When he finally answers, his voice is flat, revealing no hint that Olena’s charms have affected him. “There’s a service station up the road. I need to stop there for gas anyway. I’ll ask about a tow truck.”
We climb into the car. Olena sits in the front seat, I huddle in the back. I have stuffed the money she gave me into my pocket, and now it feels like a glowing lump of coal. I am still angry, still wounded by her cruelty. With this money, I can manage without her, without anyone. And I will.
The man does not talk as he drives. At first I think he is merely ignoring us, that we are of no interest to him. Then I catch a glimpse of his eyes in the rearview mirror, and I realize he’s been studying me, studying both of us. In his silence, he’s as alert as a cat.
The lights of the service station glow ahead, and we pull into the driveway and stop beside the pump. The man gets out to fill his tank, then he says to us: “I’ll ask about the tow truck.” He walks into the building.
Olena and I remain in the car, uncertain of our next move. Through the window, we see our driver talking to the cashier. He points to us, and the cashier picks up a phone.
“He’s calling the police,” I whisper to Olena. “We should leave. We should run now.” I reach for the door and am about to push it open when a black car swings into the service station and pulls up right beside our car. Two men step out, both dressed in dark clothes. One of them has white-blond hair, cut short as a brush. They look at us.
In an instant, my blood freezes in my veins.
We are trapped animals in this stranger’s car, and two hunters have now surrounded us. The blond man stands right outside my door, gazing in at me, and I can only stare back through the window at the last face the Mother ever saw. The last face I will probably ever see.
Suddenly, the blond man’s chin snaps up and his gaze shifts to the building. I turn and see that our driver has just stepped outside, and is walking toward the car. He has paid for the gas, and he is stuffing his wallet back in his pocket. He slows down, frowning at the two men who now flank his car.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” our driver asks.
The blond man answers. “Sir, could we ask you a few questions?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Special Agent Steve Ullman. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Our driver does not seem particularly impressed by this. He reaches into the service station bucket and picks up a squeegee. Wrings out the excess water and begins to wipe his dirty windshield. “What do you two fellows want to talk to me about?” he asks, scraping water from the glass.
The blond man leans in closer to our driver and speaks in a muted voice. I hear the words female fugitives and dangerous.
“So why are you talking to me?” the driver says.
“This is your car, right?”
“Yeah.” Our driver suddenly laughs. “Oh, now I get it. In case you’re wondering, that’s my wife and her cousin sitting in the car. They look real dangerous, don’t they?”
The blond man glances at his partner. A look of surprise. They don’t know what to say.
Our driver drops the squeegee back in the bucket, throwing up a splash. “Good luck, guys,” he says, and opens his car door. As he climbs in behind the wheel, he says loudly to Olena: “Sorry, honey. They didn’t have any Advil. We’ll have to try the next gas station.”
As we drive away, I glance back and see that the men are still staring after us. One of them is writing down the license number.
For a moment, no one in the car speaks. I am still too paralyzed by fear to say a word. I can only stare at the back of our driver’s head. The man who has just saved our lives.
Finally he says: “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”
“They lied to you,” says Olena. “We are not dangerous!”
“And they’re not FBI.”
“You already know this?”
The man looks at her. “Look, I’m not stupid. I know the real deal when I see it. And I know when I’m getting bullshitted. So how about telling me the truth?”
Olena releases a weary sigh. In a whisper she says: “They want to kill us.”
“That much I figured out.” He shakes his head and laughs, but there is no humor in it. It’s the laugh of a man who cannot believe his bad luck. “Man, when it rains on me, it just fucking pours,” he says. “So who are they and why do they want to kill you?”
“Because of what we have seen tonight.”
“What did you see?”
She looks out the window. “Too much,” she murmurs. “We have seen too much.”
For the moment he lets that answer suffice, because we have just turned off the road. Our tires bump over a dirt track that takes us deep into woods. He stops the car in front of a ramshackle house surrounded by trees. It is little more than a rough-hewn cabin, something that only a poor man would live in. But on the roof is a giant satellite dish.
“This is your home?” Olena asks.
“It’s where I live,” is his odd answer.
He uses three different keys to open the front door. Standing on the porch, waiting for him to open his various locks, I notice that his windows all have bars. For a moment I hesitate to step inside because I think of the other house that we have just escaped. But these bars, I realize, are different; these are not to trap people in; they are meant to keep people out.
Inside I smell wood smoke and damp wool. He does not turn on any lights, but navigates across the dark room as though he knows every square inch of it blind. “It gets a little musty in here when I go away for a few days,” he says. He strikes a match, and I see that he is kneeling at a hearth. The bundle of kindling and logs are already waiting to be lit, and flames soon dance to life. The glow illuminates his face, which seems even more gaunt, more somber in this shadowy room. Once, I think, it might have been a handsome face, but the eyes are now too hollow, and his lean jaw has several days’ growth of dark stubble. As the fire brightens, I glance around at a small room made even smaller by tall piles of newspapers and magazines, by the dozens and dozens of news clippings he has tacked to the walls. They are everywhere, like yellowing scales, and I imagine him shut up in this lonely cabin, day after day, month after month, feverishly cutting out articles whose significance only he understands. I look around at the barred windows and remember the three locks on the front door. And I think: This is the home of a frightened man.
He goes to a cabinet and unlocks it. I am startled to see half a dozen rifles racked inside. He removes one and locks the cabinet again. At the sight of that gun in his hand, I retreat a step.
“It’s okay. Nothing to be scared of,” he says, seeing my alarmed face. “Tonight, I’d just like to keep a gun close at hand.”
We hear a bell-like chime.
The man’s head jerks up at the sound. Carrying his rifle, he moves to the window and peers out at the woods. “Something just tripped the sensor,” he says. “Could be just an animal. Then again …” He lingers at the window for a long time, his hand on his rifle. I remember the two men at the service station watching us drive away. Writing down our license number. By now, they must know who owns the car. They must know where he lives.
The man crosses to a stack of wood, picks up a fresh log, and drops it onto the fire. Then he settles into a rocking chair and sits looking at us, the rifle on his lap. Flames crackle, and sparks dance in the hearth.
“My name is Joe,” he says. “Tell me who you are.”
I look at Olena. Neither one of us says anything. Though this strange man has saved our lives tonight, we are still afraid of him.
“Look, you made the choice. You climbed in my car.” His chair creaks as it rocks on the wooden floor. “Now it’s too late to be coy, ladies,” he says. “The die has been cast.”
When I awaken, it is still not daylight, but the fire has burned down to mere embers. The last thing I recall, before falling asleep, were the voices of Olena and Joe, talking softly. Now, b
y the glow from the hearth, I can see Olena sleeping beside me on the braided rug. I am still angry at her, and have not forgiven her for the things she said. A few hours’ sleep has made the inevitable clear to me. We cannot stay together forever.
The creak of the rocking chair draws my gaze; I see the faint gleam of Joe’s rifle, and feel him watching me. He has probably been watching us sleep for some time.
“Wake her up,” he says to me. “We need to leave now.”
“Why?”
“They’re out there. They’ve been watching the house.”
“What?” I scramble to my feet, my heart suddenly thudding, and go to the window. All I see outside is the darkness of woods. Then I realize that the stars are fading, that the night will soon lift to gray.
“I think they’re still parked up the road. They haven’t tripped the next set of motion detectors yet,” he says. “But we need to move now, before it gets light.” He rises, goes to a closet, and takes out a backpack. Whatever the pack contains gives a metallic clank. “Olena,” he says, and nudges her with his boot. She stirs and looks at him. “Time to go,” he says. “If you want to live.”
He does not take us out the front door. Instead he pulls up floorboards, and the smell of damp earth rises from the shadows below. He backs down the ladder and calls up to us: “Let’s go, ladies.”
I hand him the Mother’s tote bag, then scramble down after him. He has turned on a flashlight, and in the gloom I catch glimpses of crates stacked up against stone walls.
“In Vietnam, the villagers had tunnels under their houses, just like this one,” he says as he leads the way down a low passage. “Mostly, it was just to store food. But sometimes, it saved their lives.” He comes to a stop, unlocks a padlock, then turns off his flashlight. He lifts up a wooden hatch above his head.
We climb out of the tunnel, into dark woods. The trees cloak us as he leads us away from the house. We do not say a word; we don’t dare to. Once again, I am blindly following, always the foot soldier, never the general. But this time I trust the person leading me. Joe walks quietly, moving with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where he’s going. I walk right behind him, and as dawn begins to lighten the sky, I see that he has a limp. He is dragging his left leg a little, and once, when he glances back, I see his grimace of pain. But he pushes on into the gray light of morning.
Finally, through the trees ahead, I see a tumbledown farm. As we draw closer, I can tell that no one lives here. The windows are broken, and one end of the roof has caved inward. But Joe does not go to the house; he heads instead to the barn, which appears to be at equal risk of collapse. He opens a padlock and slides the barn door open.
Inside is a car.
“Always wondered if I’d ever really need it,” he says as he slides into the driver’s seat.
I climb in back. There is a blanket and pillow on the seat, and at my feet are cans of food. Enough to eat for several days.
Joe turns the ignition; the engine coughs reluctantly to life. “Hate to leave that place behind,” he says. “But maybe it’s time to go away for a while.”
“You are doing this for us?” I ask him.
He glances at me over his shoulder. “I’m doing this to stay out of trouble. You two ladies seem to have brought me a heaping dose of it.”
He backs the car out of the barn, and we begin to bump along the dirt road, past the ramshackle farmhouse, past a stagnant pond. Suddenly we hear a heavy whump. At once Joe stops the car, rolls down his window, and stares toward the woods from which we have just emerged.
Black smoke is rising above the trees, billowing up in angry columns that swirl into the brightening sky. I hear Olena give a startled cry. My hands are sweating and shaking as I think of the cabin we have just left, now in flames. And I think of burning flesh. Joe says nothing; he only stares at the smoke in shocked silence, and I wonder if he is cursing his bad luck at ever having met us.
After a moment, he releases a deep breath. “Jesus,” he murmurs. “Whoever these people are, they play for keeps.” He turns his attention back to the road. I know he is afraid, because I can see his hands clenching the steering wheel. I can see the white of his knuckles. “Ladies,” he says softly, “I think it’s time to vanish.”
TWENTY
Jane closed her eyes and surfed the crest of pain like a wave rider. Please let this one be over soon. Make it stop, make it stop. She felt sweat bloom on her face as the contraction built, gripping her so tightly that she could not moan, could not even breathe. Beyond her closed eyelids, the lights seemed to dim, all sounds muffled by the rush of her own pulse. Only vaguely did she register the disturbance in the room. A banging on the door. Joe’s tense demands.
Then, suddenly, a hand closed around Jane’s, its grasp warm and familiar. It can’t be, she thought as the pain of the contraction eased, as her vision slowly cleared. She focused on the face gazing down at her, and she went still in wonder.
“No,” she whispered. “No, you shouldn’t be here.”
He cupped her face, pressed his lips to her forehead, her hair. “Everything’s going to be fine, sweetheart. Just fine.”
“This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”
He smiled. “You knew I wasn’t too bright when you married me.”
“What were you thinking?”
“About you. Only about you.”
“Agent Dean,” said Joe.
Slowly, Gabriel rose to his feet. So many times before, Jane had looked at her husband and thought how blessed she was, but never as much as at this moment. He carried no weapon, held no advantage, yet as he turned to face Joe, he projected only quiet determination. “I’m here. Now will you let my wife go?”
“After we talk. After you hear us out.”
“I’m listening.”
“You have to promise you’ll follow up on what we tell you. You won’t let this die with us.”
“I said I’d listen. That’s all you asked. And you said you’d let these people go. You may have a death wish, but they don’t.”
Olena said, “We don’t wish anyone to die.”
“Then prove it. Release these people. Then I’ll sit here and listen for as long as you want me to. Hours, days. I’m at your disposal.” He stared, unflinching, at their captors.
A moment passed in silence.
Suddenly, Joe leaned toward the couch, grabbed Dr. Tam’s arm, and yanked her to her feet.
“Go stand by the door, doctor,” he ordered. He turned and pointed to the pair of women on the other couch. “You two, get up. Both of you.”
The women didn’t budge; they just gaped at Joe, as though certain this was a trick, that if they moved, there would be consequences.
“Go! Get up!”
The receptionist gave a sob and stumbled to her feet. Only then did the other woman follow her. They both edged toward the door, where Dr. Tam still stood frozen. Hours of captivity had so cowed them that they did not yet believe their ordeal was about to end. Even as Tam reached toward the door, she was watching Joe, waiting for his order to halt.
“You three can leave,” Joe said.
The instant the women had stepped out of the room, Olena slammed the door shut behind them and locked it again.
“What about my wife?” said Gabriel. “Let her go, too.”
“I can’t. Not yet.”
“Our agreement—”
“I agreed to release hostages, Agent Dean. I didn’t say which ones.”
Gabriel flushed in anger. “And you think I’m going to trust you now? You think I’d listen to a goddamn thing you say?”
Jane reached for her husband’s hand, and felt tendons taut with rage. “Just listen to him. Let him have his say.”
Gabriel released a breath. “Okay, Joe. What do you want to tell me?”
Joe grabbed two chairs, dragged them to the center of the room, and set them down facing each other. “Let’s sit, you and me.”
“My wife is in labor. She ca
n’t stay in here much longer.”
“Olena will attend to her.” He gestured to the chairs. “I’m going to tell you a story.”
Gabriel looked at Jane. She saw, in his eyes, both love and apprehension. Whom do you trust? Joe had asked her earlier. Who’d take this bullet for you? Staring at her husband, she thought: There will never be anyone I trust more than you.
Reluctantly, Gabriel turned his attention back to Joe, and the two men sat facing each other. It looked like a perfectly civilized summit, except for the fact that one of the men had a gun resting in his lap. Olena, now stationed on Jane’s couch, held an equally lethal weapon. Just a nice little get-together with two couples. Which pair will survive the night?
“What did they tell you about me?” said Joe. “What’s the FBI saying?”
“A few things.”
“I’m crazy, right? A loner. Paranoid.”
“Yes.”
“You believe them?”
“I have no reason not to.”
Jane watched her husband’s face. Though he spoke calmly, she could see the strain in his eyes, the tight muscles of his neck. You knew this man was insane, she thought, yet you walked in here anyway. All for me … She suppressed a groan as a new contraction began to build. Keep quiet. Don’t distract Gabriel; let him do what he needs to do. She sank back on the couch, teeth gritted, suffering in silence. Kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling, on a single dark smudge on the acoustic tile. Concentrate on your focal point. Mind over pain. The ceiling blurred, the smudge seeming to bob in an unsteady sea of white. It made her nauseated just to look at it. She closed her eyes, like a seasick sailor woozy from rocking waves.
Only when the contraction began to ease, when the pain at last released its grip, did she open her eyes. Her gaze, once again, focused on the ceiling. Something had changed. Next to the smudge there was now a small hole, almost unnoticeable among the pores of the acoustic tile.
She glanced at Gabriel, but he was not looking at her. He was completely focused on the man sitting across from him.
Joe asked: “Do you think I’m insane?”
Tess Gerritsen's Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle Page 140
