer.
Thorpe allowed himself a smile, pleased that he had annoyed the Engineer. Anything to knock him even slightly off balance. "I'm going to kill you. I'm going to kill the both of you."
The Engineer laughed. "How many times have we heard that before, Gregor?"
The belt jerked into Thorpe's throat, and Thorpe arched his back as Gregor slowly tightened his grip.
"It's not so easy to be brave without air, is it, Frank?" said the Engineer. "All those lofty emotions just go by the wayside."
Thorpe kicked at the dash, reached back for Gregor, and clawed at his face, dug his nails in. He heard the bodyguard howl, the belt tightening as Thorpe pulled at the leather, struggling to get a grip.
"That's enough, Gregor. I'm sure Frank has learned his lesson."
Thorpe gasped as Gregor eased off on the belt, snot running from his nose.
"You wouldn't believe the thoughts that run through my head sometimes," said the Engineer. "If I wasn't a morally strong person, they would drive me quite mad." He kept the Buick right at the legal limit. "The first time Claire got a look at me, I knew she didn't like me. It wasn't my innocuous pose she was responding to; she actually seemed to sense my true nature. Feminine intuition, Frank, it disgusts me. It allows them to take unfair advantage. Then, when I realized that she had lied to me, lied to protect you, I found myself possessed of a most extreme resentment. It almost clouded my judgment. I almost got into my car and followed her. My mental clarity prevailed, but still… I had such thoughts."
"We're almost there." Thorpe tried to slow his heart, but all the training in the world wouldn't have helped now.
"The storage locker is just the beginning," said the Engineer. "I want names and numbers, bank accounts and buried treasure. Search your memory. Empty yourself."
Gregor tightened the belt again.
"Let him breathe, Gregor," said the Engineer. "Suffocation is our most primal fear, Frank, more basic than our fear of falling. In the womb itself, we dread that slow strangulation-a kink in the soft umbilicus, and our pink spaceman's face turns blue, then black. All the interrogation equipment in the world, all the sharp instruments and sophisticated electronics… I find them irrelevant to the task. Just give me a plastic bag; that's all I require." He patted Thorpe's leg. "Imagine the lady Claire fighting for breath, twisting and struggling, hands flapping like a baby bird… Trust me, Frank, you would tell me anything to bring her a single breath. You would even tell me the truth."
Thorpe stared straight ahead. It was another few blocks before he could speak without betraying his pain and frustration, without betraying his own small hopes. "At the next light, just past the water tower… take a left." They left the storefronts and restaurants lining the PCH. "Another left here."
They paralleled a nautical-themed housing development in Sunset Beach, the nearby marina brightly lighted, lined with small yachts and sailboats. A network of canals led out to the ocean, allowing the residents access to the open sea.
"Fancy neighborhood for a storage locker," said the Engineer.
"It's not located in a commercial storage complex-cops are always watching those for stolen goods. It's a private garage. I rent it by the year."
The Engineer nodded.
"The street comes to a T at the end of the block," said Thorpe. "Make a right at the dock and then follow the road along the canal."
As the Engineer slowed the big Buick to make the turn, Thorpe stuck out his left foot, jammed the accelerator to the floor. The engine raced, and the car shot straight ahead and over the walkway, the bottom scraping as they lurched over the seawall, briefly airborne. Thorpe lowered his window as the nose of the car hit the water, bobbed once or twice. A wave crested over the hood, and the car started sinking.
The Engineer tugged at the belt around Thorpe's neck. "You forget about this, Frank?"
"I haven't forgotten a thing," said Thorpe, his eyes locked on the Engineer as the water rose past their knees, seeing what he thought was just a hint of fear in the man now.
Gregor pushed at his door but couldn't budge it against the weight of the water. He tried to lower his window, got it halfway down before the electrical system shorted out. The water rose faster now, past the windows, filling the interior, splashing their feet, their knees, rising past their chests. Gregor screamed as the water rushed in, his head banging against the roof as the car slanted forward and settled onto the bottom.
The Engineer started to say something to Thorpe, but the water rushed over him.
The last of the air bubbled past Thorpe's face, tickling him as it percolated out his open window. He fought to stay calm, husbanding his last inhalation as the disturbed silt rose in a cloud. The water was clear and cold, but only fifteen or twenty feet deep. He could see the lights on the dock shimmering above them.
With the pressure equalized now, the Engineer slowly pushed his door open. He went to release his seat belt, but Thorpe laid his hand over the clip, made a fist, and the Engineer knew, fear blooming on that soft face like a poisonous anemone.
Gregor kicked at his door, but it was locked, and in his panic, he was jerking the handle in the wrong direction. More kicks, but he couldn't get any leverage. Buoyant as a whale, he bobbed around the backseat, struggling, using all his air. He beat his fists against the window, shattered the thick glass, and started wriggling through.
The Engineer tore at Thorpe's hand on the release buckle, mouthing something.
Thorpe hung on to the buckle as the Engineer's nails scratched him, the cold numbing the pain. There was a tiny flame in his lungs, but he could control it, keep it small. He thought of Claire, remembered the first morning he had awakened in her bed and seen her beside him.