Jeff Abbott - Fear

‘Of course. I didn’t mean the question in a medical context but in terms of security. If this man is a danger to the hospital, I want to know what kind of threat he is.’

‘I don’t think he’d hurt anyone. But if he shows up, I want you to call me immediately, at this number. Detain him if you can.’

‘Call you and call the police.’

‘No. Just call me. It’s critical that I locate him. Without a lot of public fuss.’

Groote raised an eyebrow again. ‘I could be of much greater help to you, if I knew exactly who this man was.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t go into details.’

Searching for a man but you can’t say that you’re searching for him. Interesting, Groote thought. More than interesting. A situation with very few plausible explanations. ‘Is this man wanted by the Marshals Service? Is he a fugitive?’

‘As I said, he’s a person of interest, and we don’t want to make a big production.’

This man knows the truth about my target, Groote realized, and he measured, on an internal scale, the risk of confrontation with Pitts. ‘Your boy doesn’t believe the fire was caused by a gas leak.’

‘No.’

‘And this investigation, it’s part of his delusion?’

‘Possibly. He’s suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder.’

‘You know, it’s possible that your guy called Doctor Hurley. Hurley knew Doctor Vance; the psychiatric community here’s not that big. Perhaps the call was Hurley returning a call from your guy.’ He tapped fingertips against the table, pretended to think. ‘Hurley mentioned an odd call the other day.’

‘Then I need to speak with Doctor Hurley. You and he could help me bring this guy in.’

Groote seized the opening. ‘I’m not in the business of laying traps for people. Legally, I’m in quicksand if Mr. Raymond shows up, I detain him, and call you and you have no just cause.’

Pitts clicked tongue against teeth. ‘You said you were ex-FBI.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why’d you leave?’

‘Family tragedy.’

DeShawn said, ‘Excuse me, but I need to make a phone call.’

‘Certainly. There’s a private room next door.’ He ushered DeShawn into the room – an interview room, used in consulting with patients.

‘Walls are padded,’ DeShawn said, a hint of distaste in his voice.

‘Yes,’ Groote said without comment, and closed the door. ‘Hit the door twice when you’re done.’ Then he hurried back to the computer in Hurley’s office, activated the hidden camera in the soft fabric of the wall. Every room had these cameras, ready for use when Hurley needed them. A mike paired to the camera and he snapped a window on the computer open, adjusted the sound.

‘Jimmy, I need background on Dennis Groote. Former FBI field agent in Los Angeles,’ Pitts said. The mike wasn’t powerful enough to pick up the response. DeShawn waited on the phone. Groote already knew the answer would be glowing; his record was clean.

Pitts was asking, first, to ensure that Groote was who he said he was, and second, that – please, God, please – Groote could be trusted.

They want to find him but they don’t want the locals to know a manhunt is on. So he’s one of their fugitives, but he slipped the leash. Doesn’t make sense. A fugitive wouldn’t be working at an art gallery, wouldn’t be seeing a psychiatrist regularly. No. Michael’s not a fugitive. So what is he? A marshal hunts fugitives. But why hunt a fugitive and not let the cops know? Why protect the bad guy that way – protect. The word echoed in Groote’s head. Michael Raymond’s not a fugitive – he’s a witness.

‘Uh-huh,’ Pitts said into the phone. He was now wearing the bored expression of someone getting a record read to him.

Meanwhile inspiration struck Groote. He opened another window feed on the room’s camera, jumped back on the digital tape, watched DeShawn hit a speed dial. The number flashed on the phone’s screen. Groote scribbled the number down on a Post-it note and slipped it into his pocket. He killed the second window. On the live camera DeShawn Pitts said, ‘Uh-huh, okay,’ three more times.

Groote picked up the phone and dialed the number. He got routed to another marshal, since DeShawn Pitts was already on Jimmy’s line.

‘U.S. Marshals Service.’

Groote made his voice a hoarse whisper. ‘Jimmy – need Jimmy. Right now. Need help.’

‘Who’s speaking, please?’

‘I’ll only talk to Jimmy. Only to a WITSEC inspector. He’s got to help me.’

‘Hold on, sir,’ and Groote clicked off the phone.

A witness. Michael Raymond was a federal witness. One they had lost, one they needed to find. He’s suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder. Find him without a lot of publicity.

A witness who had run. But guys who walked away from the program were on their own. Except this one, who must still be of particular value.

On the camera screen DeShawn Pitts closed his phone. He pounded the flat of his hand against the fabric twice.

Groote went to the door, let Pitts out, led him back into the office.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Yes. You check out. Outstanding service record. Call Gomez at your old field office, he’ll vouch for me and this operation. You won’t be at legal risk.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Could you give me Doctor Hurley’s number now? I want to arrange a meeting with him,’ Pitts said. ‘If you think he’ll help.’

‘He’s very civic-minded,’ Groote said. ‘I’ll call him for you.’ He flipped open his own phone. Hurley would soil himself, trying to get Celeste Brent back to the hospital sedated and ready to talk, if a federal agent phoned him.

He dialed Hurley’s number, smiling politely.

Hurley coughed, dried his mouth against the back of his wrist. ‘The man’s name is Dennis Groote. He’s from California.’

‘Who’s he work for?’ Miles jabbed the gun harder against Hurley’s skull.

‘A man named Quantrill.’

‘Who’s Quantrill?’

‘He’s my boss.’

‘Where do I find him?’

‘Santa Monica, California.’

‘What’s the connection with Sorenson?’

‘I don’t know any Sorenson.’

‘Lying is a bad idea, Doctor. I shot a man. It’s easier, I suspect, the second time.’

‘Nice of you to share,’ Andy said, leaning against the wall. ‘Shoot him, Miles, he’s useless. Kill again. It won’t make you better or worse.’

Miles took his finger off the trigger but dug the barrel of the gun harder into the back of Hurley’s head.

The pressure spilled the words faster from Hurley. ‘I don’t know any Sorenson, I swear to God.’

The cell phone in Hurley’s pocket rang, playing a Bach toccata. ‘I’m supposed to be checking in. I don’t, Groote will come straight here.’

Miles believed him. ‘You buy us time. Play dumb. Answer it.’

Hurley gently dug the flip phone from his pocket, opened it. ‘Yes, hello?’

Miles kept the gun close on Hurley, knelt so he could hear. ‘Doctor Hurley, it’s Dennis Groote.’

‘I spoke with Celeste Brent. She knows nothing.’

‘Understood. There is a gentleman from the federal government in the lobby. He wants to speak to you about a patient of Doctor Vance’s. A man named Michael Raymond. I know you’re very busy right now…’

Miles prodded Hurley with the gun, mouthed, Tell him no.

‘I can’t see anyone,’ Hurley said. ‘Not now. Tomorrow.’

‘I strongly suggest you should make time now, Doctor. This takes precedence. We could be of service to the authorities. They need to find Mr. Raymond.’

Hurley froze. Miles mouthed, No, again.

‘Tomorrow,’ Hurley said. ‘Not today. I can’t. My hands are full.’