Frame 232 (16 page)

FREDERICK RYDELL
knew the name Hammond wanted. Sitting in his office the following day with the door locked, he could think of little else.

Birk had sent Margaret Baker’s film by overnight delivery to a PO box in the Annapolis suburb of Cape St. Claire. From there it was auto-forwarded to another box in the Washington suburb of Kensington. The first was leased under the false name of an individual, the second by a fictional corporation. Rydell visited the terminus box only when necessary. On this day he had gone over at lunchtime.

The face that appeared for those brief few seconds was the same one that had haunted him in a thousand dreams. Seeing it again unearthed a hoard of memories and details Rydell had tried hard to forget. It also birthed a crawling fear that he bitterly resented.

He had been a careful man all his life, had pored over the minutiae of every operation, examined every possibility, calculated every permutation. He was one of the best in his business at covering his hide
 
—maybe
the
best. But this one man and the singular dealing they’d had . . .

There were factors even Rydell had not foreseen, elements that lay beyond his considerable vision. This man was like none he had ever known. Rydell felt it the day they met, the one and only day. The meeting had lasted no more than an hour, and yet he would never forget it.

He rewound the film and watched it for the fourth time. When the figure appeared this time, a shudder went through him.

Surely,
Rydell thought,
he can’t still be alive.

“No chance,” he said out loud. When he reached for the can of soda on his desk, however, his hand was trembling.

GRAMOTHE, HAITI

FATHER MICHAEL BREIMAYER
stood atop the high ridge on the western side of the village and surveyed the conclusion of another long but satisfying day.

The heat was crushing, as always. Six years on the island of Hispaniola and he still wasn’t used to it. He’d grown up in southwestern Alabama, not far from the Gulf shores and a nearly tropical zone in its own right. But nothing compared to this. The humidity lay upon a person like a heavy blanket. Even in his normal outfit of light cotton shorts, a silk shirt, sandals, and a broad Panama hat, he sometimes found it hard to breathe, let alone work. He mopped his forehead with a folded handkerchief.

The site was coming along beautifully. The village had eighteen domestic structures
 
—ten mud huts, six corrugated shacks, one semimodern cottage that acted as a church, and one rickety lean-to that the oldest member of the community refused to upgrade. The cottage had been built in just two weeks through funding from Breimayer’s sponsor ministry back in the States. These villagers were still getting used to seeing a white man’s face, let alone a power drill. But progress was being made.

The network of PVC pipes ran grid-like in every direction, in grooves dug two feet down into the soft earth. Soon every home would have real plumbing for the first time. That meant fresh water for drinking and bathing, something these people had never known. The main line came from Port-au-Prince, thirteen miles away. Breimayer had also arranged for a feed from a small water tower. It was only for emergency purposes, which might have sounded like overkill in a nation with an average annual rainfall of nearly sixty inches. But they were dealing with a government that was often under the control of different people from month to month. Necessities like clean water had a way of disappearing at a moment’s notice. The water tower would be the villagers’ ace in the hole.

This was Breimayer’s twenty-second year as a missionary and his thirty-fifth as a priest. After high school, he’d done a stint in the military and had spent nine months in Vietnam. That was enough not only to turn him against politics and war but also to persuade him to spend his life making the world a better place. Now, over four decades later, he had gray hair, wore steel-rimmed glasses, and was in remarkably good health for a man in his sixties.

Father Breimayer came down from the ridge to distribute kind words and a few pats on the back. He could offer his people little else, and he often felt the burden of guilt for that. They were all volunteers, some local, others from abroad. They lived nomadically, traveling to whatever location was next on the agenda and setting up a camp a hundred yards or so from the work site. Breimayer insisted on this, not wanting to invade the lives of his beneficiaries any more than necessary. Here, for example, he wanted the villagers to be able to say good-bye to his group at the end of the day,
when they would disappear until the following morning. His intent was simply to come in, make as many improvements as possible, and move on.

Standing among the group, he glanced at his watch and announced, “We will be finishing in ten minutes, okay? And tonight after dinner, maybe we should enjoy a little music and dance. Will everyone have enough strength left for that?” There were nods and murmurs of agreement all around. Breimayer rubbed his hands together. “Good. Excellent work today.”

The man known as Salvador entered the perimeter from one of the main trails, a stack of narrow pipes under his arm. Breimayer’s eyes fell on him and stayed there. Breimayer had met thousands of people in his lifetime
 
—black and white, large and small, good and evil
 
—and none fascinated him more than this one. As hard as he tried, Breimayer was never able to suppress the urge to study him. Even if he had seen him ten minutes earlier, he would still search for . . . well, he wasn’t even sure what.

Salvador was smallish, no more than five and a half feet, but stout and muscular. His hair was making the gradual transition from raven’s black to pewtery silver, and it was still lush and thick, as were the heavy eyebrows. He had added a beard and mustache in recent years, something Breimayer could not understand given the high temperatures. When he commented on this offhandedly, Salvador smiled but said nothing.

Breimayer had inherited Salvador when he came to the organization eleven years ago, and in that time he had gleaned nothing of a personal nature about the man. As a worker, he was a member of some superhuman subspecies. He rose before everyone else, dove headlong into a task without
hesitation or complaint, and possessed machinelike stamina. Observing this each day, Breimayer had built a profile of someone who was highly intelligent, uncommonly focused, and a fast learner.

But that was the “professional” side of the man. The rest was kept in a safe with a lost combination. Salvador spoke only in replies, and even these were economical. Attempts to extract candid information were fruitless, and Breimayer sensed that Salvador knew when someone was trying to do this. Breimayer also no longer believed Salvador was his true name, but he had given up hope of ever learning the real one.

Perhaps most curious of all, Salvador refused to camp with the rest of the group at the end of each day. Even though Breimayer promised him his own quarters and assured him that he would never be disturbed except in the event of an emergency, Salvador maintained his habit of simply disappearing into the night like the specter he seemed to be.

The only other element to the man that Breimayer was certain of
 
—although, again, he was equally certain he would never be able to confirm it
 
—was that Salvador was haunted. The priest had encountered scores of souls who, through unfortunate circumstances or their own lapses in judgment or a toxic combination of both, carried spiritual burdens that were grinding them into oblivion. He recognized the expressions, the mannerisms, and the behavioral patterns, subtle though these traits were in Salvador’s case. The merciful side of Breimayer’s nature burned to ease the man’s pain. He had soothed others, pleading with the Lord to quiet their demons. But he knew he would log no such victory with this man. Salvador was a prisoner of his own dark universe.

Breimayer also knew that people of this stripe had the potential to be thoroughly dangerous. He still wasn’t sure if
Salvador was of this variety
 
—nor was he interested in finding out.

“You were a big help today,” he said as Salvador passed by, the PVC pipes bobbing like javelins in his arms.

“Thank you, Father,” came the accented reply accompanied by the characteristic smile and nod. The man’s voice was light and scratchy, like that of a washed-up crooner who had traded his talent for several decades of smoking.

“We may partake in some festivities later, if you’d care to join us. Just a little song and dance, nothing too elaborate.”

“No, no, but thank you.”

“Okay. If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be. We’d love to have you.”

Another agreeable nod, and then he moved on.

The last of the day’s light died away, and torches were lit to aid in the final bits of work and cleanup. Breimayer kept watching Salvador, ever hopeful of that momentary glimpse beneath the surface. When he dissolved unceremoniously into the darkness, no one else took particular notice; they had seen it a thousand times. He would return tomorrow, after all.

Breimayer was never so sure.

HAMMOND SHUDDERED AWAKE.
The pillow that had been over his head bowled everything off the nightstand before tumbling away. His eyes shifted about like those of a frightened child. There was sunlight slanting through the blinds, casting patterns on the furniture and the carpet. But he didn’t recognize the blinds or the furniture or anything else. He was out of breath, his heart hammering.

Then it started coming back
 
—the phone call, the church, the coffins, the sickening emptiness that followed the loss of the most beloved people in his life. He saw it all again in his mind, or at least a vague recollection of it.
It’s bad enough I had to live through it once,
he thought bitterly,
but I have to endure repeat showings?
Then he remembered where he was and why he was here.

In the bathroom, he turned on the cold water and splashed his face. He appraised himself in the mirror
 
—pale-gray half-moons had formed under his eyes; any darker and he’d look like a corpse. He remembered Noah’s standing offer to fill a prescription for sleeping meds
 
—drugs that would put him into such a deep sleep it would take all the
hounds of hell to rouse him.
Forget it
 
—I will
not
give in to this.
When his physician had asked about the nature of his reluctance, Hammond said he was concerned the pills would lose their effectiveness after a while, which was a perfectly valid response. The greater truth, however, was that he loathed the idea of developing a dependency on any type of pharmaceutical. He had a secret goal of going the remainder of his life without ever taking a synthesized substance, regardless of the reason.

He drove away these thoughts in the usual way
 
—by focusing on the day’s priorities.
Get some clothes for both of us; get a new laptop; download the file.
The dream images had all but deteriorated now, like the remnants of a chalk drawing on a rain-spattered sidewalk. He pat-dried his face with one of the towels and went out.

He was thinking about calling Noah when he realized the door joining the two rooms was open. Sheila stood half behind it with a ghost of a smile on her lips.

“Good morning,” Hammond said.

“Hello.”

“Up early, I see.”

“Yes.”

Hammond immediately sensed something wasn’t right. He made a careful study of her face, expecting to see vestiges of the emotional beating she’d taken the day before. What he found instead was a seemingly alert and clear-eyed individual who was scrutinizing
him
.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Hammond found this question somewhat arresting, as he was about to ask the same one.

“Sure, why?”

“I heard you this morning.”

“Excuse me?”

“You were yelling in your sleep.” She had also heard what sounded like sobbing but decided not to mention that.

“I was? Well, I’m sorry about that. I guess I was having a bad dream.”

“It sounded
very
bad.”

“That’s weird. I don’t remember any of it,” he said and instantly hated himself for lying. “And what about you? Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll bet. Feel better?”

“I do. Look, I’m really sorry about my meltdown last n
 
—”

He put a hand up. “Don’t apologize. Very, very understandable. Don’t give it another thought. I have an idea, if you’d like to hear it.”

“Sure.”

He pulled out a chair at the small circular table by the window. The heavy drapes were half-open and the gauzy inner curtains fully shut. “Here, have a seat.”

“Thanks.”

Taking the one across from her, he said, “I know you want to get back to your normal life as soon as possible. And I want that too. But I don’t think it’s safe for you to go either to your mom’s house
 
—”

“What’s left of it.”

“
 
—right, what’s left of it, or to your home in Michigan just yet. Not until I figure out who’s behind this. Whoever they are, they’re obviously very dangerous people. I’m sure you realize that.”

“I do.”

“So what we need to do is keep you hidden someplace safe. Someplace where
 
—”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m not hiding. I’m not running.” She looked directly at him, challenging him.

“I don’t understand. What do you
 
—?”

“I’m not going to sit around waiting for something to happen. I’m going to help you. I’m going to take part in this.”

“Sheila, that guy last night was a pro. For all I know there are ten more out there searching for us. Who’s to say who’s behind this? The Mafia? The NSA? Some foreign government? This is a very delicate situation.”

“I realize that.”

“You don’t know how to do this kind of work. You’ve never done something like this before. Heck, I’ve become pretty good at it, and even I admit I might be out of my depth.”

“I’m a fast learner.”

“I can’t be responsible for you.”

“I’m not asking you to be. I can make my own decisions. I’m not a little kid.”

“What if you get hurt?”

“That’s life.”

“Or death.”

“Right.”

“Look, I really don’t think
 
—”

“Jason, these people
haunted
my mama. She lived in fear of them every day.” Her eyes were beginning to tighten with anger. “Can you even begin to imagine what that must’ve been like? The effect it had on her mind, on her body? How many bad dreams did
she
have? Or nights when she couldn’t even get to sleep in the first place? The constant distraction of it? The constant worry about her safety, about the safety of her family. How much of her livelihood was taken from
her? How much of her spirit?” A single tear made a track line down her cheek. “Then these people invade her privacy, blow up her house, and try to kill me, all to continue covering up their crime. These
animals
.”

Hammond reached across the table and took her hand. A few more tears came, but her resolve did not waver.

“I don’t expect you to understand how personal this is,” she said, calmer now. “I know you can’t.”

“No, you’re right. I can’t even imagine.”

“You say I need to stay here to protect my life. But until this is resolved, I have no life. They’re probably waiting for me to use my cell phone right now so they can track my signal. You know all about that. Am I right?”

Hammond nodded. “Probably.”

“
Very
probably.”

“Yeah.”

“And I’ll bet they’ve got people hanging around my mama’s neighborhood hoping I’ll come back.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Sooner or later they’ll get to me. If they can get to a president, they can get to anybody. So if I’m going to go down, I’m going to do it fighting. No, of course I don’t want to take part in this. But I
need
to.”

Hammond studied her another moment, then said, “Are you sure? I mean really sure?”

She nodded. “I’m positive.”