The Lazarus Trap (3 page)

Their gazes formed a pressure that shoved him with rude force. He deflected it as best he could by turning away. Midway across the bull pen, a woman wept and wrenched a handkerchief as an officer filled in a form. At another desk, a narrow-faced black man responded to a cop's questions with the flat drone of someone already claimed by a fate he loathed.

He was surrounded by other people's tragedies. The air was tainted by jaded indifference and a trace of the chemical odor from upstairs. But he was terrified of examining the space where his mem- ory should have resided. The internal nothingness bore the metallic taste of death.

“I asked you a question, Mr. Adams.”

“Look. I honestly don't remember anything about last night.” He looked from one face to the other. “Or anything else.”

The two detectives looked at the suit. The prosecutor shrugged. “What have we got?”

“He solicited an undercover cop,” the male detective said.

“In other words, we got nothing. You know the drill. What exactly did he say? Was money mentioned?”

“He flashed a roll.”

“I take that as a negative.” The suit shook his head. “Unless I'm mistaken, stupidity is not a crime in this city.”

“How do we know that's all it was?” The male cop upended a manila envelope on the desk. A driver's license and a gold watch tumbled out. These were followed by two bundles of cash. One was rolled up tightly and held by a rubber band. The other was in a gold money clip. “Mr. Adams, were you in Barron's to buy drugs?”

He reached over and picked up his driver's license. He had not seen a mirror. He could not even identify the photograph as belonging to his own face.

“Are you a user, Mr. Adams? Like a little snort from time to time? Somebody told you Barron's was the place to score a few rocks?”

“If I am not going to be charged, could you please release the handcuffs?”

The trio exchanged a glance. The woman leaned over and opened the manacle. An odor rose from her, a smoky, metallic scent that hinted at the night where she operated. She set the manacles on the desk and moved back. He could see it in her flat, hard gaze, the nearness of something more awful than losing his memory.

He rubbed his wrist. “Can you tell me what drug they used on me?”

“Tit for tat, Mr. Adams. Would you be willing to testify in court that you were drugged and rolled while visiting the Barron's Club on West Hundred and Eleventh?”

“If I can remember any of it.”

“You don't recall being dragged outside?” The woman sounded doubtful. “I heard you protesting. You want us to believe it's all gone blank?”

Their hostile disbelief and his own empty panic were a terrible mix. His words sounded a lie in his own ears. “I don't remember a thing.”

The woman snorted. “You believe this guy?”

“This is going nowhere,” the suit agreed.

The male detective said, “Mr. Adams, we probably saved your life last night. All we're asking in return is help in prosecuting your attackers.” The detective's chair creaked as he turned to the prosecutor. “I still say we should press charges.”

The suit replied, “You got none to press. One look at that guy's head, and his attorney would be screaming foul all the way to settlement.”

The male detective said, “I didn't see any wrongdoing on the part of any police officer. Did you?”

The female detective smirked. “I don't remember.”

The prosecutor asked, “Mr. Adams, how much longer do you plan to remain in New York?”

“I'm not sure. A few days.” Until he remembered where he lived. And what he would be going back to.

“Where are you staying? Or do you not remember that either?”

When he did not reply, the suit rose from the desk. “I'm out of here.”

The woman leaned forward and said, “Mr. Adams, a word to the wise. If you want company, have your concierge arrange it. The Barron's neighborhood might like to claim it's stylin' these days. But the area between Morningside Heights and Harlem is still high risk.” She pointed at the two wads of cash. “We have a name for people who carry this much money and a Cartier tank watch into the Upper West Side at one in the morning. We call them dead.”

“Would you tell me what drug they used—”

“You come back when you feel like providing information we can use to prosecute your attackers, Mr. Adams, and we'll be happy to help.”

“But I'm telling—”

“The door's behind you, Mr. Adams. Have a nice day.”

THEY REMAINED LOCKED INSIDE THE CHAIRMAN'S OFFICE. TERRANCE stationed himself on the suede sofa with the silver-plated arms, using the remote to switch back and forth among the wire channels' televised broadcasts. He kept the sound turned down to a low murmur. There was no need for outsiders to know what occupied every shred of their concentration. Jack Budrow made no further objection to Terrance's holding on to the control. The CEO slipped into a glowering silence so complete he did not seem to notice Terrance at all. Which was not altogether a bad thing. Don remained where he was, pretzeled into a visitor's swivel chair.

Waiting.

The morning stretched out over several eons. None of them made any move to return to their offices. They had no interest in showing themselves and being drawn into the normal office routine. The chance of getting real work done was nil.

Waiting.

If Terrance had scripted the moment in advance, he would have seen himself pacing. All his computers would be busy with search missions. Don would have gone out for a ten-mile run. Jack would be wounding some hapless office prey with his acidic bluster. But none of that happened. They hunkered down. They did not speak. They scarcely acknowledged one another's presence. The deal had already been talked to death. They were tied together now. The implications of what they had set in motion buffeted them every time the television showed another glimpse of the blackened bank.

Waiting.

They were lunching on salads and sandwiches when notice finally arrived.

Terrance fumbled with the remote and scarcely managed to cut off the television before Consuela opened the door. “I'm very sorry, Mr. Budrow.” The secretary's concrete facade was fully shattered now. “I know you said you weren't to be disturbed again. But there is something, well . . .”

“It's all right, Consuela. Come in.” Jack did his part well, Terrance had to hand it to the man. He showed the proper distracted concern watching the office's stone lady come totally undone. “What on earth is the matter?”

“I'm really not . . .” Consuela gave a frantic little hand-wave. The young woman behind Consuela took that as her cue. Terrance recognized the newcomer as Val Haines's PA. She looked even more distraught than Consuela.

“Tell me what it is,” Jack ordered.

“Sir, there's been an explosion,” the young woman said.

Jack was instantly on his feet. As was Don. “In which factory?”

“No, sir. It's not . . .” The woman began leaking tears.

“My dear young lady.” Jack moved around his desk, all fatherly concern now. “What on earth has happened? Is it your family?”

“It's Val.”

“Who?”

Consuela took over. “Val Haines, sir.”

“What about him?”

“He and Marjorie Copeland. They're in New York.”

“I know that.” He helped Val's secretary into the suede chair across from where Terrance still sat. His sandwich dangled from his right hand, napkin tucked into his shirt collar. Just another busy exec watching his world shift out of normal rotation. Jack said, “Consuela, get this young lady a glass of water.”

“I'll do it.” Don moved for the executive bathroom.

Jack waited until the woman had taken a sip and almost choked in the process. “Now try and give it to me straight.”

“Val and Marjorie had an early morning meeting at Syntec,” she said.

Terrance made his first contribution. “Our bank for international funds transfers.”

“Yes, sir.” Normally Val's PA did her best to pretend Terrance was invisible. An ethereal vampire who did not register on her screen. Today she was too distraught to notice who spoke. “Syntec's been hit by terrorists.”

“What?”

“I saw it on the news,” Consuela confirmed. “There's been some huge explosion. Two floors of the Rockefeller Center were totally demolished early this morning.”

Now both women were crying. “I checked his calendar. Val had a meeting set up for six-thirty. Right before the bomb went off.”

“That isn't possible.” Jack pointed a shaky finger at his desk and ordered nobody in particular, “Get on the phone. Call their hotel—”

“I've already done that,” Consuela replied. “Nobody answered. His cell either. Or Marjorie's.”

Don now. “This can't be happening.”

“It's almost one. Val hasn't shown up for any of his other morning appointments. The lunch they had scheduled has called twice.” She cast frantic glances at them all, pleading with them to tell her it was a dreadful mistake. “I don't know what else to do.”

Terrance had a sudden chilling sensation of standing just beyond the gathering's visual range. A conductor's white baton was in his hand. He counted off the beats. One, two, three silent seconds. Okay, now. On the downbeat. Hit it.

As though on cue, Jack turned to Don Winslow and said, “What would you suggest?”

Terrance's baton continued to count off the cadence of shock and sorrow. Don followed the silent script to perfection. His hand even shook as he raised the telephone receiver and dialed information. “I need a number for New York police. What? Oh. Right. Manhattan.”

He hesitated then, staring at Terrance as though making sure he held to the proper beat. “Missing persons, I guess . . . No.” Another hesitation. Then he dropped his voice a full octave. “No. Scratch that. I think I might need to speak with Homicide.”

Both women began weeping full out.

“MR. ADAMS? I'M DR. MARTINEZ. WHAT SEEMS TO BE THE PROBLEM?” The doctor was a slight lady with tired eyes, a soft voice, and a fleeting smile. “Other than the fact that your temple is bleeding.”

He had spotted the walk-in clinic's address on a street sign just down from the police station entrance. The clinic was connected to an inner-city church housed in a renovated warehouse. The exteriors of both the church and the clinic were painted an orange that hurt his eyes. The clinic's waiting room held a dozen plastic chairs, a cross on one wall, and health posters on the others. The waiting room was crowded with faces that gave his wounds only a cursory inspection. He had discarded his jacket outside the police station. Other than the tear on his left knee, his remaining clothes were stained but intact. He had dozed through a two-hour wait, then awakened to the sound of someone calling a name he was still having trouble claiming as his own.

He told the doctor, “I can't remember anything.”

“A lot of people would pay money to trade places with you.” The examination rooms were curtained alcoves in a long, open chamber. The floor was faded linoleum. The air was stained with the odor of a strong disinfectant. From behind other curtains came soft voices. Somewhere a woman moaned.

“Have a seat on the chair there.” The doctor swept the curtain around the ceiling corner and enclosed them in an off-white realm. “I don't suppose it would be proper to ask if this has happened before.”

He liked that enough to smile, the first in a very bleak day. “Cute.”

“I was always a sucker for puns.” She slipped on gloves. “Can I have a look at your head?” Her touch was as soft as her voice.

“I wish I knew what happened,” he said.

“I imagine you do.” She unscrewed a bottle and dabbed a cloth. “This may sting a little.”

In the distance a baby wailed. The doctor paid it no mind. She had an unshakable calm similar to the cops', but with a compassion that showed in her eyes as he related what the cops had told him. He asked, “Does that sound like any drug you know?”