Дэвид Балдаччи - The Sixth Man

“Watchtowers every hundred feet,” she noted. “Each manned by a pair of guards.” She squinted into the sun. “One looks to be carrying an AK with an extended clip and the other a long-range sniper rifle with a mounted FLIR,” she added, referring to a Forward-Looking Infrared scope bolted to the rifle. “Bet they have a CCTV subsystem, digital recording, and terabytes of data storage. And multizone intrusion and escape detection systems, microwave and infrared technology, biometric readers, high-security IT network grafted onto a fiber optics backbone, multistage uninterrupted circuits, and big-time backup power in case the lights go out.”

Sean frowned. “Will you stop sounding like you’re casing the place? With all the bells and whistles they obviously have here, we have to assume people are watching and listening.”

She pulled her gaze back and saw that there were three rings of interior fencing around the two-story rebar-reinforced concrete building housing America’s most wildly psychotic predators. Each fence was an eighteen-foot-high chain-link with concertina wire on top. The top six feet of each fence was angled inward at forty-five degrees, making it nearly impossible to clear. The middle fence carried a lethal electrical charge, as a big sign next to it made crystal clear. The open ground in between each fence was a minefield of razor wire and sharp spikes pointing up from the ground, and the glint of the sun told her that there were myriad trip wires strung everywhere. At night, the only time anyone would dare attempt to escape from this place, the wires would be invisible. You’d bleed to death before you ran into the middle fence, and then only to get charred for your troubles. But by then the watchtower guards would have finished you off anyway with bang-bang taps to the head and heart.

“That electric fence has five thousand volts and low amperage, plenty lethal enough,” said Michelle in a low voice. “I’m betting there’s a concrete-grade beam under it so no one can dig out.” She paused. “But something is weird.”

“What?”

“You put in an electric fence to save labor costs. And in the world of prison perimeter security labor costs are basically tower guards. But every single tower is still manned by two shooters.”

“I guess they really don’t want to take any chances.”

“It’s overkill, at least to my mind.”

“What’d you expect? Our federal tax dollars at work.”

She noted a large array of solar panels off to one side, angled just right to take in the maximum amount of sunlight.

“Well, at least they’re going green,” she said, pointing them out to Sean.

They passed three more gates and three more checkpoints, and endured three more electronic scans and body searches, until Michelle assumed the guards collectively knew every contour of her person better than she did. At the entrance to the building massive portals resembling blast doors on a nukeproof bunker swung back on air-powered hydraulics. Michelle said in an impressed voice, “Okay, I’m thinking this place is escape-proof.”

“Let’s hope.”

“Do you think they know Bergin’s been murdered?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t bet against it.”

“So they might not let us in.”

“They let us come this far,” replied Sean.

“Yeah, and now I’m wondering why they have.”

“Little slow this morning?”

“What?”

He said nervously, “I’ve been wondering that ever since they cleared us through the first gate.”

THERE WAS ONE more checkpoint inside the facility. A magnetometer for any stray weapons the other searches didn’t reveal, another probe of their persons, an X-ray for Michelle’s small bag, an ID and document check, a cross-reference on the visitor’s list, an oral interview that would have done Mossad proud, and a few phone calls. After that they were told to wait in an anteroom off the reception area, if one could call it that. The windows were at least three inches thick and presumably bullet-, fist-, and footproof.

Sean tapped on one. “Feels like the windows in the Beast.”

Michelle was examining the interior wall construction. She rubbed her hand up and down one section. “Don’t think this is run-of-the-mill drywall. Feels like a composite. A composite made of titanium. I doubt a round from my .45 could pierce it.”

“Called a buddy of mine who knew about this place,” said Sean. “It’s set on a rocker platform like they do the skyscrapers.”

“You mean in case there’s an earthquake.”

“Right. Must have cost a pretty penny.”

“Like you said, it’s only taxpayer money. But I wonder if its floodproof? We’re pretty close to the ocean here.”

“Retractable seawall. They can raise it in twenty minutes.”

“You’re kidding.”

Sean shook his head. “What my buddy told me.”

Michelle looked around the small, Spartan space. “I wonder how many visitors there are here? They don’t even have any magazines. And I doubt you could find a vending machine.”

“Would you want to come and visit someone here? Even if the person was family? I mean, it’s a facility for the criminally insane.”

“They don’t call it that anymore, do they?”

“I guess not, but it is what it is. They are criminal and they are insane.”

“Now look who’s being judgmental. Roy hasn’t even been tried.”

“Okay, you got me there.”

“But he’s still probably a psycho,” added Michelle, drawing a raised eyebrow from her partner. She said, “How many inmates – sorry, patients – here, do you reckon?”

“That’s classified, apparently.”

“Classified? How can that be? This isn’t part of the CIA or the Pentagon.”

“All I can tell you is I tried to find that out and ran right into a stone wall. I do know that Roy is probably the most high-profile inmate they have right now.”

“Until he’s supplanted by an even crazier psycho.”

“Excuse me?”

They turned to find a young man in a blue smock standing at the doorway. He held a small electronic pad. “Sean King and Michelle Maxwell?”

They rose together, towering over the shorter man. “That’s right,” said Sean.

“Here to see Edgar Roy?”

Sean was prepared to have a fight on his hands about them being able to see the man. But Blue Smock merely said, “Please follow me.”

A minute later he handed them off to a woman who was far more intimidating. Nearly as tall as Michelle but considerably wider and heavier, she looked capable of holding down the nose tackle position for a Division I football team. She introduced herself as Carla Dukes, the director of Cutter’s Rock. When her long fingers clamped around Michelle’s in a handshake, Michelle wondered if the woman used to call herself Carl.

Her office was a fourteen-by-fourteen square. A desk with a computer, three chairs counting hers, and nothing else. No file cabinets, no pictures of family or friends, no paintings on the wall, no view outside the room, nothing personal whatsoever.

“Please sit,” she said. They sat. She slid open her drawer, retrieved a red file, and opened it on her desk. “I understand that Ted Bergin is dead.”

Thanks for getting right to the point, thought Sean. And now here comes the fight.

He said, “That’s right. The police and FBI are investigating. But we’re still scheduled to meet with Edgar Roy today and we didn’t want to forego that opportunity.”

“The appointment was for Ted Bergin and you accompanying him.”

“Well, he obviously can’t be here,” said Sean, his voice calm but firm.

“Of course not, but I’m not sure that in light of the circumstances–”