Or was it? Where had I heard that name?
Think, Brennan. Think.
John Battle.
No. That's not right.
Franklin Battle.
Blank.
Frank Battle.
The magistrate who'd stonewalled the search warrant!
Would a mere magistrate qualify for membership? Had Battle been protecting the H&F property? Had he sent me the fax? Why?
And why was the most recent date more than twenty years old? Was the list incomplete? Why?
Then a terrifying thought.
Who knew I was here?
Alone.
Again I froze, listening for the faintest indicator of another presence. Picking up a scalpel, I slipped from my office to the main autopsy room.
Six skeletons stared upward, fingers and toes splayed, jaws silent beside their heads. I checked the computer and X-ray sections, the staff kitchenette, the makeshift conference room. My heart beat so loudly it seemed to overpower the stillness.
I was poking my head into the men's toilet when my cell phone sounded for the third time. I nearly screamed from the tension.
A voice, smooth as a double latte.
“You're dead.”
Then empty air.
I CALLED MCMAHON. NO ANSWER. CROWE. DITTO. I LEFT MESSAGES: Seven thirty-eight. Leaving Alarka for High Ridge House. Call me.
Picturing the empty lot, the deserted county road, I punched Ryan's number.
Another image. Ryan, facedown on an icy drive. I'd asked for his help that other time in Quebec. It had gotten him shot.
Ryan has no jurisdiction, Brennan. And no personal responsibility.
Instead of “send,” I hit the delete button.
My thoughts ricocheted like the metal sphere in a pinball game.
Someone should be told of my whereabouts. Someone I would not be placing in danger.
Sunday night. I dialed my old number.
“Hello.” A woman's voice, mellow as a purring cat.
“Is Pete there?”
“He's in the shower.”
I heard a wind chime tinkle. A wind chime I'd hung years ago outside my bedroom window.
“Is there a message?”
I clicked off.
“Fuck it,” I muttered. “I'll take care of myself.”
Slinging purse and laptop over one shoulder, I rewrapped my fingers around the scalpel and readied my keys in the other hand. Then I cracked the door and peered out.
My Mazda was alone with the exiled hook-and-ladder trucks. In the deepening twilight, it looked like a warthog facing off with a herd of hippos.
Deep breath.
I bolted.
Reaching the car, I threw myself behind the wheel, slammed down the locks, revved the motor, and raced from the lot.
When I'd gone a mile, I began to calm, and an ill-focused anger seeped over the fear. I turned it on myself.
Jesus, you're like the heroine in a B-grade movie. One crank call and you scream for the help of a big strong man.
