Bloodletting (34 page)

"I hope you gentlemen don't mind an escort," the taller of the two said. They were both standard corporate issue: late-twenties, cleanly shaven, broad chests, thick arms, the male version of the receptionists.

"Neither of you are blonde," Wolfe said with his cocky grin. "Got the blue eyes though."

They rode the rest of the way in silence and disembarked on the sixth floor. The marble tile positively shined. Framed artwork lined the walls down the hallway to either side. Brass fixtures illuminated the texture of the brushstrokes. Identical chandeliers dangled from the nine-foot ceiling. There was a set of double doors surrounded by frosted glass directly ahead, and no other doors on that side of the hallway.

Carver went straight for the right door and opened it. Inside was a waiting room nearly as ornate as the front lobby, though on a smaller scale. The entire wall to the left was a massive saltwater reef tank with fluorescent coral blooming from the live rock. Triggerfish darted back and forth up high while a small silver shark cruised languidly near the bottom.

Leather couches and chairs flanked tables with lamps to either side. There was a cappuccino machine in the corner from which a heavenly aroma originated.

A slim brunette sat at an elevated marble desk at the back of the room. She was slightly older than the eye candy downstairs and not quite as attractive, but she was probably the functional model. She studied them as they approached, sizing them up with a distracted expression made lie by her sharp stare. Undoubtedly she had received a call of warning while they were in the elevator, and as such, rose without a word and led them through the door to the right of her desk into the hallway behind. Engraved gold placards promised conference rooms to the left. She guided them to the right toward the lone door at the end. The woman knocked twice before opening it inward. She had just begun to pardon herself for the intrusion when Carver caught the scent from within.

He had already drawn his Beretta and was shoving past her when she screamed.

VII

Elsewhere

Ellie wasn't sure she had awakened until the pain racked her body. Every nerve ending sang in agony as though under siege from a million relentless needles. Her head throbbed and she found it difficult to breathe, as though a great weight was crushing her chest. She was dizzy, disoriented, shrouded by darkness so complete she couldn't tell the difference between opening and closing her eyes. The pain in her ankles was sharp, like she had been hobbled. She tried to reach for them but her arms wouldn't respond. Panic set in as she began to rationalize her situation. She was hanging upside down by her ankles, suspended above a ground she could no more sense than feel. It could have been inches under her fingers or a hundred feet below for all she knew.

She thrashed and screamed, her voice echoing infinitely away while her body swung from the tether, amplifying the pain in her ankles tenfold. It felt as though her feet were going to snap right off. She was acutely aware that she couldn't feel her toes at all. Once she stopped swinging, she forced her body to remain still to ease the pressure on her legs.

With all of the blood settled in her head, she could barely think straight. Her brain was a swollen tomato, her sinuses clogged with fluid.

"Help me," she whimpered, her voice so small the darkness seemed to swallow it.

She remembered the taser, the sensation of electricity racing through her body, the smell of her clothing and skin burning. The wicked grin on the face of the man in the hooded sweatshirt. Though she had never seen that predatory smile, she knew the lips well enough.

Paxton's lips.

She screamed again, trying to remain motionless at the same time. The sound echoed hollowly long after the searing pain in her throat forced her to cease. It felt as though the scream had torn through her neck on the way out.

"Help." The word was little more than a whisper.

Why had he done this to her? They had been best friends, and more. She had shared a part of herself with him that she had never shared with anyone before or since. Or was it even Paxton? Her brain was murky, functioning like sludge. She recalled talk of twins, and the two men who had been with her at the hotel. Where were they now?

She tried to cry out for them, praying that they were all right and that they would hear. The only sound that came out was a hoarse rasp that set her to coughing, the movement intensifying the sheer agony in her ankles, which she was sure she could feel breaking. Trickles of warmth rolled down her shins and calves.

Her ragged breathing echoed back at her. The room sounded both small and fathomless at the same time. She heard the whisper of water through pipes and the clunking of mechanical movement, the soft
plip
...
plip
...of something dripping nearby and yet far away. She smelled stagnant water on concrete, and beneath it, something else, something that tasted like blood in her mouth.

"Help me," she whispered again. Tears rolled over her brows and down her forehead.

The darkness was a living entity. It wrapped around her and constricted tighter and tighter until she felt like she was suffocating. She lost control again and threw herself back and forth, not caring if whatever bound her legs tore them right off so long as she could feel the ground beneath her again, so long as she could find a way to be anywhere but here.

She tried to scream and her mouth filled with blood.

Her body began to shake as the fear finally took her, leaving her sobbing in desperation.

"Shh," someone whispered, or had it been something else? Water rushing through pipes, something heavy being dragged along the floor?

"Please..." she whispered. "Help me..."

Harsh breathing like a laugh, and then it was gone.

Plip
...
ploop
...

"Is someone there?"

Her pulse thumped in her temples, the puddling of blood starting to make her feel dizzy, lightheaded. She heard breathing. Soft, rhythmic.

"Please...Get me down."

"Can you feel it?" a voice whispered. "It's so peaceful. Just like going to sleep."

She opened her mouth to scream and a hand closed over it. The palm tasted like the inside of something never meant to be opened.

"Try to relax. It will all be over soon."

The hand released her face and she tried to spit out the taste, but there was no moisture, only the sensation of something dead lying on her tongue. A choked scream finally came, cut short by another throng of coughing.

"Help me," she whimpered.

"I am."

She heard footsteps walking away from her, made hollow by the close confines, drifting farther and farther away until finally abandoning her to the shushing of the pipes and the thumping of her pulse.

And the maddening dripping sound of what she now understood to be her life.

Plip
...
ploop
...

VIII

Portland, Oregon

Carver burst into the office knowing what he would find. He swept the Beretta from left to right, covering the whole room as fast as he could absorb the details. Framed degrees and paintings of foreign cities on the wall to the left. A closed door beyond, presumably the washroom. The far wall, one enormous sheet of glass, marred with arcs of blood, through which he saw only gray sky. Ornamental eighteenth century desk before it. The wall to the right was another enormous, built-in reef tank, the movement of the fish tightening his finger on the trigger. A cluster of chairs in front of the desk, bookcases in the right corner behind the door, thick, rebound leather tomes and texts. Projector mounted on the ceiling, the screen undoubtedly retracted somewhere above his head and to the side.

He strode into the room and kicked the lone closed door open, pointing the gun into a bathroom the size of his living room. Glimmering marble tile. Line of sinks. Shower stall with innumerable heads. Rack of fluffy blue towels and linens. Open bureau of tailored suits in gray, navy, and black. Small room for the toilet, door standing wide.

The receptionist screamed again.

Wolfe held back the security guards with an outstretched arm while Carver and Hawthorne converged on the desk. There were puddles of blood on the surface, streaked across the twenty-seven inch flat-screen monitor, pooled in the keyboard. Spatters crisscrossed the window, the droplets rolling only so far before losing momentum. The fluid still glistened.

"Maybe an hour ago," Carver said. "If that."

Hawthorne grunted his agreement and shoved the toppled leather chair out of the way with his foot.

The body was crumpled under the desk, but not staged as Mondragon's had been. Its legs were splayed, the gray slacks patterned with black. The shoes were freshly polished, one of the laces untied.

They had to crouch to see the rest. The cubby under the desk was deep enough to cast shadows over the shoulders and face. There were no visible injuries to the chest or arms, just a mess of blood over everything.

Carver produced his penlight and shined it on the hands first. No defensive wounds, and the curled fingers appeared straight, unbroken. What little hair he could see on the right wrist was white. The clasp on the platinum Rolex on the left wrist had come undone, but it stayed where it had been intended. He traced the line from the belly to the neck with the small circle of light. The jacket had been torn open, one of the buttons missing, but the vest was still intact. Whatever color the tie had once been, it was now saturated crimson. The anterior surface of the neck had been raggedly opened without regard for aesthetics, the exposed flesh under the flaps of skin looked like chewed meat, through which small white segments of severed tendons and trachea could be seen. The entire face was crusted with blood, mouth frozen slightly ajar, lower lip split. Nose knobby and broken at the bridge. Even the whites of the eyes were red, the blue irises hardly visible.

Carver finally remembered where he had seen the man before. It had been in the picture Jack had sent him weeks ago. The man had been holding a champagne glass, toasting the camera. Jack had been standing beside him. After all, it was his boat.

"Bring in one of the guards," Hawthorne said.

A moment later Wolfe was at his side with one of the men, who no longer looked quite so self-assured.

"Is this Dreck?"

The guard nodded and made a guttural sound before turning away to look out the window.

"You have security cameras, right?" Carver asked.

The man made no appreciable response so Carver rose and grabbed him by the arm.

"Where are the security tapes?"

"Downstairs."

Carver released him and shoved him toward the door. He opened his cell phone and took two quick snapshots of the corpse.

"Call the police," Wolfe said to the man as he passed. "And get her out of here."

The guard took the woman, who was frozen in the doorway with her hands over her mouth, by the shoulders and guided her back into the hallway, out of sight.

Carver looked at the framed photographs on the desk of a man and his wife, with his children, on some tropical beach, and then stooped and scrutinized the bloody face. It was the same man, without a doubt.

"Must have outlived his usefulness," Wolfe said.

"He was just another track to cover," Hawthorne said. "Like all the rest."

"That means the distribution channels are already open," Carver said. "However they're shipping the retrovirus, it's already on its way."

"Then we're out of time," Hawthorne said. He removed his phone from his jacket and hit one of the speed dial presets. Carver heard a beep from the phone. Hawthorne terminated the call and tried again. "No answer with Locke."

"Maybe he lost his signal," Carver said, but even as the words came out of his mouth he knew better. If anything had happened to the others, to Ellie, he would never be able to forgive himself.

They were quickly out of the office and on the move. Past the shell-shocked security guards and the sobbing woman. Through the outer reception and into the hallway. The elevator dinged the moment Hawthorne hit the button and all three were inside before the doors were all the way open. Wolfe and Hawthorne each hit the button for the main floor on the opposing panels.

"Come on, come on," Carver said, willing the elevator to descend.

Behind him, Hawthorne tried Locke's cell again to no avail.

When they finally reached the lobby, they darted behind the reception desk, oblivious to the protests of the two women, and ducked into the room from which the guards had emerged. A massive bank of monitors covered the rear wall. There had to be close to fifty of them in parallel rows surrounding a pair of larger color monitors to which the feed from the smaller screens could be transferred for better viewing and digital image manipulation. The system was controlled by four touch-screen monitors, one for each quadrant. Wolfe nudged aside the chair, toppling a mug of cold coffee, and went to work as though he had cut his teeth on this very system.

"We don't have time for this," Carver said.

"This opportunity won't come again," Hawthorne said. "If there's still anything here, it'll be gone the moment we leave and you know it."

The two large screens displayed Dreck's office. The one on the left played in 4x reverse, while the one on the right was live. Were it not for the reflection of the woman on the bloodstained window, it could have been a photograph. Nothing moved besides the woman, who leaned against a doorway set into the clouds. Wolfe slowed the rewind on the left to 2x, the empty office viewed as though they were blinking, showing only every second frame. Carver saw movement on the window, rivulets of blood climbing back up to the thickening spatters.

And then the screen went black.

"He disabled the cameras," Wolfe said. Another ten minutes passed on the time counter before the image reappeared. Dreck was sitting at his desk, typing something on the keyboard and staring at the monitor. Wolfe increased the rewind speed and the previous thirty minutes showed the exact same thing. "There's nothing here."