He felt himself dragged away from the truck. Someone grabbed him by the back and hauled him away on his ass. He watched his legs trail behind him, making twin tracks in the dirt. He watched the truck burn as other soldiers swarmed around it, Rambo pounding on Mini-Me’s door, Hang Ten slumped over his turret.
He didn’t feel any pain.
Then he was in another truck, rumbling back across the desert. Someone was yelling at him, shaking him. Rambo. The truck jostled. Rambo disappeared.
He was in a room somewhere. Doctors everywhere. They stared at him. Talked to him. He tried to reply. He still felt no pain.
They loaded him onto a plane, a big C-17. Wheeled him on board with seventy-five other soldiers, and he lay there and stared at the roof as the plane rumbled down the runway and took to the air. He stared at the roof until the plane landed somewhere, somewhere the air was cool and the sun wasn’t so harsh, somewhere with more white rooms and more doctors. He stayed there for months, and every day they talked to him and asked questions and he didn’t say much. They looked at him with concerned eyes and whispered to one another. Still, he didn’t feel any pain.
Then he was on another plane. This time, he sat upright, in a jump seat, and stared at the jump seat across from him and saw the desert and Showtime and Hang Ten and Mini-Me burning, and he must have cried out or said something, because a medic came with a needle and then Showtime and Mini-Me and Hang Ten were gone. And then he wasn’t there anymore, either.
He was in another room, a doctor’s office inside a large hospital. Couches and comfortable chairs. A woman watched him from across a coffee table, her eyes friendly, concerned. She spoke to Lind, but Lind didn’t hear her. She watched him stand, followed him to the door. She called out to him as he walked away.
There was a man waiting outside the hospital. He stood in the sunny parking lot in a blue baseball cap and sunglasses, and he straightened as Lind approached. Smiled at him. Talked to him. Took his arm and led him to a big gray car, buckled his seat belt and said something and laughed.
Lind went with the man. He tried to listen. He still hadn’t felt any pain.
10
According to the Saint Paul Police Department, the suspect’s name was Allen Bryce Salazar, and he had boarded a Delta regional flight to Omaha, Nebraska, just after the shooting. Windermere passed the information back to Derek Mathers in the FBI’s Minneapolis field office, along with instructions to ground the plane, if possible. Mathers called back a few minutes later.
“No can do,” he told Windermere. “Flight’s in the air, and they won’t turn around. I have agents in Omaha waiting on the tarmac.”
“Shit,” said Windermere. “Wanted to bring him down myself. Tell Omaha to ship him back our way so I can get my hands on him.”
Mathers laughed. “I feel sorry for this guy already.”
Windermere pocketed her phone and surveyed the crime scene. The crowd had diminished, now that the body was gone. The news trucks had filed their reports. There were a few cops, and a few crime-scene techs, and the hotel’s concierge peered out from the door. Windermere wondered how long it would take for business to return to normal. Before the whole tawdry affair was a tourist attraction. Stevens caught her eye. “Get your man?”
“Just about.” She checked her watch. “Give it an hour or two. Then he’s mine.”
“Poor bastard.”
Windermere cocked her head. “Mathers said the same thing, Stevens. Am I unpleasant to deal with or something?”
Stevens laughed. “You?” he said. “Nah.”
STEVENS SURVEYED the Landmark Center from the crime scene. They’d found the suspect’s rifle in an empty room overlooking 5th and Market Streets, a clear shot at the Saint Paul Hotel. The gun itself was unremarkable; a Remington 700 bolt-action hunting rifle with a scope, it would have had no trouble covering the eighty-yard range between window and target. Still, it was a skilled shot. Not exactly amateur work.
Windermere elbowed Stevens. “You’re trying to figure out the why again, aren’t you?”
Stevens glanced at her. Laughed. “Maybe,” he said. “I mean, it’s the most interesting part, isn’t it?”
“You know how I feel about motive,” she said.
“Sure do,” Stevens said. “Heard it all before. We know the who and the how, so who cares about the why?”
“Exactly. I just want to catch the bastard, Stevens.”
“I just think it’s interesting.” He gestured back at the empty Bentley. “This was a targeted killing. The shooter knew our man would be here. He camped out and waited and sniped him. Then he walked. Didn’t run. He walked to his car, got in, and drove back to the airport. Boarded a flight home. Why?”
“Guess I’m going to find out.” Windermere grinned at him. “You want I should keep you posted? Or maybe you’d like to come over and see the new headquarters. You can ask Salazar yourself why he done it.”
Stevens shook his head. “Any chance you can get, huh?”
Windermere kept her smile pasted. Didn’t say anything.
“I’m too old for your FBI work and you know it,” he said. “I’m not G-man material.”
“So you keep saying.”
“So my wife keeps saying,” Stevens said, and instantly regretted it. He sighed and checked his watch. “Speaking of which, I’d better go.”
“I’ll keep you posted.” Windermere punched his arm. “First thing I’ll ask Salazar is why.”
STEVENS LEFT WINDERMERE and walked back through Saint Paul until he found his old Cherokee parked by a curb. He fired up the engine and drove west and out of the city center. His route took him past Rice Park again, a few blocks to the south, and he caught himself glancing up Market Street for another glimpse of the excitement.
Stevens had been a BCA agent for more than seventeen years now. Before that, he’d been a Duluth city cop. He liked police work, liked untying the knots, the impossible riddles. Mostly, he worked cold cases, spent his time in an office. It was a quiet existence, or it had been until Windermere came along.
That first kidnapping case with Windermere had been the most action Kirk Stevens had tasted in years, and though he was loath to admit it, he’d enjoyed the excitement. Hell, he’d even enjoyed some of the notoriety, the press attention that followed. It was nice to get a little recognition. An adrenaline rush. The whole case had been a heck of a lot of fun.
It had also been very dangerous.
Stevens knew Windermere thought he was wasting his talents at the BCA. “Come join the FBI,” she told him after the Tomlin case was over. “Work with me. We’ll partner up. We’ll eat takeout and chase bad guys full-time. You’ll love it.”
A part of him would love it, Stevens knew, as he piloted the Cherokee west along the interstate toward his home in Lexington-Hamline. A part of him longed for more of that excitement. It was the same part, maybe, that felt an electric little thrill whenever Windermere turned those big bewitching eyes on him. It was a dangerous urge to indulge.
Stevens turned off the interstate and navigated along the surface roads, the streets getting quieter and the rush of the city fading into the background. He slowed in front of a tidy green craftsman home and pulled into the slim driveway, climbed out of the Jeep and walked around his small patch of lawn, and surveyed the house before climbing the front steps to the door.
Stevens paused on the porch, his hand on the doorknob. Through the front window he could hear his daughter laughing with her friends in the kitchen. He could see his young son in the hallway, chasing his big German shepherd up the stairs. And he didn’t need to look in the living room window to imagine his wife spread out on her favorite chair, brow furrowed as she worked through a mountain of paperwork, as pretty now as the day he’d married her.
This was the other part of his life. This was the part that didn’t need the excitement, the adrenaline ru
sh, the profiles in the Star Tribune. This was reality. This was what was important. Stevens paused at the front door, indulging the moment. Then he turned the doorknob and rejoined his family.
11
Windermere knew two things about Allen Bryce Salazar within minutes of his arrival in the Criminal Investigative Division. First, she knew he was very angry. Then she knew he wasn’t her guy.
She was back at her desk in the new FBI building in Brooklyn Center, northwest of Minneapolis, when Mathers brought him in from the airport. Heard him as soon as the elevator doors opened, listened to him swear a blue streak from the elevators to the interview room. Mathers set him up, and then came over to Windermere, a sardonic smile on his face.
“Mr. Salazar is very displeased,” he said. “He’s using foul language. Mentioned a lawsuit. Even threw a government-issue chair.”
“I heard the commotion,” said Windermere. “You couldn’t calm him down?”
Mathers shrugged. “Cuffed him to the table. Took long enough.” His smile grew. “Had to get Doughty in there to hold the guy down.”
“Bet he loved that.”
“Doughty? Or the guy?”
“Doughty,” said Windermere. “Bet he’d cursed my name about seventy-five times before he got the poor bastard detained.”
“I lost count.” Mathers gestured down the hall. “Guy’s ready for you, anyway.”
Windermere thanked him and walked through CID toward the interview rooms. The office was long and low, carpet and cubicles, set up like an accounting firm, and she could see across the vast room to Bob Doughty’s private office on the other side. The door was closed, thank God.
Windermere had partnered with Doughty on the Carter Tomlin investigation. It hadn’t been a particularly successful pairing, and though Windermere knew she wasn’t exactly easy to get along with, she still figured the senior agent shouldered much of the blame. In the end, he’d filed a formal complaint and put in for reassignment, and in the months since, he’d said not word one to his former partner, work-related or otherwise.
If Doughty was half as good a cop as Stevens, we’d have gotten on fine, Windermere thought. And since he isn’t, good riddance. She pushed Doughty from her mind as she approached the interview room. She could hear Salazar shouting through the heavy door, something thumping in there.
Windermere paused outside the door. She let Salazar have his little tantrum, and when he’d calmed down she peeked through the small window and had a look at the guy. Then she stepped back.
It wasn’t her man.
The shooter had been slight, pale, almost sickly in appearance. Allen Bryce Salazar was none of those things. Windermere studied the man through the window again. He was a big guy, swarthy, a lot of muscle. He looked nothing like the man who’d driven off in that Chevy.
Windermere spun on her heel and crossed the office to Mathers’s desk. “Not my guy, Derek,” she said. “Someone screwed up.”
Mathers looked up from his computer. “That’s Salazar,” he said. “Omaha picked him up the minute he got off that plane. ID checks out. That’s your guy.”
“Bullshit,” said Windermere. “I saw the shooter. He was shorter than this guy. He was whiter. This isn’t our guy.”
Mathers shrugged. “That’s Allen Bryce Salazar,” he said. “What can I tell you?”
12
Salazar turned out to be a decent guy, after he’d calmed down a little.
Windermere walked into the interview room with a Coke and a Quarter Pounder with cheese. Sat down and slid the food across the table, told Salazar she’d uncuff him if he promised to be good. Told him she’d kick his ass if he tried to get cute. Salazar stared at her, baleful and suspicious. Windermere held his gaze until he looked away. “Fine,” he said.
Windermere uncuffed him. Watched him scarf down the burger. Waited until she heard the rattle of ice in his Coke. Then she leaned forward. “Okay,” she said. “So who are you?”
Salazar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know who I am,” he said. “My name is Allen Bryce Salazar. I live at 82 Poplar Street in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Married, no kids.” He looked down at his hands. “My wife’s probably losing her shit right now.”
“We’ll get word to your wife that you’re fine,” Windermere told him. “If you’re as clean as you say, you’ll be home by tomorrow. So let’s figure this out. What brought you to Saint Paul?”
“Trade show,” said Salazar. “I sell fertilizer. Farm-grade.”
“Fertilizer.”
“My wife tells me I’m real good at peddling bullshit.” He met her eyes. “It’s a job. There was an agricultural trade fair all week, downtown at the RiverCentre. I came in Tuesday evening. Was supposed to get home tonight.”
Windermere studied his face. The RiverCentre was within a block of Rice Park and the Saint Paul Hotel. A two-minute walk to the Landmark Center. Except Salazar wasn’t the man she’d seen climbing into the little gray Chevy. He wasn’t the man she’d passed on the Landmark Center steps.
She fixed her eyes on him. “You come with a partner?”
Salazar frowned. “What?”
“Did you bring a friend? To the trade fair. You work with a partner, or what?”
“Just me,” said Salazar. “It’s a pretty small business. Mom-and-pop, I guess you’d call it. Just trying to get our foot in the door.”
“Yeah,” said Windermere. “Listen, here’s the thing: A man was shot this afternoon at the Saint Paul Hotel. Somebody with a sniper rifle. You know where the hotel is? Like, a half a minute away from the RiverCentre. Literally across the street.”
Salazar’s eyes got wide. “Whoa,” he said. “I didn’t—”
“Hold up.” Windermere held up her hands. “I chased the shooter,” she said. “He got away in a little gray Chevy hatchback, a Liberty rental car. Rented from the airport by one Allen Bryce Salazar of Council Bluffs, Iowa. That’s you.”
“Bullshit.” Salazar shoved his chair back and stood, his eyes wild. “That’s bullshit, lady. I never rented that car.”
Windermere held his gaze. “Liberty says you did.”
“They’re lying,” he said. “They’re fucking liars.”
“Prove it.”
Salazar stared at her, breathing heavy. “Prove it?” he said. “Okay, I will. I’m an Emerald Club member. National Car Rental. I rented a midsize sedan on Tuesday. Upgraded for free to a Chrysler 300, white. Brought it back this afternoon just before my flight. What the hell would I want with some shitty hatchback?”
Windermere said nothing. She studied Salazar and sucked her teeth, thinking. A computer would straighten out Salazar’s story. A quick call to National and she’d know if he was lying. He wasn’t acting guilty, though. He didn’t look like he knew a damn thing about Chevy Aveos. And that meant this easy case was about to get hard.
If Salazar wasn’t the guy—if he was one hundred percent clean—then who’d mixed him up in the game? More to the point, who was the kid in the little Chevy hatchback? Who was the killer, and where the hell did he go?
Windermere pushed back from the table and stood. Salazar watched her. “Where are you going?”
He didn’t sound tough anymore. He sounded confused. Scared, even. Windermere shook her head. “Gotta call National,” she said. “Corroborate your story.” She looked at him. “I’d get comfortable. This might take a while.”
13
The phone rang again on Monday morning.
It was nearly noon. Lind was sitting on his couch, upright, trying to keep his eyes open. He hadn’t slept all night. He’d finished all the coffee. He was just slipping away, giving in, when the phone rang.
It jolted him awake.
He stood on unsteady legs and walked to the window and looked out over the city. It was still raining outside. It was still gray. The cars on the street were
smeared brake lights against the wet glass.
The phone kept ringing. Lind tried to ignore it. He was awake now. He didn’t need to answer the phone.
Except that wasn’t right. If he didn’t answer, the phone would stop ringing. Sooner or later, it would stop ringing for good. And then he would be alone with the visions, with nobody to help him. Nobody to make the visions go away.
Lind shivered. Felt the first wave of panic insinuate itself into his brain. It grew there, a pounding blackness, just behind his eyes. Quickly, Lind crossed from the window and picked up the phone.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m ready.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, Lind drove out of the parking garage and back through the city to the airport. He parked in the short-term lot and walked into the terminal to the Delta Airlines counters. He waited in the frequent-flier line, and when he reached the front, the girl at the counter smiled and waved him over. “Hi,” she said. “On the road again?”
She was a pretty girl. She had big eyes and clear, pale skin, mahogany hair that fell just to her shoulders. There was a hint of mischief in her smile.
“Duluth.” Lind slid his fake ID across the counter. “Richard O’Brien.”
The girl smiled at Lind another moment. Then she blinked and shook her head a little, looked down at her computer, and started to type something. She stopped and looked up again.
“It’s just I’ve seen you before.” She looked away quickly, blushing. “You’re always flying somewhere. What kind of business are you in?”
Lind shifted his weight and looked around the terminal. Felt the jackhammer panic inside his skull again. He squinted. Closed his eyes. Rubbed his temples. “Insurance,” he lied. “That’s what I do.”
“I’m sorry.” The girl’s whole face was bright red now. “I just wanted to— I was just making conversation. I’m sorry.”
She thrust a ticket into Lind’s hands. Lind grabbed it. Forced a smile and then walked away quickly. He could feel her eyes following him as he hurried toward security.
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