'Welcome to Whitestone, Mr. Stepanski. After the gate opens, please drive directly to Building Six in the Oasis and come in to register. You have your own uniform?'
'Yes. Yes I do.'
'Excellent. We'll see you here in just a minute.'
The gate, ten-foot-high heavy chain-link topped with razor wire, glided soundlessly to Ben's right, opening onto a ruler-straight road that looked to be at least a quarter of a mile long. Driving Stepanski's Sebring convertible, he approached the compound slowly. In the wheel well, where the spare had been, was his detective's valise, and tucked beneath that was his.38.
The conglomeration of eight or nine pink-washed adobe structures glowed in the late-afternoon sun. Two dozen good-sized trees, the only significant vegetation and shade for miles, greatly reduced the starkness of the place, which he assumed was what the intercom voice had referred to as the Oasis.
One of the buildings, Ben knew, probably the largest, housed a laboratory. The technicians working there were probably unaware of the evil in which they were accomplices as they tissue-typed and electronically catalogued millions of greens-topped vials from unsuspecting clients all over the country — probably even the world.
The notion sickened him.
Beside the engine of the Sebring, the thrum of massive rooftop air conditioning units was the only sound penetrating the hot, still Texas air. As he approached a pair of trees, flanking the roadway like sentinels, Ben caught sight of the Adventurer, parked toward the right rear of the Oasis. He couldn't shake the painful suspicion that some version of Lonnie Durkin was imprisoned inside, frightened beyond imagination as he or she waited to be told why they were there.
Ben had darkened his hair and bought a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses, but made no other attempt to change his appearance. The picture in Stepanski's passport was slightly blurred, well-worn, and seven years old. He was five years Ben's junior, but had similar enough coloring and facial shape to make Ben's passing for him not too much of a stretch. Best of all, the flight attendant, now a resident of Unit 89 of the Budget Self-Storage Company, had made it clear that no one at Whitestone knew what he looked like.
Unfortunately, Ben was unable, with any comfort, to make the same claim about himself. As he approached Building 6, he played over and over again his brief, violent encounter in the dilapidated garage on Laurel Way in Cincinnati. The whole fight with the man named Vincent couldn't have lasted much more than half a minute. The lighting was minimal, and only once, a moment before the jet of black spray paint ended the struggle, did the killer get a straight-on look at his face. Was the man permanently blinded? Doubtful. Was he behind the wheel of the Adventurer as it rolled through Fadiman? If so, was he slated to be on board the upcoming flight? At that moment, the questions far outnumbered their answers.
Building 6 was a fairly small office decorated with framed, artfully done posters of monuments from around the world. Standing behind a counter, following him with her eyes from the moment he entered, was a slender, middle-aged brunette with the bearing of a Marine. Her navy suit had the single word WHITESTONE embroidered in script just above the left breast pocket.
Ben was trying to look and act nonchalant, but he was on absolute red alert, his pulse hammering. He wanted desperately to go back outside and try another, more composed entrance. Instead, he introduced himself.
'Welcome, Mr. Stepanski,' the woman said, her eyes unwavering. 'I'm Janet, the office manager. You have your passport and the letter we sent you?'
Ben set both items, retrieved from Stepanski's motel room, on the counter. Janet gave them each a cursory examination, perhaps hesitating for a moment on the passport photo. Then she slid them both to one side. Ben pressed his hands against the counter to keep them from shaking.
Do you know, Janet? Do you know what goes on here?
'I stopped by yesterday to see if I could help get the flight ready,' he said for no particular reason other than to loosen up and get a little deeper into character.
'I know,' she said. 'That was me you spoke to. Our policy is to make plans and stick closely to them.'
'I understand.'
No real explanation, no apology for not being able to oblige him. Janet the office manager was all business. For him, maintaining eye contact was a must. From here on he was in enemy territory. If he were caught, it seemed doubtful he would be allowed to live.
'Okay, Mr. Stepanski, weather permitting, you will be leaving at nine in the morning. You should be in uniform at this office at seven with enough clothes for a four-day trip. It is possible, as we wrote you, that several more days will be added. You will be tending to the needs of six passengers and a crew of three. The flight will be transporting a patient to South America for an operation that cannot be performed in this country. The patient will be with her doctors at the rear of the aircraft. You are forbidden from going back there unless specifically asked. If our passengers wish to engage in conversation with you, they will do so. Otherwise, their privacy is to be respected. Questions?'
'None.'
'Good. Here's the key to room seven. It is in Building Two, just down this road and to your right. You are not permitted in any part of the Oasis except on the patio by your room and in the canteen located in Building Three, which is right behind Building Two.'
'I understand.'
He took the key and turned to go.
'Mr. Stepanski?'
Ben stiffened, then turned slowly back to her, his pulse in crescendo again.
'Yes?'
She handed him his passport.
'It's probably time for a new photo.'
Ben decided to leave his.38 in the wheel well. There was no way he was going to be in any situation he could ever shoot his way out of, especially given that he had never fired a gun at anything other than a shooting range target, and on those rare occasions, with no great skill. If he had somehow given himself away to Janet, he would know soon enough, and there probably wouldn't be a damn thing he could do about it.
Room 7, small but neat enough, had little on the budget motels in which he usually stayed. Still, he mused as he unpacked his bag and set the alarm for six, Seth Stepanski would have probably given up his prized collection of beer steins to be spending the night in this room rather than where he was.
Ben felt distressed at taking advantage of the man the way he had, and even worse at the discomfort he had to inflict on him to keep him immobilized where he was and yet alive. Whether or not Ben would have put Stepanski's life in jeopardy, he wasn't sure, but he did know that the moment he pulled his gun, he had stepped off a cliff. Now whatever he had to do to keep from crashing on the rocks below, he would do. In the end, with inspired imagination, a carefully chosen storage locker, a dozen padlocks and lengths of chain, and enough time, he had constructed a setup of which Rube Goldberg would have been proud.
The key was the steel supports that ran across the ceiling and around the walls of the locker, which was one of Budget's jumbo units — sixteen by twenty. Stepanski, undressed from the waist down, was fixed in the ex-act center of the room, chained to the ceiling and walls in such a way that he had only enough mobility to switch awkwardly from a bridge chair to the commode that Ben had purchased in a hospital supply store and attached to it. His hands were cuffed behind him, and duct tape was wrapped around his head, covering his mouth. A hole poked in the center of the tape made breathing easier and allowed him to drink by straw from any of a dozen bottles of water, juices, and protein beverages set up on a bridge table in front of him. The heat might be a problem, but Ben chose Unit 89 not only because it was one of the farthest from the Budget office, but because it was well shaded.
By eleven that night, Stepanski was secured and the setup checked and rechecked. Still, Ben made two more visits to the locker to look in on his prisoner and to replenish the beverage supply. At noon, just a few hours before he headed out to Whitestone, he sat down on the floor and, arms wrapped around his knees, told the flight attendant in detail exactly what was going on at the lab and what he hoped to do about it. Stepanski begged to be released and promised to head home and say nothing, but Ben had gone as far as he dared to go.
'I have sent a box to a friend of mine,' he said, 'a professor at the University of Chicago. It contains the keys
