bullet ricocheting from the concrete floor and connecting with something metallic.
“Nobody move,” says a new voice, a familiar voice. “The weapon in my hand is a Glock Super Ten. There are fifteen rounds left in the magazine and I’m prepared to shoot all three of you dead and take the consequences. Now get him off the gurney before my finger slips.”
Jack Delancey.
Milton wets his pants in gratitude.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The first battle report comes in from a Kmart in Seabrook, New Hampshire. Jack has detoured off the highway ten miles south of Pease Tradeport because Milton Bean needs a change of clothing and insists that only Kmart will do.
“He’s obviously suffering from post-traumatic stress,” Jack says, keeping it breezy on the unsecured cell phone connection. “The poor guy got fired, I guess he can’t handle it.”
“Fired?”
“Yeah, from his job,” Jack says.
“What?”
“Don’t be stupid, Alice. The job, okay?”
He hangs up.
Weird. Jack has never called me stupid, and would not do so simply because I asked a question. So it has to be code for something. Milton got fired? Not by us, surely. Therefore by Gatling Security Group? The time is all wrong, though. It’s midafternoon and if GSG had refused him entry we’d have heard the bad news well before noon.
I locate boss lady on the ground floor of the residence, in the Zen sand garden. As always the place is cool and peaceful, exuding something of the fifteenth century, from which it dates. The natural lighting is indirect and soothing. Naomi is seated on a stone bench in the lotus position, palms open, eyes closed. The very thought makes my hips hurt, but she claims to find it relaxing. Opens her mind, allows that amazing brain to make random connections that have so often proved useful in our investigations.
Much as I hate to disturb her when she’s doing the Zen thing, or wrecking watercolors in the studio-which appears to be another, very different form of brain exercise-this is in my judgment a call she needs to know about. As it happens, she agrees, unfolding herself from the lotus without complaint and walking me out of the garden as I recount, pretty much word for word, the strange message from Jack Delancey.
“Jack at Kmart?” she says. “How odd. In a pinch he might deign to shop at Macy’s. But never Kmart. Something went wrong, obviously.”
“What do we do about it? Jack turned his phone off, it goes directly to voice mail.”
We’ve reached the command center. Naomi goes to her desk, takes a seat and leans back in her ergonomic chair. “We wait,” she says. “Pardon me, but I want to finish my train of thought.”
She closes her eyes and begins to breathe deeply and slowly.
I’ve been dismissed, obviously. Not being a Zen master, or any sort of genius, I’m left with nothing to do but pace and fret, worrying about our boys and what might have befallen them, out there in the big bad world.
An hour later they come in through the garage, both of them as giddy as children. Jack in filthy, torn clothing, his face scratched, and Milton wearing new duds from Kmart.
“We had to run through the woods,” Jack tells us unnecessarily. “We ran through the brambles where a rabbit couldn’t go.”
“Ran through the bushes,” Milton insists, piping up. “That’s where a rabbit couldn’t go. Not the brambles and not the briars. Bushes.”
“We’re arguing about a song,” Jack explains, clapping Milton on the back. “Johnny Horton, ‘The Battle of New Orleans.’ We ran so fast the hounds couldn’t catch us.”
“‘Down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico,’” Milton sings.
“Down the highway to Seabrook is more like it. That’s where I made damn sure they didn’t have a tail on us.”
“I need to use the bathroom,” Milton says, quite suddenly in a sober voice. “Can I use the bathroom?”
“Of course. Down the hall, second door on the right.”
Jack waits until Milton has left the room. The smile drops from his face. “We’re bonding,” he explains. “Milton was being tortured, I rescued him, we escaped through the woods. I’ve been cheering him up. Letting him know it’s okay to pee your pants when you’re being threatened with brain death. He was really embarrassed, which is silly, don’t you think?”
“Very silly,” says Naomi. “Jack, listen to me carefully. Go to your room, shower and change and then report to the library for debriefing.”
At first the suggestion startles or rankles, but then he seems to settle back into the more familiar, coplike Jack. “Okay. Sure. Makes sense.”
He trudges away, suddenly exhausted.
“Adrenaline and shock,” Naomi offers by way of explanation. “They’ve been through something awful.”
“Jack did mention torture.”
“He did, didn’t he? Mrs. Beasley? A pitcher of iced tea, if you please. And sugar cookies. They’ll need energy.”
I head upstairs and prepare to receive the conquering heroes.
Sugar cookies. The obvious remedy for shock and torture, why didn’t I think of that?
Milton settles gingerly into a Windsor-style chair in the library, wincing. I pop up, offer the man a cushion, which he accepts gratefully.
“I’ll be fine,” he assures us. “Just bruising, nothing broken.”
“You were kicked?” Naomi asks.
“Not directly. It was more like-”
“Let him tell it from the beginning,” Jack suggests.
“Absolutely,” Naomi says. “Take your time, Mr. Bean.”
Milton’s eyes are so deep, they appear to have been pushed back into his head by heavy thumbs, but according to his account it’s exhaustion that has so altered his appearance, not physical torture. He tells us he was summoned from his workstation to an office where company owner Taylor Gatling briefly questioned him. And then a black hood was whipped over his head and he was lifted into the air and carried from the building.
“I presume down a back stairway. I’m quite sure I wasn’t taken out through the main door.”
“Hooding the face is psychological torture 101,” Naomi says. “Accomplishes two things: makes the suspect disoriented and instills fear.”
“It worked beautifully,” Milton says. “I was scared to death.”
“What was the nature of the interrogation?” Naomi says. “What kind of questions did they ask?”
“At first, when Mr. Gatling was present, they wanted to know if I was working for the Department of Defense or for the IRS. If you’re a Pentagon contractor, the contract often stipulates that the DOD can run a spot audit at any time, without giving notice.”
“Hmm,” says Naomi. “I find the fear of an IRS audit more telling. They must have something to hide.”
“You mean besides torturing accountants or kid finders?” I say.
“Yes, besides that,” Naomi says, not flinching. “Something financial.”
“They knew I had entered under false pretenses. I could have been arrested and prosecuted,” Milton says. “They went another route, one that could put them in legal jeopardy.”
“Will you be suing?” Naomi says. “Reporting this to the authorities and pushing for an arrest? Unlawful detention comes to mind, for starters. You certainly have cause.”
