energy, leaving behind nothing but an empty carcass. His limbs were like blocks of lead, impossible to move. The pain that had engulfed his nose was gone now, replaced by a tingling numbness that was equally uncomfortable. The swelling had clogged his nasal passages, each drawn breath like inhaling flames.
George had fed him only a chunk of bread once a day. He had given him a bit more water, enough to prevent complete dehydration. The ceiling seemed lower now, the walls closer together. Delirium had begun to settle in. Michael wanted very much to scream, to scream until everything snapped and he could scream no more.
And then Max opened the door.
At first Michael had been sure it was an hallucination. Even now the room’s dreamlike quality remained fixed. Strange sounds seemed to come from inside Michael’s head — Max’s saw munching through the chain, the bomb going tick, tick, tick, though he knew that the ticking was only in his head. No timer on the bomb. Still, tick, tick, tick, tick…
Ka-boom.
“Max?”
“Almost got it, Michael. Hang in there.”
“Sara.”
“She’s fine.”
“Our child.”
“Safe in the womb. You’ll be with her soon.”
Michael tried again to focus on Max’s face. Skinny face. Long nose. Clean-shaven. “No mustache.”
A tight smile from Max. “I shaved it. Almost there, Michael. Almost…”
“Almost,” Michael repeated.
“Got it!” The chain fell apart. “Michael, can you walk?”
“Sure.”
Michael made it to his knees before his head began to spin like a plane taking a nosedive.
“Lean on my shoulder,” Max urged. “We have to hurry.”
With a lot of help from Max, Michael managed to stand. His legs were wobbly, but he was able to take a step forward.
“That’s it. You’re as good as home.”
Michael nodded.
Max moved another step. He stopped suddenly when he felt something cold touch his neck. He looked down.
A stiletto blade rested against his throat.
Before Max could react, a giant biceps wrapped itself around his forehead. The arm gripped his skull and pressed it against a chest as solid as asphalt. Max could not move. George adjusted the blade. The sharp point now touched down on the voice box, nearly piercing the skin.
“Hello, boys!” George said. “How’s it going?”
21
Dr. Eric Blake looked up at the clock.
It was time.
Something nestled in Eric’s throat, but he managed to swallow it away. He straightened the papers on his desk, lined up the pencils neatly, and stood. He checked his appearance in the mirror, tightened the Windsor knot in his tie, and gently patted his hair with both hands. Then he studied his face for a long time. Something about it was different today. It was as if his thoughts had surfaced, altering his appearance.
Could it all be gone?
He took out a neatly folded handkerchief, dabbed his forehead, and then headed for the lab.
“Good morning, Dr. Blake.”
“Good morning.”
Eric tried to remember the nurse’s name but could not. He recalled that she was the youngest and least experienced member of the staff. Her access to patients was strictly limited to the most recent arrivals, and her chores were usually the most mundane. Only one nurse had had access to all the patients and all the floors.
Janice Matley.
As quickly as the name had formed in his mind, Eric pushed it away. No use thinking about that now. Dead was dead. No comeback. No reprieve.
Nothing.
Eric entered the elevator and pushed the button. His eyes swerved about, trying to find something that might distract him. He settled on the signature of the elevator inspector. He tried to make out the name but the penmanship was too sloppy — looked more like an EKG reading than an actual signature. The inspector, Eric decided, should have been a doctor.
A minute later he arrived at the lab door. Part of him wanted to stall now that the moment had arrived, but the rest of his body propelled him into the room and over toward his file cabinet. He took out his key, unlocked the drawers, opened one, and reached back. His hand gripped the item. He took a deep breath, pulled it out and looked.
Silence.
Eric’s face registered no emotion. He returned the glass dish to the back of the drawer and carefully closed it. He locked the cabinet, picked up the telephone and dialed a number in Bethesda, Maryland. After three rings, the phone on the other end was picked up.
Eric cleared his throat. “Dr. Raymond Markey, please.”
He could not believe it and yet he was holding the evidence against his chest. They had found Silverman. Shit, they had found him. Not even George’s employer knew where he had hidden Silverman.
George held the point of the blade in place. When the man swallowed, George felt the stiletto vibrate in his hand. His mind raced for answers, but none came to him. He had fucked up. Badly. But how? When?
Listening to the voice in his head, George forced himself to smile. It gave the appearance, he was sure, of being in complete control.
“So, gentlemen,” he began, both his grip and grin strong and steady, “how are we today? Lovely weather, don’t you think?”
Max managed a shrug. “Tad warm for my taste, George.”
“Sorry about that,” George replied. He wrestled with his tone in order to keep out any hint of panic. A droplet of sweat trickled down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. “Mind identifying yourself before I slice your goddamn head off?”
“Lieutenant Max Bernstein. NYPD. You are under arrest for the—”
“Spare me, Lieutenant.” A cop! He looked like some goddamn college kid. George could not believe it. They had sent a snot-nosed kid after George Camron. Incredible.
“I have to read you your rights,” Max continued.
“Try to move, and you’re dead.” With the point of the blade still against Max’s throat, George released his powerful grip and reached into his pocket. He took out something resembling a small television remote. He held it in front of Max’s face.
“Do you know what this is?” George asked.
Max looked at the device. “Are we going to watch TV?”
“You’re very funny, Lieutenant,” George said, but he did not like Bernstein’s attitude. Here he was, holding a knife against the kid’s throat, and this asshole was making jokes.
