left was a tall set of shelves packed with brushes, rags, and a dozen or more gallon and spray cans of paint. To his right were stacks of cleaning and automotive supplies. Beyond the supplies, though, was something much more interesting — a short staircase, which led up to what looked like a small, enclosed office with two large glass windows facing inward.
He headed for the office, trying to ignore the niggling thought that the more intelligent of his fictional role models probably wouldn't have elected to be alone here in the first place. Clutching the leather case, he made his way quietly up the stairs, which felt surprisingly sturdy. Through the glass, he could see a desk and chair, two- drawer filing cabinet, fax machine, copier, and a computer. The two walls without windows were unadorned, and the office door was locked.
Ben shut off the flashlight and knelt in the darkness on the topmost step, waiting again for his pulse to slow and the paralysis of his limbs to let up. He had always wanted to view himself as adventurous, but he knew that compared to most of his friends over the years, he had really never been that much of a risk-taker.
So what in the hell was he doing here?
The lock on the office door was no match for the Taggert Wires, and in less than a minute he was inside, using the hooded flash in short bursts and trying to convince himself that the precaution of turning it off and on was unnecessary. Finally, he gave in and kept it lit, albeit below his waist. There were a few papers on the desk, but none was any more interesting or incriminating than a fantasy baseball league score sheet and a few bills related to the RV.
The file cabinet, standard Office Max or Staples, was locked. Rather than waste time with the wires, Ben took a heavy screwdriver and popped the drawers open. The top one of them was completely empty except for several old sports page sections from the Cincinnati Enquirer, and a dog-eared copy of Hustler. The bottom drawer was something else again. It was virtually filled with guns — revolvers, pistols, and one snub-nosed submachine gun, plus a dozen or more boxes of ammunition and three hand grenades. For a full minute, Ben stared down at the cache, his sensible self screaming that he was in well over his head and needed to get out of the place and far away as quickly as possible.
Perhaps some sort of anonymous tip to the police about guns and terrorists would get a response, or maybe one of his friends on the Chicago force would have an idea of what he should do next. But neither of those actions was likely to address the still-unanswered question of whether, in fact, this RV had something to do with illicit bone marrow theft or anything else in which Alice Gustafson might be interested.
Ben flicked off the light again and stared down through the window and the darkness at the silhouette of the massive Adventurer. Assuming the door to the RV was locked, was there any percentage in trying to get inside? There had to be a security device of some sort in play. Perhaps the best move was to leave and return with someone who could handle that. Offhand he could think of two men he knew who were skilled enough to fill the bill.
Having made his decision, he turned and was about to leave the office when, as almost an afterthought, he pulled the single wide desk drawer open and shined his flash inside. There were more invoices relative to the Winnebago, and some off-color printouts from the Internet. He was flipping through the invoices when he noticed, still in the drawer, a three-by-five file card clipped to a photo — a small, three-by-three color headshot, slightly blurry, but totally distinguishable.
Ben caught his breath.
Although there was no need to confirm the identity of the man, he did so anyway. The likeness to the first of Madame Sonja's renderings was remarkable. From a mass of shattered bone and torn flesh, she had reconstructed this man's face almost perfectly. Written on the file card, in a heavy, masculine hand, was: Lonnie Durkin, Little Farm, Pugsley Hill Road, Conk, Idaho.
Ben's tense smile was bittersweet. After so many days and so many miles, the man he had dubbed Glenn now had a real name and an address. But for a family in Idaho, there was great sadness in store.
Ben slipped the photo and card into his pocket and quietly exited the office. At the bottom of the stairs, he hesitated, then approached the mobile home and stood in the silent darkness in front of the door, debating. He had what he had come for, his sensible self reasoned. Why push things? Even if there was a security system and he tripped the alarm, his suddenly emboldened self countered, he could race out to his car and be headed out of town before anyone responded to it.
He opened the door to the alley just a crack and set his tool bag beside it. Feeling vaguely detached from himself, he returned to the Adventurer and gently tried the handle. The door opened, but not in the way he expected. It was viciously kicked open from the inside, striking Ben square in the face and driving him back, dazed, onto his butt. Momentarily blinded by the interior light, all he could see was the silhouette, lit from behind, of a large, narrow-waisted man, whose shoulders virtually filled the doorway.
'You were right!' the man said to someone inside the RV 'There was someone out here!'
Laughing, the man leapt from the stairs, and in the same motion, though barefooted, kicked Ben viciously in the chest and up to his jaw, snapping his teeth together with the sound of a drummer's rim shot. Ben, who had just made it to his knees, slammed back into the shelves of paint, scattering the cans noisily across the concrete. Stunned, he rolled to one side, catching enough of a look to see a man in shorts and a black tee, with shoulder- length blond hair. Before he could take in any more, he was kicked again, this time in the side of his chest. His breath burst out as pain exploded from his ribs. From within his body, he was certain he heard the snapping of bone.
The agony in his chest was nearly disabling, and blood was cascading from his nose into his mouth and down the back of his throat. His tumbling, ill-focused thoughts searched desperately for something he could do, some weapon he could use, or some convincing story that would fit the circumstances and at least slow down the onslaught. That was the instant his hand hit against a spray can of paint. The top of the can had apparently been knocked off.
'Connie, get the fuck out here and turn the lights on!' the bull hollered, bending down, grabbing Ben's jacket, and pulling him up like a puppet.
Praying at once that there was paint in the can and that the nozzle opening was pointing in the right direction, Ben was still being hauled upright when he swung the can to within six inches of his assailant's eyes and fired. The results were all that he could have hoped for. Instantly, thick, dark paint filled both of the man's sockets. Shouting obscenities, he reeled backward, pawing at his eyes. Ben had already reached the door when the behemoth slammed onto the steps of the RV.
'Jesus, Vincent!' a woman's voice cried out, but Ben, hauling his bag along, was already in the alley, hobbling painfully toward Laurel Way.
CHAPTER 10
No human thing is of serious importance.
The first thing Joe Anson became aware of was the steady swoosh of the respirator, gently forcing air into his disease-ravaged lungs. The second was the white noise thrum of the jet engine. They were airborne and on their way east, more than four thousand miles from Cameroon, to a surgical team awaiting him in Amritsar, India. His yearlong, worsening struggle to breathe was very nearly over.
Anson knew the endotracheal tube was in place down his throat, but it didn't bother him much. It had to be medication, he reasoned — some sort of narcotic with a little sedative and just a pinch or two of memory eraser thrown in. Psychopharmacology was becoming more and more like the military's smart bombs — able to pinpoint targets in the brain with ever-increasing accuracy. Whatever the nature of the drugs, the combination he was being given was working. He was experiencing none of the choking, strangulating sensation so many intubated patients complained about.
What he was experiencing at that moment were overriding feelings of relief, wrapped around a profound
