Jeff Abbott - Fear

‘Quit playing possum,’ DeShawn said, grabbing Miles’s wrist. ‘Open up your eyes and stop-’

Miles pivoted and kicked out with both feet, hard. One foot caught DeShawn in the nose, the other in the throat, and he staggered back. Miles spun off the bed, pain fueling him because he couldn’t lose now, DeShawn would rightly beat him senseless.

He grabbed DeShawn’s hurt hand and twisted.

Two finger bones popped and DeShawn sucked in breath and cussed. Miles reared back and punched him hard, twice, grabbed the hotel-desk alarm clock and brought it down hard on the back of DeShawn’s head. Once. Twice. DeShawn went down to his knees, trying to pull Miles close to get him in a neck lock, and Miles swung the Lucite clock again, into DeShawn’s temple. DeShawn went down, eyes closed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Miles said. ‘I’m really sorry.’ He knelt down, checked the pulse. Present and steady. He wouldn’t be down long and he’d be real pissed when he woke up.

Miles ripped the cables from the TV, from the lamp. He bound DeShawn with them, took a sheet from the bed, tied it to the two cables holding DeShawn’s hands and feet, immobilizing DeShawn. Miles tore a pillowcase, tucked a wad of it into DeShawn’s mouth, careful not to block his breathing. He took DeShawn’s car keys from his pocket, left his badge, gun, and wallet alone. He put DeShawn’s cell phone on the bed. Then he gently dragged DeShawn into the closet, closed the door, jimmied the desk chair hard up under the knob.

His face and his ribs hurt; DeShawn had pulled his punches but Miles ached as if he’d been sideswiped by a car. He had, at most, a few minutes. Most likely DeShawn had logged that he’d been heading to pick up Miles at the hotel, and if he didn’t report back in a few minutes, WITSEC and the FBI would start calling and come straight to the hotel.

‘I’m sorry, DeShawn,’ he said to the closed door. ‘Please forgive me. But I’ve got to make things right.’

He hung the DO NOT DISTURB notice on the door and walked away from life as Michael Raymond.

Miles hoped Andy would stay behind in the hotel room, haunt it as a ghost, keep DeShawn company. But no. Miles was Andy’s haunted house.

And now he had to drive.

Fear pounded his stomach, a fist burrowing past skin and muscle to braid his guts. The Barradas were famous for wiring the ignitions of those they hated and Miles told himself as he walked toward the car that the fear was false, the Barradas would not be able to wire DeShawn’s car, wouldn’t be able to find DeShawn.

‘Of course they could wire DeShawn’s wheels.’ Andy hurried to walk beside him. ‘I mean, Allison knew your name. The Barradas could know DeShawn was coming to fetch you, they’d just need a few seconds to attach the bomb-’

‘No,’ Miles said. ‘Shut up.’

‘Blow up you and DeShawn together. That’s justice to the Barrada boys. Wire up the ignition while you’re fighting with DeShawn upstairs.’

Miles kept walking toward the car.

‘You don’t seriously think you’re driving, do you?’

Miles stopped. Andy danced ahead, jumped atop the hood of DeShawn’s car, did an improvised twist. ‘I better be careful, I might set the fucker off!’

He’s not there, there’s not a bomb. It’s perfectly safe. You’re just adding theft to your crime load today.

‘Too scared to drive.’ Andy dropped down to the hood, rested his feet on the bumpers.

Miles ran, unlocked the car, sweat pouring down his back. His hand trembled as he shoved the key into the ignition, twisted it.

‘Ka-boom!’ Andy screamed from the other side of the windshield, twisting his face into a contortion, pressing hands and lips against the glass.

But the engine didn’t explode; it just started.

Miles gripped the wheel.

‘Better stop!’ Andy said. ‘Better stop. Right now.’

Miles shot him the finger, gritted his teeth, and jerked the car forward. Andy fell off the hood and then started his low whisper again from behind Miles. ‘This isn’t going to work,’ Andy said in a low hiss.

All I need, he thought, a backseat driver.

‘You killed me, and now you’ve killed Allison,’ Andy said. ‘Who will die next for your sins, Miles?’

The scar on his chest burned, he closed his eyes, slipped into the steam of a Miami morning. Andy smiling at him and then a shocked Andy pulling his gun in sudden resolve, aiming it, the bullet hitting Miles, and then he was in a hospital, under heavy security, the government telling him he couldn’t be Miles Kendrick anymore.

Why was there this blot of snow in his memory, in his head? The sting went wrong – Andy reached for his gun, Andy knowing that Miles had gone government. A blot where he couldn’t see the past. He could hear the voices of the two undercover agents, saying, You did the right thing, man, you’re a hero.

But he didn’t know why.

Now. Focus on now. The cache of money and a gun at the Santa Fe bus station in case he needed it. He rooted in the duffel’s side pocket and found the locker key.

He drove over to the bus terminal on St. Michael, slowly circled it twice.

If WITSEC knows I rented the locker… would they routinely check on such things when they settled a witness in a new city? See if he rented a mailbox or a locker or a storage unit?

Would WITSEC look for me here?

Worse – would the shooter? No major airport in Santa Fe, you want out of town quick and got no car, you take the bus. He would have to risk it. The shooter wouldn’t know or guess he didn’t have a car.

Unless he spotted you on the bike.

Plan B. He drove back to Paseo de Peralta, searching for homeless Joe. He’d give him a twenty to retrieve the duffel; the shooter would ignore Joe, and the feds, if they knew about and surveilled the locker, would grab Joe but let him go when it was clear he knew nothing. But no sign of his friend on the streets, so Miles reluctantly wheeled back to the station.

He had to take the risk.

He walked inside. The terminal was busy on a late afternoon, a departure to Albuquerque and El Paso booming over the loudspeakers. He glanced around; no sign of the shooter, no one who stood with the iron spine of a federal officer. He grabbed the green duffel out of the locker, shouldered it, hurried back down the street to his car.

Miles opened the duffel. His worldly possessions now, in addition to his few clothes, consisted of the ID and credit card in his deceased father’s name, a loaded Beretta, and a thousand in cash, hidden in the duffel’s false bottom.

‘Think you’re smart,’ Andy said next to him.

Miles stopped. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, in a whisper barely above a breath, ‘I do. I’m smarter than you. You’re dead and I’m not.’

Andy went silent.

Miles needed a place to hide. He drove fast, sticking to side roads, until he got to Blaine the Pain’s house off Old Santa Fe Trail. He parked DeShawn’s car behind the house, next to Blaine’s car, and knocked on the door. No answer. Blaine the Pain was still in Marfa with his friend, reigniting his painter’s inspiration.

He fished around in the flower pots on the porch of the adobe and in the third one his fingers found the shape of a key. He slid it home in the lock, unlocked the door, praying Blaine was still gone, praying there was no beeping chime of an alarm system.

He slipped inside, closed the door, listened to the silence.

Home sweet home. For now.

Thursday morning Miles watched, from behind a heavy curtain, Blaine’s neighbors driving off to work. Then he drove DeShawn’s car to a grocery parking lot and abandoned it, unlocked and keys dangling in the ignition, and hiked the mile back to Blaine’s house.