The Inner Sanctum

by Stephen W. Frey

  He whipped around, eyes flashing about the room, a small seed of concern suddenly taking root at the base of his brain. The prey was escaping.

  The shrill sound of insect calls humming in the night filled his ears. A slight, almost imperceptible breeze of salt air caressed his face. Insect calls louder than they should have been. A salt-air breeze. His eyes shot to the bay window. He moved quickly to the desk, leaned over it, and put his hand against the window. It was unlocked and slightly ajar.

  A large porcelain mug spilled its contents of pens and pencils as Roth jumped onto the desktop and yanked open one side of the window. The banker’s lamp toppled over as he put one foot on the sill, but Roth took little notice as it smashed to the floor. He wasn’t concerned about disturbing the house now. The bullet holes, the mug, and the lamp could be taken care of later. The only concern now must be to track down the prey as quickly as possible. Roth squeezed through the window and jumped six feet to the ground.

  Jesse sprinted through the gauntlet of trees and shrubs, guided only by moonlight, spurred on by the sound of gunshots from the house. The foliage tore at her face, arms, and clothing as she stumbled through the blackness, avoiding the sharp branches as best she could. She had sensed the predator as he had peered through the window, though she was still not certain exactly how. Perhaps her ears had picked up a foreign sound or her nose an unfamiliar scent. Whatever it was, she had known instantly she must leave and that the front door was not an option.

  Her shoulder suddenly clipped a thin sapling obscured by the darkness and she fell heavily to the leaf-covered ground. The file from Robinson’s desk slipped from her hand and its contents spilled to the ground. A sharp pain shot from her shoulder to her fingertips, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. She lay on the ground for a moment rubbing the shoulder, then picked herself up, took off her gloves and stuffed them in her pants pocket, retrieved the papers lying strewn about the dry leaves and kept going. She had to keep going. The predator was back there in the darkness. She could feel him.

  Her plan was to move quickly through the forest forty yards in from the road, using the trees as cover, until she reached a spot close to where she had parked her car. Then she would cross the road, find the car in the grove of trees, and escape. It would have been much easier to simply race down the asphalt, but her instincts told her she would have been too obvious on the road, too vulnerable. There was a strong possibility the intruder wasn’t working alone, and she was much safer in the cover of the woods even though it was slower going.

  Be careful. God, if she had only known how serious Robinson’s message had been. And in the next instant the ground fell suddenly away, and she tumbled down a ravine, screaming as the darkness enveloped her.

  Roth’s head snapped to the right. A scream, a terrified scream, human not animal. Female, judging by the pitch, and it was close. Closer than he could have hoped. Relief rushed through his body as he bolted toward the line of trees at the edge of the neatly trimmed lawn. The odds were suddenly back in his favor.

  Jesse stood up, water dripping from her clothes, and moved out of the stream. She picked up the file, which had fallen on the bank. She checked it. It hadn’t been damaged. Then she heard the footsteps crashing over dry oak leaves.

  For a moment Jesse stood still, uncertain of whether to run or hide. Finally she turned, waded through the water, and began struggling up the other side of the ravine. But the moist ground gave way maddeningly in her fingers, and after climbing only a few feet she slid back to the bottom.

  Leaning on the bank, she hesitated for a moment to listen, trying to discern sounds other than the pounding of her heart. The footsteps were still coming fast. She glanced quickly to the left and right, then headed upstream, toward Gull Road.

  She tried to stay on the bank, out of the water, but the stream took a sudden curve, and in the darkness she stumbled into a shallow pool and splashed into the icy, spring-fed water again.

  Roth heard the splash and altered his path toward it as he dodged trees. The prey was close. He gripped the Magnum tightly and pressed forward. Then suddenly he too slipped down the steep ravine, tumbling over and over until finally he fell into the stream at the bottom. But he was up quickly, shaking himself, listening for sounds that would lead him to the quarry. He was disoriented from the fall and uncertain whether the splash he had heard was up-stream or down from his position. Seconds were passing. The prey was moving away. He had to make a decision.

  Jesse heard Roth fall, and against every instinct she didn’t run wildly away. Instead she moved more slowly than she had before, careful not to tumble into the water again. Careful to be as quiet as possible. Careful not to give away her position, because there was no longer any question that the predator was close.

  Terror and the urge to scream suddenly overwhelmed her, but she managed to control the fear, realizing the odds were small anyone would hear her—except the pursuer. She stopped, leaned against the face of a large rock for a moment to suck in warm humid air, then pushed on.

  Through the darkness and a break in the treetops the moon appeared, and then a bridge beneath the moon. It was the same bridge she had crossed on foot twenty minutes ago to get to the house after hiding the car. Only twenty minutes ago, but it seemed like hours now. She glanced up at the overpass, just a dark shape against a dark sky. The car was close, only a few hundred feet from the bridge.

  She gripped the file tightly and jogged ahead. The bank was clear of foliage close to the bridge, and she was able to make progress more easily. She pressed her hand against her wet pants pocket and felt the car keys. Starting the engine might give away her position, but she would be gone before the pursuer could take advantage of it. And once she began driving, not even the fires of hell were going to stop her.

  The air became cooler and slightly stale as she moved beneath the bridge. Moonlight shimmered off the water’s surface, casting eerie, pale shadows on the cement. And just the slight sound of her footsteps on the rocks seemed to echo loudly inside the bridge.

  Once out from under the bridge, she waded the stream and climbed the embankment. It was gently sloped on this side of Gull Road, and in seconds she had reached the top. She sprinted across a field of clover and slipped into the pine grove, then quickly located her Camaro. Frantically she pulled the keys from her pocket, inserted them into the lock, opened the door, and slipped behind the wheel. She patted the car’s dashboard once gently, like an old friend, before thrusting the keys into the ignition.

  The Camaro roared to life. She slammed the stick shift into first gear, let out the clutch, and punched the accelerator. The car leaped forward as she flicked on the lights. A sense of satisfaction gripped her as she yanked the stick back into second and hurtled down the rutted dirt path toward Gull Road. She could handle a performance vehicle as well as anyone. Her older brothers had seen to that.

  As she guided the car between the pine rows, she reached for the leather gloves she had stuffed into her back pocket. She dug deeply and pulled one out, throwing it onto the seat beside her. Then she dug her hand in again searching for the other, but the pocket was empty. “Dammit!”

  Gull Road rushed up to meet the dirt path. With both hands she jerked the steering wheel right, aiming the car away from Robinson’s home—and the predator. The Camaro fishtailed slightly as dusty tires met asphalt, but she easily controlled the spin.

  She flicked on the high beams and suddenly came face to face with her pursuer. He stood in the middle of the road, cap brim pulled down to his eyes, pointing a gun directly at her. Without hesitation Jesse thrust the stick forward into third gear and jammed the accelerator to the floor. But the figure didn’t move, and she screamed as the Camaro hurtled toward him.

  Sixty feet, fifty feet, forty. Roth waited until the last moment before pumping the clip’s six remaining shells into the Camaro. The bullets ripped through the windshield, spraying shattered
glass throughout the car’s interior, then exploded out the back window.

  As he fired the last bullet, Roth dove for the reeds at the side of the road, but he was an instant late and the Camaro’s front left fender grazed his lower leg. The impact spun him through the air, separating the shoe from his foot. He landed heavily on his face and knee on the loose gravel at the edge of the asphalt. Despite the pain shooting through his cheek and up his leg, he lifted his head to check the license plate. But as the Camaro raced past, the lights suddenly dimmed.

  Jesse rose up quickly from the passenger seat onto which she had ducked only an instant before the figure standing in the road had begun firing. She was covered with glass but ignored the sharp slivers and the tiny cuts on her forearms. She gripped the steering wheel hard with her left hand as the wind whipped through her hair and reached down with her right to turn the lights back on. As her head sank back she suddenly realized the headrest was gone. One of the bullets had blown it out through the shattered back window.

  Roth spat out the dust and dirt in his mouth, then sat up and rubbed his throbbing leg. Blood from a cut over his left eye trickled down the side of his face, but for some moments he remained oblivious to it. He stared through the darkness at the sound of the fleeing car, then nodded his head as the lights came on too far away for him to discern the numbers and letters of the license plate. Whoever was driving that car was a formidable enemy, someone he had to seek out and destroy if the mission was going to remain on track. But the trail was quickly growing cold as the car raced away.

  Roth reached inside his windbreaker and pulled out the leather glove he had found on the leaves. This would be all he needed to pick up the trail again.

  * * *

  —

  “What do you have?” The man’s voice was calm.

  “A leather glove. Judging by the small size and design, I’d say the glove was worn by a female.” Roth’s leg was still killing him, but his expression gave away no hint of pain. He had endured much worse. “Inside the glove was a hair. A long hair. Again, I’d say female. Maybe the person ran her fingers through her hair before putting on the glove.”

  “So at least we have something.”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your plan?” the man asked.

  “We were lucky. The hair had a follicle, and we can pull a DNA sample from the cells in the follicle. We know the person I chased tonight is one of twenty-two people in the department. If I can collect hair samples from those people, say from their brushes or coat collars, we might be able to get a match using DNA analysis.”

  “It will take time to collect the samples,” the man pointed out.

  “I’m fast,” Roth assured the man.

  “But even if you could get the samples quickly, it’s still a long process in the laboratory using a hair follicle. Two to three weeks, probably. Using blood would be different, but that’s out of the question. And we don’t have two or three weeks.” The man was becoming anxious.

  “So we come at it another way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In this case we have a limited pool of twenty-two people. We’re almost certain our target is one of them.”

  “Yes.”

  “The lab can eliminate people from suspicion by examining the samples I collect and comparing them to the hair in the glove in terms of color and texture. Plus, if the lab finds certain chemicals on the hair from the glove, say chemicals found in specific dyes or shampoos, and the same chemicals on just one of the samples I collect, we can be reasonably sure we’ve got the right person. I think ‘reasonably sure’ isn’t a bad thing in this case.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “There’s still another way to come at this thing,” Roth offered.

  “What’s that?”

  “The glove has a tag sewn on the inside. The name of the store from which it was purchased, I assume. It’s an exclusive leather goods shop in the Galleria in downtown Baltimore. Maybe people at the store could give me information. With the scanners and automatic reorder entry systems retail stores employ these days, they should be able to give me a list of names of those who purchased this exact type of glove from the store in the past year or so. At least those who purchased by credit card. If that list contains a name from the department, I think we should move on that person immediately.”

  “Absolutely.” Suddenly the man was feeling much better.

  “Is it all right if I use the Justice Department badge for that? I’d probably get results faster.”

  “Use anything you have to. Just find the person who took that file from Robinson’s house.”

  Chapter 8

  Jesse moved quickly down the long corridor, a thick envelope from the records room under her arm. She had decided against contacting the police about being chased at Neil Robinson’s house last night. Police complaints were a matter of public record, and they would probably be the first thing the person who had chased her would check.

  Turning the corner into her office doorway, she almost ran into a man coming out. She didn’t recognize him and was instantly suspicious, still on edge from the experience last night.

  “Excuse me,” he said softly.

  The man had long blond hair and a beard and mustache. She noticed him pushing a cellophane bag into his pants pocket. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah, I’m looking for Sara Adams.”

  Jesse eyed the visitor badge clipped to his shirt pocket. Sara must be expecting him. The people at the front desk wouldn’t have given him the badge without calling her first. “Go left at the next hallway.” She motioned down the corridor. “Her office is the fourth door on the right.”

  “Thanks.” The man moved past her without another word.

  Jesse watched him walk away, limping slightly. Perhaps she should call Sara just to make sure. Then she shook her head and brushed off the odd feeling. She was just imagining things.

  * * *

  —

  Jesse felt the tap on her shoulder and jumped, emitting a muffled shriek as she whirled about, hands over her mouth. She had been far away, replaying last night’s chase through the woods and this morning’s run-in with the bearded man coming out of her office. Wondering if she should have contacted the police. Wondering if the man was looking for her. Knowing he was.

  “Sorry to startle you, Jesse, but I have someone I’d like you to meet.” The professor nodded toward the woman standing next to him.

  “Yes, of course.” Jesse took several short breaths to calm herself.

  “Elizabeth Gilman, meet Jesse Hayes,” the professor said quietly. He didn’t want anyone at the cocktail party to hear this, lest he be accused of favoritism. “Jesse is my best student.”

  “I think that was rather obvious, given the class discussion.” Elizabeth smiled warmly at Jesse. “Honestly, I thought your comments were excellent. Best of the bunch.”

  “That’s very nice of you to say, Ms. Gilman.” Jesse’s voice shook slightly, and with good reason, she thought to herself. Elizabeth Gilman was a legend in the financial world. She had organized Sagamore as a small life insurance company in the late seventies and expanded it into one of the best-performing, most highly respected investment funds in the country.

  “Please call me Elizabeth.” The older woman laughed. “Do I really look that old?” She pointed at the professor. “Don’t answer that. Not if you want me to come back again.”

  Jesse saw Elizabeth’s eyes sparkle as the professor laughed. Despite her age she was dynamic and beautiful. Stark gray hair swept back away from her classic, thin face—a face practically devoid of wrinkles or age spots, a face still full of energy and enthusiasm. Jesse glanced down at the floor. Her throat was suddenly dry, and she could think of nothing to say that might interest such an important person.

  The professor sensed Jesse’s unease and
pushed the conversation forward. “Elizabeth, I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your taking time out of your busy schedule to come down here and teach a class,” he said. “It’s terribly important for the students to see and hear from people in the real world, not just the academicians. And for us to have someone of your stature come here, well, it’s—”

  “Thank you.” Elizabeth didn’t take her eyes from the young woman as she politely interrupted the professor. “Jesse, I was impressed with your observations about the stock market.” Elizabeth’s diamond earrings shimmered in the chandelier light.

  “Thank you.”

  Elizabeth leaned forward so the professor couldn’t hear. “There’s no reason to be nervous, Jesse. I eat and sleep just like you. I’ve just been a little lucky with a few investments.” The older woman leaned back again.

  “It isn’t luck,” Jesse replied. “Your success is a function of putting yourself in the best position more often than anyone else does. It’s a function of playing the odds.”

  “True.” Elizabeth nodded approvingly. “Say, why don’t you come out to Sagamore and visit us? I’m always looking for young talent.”

  “That would be wonderful!” Wall Street suddenly seemed much less important.

  “In fact, there’s someone I want you to meet right away,” Elizabeth continued. She motioned to a young man who was talking with several of Jesse’s classmates.

  David acknowledged the wave subtly, excused himself from the group at an appropriate point in the conversation, and moved toward Elizabeth.

  “Jesse, this is David Mitchell.” Elizabeth patted David’s broad back as he took Jesse’s hand and smiled. “David is one of our portfolio managers at Sagamore. I asked him to come down from Baltimore tonight with me for exactly this reason—in case I identified someone in class who might fit in at Sagamore.”