by Jeremy Pack
"George, it's Jason Kingsley," Jason replied, leaning forward and flashing a look at Frank, who watched in silence.
"Kingsley," George shouted. "What the hell is going on? You and Chris are wanted for murder? Chris is missing. I've been worried sick."
"George, he's in terrible danger," Jason said.
"What? Tell me what's happened."
"Remember Johan Brunner?" Jason asked.
"Brunner," George breathed into the phone, shock and outrage were evident in his tone. "Johan Brunner." It was said as a curse. Jason's eyes narrowed at the venom in George's voice.
"He's abducted Chris. Brianna too."
"What?" George was incredulous. "Brianna is alive?"
Frank raised an eyebrow. If MacQuery had something to do with this, he wasn't letting on. Or he's just a damn good actor.
"And Michael Blake---or he was, anyway. George, this is all about something called the Heart of the Jungle. Have you ever heard of it?"
George was silent for a moment. Jason tensed expectantly, straining to hear any hint of deception in what George had to say. "Can't say that I have," he finally responded. George's bewilderment sure sounded genuine to Jason.
"It's some kind of diamond---extremely valuable. Brunner thinks that Chris has it."
"That's preposterous," George said. "If Christian had such a diamond, I would certainly know about it."
"Is it possible he doesn't know about it?"
"I'll be damned," George whispered. "I'll be damned."
"What is it? What do you know?" Jason asked, surprised by the cautious discovery in George's voice.
"In the seventies, David, Christian's father, and I jointly purchased a diamond mine in Brazil. We were young and foolish. The mine turned out to be a bust. It made a small profit, but not nearly as much as we were led to believe it would. I sold my shares to David to start my firm."
A note of wonder crept into George's voice. "David never told me about any extraordinary find---but that mine must have produced after all,"
George mused. "Damn."
Jason frowned. He and Frank had already learned about the diamond mine from their investigation into Chris's father. It seemed unusual that George would volunteer this information if he were actually behind everything. Wouldn't it be more likely for him to try to conceal it? Jason cast a quizzical look in Frank's direction, and Frank shrugged.
"Why wouldn't he tell you about it?" Jason asked, trying another angle.
They could hear George take a deep breath before speaking. He seemed to hesitate. "We had a... falling-out over his treatment of Christian after he found out about his sexual orientation---David and Marie were devout Catholics, and they rejected him completely. It was a terrible row. I was outraged---I was very fond of Christian. I always wanted children of my own, and over the years, he became something like the son I never had."
George's voice was soft and remorseful as he continued. "I said some very hard things to David and Marie. I maligned their faith, criticized their parenting, and questioned their moral character. Ultimately, they expelled me from their lives as completely as they expelled Chris."
This seemed reasonable to Jason, and the regret in the man's voice sounded genuine. Maybe he was wrong about MacQuery. Maybe he really didn't have anything to do with this. He knew George, and Jason was reasonably confident he would have been able to tell if he was lying.
In truth, Jason was still struggling with his own suspicions. His gut had never failed him in the past, though.
"George," Jason urged, "Chris mentioned some letters from his father that he'd never read. Do you know where they could be? There might be something about the diamond in them. Something Michael may have discovered and shared with Brunner."
George said, "That's impossible. I have the letters. Christian gave them over to me for safekeeping after his... break. Said he might want to read them someday but didn't want to hold onto them himself for fear the reminder of his loss, of the estrangement from his father, might be too much for him. I keep them secured in a safe in my office."
"You're certain Michael couldn't have gotten his hands on them?"
Again, George was silent. "Michael did have the combination to the safe, but the letters are still there. I saw them not more than a week ago."
"George, I'm going to have to ask you to hand over those letters. I'm hopeful there's something about the Heart of the Jungle in there. Brunner's got big backers with a lot riding on this thing. He's left a trail of bodies trying to get his hands on it. If we don't figure it out---hand the diamond over to him---Chris and Brianna are dead. You, yourself, could be in danger."
"Yes, yes, of course," George agreed. "Anything you need. I'll go directly to the office and retrieve them. Where are you?"
"I'm working with the FBI field office in Las Vegas. I'll need you to open them and fax them to us here."
"Right away," George agreed.
"George, the team has agreed to assign a protective unit to you until this is all over, just in case Brunner decides to come after you."
George said, "I'm grateful, of course, but that won't be necessary. I have my own security. In my line of work---dealing with powerful men who have much to lose---it's imperative you look out for yourself in case something goes amiss in the courtroom."
"If you're sure," Jason said skeptically. His brows drew together.
He would have preferred to have the FBI attached to George. He seemed to be cooperating, but Jason knew that could just be a ruse to throw them off. His compliance could be an attempt to buy some time.
"They know me, how I operate, the way my world works. I'd feel safer with them keeping an eye on me. They'll know what to watch out for."
"Okay, George," Jason agreed. "The letters---"
"I'll have them to you within the hour," he said hastily. "And Jason," he added, "the moment, the second you know something about Chris and Brianna, please, please let me know." There was no mistaking the anxiety in George's voice.
"I promise," Jason said and disconnected.
Frank fingered his chin thoughtfully. "What do you think?" he asked.
Jason considered for a few moments, remembering the conversation, searching for any sign George had been duplicitous. "Hard to say," he finally responded. "He sure seems willing to cooperate."
Frank nodded. "I guess we'll know if he follows through on his promise to send the letters."
CHRIS feigned sleep. It was more difficult than he'd expected to keep his breathing even and measured. Brunner came and went from the room several times, making a series of telephone calls. Though Chris could hear him speaking in hushed tones on the walkway outside the hotel room, he couldn't make out the details of any of the conversations.
His heart raced madly when, after reentering the room for the fourth time, Brunner moved to the side of the bed and stood next to it for a long while. Chris held perfectly still, focusing on keeping his breathing deep and even. Finally, he heard Brunner walk away. The creaking of the springs on the other bed announced that Brunner intended to sleep.
This was his chance. Despite his misgivings, despite the fear Brunner had instilled in him, this was his moment to act. It was now or never.
Carefully, cautiously, he worked his wrists within the belt. The leather rubbed at his flesh but did not loosen. Undeterred, he kept at it, pulling for all he was worth, muscles straining against the unyielding bonds. The belt bit into his skin, rubbing it raw. His arms felt like they had been set on fire. He pushed the pain to the back of his mind and continued to tug back and forth, back and forth, making as little noise as possible.
When Brunner started to snore, he worked more frantically. With their captor asleep, he could afford to be less cautious.
A hot trickle of blood ran over his hands, and still he worked. Did there seem to be just a bit more give in the belt? Did his arms move just a little further apart than they had before? Was he imagining it?
It came as almost a surprise when the flesh
y part of his hand slipped into the loops of leather about his wrist. He yanked hard, harder than he had yet, and it slipped further. He sucked in his breath, held it, and drew against the force of the bindings with every ounce of strength he could muster. The bones in his left hand compressed painfully, the bottom joint of his thumb slipping free from its socket. He bit back a cry of agony. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and spots swam dizzily before his eyes. Slowly, slowly, centimeter by centimeter, his bloody hand slipped, slipped, slipped....
Suddenly, he was free. His abused hand cleared the thick leather belt. A million tiny needles stabbed into him as circulation returned. He gulped air quietly, flexing his fingers.
For several minutes, he lay perfectly still, listening for any indication that his struggles had disturbed his sleeping captor. Brunner's soft snoring in the other bed continued unabated.
With infinite care, he rolled over and stared at the inert form, watching, nervous anticipation building. He would have to strike fast and hard. There was no margin for error. He peered through the deep blackness, searching for something he could use as a weapon. The flimsy lamp on the bedside table would never do. It was cheap glass, and if he attempted to use it as a bludgeon, more damage would be done to it than to Brunner. His eyes fell upon the telephone. It was practically an antique, made of hard plastic with a thick metal base. It would be unwieldy, but it would work.
Slowly, carefully, he reached out, certain the pounding of his heart was audible in the stillness, certain that his cautious movements would awaken Brunner. Finally, his fingers connected with the phone, and he gingerly slid it closer to the edge of the table, wincing at the noise it made as it moved across the laminate surface. He fumbled at the back, releasing the cord that bound it to the wall. Still, Brunner did not stir.
Chris held his breath and sat upright, slid his legs over the side of the bed, and pressed his feet firmly into the soft carpeting. Saying a silent prayer, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and dove into action.
In a series of swift motions, he yanked the phone off the table, crossed the distance to the other bed, swung, and slammed the base into Brunner's head with incredible force.
There was a satisfying crack as the impromptu weapon connected with the man's skull.
Not hard enough.
Brunner rolled out of the bed and hit the floor with a hard thump on the other side. He groaned and struggled to his feet. Even though the room was bathed in darkness, Chris could see the murderous rage on his face.
Brunner wavered, stunned nearly senseless. Chris could see him shaking his head to clear the fog of sleep and violence. He was becoming more coherent with each second that passed.
Chris didn't back down, didn't allow fear to freeze him in his tracks. The phone still clutched in his hand, he scrambled around the bed, crying out as he attacked. Brunner ducked. The phone slammed into the wall with a crack, and Chris was thrown off balance.
Brunner made a clumsy grab for him. Chris flung himself backward out of his reach. Brunner staggered along the bed and came at him, fists flying, missing him by only inches. Chris backed into the dresser and stumbled. Brunner caught him then, hitting him in the face with a powerful jab.
White light exploded across his vision as the solidly landed punch jerked his head backward. He fell, somehow managing to maintain his hold on the telephone. He kicked out as he landed on the floor, his foot smashing hard into Brunner's kneecap. He heard the other man hit the ground and scream in pain.
Brunner's scream awoke Brianna. She wailed in terror. Her cries and Brunner's agony emboldened Chris. Time seemed to move in slow motion.
He rolled, sputtering. Climbing to his feet, he threw himself atop Brunner, swinging the phone madly before him. It impacted once, twice, three times as Brunner tried desperately to fend it off with outstretched arms.
After the third blow cracked into his skull, Brunner was still. Chris sprawled on him, wheezing and sobbing from pain and exertion. Brunner still breathed but did not awaken.
Brianna's cries finally broke through his senselessness in the wake of the violent struggle, and he leapt to his feet and hurried to the bed.
Frantically, he snatched her up and went for the door. His frenzied flight amplified the child's alarm, and her wails increased in volume. Seized by an overwhelming need to flee, he was completely incoherent. He had to get away from this place. He had to run as far and as fast as he could before Brunner awoke and came after him.
Panic-stricken, he fled blindly into the night. He didn't know where he was going, certain only that he needed to get far, far away. He ran as he had never run in his life. His eye was swelling shut. Blood ran down his arms. Brianna screamed and clung so fiercely to his neck he could scarcely draw breath. He hit the end of the parking lot at a fast clip and tore down the road, not certain which way to go, but flight instinct driving him resolutely toward the feeble glow in the heart of town to the south.
His lungs burned as his legs pumped furiously. Had there been anyone to see, he would have appeared an odd sight: a battered and barefoot young man, a screaming child clutched tightly to him, running staggeringly down the deserted roadway as if being pursued by the devil himself.
Finally, his body could give no more, and he stumbled. Pitching forward, he dropped to his knees, choking for air, overcome by exhaustion. Brianna sobbed senselessly. Her eyes were swollen, and her nose ran liberally.
He clung to her, trying to soothe her in between ragged breaths. He looked back over his shoulder with wild eyes. Now that the panic had subsided somewhat, with regret, he realized the many mistakes he had made. If he had been more thoughtful, he might have tied Brunner up, searched for his keys, pounded on neighboring doors, or sought help from the desk clerk. It was too late for any of that now. He could no longer see the motel, but he could not go back. It was too dangerous. If Brunner had regained consciousness, he would be looking for them.
Chris was weak and shaky, dizzy. He tried vainly to stand, but his legs were like water. He pressed his free hand into the rough asphalt, struggling to remain upright, holding his terrorized daughter close to keep her calm.
"Shh," he soothed, bouncing Brianna gently. "It's all right, baby. It's okay."
He didn't believe it himself, but the tender words quieted her tears.
He scanned the horizon in the direction opposite the motel. The town was still asleep, the faint lights of the city's center still impossibly far in the distance. He'd never make it---he was completely spent.
A pair of headlights arose on the road far behind him. He stiffened and began to tremble. What if it was Brunner?
Terrified, he dragged himself off the road. There was nowhere to hide. The car drew closer. He flattened himself to the ground, hovering protectively over his child, trying futilely to conceal himself in the sparse scrub.
As the car roared by, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was a battered green station wagon---not the black Mercedes he'd feared it would be.
As the taillights faded into the distance, he realized he was missing an opportunity. He leapt up and rushed after it, waving and calling frantically. The driver either didn't see him or chose to ignore him, because within moments, the car was gone.
Sighing, resigned, the momentary rush of intense fear having imbued him with some unknown reserve of strength, he started out again.
After what seemed a lifetime of painful traversal across the rough and uneven blacktop, he finally came upon a darkened service station.
He made his way to the glass door and pounded on it, screaming for help, praying that there was someone inside. There was no answer, no movement from within.
He turned away. Off to the left, an old payphone caught his eye.
"Thank you. Oh, thank you," he cried, stumbling toward it.
His hand reached out and pulled the receiver off the hook. Before bringing it to his ear, he sent out a silent prayer. Please, please let it work.
The dial tone wa
s, he thought, probably the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. He jabbed a trembling finger into the "0" button and waited as he connected to the operator. Jason's number had been recorded in his mobile phone, and though he tried, he could not recall the digits. It was unwise to call the police. Jason had told him they were wanted for murder. Even though he had been warned against contacting him, George was the only other person he could think of to call. He was certain George would know what to do.
"I... I need to make... a collect call," he sobbed when the operator answered, and he gave her George's number.
When George accepted the charges, Chris could hear the profound relief in his voice.
"Christian. Are you all right? Where are you? Jason Kingsley called. I've been frantic."
"George," Chris cried, "I'm in Weed, California. I got away. I don't know what to do."
"You got away from Brunner? How?"
"I knocked him out with the telephone in the motel room. He was unconscious when I took off, but when he comes to, he'll find me, George. He'll find us and kill us." Chris's voice was high with hysteria.
Brianna started screaming again in sympathetic resonance.
"Calm down, Chris, calm down. I'll take care of everything. Have you called the police?"
"N-no, not yet. I'm wanted for murder," Chris stammered. "I didn't kill anyone, George. I swear."
"Shh, shh, Chris," George said. "I know you didn't. We need to get you back here and out of the reach of that madman. Then we'll figure out what to do."
"George, I don't know what's going on."
"I think I do. I'll explain when I get you back here safely."
Chris sniffled. "How are you going to do that?" He could hear George typing on the other end of the line.
"There's a municipal airport in Weed. I'll charter a flight to Snohomish and meet you there."
"Snohomish? But why?"
"Chris, I want you to stay where you're at. Do you have your mobile phone?"
"No," Chris said. "Brunner took it away and smashed it."
