Flee (11 page)

"When
I first met you, you were on a bad path."

"An
understatement."

"You
changed, turned your life around, made something of yourself. I don't know the
details of your job, and I don't think I want to. But I can tell what you're
doing, it's important."

A
flush of heat pooled in my cheeks. I thought about the many men I'd killed. Bad
men, every one, according to their dossiers. I could refuse jobs and had in the
past. The only people I'd sanctioned had it coming.

But
still, a contract killer is a contract killer. Even one who worked for Uncle
Sam. "Kaufmann, I'm not exactly a Girl Scout. I've..."

"Hush.
I've been a parole officer for a lot of years. I've seen a lot of young people
get caught by bad choices. Very few can pull themselves out. You did." His
words were a little slurred now, the amobarbital taking effect.

I
put my hand on his shoulder and guided him back on the bed. "Just relax."

"I
just want you to know..." His eyes became hooded, as if he was fighting to
keep them open.

"Know
what?"

"Couldn't
be prouder if you were my own daughter." Kaufmann's eyelids dropped lower.
"Just want you to know that."

I
blinked and tried to swallow the tightness in my throat. I'd gotten him into
this. All of it. And instead of blaming me, he'd given me what had to be the
best words anyone had ever said to me.

I
opened my mouth to explain what he meant to me, how much I loved him like I
loved my own parents who died when I was too, too young, but then I shut it
without speaking, watching his breath settle into the steady rhythm of sleep. I
replayed what he'd said in my mind, feeling the history, the emotion, the
texture of each word, and then I folded and tucked them in the most private
place in my heart. When he woke, I'd tell him all he meant to me, not that
anything I could say would suffice.

For
now, I just had to hope he knew.

I
pushed up from the side of the bed and tossed the syringe into a waste basket.
I had some basic supplies in my duffle, but from my earlier search of the place,
I knew Victor had more. I rummaged through the bathroom medicine cabinet,
collecting items I might need. When I stepped into the hall, I heard the stir
of movement in the apartment's main room.

 "I
can help with that."

I
jumped at Victor's voice, my heartbeat launching into double-time. Pulling the
pistol from my waistband, I slid into the room.

Victor
lay in the same spot, still tied. No one else was in the room but Mozart,
curled on the back of an overstuffed chair, giving herself a bath. I detected a
whiff of cat box I hadn't noticed earlier. The theme music for Jeopardy wafted
through the walls from next door.

Satisfied
the apartment was still secure, I put my weapon away.

 "I
can help. Really." His voice carried a hint of slur and his eyelids
hovered at half mast, making him sound and look as if he'd had a bit too much
to drink. He gave me a little smile that completed the picture. "I don't
know what's going on, and I get the feeling you're not going to tell me. But I
saw you bring in the old man."

He'd
recovered from the amobarbital quickly. A little too quickly for my comfort. "So
why did you pretend to be unconscious?"

 "Would
you find me less attractive if I admitted I wasn't feeling exactly brave after
all that happened earlier?"

Less
attractive? Not likely. Whether Victor was friend or foe, he was certainly
attractive.

But
then, my taste in men tended to be suspect.

"So
who is he?" Victor asked.

"A
friend."

"That's
how you referred to me."

"In
his case, it's not a lie."

"Ouch."
He gave me a puppy dog look, as if his feelings were genuinely hurt. "It's
the Sox fan thing, isn't it? Be honest."

I
couldn't keep from exhaling a half-stifled laugh.

"See?
You think I'm funny. That's a good basis for a friendship."

 I
let out a long breath and narrowed my eyes on him. "You're pretty cool
under pressure, aren't you Victor?"

"I
don't know. I guess. Have to be for my job."

I
supposed he was right. Facing life and death situations on a daily basis taught
a person to compartmentalize their emotions. He wasn't that different than me,
in that regard. Except where he tried to save lives, I was more apt to take
them.

"I
know I'm not in the greatest shape right now, but he looked like he was close
to going into shock. You need to stop his bleeding and stabilize him. I see you
found what was in the bathroom. There are more supplies in the spare room's
closet."

"Thanks."
I turned and started back to the kitchen.

 "You
could also use my help."

I
could. And I had to admit, everything about Victor felt sincere. But as much as
I would like to have an EMT help me stop Kaufmann's bleeding, I couldn't cut
Victor's ties. Not until I was sure about him. "I can handle it."

"I'll
bet you can." A small smile curved the corners of his lips. "You're a
fascinating woman, Carmen. Scary, but fascinating. Are you planning on hurting
me?"

"Not
if I don't have to."

"Let's
hope you don't."

I
walked away from my lie, back down the hall to tend Kaufmann's wounds.  Once I
was sure I'd done all I could to stop his bleeding, I'd be back.

And
unfortunately for Victor, he wasn't going to like what was coming next.

"Like debriefing, interrogation is about obtaining
intelligence. But often the subject is hostile, and not willing to part with
the information. Persuasion to cooperate is essential. First, you must gauge a
subject's suggestibility. Then, various means can be used to elicit information,
including the Reid technique, good cop/bad cop, pride and ego manipulation,
drugs, fear, and pain. While the effectiveness of torture remains unclear, I
have no doubt you'll eventually have to hurt a subject in order to get him to
talk. Everyone has a breaking point. Find it."

Kaufmann
was unconscious when I returned to the bedroom. Using a zip tie like the ones I
used to bind Victor, I secured his wrist to the headboard. I didn't want him to
move while I worked on his finger. I gave him several shots of local anesthetic
and cleaned the stump of his finger with alcohol. Then it was time to stitch.

Even
with him sedated and loaded with painkiller, I found myself flinching as I
worked. Tending to my own wounds was one thing. Tending to another operative,
or enemy, easier. But someone I cared about? The thought of causing Kaufmann
pain, even though it was for his own good, set my teeth on edge and made my
hands shake.

I
knew the technique, but the forceps felt awkward in my hand, the action of
penetrating the skin at a 90 degree angle with the curved needle nearly
impossible. I went with simple, interrupted sutures, tying off each stitch of
skin individually with a square knot. The technique took longer than I wanted,
but it was strong and afforded a novice like me a chance to realign the skin
between each stitch. Kaufmann would have a nasty scar, but I doubted that
mattered when it came to a finger stub.

By
the time I finished the sutures, cut Kaufmann free and wrapped his hand in anti-bacterial
cream and gauze, I was exhausted. The adrenaline and amphetamines that had kept
me going all day had ebbed, and the weight of my responsibility for Kaufmann
bore down. My body ached from the scrapes on my feet to the slash in my scalp,
and I'd give just about anything to shoot myself up with the amobarbital and
slide into sleep.

But
first, I had to deal with Victor.

I
didn't hear a sound from the apartment's main room. The odor of the
disinfectant I'd used on Kaufmann's wound still hung in my nostrils, making it
difficult to detect scents. Suturing Kaufmann's finger had taken more time than
I liked. Victor would be out of his fog by now, but with any luck, the
amobarbital still in his system would lower his guard. A barbiturate,
amobarbital or sodium amytal, was an effective sedative, but it also acted as a
truth serum, similar to its relative sodium pentothal. Of course, the drug's
power as a truth serum was largely exaggerated. And if Victor actually was
working with my doubles, he'd be trained to resist the effects.

But
if he wasn't…

I
clamped down hard on that hope. I had to forget I liked this guy and focus on
only the reality in front of me. If he was who he said he was, he would have
the chance to prove it. If not, I'd end him.

I
rummaged through my duffle, fishing out the supplies I needed. From the kitchen,
I collected a mortar and pestle I'd noticed on my first search of the place,
opened a bottle and spilled half a dozen tablets into the mortar. After
grinding them to powder, I mixed in enough water to make a solution and filled
a large syringe. A second syringe I filled with plain water.

The
syringes and a pair of handcuffs in hand, and my pistol in my waistband, I
walked down the hall for my rendezvous.

When
I entered the room, Victor's gaze skimmed my face then focused on my hands. "Again?
Do you have some kinky thing for needles?"

I
didn't answer. Instead I made a show of laying out the syringes on the coffee
table. I wanted to give him time to think about them, obsess on them, wonder
what I was going to do next. An interrogation is a delicate thing, a balance of
power. Normally I'd like to have more knowledge on my side. Facts to convince
him I knew the truth, so he might as well come clean. Then all I would have to
provide is the incentive. With Victor, I had no facts tying him to the women
who were trying to kill me and no hint of who in the hell they were. With
Victor, I would have to bluff like a master poker player.

When
I finished placing my tools on the table, I sized up Victor, not saying a word.

"Is
this where you tell me to talk? Look, I'll talk about anything you want me to.
Ask me anything."

He
looked small, lying on the floor, bound as he was. Much smaller than the man
who'd answered the door earlier, fit and strong. Being tied and drugged and
powerless, even for just a few hours, took a toll. It would help me get what I
needed from him, but seeing him this way was a little like watching a
magnificent bird with clipped wings or a Bengal tiger pacing bars of a concrete
cage.

I
took a long, deep breath and willed ice to envelope me. Getting the truth from
Victor was all I could allow to matter. Since I was so bereft of knowledge, I'd
start with the basics. "What is your name?"

"'Come
on, Carmen. You know my name."

Exactly
the response I'd expect from a regular person, one who couldn't begin to
believe he was being interrogated. Score one point for Victor the regular guy.
Not that I planned to stop there. "You said you'd answer my questions."

"Victor.
Victor Cormack."

"How
did you find me online?"

"Find
you? We met in the IRC chat. We hit it off. You know that, too. You were there."

Of
course, I knew that much. I also knew it wasn't too hard to clandestinely
monitor someone's internet service provider and follow their Internet trail,
even as careful as I had been to conceal mine. With plenty of time and planning,
Victor could have discovered the internet relay chats I preferred and entered
the same chat room under various names until he started up a dialog I liked.

The
thought that a guy I met and liked would go to such lengths to set me up was a
bit paranoid, perhaps, but being paranoid had kept me alive more than once. "Who
helped you find out what IRCs I liked to frequent?"

"What?"
He narrowed his eyes to blue slits and shook his head. "I don't understand
what you're getting at."

 Time
to be more direct. "Who do you work for?"

 "The
Chicago Fire Department. You know that, too." He let out a frustrated
sigh. "I'd like to think this is some kind of game or joke, but I'm not
sure that would be better."

"No
joke, Victor. Why didn't you go to work today?"

"I
told you—"

"That's
just the problem. You told me a lie." I delivered the line with a
certainty I grabbed out of thin air.

"I
didn't. I switched shifts." He answered without pause, then gave a laugh
flavored with a hint of bitterness. "Shifts can run long. I wanted to make
sure I'd be free for our date tonight."

 I
let my expression soften. I'd gotten nowhere so far, and I wanted to try
another tack, one not so confrontational. But I had to admit, acting as if my
feelings toward him had warmed wasn't a tough trick after his last comment.

"Listen
Victor, I know you didn't expect me to show up here. I understand why you felt
you had to lie. I also realize you weren't aware of what went down at my
apartment this morning."

"This
morning? What happened?" He actually appeared concerned.