Plot counterplot, p.12
Plot/Counterplot, page 12
A group of police officers huddled in a circle. Dylan felt his throat contract and his mouth go dry.
Wet caked sand clumped in a heap in the center of the circle. On one end, Dylan saw several locks of gray hair above the sandy outline of a face. On the other, the points of two shoes.
Dobie’s Hush Puppies.
An upended pail rested in the center with a little blue flag poking out of it.
“We can only speculate about how it happened,” the nurse explained. “When his guards left to deal with the fire, he must’ve wandered off. He did have his bouts of dementia, as you know. And he loved the beach. We think he came out here, maybe attracted by the pail, and laid down. Perhaps even fell asleep. And then the tide came in. You know how quickly the tide can change. And how much sand it brings. Sinkholes form in seconds.”
Dylan knew all that, having lived in Hawaii most of his life. But he also knew this was the wrong time for the tide to come in. And even if it had—it wouldn’t explain this.
Dobie’s face was almost entirely buried. His mouth was open.
They had pushed him down, or held him down. Then they shoveled sand into his face. Into his mouth, his throat, his lungs.
They buried him alive.
An eighty-nine year-old man. The man who turned Dylan into a writer. The man who considered Dylan his son.
They buried him alive and they made a goddamn sandcastle out of him.
Dylan had failed. He thought he was being clever, outsmarting the bad guys. But the only person he’d outsmarted was himself.
“Leilani,” he whispered. But that wasn’t possible. She was safe, damn it. She was safe and sound, hidden away at the cabin, unless—
His neck muscles stiffened.
Unless they planted one of those damn trackers in her skull, too.
No, goddamn it. No! This was not how the story was supposed to end!
One of the police officers turned toward him. “Sir, I’m sorry for your loss. I’d like to ask you a few—”
“I’ve got to leave.”
“But, sir—”
Dylan raced away, his feet sinking into the wet sand, slowing his progress. He was fairly sure the policeman wouldn’t shoot. It normally took him an hour to get to the cabin. He would have to break a few traffic regulations this time. Maybe all of them.
He jumped into the Aztec, gunned the engine, pulled out of the driveway and careened onto the H-3, his eyes glued to the road, his hands clenching the steering wheel so tightly they turned a bloodless white.
Chapter 23
11:55 p.m.
Five minutes left
Leilani didn’t think she could stand to wait any longer. But she would. For Dylan.
She wanted to flee. She wanted to hop the first plane off the island, fly somewhere untraceable. That last encounter with Pock-Face and his friend was too close. She was still battered and bloodied and bruised from her flight out the window. Her hands were scraped and her left leg still hurt. But she wasn’t going anywhere without Dylan.
She’d driven north toward Pupukea, just as he’d instructed her, dumped Liane’s car on the side of the road, then hiked three miles to the cabin. She’d been watching the clock ever since. She couldn’t wait till she heard his voice. She couldn’t wait till she flung open that locked door and wrapped her arms around him.
Then the nightmare would be over. Then, finally, they would be safe.
* * *
Dylan blitzed down the private road that led to the cabin. He’d made it there in record time. The unspoiled rain forest environment was beautiful, but he couldn’t appreciate it now. He’d circled around several times, making sure there were no suspiciously parked cars or vans with fogged glass, no one watching and waiting.
The cabin was simple enough—one story, three rooms plus kitchen, Polynesian façade. The secluded location was the main reason for the purchase. No neighbors.
No witnesses.
He bounded out of the car, raced up the front steps and pounded on the door. “Leilani!”
He heard a familiar voice inside. “Dylan!”
“Leilani! I’m here!”
And just after he said it, a hand clamped over his mouth with a grip so strong he couldn’t break it. Four other arms grabbed his, immobilizing him. He tried to struggle, but there were more of them and they were much stronger.
Xavier’s head appeared in his field of vision. “Thank you, Dylan,” he whispered. “That was all we needed you to do.”
They heard the click of the lock turning.
Leilani never had a chance to speak. The gun fired the instant she opened the door. The bullet hit her in the stomach. She collapsed onto the floor, gurgling blood.
Xavier grabbed her by her hair and dragged her inside. The other two men pushed Dylan forward. Xavier closed the door behind them.
Dylan’s eyes bulged. They shot her! They shot her before she could say hello.
Despite the hand wrapped around his face, he could see that Leilani was still conscious. And he could see that she was in pain. Intense, immense pain. She pressed her fingers against her wound, as if trying to push the searing agony from her body. No doubt her paramedic training told her she needed to staunch the bleeding, but she had no way to do it. Her face was locked in a contorted grimace.
“I try to warn you, Dylan,” Xavier said. “But you would not listen.”
Dylan wanted to reply, but the hand on his mouth prevented it.
Xavier held a small digital camera.
The acne-scarred man jerked Dylan toward the chair on the other side of the coffee table, just a few feet from where Leilani lay bleeding on the floor. He struggled and fought, but Xavier wrapped his thick oversize arm around Dylan’s throat and jerked him downward. Then he pulled out a roll of duct tape and wrapped it around Dylan twice, binding him to the chair. Only when he was securely immobilized did the hand come off his mouth.
“Mr. X said if you do not cooperate, all your loved ones die—or worse,” Xavier said. “The reporter die. The old man die. Now the girl—she get the worse.”
“We have to call a doctor,” Dylan said. “She’s bleeding. She won’t last long.”
Xavier ignored him. “I could have killed her. But that would be too easy. Instead, I sever her spine. Cripple her for life. Because that is worse.” Xavier grabbed Dylan’s jaw, forcing him to look at Leilani. “I want her to see what happens next. I want her to feel it happening.”
While Dylan watched, the acne-scarred man knelt down into Leilani’s face. Her eyelids fluttered. He wagged his tongue at her.
“Puh-Puh—Puh-lese,” she managed to sputter out. “Don’t...”
“Not such an uppity bitch now, are you?” he said. “You were too good for me before. Now maybe you’ll have a diff’rent attitude.”
“Leave her alone,” Dylan growled.
“Or what?” the ugly man replied. “What are you gonna do about it?” He cuffed Dylan on the side of his face, making blood trickle. “All you can do is watch, writer-boy. I hope you enjoy the show.”
“Leave her alone or I will kill you. That’s a promise.”
“Kill me? You can’t even stand up.”
“Stop this, Xavier,” Dylan said. “Stop it.”
“I cannot. Too late.” He pulled a small black box-shaped object out of his pocket. “Know what this is? Used this in any of your books?”
Dylan’s teeth clenched. “It’s a taser.”
“Got it in one.” Without warning, he jabbed the weapon into Leilani’s side, only inches from where the bullet had entered.
Leilani shrieked, a sound more horrible than anything Dylan had ever heard. She thrashed spasmodically, like a marionette whose strings were controlled by a madman. Her eyeballs rolled up into her head.
Think, Dylan told himself. There must be something you can do. There’s always something you can do. Remember Fargo Cody’s motto. There’s always a way out. You just have to figure out what it is.
Xavier jabbed Leilani again with the taser. This time, she began to convulse. She choked up blood, spit it out, gasping for air. If he jabbed her with that again, she would surely die.
Dylan focused on the immediate task before him—escape. He’d read once that Houdini escaped from straitjackets by dislocating his left shoulder. It created enough slack for him to slither out.
Could Dylan use that here? If he could pull off Houdini’s stunt, he might create enough wiggle room to get a hand free and rip off the tape. Even if he only weakened it, he might be able to escape.
He focused on his shoulder. He knew human anatomy well. He knew exactly what he had to do, exactly where he needed to separate the ball from the socket.
“Do not let horrible thing happen, Dylan. Give us what we want.”
“Help you kill thousands of people?” That’s it, keep talking. Don’t give the homunculus any idea what you’re doing. Dylan could feel his tendons straining, the ball trying to break away from his shoulder socket. “Help you assassinate world leaders?”
Xavier shrugged. “As you wish. Go ahead, Marco.”
The acne-scarred man unzipped his pants.
Leilani cried out in terror, wide-eyed and horrified. “No!”
Dylan strained with all his might. Come on, shoulder. Separate! Set me free!
The acne-scarred man grabbed Leilani’s slacks and tore them off her.
Dylan continued straining, working with all his might to dislocate the shoulder bone. He couldn’t be weak, not now. Weakness is cowardice.
“S-s-s-stop it,” Leilani said, her voice fading, her eyes filled with horror. “Please...stop it...”
The acne-scarred man—Marco, apparently—ripped off her panties. The third man took the camera, hovered over his partner’s shoulder, and recorded.
“First my comrade do her,” Xavier explained. “Hard, ugly. Then we put video up on YouTube. Your girlfriend will be even more famous than you.”
“Wait a minute,” Marco said, grinning. “She likes it from behind, don’t she?” He grabbed Leilani by the hips and flipped her over onto her stomach.
Leilani screamed. Dylan could almost feel the pain rushing through her body. He knew that sudden movement must have been excruciating—though not as much as the contemplation of what was about to happen.
Damn it—why couldn’t he get that shoulder to pop?
“I wanna hear you purr, sweetheart. That’s when I’ll know you like it.”
Dylan gritted his teeth.
“You ain’t purrin’, you bitch. Purr!” He slapped her on the side of her head. Leilani made a hideous gurgling sound. Dylan knew she was trying to comply, but the pain and the blood in her mouth made it impossible.
Dylan mustered his strength. All at once, with a single excruciating jerk, his shoulder joint popped free. He clenched his teeth together, stifling the instinct to cry out.
His left arm dangled, useless. But a small amount of leeway now existed. His right arm could move. He twisted sideways, snaking his good arm out from under the tape.
“Hey, sweetcakes,” Marco said. “How ‘bout I give you that French kiss now? How ‘bout I give it to you where you’ll really like it?”
Dylan tried to pry the tape off his body without making a sound. He needed more time. Just a little more time...
Marco had his pants off. He was lowering himself, erect, ready to go, inches from making contact. “Here I come, you snotty cunt.”
“Dylan!” Leilani screamed. “Help me!”
“All right! Stop it already! I give up. You win!”
Xavier raised a hand, halting his accomplice. “What are you saying, Dylan?”
“I’ll work for you. I’ll help you kill people. I’ll do anything you want. Just—don’t do this to Leilani.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Do I have any choice?”
Xavier nodded. “Cut him from chair.”
The acne-scarred man was enraged. “You can’t stop me now!”
“Do as I say.”
“But—”
“Do it! Cut him free.”
Dylan tucked his arm inside so they wouldn’t see what he had tried to do. His left shoulder was useless, but he didn’t let it show. If he’d only had a little more time—
But he didn’t. He’d been forced to choose between Leilani—and the world. He chose Leilani.
The would-be rapist grudgingly pulled his pants back on, his face contorted with anger. The other man cut Dylan free.
“D-Dylan...”
Dylan could tell Leilani’s consciousness was fading. Now that the assault was over, whatever adrenaline surge had kept her alert was fading. If medical help didn’t arrive soon, she had no hope of survival.
“One condition, Xavier,” Dylan said. “You call 911. Get her medical help.”
“That I can do,” he said. “When we are gone.” He took Dylan by the arm and led him toward the door. “But remember, if she talks—to anyone—we will be back to finish what we started.”
“Dylan?” he heard Leilani whimper behind him, her voice almost gone, shattered. “Dylan?”
He clenched his eyes shut. “Goodbye,” he whispered.
Xavier led Dylan to his Hummer and shoved him into the passenger seat. The other two men climbed in behind. Dylan listened as Xavier called 911.
Xavier slid into the driver’s side and turned the ignition. “You held up better than most,” he added, as they pulled away. “Longer than anyone thought you could.”
“Just drive,” Dylan said, staring straight ahead. He’d failed. Failed Dobie, and Leilani, and himself. He’d tried every gimmick in his Fargo Cody bag of tricks—and come up short. Fargo Cody’s nonviolent schemes only worked because the author rearranged the universe. In the real world, where Dylan couldn’t control everyone and everything, those shenanigans were a dismal failure. Fargo Cody was a lie. His whole life was a lie.
“That last business—dislocating shoulder. Very brave. Not many could do that.”
“You knew about that?”
“My business to know everything. It would not have helped you. But valiant effort. You show much courage. What I would expect from creator of Fargo Cody. I look forward to working with you. I help you pop it back into place.”
Dylan’s speech was so clipped it was as if each word were its own sentence. “Just. Drive.”
Xavier nodded, pulled onto the main road, and headed toward the ocean.
The Seduction
"When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates the mind wonderfully."
Samuel Johnson
Chapter 24
Three weeks later
“I have a plan,” Dylan said.
Xavier, Mr. X, and several of their associates sat around the conference table. From some, Dylan detected a perceptible release of tension. He knew that, despite his reassurances, they’d wondered if he would ever actually help them. He was happy to put their minds at rest. And their suspicions.
“’Bout damn time,” Xavier grunted. “Summit less than month away.”
“Hush,” Mr. X said, swiveling around in her chair at the head of the table. “Share with us, Dylan. We’ve been anxiously waiting for inspiration to strike.”
“The task you set for me was considerably more complicated than cooking up another thriller,” Dylan replied. “This job is, to be blunt, impossible.”
Mr. X’s lids lowered in a manner that was all too familiar to Dylan. It was the first indicator of her Jekyll-Hyde transformation from semi-rational ex-IRA operative to maniacal monster. Since Xavier brought him to their compound, Dylan had learned to watch for it and to choose his words accordingly. “I don’t much care for that word, Dylan. We consulted you to make the impossible possible.”
“Consulted?”
“Just trying to keep it professional.”
“Or trying to keep it...distant.”
Her eyes rolled skyward. “Don’t start.”
“What happens if you let people get close?”
“This is a strategic planning meeting,” she said, with a hint of irritation. “Not a therapy session. Do you have a plan or not?”
Interesting. “As I see it, we have three primary problems, all of them impossible to resolve. First, based upon the intelligence Xavier gathered at the Cartwright Institute, the only person possessing the information we seek is Dr. Louis Scheimer, a physicist who works at a university research facility covertly funded by the US military. He is closely guarded at all times, making access to him impossible. Second, even if we could get to him, Scheimer will not voluntarily give us the information we seek, and he is impervious to torture.”
“I can get information from anyone,” Xavier said. “Just give me few hours.”
“Felix hacked into his CIA dossier. In the wake of the death of Dr. Karelis at your hands, Scheimer was given a post-hypnotic suggestion that will cause him to forget everything he knows if anyone tries to force him to talk. So your usual ‘blunt instrument’ approach will not succeed.”
Xavier made a grunting sound and folded his arms across his chest.
“The third problem is that we have to extract this unextractable information from this intractable egghead without the government knowing it has been taken. Impossible.”
“So what’s the solution?” Mr. X asked.
“By definition, there is no solution to an impossible problem,” Dylan replied. “So we have to change the problem. We have to alter the variables to make the impossible at least slightly possible. If improbable.”
“And how do we do that?”
“Since he can’t be forced to talk, we have to make Scheimer want to give us the intel.”
“Now that really is impossible.”
“No. That’s why you need a storyteller who understands how to motivate a character.” He slid copies of his plan across the table.
Mr. X looked at the cover summary. A tiny smile slowly crept across her disfigured face. “Yes.” Her voice suggested inner excitement. “This is exactly why we wanted you. Only you could have devised this. Finesse. Cleverness. We get in, we get out, and no one is the wiser.”
