Jeff Abbott - Fear

‘Yes, you did. I’ve seen your government file, Miles, two federal officers swear you shot him…’

‘No… FBI did… they even told me the tape was botched… blamed it on me…’

She shook her head. ‘You killed him. You killed Groote, you killed Sorenson. You killed Hurley. I’ll bet you even killed DeShawn Pitts.’

‘That’s a lie. You – you asked me for help…’

‘Miles. All I have to say is that I told you about the Frost program, that you wanted in, Hurley said no. After all, it’s designed to help the innocent victims of violence. People like Celeste. Like Nathan. But not you – you coldbloodedly murdered your best friend.’

Miles shook his head. ‘No.’

‘So you snapped. You’ve killed everyone who got in your way. That’s how the authorities will see it, Miles. A mentally broken man, denied his wish for help.’

‘No.’

‘You went after Frost yourself. First you wanted to get rid of me. I’ll bet the bomb fragments they find at my office will be very similar in composition and design to bombs the Barrada family used in the past. You might know how to make one of those, Miles. It won’t be coincidence.’

‘You can’t explain away… vanishing… after the explosion.’

‘I was on a business trip, Miles. I didn’t hear about the blast and you know I forgot my cell phone back in Santa Fe. The woman who died was looking at office space, I imagine. I can step back into being Allison Vance long enough for the story to be over with, then I just leave town again and no one cares.’

He remembered the woman’s voice then, before he picked the lock into Allison’s office: a woman from Denver asking about office space. Yesterday’s paper mentioned a missing tourist in Santa Fe. Jesus.

‘I just need to know what you know.’ She held up a white pill, perfect as a pearl. ‘The answer to your prayers. The cure for your pathetic madness. All you have to do is tell me who else knows about me and Frost, and tell me where I can find them.’

Celeste and Nathan. She wanted them. So Singhal’s company could silence them. No one else could gut her; no one else was still alive who could hurt her.

‘I – I can’t.’

The awful false smile disappeared; in its place was a fury of cold resolve. ‘I won’t kill you, Miles. I’ll shatter you. Singhal’s company will buy Sangriaville from Quantrill’s estate – I’ll hook you up to one of Hurley’s machines, play every horrible nightmare and trauma into your head. I’ll break your mind so bad it can never be fixed. I’ll keep you locked up in a hospital forever. No one will ever look for you. The feds will give you up for lost or dead. You and Groote’s brat, I’ll just use your heads as my research playground. Unless you help me. Help me and we’re friends again, I’ll cure you.’

Groote’s daughter must be here as well, locked elsewhere in the decaying madhouse. ‘No. I didn’t kill Andy. I didn’t… I don’t need what you’re selling.’

‘You’re not a hero, Miles, you’re a useless punk of a head case. You’ll never be fixed without this’ – and she showed him Frost again, a white oval, pure as snow. ‘Celeste. Nathan. Tell me where they are. Now.’

‘You won’t hurt them?’ He clutched at the bandage on his leg as though twisted in doubt and agony.

‘They want Frost too. They want to be healthy and whole. I’m sure I can reach the same deal with them as I’m offering you.’

She would have them, and Victor, too, all killed, he knew. She’d kill him as soon as they were confirmed dead; his usefulness was over, and she was gambling on his desperation, believing that he couldn’t think cogently.

‘I understand you a lot better than you think,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘You said that to me before… I believed you died. It’s true. It works both ways. I want help. Don’t want to be this way no more.’

‘So tell me.’ She lowered her voice.

‘Celeste… had a total breakdown. After the shooting in Yosemite. She and Nathan both. Her TV agent wired her money, they rented a house there in Fish Camp for a week. She and Nathan are still there. Far as I know.’ He leaned against the stone wall. ‘Hard for us… to be out in the real world. Couldn’t cope. Couldn’t.’ Let her think he and the others were nothing, useless, help her put her guard down.

‘Address.’

He hesitated. She knew the streets in Fish Camp; he didn’t. He could hardly invent an address. Through the haze of pain he knew his only hope was that, Fish Camp being remote, whoever she sent to eliminate Celeste and Nathan would take hours to reach Yosemite, and he would be dead or free by then. ‘I don’t know… street address. There were a cluster of rental properties… behind a grocery. They’re staying at one.’

She flipped open her phone, spoke softly into it, repeating what Miles had said. Giving him a property name to call. She closed the phone.

‘You better not be lying. I’ve got someone calling the rental office to check.’

Mistake. He hadn’t thought past the pain; their presence could be disproved with a couple of phone calls.

He might have only a couple of minutes before she got a call back telling her he’d lied. No margin for error. ‘I’m not. They slowed me down.’ He loosened the bandage on his leg.

‘Leave that alone, you’ll bleed. I want you conscious.’

‘It hurts.’ He stripped the whole bandage loose and grimaced at the bullet hole in his leg as though it were a picture in a book, not a wound in his own flesh. Blood oozed out. He held the strip of cloth between his hands.

‘I said leave it alone.’

‘You shouldn’t have killed Groote.’ He had to play her along, get her to come close to him, get her thinking there was another threat to her that only he could help defuse. He collapsed on the floor, as though standing drained him of all energy.

‘I did the world a favor. Now. Who did Groote tell about Frost?’

‘FBI… old buddies of his,’ Miles lied. ‘Helped us find your buddy Singhal. Tracked him here.’

Fear briefly shaded her face. ‘I need names.’

He let his eyes go half closed, mumbled. Come close, he thought. Closer. I only get one chance.

She took two steps. And stopped. She might not believe him. But he’d put an itch under her skin. ‘Miles? The names.’

Just three steps closer. He tensed to jump at her.

Then he heard a boom, rumbling, as if a tank had crashed hard into the front of the building. The madhouse shuddered.

She turned and he leaped, grabbing at her gun. It fired, powering the bullet past his head, pinging off the stone wall. She kicked him hard on his wound, whirled and fled the room. Miles stumbled after her, agony screaming in his leg. She stopped at the top of the stairs; Miles saw they were on the top floor, no more stairs rising beyond this floor.

She ran down the stairs.

‘Allison! Allison!’ he yelled.

And then he heard an answer, over the clatter of her feet on the stairs: ‘Miles?’

Nathan.

‘Nathan, get the hell out, call the police, Allison’s got a gun-’

And then the awful, final crack of two bullets. Miles limped down the stairs, half falling, half running, the pain in his leg terrible, but frantic for Nathan.

In the foyer the smashed front of a sedan lay among the remains of the front door, debris and dust crowning the h o o d and the starred windshield. The driver’s door was open; the car empty.

Nathan was gone.

Miles heard footsteps and spun. Allison ran back into the foyer, clutching the laptop from the office he and Groote had passed, the gun aimed at him.

‘Allison.’

She stopped, steadied her aim, took a step back.

‘You can’t run. You can’t just keep… running. Doesn’t work.’