Lockdown

up.’

‘What did you screw up?’ she asked him. ‘Janice Stokes wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t done what you did.’

‘And neither would I.’

She was staring at him now. ‘So why did you?’

‘This is going to sound like a line from a bad movie.’

‘I get lots of those too.’

‘I did it because it’s what I’m trained to do.’

‘So you make a habit of rescuing damsels in distress?’

Lock shook his head. ‘No, just a habit of walking through doors I shouldn’t. Listen, I didn’t even catch your name.’

‘Dr Robbins.’

‘I meant your first name.’

‘I know you did.’

Over her shoulder, Lock caught a glimpse of Carrie fronting the headline report on the TV. Seeing her hurt worse than getting shot. She was standing outside a green-canopied apartment building, a white-gloved doorman flitting in and out of frame behind her, apparently undecided between discretion and getting his mug on the tube.

‘That your lady friend?’ Dr Robbins asked, following Lock’s gaze to the TV and reading the bottom of the screen.

‘She was. For a time anyway.’

‘Looks too classy for you.’

‘I get that a lot. Would you mind if I. .?’

‘Go right ahead,’ said Dr Robbins, stepping out of his way.

Lock turned up the volume, catching Carrie mid-sentence.

‘. . the FBI remaining tight-lipped about this latest twist in the Meditech massacre story which has gripped America. But so far only one fact remains clear: three days after his disappearance, seven-year-old Josh Hulme remains missing.’

The screen cut to a picture of a young white boy with thick brown hair and blue eyes, smiling self-consciously for a family portrait.

Lock moved away from Dr Robbins as she attempted to get a fresh look at the back of his head. ‘What’s this got to do with Meditech?’

‘His father works for them or something.’

Lock felt a jolt of adrenalin. He started to get out of bed, earning a reproachful look from Dr Robbins.

‘I need to make a call.’

‘Fine, but do everyone a favour.’

‘What’s that, doc?’

‘Put on a robe first. Your butt’s hanging out.’

Ten

Dressed, and with a baseball cap covering what he’d come to think of as his lobotomy patient look, Lock stepped out into the hall. He still felt a little uncertain on his feet and he remained deliberately unshaven. Looking in the mirror as he’d washed his face, he’d figured that slightly altering his appearance might be no bad thing under the circumstances. Clearly the ‘Massacre in Midtown’, as the press had dubbed it, gleefully unearthing a neat piece of alliteration among the dead, was a first shot rather than a last stand.

Finding a way to call Ty proved tricky. Lock’s cell phone was inconveniently back in the bottom drawer of his desk at Meditech and pay phones seemed to be in short supply. Dr Robbins had told him she could arrange for a phone to be brought to his room for a small charge, but he didn’t want to wait. Finally, he tracked one down on the ground floor, next to the gift shop.

Ty answered on the first buzz.

‘Where’s my fruit basket?’

‘If it ain’t Rip Van Winkle. I was wondering when you were going to surface.’

‘Sleep of the just, man.’

‘I hear you. Good to have you back.’

Lock was grateful for the relief in Ty’s voice. It was comforting to know that someone at the company gave a shit about his mortality.

‘Want to give me an update?’

‘We’re locked down tight. No further incidents. Everything seems to be cool.’

Cool?

‘And I thought I was supposed to be the one who took a blow to the head. How are things cool when one of our employee’s kids is missing?’

‘You heard about that?’

Lock held the phone away from his mouth and counted to three. Slowly.

Ty appeared to read his silence. ‘Listen, Ryan,’ he said, ‘things are a little bit more complicated than you might think. The FBI are involved, it’s being left to them to handle.’

‘So why the hell have we been paying kidnap and ransom insurance for all this time if we’re just going to hand everything over to the Feds?’

‘Richard Hulme, the father of the missing boy, resigned his position at the company two weeks ago, which means neither he nor his son are our problem any more. Sorry Ryan, I had the exact same conversation when I heard, but the word’s come down from on high. We stay out of it.’

‘But the FBI won’t pay any ransom.’

‘They’ve got their policy and we have ours.’

‘And nine times out of ten our way gets the victim home safe and sound with the only damage being a dent in some insurance company’s balance sheet and a bit of actuarial adjustment for next year’s premium.’

‘I know, man, I know.’

Right on cue, a little girl was wheeled past him, a Magic Marker-adorned plaster cast covering her leg. She smiled at Lock.

‘Listen, Ty, I’m going to get out of here, but first I have to check on something.’

‘OK, man. Hey. .’

‘What?’

‘Be safe.’

Lock hung up and made a beeline for the gift shop. He grabbed a bunch of flowers that offered a seven-day ‘no wilt’ guarantee (Lock could relate) and a box of candy. As he paid the lady behind the counter, he glanced at the newspapers on the rack. Josh’s face stared out from every front page apart from the New York Times, which led on weightier matters in the Middle East: there had been a suspected biological attack on coalition troops on the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan.

He picked up a copy of the Post and flicked through it as he walked back through the lobby. On a double-page spread inside there was a picture of him pulling Janice out of the Hummer’s way. He didn’t like it: a good close protection operative stayed out of the limelight. A double-page spread in a tabloid wasn’t exactly staying out of the limelight.

In the elevator, Lock was squeezed to the back by a couple of hospital orderlies wheeling an elderly man on a gurney. One of them eyed him warily. Suddenly he regretted not dragging a razor across his face when he’d had the chance.

Lock handed the orderly the Post folded open at his picture. ‘Relax, I’m one of the good guys.’

The elderly man on the gurney reached out his hand for the paper. ‘Here, let me see that.’ His eyes shuttled