– and he went missing on Friday. The day after Groote had talked to him.
Or maybe DeShawn didn’t give up, kept questioning, kept looking for Miles – he would, if ordered, if WITSEC accepted DeShawn’s argument that Miles wasn’t capable of making a cogent decision given his disability – and he ran into Groote again. Groote was hunting Miles; so was DeShawn. Imagine they intersected. At a bad time.
Be okay, DeShawn, please be okay.
Miles scanned the rest of the article. No mention of him – WITSEC still wouldn’t compromise his new name. But a mention, at the end, of it having been a difficult week for Santa Fe police: a woman had been killed in an explosion at her office (Allison); a celebrity had vanished from her home (Celeste); four high-school kids critically injured in a car crash outside town; a doctor and a tourist had also gone missing. The hospital had reported Hurley missing. Would that news – or DeShawn’s sheer persistence – have brought DeShawn back to Sangriaville, closing in on a connection? Back to Groote?
Miles suddenly wanted to be off the plane, very badly.
He folded the paper, handed it back to its owner with a thank-you, got up, went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, tried to collect his thoughts, weighed the inferences. He returned to his seat. Groote was awake.
‘Airsick?’ Groote said in a low voice. ‘You’re pale.’
‘No,’ Miles said, ‘I’m okay.’
‘Don’t go mental,’ Groote said.
‘I said I’m fine.’
‘Good. Because we’re almost home free.’
If you killed DeShawn – I will kill you, Miles thought. ‘Yes. I hope we are.’
FIFTY-SIX
Miles sat in the Austin Four Seasons hotel bar, Allison and Andy and now DeShawn sitting across from him, an accusing retinue, people dead from his mistakes.
He could not lose his grip now. Andy’s light-switch presence – on and off, on and off – made Miles sure that his sanity was a matter of nuance and fluctuation, but now with Allison and DeShawn haunting him he knew his mind was on the verge of breaking apart, slipping into fragments that could not be easily pieced back together.
He couldn’t let it show. Groote would kill him if Miles’s mind broke and he became unneeded weight.
He put his gaze on the window, watching the calm of Town Lake as it stretched past downtown. Think of your favorite things, like that assortment of pleasantries Julie Andrews sang about in that old song. He summoned good memories of Austin: Miles had been to this bustling, creative hothouse of a city once before, to an Austin City Limits Music Festival with Andy – Andy worshiped Oasis and Miles was a huge fan of The Black Crowes and they’d come, drunk beer, grooved to the bands. Andy scored backstage passes and Miles remembered Andy relentlessly flirting with a beautiful girl who was the girlfriend of a major band’s drummer. They got kicked out of the VIP tent and laughed about it all the way back to the Four Seasons.
‘Good times,’ Andy said.
‘Yes,’ Miles answered, under his breath. ‘Now hush.’ Sweat broke out along his back.
‘What are you going to do if he killed me, Miles?’ DeShawn said. ‘I have a right to know if I can count on you.’
‘Don’t talk to him in public,’ Allison said from the other chair. ‘They’ll haul his ass to a hospital, pump him full of antipsychotics, and maybe he won’t listen to us anymore.’
‘You don’t think a pill is going to make me go away, do you?’ Andy said. ‘Might as well trade a cow for magic beans, Miles. You know you and I are a team forever. Permanent odd couple. I’m the original fracture in your head, these newbies are just hangers-on.’
‘I’m going to kill you again,’ Miles whispered, ‘and this time it’s self-defense.’
‘It wasn’t the first time,’ Andy said. ‘Not really. Deep in your brain is the truth.’
‘Dying to come out,’ Allison said.
‘Shut up, shut up,’ Miles said in a soft mutter. He straightened his shirt. You could appear scraggly yet hip in the Four Seasons and not attract undue attention: Austin was a film and music town and dress did not often equal actual wealth. He was dressed, unthreateningly, in clean jeans and a T-shirt that promoted a music group so obscure he might pass for Austin-cool.
Eleven minutes later, he watched a man cross the lobby, carrying a briefcase, heading up to the elevators. David Singhal, returning from a cab ride he’d taken shortly after arriving at the hotel. Groote had followed him, also in a cab, then called Miles to say the guy had simply gone to a restaurant for lunch.
Groote hadn’t gotten back yet and so Miles followed Singhal through the lobby. Miles got in the elevator next to the man, folded his hands behind his back; Singhal had already pressed the button.
‘If you go to the Frost auction today,’ Miles said conversationally, ‘you’re going to be killed.’
‘Today,’ Singhal repeated in wide-eyed shock. The doors slid open at his floor. ‘I’ve no idea what you mean…’
‘I’m not wearing a wire. And don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re in deep trouble, Mr. Singhal, and only I can get you out of it.’
‘You’ve made – a mistake.’ Singhal walked past him. ‘Leave me alone or I’ll call hotel security.’
‘You go ahead. Then I’ll call the FDA.’ Miles followed him to a suite at the end of the hall. ‘You were going to buy Frost from Oliver Quantrill. Now you’re buying it from someone else who’s willing to take a smaller profit. It’s a mistake.’
Singhal kept a poker face. ‘Again, you’re confused.’
Miles pulled the gun from the back of his pants, hidden by his loose shirt, aimed it at Singhal’s stomach. ‘Then let’s talk privately and you can clear the air. Inside.’
Hands trembling, Singhal opened the suite door and Miles followed him inside. He ordered Singhal to sit on the bed, called Groote, told him to come to suite 409.
‘We have two minutes. You’re going to tell me where the Frost auction is. If you do, then I’ll make sure your pharma client gets an opportunity to develop it for free. I’ll give you the research – all I care about is that sick people get the medicine. But I have to know where Sorenson is.’
Singhal bit his lip.
‘Please take my offer. If you think I’m scary, wait till you meet my… friend. His daughter’s been kidnapped by the people running the auction.’ Not exactly accurate, but it had the effect he wanted: Singhal swallowed. ‘I need to know where the auction is.’
‘It’s an old private asylum, east side of town. Abandoned but bought by Sorenson’s people a month or so ago.’
‘When?’
‘Six P.M.’ Six hours away.
‘Do you have a pass, any special way to gain entrance to this auction?’
‘No.’
‘I’m the nice guy. The completely ruthless man on his way up is the bad guy. Please reconsider your answer.’
A knock on the door. Miles let Groote inside.
‘Who are you people?’ Singhal said. ‘If I know who I’m dealing with – we can agree to an arrangement.’
‘Here’s your arrangement.’ Groote grabbed the man by the throat, pushed him smoothly up the wall. Then he started punching Singhal, precise stiff-fingered chops. Steady as a metronome, in the kidneys, in the space between ribs, above the heart, and Miles thought, That shouldn’t hurt, but suddenly Singhal’s face purpled and he said, ‘My wallet. God, stop. Please.’
Miles pulled Singhal’s wallet free from his jacket and found a slip of paper in the wallet: an address in east Austin and an access code: 12XCD.
