‘I didn’t have the money yet. Your stepfather controlled it. That’s why Jane asked him for it, not me.’ Eric turned the knife. ‘You heard him say no, Luke. He put the fifty million ahead of you.’
Luke ignored the jab. ‘Who’s this client who had you set up these bank accounts?’
‘A company called Travport. They’re a cargo aviation firm, they fly all over the world. Entirely respectable.’
‘Where are they based?’
‘Dubai. But owned by Saudis.’
Fifty million dollars. For the Night Road. To create chaos and further their agendas. Through violence. Through fear. Through their little wars, and wars needed money like the body needed blood.
For attacks like Ripley. How much terror could fifty million dollars buy? He’d sent Henry six thousand names from his online research. If Henry recruited fifty dedicated radicals for the Night Road, they could each receive a million dollars. How many guns, how many payoffs, how many weapons and explosives could all that buy? Terrorism was relatively cheap. A million could fund a huge string of attacks. And added all together, fifty million…
Horror swept up him like a flame. ‘If you were getting accounts ready to put this fifty million in, you must know where the cash is coming from.’ He was suddenly sure of it. What had Henry said first? I will not pay. Not can not. I will not. ‘You convinced Jane you didn’t have the access, that my stepfather did.’
‘Henry’s the big dog. I’m just hired help.’
‘Where’s the money, Eric, where’s it coming from?’ Who would just give fifty million dollars to a bunch of American extremists?
‘If I know, then that’s my insurance, isn’t it? No one can touch the money but me.’ Eric lifted his chin in defiance.
‘You have the money,’ Luke said slowly.
‘Yes. I have it. We can hide anywhere in the world. I’ll give you a slice, Luke. We’ll all hide. We’ll all have a real life again.’
‘Oh God, Eric.’ Aubrey put her face back in her hands. ‘Just tell us where it is.’
‘The one thing the money won’t protect you from is a murder charge,’ Luke said. ‘I can testify you killed that man under duress.’
Eric shifted in his seat. ‘I’m not going to tell you where the money is. You don’t need to know.’
Luke tried another tact. ‘Who was the man in Houston you killed?’
‘His name is Allen Clifford. I don’t know anything else about him. I was just told where he would be, what he would look like. Jane emailed me a picture.’
Allen Clifford. The name meant nothing to Luke.
He tried to think how Jane could have entered this picture. An extremist network created by Henry, funded by Eric’s mysterious corporate client, with the money handed out by Eric. Jane was ruining the Night Road’s plans. But who was she? Who else would know about the existence of the Night Road – except people like Chris, who’d been approached and rejected?
Who was Jane?
Luke asked, ‘Give me the phone Jane sent you.’ Luke held out his hand.
Eric hesitated. ‘Give it to him,’ Aubrey said. ‘Please. He’s smart, he’s gotten this far, maybe he can figure out who’s after us.’ Eric tossed it to him. Luke caught it.
‘I want to know why you haven’t already run and hid with this fifty million,’ Luke said. ‘You could buy a lot of protection with it. You could cut one of those deals you loved to mention.’ Luke stopped. ‘Maybe you already have.’
Eric stared at him, an answer starting to form on his lips.
The lights went out.
19
It took three phone calls for Mouser to find the right kind of doctor for Snow. He called Henry and screamed into his voicemail while Snow bled in the back seat. Snow kept laughing.
‘I never saw one die,’ she said. ‘Bombs put a distance between me and them. But the gun, Jesus, that was cool, I saw it happen!’ Then she would scream and laugh and clutch at her shoulder. She never complained.
Quickly, Henry called back, steered him to a doctor on the western edge of downtown Chicago. The doctor’s medical license was long suspended because she’d burned through too many prescription pads in a year, and once paroled she was a resource for the gangbangers and the mob when they needed needles and sutures. The doctor worked at a shoddy sandwich joint on a narrow street. Her apartment was above the shop. He carried Snow up the stairs and the doctor met him at the door, still with a hair net on her head and hands bright with vinegar and oil.
But her demeanor was brisk and efficient and the apartment was spotlessly clean. The doctor helped him get Snow into a small bedroom stuffed with medical gear.
‘Outside,’ the doctor ordered.
‘It’s gonna be okay,’ he said to Snow. ‘I’m going to kill him for you.’
‘No. I’ll kill Schoolboy for me,’ she whispered.
‘I don’t wish to hear these promises,’ the doctor said. ‘Outside, please, sir.’
He realized that he could care about Snow. It was unsettling. He sat on the couch in the apartment and an hour later the doctor emerged. He had been watching the news accounts of the shooting – no mention of Snow or him or anyone fitting their descriptions fleeing the scene.
The doctor dropped a bullet in his hand. ‘Since you seem sentimental about revenge. She asked you to keep this for her.’
‘I’ll bet she did.’ Mouser closed his fist around the bullet.
‘She needs rest but she will be fine. Bullet in the meat of the shoulder, didn’t hit anything major but she’s going to be sore for several days. I’ll give you a couple of bottles of painkillers and gear to tend the wound. You know how to change a dressing?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I gave her blood. I keep a stash. Rest will set her straight. Good luck.’
‘Can she stay here while she recovers?’
‘Let me suggest a motel nearby. You can recover in privacy and I’m close enough to come tend to her if needed.’
He felt a surge of gratitude. This was why he was glad to be part of the Night Road; it had gotten him this doctor. Without the Night Road, he would have had nowhere to turn. ‘Can I see her?’
‘Yeah. I’ll get your goods ready. Then I will look at your leg, change the dressing. She told me you needed care as well.’
Snow lay in the bed. She seemed smaller. She stared at the ceiling. The room smelled of blood and chemicals and wet paper. He took her hand; she pulled free from his fingers, which surprised him more.
‘Don’t be mad,’ he said.
‘Schoolboy’s gotten away from us three times now. It’s embarrassing. He’s a nothing.’
He crossed his arms. ‘Did you have to kill the cop and the little freak?’
Her eyes, half-lidded, opened widely. ‘Yes. The cop was the greater threat. The little freak would have been stuck on us like a flea on a dog, wanting to be our new best friend, according to what Henry said.’ She put the flat of her hand over her eyes. ‘The nerve of that bastard. Shooting me.’
The doctor came in, clucked over Mouser’s stab wound. She changed the bandage and told Snow she’d done a good job tending to Mouser. Snow thanked her. They left and got settled into a cheap motel. The room was clean, smelled of disinfectant and the cable TV worked. He tucked Snow into bed, gently.
She watched him. ‘Don’t get all sweet on me,’ she said, sleepy from the medications.
‘I don’t do sweet.’
She gave out a soft growl of a laugh. She touched the back of his hand, tenderly. He didn’t know what to say.
