backlit crimson.
He slumped to his knees and sobbed uncontrollably.
Fitzduane reached out and rested his hand on Shanley's shoulder. He knew it helped. It had been done to him under very similar circumstances.
Kilmara looked at them and remembered. Fitzduane had been young then. They both had.
There was always a reaction. After a while it did not show, but it stayed with you.
Maury had designed his mobile home to be as near soundproof as possible. He wanted to be able to work anywhere without interruption.
In this case, matters were made even more convenient by the fact that the Bastogne Inn, which specialized in conferences and exhibitions, had a special serviced area for mobile homes and trailers. You had to pay, of course, but you could plug into the hotel phone system, cable TV, power and plumbing, and even utilize room service if you wanted. For Maury, it was an ideal arrangement.
He was oblivious to the terrorist attack. He was also so buried in his analysis that he had completely forgotten to pass on a message he had received. It had not struck him as particularly urgent, and then Lee Cochrane had phoned and the fax had beeped and the note got buried under a file.
After a while, the phone became a nuisance and he hit the mute button and engaged the answering machine. He needed to focus. There were aspects to this Mexican thing that did not make sense. There had to be more to it. There was an agenda he was missing, he was sure of it. But what?
He learned about the attack when Kilmara came to get him. Immediately he tried to notify Cochrane but could not get through.
Feeling decidedly shaken and, for no rational reason, guilty for not having been there, he went to help Fitzduane and Kilmara do what they could with the injured and the shell-shocked survivors. A stream of ambulances was already beginning to arrive, and medical teams were soon hard at work. The air was filled with the sound of medevac and other helicopters. Local, state, and federal law-enforcement units poured in.
The message remained forgotten.
Fitzduane watched the ambulance doors close and the vehicle accelerate away, siren screaming and lights flashing.
That was the last of the wounded taken care of. There would now be the whole wretched business of being questioned by the bevy of law-enforcement people who had spent the last couple of hours installing themselves in strength and debating jurisdiction. Some had tried to question him earlier, but apart from giving what descriptions he could of the terrorist helicopter, he had refused to say any more until the wounded were attended to.
His motive was not entirely altruistic. He had found that giving succor to another helped ease the stress reaction that cut in after combat and the suppressed guilt that came from the taking of human life. On the conscious level he had not regret about what he had done, but his subconscious seemed to have feelings of its own. It was confusing, and all the more so because he was incredibly tired.
He slumped down on a sofa in the reception area. The rooms were all cordoned off. They were going to have to bunk down in Maury's trailer, he supposed. He looked down at his clothing. God, he was a mess!
His shirt and trousers were ripped, and caked with dried blood. His hands and forearms were streaked with dried blood also. The blood of the killers and the blood of the victims. It had been a long time since he had seen so many terrible injuries. More than sixty had been killed and perhaps two hundred wounded. Many were critical. The butcher's bill would mount up over the next few days.
Where was Kathleen?
He felt a sudden rush of concern. He checked his watch. It was after 10:00 P.M. and it was dark outside. Actually, it was a blessing that she had not been at the party, but still, he was worried. It was not in her nature to stay out of touch like this. They were not a typical couple who could wander at will. They were under terrorist threat, and there were routines and disciplines they had to stick to. One key routine was regular communication. It was a burden but it was reality, and Kathleen was conscientious. In fact, she was better than he was.
Two men with law enforcement stamped all over them were talking to a grim-faced Kilmara over by the reception counter. One slid a photograph out of a file and showed it to Kilmara. He studied it intently and shook his head. The other then slid something small and gold out of a plastic envelope and held it in the palm of his hand.
Kilmara picked up the bracelet and read the inscription inside, then nodded. He looked across at Fitzduane, and there was both shock and sympathy in his face.
Fitzduane suddenly felt cold and sick. He tried to stand up, but for a moment his body seemed unwilling to respond. His limbs felt leaden and he seemed to have no strength.
Kilmara and the two men came over.
'Hugo,' said Kilmara quietly, 'just prepare yourself. This may not be as bad as it seems.'
' What? Fitzduane wanted to scream. What is it? Why don't you just tell me? At the same time he understood what Kilmara was trying to do and his whole being fought to be ready for what he was going to hear.
The photograph of the murdered woman meant nothing to him, and his hopes began to rise. She was young and blond, and her features were not remotely familiar.
Then he saw the bracelet and absolute horror swept through him. Kathleen had been kidnapped. But by whom and why?
The older of the two men spoke. 'My name is Sheriff Jacklin, Colonel Fitzduane, and this here is Detective Erdman. I hate to say this, but it looks as if your wife might have been taken by the same people' – he made a gesture toward the pool – 'who did all this. And as to who they are, you can rest assured we're going to find out.'
Fitzduane looked at him blankly, as if he had not heard the words. Then he got to his feet unsteadily and turned away without explanation and walked toward the entrance. He felt as if he could not breathe and fresh air was the only solution. He staggered like a drunken man.
Kathleen was gone. He would never see her again. The people who had taken her killed without hesitation. They would not let her live. She would be a witness. She would have learned something. You always learned something, and these were people who took no chances. Kathleen would die – might already be dead – and he would have to accept it.
He could not accept it. Emotion ran through him. He held up his bloody hands. He was responsible for all this. Action and reaction and his cursed curiosity. It all went back to finding a hanging body and deciding to find out why. It was one body too many and it was on his doorstep and the victim had been so damned young. If only he had just walked on and never looked back.
'Hugo!' called Kilmara, his voice loud and sharp.
Fitzduane lowered his hands, then shook his head a couple of times as if trying to wake himself up. He had been oblivious to his surroundings, aware only of the balmy night air. He breathed in and out deeply.
The forecourt was a hive of activity. Law-enforcement vehicles came and went, and media vans with TV cameras mounted on their roofs were lined up behind the guarded perimeter. Arc lights supplemented the hotel lighting. As he watched, a helicopter touched down. Other helicopters circled above. Media again, he supposed.
Beyond the perimeter held back by barriers were many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of curious onlookers wedged five or six deep.
'Publicity is the oxygen of terrorism,' someone had said. Well, these terrorists were getting plenty of oxygen. He hoped they choked on it.
Maury was standing beside Kilmara, looking rather anxious. Kilmara was reading something, and then he looked up. He appeared puzzled, and, followed by Maury, he walked toward Fitzduane.
'Maury took a phone message earlier on,' he said. 'It was from a woman. The switch tried your room and,
