Jake’s attempt to get away, falling onto the van, then the man again, a needle in his hand, and finally the prick on Jake’s skin.
How long ago that had been, he had no idea. He only knew whatever hope he’d had of fighting off the man disappeared with his own consciousness.
He lay unmoving, willing the pain to subside. While it didn’t go away completely, it became more manageable after a while, enough so that he decided he could try opening his eyes. Either he’d gone blind or he was surrounded by complete darkness. He could see absolutely nothing.
He touched the surface he was lying on, and discovered it was a thin mattress sitting on top of a wire-mesh frame. On his right side, there was empty space beyond the frame, but on his left, it butted up against a wall.
Knowing that any sudden movement might bring his pain back, he slowly swung his legs into the open area, and eased himself into a sitting position. His foot banged into something, stinging momentarily and making him realize he wasn’t wearing his shoes. He carefully moved his foot back over, touching the object and feeling around it. It seemed to be metal with sides coming out of the floor and an opening on top. A toilet, he thought.
Moving his hand in front of him, his fingers quickly came in contact with a wall only a few feet away. He slid them across the surface, finding a crease that must have denoted a door, then touching a switch.
Without hesitating, he flipped it up, and a weak light, recessed in the ceiling, came on.
As much as he was glad to know he wasn’t blind, he almost wished he’d left the light off. The space was tiny. Other than the bed and the toilet, the only other thing in the space was a bottle of water sitting near the door.
His tongue involuntarily pushed against the top of his mouth at the sight of it. Before he even knew what he was doing, he picked it up and unscrewed the top. As he raised the open end toward his mouth, he hesitated.
He sniffed the opening. Smelled like water, but that didn’t mean anything. Reluctantly, he screwed the cap back on and set it down. He couldn’t afford to take a chance.
He stood up, and took a closer look at the door. There was no handle on the inside, and nowhere else he could get a grip on it. There were two panels in the door. One was at the floor, and was large enough to slip a plate of food through. The other was at eye level, a rectangle about two inches high and five inches long, covered by Plexiglas on Jake’s side and a piece of metal on the other that probably could be slid out of the way so someone on the outside could look in.
He pressed his ear against the rectangular panel, trying to pick up any noise that might give him a better idea where he was. But he could hear absolutely nothing. With little else he could do, he collapsed back on the bed.
It wasn’t much of a hope, but it was hope.
In the days leading up to this one, Durrie had arraigned for movers from two separate companies to show up at Berit Davies’s townhouse and Jake Oliver’s apartment at just after noon. To prevent any unnecessary questions, he had sent a letter to the homeowner’s association for the woman’s townhouse a week earlier. He informed them about the move, notified them that cleaners would be coming in the next day, and that the condo would be listed for sale within a few days after that. Ms. Davies, the letter said, had taken a government job back east, and to assist in the move, her new agency was taking care of the details. This was not unheard of, so no one would question it.
Durrie had thought the trickier one would be Oliver’s place. Though he was able to arrange for the movers and cleaners ahead of time, he couldn’t contact the landlord until after Oliver was out of the way. But, to his surprise, it turned out that Oliver had already given notice, so the landlord barely even reacted to the news that the movers were coming so soon.
Durrie made several trips between the places, monitoring the moves without actually making his presence known. While he did this, he made several calls to confirm that utilities had received their final payments and would be turned off on time. On one of his trips between places, he dropped change-of-address cards into a mailbox, and soon all their mail would be diverted to private P.O. boxes — in D.C. for Davies, and Houston for Oliver. From there, the mail would be forwarded through several other blind addresses before arriving on someone’s desk at the Office. Any mail that arrived before the changes took effect would be forwarded by the management of each facility.
Once he was sure there would be no problems at the two residences, he moved onto the last item on his list: selling Jake’s Civic. It went easy enough. Though the deal the used car place gave him wasn’t particularly fair, he wasn’t going to haggle. After the details were taken care of, one of the dealership’s employees gave him a ride to a rental car agency a block from where he’d parked his car. Done, he headed back out of town.
As he opened the door of the mobile home, his phone began to ring again, and once more he let the call go to voice mail. He knew Peter had to be more than just concerned at this point. First, Oliver had missed his flight to Houston, and second, the man he’d hired to clean up after Oliver was MIA.
Peter was a smart man, though. At some point in the last few hours, he had undoubtedly dispatched a team to Phoenix to find out what was going on. Eventually, that team would check out the mobile home.
He checked the computer security log, and could see that he was the only one to come within a mile of the trailer all day. He removed a small hard drive from his kit bag and connected it to the computer, then ran a program that would erase all records from twelve hours before to twelve hours after that point, effectively erasing his and Oliver’s presence.
While that processed, he went over to the detention cell. He flipped the switch that would turn on the interior light, then opened the eye-level panel. He suddenly jerked back. Standing just on the other side, his eyes only inches way, was Oliver.
“Let me out!” Oliver demanded, his voice coming over the intercom speaker on the wall next to the door.
“Please step back,” Durrie said.
“Why? So you can come in here and kill me?”
“Step back, and sit on the bed.”
“Go to hell.”
Durrie frowned at him. “I’d rather not resort to anything extreme, so it would be better if you sat.”
“Look, I don’t care about what happened on Goodman Ranch Road. Nobody would listen to me even if I did. Just let me go, and I’ll keep quiet.”
“Mr. Oliver.
“I only told my supervisors about the other two. I never told them about you. I never showed them your picture.”
“Sit!” he ordered.
“Please. Just let me go.”
Durrie reached over and slid the eye slot shut. He didn’t have time to deal with this.
The light switch wasn’t the only control next to the door. There was a panel with dials and buttons that accessed a menu displayed on a small digital screen.
The choices ran the gamut from mild to lethal. He made his selection then slid the eye slot open again.
At first, Oliver looked as defiant as before, but soon he began to lose his sense of balance. It was only another moment before he collapsed on the floor.
Durrie made the call two hours later from the parking lot of a truck stop near the New Mexico border. He wasn’t worried about his location being traced. The call was being automatically routed through several relays designed to confuse any such attempt.
On the second ring, a woman picked up.
“Yes?”
“I need to speak to Peter,” Durrie said, forgoing normal procedures.
“I’m sorry, we don’t have anyone—”
“Tell him it’s Durrie.”
She paused. “One moment.”
The delay lasted only ten seconds.
“What the hell is going on?” Peter asked as he came on the line. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day! Oliver
