"Is Jo here?"
That earned David a startled glance, followed by narrowed eyes. "No. I thought Maureen went over to your flat."
Double damn.
"I haven't seen Jo since last night. She went to the Quick Shop to check on Maureen. I thought maybe they both came back here and talked girl-talk all night."
Brian sat down at a kitchen table that must have come from the same factory as Jo's. Hell, it looked like it had the same knife-cuts in the plastic laminate and the same dents in the zinc edging. David hovered near the door and kept that table between him and the Doberman, just in case.
The kitchen smelled like a lab--or a hospital. Then details registered: surgical forceps and a few scraps of black thread lay on the table, next to bottles of antiseptic and a scattering of chess pieces.
David blinked and shook his head in disbelief as Brian snipped another stitch with a pair of tiny stainless-steel scissors. He swapped them for the forceps and teased more black thread out of his own arm. The wound looked like it was weeks old rather than two days, edges a deep purple with the shiny gloss of fresh-healed tissue and a few peeling scraps of dead skin.
"I heal fast," Brian said. "Runs in the family." He snipped the last two stitches, pulled them, and swabbed the arm with peroxide. It foamed gently in the holes left by the thread, spreading a thin tang of excess oxygen.
Brian cleared away the medical debris and wrapped his tools up in a green nylon field kit. "So they decided to take a girl's night out? They need a break from us, now and then. And vice-versa."
David shook his head. "I called the night manager for the store. Maureen went out on a break and never came back. The man said to tell her she's fired. He said Jo came in a couple of minutes later and went out again, looking for her. He's pissed."
Brian got up and poured a cup of coffee, lifted his eyebrows at David to offer him the same, and then shrugged.
"One other thing." David paused and drummed his fingers on the table. "The manager said Maureen left with this person, he wasn't sure if it was a man or a woman. Thin, well dressed, dark hair, dark skin. Not black, he said, more like Spanish or Italian. Good manners. Sound like anybody you know?"
Coffee splashed all over the floor.
"I guess the answer is yes." David stopped, rather than let his voice edge into the snarl he felt his face forming. When he could control his tongue, he went on. "Is she in danger? Is Jo in danger?"
"Maybe." Brian growled, the kind of sound you'd expect from a bear cornered in a cave. "Probably. Bloody pig-headed bitch wouldn't listen to me!"
David's heart turned over and froze. "Forget about cleaning up that mess! We're going to the police!"
Brian ignored him, sopping up blotches of hot liquid.
"What the fuck's the matter with you, man? Don't you care about Maureen?"
Wadded towels splatted into the trashcan with a lot more force than they needed. Brian poured another cup and met David's eyes. That was the look--the one that made David think of fire and blood and sharp steel, the Doberman look. Brian's eyes had faded from blue to ice-gray, and the thoughts showing through them were even colder.
"I care," Brian said. "The police just don't have jurisdiction in this case."
"What the hell you mean, jurisdiction? They aren't in Naskeag Falls? The FBI handles kidnapping! That's the fucking jurisdiction!"
"The FBI doesn't cover where Maureen and Jo have gone. Neither does Interpol. Please move: I need to get into that closet."
The alternative seemed to be leaving through a door without opening it first. Brian looked about as stoppable as an avalanche. David slumped into a chair, his knees suddenly unreliable.
Jo was in danger. Jo!
The closet spat out a mottled green knapsack covered with loops and pockets. A heavy web belt followed, clip-on canteen, and pouches. Binoculars--expensive binoculars, rubber-armored Leicas. Floppy jungle hat faded nearly white with sweat and sun. David cataloged the contents of an army surplus store as they piled up on the table. Where the hell had all that come from?
Brian noticed David's scowl and nodded at the pile. "Maureen fetched this lot for me, cleaned out a locker down at the bus depot." The gear had seen a lot of mileage. Some of it bore patched holes that looked suspiciously small and round.
A curved black leather sheath landed on top of the pile. Brian stood up with a grunt that was his only concession to leg and ribs. He unsheathed a heavy knife, like a short machete bent in the middle. Moving smoothly and quietly like a man performing a religious rite, he tested the edge with his thumbnail, pulled one of two smaller blades from the sheath, and used it as a sharpening steel.
The rasp of metal on metal sent icicles down David's spine. The dull sheen of the blade spoke of hours spent honing, honing, honing. Waiting. Soldiers do that, David thought, soldiers waiting to go over the top, soldiers waiting to reach the drop zone or the beach, soldiers waiting for an enemy they know is just beyond this ridge. Waiting to kill or die.
Those scars weren't from gang wars.
"My God, what is that thing?"
"It's called a kukri, the fighting knife of the Nepalese Gurkhas. I served with a special Gurkha scout unit in the British Army. Little buggers preferred these knives to their rifles. There are tales of a single Gurk with a kukri taking out a Japanese platoon, one by one, to the last man."
David shook himself and beat thoughts back into his head. "What do you mean, even Interpol
