On Borrowed Time

by David Rosenfelt

  I heard him give the order to move in, and braced myself for the possibility of gunshots. But there were none; all I could hear were shouts.

  Luther went in himself, telling me to wait behind. He came out less than a minute later. “They’re gone,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Back to the airfield; we found a copy of a flight plan.”

  We all piled back into the cars, but I was crushed by the events. “There’s no way we’ll catch them,” I said. “They could have left hours ago.”

  Luther turned to me. “A phone call was made from the house fourteen minutes ago. We must have just missed them.”

  Left unsaid was the obvious truth: Garber was playing us for fools.

  Garber saw it as soon as they drove out onto the tarmac.

  There were two planes there. One was the plane they were to leave on; but it was the other he was looking at. On the side of the plane was an insignia with the words, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

  Federal agents had found him; they were in Damariscotta.

  Garber’s contact didn’t see it, and may not have gauged its import even if he had. But Garber had anticipated the possibility, and he had a backup plan ready to go. He always had a backup plan.

  Garber looked in the window and saw the airport employee who worked at the reception desk, the man who was basically in charge of this small airport. He slowed as he passed by and waved, allowing the man to get a look into the car.

  Garber then drove the car out to the plane, parking on the far side of it so that the plane was between the car and the airport employee. There was no way he could see them, and no reason for him to be looking in that direction anyway.

  They got out quickly, with the car motor still running. The pilot had the plane’s engine running; takeoff could be accomplished within seconds. The buyer, duffel bag clutched tightly in hand, quickly ran up the steps into the plane.

  Garber held the gun up, pointing it at Allie. “Get on the plane,” he said.

  “No.”

  He pointed the gun in an even more threatening gesture, finger pressed on the trigger.

  “Get on the plane or die now.”

  Allie knew that he would be reluctant to shoot her out here; the noise could attract unwanted attention. And once she stepped on that plane she had absolutely no chance. It was time to take a stand.

  “No.”

  We raced back to the airfield at high speed.

  I knew, and I was sure Luther knew, that if Garber was able to beat us back to the airfield, even by five minutes, he would be able to get the plane into the air. From the location where we were, he could be out of U.S. airspace in ten minutes.

  At that point there would be only one solution, and it was something I didn’t even want to contemplate.

  We were not the first car to get back there, and when we arrived we drove right onto the tarmac, where other agents were waiting, along with the man who served as the reception person behind the desk.

  “He said there were three of them,” the agent said. “Two men and a woman. They took off five minutes ago.”

  “What kind of aircraft?” Luther asked.

  “Gulfstream IV,” the man said. “Heading east.”

  Luther got on the phone and quickly explained the situation to someone I took to be his boss, or his boss’s boss. He concluded with, “There’s nothing we can do from here, sir.” Then, “I concur with that, sir.”

  When he got off the phone, he turned to me. “Jets are going to be flushed to intercept them over international waters. They’ll try to force them back here, where we will be waiting.”

  “You know they won’t turn back,” I said. “It would be throwing everything away, and over international waters they’ll think they’re safe. The jets will shoot them down.”

  To Luther’s credit, he told me the truth straight out. “That would be my guess as well.”

  “You promised her life would be the priority,” I said, though I knew I had no chance of changing the decision.

  “It wasn’t my call,” he said. “But I agree with it. That material cannot be allowed out of the country.” Then, “I’m sorry, but when she got on that plane, there was no longer anything anyone could do.”

  Then it hit me; she would not have gotten on that plane, not without a fight that would have attracted attention. It was like that day along the highway, when we were facing what seemed like imminent death, and she would have handled it the same way.

  She would have drawn her line in the sand.

  There was absolutely no guarantee or even evidence that I was right, but the truth was that in my mind I couldn’t believe that she had gotten on that plane, because I wouldn’t be able to stand it if she had.

  All the way on the other side of the airfield was a large hangar, and I ran over to the airport employee. “What’s in that building?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing; it’s empty. We don’t use it anymore.”

  I started running toward the hangar. I didn’t know what I would find there, probably nothing, but it was better than waiting around to find out that a plane had been shot down with Allie on it.

  I’m not exactly a track star, but I covered that distance faster than I would have thought possible, slowed only by the act of taking my gun out of my pocket. And as I neared the hangar, I saw that the door to it was ajar. A good sign, but far from conclusive.

  I should have waited before barging in. I should have called Luther and gotten some agents there to take over. It’s not like they had anything better to do. But I didn’t. I went through the door without hesitating, and looked around.

  “Richard!”

  I turned to the left at the sound of Allie’s voice. She was standing with her hands behind her, probably bound. Garber was behind her and slightly to the side, arm around her neck, gun pointed to her head. They were about ten feet from a car.

  But she was alive. The realization of that flooded me with relief, which was soon competing with the feeling of fear that I would not be able to save her.

  The large hangar door was open in the back, and I instantly realized what was going on. Garber was going to make the agents think he had been on that plane, and when they shot it down over the water, they’d feel certain he was dead. He wouldn’t have left a flight plan behind for the agents to find if he were going to be on the plane. He was faking his own death a second time, while getting away and into Canada by car. It was brilliant.

  But now the look on his face was one of panic, and it seemed incongruous in the moment. He was a man I always thought of as being in control, and I was sure he always thought the same. Now events were closing in on him, and he was having trouble dealing with the sensation.

  To me his fear made him more unpredictable and dangerous.

  “Put the gun on the floor, Kilmer,” he said.

  I hesitated.

  “Now!” he screamed.

  “No, Richard, don’t,” Allie said, but I had figured that out on my own. We were taking a stand together.

  “No,” I said. “You shoot that gun, and ten federal agents will be in here in two minutes.”

  “You’re going to die, Kilmer,” he said, but I didn’t hear confidence in his voice. He was trying to figure a way out.

  Join the club.

  In a sudden motion, he started to push Allie toward the car. They went about five feet, half the distance to it, when suddenly she snapped her head back, hitting him in the jaw with the back of her skull.

  He was momentarily stunned, and she was able to get about a foot of separation between them. He raised the gun, but he never got to shoot it.

  Because I shot him in the head.

  My aim was not perfect; I was trying to shoot him in the chest. But if I was going to miss, it was good that I missed high.

  Garber’s brains splattered all over the side of the car, and he fell to the floor. Allie ran away from him, toward me, and I dropped the gun. She hugged me and star
ted to cry. I hugged her back, but I was too scared to cry. I don’t know which one of us was shaking, probably both.

  Just before Luther and the other agents arrived, I looked at Garber’s body. He had won, and I had lost; he had turned me into a killer.

  But defeat tasted surprisingly sweet.

  There has been no media coverage of the plane being shot down. I know that it must have happened, because I know it never returned to the airfield. I also know that it never would have been allowed to escape with its valuable cargo, so I can only assume that a blanket secrecy order was imposed.

  I am sure that the federal authorities would much rather have recovered that cargo, but it wouldn’t be crucial, especially since Dr. Gates and so many others survived the annex explosion. People who are targeted for murder but escape have a natural antipathy for the targeters. When you combine this with an equally natural desire to stay out of prison, I have no doubt that most or all of the key people are cooperating with the FBI.

  In combination, all of them would have the knowledge to duplicate the work of the project, which makes the shooting down of the plane less of a scientific setback.

  The secrecy has extended to my involvement, though pieces of the story have come out. Marie Galasso, for instance, has become a national hero, a well-deserved designation. She has made the round of talk shows, and her fifteen minutes of fame have stretched to three weeks and show no signs of abating. In this age of ever-present video, it turns out that one of her colleagues used his cell phone to videotape her turning over tables and setting the fire in order to get everyone out of the building. It has become the most widely viewed YouTube video of all time.

  In every interview she has talked about her meetings with me, and credited me with informing her of the presence of the explosives. It has made me the target of every journalist in America; I am considered the biggest “get” there is.

  But I’ve turned them all down, which is why I am telling my story in this manner. I’m a writer, so I write.

  But the government is not talking about it, to me or anyone else, so there are gaps that I can only fill in with speculation, though I believe it to be informed speculation.

  I must have been close to the story early on; it was probably the only truth Craig Langel told, when he said it was “Pulitzer territory.” I then became the perfect target for Garber; abducting me and using me as his “model patient” served two purposes. It removed me as a danger, and it made me a perfect success to showcase. I was public proof of the power of their invention.

  Ironically, no matter what I did, it fit into Garber’s strategy. Whatever stress or danger I put myself under, whatever I learned in my investigation, it all allowed Garber to point to it and say, “See? Even with all that, the memories we have given him remain intact.”

  Lassiter was similarly in the wrong place at the wrong time. Because of his past enmity for me, he became an obvious choice to use as my adversary, as the person I would naturally chase. Garber also knew Lassiter would become infuriated when the trial was a failure, and his anger would make him the person that the police would look to as responsible for the building explosion.

  My hatred for Lassiter, along with the false information I was fed about him, were designed to get me to ultimately kill him, and I have to admit there were times when I certainly considered it.

  Other reporters have been gradually digging up information on Philip Garber. He was apparently a genius, a pioneer in combining biophysics, neuroscience, and psychology. Over the years many of his theories had been shunned, and he had repeatedly been denied financial grants, to say nothing of the respect he felt he deserved. What role that played in his decision to do what he did, I can’t really say.

  Jen and Julie were, in fact, the same person. Julie was a random victim, kidnapped off an Iowa road because it made it less likely she could ever be connected to this New York operation. Her phone message to me had to have been deliberately recorded by her captors for future use; she was killed months before that call was made.

  As I write this, I am all too aware that there is a foreign object lodged in my brain. Dan Lovinger has told me that he is confident it can be safely removed, though such surgeries certainly involve some inherent danger.

  But that is not why I hesitate. I hesitate because that little chip is where Jen is, it is my only contact with the six months that we had together. I am aware that the things we shared, the conversations, the reading of The New York Times, the laughter, the lovemaking … did not happen in the real world.

  But they happened in my world, and they are in my mind, residing alongside every other memory I’ve ever had. The memories of Jen are just as strong, just as emotional, just as personal. They make me happy, and they make me terribly sad. But they are mine, and I’m just not sure that I want to give them up. I want Jen to be a presence in my life.

  Unfortunately, the massive explosion in the hospital annex destroyed much of what they call the “work product” of the experiment. Included in that would likely have been tapes of Jen and the other people and places in the fantasy world that had been created for me. It would have been painful, but I would very much like to have seen them.

  And then there is Allie. She is still here, living with me. She keeps saying that she should go home, but then she doesn’t leave. I’m glad she stays, so glad that if she ever tries to leave I’ll probably handcuff her to the refrigerator.

  About a week ago we made love, and have done so every day since. I love her as much as I have ever loved anyone, real or imagined.

  The funny thing is, it is Allie’s presence that makes me consider having the chip removed. That is because of something Dan Lovinger said to me. He said that Garber and his people could only have given me the tools to form the memories, but that I myself had to fill in the blanks.

  I filled in those blanks in the way I would want them filled, and I created in Jen a person I loved and wanted to spend my life with.

  Allie is different than Jen in a number of ways, but in some ways she is as close to her as it is possible to imagine. Allie is therefore very much the person that my mind created when it had the chance. In that sense, she could literally be described as my “dream woman.”

  They don’t come along very often.

  ALSO BY DAVID ROSENFELT

  Dog Tags

  Down to the Wire

  New Tricks

  Don’t Tell a Soul

  Play Dead

  Dead Center

  Sudden Death

  Bury the Lead

  First Degree

  Open and Shut

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Please e-mail David Rosenfelt at dr27712@aol.com with any feedback. Your comments are very much appreciated.

  ON BORROWED TIME. Copyright © 2011 by Tara Productions, Inc. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rosenfelt, David.

  On borrowed time / David Rosenfelt. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-59836-5

  1. Missing persons—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3618.O838O5 2011

  813'.6—dc22

  2010039088

  First Edition: February 2011

  eISBN 978-1-4299-9435-4

  First Minotaur Books eBook Edition: February 2011

 

 

 
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