Vortex

by Catherine Coulter

  “Smart girl.” The pressure from the gun eased. He called to the driver, “Go carefully, turn left out of the mall, then straight ahead.” She felt his attention on her again. “You think the agent will follow us? Non, I broke the car. I see le bouffon—he yells on his mobile, calling for help. But it will not matter, we will be long away. And the license plate it has la boue—the mud on it. And this Chrysler van, it is everywhere.” He looked back down at her. “Now I take your guns. Non, you will not fight me again.” He drew her Glock from its clip at her waist, reached down and pulled out her ankle pistol. He patted her down, found the knife strapped at her waist, and pulled her cell from her jeans pocket. Olivia felt a gust of frigid air when he opened a window. She heard her cell phone clatter to the pavement.

  She had to keep her wits, but it was hard to even breathe. “Please, take off the pillowcase, I can’t breathe.”

  “You will be a good girl, oui?”

  “Yes.”

  He pulled the pillowcase off her head, shoved her onto her back. Olivia stared up at his swarthy face, and its two days of beard scruff. His eyes were covered with opaque sunglasses, his hair dark and curling, a few flecks of silver at the temples, so maybe in his early forties. Even with his heavy coat, she could see he was well built and very strong. He called out, “Turn left here, Claude, keep straight. They will not know where to send the flics.”

  He leaned back, grinned down at her. “We were ready to take both of you, but that stupid agent made it easy. He forgot his scarf, right? And the fool left you alone to go get it.” He laughed, looked pleased with himself.

  Olivia ran her tongue over her dry lips, swallowed. At least she could breathe again. “Why don’t you tell me your name?”

  He grinned at her, nice teeth, but a bit yellow from smoking Gauloises. “You will call me René.”

  His real name? If so, it meant he planned to kill her. “How did you find me? How did you know where the safe house was?”

  René stroked his pistol over her earlobe, light as a lover’s fingers. Olivia didn’t move. He laughed quietly. “It is good for a woman to be in her place, quiet, obedient. And now you will tell our driver exactly where Mike Kingman is hiding. I know for sure you have the knowledge. You also know what I want. This time do not think to tell me the lie.” He leaned close. “I have won, accept it. The brain, the patience, I have them both. Fortune now shines on my head, that is something you say, oui?”

  Olivia nodded, let acceptance and defeat bleed into her voice. “Yes, you have it exactly right.”

  He patted her cheek with the muzzle of his gun. “Good girl. Now give Claude directions—oui, that is the name we give him—tell him how to get to Kingman or I shoot your kneecaps, like your old American gangsters. Do you comprehend?”

  She drew in a deep breath. “If I take you to him, you’ll kill us.”

  He moved the pistol to her breast, leaned close, his hot breath on her cheek. “If I get the flash drive, why waste bullets?”

  She slowly nodded. “You must know he hasn’t been able to access that flash drive, it’s encrypted. He can’t even copy it without the key and you can’t either. Only certain people at the CIA have the key.”

  “That is not your concern. Tell Claude the directions. Maintenant—now.” He pressed the muzzle hard against her left knee and started humming. It was scarier than anything he’d said.

  “Why don’t you call Mike? Negotiate a trade?”

  “So he can run again?” He laughed. “Give Claude the directions.”

  Olivia looked through the windshield. “Go straight until you see Brewer Avenue, turn left.”

  It was the slower way to Galesburg. After Claude turned left, she called out, “Turn right at the next street, Culver, and stay straight. We’re going to Maryland, to the Potomac.”

  “How long?”

  “Forty minutes.”

  René forced her onto her side away from him. She heard him speaking French on his cell. Reporting in to his boss in France?

  He tapped off, then said to her in English, “No one follows us. Claude, do not drive beyond their limit.”

  “Who are you working with in the CIA?”

  “Maybe someday you will know this.” He paused a moment, grimaced, slowly flexed his shoulder. “Maybe I hurt you to pay back for your lucky shot. Mon épaule, my shoulder, Claude took care of me or it could be very bad.” The van hit a bump and René hissed out a breath. He shoved the pistol against her side, hard enough to make her suck in her breath.

  “I wish I’d shot you in the head, ended you.”

  “Salope! Bitch. Ferme ta gueule, I want no more from you or I strike you again.”

  René didn’t speak again. The minutes passed slowly, like coarse sand sliding through the neck of an hourglass. The driver, Claude, hadn’t said a word yet. Again Olivia wondered, Was he the man who’d shot at her Monday night?

  When they’d left the red lights and stop signs behind, René poked her with his pistol again. “Sit up now and look out the window. Forty minutes have passed. How close are we to Mike Kingman?”

  Olivia struggled to sit up, felt a moment of dizziness, and looked out the window. “In about a mile, turn right on the unpaved road. There isn’t a sign.”

  Claude slowed, turned the van onto an unpaved old potholed road that led down to the Potomac some fifty yards ahead. There were no houses nearby, only bushes, tangled vines, short stretches of broken-down fencing, groves of hemlocks and oaks crowded together. Through the trees, Olivia saw the derelict boat ramp sinking into the steel-gray water, the bitter wind whipping waves over the rotting boards.

  René said, “Claude, no closer, we take no chance Kingman sees us. Stop behind these trees.”

  Claude gently turned the van off the narrow road to the right and drove slowly over low-lying shrubs to stop behind a copse of hemlocks. Twenty yards ahead was a battered old wooden boathouse, weathered to a sullen gray, its windows long broken, covered with cardboard. It was like a still life painting, no sign of life.

  Claude came around to the back of the van and opened the door. He held a gun on her as René pushed her out, jumped out behind her. Olivia stumbled, went down on her knees, slowly got to her feet.

  “Claude, wait with her, I will see what goes on. She is trained, so keep away from her and do not let down your guard. Keep your Beretta pointed at her.”

  “Believe me, René, I saw what she could do Monday night. I will not let her close to me. She won’t do anything. Don’t worry.”

  Olivia said slowly, “So you were the one I heard speaking English. You were with the Iranian. But you don’t have a French accent.”

  Claude took a step back, grinned at her. “Actually, I grew up in Indiana.”

  René frowned at him, leaned close to Olivia, murmured in her ear, “Now we find out what this Mike Kingman thinks of you. If he does not give me the flash drive, I will make both of you dead. If he does, well then, we’ll see, won’t we? Claude, shoot her in the leg if she tries anything.” He patted her cheek with his pistol and disappeared into the hemlocks.

  44

  Kent

  Bellevue Hospital

  Thursday

  Kent couldn’t move, couldn’t feel his body, couldn’t see. Was he blind? Where was he? Were those voices he heard? Yes, a woman’s voice, and two men’s, calm, ordinary voices, workaday voices, like a team, calling out numbers, saying words he didn’t understand. There was something in his throat, a machine hissing in and out, like a bellows. He realized his brain was working even though his body was elsewhere. Should he be afraid? Before he could decide, his thoughts turned fluid, flowed in no particular direction, gently, slowly. He saw his grandmother, Kiki, smiling at him, her gold molar on display. He hoped she was all right, but no, she’d died, hadn’t she? Some time ago? He couldn’t remember how long, not that it mattered. He heard the machine huffing, in and out, in and out, and he let himself fall into the steady rhythm. Everything seemed to soften, as if he were
floating on a cloud, content as he drifted. He knew nothing could hurt him here, wherever here was. He wondered if he was Snake, wondered if he’d sink into the cloud or draw his sword. No, he wasn’t Snake, he really wasn’t. He was himself. He heard a man’s urgent voice, “Blood pressure’s dropping!”

  He saw Kiki again, on her knees in front of him, pulling his arms through the sleeves of his winter jacket. She smelled like strawberries. She always smelled like strawberries. She kissed him, laughed, kissed him again. He felt the sweetness on his cheek.

  Mia

  Mia heard a man nearly snarling as she, Tommy, and Juliet approached the surgery waiting room and stopped to listen.

  “You’re telling me, Special Agent Sherlock, you were really there, as in right on the spot, and you watched Mr. Kent Harper get shot? The FBI ordered you to be there, watching him?”

  Sherlock’s voice was lower, controlled, but Tommy heard the frustration boiling below the surface. He bet she wanted to punch the guy’s lights out. “Detective Hoolihan, as I’ve told you, Mr. Harper is a person of interest in a rape and murder investigation from seven years ago involving the FBI. As I told you, it wasn’t a formal op, I was doing a favor, all right? Keeping an eye on him, ready to follow him if he ran.”

  Out came a snarl, fast and sarcastic. “Didn’t do such a good job, did you, Agent Sherlock? Yeah, I know who you are, but you didn’t shine very bright tonight, did you? I’m thinking you being there was probably what got him shot in the first place. The guy takes two bullets in the back with you sucking your thumb fifty feet away?”

  They didn’t hear what Sherlock said because his voice was louder and overrode hers. “And you’re actually telling me Alex Harrington is involved? In rape and murder? Kent Harper’s in the papers now and then, but Harrington is running for mayor of New York City. Lady—smack my disrespectful mouth, I mean Special Agent Sherlock—cool your heels, try not to get anyone else shot. I’ve got to make some calls, get this going up to the big brass, see where they want to steer this boat. Then you’re going to give me every single detail. You and those people you say you’re working with, as soon as they arrive.”

  “That’s our cue,” Tommy said, and the three of them walked into the waiting room to see a tall, stick-thin man in a rumpled suit, cruising close to sixty, his head bald as an egg, shining bright beneath the fluorescent light. He was standing maybe a foot in front of Sherlock, in her face, dismissive and impatient, a sneer on his thin lips, trying to intimidate her. Good luck with that. Tommy saw Sherlock was holding on to her patience and realized she was blaming herself for allowing Kent Harper to be shot, and that was why she hadn’t taken the detective apart. She felt guilty.

  Tommy said in a deep, authoritative voice, “Detective Hoolihan? We’re the three who can tell you everything you like. I’m Special Agent Thomas Maitland, FBI.” He introduced Mia and Juliet.

  Hoolihan turned to them slowly, nodded toward Mia and Juliet, eyed Tommy. “You freaking feds always travel in packs, don’t you? This one”—he shook his head in Sherlock’s direction—“tells me the New York City mayoral candidate Alex Harrington is not only a suspect, along with the guy who’s in surgery with two bullets in his back, but that candidate Harrington himself might have even been the one who shot him, afraid the guy would roll on him? Let’s give the poor schmuck a name—Kent Harper. As to her”—he gave Sherlock a dismissive glance—“I hope you’re going to tell me you’ve never seen her before and she’s barking nuts. Yeah, sure, I know who she is, who cares?” He ran his hand over his bald head, a longtime habit, back from when he had hair.

  Tommy said calmly, stepping closer to look Hoolihan in the eye, “If you know about Agent Sherlock, you know she’s brave as a lion, which should make you realize there had to be circumstances outside her control. I also overheard you’ll be calling your lieutenant, who will of course contact his captain, and up it goes to police commissioner—”

  Hoolihan looked pained as he said, “Up to the freaking current mayor.” He glanced at Sherlock. “Circumstances? She admitted she screwed up.”

  Tommy continued, “You probably would have, too, if you’d been on her watch and in her shoes.”

  “She shouldn’t have been alone!”

  Sherlock said, “Detective Hoolihan is right. I should have known it was possible, Tommy, but I didn’t think it through. If Harper dies, it’s on my head.”

  Mia wasn’t about to remind her that both she and Juliet had wanted to go with Sherlock and she’d been appalled to think of taking two civilians on a stakeout. Would there have been a different outcome? Very likely not.

  Tommy said simply, “Then it’s on our heads as well; none of us gave a thought to there being a real threat, just Harper running. What’s done is done. Stop wallowing or I’ll call Savich and he’ll read you the riot act.”

  “I already did,” Sherlock said, frowning. “I got his voice mail and that’s never happened before.”

  Tommy turned back to Hoolihan. “There’s going to be a huge ruckus and the mayor will decide how to deal with it. He needs as much warning as he can get.” Tommy looked down at his watch.

  Hoolihan wanted to punch this good-looking kid who looked to be younger than his own son. “When I get back, the four of you better be here.” He wagged a finger at all of them, turned on his heel, and marched out of the room, cursing under his breath, his cell phone in his hand.

  Tommy said, “Sherlock, tell us what happened before our charming Detective Hoolihan comes back.”

  Juliet was looking after him, clearly bewildered. “I don’t understand. He’s a cop. Just like you guys are cops. Why is he being a jerk?”

  Sherlock said on a short laugh, “Territorial rights, and to be honest, I wouldn’t be happy either since, as I said, it’s my fault Harper got shot. This is a local matter now, as he sees it, no reason for the federales to stick their big noses in. Come, sit down and I’ll tell you what happened.”

  Juliet thought Sherlock looked both exhausted and angry, with blood splattered all over her white shirt, black and stiff. She ran her fingers through her beautiful curly hair, making a clump stick up. Like Sherlock, Juliet still couldn’t believe Kent had been shot, couldn’t believe he could die. And how could he live with two bullets in his back? She knew Mia was as shocked as she was. She watched mesmerized as Sherlock picked at the dried blood on her blouse. What would she do if she was covered with someone else’s blood? Kent being shot was real. Juliet had to get her brain around it. It was too much, really too much.

  Sherlock said, “Before I tell you what happened, did anyone tell you about Harper’s condition?”

  Mia saw Sherlock was back fully in control again, her voice clipped, matter-of-fact. Mia said, “The ER nurse couldn’t give us any information himself, but he did say if Kent hadn’t gotten here so quickly he’d be dead. He said because you were so fast, Sherlock, you gave him a chance, that, and you slowed the bleeding.”

  Sherlock sighed. “Thank you for saying that. The EMTs arrived within three minutes. What with the vile weather, so no traffic, they got down here to Bellevue in record time. He was in surgery in ten minutes. But the truth is, I should have stopped it. I wasn’t fast enough—”

  Tommy stepped forward, lightly laid his hand on her arm. “Sit down, take a deep breath, take us through what happened.”

  Sherlock sat down. Her guilt had her acting like a civilian. It pissed her off. It was time for her to get on top of this mess, even if she didn’t fully understand why it had happened. “I’d been sitting in my car a half block down the street from Kent Harper’s brownstone. I never said it out loud, but I really thought I was wasting my time, babysitting this guy, sitting on my butt on the off chance he’d make a run for it. Then I’d think Harper was rich enough for a battalion of lawyers, so why would he run? So I was catching up on paperwork, called home and spoke to Sean, tried to get Dillon, but like I said, I only got his voice mail. I was wondering how I was going to stay awake when Kent came out o
f his house, pulling two suitcases. I watched him lock the door, set the alarm, and walk to his car. I started my engine, ready to pull out. I saw him open the trunk with his fob and lean in to stow the luggage when a small dark SUV I’d seen earlier in a driveway two doors down suddenly backed out fast, very smooth, as if he’d practiced it. He drove the SUV close, an arm stuck out the passenger window, and fired two shots. Harper collapsed. The SUV sped away. I stopped my car in the middle of the street, called 911 as I ran to him. Harper was barely conscious, mumbling, I couldn’t make out what he was saying. He had two gunshot wounds in his back and he was bleeding badly. I applied pressure, kept talking to him. The EMTs arrived fast, got pressure bandages on him, and were off to Bellevue, sirens blaring. I called in the license plate on the SUV. I heard only minutes before Detective Hoolihan burst in that the plates were stolen.

  “This was the last thing Hoolihan wanted on a Thursday night. He was angry when he walked into the room and it was downhill from there. All he was hearing was an FBI agent had witnessed an attempted murder and I hadn’t called it in to the NYPD. I reminded him I’d called 911 and was trying to save Harper’s life. I think you heard most of the rest.

  “At least Hoolihan realizes he has to involve all of us, we’re the ones with the history, the evidence.” Sherlock searched each of their faces. “I don’t see how Harper can make it. Two shots, center back. I was afraid he would bleed out on me before the ambulance arrived.”

  She looked down at the stiff blood covering her white blouse. “You forget how much blood there is in the human body.”

  An older man with white hair in tufts spiked up around his head appeared in the doorway. He studied them briefly. “I’m Dr. Morgan, one of the surgeons. I was asked to give you an update. Kent Harper is still in surgery, will be for at least another two to three hours. We’re having trouble keeping up with the rate of his blood loss. I suggest if you haven’t contacted his family, you do it quickly.”