Michael Palmer - Fatal

"Oh, no."

Her flat was in shambles. Books were strewn everywhere, shelves stripped bare. Lamps were knocked over. Every drawer was pulled out and emptied, every cushion and framed painting thrown in the middle of the floor. Figurines and candy dishes were smashed. Mindless of the possibility that men were still in the apartment, Nikki dropped to her knees, sobbing hysterically. Matt knelt beside her and did the only thing that felt right — he kicked the door closed, set his arm around her shoulders, and let her cry.

Fifteen minutes later they were still in the same spot. Finally, numbly, Nikki rose and shuffled into her bedroom. She emerged with a medium-sized backpack filled with clothes.

"Let's get out of here and out of Boston," she said flatly. "I feel as if I've been raped."

Matt followed her out of the ransacked apartment, down the stairs, and around to the bike.

"They're not going to get away with this," he said. "I promise you they aren't."

"We're going to the police," she said firmly, turning suddenly to face him, her expression an unsettling mix of fury and bewilderment. "I'm not going to let you talk me out of doing it this time. If we had gone when I said, maybe Joe would still be alive."

"Nikki, that's — "

"Don't tell me that's nonsense!" she snapped. "Maybe it is and maybe it isn't. I just want to go to the police."

Matt checked around quickly to see if anyone had been roused by her outburst.

"Go now?" he said. "But — "

"Dammit, Matt, my dear friend is dead, and Grimes killed him! I don't care about your fucking coal mine or… or your theories about toxic waste, or your goddamn insane town. Joe Keller was the gentlest man on earth. Why in the hell would they do this? Why?"

Sobbing wretchedly again, she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest.

Matt held her tightly. Going to the police was asking for trouble. He still felt certain of that. Joe Keller had already been dead for a couple of hours when they found him, and those who had killed him and destroyed her apartment were not going to be any easier to catch up with this minute than they would be after an anonymous call an hour from now. Reporting Nikki's kidnapping would be their word against Grimes's, and they would be exposing themselves at a time when freedom and mobility were just about the only elements on their side.

"Look," he said, "let's get on the road. We'll stop at a pay phone in a little while and call the Boston police. I hope I can talk you out of actually showing up in an FBI office or police station, but that'll ultimately be up to you."

Nikki's racking sobs gradually diminished. Finally, without a word, she mounted the Harley and waited for him to step on.

Matt stuffed the revolver back into his jacket pocket, took his spot in front of her, and fired up the bike. If going to the police was what she needed, the police she would get. She had been through so much. He drove off, sensing her sitting rigidly behind him, staring off into the night. He was grateful she had gone into her bedroom to gather her things, grateful he had had time to pace around her living room before she returned, grateful he had happened to look over at the mantel. Somewhere in the next half hour or so, he would ease the Harley toward the soft shoulder, and when he was certain she wasn't paying attention, he would flip what he had found on her mantel into the woods.

And the whereabouts of Joe Keller's missing finger would forever remain a mystery.

It was past two in the morning when Matt and Nikki found a motel vacancy just outside of Stamford, Connecticut. Confused, bewildered, and more than a little frightened, they checked in and carried their small cache of belongings up one flight to a fairly standard, well-maintained room with a view of 1-95.

After leaving the shambles that was Nikki's apartment, they had ridden south in light traffic through Providence and on into Connecticut. It was a somber, silent ride, made well under the speed limit. Each of them was experiencing some tension born of Nikki's continued determination to involve themselves with the police and possibly the FBI in the face of Matt's desire to remain as much of a mystery to Bill Grimes as possible until his business with Belinda Coal and Coke was completed. Two exits past Providence, she asked him to leave the interstate. There, at a rest stop, she called the Boston police.

"There's been a double murder at the medical examiner's office on Albany Street," she said, surprised by the composure in her voice. "Chief William Grimes, G-r-i-m-e-s, of the Belinda, West Virginia, Police Department is responsible."

A minute later they were back on the highway.

"Feel better?" Matt asked over his shoulder.

"Not much. Grimes will probably say that he doesn't know anything, and that some nutcase he once arrested is out to cause him trouble."

"Once those bodies are discovered, I'm sure the police will begin to search out everyone who works in your building. It won't take long for them to figure out that it might be you who made the call."

"I don't care. I know you do, but I don't. You and I are the only ones who can connect Grimes to Joe. It'll be our word against his, but two M.D. degrees have to count for something. After we wake up, I want to go to the FBI to report the murders and also being kidnapped. That's definitely a federal offense. If you want, I'll tell them I don't know where you are. That way you can get to Washington and meet with the guy your uncle spoke about."

"Do whatever you have to do," Matt replied.

"I'm really sorry if I end up interfering with your plans."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"You're angry."

"I'm not angry. I would have liked to have, I don't know, solidified our position before involving the police — maybe speak to a lawyer."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. You've been living a nightmare ever since you set foot in Belinda. You have a right to do whatever you want."

"And so do you," she said.

"So do I," Matt replied, just before accelerating up the entry ramp and back onto the interstate.

So do I.

Nikki showered and dressed for bed in the bathroom. Matt had changed into sweats by the time she emerged. He was reading a hostelry magazine in the armchair beside the small writing desk, as far away from the bed as possible.

"You coming in?" she asked unemotionally.

"Soon, maybe," he responded in the same tone. "I'm a little wired from the ride and all that's happened. Will the lamp bother you?"

"Not really."

"Good."

There were differences between Ginny and this woman, Matt was thinking, but not when it came to digging in. God, but he wanted to take her in his arms right now. Instead he stayed in the chair, flipping pages one moment, staring sightlessly at a bland photo of some snow-covered mountain inn the next.

Nikki rolled onto her side, facing away from him, but he could tell by her breathing and posture that she wasn't asleep.

"You sleeping?" he asked finally.

"No."

"This has been a really hideous night."

"Yeah. Joe was such a wonderful man."

Several silent minutes passed.

"You know," he said finally, "in case you couldn't tell when I didn't even know how to pronounce the word, I don't know an awful lot about prion disease. If you're up to it, since we're both still too awake to drift off, I was wondering if you might be able to share some of what you know from your reading and that guy's presentation you went to."

Nikki slowly rolled over to face him and propped her cheek on one hand.

"You mean Stanley Prusiner?"

"Yeah, him."

"Is this a ploy because things are a little tense between us right now?"

"No… Well, I mean, yes… I mean I really don't know anything but the basics about prions, so I wouldn't exactly call it a ploy. More of a fact-finding mission."