The Edge

by Catherine Coulter

  Suddenly, Laura put her finger against her lips. We heard a man talking in a low voice. She walked quietly to the corner and looked around it. She came back. “There are three guards up ahead, just like he said. They’re sitting on the floor outside a door. Their heads are down, but I’m not certain they’re asleep.”

  “The other agents are behind that door?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t lying.”

  He was pale now, but he didn’t say anything more.

  “Del Cabrizo’s behind the whole operation, isn’t he?” Laura asked Molinas.

  “I can’t tell you anything. You can kill me if you must but I know that you won’t harm my daughter.”

  “We’ll do whatever we need to,” I said. “I want you to walk ahead to the men and tell them that you intend to speak to the prisoners. You will tell them to go outside until you come to tell them to return. If you screw this up, Molinas, I will personally shoot you. I won’t harm your daughter, but I will shoot you. Trust me on this.”

  He looked me straight in the face. He had dark blue eyes, and there was something familiar about them. The shape, perhaps, slightly tilted at the corners. They were his sister’s eyes, Elaine Tarcher’s. He said in a low voice, “My daughter is innocent. She has suffered enough. If I release your friends, will you leave here?”

  “You can hardly expect things to go on as they have.”

  “No, once you escape, my job here is over. Then I will deal with what will happen.”

  I shrugged. “Your daughter, who is so precious to you—why is she here with you? Have you let her watch you pump drugs into people?”

  “No. We have only been here for a short time. We arrived just before you did. I couldn’t leave Marran back home. She needs me. You cannot take me with you as a hostage. You cannot leave her here alone. She would be savaged by these men. She would kill herself. She’s tried before. I will do as you ask, Mr. MacDougal.”

  He was pleading with me, his expression as raw as his voice. His daughter was more important to him than his pride, certainly more important to him than his own life. “Let me see what kind of shape my friends are in. Then I’ll decide what to do with you. You try to screw me, Molinas, and you’re dead. Just think of your daughter before you decide to betray me. By the way, I speak Spanish.”

  Molinas nodded and straightened. As he walked forward, he looked like a man used to command, a man in charge. Laura and I watched him kick one man in the knee. The man cried out. The other two awoke. The man Molinas had kicked scrambled to his feet, excuses tumbling out of his mouth. I understood only that they were excuses. Molinas raised his foot and kicked another man in the ribs. The third managed to jump away.

  He used his hands while he spoke to the men, and his voice was low and angry. If he’d had my gun I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d shot all three of them. He motioned for them to pick up their weapons. He stood there watching them scurry away. He had told them to go outside and stay there. Then, after just a slight pause, he turned and walked back to Laura and me. He held up a key ring, pulled out a long brass key and handed it to me.

  “This is the one.”

  I gave the key to Laura. “Be careful. There might be a man inside.”

  She nodded. I remained behind with Molinas, the Bren Ten pressed against his neck. “Nice clothes,” I said close to his ear while we waited. “I guess dealing drugs to kids lets you hobnob with a lot of Italian designers.”

  “I haven’t been involved in drugs for five years,” he said. “I am doing this for other reasons.”

  “Yeah, right. And you keep American federal agents just for the fun of it.” I focused on the slowly opening door. Laura eased inside, crouched low. I saw a light come on, then nothing. “Let’s go. One try at me and I’ll pull the trigger.”

  Savich was half-crouched, ready to attack. He looked pale and drawn, his clothes torn and dirty, and there was such rage in his eyes that suddenly I didn’t want to know what had been done to him. “I was hoping you’d come,” he said, as he slowly straightened.

  I came into the small room, pushing Molinas in front of me. Savich’s hands closed around his throat and he shook him like he was a rag. Molinas did nothing to defend himself.

  “Savich, stop it.” I tried to jerk Molinas away from him, but Savich was out of control.

  Laura cried out, “Sherlock. Oh, God!”

  Sherlock was the only thing that could have distracted him and Laura knew it. Savich dropped his hands and whirled about, dropping to his knees beside Sherlock. She was unconscious, huddled on her side.

  He gathered her against him and rocked her back and forth, back and forth, kissing her dirty hair. Savich looked up. His face was battered. He’d been beaten. I nearly pulled the trigger. “By God, what have you done to him? You damned bastard. I should have let him strangle you.”

  “He is all right,” Molinas said, and I knew his throat hurt. Savich was strong, very strong, no matter what they’d done to him.

  I shoved Molinas to the floor and closed the door, then walked to where Savich sat, still rocking Sherlock on his legs.

  “Thanks for coming, guys. I’m glad to see you, to say the least. I did try, but I couldn’t get us out of here. I failed. I took out a couple of them but then four others came in and I got the crap kicked out of me for my efforts.”

  He was coherent. He was himself.

  “They didn’t drug you?” I asked.

  “Not after I woke up when we first got here, wherever here is. They took Sherlock. I guess they wanted me to be clearheaded enough to see what the drug did to her.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “When she’s awake, she just keeps reliving that awful time in the past when she was hunting down that serial killer, Marlin Jones.” I was nodding. I knew all about Marlin Jones. Savich explained for Laura. “She was his prisoner. It was terrifying for her. She had nightmares about it for months. With the drug, it’s come back, only worse. Jesus, you can feel her terror, her confusion.” He looked over at Molinas. “I’m going to kill that sadistic bastard.”

  But he didn’t move, just kept rocking Sherlock.

  He said even as he rubbed his cheek against Sherlock’s hair, “After they beat me, they left me alone. They never did shoot any drugs into me.”

  I looked down at Sherlock, and then I struck Molinas, I just couldn’t stop myself. I must have gotten him just right because his head fell back against the wall. I drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry, guys. He’ll be back with us in a minute. He’s going to get us out of here. There’s an airstrip out there.”

  “Thank God,” Savich said. He was still clutching Sherlock tightly against his chest. “They drugged you again, Mac?”

  I said, as I watched Molinas open his eyes, “I’ll tell you about it later.” I hunkered down into Molinas’s face. “You’re going to get on your radio. You’re going to get a plane in here. Now.”

  Savich said, “I want to take him back with us. I want to strap him down and give him the lethal injection myself.”

  Molinas smiled. “Sorry, Agent Savich. That won’t be possible. The plane carries only four passengers. I gather one of you is a pilot?”

  “No problem,” Savich said. He rose, Sherlock in his arms. “I can kill you myself if I can’t take you back. I don’t want to think how much dirty money you’ve got for lawyers. Yes, this is better. I don’t want to let the law dick around with you.”

  “Your wife will be all right,” Molinas said. “It will be a bit longer before she comes around, but she will be all right. There are two separate drugs that can be mixed together in varying amounts. We were having trouble with the balance and the dose. Everyone reacts differently. Some people are particularly sensitive. Your wife is one of them.”

  Very slowly, Savich turned and laid Sherlock on the tattered black blanket spread on the wooden floor. He rose, then faced Molinas and smiled. It was a terrifying smile.

  I didn’t move. This was up to Savich. I looked over
at Sherlock. Laura was kneeling beside her now, stroking one of her hands.

  “Get up,” Savich said.

  Molinas slowly rose.

  There was no graceful display of martial arts, just the raw power of Savich’s fist into Molinas’s belly, then his knee into his groin. Molinas went down like a stone.

  “Good,” Laura said. “He deserved it, but now we’ve got to get him into good enough shape to get to a radio and order up a plane.”

  “I want Jilly,” I said.

  Savich stared at me. “What did you say, Mac? Jilly? She’s here?”

  “She came to me when I was just coming out of a session with their drugs. She warned me not to eat or drink anything. Whatever she’s doing here, Savich, she kept Laura and me away from another round of drugs.”

  Laura didn’t argue with me, just said, “If she’s here then we’ll need a bigger plane.”

  “Jilly’s small and so is Sherlock,” I said. “We can fit the five of us in a Cessna.”

  “Mac,” Savich said, lightly touching his bruised fingers to my forearm. “Is your brother-in-law, Paul, here too?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “If he’s here I say leave the bastard. He’s the one who developed the drug with all its charms. I just want Jilly.” I looked over at Laura. She was staring at the floor, and I saw her eyes narrow in fury.

  I followed her line of vision. Savich was shackled to a ring in the floor. It was Molinas’s bad luck that I’d pushed him far enough into the room for Savich to reach him.

  No wonder Savich hadn’t escaped. As simple as that.

  “Savich, I don’t believe this.”

  “They enjoyed the fact that I could strain and curse, but not reach them. They laughed about it. They knew exactly how far the chain would let me reach. Thanks for bringing that big bastard close enough so I could get him.”

  “Savich,” Laura said quietly, as I tried all the keys on the ring Molinas had given me. “He’s Alyssum Tarcher’s brother-in-law, John Molinas.”

  “I remember.”

  Finally, Laura found the key that fit the shackle on Savich’s right ankle. When it fell open, he knelt down and rubbed his ankle. He pulled down his sock. There was dark bruising but no broken skin. “I have Sherlock to thank for these thick wool socks. It’s good to get that thing off me.” He sounded like himself, which was a big relief.

  We had no choice but to wait for Molinas to come to his senses. There was a bucket of water on a rickety table in the corner. Laura threw it on him.

  Savich pulled Sherlock up against him. “Sherlock. Come on, love, wake up. You can do it. Wake up.” I watched Savich lightly slap her cheeks. “Come on, sweetheart, open your eyes. Hey, I’ll let you throw me the next time we’re in the gym, but you’ve got to wake up for me now.”

  Finally, she did open her eyes and look up at him. She looked drugged, strung out, and when she whispered, “Dillon?” her voice was slurred.

  “She recognizes you,” Laura said. “That’s a good start.”

  “It’s me, Sherlock. It’s all right now. Mac and Laura are here. We’re leaving.”

  “He’s here, Dillon,” she whispered, rubbing her fingers against her temple. “He’s tucked right behind my left ear. He’s laughing. He won’t leave me alone, and he’s still laughing. He won’t stop. Please, Dillon, please make him stop.” She closed her eyes again and slumped back against Savich’s arm.

  “Is she talking about Marlin Jones?” I asked, kicking Molinas lightly in the ribs. He was still trying to catch a breath.

  “Yes,” Savich said, never looking away from Sherlock’s chalky face. “The drug they’ve been giving her brought him back, planted him in her mind and magnified him, made him into even more of a monster than he really was, and that’s saying something. He’s there in her head, as real as you are.”

  “It did the same thing to me,” I said slowly, “but it just happened once. I relived the car bomb in Tunisia. You’re right. It was worse remembering it than when it actually happened. Paul said the drug was supposed to lessen the power of a bad memory.”

  Molinas struggled to sit up. “Yes, the drug is supposed to relieve the physical symptoms. They promised me it would. But there’s something wrong. The drug shouldn’t bring the memory to the forefront.

  “It’s like you said, the drug is supposed to dissipate the physical symptoms, and with repeated doses finally remove the horror of the memory. But it doesn’t work. I tried different doses and even different additives to see if I couldn’t fix the drug. But it doesn’t work.”

  I went down on my haunches in front of Molinas. “What happened to your daughter?”

  “She was raped three years ago right on campus at her private school. She was only fifteen years old. Four older boys raped her. It destroyed her. They promised me the drug would help her, that’s the only reason I got involved with Alyssum and Del Cabrizo in the first place, to help my daughter.

  “That’s why I gave her the drug. I injected her myself. But it hasn’t worked. Her memories of that night have grown worse, not better. The drug is killing her!”

  “So you gave Sherlock an even larger dose and mixed in other drugs?” I asked.

  Molinas stared into Savich’s eyes and saw his own death there. He quickly leaned over and vomited on the wooden floor.

  Savich carried Sherlock in his arms. She was conscious now, but her eyes were heavy and vague. He’d wrapped her in all the blankets that were in that cell. She was disturbingly silent, quiescent. That really worried me. My mouthy Sherlock, who usually ordered everyone around, including her husband, was lying like a ghost, not really there. Laura walked behind them, carrying two AK-47s. I marched Molinas in front of me, the Bren Ten pressed against the small of his back, another AK-47 slung over my left shoulder.

  “Take me to Jilly,” I said to Molinas. “Now. I want to see my sister. She’s coming out with us.”

  “Your sister isn’t here,” Molinas said. I could tell it hurt him to speak.

  I smiled at him. “I don’t believe you. She came to me. She spoke to me, she warned me.”

  He said slowly, “It must have been the drug. Your sister was never here. Never. I have no reason to lie to you about that. It was the drug. It’s unpredictable. But I have never heard of it doing that before.”

  Was that possible? Jilly had been standing over me, clear as day. She’d been with me, speaking to me, dammit.

  “She’s never been here,” Molinas repeated.

  “But you know her?” Laura said.

  “I know who she is,” Molinas said carefully. We stopped and kept silent. There were men speaking not fifteen feet away. About three minutes later their boot steps faded down the long wooden corridor.

  We went back to his big opulent office and the huge adjoining bedchamber only to find it empty. His daughter, Marran, must have gotten herself untied because she’d locked herself in the bathroom. Molinas told her to stay there until he came back. We heard her crying.

  “Look what I found.”

  We turned to see that Laura had opened a closet door that I hadn’t seen before. “Guns, clothes, and look at this—two more AK-47s.”

  She turned around, grinning really big. She was holding up a machete. “You never know if we might need it. They all carry knives. Just maybe we should have one too.” She looked over at Savich. “You guys need to get out of those clothes. I’ll help change Sherlock.”

  She clipped the machete to her own belt. “There,” she said, patting it. “I guess I’m ready now for just about anything.”

  “I know you’ve got to have a radio somewhere. Get it.” Molinas opened the third drawer of the huge desk and pulled out a small black radio.

  “Get the plane here, now.”

  We all watched him set a frequency and listened to his rapid Spanish, some of which I couldn’t make out. He looked up when he finished. “I didn’t betray you,” he said.

  Savich walked to where Sherlock was sitting on the floor, Laura hold
ing her hand. He bent down and picked her up. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You’d better pray that the Cessna comes,” I said against Molina’s ear.

  “It will come,” he said. I saw him glance back at the radio.

  He didn’t look happy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  We reached the airstrip at about five-thirty in the morning, according to the watch I’d taken from Molinas. The half-moon was fading quickly, but still hanging on, and behind it a few scattered stars dotted the gray sky. The mountains in the distance looked like ghosts, stretched up into broad sword shapes, others hunched over, all of them unearthly in the vague dawn light. There would soon be enough light to use the airstrip. Three days ago, I thought, we were in Edgerton, Oregon, buying sandwiches from Grace’s Deli.

  The silence was profound, just the crunch of our boots on the rocky ground. The rain forest began not a hundred yards to our left, stretching up the flank of the distant eastern mountains. The compound was directly behind us. If anyone was following us, they were staying out of sight. I thought of snipers and moved closer to Molinas. I hoped we covered the others’ backs well enough so if there were snipers, they’d be afraid to shoot for fear of hitting Molinas.

  When we reached the edge of the airstrip, the sky was a soft gray, with strips of pink streaking to the east. There was no cover. We crouched down against the stark landscape, still too well silhouetted for anyone with a gun.

  Savich turned, a black eyebrow raised. “The rain forest begins right over there? Yet it’s hot and barren here. How can that be?”

  “It’s called deforestation,” Molinas said. “The people are very poor.”

  “Mac and I were already in there,” Laura said. “It’s incredibly beautiful but the humidity strangles you, and there are so many creatures you can hear but can’t see, it’s also terrifying. I’m grateful we don’t have to go back in.”