Miles stepped back from him. ‘Celeste. Is there any copy of what she uploaded to this remote server still on your system?’
‘I’m searching the hard drive, but, no, not so far.’
‘I don’t want the good doctor to see anything else we find.’
‘Okay.’ Her voice was steady and she took her hands off the keyboard. ‘You say you won’t be silent. Are you going to kill him?’
‘No,’ he said, then he added a lie: ‘But I won’t let him hurt us either.’
Hurley said, ‘You’re making a grave mistake, Michael…’
Surprise spread across Celeste’s face. ‘You said your name was Miles.’
‘It is. He thinks it’s Michael. Long story.’
‘He’s lied to you, Celeste. His name’s Michael and there’s a federal cop at the hospital asking for him,’ Hurley said. ‘You can’t trust him. I’ve only tried to help you, to protect you…’
‘How did you know my name?’ Miles said. He thought back to Hurley’s arrival – he had never spoken his fake name, or his real name, and neither had Celeste. Realization hit; Hurley had lied. ‘You do have Nathan.’
‘Yes.’
The fed wanting to talk to Hurley about Michael Raymond – why? What had Groote said? We could be of service to the authorities. What did that mean? One thing – setting a trap for Miles, one designed by the feds and executed by Groote. And Hurley had put Groote off for no real reason, and knowing how badly Hurley and Groote wanted Miles, Groote would be suspicious…
‘Celeste!’ he hollered. ‘We got to go! We have to leave. Groote could be heading here right now.’ So could the feds, but he didn’t say that – she would argue to stay, and he couldn’t leave her alone.
Celeste shook her head. ‘No. I can’t.’
‘We have to go, now!’
She shook her head; her hands began to tremble. ‘No, no, I can’t, I can’t leave…’
‘I’ll take you to my friend DeShawn,’ he said. He got up and moved past Hurley. Screw this, he’d give himself up to WITSEC, he couldn’t see her trembling and broken and hurt. They knew enough for the police to expose Allison’s killers and this medical research she’d died to stop, he was crazy to think he could set the world back to rights for the lost Allison, for himself, for anyone.
A needle slid into his neck.
He wrenched his head away from Hurley. Miles tumbled over a chair, grabbed at his throat, fumbled fingers over the syringe, pulled it free from his flesh.
He fell back in the chair. Miles screamed as Hurley’s thumbs gouged into his eyes with calm, surgical precision. He tried to kick away from the doctor but Hurley dug a nail into the soft corner of Miles’s eyes, intent on popping the orbs from his skull. He tried to aim the gun past the agony in his face and one hand went from his eyes, seized the gun from his hand. Miles closed his hands around Hurley’s wrists, lifted, and pushed. The barrel pressed against his lips in a cold kiss, as he heard Celeste screaming. Then the barrel jerked away from his mouth.
Miles pulled his knees between himself and Hurley with a mighty effort, kicked back, tore his face free of Hurley’s claws. He couldn’t see, his eyes blinded in pain, his head loose and light as a stringless balloon. Then the gun boomed, Celeste screamed, then sudden silence.
TWENTY-NINE
Groote didn’t like the conversation with Hurley. Not a bit. It made no sense, passing up an opportunity to help find Raymond…
Raymond. Maybe Raymond was there, with Hurley. At Celeste’s house. But how would he know about Celeste?
Because Allison had told him. Jesus, he had been in it with Allison.
He called Hurley’s cell phone again. It rang. And rang. No answer.
Their plan was off the rails, and, crap, Groote had Sorenson in one office, this fed in the other, caught between them. Hurley would have to fend on his own for a few minutes.
Groote gave DeShawn Pitts a shrug. ‘I’m sorry. You know doctors. They always leave you waiting. Doctor Hurley’s dealing with a suicidal patient – he may not be available until tomorrow.’
‘Then I’ll check back with him in the morning.’
Groote walked the officer out with hearty handshakes and then stood at the window. Pitts’s car remained in the lot; the officer sitting behind the driver’s wheel, talking on his phone.
Just hurry up and go. Please. Finally Pitts drove away.
He tried Hurley’s cell phone again. No answer. He went back to the conference room. Sorenson sat there, drinking coffee. ‘Where’s your fed?’ Sorenson asked.
‘Gone.’
‘Why the visit?’
‘It’s nothing to concern you.’
‘I still want to see Ruiz.’
‘I have some other very pressing business to attend to, right now.’
‘Our deal’s based on me seeing Ruiz,’ Sorenson said. ‘I’ve helped you. You help me. It won’t take but a few minutes.’
Groote decided. ‘But let’s make it quick. Follow me.’
THIRTY
‘Brian?’
Miles curled on the floor, focus blinking back into his eyes. Pain speared his head and the voice was hardly above a whisper. He raised his head from the tile.
Scuffed leather soles lay inches away from his face. He blinked again, past the salt of the tears, jerked to his feet, forcing his eyes to stay open.
Hurley lay sprawled on the floor, throat an open wound, breath a gurgle. The sounds of the gunshot echoed in his bones, made him want to close his eyes, surged bile into the back of his throat – but Celeste was more important than his fear. Celeste lay crumpled before him, the gun in her hands. He spoke, and his tongue weighed like lead in his mouth. ‘It’s all right, Celeste. Give me the gun.’
‘Brian, he won’t hurt you, he won’t hurt you anymore, I promise, I promise, I promise,’ Celeste said. Miles crawled to Hurley, fumbled at the man’s wrist. The pulse faded, then stopped.
‘Brian. We’re safe, all right, we’re safe from him, I never should have let him in the house…’ Celeste’s voice, down to a trickle.
Miles lurched away from her, away from the dead man. Leaned over the sink, threw cold water in his face. He tasted blood in his mouth and thought, If he tore out my eye there would be more pain, right, or would I just be in shock? His fingers probed at his face. Blood oozed in the skin between his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He rinsed it away. He managed to open his eyes, inspected his face in the mirror of a hutch that sat in the breakfast nook. His eyes were bloodied but both whole.
‘Brian?’ Now Celeste’s voice rose again. She flinched at him as he came out of the kitchen, mopping at his face with a dish towel, holding out his hand.
‘Celeste. I’m not Brian. I’m Miles. Remember? Miles.’ He knelt by her and held out his hand. ‘Give me the gun.’
She crawled away from the dead man. ‘You’re not Brian.’
‘No. I’m Miles.’
‘I… my house… my husband…’
