away. At the door, Cain issued a final warning. 'Don't try to follow us too soon. If you do, John dies in more agony than you could ever imagine.'
I stayed put. Rink was as itchy as a flea-bitten dog, and without taking my eyes off Cain I whispered, 'Just wait.'
From behind me I heard the answering response, indicating that Rink understood. 'I'm waitin'.'
Cain didn't hear the whispered exchange. He was as nutty as squirrel shit, but he was no fool. He paused in his tracks. 'I guess this won't be the last time I lay eyes on you?'
'Count on it,' I told him.
'Don't worry, I will,' Cain said. 'I look forward to it. It'll look good to have such a formidable trophy as Joe Hunter on my resume.'
Cain held my gaze a moment longer; then, in an act I should have expected from one of such a depraved mind, he waved good-bye. It wasn't his hand he used. It was the bloodless souvenir taken from the old woman's husband.
Then Cain and John were gone.
Before I could move, the old woman wailed and began scurrying across the floor on her hands and knees to the still form of her husband. She folded over the top of him and her sobs were pitiful.
Grief is a savage torment, especially when so raw as this. It can leave a person insensible to what is happening around them, and totally unaware of consoling hands. My soft words were probably gobbledygook to her.
While she wailed, I gave her the quick once-over. Her injuries were minimal, a little bruising on the throat, a bumped elbow. Searching for any broken bones, I traced the folds of her blouse with my fingertips. Bodily she was intact, but there was a narrow rent in the fabric. I studied the slashed cloth, noting that a patch about the size of two fingers was missing, stripped away, wondering how in hell that had happened.
I shook off the thought as Rink charged into the living room. 'They've taken the old lady's car.'
I nodded at him.
'So what're we doin' standin' around? Let's go after the son of a bitch,' Rink said.
'There's no rush,' I told him.
Rink inclined his head. 'What's goin' on?'
'Like I said, we only have to wait.'
Rink wasn't aware that John was laying down a trail for us.
'When John was holding on to me,' I explained, 'he took my cell phone out of my shirt pocket.'
'I can't see him gettin' the opportunity to call in his location,' Rink said.
'Doesn't need to,' I said.
'No. Of course. We can have the phone signal triangulated. It'll lead us straight to him.'
'I trust you have someone in telecommunications that can do it for us?' I asked.
'I might know a woman who does.'
'Cheryl Barker? It's okay, Rink, I've just had another thought.'
The sirens came.
It was only minutes before Rink and I were kneeling with our hands behind our heads as we were frisked for concealed weapons.
'Get me Walter Conrad,' I told a stern special agent from the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team. 'He's a sub- division director with the CIA.'
On reflection, I was in no position to make demands, but if anyone had the ability to trace the phone John was carrying it was Walter.
To my surprise, he said, 'Don't worry, Mr. Hunter. Your boss is already on his way.'
35
your boss is already on his way.
It's not often that Walter Hayes Conrad IV gets into the field these days. As a handler of undercover agents, most of them up to their elbows in wet work, he has to maintain a degree of anonymity and distance himself from the dirty deeds used by his government in the name of national security. On this occasion, however, it was necessary for him to fly out to this place marginally north of Long Beach. Everyone's orders were to contain what was rapidly escalating into a massive embarrassment for both him and the security community at large.
He walked into the bedroom where I'd been confined for the last twenty minutes. All that was missing was a fanfare blast of trumpets to announce his arrival.
Walter greeted me with a tight-lipped smile, an unlit cigar clamped between his fingers. Without preamble, he dismissed the two Hostage Rescue Team troopers who'd been my uneasy jailers. Funnily enough, the FBI agents immediately deferred to his authority.
'Walter,' I acknowledged with a nod. I stood up from the bed, smoothing out the rumpled comforter with a tug.
Walter's cigar went from one hand to the other. Gripping it as though it were a lifeline, he offered his other damp palm. I shook hands with him, regarding him solemnly. He didn't say anything.
'You must have hotfooted it out here, Walter,' I said, 'seeing as it's less than half an hour since the call went in.'
