by Barry Eisler
She felt a fresh wave of terror. They’d spoofed the phone line. Probably had a dirt box simulator set up outside to intercept cellphone transmissions, too.
She’d meant to call 911 . . . and had told them exactly where she and Dash were hiding.
That feeling of waking up in the van, nauseous, confused, Delgado telling her the horrible things he would do if she didn’t cooperate . . . It all came back in a dizzying rush.
Get it together, Evie, get it together—
A weapon. She needed a weapon. But what could she use? It was a library—was she going to throw books at them?
She pulled open one of the desk drawers. The computer screen’s glow was too dim to see inside the drawer, and she couldn’t very well turn on the lights. And of course she didn’t have her cellphone to use as a flashlight—
Come on, come on . . .
She squinted and reached into the drawer, groping for something, anything. A letter opener. Something heavy like a paperweight. Or—
Scissors. The kids in here were always making posters about books. They had to have scissors.
She yanked open another drawer and groped inside. Pencils. A ruler. Nothing useful.
A third drawer. A stapler. A hole punch. A container of glue.
God what kind of library doesn’t have a fucking pair of scissors—
It was taking too long. She ran from behind the desk and over to Dash. The main library entrance was on this floor. The second-floor entrance was always locked and wasn’t even marked. So they’d come in here, right? If she and Dash took the internal staircase to the second floor, maybe they could slip out before anyone saw them. They could find a different place to hide. She didn’t know where—all the doors were locked at night. She only had keys to the library, the faculty lounge, and her office. They might think of the lounge. Marvin had been concerned about that. There were stenciled metal signs alongside each door. Could she remove the one for the faculty lounge? But then that would be the only one missing . . .
She was thinking too much. They’d find something. A bathroom, maybe. A closet. Or they could get to an exit and run out of the building. Get to the street and pound on someone’s door. But first they had to move.
She leaned over Dash and shook him briskly by the shoulder. He flinched and opened his eyes.
We have to go, she signed. Right now.
He looked around, obviously confused and still half-asleep. Is Marvin here?
No. Not yet. Come on. And quiet, all right? Like a ninja.
Where are we going?
Up the stairs.
I have to go to the bathroom.
Later. Come on.
She pulled him to his feet and they walked quickly to the stairs. They were almost at the top when she heard the vibration again, in the library door.
The lock-pick gun. They were out of time.
chapter
forty-five
RAIN
Rain scanned as Delilah drove, the weight of the Glock reassuring in his hand. The neighborhood around the school was residential, and unlike the highway, where they had passed a few cars, these streets were still empty, the streetlights revealing nothing but early-morning mist. They circled twice and saw nothing, not even a jogger or suburbanite walking a dog.
According to Google Maps, there were two parking lots, one at the north end of the campus, the other at the south. Manus had told him to use the north lot, alongside the main building where the woman, Evelyn Gallagher, had her office. But it always made sense to see the balance of the terrain before arriving at the destination.
“Turn here,” he said to Delilah. “Swing through the south lot first.”
They did. Not a single car. There was a baseball diamond nearby, and farther off, a football field. Probably the south lot was used more for athletic events.
“Go back out,” he said. “Left on the street, then left again. Let’s enter the north lot at the northeast end.”
“All right,” she said. She didn’t ask why. He was glad. He couldn’t always explain why he preferred one approach over another. And when he was focused, he didn’t want to have to try.
He took a quick glance back at Maya. She had been extremely quiet, but he saw she wasn’t sleeping. She was holding her dog in her lap. Her knees were pressed together to create a kind of seat, and she was leaning forward, her arms around the animal as though to protect it.
“What’s her name?” Rain said. “Or his.”
“His. Frodo.”
“He seems like a good dog.”
She didn’t respond.
“You okay?” he said.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
He knew she wasn’t okay. But his job was to make sure she was safe. Someone else would have to help her with the trauma of what she’d been through earlier. In the meantime, he was glad she had Frodo.
As they got closer to the parking lot, he forgot about Maya. He focused on how he would do it if Gallagher were his target, rather than someone he was here to help. Where he would park. Where he’d position sentries. Where he would set up for a counter-ambush. But he saw nothing that set off any alarm bells.
They pulled in. At the far end, there were two vehicles. One, a Prius. The other, a UPS truck.
“A little late for a delivery,” Delilah said, mirroring his thoughts. “Or a little early.”
“Just keep going,” he said. “Past the vehicles. Make a right when we get back to the street. Don’t even slow down.”
If someone was looking, they’d already been spotted. But that didn’t mean you decloak. Better to act as if until you had no choice but to break cover. Sometimes riding out the subterfuge could buy you a little more time.
Delilah kept going. The Prius was parked nose-in, and in the yellowish pall of the streetlights shone in early-morning dew. The UPS truck was nose-out, for a more efficient departure. And covered with no dew at all.
Rain’s heart rate kicked up a notch. This wasn’t going to be a simple pickup like the girl. Someone was already here.
“They haven’t been here long,” Delilah said, again mirroring his thoughts. She must have been extremely unhappy about this development, but she said nothing else, and for a second, he understood her irritation at Dox. He loved the big sniper, and would do anything for him if he was in a jam. Had done anything for him, things he preferred not to remember. As Dox had done in return. But a favor for a friend was one thing. A friend of the friend was another thing entirely. And this favor was looking to be a lot bigger than originally advertised.
Fifty feet up the street, he said, “Stop here.” He would have preferred something farther away. But he didn’t think they had time.
Delilah waited until they were past a streetlight, then pulled to the curb along a line of brick rowhouses in the shadow of a cluster of trees. “We go in?”
“Just me.”
“John. Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m just going to take a look. If anyone’s looking back and I have to come running, I don’t want to have to wait to start the engine.”
“You don’t know what’s in there.”
“They’re here for a schoolteacher and a teenaged boy. They didn’t send a whole battalion and they’re not expecting one in return.”
“Just because the woman saw only one man outside her house doesn’t mean—”
“No time to argue. If you have to move, circle the block. But look for me here.”
He jumped out before she could say more, easing the door closed with a hip check to keep the sound low.
He slipped the Glock into the bellyband and started fast-walking toward the school, keeping to the shadows, his breath fogging in the morning air. His tactical analysis wasn’t crazy, of course, but neither was hers. The truth was, there was no way to be sure. All he knew was that he couldn’t put her in more danger than he already had. They’d fight about it later. And he would remind himself of what a privilege that was—to be alive, to be with her, no matter what.
He stoppe
d at the end of the line of rowhouses, crouched, and eased his head past. This was the edge of the campus. At ninety degrees to his left and continuing straight ahead was an iron fence. But it was obviously for demarcation, not to keep out determined intruders.
He waited for a moment, listening. Nothing. Just the faint roar of traffic on Interstate 70 a mile south. Okay.
He vaulted the fence easily, eased out the Glock, and ran forward. He paused again alongside a tree to look and listen. Still nothing.
Ahead was the main building and the parking lot with the Prius and the UPS truck. The building was a rectangle with its length running north and south, meaning the main entrances were on the long east and west sides, and the side entrances were on the short north and south ends. Other things being equal, they would have used the north side—the entrance closest to where they’d parked.
Most of the building was dark, though he could see some light spilling out from the west entrance doors. Presumably, room lights were turned off at night; corridor lights got left on.
There were no more trees or other cover between his position and the building. But no trees meant no autumn leaves on the ground, only soundless grass. Just fifty feet in the dark. Unless they had a sentry and night-vision equipment, he ought to be okay. He tried not to think about how many people had died with unless as their last thought, or about how his analysis of their numbers and defensive posture was a hunch based on not much data.
He ran forward at a low crouch and reached the corner of the building in seconds. He paused, reassured by the feeling of the stone façade against his back. He looked and listened. Nothing.
Ten feet along was a lightless ground-floor window. If someone was inside looking out, there was no way to pass unobserved. The chances were low. But the penalty for missing could be high.
He took a quick breath and darted past the window, stopping at the edge of the north entrance. No reaction he could detect from within.
Light was showing through the door’s windows. He flash-checked inside. Nothing.
He scanned again—all quiet—and turned his attention to the door. It was open a crack, and he immediately saw why: a magnet attached to the top of the metal jamb. A simple alarm reed-switch bypass. They’d located the alarm magnet with a laminated sensor shim and left everything taped in place for a quicker exit. Maybe not an operation sophisticated enough to knock over a bank, but not the Keystone Kops, either.
But they weren’t expecting opposition. And/or they didn’t have numbers. He guessed two inside, maybe three. More than that, and they would have left a sentry at the entrance.
He eased open the door and scanned the corridor left and right. Nothing. He slipped inside and soundlessly returned the door to its position.
No cover here, and with the lights on, no concealment, either. He turned right and fast-walked to the end of the short corridor, staying on the edges of his feet to muffle the sound of his footfalls on the waxed floor. He paused and darted his head around the corner. The long corridor was empty.
It would have been convenient to have some information about where to find Gallagher and her son. But Manus himself didn’t know. He had told her not to stay in her office, which was smart. Beyond that, though, they could be anywhere. Of course, human behavior was far from random, and could be rarely lined up neatly with would be. Here, the primary question was, Where would be most comfortable for a mother to spend the night with her teenaged son? Places with a couch. And common places, rather than someone else’s office, which psychologically would have felt like an intrusion. It would have been easy enough to just call the woman and provide the bona fides Dox had communicated over the secure site. But Manus had told her to leave her and her son’s cellphones in her office. Again, smart, but also again, the security came with complications.
He moved forward, the Glock up, checking signs. BARBARA CLOONEY—ENGLISH. JERRY SACHSEL—MATH. MARIA TRZEPACZ—SOCIAL STUDIES. He tried doors as he moved. They were all locked.
He was a third of the way up the corridor when a door opened on the left twenty feet ahead. A man stepped through. He was wearing a UPS uniform.
chapter
forty-six
EVIE
Evie and Dash got to the top of the stairs just as the door opened below. She grabbed Dash’s shoulder and pulled him behind one of the shelves. It was shadowy, but there was enough light from outside to see. She pressed her fingers to his lips.
Why? he signed.
There’s a man downstairs. We can’t let him hear us.
Maybe they could have made it to the second-floor doors. But it was hard for Dash to move quietly—he had no way of gauging whether he was making noise. And in that silent space, there was no way they would be able to make it through the doors without being heard.
A man stepped in, silhouetted by the corridor light. Peeking through the books, she could make out only his shape, not his features.
“Anyone in here?” he called out, holding the door. “We got a 911 call.”
Yeah, Evie thought. I’ll bet you did.
“Evelyn Gallagher?” the man called out. “Are you in here?”
She looked around wildly. There was a metal cart just behind them, its three shelves loaded with books. The floors were carpeted. But if the wheels squeaked . . .
“Evelyn?” the man said. He let go of the door and it closed behind him with a firm clang, cutting off the light from the corridor. He walked to the checkout desk and glanced behind it.
She wondered why he wasn’t turning on the lights.
Because then you’ll see he’s dressed as a UPS man, not as a cop.
But that wouldn’t last. When he didn’t see them, he’d abandon the act.
She looked at Dash and signed, Don’t move! Then she got on her hands and knees and crawled toward the cart.
“Evelyn?” the man called out again. “The dispatcher said we could find you here. Come on out, ma’am, you’re safe now.”
She reached under the cart and felt for the wheels. They were aligned in the wrong direction. Of course. She rotated them a hundred and eighty degrees. The cart was heavy, and she grimaced with the effort of moving the wheels without making noise.
“It’s really all right, ma’am. You can come out.”
For a second, she felt herself wanting to believe him. The alternative was too terrifying.
No. That is never going to happen to you again. Never.
She put her hands low on the end of the cart, just above the wheels. She pushed. It didn’t move.
She gritted her teeth and pushed again, harder. Again she couldn’t budge it. What was wrong? With all those books, it was heavy, but not that heavy.
She saw Dash crawling toward her. She waved for him to go back, but he ignored her. He reached under the cart and started doing something to the wheels. She wanted to tell him she had already aligned them, that he should stay where no one could see him—
The wheels, she realized. Did they have some kind of locks?
She reached under, felt around, and found the mechanism instantly. A simple lever. She pulled one, then the second. She looked up. Dash was looking at her. He signed, Safety locks. Like on Marvin’s tools.
She nodded frantically. Okay. Go back.
He crawled away, but toward the tables, not behind the shelf. She waved frantically, but he couldn’t see her—
The lights came on. She froze, feeling suddenly, horribly exposed. From behind the cart, she couldn’t see the man. But did that mean he couldn’t see her?
She was ten feet from the stairs. She’d wanted to move the cart closer, but with the lights on, she didn’t dare.
She looked to her right. Dash was under one of the wooden study tables. He was doing something to one of the legs. She couldn’t tell what. Please, God, please don’t make a noise . . .
She strained to listen. She could just make out footfalls, soft on the carpet below. He was moving toward the back of the first-floor space. Of course. Past every s
helf, then a return on the opposite side. And when the first-floor search proved fruitless, he’d move to the second floor.
And find them.
The sound of footsteps faded. She wished he would call out again so she could have an idea of his position. But he must have recognized the 911 gambit had failed.
She glanced at Dash again. But he was ignoring her, intent on the underside of the table.
Seconds passed. Crouched behind the book cart, she could see the landing at the top of the stairs, but nothing below it.
Over the pounding of her heart, she heard footsteps again. Closer. Louder.
The cadence changed. She realized she could now hear not just the footsteps, but the soft rustle of the material of his clothes.
He was coming up the stairs. And he was close. Any second, and he would see them.
chapter
forty-seven
LIVIA
Carl and Livia sat on the floor, eating the takeout Larison had brought them. “The angel of death,” Carl said. “Moonlighting as DoorDash delivery. Who’da thunk it?”
Livia didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure about the sleeping arrangements. Would Alondra be comfortable with Larison? Maybe Larison and Carl should have taken the other room. Or was she just telling herself that as an excuse, because she was afraid of what staying with Carl might mean? As usual with him, she was overthinking everything.
But also as usual, her silence didn’t dissuade Carl. If anything, it encouraged him. “I hope the room’s okay,” he said, looking around. “I got the last one with two queen beds for Larison and Diaz. All they had left was these honeymoon-suite types, with the king beds and water views and hot tubs. I guess we’ll just have to try to make the best of it.”
Again, she didn’t answer.
He said, “I’m kidding, they did have some with two queens, but none of those faced the water. But you know the floor’s okay by me, if you’d prefer.”
She looked down. She didn’t know what she preferred. They’d shared a bed before—literally as well as otherwise—and she’d gotten used to having him next to her throughout the night. She even . . . liked it. Or wanted to. She wished she could explain to him that whenever she caught herself feeling happy, it terrified her. The lesson seared into her psyche being that she could never trust anything good. That it would all be ripped away from her. And with Carl . . . there were moments when she’d never been happier. But the terror was correspondingly bad.
