Joseph Finder - Power Play

I turned to look at Ali, but all at once the lights went out, and we were plunged into darkness.

A shaft of sunlight neatly bisected the office of the Assistant Clinical Director of the Glenview Residential Center, Dr. Jerome Marcus. Dust motes hung suspended in the air. The room was surprisingly small, not much larger than a broom closet, choked with stacks of paper. Something in Dr. Marcus's face hinted at a secret resentment that a man so important would occupy an office so small. The corners of his small oak desk-a child's desk, I thought-were splintered.

"This is highly unusual," he said. He had a gentle voice, a kindly expression. "It's not the standard grievance procedure."

I nodded, swallowed, told him about Pee Wee Farrentino.

Dr. Marcus was a tall, round-shouldered man with a large, prominent forehead, neatly parted gray hair, rimless glasses that sometimes seemed to disappear. His blue button-down shirt was heavily starched and perfectly pressed.

He listened with growing dismay, fingers steepled. He asked me a lot of questions, took notes for a report. He said it was an outrage, that behavior like that must never be tolerated.

As he spoke, I examined the books on the shelf behind him. Titles like Encyclopedia of Criminology and Deviant Behavior and Encyclopedia of Crime and Justice and the Physician's Desk Reference. Thin blue loose-leaf binders whose browned labels curled out from their spines.

The bad wolf was urging me to go after Glover, choke the life out of him. The good wolf kept reminding me that if I did, I'd be sent to the hole for months on end. Or worse: Though I couldn't imagine what could be worse.

"You've done a brave thing," he said. He thanked me for coming to see him. His bottom lip, I noticed, was chapped.

Late that night the door to my room opened, and Glover and two other guards came in with batons.

"I know what you're doing to Pee Wee," I said.

"Don't leave any marks," Glover told the others.

Where's the manager?" Russell called out.

"Over here." A voice from the other side of the fireplace.

The clear night sky was filled with stars, and the moon was full. The room was bathed in pale gray-blue light. My eyes quickly adjusted. Russell went to the other side of the fireplace.

"What the hell's wrong with your power?"

"I don't-I don't know," the manager said. "Must be the generator."

"Well, who does know? Who fixes stuff around here?"

"Peter Daut," the manager said. "He's my handyman."

"All right, Peter Daut," Russell said. "Identify yourself."

"Right here." A muffled voice.

"What's the problem?"

More muffled voices. The handyman seemed to be talking to the manager, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. Then I heard the manager say, "Yes, Peter, please."

"You want to cooperate, Peter," Russell said. "No power means the satellite modem won't work, which means I don't get what I want. Which means I start eliminating hostages one by one until I do."

"The generator blew."

Peter the handyman, I assumed.

"Water in the fuel filter. Happens a lot. The diesel's always absorbing water out here, and I can't drain the tanks, so I just keep changing out the filters. I was gonna do that in the middle of the night tonight, because I have to shut down the generator engines while I-"

"Where's the remote start switch?" Russell said. "I know there's one inside here."

"That won't do it," the handyman replied. "The fuel filter needs to be changed, out at the shed."

"Wayne?" Russell said.

From the far side of the room came Wayne's high-pitched voice. "Yo, Russell."

"Please take this gentleman outside so he can fix the generator."

While Wayne lumbered over, Russell returned to our group. "Ronald, you're my first interview. Come with me, please."

Slattery struggled to his feet. With his hands tied, it wasn't easy. "Would you mind if I use the restroom first?" he asked.

"When Upton gets back. One at a time. Okay, Travis, Ronald and I are going to have a talk in the screened porch down at that end." He pointed in the direction of the dining table. "Keep a watch on our guests, please."

In the shadows I could make out Travis striding along the periphery of the room, a compact stainless-steel pistol at his side. He'd removed his long-sleeved camouflage shirt and wore only a sleeveless white tee. But his arms were so densely tattooed, mottled and greenish, that at first it looked like he was still wearing camouflage. At the back of his arm, by his elbow, was a tattoo of a spiderweb: another prison tattoo.

"Nice job, Kevin," Ali whispered to Bross. "That was a great bluff. Really genius."

"I didn't see anyone get killed, did you?" Bross said. "He didn't take out his gun. I tried, and it didn't work-big deal. I'm still here."

"You don't get it, do you? Not only did you get the ransom jacked up, but now we're totally screwed. He's going to question everyone separately, and we didn't even get a chance to talk to Danziger and Grogan."

"Go ahead," he said. "Why don't you just walk over there and tell them yourself?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Ali said. "Have me get shot? And what was your big strategy? That line of crap you gave Russell, which he saw right through? Didn't you listen to a word Jake said? We all agreed to tell him we don't have the account numbers."

"Hey, I didn't agree to anything," Bross said. "And we all know why you're defending this loser."

"Because he obviously knows what he's doing. And you don't."

"The only thing that's obvious is that you two used to sleep together."

Ali was silent for a few seconds. I didn't have to see her face to know it was flushed-with embarrassment or with anger or both.

"I don't think you want be too high-and-mighty about office romances, Kevin," she said, biting off the words. "Or should we ask-"

"Ali," I said.

"Landry?"

"Never let an asshole rent space in your head. The guy's not worth your time. We've got to get to Grogan and Danziger now. Before Russell does."

Bross made a pffft sound. "Who's going to do that, you?" he said.

I didn't answer.

I watched Travis, trying to get a fix on his rhythm. I was beginning to think that he hadn't just done prison time; the way he walked convinced me that he'd also served in the military, maybe the Army or the National Guard. He had that soldierly cadence. He'd been broken in by a drill sergeant and done long tedious hours on night patrol.

He was also taking his job seriously. Any of the other hostage-takers would probably have sat in a chair, watching us. But maybe that was a good thing. It meant his back would be turned toward me for at least sixty seconds at a stretch. Given how dark it was in here, Travis could hardly see us: a great stroke of luck. But he'd surely hear and sense any sudden movement.

And for the moment he was the only guard in the room. Wayne was outside with the handyman, would probably be for a good while, until the power was up and running again. Verne had just gone outside for a smoke-and a toke, or a snort-and might be back in a minute or two, even five, if I got lucky and he took his time. Buck would return from the bathroom with Upton Barlow at any minute, depending on how long it took for a middle-aged guy with prostate problems to empty his bladder. I had no idea how long Russell would spend with Slattery. Ten minutes? Half an hour?

So if I was going to get to Grogan and Danziger, it had to be done right away.

The funny thing was, I didn't think twice about doing something so insanely risky. I just did it.

Maybe it was all about the look in Ali's face at the moment she saw me start to move, a look I'd never seen before: part terror, part admiration.