Pieces of the Puzzle (13 page)

Baltimore, Maryland
Wednesday,

19 January

“My sources tell me it’s still in the states.”

“How can you be sure?”

“They’re very reliable sources.”

“This isn’t about fuzzy logic switching equipment, is it, Glen?”

Glen said with a straight face, “Of course it is.”

Scott threw Jessica’s lace bra at Glen. “Then why am I going through the stitching on a damn lace bra?”

“At the heart of the box is a microchip, a very small microchip.”

“What is programmed into this microchip? And don’t tell me any bullshit, because I don’t—” Scott broke off when Glen maintained
the candid expression. “I’m going back down to Cynthia.”

“A few more hours. If it’s here, we have to find it, and if it’s not, we have to start looking again.”

“What’s programmed on the chip?”

“Trust me on this, Scott, even if you never trust me again, trust me on this. You don’t want to know.”

“If it’s so important, how can you be so sure it’s not already in the wrong hands?”

Glen sank uneasily to the floor. It was the first time Scott had ever seen the weight of Glen’s years upon him, but it was
there now in his hunched shoulders, downtrodden eyes and sagging lids. He said two words, “Harry Johnson.”

“And?”

“He and I came into the agency together. He was older, I was younger. We had similar backgrounds but toward the end in ‘85,
we didn’t see eye to eye on anything. He left the agency, went back to Florida. I stayed and picked up the pieces.” Glen ground
his fist into the floor and added softly, “That was the year—”“So this is personal as well as—”“You’re damned right it’s personal.
I killed Harry Johnson with my bare hands when I caught up with him a few years later.

Jessica knew, Helen didn’t, but either way it’s personal. One of them has what we’re looking for if for no other reason than
spite itself.”

Scott collapsed to his haunches. “Jessica’s alive?”

“For the moment, I believe so.”

“And Helen?”

“I lost track of her when you lost track of her and she was the only one who could have led us to Jessica. When—if we find
her now, it’ll be in a body bag. You can count on it. She was trying to sit on both sides of the fence—a dangerous game at
best.” Glen looked Scott in the eye. “Five days is all we have left. I want you on a plane to Honolulu.”

“What happens in five days? I thought we had more time, until the last week of January.”

“So did I.”

“One more day, that’s all I ask. I’ll leave Thursday morning.”

“One day.”

“And the underwear?”

“If it was here, we would have found it by now. Analysis didn’t find anything either.”

“Analysis? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Glen picked up the suitcase and threw it across the room, then reached down, grabbed Scott by the front of his shirt and pulled
him to his feet. He pointed to the wall. “There’s your answer.”

Scott pulled away. “What’s that supposed to mean? Glen, I’m not a mind reader.”

Glen leaned close and whispered in Scott’s ear. “Janet’s out.

That leaves you and me.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What do you mean it’s just you and me? This is bullshit, all bullshit. Go play your
games with somebody else, I’m out.”

“Loyalty, Scott. It’s the most important thing. You can buy it, you can earn it, you can win it, but when the faith is gone
it’s all over. Without loyalty, you can’t have trust, and without trust, you have nothing.” Glen paused, sucked at the air.
“The house of cards is crumbling around us. I trust you, Scott. You’re the only one—and trust me, you don’t want out. It’s
too late for that.”

Scott started to say something. Glen cut him off.

“What you want is to get even, what you want is in the other room waiting for you when this is over, but only when this is
over.”

“Will it ever really be over?”

“It will, if you get the box before they do.”

“And then what?”

“Always thinking seven moves ahead, aren’t you?” Glen grinned awkwardly, showed Scott to the door. “Cynthia’s waiting. I’ll
make your flight arrangements for Honolulu.”

Glen held out his hand to Scott. “Are we good?”

“This is my house, I’ll leave a room when I’m ready and I’ll make my own reservations, thank you.”

Glen kept his hand out. “You’re making a mistake. I’m it, I’m all you got.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll find your box, but we’re going to do this my way from now on.”

“Was it ever any other way?”

“When I get the box, we’ll talk.”

“I don’t doubt that. Don’t do anything rash, it’s the only one.”

Scott opened the door, turned back to Glen as he walked out.

“Bullshit.”

Cynthia smiled and blinked her eyes.

Scott moved away from the bed and poured a glass of water, offered it to Cynthia. His hands were shaking. “The doctor said
if you keep getting stronger, we could get rid of these machines sometime next week, wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

Cynthia nodded. Scott smiled. He heard someone behind him, turned around. “Edward?”

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, a telephone call.”

“Take a message.”

“Says it’s urgent. I believe she’s crying, sir.”

“Is it Janet?”

“I don’t believe—”Scott’s eyes widened. He kissed Cynthia on the cheek, then raced down the hall. The den phone was sitting
beside the silent computer. He snatched up the phone. “Hello?”

He heard a woman sobbing, but she didn’t say anything.

“Helen? Helen, where are you?” He switched the phone to his right ear, and pressed the receiver tight against his head. Behind
the crying, he could hear cars racing up and down a busy street. “Helen, where are you?”

She whispered, “Our room.”

Scott squeezed his eyes together and tried to think. He heard the traffic racing up and down the street in the background.
Our room. Our room. Our room. “The Ritz?”

“Is there life after death? Will I be free?”

Scott sucked at the air. “Helen, go back into the room and sit on the bed. I want to talk to you.”

“The view’s so much better from here.”

Scott heard the phone slap against something and heard Helen wince. “What happened? What happened?”

“I fell, it’s all right, I can climb back—”“Helen, are you drunk? Listen to me, stay off the railing, go back into the room
and sit on the bed. Remember the bed? Can you do that for me?”

Helen whispered, “They found her.”

“Are you sitting on the bed?”

“If you were here, I would be.”

He closed his eyes and listened for the noise of the traffic rising from the street nine floors below. “Imagine that I am,
does it matter that I’m not? Pretend, you can do that, can’t you?”

“I need to feel.”

“I’ll make you feel. Go to the bed. Close the balcony door behind you.” He listened. The noise of the traffic faded. “Sit
on the bed.”

“I’m lying naked on the bed, make me feel.”

“First tell me what happened.”

“They butchered her.”

“They? Jessica?” He took a deep breath, tried to think. Think.

Think. Think.

“The coroner’s report said she was alive when he took the chainsaw to her. Will I be free then too?”

“Is the bottle on the nightstand?”

“Empty… I have another.”

“Open it. Let’s have a drink. I need a drink, how about you?”

Miami, Florida
Friday, 21 January

Scott told Glen he was flying to Honolulu and while he purchased tickets, checked baggage through and even checked in at the
gate, he caught a flight departing for Miami instead. Things were getting too convoluted and he wasn’t entirely sure that
he could trust Glen anymore. How many layers of lies would he have to dig through to finally get to the truth? There were
always lies, lies on top of lies—bureaucracy—but this was different. Glen had attached a personal agenda to a professional
agenda.

It was a fast, pensive drive to the Ritz-Carlton in the predawn gloom. He didn’t know what he would find when he got to Room
908, but he was hopeful that Helen would be alive—passed out drunk, but alive. He parked in front, tossed his keys to the
valet and shrugged at the porter. He had one piece of luggage, his garment bag which he would hand carry. And it was during
the elevator ride to the ninth floor that he had a sudden change of heart about not telling Glen where he was.

The elevator door opened on the ninth floor. He pushed L and rode back down to the lobby. He glanced at the clerks behind
the front desk as he passed and to the group of gentlemen seated on the lobby’s couches. Uneasiness in his gut told him something
wasn’t right, still he continued on his way to the pay phones.

As he was dialing, he heard someone walk up behind him. He broke the connection even before it started ringing, but kept the
phone to his ear.

“Bad time for a conversation,” said a voice as a hand reached for the phone.

He grabbed the hand, twisted as he spun around. He pulled the arm forward, smashing the guy’s face into the wall. “Who the
hell are you? Start talking.”

He didn’t wait for a response; he slammed the guy’s head down, bringing his knee up at the same time. In front of him, he
saw two others in the hallway now. A third man partially hidden from view behind them said, “Want to go for a ride?”

He looked at the deeply tanned face, the probing eyes filled with purpose, and the muzzle of a gun sticking out from a shirt
draped over a well-tanned arm. “Do I have a choice—” He cut short. Someone behind him pulled the other man away.

He spun around, kicked, his foot catching the first man in the stomach. He went down, didn’t move again. The other man jumped
over his comrade and came at him full speed. He sidestepped, pushed the man as he went past, sending him flying into the others.

Only the first two went down. The other stepped back, waited as if summing him up. The gun, pointed straight at Scott.

Scott didn’t hesitate, he continued forward, plowing into the speaker despite the gun. The man blocked and brushed Scott aside
as if swiping a gnat. The three thugs were getting back to their feet, coming at Scott.

Scott went into a horse stance. His bent leg stance, helping him sway away from their blows as he punched rapidly: high, mid,
low.

As they came at him all at the same time, he did a spinning kick, followed by a roundhouse kick, taking one of the men full
in the head and sweeping him into another. One of the thugs came at him from behind. He ducked, bending at the waist as if
bowing, his upper body going horizontal with the floor. He swept his foot out, catching the man’s feet, sending him backward,
but the man didn’t fall.

He followed with a jumping back kick, catching the man full in the chest. The man went down, hitting the wall as he went,
didn’t move again. The two others came at him again. He side blocked a punch, low blocked a kick. As he turned, he caught
a punch, grabbed the fist, the arm, then threw the attacker across his shoulder. A snap told him he broke the other’s arm.

Screams confirmed this. A gun was fired; he turned and looked behind him. He lunged, kicking high, sending the gun flying.
He missed a block as one of the other men came; the blow sent him to his knees. Thinking quickly, he threw a punch, twisted
his wrist as his fist slammed into the other’s chest. The man went down, didn’t move.

There were screams coming from the lobby now. He heard shouting: a panicked woman’s voice, a man’s voice trying to sound calm.
He heard clapping, shook his head because it seemed surreal. “Impressive,” said the voice.

He turned; before he could get halfway around, the other was on him, holding him with two hands behind the neck. The man let
one arm go, twisted the other arm back to the point where Scott felt only pain. That’s when the man said, “Ease your weapon
out nice and slow.”

“And you’re going to abduct me here in broad daylight?”

“Do you see anyone coming to your rescue?”

Scott’s eyes darted around the hall. “What are your intentions?”

“We go for a ride. We talk.”

Scott touched two fingers to the butt of his gun and forced calm onto his face as he prepared to use the gun. “And after?”

“The after is up to you.”

Scott started to draw the gun; a well-tanned hand snatched it away. “What are you, superhuman?”

The man turned Scott to face him, putting a hand around his throat, his thumb digging into the jugular vein. “Excuse my rudeness,
I am Kim Dong Gi. Call me, Mr. Kim.”

Scott sucked at the air, considered his options, wondered if he could break free, wondered if he would be fast enough in drawing
the gun from his boot. He said through the pain, “This ride, where is it to?”

“Enough talk.” Mr. Kim released Scott, slapped his hands together. Two guys in dark suits emerged from the stairwell. Two
others came from the lobby. They herded Scott down the hall and out an emergency door. A black stretch limousine was waiting
by the curb. The suits manhandled Scott into it. The limo driver slapped his foot against the accelerator and for a moment,
gravity mashed Scott into the seat.

“Now we talk,” Mr. Kim said. “If you talk good enough, we slow the limo down before we dump you on the street.”

Even though the back seats of the limo were huge, Scott felt crowded. He nudged at the suits on either side of him to gain
some elbow room—maneuvering room if things turned ugly. “I believe you have my attention.”

One of the suits tried to backhand Scott. Mr. Kim waved the hand away. He showed Scott a video disc, put it into the player.
He grinned, almost a smile. “Home movies are good, no?”

Scott’s stomach muscles bunched in knots as he saw Helen on the monitor. “Don’t hurt her…” Mr. Kim started laughing.

The video continued playing. The picture wasn’t that clear, there were a lot of shadows, but Helen’s face was toward the camera.
Scott watched as Helen began unbuttoning her dress, a hand reached out and touched hers. Helen smiled, slipped the dress off
her shoulders and it fell to the floor. She wasn’t wearing a bra, only panties. She pulled her partner against her and kissed
him on the lips. He kissed her forehead. They struggled to the bed.

She lay down, pulling the man with her. She started unbuttoning his shirt, unzipped his pants, and all the while, blew in
his ear. It was at the moment when the man started to rise up on the bed that Scott realized he was watching himself, and
Helen.

“Stop the damned recording! Nothing happened, nothing!”

“I thought you like it, it is very good. What do you think poor, sick Mrs. Evers will think when she plays that?”

“You son of a bitch!” Scott jumped at Mr. Kim. The suits yanked him back into the seat.

Mr. Kim waved a hand at Scott. “I didn’t make, I intercepted.”

Scott looked at him, puzzled.

Mr. Kim took the disc out of the player and tossed it into Scott’s lap. “You should concern yourself with why someone felt
the need to have blackmail material on you and not with matters that don’t concern you, especially if you plan to leave the
business.”

Scott examined the disc. “Are there copies?”

“Could be, maybe you should see who has the original. It might surprise you. Talk to Miss Johnson.”

Mr. Kim raised his arm. The limo screeched to a halt. One of the suits opened the limo door; another pushed Scott into the
street and tossed the disc, his gun and the garment bag after him.

Mr. Kim yelled to Scott as the limo sped away, “I’ll be in touch.”

He got in the elevator, rode it to the ninth floor and limped to Room 908. He ran the card key through the reader and opened
the door despite the “Do Not Disturb” sign.

The room reeked of alcohol and vomit. He noticed this only vaguely as he clutched the disc. He opened the closet, hung the
garment bag on the clothes bar, then walked farther into the room.

He wasn’t quite sure if he wanted Helen to be alive anymore, and almost positive that if he had known about the recording
a few days ago he would have let her jump.

He went over the recording frame by frame in his mind.

Helen had to have known about the camera because it was as if she had been posing for it, facing it, smiling for it.

He gnashed his teeth, and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his free hand. The stench in the room was not only nauseating but
stinging. As stinging as the fact that Helen had been using him all along. She set him up. It didn’t happen in the hotel,
not like that. When it did happen, it was only because he had been drugged and it couldn’t have been anything like the editing
made it seem. He may have wanted Helen but he wouldn’t have acted on those desires ordinarily. Still he wasn’t an innocent
in this; he knew that.

If Cynthia ever found out and confronted him, he wouldn’t deny it. He wouldn’t claim to not know what he was doing. He’d admit
it. He had done what he had done.

Helen was lying prone on the bed; a sheet was half draped around her naked form. Her head was hanging over the edge, and an
arm was clutched around a vomit-lined trash can.

She moaned and he knew she was alive—with a hangover but alive, just as he had wished earlier but perhaps not now.

He remembered the slightly off-kilter view of the bed and traced the wall opposite the bed past the thermostat which brought
him to the closet, but he remembered looking in the closet and finding empty hangers. He heard Helen rise from the bed and
go into the bathroom. He kept searching. If the closet doors had been ajar then like now, maybe the camera had been sitting
on the top shelf?

The shelf was clean. The back wall of the closet, clean. He emerged from the closet and checked the walls adjacent to the
bed. He found nothing, and his frustration level was peaked when Helen emerged from the bathroom. She moaned. Scott glanced
at her and noticed she had cleaned herself up. He grabbed her, threw her onto the bed and tossed the disc at her.

He screamed, “Where was the camera?”

She looked at him, the disc, the wall behind him.

He bunched his eyebrows together, confusion playing out on his face. She glared at him almost as if she was looking through
him. He said, “Where’s the camera?”

She didn’t say a word.

He turned around, sank to his knees to see from the angle she was seeing from. His mouth fell open: The thermostat. He scrambled
to the wall and grabbed the cover off the thermostat, revealing a tiny black box where the heart of the thermostat should
have been.

It was a tiny device, smaller than a pack of cigarettes, containing no tape, with a hair-thin trailing wire for transmitting
on spread spectrum RF. It was the camera he would have used if he wanted to conduct secret surveillance. The kind of surveillance
you could conduct from a safe distance and still see and hear everything.

He looked up at her. Her eyes were filled with terror. He looked back to the camera and saw the glow of a tiny red light on
the rear of the device—the camera was transmitting. His heart skipped a beat, he sucked at the air. He put the camera under
his boot and ground it into the carpet.

His heart pounding in his ears, he tried to think. He didn’t know how much time he had, for all he knew whoever was watching
and listening was doing it from the next room. He glared at her. “Why did you come back here if you knew the camera was here?”

She started crying. “If the camera was still here, I knew you’d come back. I knew.”

He didn’t ask her to explain. He told her to get her purse. He grabbed his bag from the closet and saw her suitcase. “What’s
in this?”

“Clothes—”“Leave it.”

He grabbed her hand. They raced into the hall and were almost to the end when the lights above the elevator doors stopped
moving and the elevator bell rang.

He flung her at the door to the stairs, drew his gun and backed into the stairwell. With a hand clamped over her mouth, he
waited and watched. The door had a narrow pane of wire-riddled safety glass and through this; he had a view of the hall in
front of the elevator.

Two men clad in dark suits, racing out of the elevator and down the hall, were all he needed to see. He pointed to the stairs.
Helen started down and he hurried after her.