The Short Drop (26 page)

“I don’t know. Things are kind of crazy, you know?”

Mike didn’t sound good. He had always had a bit of the whiny child in him, but now he was like a middle-school cafeteria in Jenn’s ear.

“It’s going to be fine. Are you at the office? Why are the phones disconnected?”

Mike told her.

“What do you mean Abe Consulting’s gone?”

“I mean it’s gone. Cleaned out. Overnight.” Mike described the way he’d found the offices. “Place was stripped right down to the baseboards.”

“Where’s George?”

“Arrested. The feds have him. It’s a real mess.”

So it
was
the FBI. At least now she knew why George had sounded the alarm. Did Meiji also trigger the dismantling of the offices? If so, it was news to her.

“Where are they holding him?”

“I’m not sure. Not sure George knows, to tell the truth. I just got off the phone with him.”

“You talked to him?” Jenn was sitting forward now.

“Yeah, the feds let him make a call. He didn’t sound good. The feds want everything we have on Suzanne Lombard by today, or they’re dropping the hammer on George.”

“Christ.”

“He’s calling me back in an hour. What do we have?”

Jenn ran her tongue over her teeth, deliberating. “You got something to write with?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Gibson sat on the edge of the bathtub, feeding Billy tuna from a can. Hendricks refused to uncuff him, so it was slow and messy going. Billy hadn’t asked to go to the bathroom yet, but Gibson wasn’t optimistic about how that would go. Billy was trying to be cooperative but clearly remained afraid and angry. Being handcuffed to a toilet didn’t help any with morale.

“I feel like a child,” Billy said.

“Yeah, but that makes me your daddy, and I’m not cool with that.”

Billy cracked a weak grin that turned serious. “Are they going to kill me?”

“They’ll have to kill me first.”

“Is your dying seconds before me supposed to make me feel better about being dead?”

It was Gibson’s turn to grin weakly. “Thought that counts?”

His gallows humor wasn’t helping.

“Man, get me out of here.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Yeah? Well work faster, okay? ’Cause me? I’m handcuffed to a fucking toilet.”

Gibson hadn’t talked to Jenn or Hendricks since their debrief this morning. Collectively they were all running on fumes, so giving each other a wide berth for a few hours seemed wise. Having Kirby Tate’s murder hanging over his head wasn’t doing wonders for Hendricks’s disposition, and for once Gibson could empathize with him. A little. But if Hendricks laid a hand on Billy, then they would be at a crossroads. The memory of Kirby Tate’s cell remained too vivid for comfort.

But so far this afternoon, Jenn and Hendricks had been occupied with Mike Rilling back in DC. Apparently, George was in federal custody, and they were trying to orchestrate a deal for his release—information for immunity.

To get away from it all, Gibson had holed up in Ginny Musgrove’s bedroom, where Bear had spent much of her time. He’d sat with his back against the bedroom door and read more of the annotations in
The Fellowship of the Ring
. Looking for a smoking gun about his father but at the same time dreading finding one. Was Duke the one that Bear had run away from? Was that why he’d ended his life? Gibson didn’t know if he could survive the truth.

Gibson studied Billy’s face. His boyish eyes, the premature crow’s-feet, the tuft of gray hair amid his unkempt blond rat’s nest. No one was perfect, but when it came to Suzanne, Billy Casper was as close as a person got. He’d stuck his neck out for her and then done it again. The risk he had taken to find her. This absurd long shot he had played by hacking ACG. Gibson had no parallel in his own life, and it was humbling.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” Billy said, resting his head on the pillow.

“How long did you and Suzanne talk online?”

“Almost a year.”

“When did she start talking about running away?”

“Right from the beginning, man.”

“Why?”

“Because of the baby. I told you.”

“No. You said she wasn’t showing when she got here. That meant she was only a couple months pregnant. So why did she want to run away before that?”

Billy said he didn’t know, hadn’t really considered it.

Gibson opened Bear’s book and read the passage about the baseball game again.

“What is it?” Billy asked.

The sound of a vehicle coming down the driveway interrupted them. Gibson put the book on the sink and stood up to look out the small porthole window. Billy watched him with wide eyes.

Powerful headlights fractured the brooding dark of the woods. Gibson yelled back toward the kitchen that they had company, but Hendricks and Jenn were already on their way. Jenn was turning off lights as she went. She stuck her head in the bathroom.

“What do we have?” she asked.

“Headlights. Is this your deal with the feds?”

“No,” Jenn said. “Stay with him. Call out anything you see.”

She shut off the bathroom light and left them in the dark.

A huge black SUV broke the tree line, curved slightly to the left, and came to a stop. A second SUV, running dark, pulled up alongside. Together they blocked the driveway back to the main road. Like a play-by-play announcer, Gibson relayed it all out to Jenn.

In unison, both SUVs flipped on their brights, scouring the back of the house in blinding white light. Gibson had to look away, but not before he saw the blue-and-red strobes from the vehicles pulsing off the trees. So much for cutting a deal.

Over the low rumble of the idling engines, they listened to car doors open but not shut. Footsteps in the gravel. He glanced cautiously over the lip of the window frame. Two figures approached, silhouetted in the bank of headlights that cast long distorted shadows. More men were behind them by the vehicles, but he couldn’t make out their number.

A voice of sandpaper and rust called out that they were FBI. There was an edge of Kentucky in his accent.

“Jenn Charles! Daniel Hendricks! Step out of the house. We have warrants for your arrest.”

A lonely minute passed. He could hear Jenn and Hendricks talking in hushed tones. Billy was banging his head lightly against the toilet seat. Gibson ducked down and put his hand on the back of Billy’s head to hold him still. The agent called out again, repeating his instructions.

Less warmly, if that were possible.

A hand tugged the hood off, and George Abe found himself kneeling on a dirt escarpment overlooking a valley that swept away to the south. The night sky was brilliant with stars. It amazed him how much sky you surrendered to live in a city. Why was it only in moments like these that a man noticed such things?

He rolled his head, hoping to unknot the muscles in his neck. His wrists were cuffed behind his back; his arms were zip-tied just above the elbows, which forced his shoulders back painfully. Try as he might, he couldn’t find a position that took the stress off his back, and his arms were going numb.

His interrogator had had only two questions. Where were Charles and Hendricks, and what happened to Abe Consulting Group? The questions got asked a lot of different ways, but it made no difference. The first he wasn’t answering. Not under any circumstances. They would kill him before he’d give up his people. As to the second, George didn’t know what they were talking about. Something about his offices being shut down and dismantled. It sounded insane, probably a ruse intended to get him talking. Through the pain and blood, he strove to keep his mind sharp.

The second round of “questioning” had involved an especially brutal beating. Titus’s thug had tuned him up pretty good. George’s left eye felt loose in the socket, his nose definitely broken. Dried blood was caked down his chin and shirtfront. The thug was right handed, and the ribs down George’s left side felt wet and pulverized beneath the muscle.

When they came back the third time, he was braced for things to take a serious turn, but instead they had thrown a hood on him and brought him here.

He’d been transported in the back of an old pickup, tossed in the bed like a side of meat and driven up this scarred and jagged road. At the top, he’d been hauled out and forced to kneel here in the dark. Frankly, he was relieved at the change of scenery. Not that he was under any illusions about his prospects improving.

Titus must have gotten what he needed some other way, which was bad news for Jenn and Dan. At least Gibson Vaughn was safely out of the way, although George wondered if that would make any difference. Benjamin was clearly playing for keeps.

A hooded figure was shoved down in the dirt beside George. The hood came off to reveal a terrified Mike Rilling. He was handcuffed but otherwise looked unharmed.

Mike got a good look at George in the moonlight. “George?”

“What are you doing here?”

Mike shook his head dumbly.

“Michael. What are you doing here? What did you tell them?”

“It’s okay,” Mike said uncertainly. “I took care of it.”

“What did you do, Michael?”

“They just want to talk to Jenn and Dan. Resolve this peacefully.”

“Do I look peaceful to you?”

Mike wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“What did you tell them?” George demanded.

Mike didn’t get a chance to answer. A single gunshot interrupted them and echoed across the valley. Mike toppled into the dirt and lay still. George watched blood pulse from the back of Mike’s head, the final spasms of a dead heart.

George let out a snarl and struggled to his feet. His captor cracked a gun barrel across his head and stilled him with one strong hand to the shoulder. George exhaled softly and looked up at the night sky, knowing he would not hear the shot that killed him.

“Ridge, what’s your status? Over,” a radio squawked.

The muzzle eased off his skull.

“One for two. Over.”

“Who? Over.”

“Rilling. Over.”

“Okay, hold there until relieved. Copy. Over.”

“Roger, holding. Hard copy.”

The two men left George kneeling in the dirt. He lowered his head and watched them over his shoulder. They strolled back to the pickup. They leaned against the front fender, the casual stance of experienced killers. A radio set on the hood played something that was too far away to make out clearly, but it had the choppy cadence and static of a police scanner. The two men talked in monosyllabic grunts and followed the broadcast the way other men might follow football.

After a time, another vehicle came up the road. It pulled to a stop, and a car door opened and closed. After a brief conversation, the new arrival ordered the two men to depart. George heard several crisp “Yes, sirs.” It was Titus.

When the pickup was gone, the sound of its engine faded from earshot, and another car door opened and closed. Behind him, George could hear Titus talking to a woman. He looked despairingly at Mike Rilling, whose blood was already fading into the dirt. Poor fool.

The sound of footsteps made him tense. Titus appeared in front of him. He set down a folding chair and left without a word or a glance in George’s direction.

“Keep it short,” Titus said.

“I’ll keep it however I wish, Mr. Eskridge.” Calista Dauplaise sat in the chair. “Hello, George.”

Jenn opened the front door a hair and slipped out onto the porch. She shielded her eyes with her hand. Damn lights were bright. Hendricks stood just inside the doorway, behind her, gun drawn.

“Down on the ground!” the agent barked. “Fingers interlocked behind your head.”

“Let me see some ID,” Jenn yelled back.

“Come down off the porch, ma’am, and we can talk.”

“Not until I see ID.”

The two agents conferred for a moment and then came forward slowly. The rear one had his suit jacket pushed back and his hand at his beltline. “A fragile situation” was what one of Jenn’s instructors called these moments. And they had a nasty habit of slipping out of control over the least little thing.

The lead agent wore an ID on a chain around his neck and waved it at her as they approached. As if she could see it from here. He just wanted her attention on it and not on his partner, who was lurking off to the right and behind him. Someone fancied himself a magician. Look at this hand while the other one’s busy elsewhere. If the other agent drew, Jenn’s view would be obstructed, and he’d have the drop on her.

Her eyes had adjusted to the glare enough that she could make out the outlines of at least five more agents standing behind the SUV’s open doors. Another agent had moved off to her left, flanking her some thirty yards away. It put him at the edge of an effective range for a handgun; he’d want to start moving up to close the distance. Unless the men at the back had rifles. In which case, if this thing went sideways, the house would be nothing but a shooting gallery, and they would wind up shredded paper targets.

A very fragile situation.

The lead agent came as far as Gibson’s car, which was still parked blocking the stairs leading up to the porch. He kept it between them and held up his badge for her to see. If it was a forgery, it was a damn good one. She tapped the back of her leg once and heard Hendricks curse softly.

“Satisfied?” the agent said. “Now, are you Jenn Charles?”

She nodded.

“Is Dan Hendricks with you? Is he in the house?”

She started to nod when the glint of something metallic caught her eye. The agent’s jacket had flapped open momentarily as he dropped the ID to his chest; it was his sidearm, and it was the wrong color.