Greg Iles - Dead Sleep

White light spears my retinas, but I endure the pain. I don’t want the dark. Anything but that.

“Jordan? Wake up.”

A shadow floats over my eyes, shielding them. A hand. After a moment, the hand pulls back and a face leans in.

John’s face. It’s creased with worry, and his eyes are red with fatigue.

“Do you know me?” he asks.

“Agent Kaiser. Right?”

The worry doesn’t leave his face.

“I told you, John, I’m not a china vase.”

“Thank God.”

“Wheaton?”

John shakes his head. “He ran screaming into the hall when you were down. He had a gun. It was turned around in his hand, like a club. I shouted for SWAT not to fire, but by then someone had. He was killed instantly.”

“CK,” I whisper.

“What?”

“Clean kill.”

“Oh.”

Turning my head, I see that I’m lying on a table in what looks like an ER treatment room. There’s an IV running into my arm. I have to fight the urge to rip it out.

“Where are we?”

“Charity Hospital. Your blood sugar’s back to normal. The doctors say you’re dehydrated, but they’re fixing that now. Their main worry was your brain.”

“That’s always been my worry, too.”

“Jordan.”

“I feel like I have a bad hangover. That’s all, really.”

“Physically. But what about inside?”

Inside. I pick at the bandage over the wrist where Wheaton’s IV was. “A couple of times this past week, I got my hopes up for Jane. But deep down I knew she was gone. But Thalia… After Hoffman died in the river, I thought we might find her alive and all right. Waiting for the ax, you know?”

John’s eyes are steady but somber. “She was probably in that coma within an hour or two after being taken. Once she evaded surveillance and Hoffman got her, there was nothing we could have done.”

I nod. “Where was I?”

“Four blocks from Wheaton’s house on Audubon Place. Five blocks from St. Charles Avenue. One block from Tulane.”

“Jesus, they had some nerve. What’s happening there now?”

He gives me a hard look. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“They’ve taken two corpses from shallow graves under a crawl space.”

“Jane’s?”

“No IDs yet. We’re in the process of gathering all the victims’ families at a hotel. We’re going to proceed very slowly on the exhumations. We don’t want any mistakes.”

“I understand. Wheaton told me the New York victims are buried in a clearing on the family farm in Vermont.”

John nods as though not surprised. “We’re already working on paperwork up there. That farm is mostly a commercial district now. Big deal to start poking random holes in search of bodies.”

“I don’t want to stay here tonight.”

“The doctors want to keep you.”

“I don’t care. You’re the FBI. Do something about it.”

He takes a deep breath, then lays his hand on my arm. “Listen, there’s something you’re going to want to know.”

“What?” I ask, my throat tight with fear.

“We just got a message from Marcel de Becque.”

“What?”

“An invitation, really.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wants to talk to you. In person.”

“De Becque’s here? In the U.S.?”

“No. He wants to see you at his house. In the Caymans. He says he’ll send his jet if you need it.”

“Do I need it?”

“No. There are still serious questions in this case, and only de Becque can answer them now. Baxter says we can take the Bureau jet. ”

“When?”

“When you’re strong enough.”

“For a two-hour flight? Tell them to get the plane ready. And go handle the doctors. I don’t want to deal with that.”

John looks at me like a parent who knows his child will not take no for an answer. Then he squeezes my shoulder, bends, and kisses me on the forehead.

“I guess we’re taking a trip.”

Grand Cayman lies like an emerald on the Caribbean, smooth and flat after the mountains of Cuba. Our pilot lands the Lear at the airport near Georgetown, but this time there’s no pair of escorts waiting with a Range Rover. At the FBI Director’s request, the governor of the islands has provided state transportation, a black limousine flying the Caymanian flag from its fenders. Our native driver speaks with a crisp British accent, and he loses no time shepherding us to de Becque’s colonial estate on North Bay.

The door is answered by Li, who stands with the same self-possession I noticed the first time we were here.

“Mademoiselle,” she says with a slight inclination of her head. “Monsieur. This way, please.”

This time there will be no body search. John is carrying two service pistols, and the governor knows it. De Becque knows it too, and he’s made no objection.

Li leads us to the great hall at the back of the mansion, where the massive window looks out onto the harbor. Just as before, the tanned, silver-haired French expatriate stands framed in the lower corner of his window, staring out to sea like a man with an unquenchable yearning.

“Mademoiselle Glass,” Li announces, and then she backs soundlessly down the hall.

De Becque turns and nods with courtly grace. “I’m glad you came, cherie. I’m sorry to bring you so far, but alas, my legal situation does not allow me to travel to you.” He takes a step toward us, then hesitates. “I have things to tell you that you must know. For my sake, and for yours.” He motions us deeper into the room. “S’il vous plait – come in. Please.”

John and I walk over to the sofa we sat on less than a week ago and sit side by side. De Becque remains standing. He seems ill at ease, and he paces as he speaks.

“First, the matter of the Sleeping Women. I want to assure you that I never knew the identity of the painter, or of his associate. I did know Christopher Wingate, the art dealer, and it’s him that what I have to say concerns. As you know, I bought the first five Sleeping Women he offered for sale. The sixth painting was also promised to me, and I paid a deposit on it. Then Wingate ‘stiffed’ me, as they say. He sold the painting to Hodai Takagi, a Japanese collector, though he knew I would match any price Takagi paid.”

“Why would he do that?” I ask.

“To open new markets,” John replies. “Right?”

“Quite so,” says de Becque. “It’s a business, after all. But this painting had been promised to me, and I was angry. I’m not a man to brood over an injustice. I’m not what the psychiatrists call ‘passive’ – I’m sorry, what is the term?”

“Passive aggressive?” I suggest.

“Oui. I happened to know that Wingate was heavily invested in a development project in the Virgin Islands. I made a few phone calls, and very shortly, Monsieur Wingate discovered he had made a very bad investment. His principal was wiped out. Am I boring you, Agent Kaiser?”

“I’m riveted, actually.”

The Frenchman nods, his sea-blue eyes flickering. “Wingate was infuriated by what I had done, and he sought revenge. Now, you should be aware that Wingate had visited my estate here on three previous occasions. I’d entertained him over a period of days. He learned a bit about my life. He sat in this room. He saw many of my things, among them certain photographs.” De Becque waves his hand toward the wall where his collection of Vietnam photos hangs. “You have seen these photos. Some, anyway.”

He walks over to the wall and takes down two black-and-white photos, then comes back to us, studying the pictures all the way. “These were not hanging here during your last visit. Perhaps you’d like to see them?”