Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

"Sounds like the description he gave of the 'student of philosophy,' " I murmur. "What else?"

"Stern appears to be alive and well. I alerted the Crisis Management Unit, they're going to get in touch with the Israeli authorities and put him under guard."

"I agree with your theory about AD Jones--but why Stern? Why'd he get to live?"

James shrugs. "It could be purely geographic. Too far away, so get to him last."

"Maybe." I chew on my lower lip. "You know," I say, "there's another avenue we haven't even looked at."

"What's that?"

" 'Mr. You Know Who.' The guy Vargas mentioned in his video clip. I'm assuming he's supposed to be the man-in-charge. Wouldn't he be a prime target for The Stranger?"

"We should leave that alone for now."

"Why?"

"Because it's a question that may never get answered. They didn't find him in 1979 with a task force. Why should we think that we'll find him today?"

"For one thing, we're not corrupt."

He shakes his head. "That's beside the point. Yes, I think he was tipped off back then, and yes, I believe someone protected him, or at least his interests. But I don't think it was a big conspiracy, not at the law-enforcement level. It's hard enough to corrupt a cop, no matter what the public at large thinks. It's even harder to get a cop, or an agent, to get into bed with a child trafficker. No. This was the work of one person on that task force, two at the most."

"Walker?"

"He's the likely suspect. The thing that bothers me, though, is the fact that the whole network just seemed to disappear. It's as if it rolled itself up overnight. No more kids with scars on their feet. That bothers me."

"Why? The bad guys were being cautious."

"No. Cautious is what they were already doing. Having someone on the inside. Cautious would be finding a new pipeline and a new market. Closing shop altogether? Criminals get smarter, they don't just give up on their business."

"That's not our concern. For all we know, they never stopped. Maybe they just got smarter, or moved their business elsewhere. Hell, sexual tourism has been growing for years--maybe they set up shop in their home country and got rid of the risk altogether."

James shrugs, but I know this doesn't satisfy him. He's a puzzlesolver. He doesn't like unanswered questions, whether they're relevant to our investigation or not.

"He's not a sibling, you know," James says.

The Stranger, he means.

"I know. It's all too personal for that. He experienced something bad, he didn't just observe it happening to a relative."

"Something still bothers me about the diary, as well," he says. I study him. "Any insight?"

"Not yet."

My cell rings.

"We have a written statement from Cathy Jones," Callie tells me.

"We're on our way back."

"Great work, Callie."

She sniffs. "Did you expect any less?"

I smile. "Bring it to me and then we're going to shoot it straight to Ellen."

"We'll see you in twenty minutes."

A rush of adrenaline shoots through me, strong and sudden. It leaves me feeling energized and a little bit shaky, as though everything is outlined in a bright nimbus of light.

Here it is, I realize.

"We're going to be getting our subpoena," I tell James.

"Remember what we talked about."

"I haven't forgotten."

I know what James is saying. Examine every conclusion. We're still walking on the path he laid for us.

49

EVERYONE IS GOING. ALAN, CALLIE, JAMES, ME. WE HAVE THEsubpoena and we're on our way to see Gibbs.

There's an excitement, a kind of electricity in the air. We've been forced, to a great degree, to sit back and suck it up. The whole story, mile after mile of it, a horror show. We've watched Sarah and others suffer in our mind's eye.

Now we could be an hour away from finding out who he is. It doesn't matter, at this moment, that he's led us here. We want to see his face.

We exit the elevator into the lobby and I see Tommy standing at reception, a phone in his hand. He sees me and waves.

"Give me a sec," I tell the others.

"Hurry up," James retorts.

"Hey," Tommy says as I approach. "I wanted to make sure you got hooked up with Kirby. Find out if that worked."

I grin at him. "She's interesting for sure. I--"

I hear a clicking metallic sound that I can't place. I want to dismiss it but something starts shouting inside my head and tells me I'd better not, better not, better not--

I turn, alarmed, and my eyes find a grim-looking, hard-faced Hispanic man standing just inside the lobby. He looks at me, I'm sure he sees me, he turns away--

"Tommy," I murmur, my hand going toward my gun.

No questions, Tommy's way, he just follows my line of sight and his hand moves toward the inside of his jacket.

What's that?

The hard-faced man throws his hands out before him, and they open, and two things tumble through the air. They are arcing, two perfect lobs--

"Fuck!" Tommy screams.

Tommy is pushing me back, shoving me away, and I'm falling backward, and I realize what's happening in a flash like a rifle-crack.

"Grenades!" I scream, too late.

The explosion inside the lobby area is huge and deafening. I feel a shock wave and heat and something grazes my face and then the air is sucked away, just for a moment, and I'm falling, feeling my head crack against the marble floor and everything goes very, very gray . . .

The puffy clouds in my head are replaced by the smell of smoke and the sound of gunfire.

Automatic weapon, I think, fuzzy.

I come back to myself in a flash, instantly alert. I'm lying on my back. I struggle to a sitting position, and then scrabble to the left, frantic, as something whines off the marble next to me. God, my head hurts.

My ears are ringing. I look around, see Callie behind a marble pillar, her face smudged and grim as she fires her weapon. I see James struggling to get up, blood running down his face. Alan starts yelling at him.

"Stay down, you moron!"

The automatic keeps firing, not letting up, spraying the lobby with bullets.

The hard-faced man means business, yes indeed, I think, and almost giggle, except that I don't because that'd just be crazy. Gotta clear my head . . .

I hear the return roar of handguns and pull my own, wobblybobbly, operating on instinct. My gun slips into my palm and whispers to me in tones of hushed joy, ready.

I'm in the hallway where Tommy pushed me, and then I remember and then (Oh God Oh Shit Oh Fuck) terror thrills through me and I search for him, look for the bloody body that I'm sure, that I'm afraid, that I don't want--

"Over here," Tommy whispers.

I whip around. Somehow, someway (Thank God Thank God Thank God) he's behind me. He's sitting with his back to the wall. His face is gray. He's bleeding from the shoulder.

"You're hit," I cry.

"No kidding," he mutters, trying to smile. "Hurts too. But I'm good. Shrapnel in the shoulder, no vital organs hit. Bleeding's under control."

I stare at him, trying to take this in.

"I'm okay, Smoky. Go kill that idiot, will you?"

Yes, let's, my gun whispers, and this time I snarl back, filled with a clarity of purpose.

I just need to see him. If I can see him, I won't miss. I move forward, staying down, my weapon at the ready. The gunfire from the auto continues, an insanity of lead and steel. I can smell the metal, and it cracks and whines and ricochets off every surface.

"Callie!" I yell.

She looks over at me and I point at my eyes.

How many?

She holds up a single finger.

One.

I nod and indicate that I want her and Alan to provide covering fire. She nods back and I watch as she conveys the plan to Alan. James has managed to move behind the pillar where Callie is. Blood flows from a cut on his forehead. He looks dazed and out of it. Callie gives me a thumbs-up.