Jeff Abbott - Fear

‘Get me an address for Edward Wallace.’ He hung up. He dialed Quantrill.

‘Before you run back to California,’ Groote said, ‘did Hurley have your list of contacts for your sale?’

‘No, of course not. Why?’

Either Quantrill was lying or Hurley had the list and Quantrill didn’t know it, or, scariest possibility, Allison had gotten the list from somewhere else. Someone else.

‘Groote?’ Quantrill asked.

‘Nothing. Just curious.’ He hung up.

So she had uploaded the stolen data. Why? Why not simply hand it to Kendrick if he was her partner?

Because Allison was hiding the data from Kendrick. As insurance. She had good reason.

The second auction. She’d gotten the names of the buyers for the second auction, somehow, from Quantrill. How and why?

And his confusion over this angle brought forward a question that had nagged him through the night: Why would Sorenson even mention the second auction to him? Why risk alerting him?

Because he wanted to win your confidence, lure you in, get access to Nathan Ruiz, kill Ruiz, kill you. He can tell you anything if he’s pretty sure you’re going to be dead in ten minutes.

He didn’t know why Sorenson wanted Ruiz dead, but, hey, it didn’t matter, facts were facts.

He parked at the hotel lot, got out of his car, exhaustion making his head spin, his nose throbbing from the break. He needed sleep and a painkiller, but first he had to call Nathan’s family, back up Quantrill’s story about Nathan’s release, see if the family knew where Tin Soldier was.

The cell phone chirped. ‘I found your address for Edward Wallace.’ The technician gave Groote the address.

Groote clicked off the phone, tented his cheek with his tongue while he considered this new data. He believed Kendrick had come to Celeste Brent’s computer specifically to get this information. He could be racing to California to get Frost.

It was a chance Groote couldn’t take. He could sleep on the plane.

He headed for the hotel and then he saw them, federal agents, he knew the stance, standing near the door’s lobby on the inside, a blond talking on a cell phone, a bald man with his back to Groote.

Pitts must have logged in, mentioned that he was tracking down Hurley, following Groote from the hospital. And now Pitts hadn’t checked in for hours. It wasn’t a hard matter to call local hotels, find a room rented to Dennis Groote.

He couldn’t let the officers stop him for questioning. Giving a statement might burn hours he couldn’t lose – especially if Pitts had mentioned any suspicions of Groote’s honesty to his team members. He retreated toward the car, walking normally, praying with each step that the men didn’t spot him. If he drove to the Albuquerque airport and took a flight to California, the Bureau would quickly know where he went; and if he hid it would seem, well, like he was hiding. Neither was an appealing prospect. He needed to lie low, find Frost, then resurface back in Los Angeles, where he could claim that, his contract with the hospital having expired, he’d simply come home; he’d had no idea anyone was interested in talking to him.

Santa Fe, a wonderful city he would have loved to share with Amanda, had gone very bad for him.

You get Frost first, and no matter what, he told himself as he slid behind the wheel. You get it for Amanda, even if they catch you.

He got back into his car, started the engine, and the fingers tapped against the window.

‘Mr. Groote?’ The man had the clean-scrubbed, earnest face of an eager Bureau agent. He’d been the blond talking on the cell phone near the hotel entrance.

‘Yes?’ Groote powered down the window, put a polite yet questioning expression on his face. Start lying, he told himself, and make it a great one and forget about the DNA traces the two dead men left in the trunk of the car, don’t you sweat even a drop. So this bastard can’t slow you down any more than necessary.

‘Hello,’ Groote said, with the politeness of recognizing a colleague.

The man was equally polite; almost apologetic. ‘Hello, sir. FBI. We need to talk to you for a few minutes.’

‘“The Mental Defective League – in formation!”’ Nathan said. ‘Name that movie.’

Miles, having driven for the past twelve hours, didn’t want to play. Celeste, sitting low in the backseat, wearing a heavy pair of sunglasses, wrapped in a blanket, and with a dose of Xanax in her, didn’t answer. It was late Saturday night, the galaxy of lights of greater Los Angeles spread out on both sides of Interstate 5.

‘ One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. After Nicholson gets bzzzzzzt, the shock treatments.’ And he leaned into the backseat, jabbed Celeste’s head with his finger, saying, ‘Bzzzt, bzzzt, bzzzt.’

‘They should have given you shock treatments,’ she said. Now and then she stuck her head out from the blanket, a turtle taking a measure of air. But she seemed to be coping, Miles thought, certainly better than Nathan was.

‘Don’t need the voltage,’ Nathan said, ‘not when I got Frost. I saved our skins, don’t forget.’

Celeste said, ‘Let’s break for the night. It’s still hours to Yosemite.’

‘I can drive,’ Nathan said.

‘Bad idea,’ Miles said.

‘Jesus, man, I know how to drive.’

‘You seem slightly wound up,’ Miles said.

‘You’re not going to let your imaginary friend drive, I hope.’

‘Enough, Nathan,’ Celeste said from the back.

‘What do you call Mr. Invisible?’ Nathan said. ‘Guilt Trip? The Shadow?’

‘His name is Andy.’

‘Well, we can’t have Andy distracting you from your driving.’ Nathan made a playful half-grab at the wheel.

Miles veered into the right lane, earning a honk and a finger from a driver he’d nearly clipped.

‘I’m not letting you drive,’ Miles said, ‘because the mirrors bother you. I don’t want you to freak.’

A long silence. ‘I don’t freak,’ Nathan said.

‘Let’s find dinner and a place to sleep,’ Celeste said quietly.

‘We need to keep going,’ Miles said, even though exhaustion rattled his brain. ‘We need to keep-’

‘Please,’ she said, ‘please. I need four walls around me.’

Dinner was take-out McDonald’s, comfort was a worn but clean motel in the northern stretches of the city, near Santa Clarita. Miles got two adjoining rooms. Nathan demolished three Big Macs, downed a soda, let out a satisfied belch. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

Celeste kept her back to them, sitting on the edge of the bed, picking at a salad.

‘You okay?’ Miles asked.

‘I can’t believe I left my house,’ she said. ‘I ought to feel free. I don’t. I hope Nancy didn’t come to my house and… find the body.’ She shuddered. ‘I shouldn’t have left.’ She closed the salad box over the mostly uneaten mound of lettuce.

‘The shouldn’t-haves are the path to insanity,’ Nathan said. ‘You better eat that dinner, Celeste. Soldiers know you got to eat, sleep, and sh- um, go to the bathroom, whenever you have a chance, you might not get another.’

She opened the box, forced herself to eat again.

Miles finished his hamburger. ‘We all need sleep. We’ll get up early tomorrow, head out.’

‘We should camp a day or two,’ Nathan said. ‘Let Celeste recover.’

‘We go,’ Miles said.

‘You’re not the boss of us.’ Nathan wiped his mouth.

‘I am until we get Frost. Until we know we’re safe.’

‘We’re not responsible for each other.’ Nathan stood.

‘Funny thing for a soldier to say,’ Miles told him. ‘I would imagine you feel responsible, Nathan, toward your fellow soldiers.’

Nathan’s hands tightened into fists. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’