Miles was doing. 'You got the handwriting of a moron, you know that?' He waved the sheet of instructions at him. 'My first-grader's got better lettering than this! Get out of here. Get gone. But don't come back here. Not ever.'
'What?'You can't read my handwriting?'
'What did I just tell you? You gonna leave? Go ahead, leave! You got a lotta nerve wasting my time. Yanking my chain.' 'What can't you read?' Maybeck asked, taking his first step back toward the counter.
Boldt felt a huge sigh of relief pass through him. 'How about you explain it to me?' They worked it out between them. Maybeck talked Boldt through the whole thing. It took several minutes, Boldt watching the wall clock.
When he finally returned to the back room, the techies were standing there anxiously awaiting him. The laptop was all ready to go. 'We got it!' one of them said excitedly. 'We got every file in the thing.' Boldt took the laptop. One of them said, 'Better give it another minute.' That minute stretched on indefinitely. 'Okay,' he finally said.
Boldt asked, 'What the hell was the password, anyway. I forgot to even look.' Donnie Maybeck stood less than fifteen feet away, on the other side of the closed door to this back room. 'Zoom,' the man answered. 'Whatever the hell that means.'
Off Inside the chilled, damp confines of Elden Tegg's wilderness kennel, Sharon Shaffer sat bare bottomed, her arms hugging her knees, her weak grip clutching the discarded needle she had recovered, her mind off in an imagined fantasyland where the cement she now sat on was a hot, fine, Mexican sand, and that god awful smell in the air was the sweet perfume of a trade wind. Each day she challenged herself to come up with another image, for without them her mind would decay into the depths of selfpity and her body surrender to disease. No one needed to tell her-she knew. She had seen it on the streets, usually at the receiving end of a bottle or a needle similar to the one she now cherished as if it were a key to the lock on the door that impounded her. She assumed from her diarrhea that he had her on a powerful course of antibiotics. Weakness was her biggest enemy. He was both feeding and drugging her through the I.V.
She didn't know how much longer she had in her.
Strength was everything. She knew that. Her will carried her hour to hour, but for how much longer? She continued to remind herself that as terrible as this was, she had seen worse, had lived worse, for she had lived without faith. Faith alone now carried her forward. Perhaps this suffering was her punishment for years of recklessness.
His words haunted her: 'Practice makes perfect.' This said while he held Michael's heart. Did that mean what she thought it meant? Was her heart next? Her life?
Her years on the street had taught her some things. She had learned how to fight, how to survive, how to lie, how to deceive. Cunning, she had found, could get you out of more problems than any amount of reason or talk.
The needle remained coiled in her fingers. An eye for an eye, she thought.
The obstacles she faced seemed overwhelming. The do c-tor, the vet-she still thought of him as The Keeper-was using Felix to patrol the building. The dog would tear apart any intruder or her, should she manage to escape. She needed more of a plan on how to deal with that. As part of an incentive program, The Keeper had also left the dog without food. Felix used the automatic waterer from the cage to her right, its door wired open for him, but as each day wore on into the afternoon, in anticipation of The Keeper's arrival, of food, the dog's restless pacing increased. He would enter the cage adjacent to her, sit there and drool while staring at her. it often went on for hours; it frightened her. She would motion at him, scold him through her gag, but the guard dog just sat there impassively, smelling her. Wanting her.
What worried her most about her planned escape was the way The Keeper used the shock collar to subdue her. The collar could be triggered either of two ways: if she touched the chain link or if The Keeper used the button on the remote 'wand' that corresponded to her collar. His routine was to deliver a few devastating blasts to her collar, weakening her before his entry into the cage to change her dressings. By the end of those blasts, she was feeble and in immense pain-she was putty in his hands. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking no chances.
It would require all her strength if she were to use the needle on him. She had it all worked out: needle to the eye, out the cage, out the door, lock it, into the car, gone. But his liberal use of the shock collar warned her that she would not have all her strength when the moment arrived., After hours days? — of contemplation, the only solution to this problem that she could arrive at was to condition herself against the effects of the collar. She had to beat him at his own game-to take more than he could deliver.
Getting started was not easy. Knowledge was one thing, execution another. For hours now, while Felix stared at her, she had been staring at the chain link, daring herself to willingly reach out and touch it. It required a morbid perversity-a masochism-that she found impossible to summon.
Nothing, she reminded herself, is impossible. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the power of that shock, reached out and took hold of the fence. The collar sounded its warning-an electronic buzz-and then delivered its full voltage. The kick snapped her spine straight, lifted her chin, and filled her with a savage heat. it felt as if her neck were burning. She released the fence and tumbled heavily to the cement, at first unable to catch her breath-numb, her joints welded, her muscles locked tight in an impossible, unforgiving cramp. She only realized it had temporarily blinded her when her vision returned and she saw Felix up on all fours, his stub wagging, his eyes locked onto her.
She sat up, prepared herself, and took hold again. She held on a few milliseconds longer this time, endured the seizure, the spasms, the white-hot fire at her neck, finally surrendering and letting go. Again, she collapsed to the cement. Again, her vision failed her briefly. Again, she was met by the hungry eyes of her sentry watching from the other side of the wire wall.
Escape was all that mattered. Since this pain was a means to freedom, she would gladly repeat this routine a dozen times, a hundred. He would shock her, she would act the part, and she would be free. Perhaps, given enough times, she might drain the collar's battery and render it useless. She repeatedly reminded herself that there was no easy way out of here, that sacrifice was the only means to this end.
Her mouth was dry. She felt as if her insides were shaking involuntarily. She denied her fears. She combated the pain with desire.
She reached out and took hold of the fence again, it sang through her like music. it made her dizzy and light- headed. It challenged her to let go. But she fought it, refusing. 'Noooo!' she screamed into the gag that rubbed her mouth raw. 'Nooo!' as she gripped her fingers more tightly.
Felix looked on with the white-rimmed eyes of disbelief. Awe.
He was her audience. Respectful. He sat back on his haunches and cocked his head in question.
And then she realized she could see! Her vision had overcome the shock from the collar. No more blind moments. A small victory, but for Sharon a milestone.
Encouraged, she grabbed the fence again and again, her collar sounding its warning buzz each time before the voltage surged through her.
One step at a time, she told herself. One step at a time.
With Daphne looking on, Bolt struggled at the coffee machine, trying to turn it on so he could make hot water for some tea.
Lamoia entered the office, bumped Boldt out of the way, flipped the on-off switch twice rapidly, tapped the machine on the side and proclaimed, 'No problemo.' Sure enough, the light came on, and a moment later the water started dripping.
Lamoia bought himself a Coke. The three of them took seats around Boldt's table.
Boldt asked Lamoia, 'We get Anything from Watson? Anything in that database?'
'He's on his way. What I have is Maybeck.'
'I'm more interested in the database.' I know that,' Lamoia said. 'We all are,' Daphne added. /'Go ahead,' Boldt instructed, attempting to contain his impatience. 'Donald Monroe Maybeck has no priors, no outstanding warrants, and only a couple of delinquent parking citations. As far as we're concerned, he's clean.'
'Shit,' Boldt hissed. He opened a file folder just to occupy his hands, to keep busy. He had been hoping- praying-that Maybeck's record might tell them something about the man. DMV records-all J Lamoia had to go onoffered you precious little information. Vii;diill Lamoia continued, 'He owns a blue 1981 Ford panel van. Other than that, officially we don't have squat on this guy. I did, however, put in a call to a buddy of mine who is able to pull
