Plot counterplot, p.11
Plot/Counterplot, page 11
He threw the object into the toilet and flushed it. He hoped that sent Xavier and his friends scurrying into the sewers.
The cell door opened, revealing the unctuous young officer who had thrown him in here. “What the hell have you done to yourself?”
Dylan glanced into the mirror. The blood on his head wound was coagulating, but he still looked as if he’d been on the losing side of a gang rumble. The skin surrounding his left eye was darkening. And he was wearing nothing but his underwear.
“I tripped,” he said, pressing his hand against the side of his head. “Is it time for my phone call?”
Chapter 20
9:55 p.m.
Two hours, five minutes left
Leilani back-stepped out of Mark’s office. She’d seen dead bodies before, on the job. In fact, she’d recently cuddled up with one. But that was seeing them where she expected to see them. Not in a lawyer’s office. Not the man she’d been speaking with five minutes ago. Not splattered against the wall.
In the distance, she heard voices. She raced down the corridor in the opposite direction and ducked into the ladies room. Barely a second later, she heard them just beyond the door.
“The bitch was here all right.” She involuntarily cringed. She knew the voice. Pock-Face. “Look what I found on the guy’s desk.”
He’d found her statement. So her back-up plan was history. Worse, they knew she’d tried to do exactly what he’d warned her not to do.
She had no illusions about what would happen if they found her.
“I searched the floor. Didn’t find her. Had to get rough with the receptionist.”
“We know she’s somewhere in this building. If we don’t find her, Xavier’s gonna go roid rage on us.”
How did they know she was here? And Xavier—was that the name of the buzzcut giant who led the assault into Dylan’s bedroom? What did they want?
“Marco, I’ll take the north end, you go south.”
So Pock-Face’s name was actually Marco. She’d stick with Pock-Face. A monster didn’t deserve a real name.
“Got it. What do I do when I find her?”
“Make sure she doesn’t open her mouth again.”
“Can I have some fun with her first?”
“You know the timetable. If you’ve got the minutes, you can do anything you want.”
“Good. That uppity bitch needs to be taken down a few pegs.”
Leilani held her breath as the two men dispersed. She didn’t know exactly where they were headed, but she was certain it wasn’t safe to leave the way she’d come. She was also sure that eventually they’d think to search the ladies room.
She had to get out of here, and fast. But how?
There was a window in the rear of the bathroom, just over the sink. It was an old-fashioned, square, tenement-style window, maybe a foot long on each side. Not exactly roomy. But it was not hermetically sealed. She pushed up the handle on the sash. It budged slightly. She shoved even harder, doing her best to apply force without making noise.
She jumped up on the sink, testing to see if it would support her weight. It did. Now she had more leverage.
She didn’t relish the thought of squeezing through that opening. But she liked the prospect of ending up like Dylan’s lawyer even less. She didn’t want to die, but more importantly, she didn’t want to let Dylan down. She would not let these sewer rats steal their future.
The window budged another inch. Now she could get some strength behind it. She gritted her teeth and pounded the handle. It broke free and slid all the way upward.
She had her escape route, assuming she had the width and slithering ability of a small python. Thank goodness she’d skipped breakfast this morning. Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember the last time she ate. Just as well.
She stuck her arms and head through the opening, then squirmed through the window enough to push her hands against the outside wall. She wasn’t kidding herself about this maneuver—she knew her figure all too well. The head was easy. The hips would be the hardest part.
Then she made the mistake of looking down.
No, the hips would not be the hardest part. Not falling would be the hardest part. She’d forgotten she was on the fourth floor.
The pavement was a long way down.
There was a short ledge beneath the window but no balcony, certainly nothing she could walk or even stand upon.
So once she was through the window, then what? Her body still ached from the injuries sustained the night before. Her left leg was particularly vulnerable.
But she had no choice, did she?
Once she was out as far as her waist, she grabbed the ledge and pulled. She had strong gym-girl arms. She worked out four times a week. But her fingers scraped against the abrasive stone.
She gritted her teeth and toughed it out. Better than being shot by psychotic criminals.
She pulled her legs through, then executed a perfect gymnast’s pull. Using both arms, she brought her legs over her head, then downward. She flipped her hands around, one at a time, till she was dangling from the ledge, facing the outer wall of the building.
Thank God for the abs workouts. They’d just saved her life. Except it wasn’t much of a save, because she was still four stories up. There was a similar ledge beneath her on each of the succeeding levels. But the distance between them was daunting. She might hit the next ledge with her legs, but she couldn’t balance there for long. Her best hope would be to slow her descent, then grab the ledge with her hands.
And if she survived, she would be only three stories up.
In movies, when people jumped out of windows, there was always a conveniently placed Dumpster full of cushy garbage bags, or a passing truck filled with foam rubber.
All she saw below her was hard pavement.
Then she heard Pock-Face enter the bathroom.
“God, I’d like to find her. Just thinkin’ about it gets my blood boilin’.”
“Is she in here?”
“Nah. Wait—the window’s open.”
That made the decision for her. Leilani let go of the ledge.
Chapter 21
10:04 p.m.
One hour, fifty-six minutes left
The smarmy officer standing by the cell door held a cell phone. He offered it to Dylan. “This is for your call. You want it?”
“I’ll take it.” Dylan wiped his hands on his shirt. He thought the bleeding was mostly done. He took the phone.
The sergeant left the cell. Dylan immediately dialed—
But someone was already on the phone.
“Is prison food bad as I remember?”
Xavier. Dylan’s fingers tightened around the phone. This was his one phone call?
“How you doing, Dylan?”
“I’ve been better.”
“You should’ve gotten into car with me.”
“I preferred the ride I took.”
“Nice playacting, too. But big mistake. We control more people in police station than Chief.”
“You murdered Carlton Reynolds.”
“Man was what we call, buttinsky.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to kill him.”
“And dog? Jesus Christ. I would rather spare buttinsky and kill dog. But that was not the mission.”
“You didn’t have to murder him.”
“I did. Because you broke rules. I understand. You had to make attempts, with your little spy phone and your reporter. You may be writer, but you are not wimp. I admire that. But you failed. Just as Mr. X said you would fail. And innocent, if insufferable, man killed as result.”
“You made that happen. Not me.”
“Was your fault.”
“I will never give in to you.”
“You will. Just matter of how much you lose in process. Have you learned nothing?”
“Yeah. I’ve learned that you and your friends can be real sons-of-bitches.”
“Time running out. Make this easy. Work with us.”
“Become a terrorist? No!”
The line went silent for a long time.
“I am sorry. Very sorry.”
“Sorry about what?”
“I have actually read Challengers of the Abyss. Hell of good book. Shame he never wrote another.”
The air in the cell thickened. Time slowed and Dylan felt as if he were moving in slow motion. “What...are you...talking about?”
“I give you chance to prevent. This is on your head.”
Icy fingers clutched Dylan’s heart.
“Have fun in jail, Mr. Dylan. I take leettle trip to beach. Take my sand shovel and pail. Your one phone call over.”
“If you touch Dobie I swear to God I will rip out your heart with—”
The line was dead. A thunderous silence replaced Xavier’s voice. Dylan was
shouting at a piece of plastic.
He pushed the Callback button, but it didn’t work. He dialed the assisted living home, then Leilani, but it still didn’t work. Apparently this phone had been good for one call only.
He threw it down and banged on the door. “Let me out of here!”
He saw the desk sergeant glance up, scowl, then return his attention to the newspaper.
Dylan grabbed the door. “Do you hear me? They’re going to kill someone!”
No use. They all ignored him. This wasn’t possible, Dylan thought, pounding with all his strength. He had thought everything out. He made his plan, a good one, a clever one. A plan worthy of Fargo Cody. But it had failed. And now—
Dylan fell against the wall and closed his eyes. Please, God, not Dobie.
But even though he was talking to God, the only voice he heard had a Russian accent and a sneering tone.
How much are you willing to lose?
* * *
Leilani plummeted from the fourth floor ledge. As she predicted, her legs hit the lower ledge, but they didn’t hold fast and they didn’t slow her much either. She kept falling till her hands slapped the concrete ledge.
Her arms felt as if they were being pulled out of their sockets as she jerked herself to a stop. Her whole upper abdomen stretched and split like someone had run a sword through her. Her hands scraped down the side of the ledge, ripping her skin. Blood slickened her grip. She was hanging on for dear life. She couldn’t stand to fall another flight, much less all the way down. She would have to think of another way...
Pock-Face poked his ugly head through the window.
“There she is!”
Leilani let go of the ledge. Her legs missed the lower ledge altogether. She grabbed it with her hands but they were too sore, too bloody from the last fall. Her chin slammed down against the ledge. Her head swam. Black patches appeared before her eyes. She was losing consciousness but falling backwards at the same time.
Get it together, she told herself. You cannot pass out!
In the split second before she hit the pavement, Leilani twisted her body around. She wanted to land on her lower back or buttocks, to absorb the impact and roll with it.
She almost made it. She hit sideways, taking too much on her right arm, but she did roll, legs over her head, then downward again. The pain was instant and excruciating. That leg had already taken a beating. She hoped it wasn’t broken.
She pulled herself to her feet just as she heard the first gunshot ring out.
“Drill the bitch!”
Another bullet impacted the wall of the alley, so close to her a brick chip hit her neck.
She clung to the wall, making it difficult for them to get an angle on her. She hobbled down the alley with a speed that surprised even her. Amazing what you can do when people are trying to kill you.
She headed toward the rear lot where she’d left Liane’s car. The shooting stopped, but that didn’t comfort her. She knew they were making their way downstairs as fast as possible. She had to get out of there.
She made a beeline for Liane’s car, her body screaming every step of the way. Didn’t matter. Did she want to live? She did. They were going to come out of this nightmare alive and together and damn it all they were going to start a family.
A family. She lost that once. Not again. Never again.
She slid into the car and started the engine. She didn’t think they could know what car she was driving. But just in case she was wrong, she decided she wouldn’t take it all the way to the cabin. She knew a place by the beach where she could ditch the car. If she shortcut through the uncleared area between the beach and the cabin, away from the roads, no one could see her. The hike to the cabin would be less than three miles. Even if by some freaky chance they had tagged her car, they couldn’t possibly know where she’d gone after she left it behind.
She would be safe in the cabin. Waiting for Dylan to arrive and fall into her arms.
Those bastards could trace a call or even a car, but they couldn’t possibly trace her.
Chapter 22
11:01 p.m.
Fifty-nine minutes left
“Can’t you work faster?” Dylan asked the wizened man behind the Detention Center Processing desk.
He did not appear perturbed. Nor did he increase his speed. “I didn’t invent the rules, but I got to follow them.”
“Please hurry.”
“You don’t want me to lose my job, do you?”
Frankly, Dylan didn’t care. He just wanted to get to Dobie as quickly as possible. He’d felt a surge of relief when the desk sergeant—not the punk who brought him the cellphone—finally opened the cell door and told him he’d been cleared for release. He didn’t know that they would make him go to the infirmary so they could bandage his head wound, or that it would take them half an hour to process all the paperwork.
“Sign this form.” The clerk pushed a piece of paper and pen across the desk under the acrylic divider. “Says you got back everything they took from you.”
And he was supposed to sign it before they gave anything back to him, as if that made any sense. Dylan scrawled his name on the bottom line. The clerk pushed through a Ziploc containing his wallet and keys, then jabbed a button under the counter. Dylan heard the exit door latch release. He pushed his way into the front lobby.
“Can I use your phone?” he asked the attendant.
“Sorry. Office use only.”
Blast. He didn’t have time to engage in what would likely be a fruitless argument. He raced into the parking lot and searched for a car with unlocked doors.
* * *
Dobie didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. One minute, he was telling his new keepers about the time his paper on Light in August trumped the so-called foremost Faulkner scholar from Harvard, and the next, everyone was running and screaming. He was having a hard time following it all.
“Fire!” someone screamed. “In the East wing! Fire!”
So that was what all the bother was about. He didn’t kid himself that he could be any help, not when it was so difficult to walk. He would have to amuse himself until the hubbub ended. Maybe a quick hand of solitaire...
“Hey. Old man.”
Dobie looked up. The darkness made it difficult to see and the face was unfamiliar. Big build, thick neck. Hair cut close, like he wore his in the fifties. A prominent birthmark and a ruddy face that had seen too much weather.
“You Dobie Bellinger?”
“You have the advantage of me. May I ask whom I am addressing?”
“Does not matter, old man. Just wanted to make sure.” He grabbed Dobie’s right arm.
“Just a minute. What are you doing?”
“Not much, old man.” His upper lip curled. “Just thought we might play in sand.”
* * *
Dylan saw the billowing smoke at least a mile before he reached the Mahoe Assisted Living Center. By the time he was in the parking lot, the smoke and ash were so thick it was difficult to breathe. He pulled the collar of his shirt over his mouth and parked the hotwired Pontiac Aztec—possibly the ugliest car he had driven in his entire life.
Two fire trucks were parked in front of the east wing. The entire section was black with flames illuminating the insides. Windows were shattered. Only skeletal traces of the woodwork remained. A large group of elderly residents huddled in nightclothes watching the firemen valiantly fight the blaze.
Dylan approached the nearest staff person. “What happened?”
The orderly shrugged. “Fire came out of nowhere. We did everything we could to stop it. But we were too late.”
Dylan raced past him toward the front door.
“Hey, wait, mister! No one’s supposed to go inside!”
Dylan didn’t stop running. Fortunately, the fire was off to the left, so the main entrance was untouched by flame, though thick with smoke and soot. He bolted through the lobby searching for someone he knew.
He didn’t have to look long. Despite the black haze, Dylan spotted a group of people gathered around the back door. The manager, Bendis, covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. Dylan grabbed his arm.
“Where’s Dobie?”
Bendis’ face told the whole story.
“I told you to have people watching him at all times! I paid for extra security!”
Bendis stared back, his lips parted, a helpless expression on his face. Dylan couldn’t tell if he was crying or if the smoke was making his eyes water. “We did everything you asked. But when the fire broke—of course, everyone ran to get the patients out.”
“What caused the fire?”
“I don’t know. All at once, the east wing was ablaze. Like it exploded or something.”
Dylan cursed silently. “Where’s Dobie?”
“I think it would be best if you didn’t—”
“Where is he?” Dylan repeated, grabbing the man by his arms.
“I’ll show you.” It was the nurse, the one who’d greeted him at the door earlier. “But I warn you—it’s ugly.”
Dylan followed her through the rear door onto the lanai, every nerve ending tingling, every synapse firing. It was drizzling outside, the daily Hawaiian shower, but the combination of soot and rain made breathing labored and difficult. Dylan trudged ahead.
