Jeff Abbott - Fear

‘May I call you Celeste? I feel as if I know you from your TV days.’ He dumped sugar in his tone now. ‘I must know if she left anything with you. For safekeeping. You’re not betraying her trust if you help me.’

‘No. She brought nothing but her briefcase.’ Celeste kept her voice steady. ‘She sat in the same chair you’re sitting in and we talked and she left.’ Celeste decided to play the trump card, see how he reacted; it would either prove or disprove Miles’s theory. ‘Wait. I was finishing up a late lunch when she stopped by, and she asked to borrow my computer. She was expecting an important e-mail and wanted to check her account on the Web.’

‘Were you with her?’

‘I don’t stand over people’s shoulders while they read their e-mail. She was alone for about five, ten minutes, while I finished eating.’

His face paled, his lips tightened, and he seemed to be steadying himself for an unwelcome task. ‘I appreciate your honesty, Celeste. But I suspect I have unwelcome news. Those pills she took back from you. Were they white?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll need to come to the hospital with me.’

‘No. I’m agoraphobic. I don’t leave my house.’

‘You were given medications that could have interacted badly with your other meds,’ he said. ‘We need to get you tested.’

‘No.’

‘I can sedate you, if you prefer. But I must insist. For your own good.’

‘No.’

A shift in his eyes and she was afraid of him, now; he wore the simmering glare of a child unused to refusal. He stood, tented his hands. ‘Celeste. This is a medical emergency, and I can compel you to come with me…’

‘I said no.’

‘You can’t take care of yourself at home. You’re not better, you’re worse. Just imagine’ – and he took a step toward her – ‘you started cutting yourself again, really bad, and just imagine I found you, bleeding, suicidal…’

And then the soft click of a gun. Miles stood behind Hurley, Celeste’s gun at the doctor’s head. ‘And just imagine you sit down and start talking.’

Hurley froze.

Miles shoved Hurley back onto the couch. ‘Do no harm is supposed to be your motto. It’s sure as hell not mine.’

‘You’re making a mistake,’ Hurley said.

‘It doesn’t feel like a mistake,’ Miles said. ‘You okay?’

Celeste nodded.

‘If you’re interested in the white pills,’ Miles said, ‘I can help you.’

Hurley said, ‘I hope we can work out a deal.’

‘The deal is you answer my questions, I don’t blow your brains out,’ Miles said. Celeste got up from the chair, retreated toward the kitchen. ‘That’s the deal, Doctor Dolittle.’

‘You already have Frost, if you’re Allison Vance’s partner,’ Hurley said. ‘I’m not sure what else you can negotiate for.’

‘Tell me the truth about Frost.’ He put the gun close to Hurley’s head.

‘Medicine to tranquilize those suffering from PTSD. It makes the trauma bearable, so therapy can be more effective.’

Miles glanced at Celeste. ‘These white pills, they make you sleepy?’

She shook her head. ‘Not sleepy. Calm.’

‘Allison had you take one before therapy, right?’ Hurley said.

Celeste nodded.

‘That’s right. It dulls the traumatic memory so that the person can talk about the trauma more easily.’ Hurley said.

‘But Celeste and Nathan Ruiz didn’t know they were being tested.’

Hurley didn’t answer and Miles prodded him with the gun. ‘No one knows. I didn’t know she was giving it to Celeste.’

‘Where is Nathan Ruiz?’

‘He – he escaped from us. We’ve had no word from him. I suppose he’s hiding. Or dead.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s dangerous, you know, to himself, to you if he gets a chance.’

‘The medicine’s not helping him?’

Hurley shrugged.

‘Who’s the guy who’s hunting me?’

‘I’ll tell you,’ Hurley said, ‘if you give me Frost. Listen, you want to take down that guy, I’ll give you a bonus. He’s crazy. No offense.’

‘None taken,’ Miles said. ‘You’re trying to tell me he’s not on your side.’

Hurley nodded. ‘I’ll help you so you can get rid of him. I’ll set it up. But you give me Frost.’ Hurley attempted a smile; an awful, frightened flex. ‘He’s not going to let you walk. He’ll kill you for it.’

‘I don’t have Frost.’

Hope lit Hurley’s eyes. ‘Were the files burned up with Allison?’

‘I don’t know. What’s on these files?’

‘All the research notes, the chemical formulae, videos of the patients during the testing, everything to prove Frost is effective.’ Hurley shook his head. ‘If you really don’t have Frost, then you played the wrong bluff with him. He’s sure you do.’

‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t have a reason to help you now.’

Miles frowned. ‘Celeste. Please go into the other room. Close the door. I’ll use the silencer. It shouldn’t be too bad.’ He winked at her.

Her eyes wide, Celeste shook her head. ‘Don’t kill him. Please. Don’t.’

‘Have to. He won’t tell me what we need to know.’

She shook her head, not understanding his bluff. Then he winked twice again. And she got quiet. ‘If you have to.’ She hurried into the kitchen.

‘You and I are not sitting across from a negotiating table, Doctor,’ Miles said. ‘I’m sitting with a gun at your head. Now. Answer my questions. Who’s hunting me?’

‘My name is DeShawn Pitts,’ the tall man said, shaking Groote’s hand. ‘I’m with the U.S. Marshals Service and I need to talk to you regarding a person of interest.’

Groote noticed Pitts wore finger braces on his left hand – two fingers broken – and his bruised face announced he’d been on the losing end of a recent fight.

‘Happy to help.’

‘Where were you with the Bureau?’ Pitts asked.

‘Fifteen years in the Los Angeles office.’

‘Now you’re for hire.’

‘The parent company of the hospital retained me.’ He realized he was talking too much, but he always did when he was around other feds. Old habits. His colleagues had always made him nervous, hyperaware, as though they could see the shadow he’d become after Cathy died and Amanda got sick. He brought Pitts to Hurley’s first-floor office, two doors down from the conference room where Sorenson waited.

‘You said you wanted to talk about a person of interest.’

Pitts took a seat. ‘Yes, and you’ll forgive me if I skimp on details. A person of interest that we’re trying to locate – his name is Michael Raymond – received a call on his cell phone from this hospital two days ago. I need to know who tried to call him.’

Groote kept his face impassive but thought, Oh, hell. When I tried to call MR back again and got no answer. ‘Michael Raymond. The name’s not familiar to me.’ Who is this Michael Raymond and why is he screwing everything up for me? Groote cleared his throat and typed on the computer keyboard in Hurley’s office. ‘Let me check the visitor logs.’ He collected his thoughts while he scanned the log. ‘He hasn’t visited us. I can e-mail the staff, ask if anyone knows him.’

‘Not quite yet. His psychiatrist was Allison Vance. Have you heard about this explosion-’

He’s a patient of hers. Nathan was telling the truth. ‘Of course. It’s a tragedy. And you thought he might seek help from us.’

‘He’s… delusional. He believes that he needs to “right” Doctor Vance’s death.’

Groote raised an eyebrow. ‘Does he believe he bears responsibility?’

DeShawn Pitts pointed to Doctor Hurley’s nameplate on the door. ‘Hurley’s your psychiatric chief? I think I should wait and discuss this man’s mental state with the doctor. You understand.’