Chapter Thirteen – In the Crosshairs
Lyle looked up from his paperwork when Phil stepped into the office after a single knock. "Are they gone yet?"
"Finally." Phil's sour voice demonstrated his frustration. "We let them look all over the place – everywhere reasonable, that is – and they've finally left."
"And…"
"And the gas is going into the sublevel ventilation system as we speak," the sweeper finished the sentence for his boss. "I had the environmental engineers isolate the Tower ventilation system from that of the underground complex first, though – I figured YOU'D just as soon not wear a gas mask…"
"Just find me that creeping idiot Angelo," Lyle looked back down at the contracts he'd been working on. "Any word from Utah?"
"Nothing."
"Shit." Lyle threw down his pen and stalked over to the window, not for the first time that day. "They did send out their best…"
"That's what I told 'em to do, sir," Phil nodded firmly. "I'm told Al Douglas is one of the best in the whole organization…"
"No, Sam is the best in the whole organization, now that Willy's dead," Lyle told his sweeper frankly, "with you coming in fourth or fifth in line, if memory serves. And Sam is not only still out there, but probably close to being on the job – Broots too."
"A lot of good that will do either of them with Miss Parker and Sydney pushing up daisies," Phil stated and flashed a toothy grin.
"We hope." Lyle knew better than to count his chickens yet. His sister had escaped far too many of his traps already to be counted out yet. "How's our Triumvirate watchdog doing?"
"Keeping busy with some of the oversight reports at the moment," Phil announced, this time with a more sincere grin. "You know, the THICK ones…" He gestured to illustrate his point.
Lyle ducked his head to hide the smirk. "Good. Let me know the minute we either have Angelo in custody or we hear from Utah, understood?"
"Yes, sir!"
"You're dismissed, then." Lyle waited until Phil had left the office and the doors were closed again before seating himself back behind the massive desk and plunking his chin in his fist.
Now that the FBI issue had been handled – at least, temporarily – there really was no reason for him to be hanging around the Centre. He glanced down at the research contracts and then pushed them away in a fit of bored frustration. He hadn't worked this hard and this long to sit here by the hour studying contract terms. There were meetings with governmental officials to arrange – contacts that Mr. Raines had left untouched while he wasted good money and valuable time trying to reconstitute the Pretender Project and/or start a new one. There were military projects that had been put on hold due to lack of funding when money earmarked for them had been sidetracked into investigative channels. So much of what was wrong with this place had been the result of mismanagement.
That would change, he decided as he tucked the contract back into its manila folder and tossed it back into his In box. Tomorrow. Today, there was a victory ritual meal to be prepared and eaten, and a good night's sleep to enjoy – to recharge his batteries completely. After all, he hadn't really gotten very much sleep the night before…
Erin – his mind both shied away from her and yet found her irresistible. She was dangerous – she was poison to him. And yet, he couldn't help but smile as the memory of her hands smoothing down his chest, her kisses opening beneath his, her body accepting and demanding more of his, made his heart beat just a little faster. She was an addiction, he realized – one from which he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be cured.
What had she thought when she awakened to find him gone – without a note or a flower or a single word? Had he burned his bridges with her – would she even speak to him again? Did he really want to know?
He glanced at the telephone on his desk and knew that he had her cell phone number on a slip of paper in his wallet. It would be so easy to just reach out and see if he'd ruined everything by walking away without a goodbye, without saying he was sorry, without even a word of insincere fondness…
It wouldn't have been insincere, Lyle chided himself. She was a beautiful young woman and he genuinely liked her – found her to be intelligent and funny and great fun to spend time with. He closed his eyes and for a brief moment let himself daydream about calling her again – asking her out on another date, and maybe even ending up in her apartment again for a nightcap that would result in another night in her arms. He could learn to live a double life – Chairman of the Centre by day, ordinary man in love with a pretty woman in the evening…
No! He shook himself and dragged his briefcase up to his desk. He couldn't afford the luxury of soft feelings anymore. He was the Chairman of the Centre – he'd damned well better learn to act like one. Love and the like weren't for him. He had a destiny, and it didn't include either the time or the danger of continuing to see a pretty blonde university student from Baltimore.
He had a meal to prepare. THAT was his destiny.
oOoOo
Sam felt as if he was in a time distortion. He had a stethoscope draped around his neck and a set of headphones and a microphone that allowed him to radio his readings of vitals from the three crash survivors in front of him to the hospital emergency physician. Had it not been so blasted cold outside, he could have believed himself back in Kuwait – or if one of the people laid out in rescue stokes wasn't a pretty brunette with storm-grey eyes and a reputation of ice and steel, that is.
The three baskets were strapped head to foot along the back wall of the helicopter, and he kept up a continual narrative with the hospital on Natalie's, George's and Miss Parker's condition. Natalie was not so seriously injured – she had a broken arm and seemed to have more of a case of emotional shock than anything else. It was George and Miss Parker who were Sam's chief concerns. Both were running fevers which seemed to be steadily climbing – both had wounds that more than likely had turned into raging infections. Both would no doubt need surgery to repair the damage and clean the wounds so that they could finally begin to heal.
No doubt, those who had been left behind at the ranger's station had by now been apprised of the news of survivors and what was going to be done with them. That meant that the second sweeper – the one who was alleged to have no scruples at all – would be hurrying back down the mountain roads to the hospital as quickly as possible, so as to take care of anything his partner had 'missed' up on the mountain.
Sam had no illusions. Hospitals were dangerously insecure places by definition. All it would take would be a lab coat, latex gloves and a little imagination to make a sweeper into a highly effective assassin – he really didn't like to think how many times his job had been to do something very similar. There would be no resting for him now until he'd taken care of that persistent sweeper himself – and until that time, he'd be sticking to Miss Parker's side like glue.
He moved so that he could feel the comforting bulk of his sidearm resting just below his armpit. With any luck, it wouldn't come down to that – but he wasn't holding his breath. The sweeper up on the mountain was right – sweepers were trained never to question their orders, no matter where they came from. That he'd met up with the one sweeper with a conscience had been serendipity – he wasn't going to count on being given any quarter from the man he'd be protecting Miss Parker from now.
A glance downward told him that she'd opened her eyes again and was looking at him with some measure of lucidity again. "We're taking you to the hospital," he told her and watched the information actually penetrate. "Just hang on a bit more – and you'll get the help you need."
The grey eyes closed again, and the entire face relaxed. Sam moved quickly to check on George and found his second patient unconscious; and a quick check with an aural thermometer in the ear reported that his temperature had climbed another two tenths of a degree. There was very little he could do for the man with the equipment and supplies he had at hand, and keeping him warm in the chilly chopper interior was essential. A severe chill now could lead to even worse complications later.
Sam looked forward through the door in the bulkhead and the chopper's windshield beyond to see that they were already flying over rooftops. They were in the city. Soon, he nodded to himself. Soon.
oOoOo
Ethan stared down into the face of the man his half-brother still considered a father-figure and found himself wondering what it would have been like had he had a Sydney of his own to watch over him. Jarod's emotions regarding this man were about as convoluted as any he'd ever known – an almost toxic combination of respect, hatred, worship, disdain, love and bitterness that seemed doomed to never be resolved. Jarod had never been able to connect with his real father the way he had always been able to connect with this man – and didn't dare try to connect with Sydney the way he truly wanted to for fear of being rejected yet again.
And now, Sydney was injured badly. Ethan had watched Sam work over the old man briefly, and knew how worried the sweeper had been for his colleague. The lump on the old man's temple was huge and angry-looking – a concussion was probably the least of the man's injuries. Whatever else could be wrong with him that had resulted in this persistent unconsciousness had to be pretty serious. Even Parker had expressed worry about him.
That was right. His sister was close to Sydney too – he knew that. During one of their very few private talks, Sydney's name had come up in passing – and the emotions that had been broadcast in the mere act of saying his name at the time were mixed, although nowhere near as conflicted as his half-brother's. She was openly fond of him in her own way, and yet had had occasion to learn to distrust him. Like Jarod, she'd had this man in her life for decades – he could only speculate as to how Sydney felt about either of his siblings.
"Give us a hand, Russell," Vince yelled as the second rescue chopper hovered overhead and the backwash from the rotors threatened to drown all voices out completely. Ethan nodded and helped move Sydney's stokes over to where the winch line would be uncompromised, and then stood back as Vince and another manipulated the steel cable so that it was firmly attached to the lifting straps. Vince lifted his face and gave a jerking thumb upwards sign for the winch to being lifting, and Sydney's basket began to rise.
Next would be the basket with the little girl in it – a child who looked positively terrified at the prospect facing her. Ethan bent over her. "It's really very safe," he tried to reassure her. "And I'll be up there with you after just a little bit. Can you trust me?"
Deep blue eyes just stared at him. Ethan wondered if the girl really comprehended everything that had gone on around her – or the shock of being left all alone among strangers in the middle of such terror. Briefly he hoped that Sydney recovered to the point that he'd be able to do some counseling for the little girl before the trauma destroyed her utterly.
Bennings would be the last to go before they sent down the boson's chair for him. It had taken Vince and Ethan and another rescuer to finally convince the man that he would be best removed from the crash site in a rescue stokes, and still more effort to get him to stay still long enough to get wrapped up in the thermal blanket and strapped securely in place. The man seemed determined to look out over the grisly desolation of the debris field as if hoping that the rescuers would come up with another survivor from somewhere. The pair that had been sent down the mountain to try to find the tail section had yet to report in, for that matter.
Ethan took one of the dangling guide ropes and, partnered with a rescuer named Eames, made sure that the basket didn't spin out of control or sway back and forth wildly as it was drawn inexorably up to the wide-open door of the hovering chopper. The airman would then first disengage the guide ropes to be attached to the next basket, and then disconnect the winch cable so it could be sent down once more.
When at last the final basket was safely aboard the chopper, Vince helped Ethan settle himself into the boson's chair and then held the guide rope until Ethan lifted his arms and was swung into the belly of the chopper, whereupon the rescue leader gave a call to rally the remaining men to the grim task of going through the wreckage inch by inch.
Ethan found himself handed a stethoscope, an aural thermometer, a clipboard with a tethered pencil and then informed that the headphones and microphone set hanging on the side of the chopper wall linked him directly to the hospital that was awaiting their arrival. He nodded and bent immediately to gathering vital information to relay to the hospital so that they could adequately prepare for this second wave of victims.
He'd be glad when he got to the hospital, and could have Sam at his back protecting both Parker and Sydney against whoever was still threatening them. The danger wasn't gone yet – far from it.
oOoOo
"I'm surprised nobody's ever tried to put these together," Detective Bill Lowe shook his head over the assorted file folders scattered across the table in an interview room that had been co-opted for a new purpose. A white board was set up at one end of the room, upon which hung the pictures of seven Asian women that had been murdered in one Atlantic seaboard state after another over the past three years. Beneath each picture of a smiling face was a date and another picture, far less amenable, of the condition in which each body had been discovered eventually.
It had taken the better part of a day to get the files faxed from the various cities and townships on the women – but less than an hour of cross-referencing and comparing the investigators' notes to begin to see the real similarities between the crimes. All the women had been repeatedly raped and then strangled. Each bore the handprint of a man missing a thumb. And each woman had had a significant portion of a muscular part of her body sliced away, never to be found.
Detective Stan Bridges pinched his nose between his eyes. "I think they all have," he replied tiredly – they'd been staring at the notes from the interviews with the friends and roommate of the latest victim for another two hours. "I just think we got lucky and got a few more details that they did about the perp."
Lowe rose from his seat, stretched out an aching back, and walked over to a second white board that had been brought in just a few minutes ago. In the center of it, he drew an oval. "OK," he sighed. "What do we know about this bastard besides…" he began writing, "…he's missing a vital appendage?"
"Dark hair, blue eyes," Bridges picked up his notebook and began to read. "Businessman from out of state – perhaps Delaware. Currently sporting a black eye." He dropped the notebook on the well-populated table. "How the hell are we going to find a businessman with a black eye and missing a thumb this far away from someplace that isn't even in our jurisdiction?"
"I dunno…" Lowe offered with wide-spread hands as he walked back to his seat and slumped, "get in touch with various Chambers of Commerce and see if any of their members are missing a thumb?"
Bridges just shook his head. "There's gotta be something…" He sorted through the scattered papers and notebooks until he found the one he wanted. "What about this girl – Erin Patterson? She said that she thought she might have been dating the same guy…"
"It's possible," Lowe stared at the white board and the collection of pictures. "The Patterson girl is a nice Aryan blonde – all of these ladies come from points Far East."
"I'm saying that we should talk to her again," Bridges said, tucking his pen in his shirt pocket. "If the guy she was seeing gets in touch with her, we need to BE there so we can tail him, find out who he is and investigate him." He reached behind him for his overcoat. "You have her address, in case she's not at her work?"
Lowe picked up his notebook from that morning. "I do now. Let's go – at this point we have nothing to lose," Lowe replied and reached for his jacket as he rose from the chair. It was getting late in the afternoon, and he could hope that he could go home after interviewing the Patterson woman again. Besides, the weather had turned downright chilly lately, and he didn't need to catch a cold.
No sirree. What he needed to catch was a serial killer. The cold could wait.
oOoOo
Broots rose from his chair and walked over to finger the curtains aside and look out over the parking lot of the motel once more. It had been an extremely long day, and with no word from either Sam or Ethan, it was growing longer still. Jarod had been so sure that Miss Parker was alive – that Ethan's 'voices' couldn't be wrong – that Broots had allowed himself to buy into that.
But what if she was gone – what if they both were dead? Broots glanced back into the room to where Debbie sat staring at the television screen. Miss Parker's death would be a hard blow to his daughter. The two of them had grown close over the years, and he knew that Debbie had in many ways transferred the affection she'd once felt for her mother to Miss Parker. Hell, if Miss Parker were gone, it would be a blow to him too.
No, he couldn't let himself think about such things. They had to be OK…
When his cell phone began its chirping, it nearly made him jump out of his skin – and even Debbie started badly. Broots rushed back to where he'd set up the laptop and snatched the little device to his ear. "What?"
"Only Miss Parker is supposed to answer like that," Sam announced in a very tired voice.
"Sam!" Broots breathed, and Debbie was up immediately and coming over to join her father. "Have you… did you…"
"We found them – and they're both alive," Sam broke the news without any preamble whatsoever – exactly the way he'd want to receive the news himself. "I flew into the hospital with Miss Parker, Ethan should be coming in behind me with Sydney in just a few minutes. They're hurt – maybe badly – but they're alive."
"What about that danger?" Broots demanded. "Was Ethan wrong?"
"Nope. There was a pair of sweepers at the ranger station, and one managed to get onto the rescue team."
Broots' eyes got big. "Did you have to…"
"Not yet. The one who ended up on the mountain said that the termination orders were unusual – no code name for the person ordering the hit, and no paperwork whatsoever. He was easy to talk into standing down. The fellow left behind, however, may end up being a different story. I don't know yet."
"Where are you?"
"At the Ogden hospital. They just took Miss Parker into surgery before I called you – she's not doing so good right now." Sam didn't like to think of the mess that the doctors had uncovered when they'd cut the bandages away from her shoulder. "I'll call back when I know more."
"OK…" Broots nodded in relief at Debbie, who ran her hands over her hair in utter relief and smiled a shaky smile. "You take care." He disconnected the call. "He says she's pretty badly hurt, but she's alive."
The cell phone had no more been put back down on the table next to the laptop when it began to chirp again. Feeling a little more himself, Broots picked it up and answered, "Hello?"
"Mr. Broots – is there any word?" It was Jarod – and there were the sounds of many people in the background.
"Sam just called – they're both still alive and heading to the Ogden hospital," Broots repeated the news. "The Centre sent two sweepers to take care of them – but Sam got one of them to stand down."
"Where's Ethan? Did he find you?"
"He went with Sam – and Sam said that he was with Sydney."
"They're both alive." Jarod's voice grew soft, as if he was trying to process something he'd only barely allowed himself to dream. "Danger's past, I take it."
"Not entirely." Broots' voice grew grim. "One sweeper backed down, but the other hasn't yet. Sam wasn't giving me many details…"
"I doubt he needs to," Jarod stated darkly. "I'm on my way to rent a car and drive up to Ogden myself. Where are you?"
Broots gave Jarod directions to the motel and then disconnected to stare at his daughter. "He's coming."
"Jarod?" She straightened and turned to look at him. "Isn't the Centre still looking for him?"
"The Centre doesn't know he's involved – him OR Ethan. And I'll bet that Sam isn't in the mood to haul him in to Mr. Lyle."
"He's coming here, though?"
Broots shrugged. "I'm not sure. He'll probably head to the hospital first." It was what HE'D do, if he were in Jarod's shoes… If it weren't for the sweeper attempting to swoop in on Miss Parker and Sydney – and probably all of THEM, if they knew what they looked like – the hospital would be where HE'D be heading right now too.
oOoOo
Erin hung up her apron with a sigh of relief. This had quite possibly been the most difficult day in her life – and even repeated glowers from her boss at the register hadn't been able to entirely convince her to paste on a happy face. Veronica had finally had a word with him, and he'd eased up a bit – but Erin was still glad when her shift was finished.
The only problem was, she wasn't entirely keen on the idea of going home. Going home would mean that she'd come face to face with the memories of what had happened the night before – memories that, until her talk with the policemen earlier, she'd hoped to keep reliving. Now the mere thought of what had happened last night was enough to send her stomach into knots again. She didn't exactly know what she was going to do.
One thing she did know was that the two men who were walking toward her down the sidewalk were the last people she really wanted to see. "Miss Patterson," Detective Lowe waved at her. "Could we have a word with you, please?"
"I'm really tired," she complained, settling her purse a little higher on her shoulder. "Can't this wait…"
"We really don't think so," Stan Bridges shook his head. "Is there someplace where we can go to speak a little more privately?"
Erin thought about leading the policemen back into the coffee deli and then discarded the idea entirely. "There's McDonald's across the street," she suggested, her voice echoing her reluctance.
The three waited in silence for the traffic light to turn and then walked briskly across the busy street and into the fast food establishment. "Over there," Lowe pointed out a table with one chair and benches; and while he escorted Erin, Bridges went up to the counter and ordered three soft drinks. He handed Erin hers and let her sip on the bubbly drink a bit to get her balance again.
"So," Erin finally raised her head from her soda and looked across the table at the policemen, "what is it you wanted to talk to me about?"
"We were wondering if you'd be willing to let us tap your phone line, in case your boyfriend calls back," Lowe dove ahead, figuring it was better to get the request out in the open right away. "And if he wants you to meet him, if you'd be willing to wear a wire…"
"Is he really a suspect?" Erin looked back and forth from one serious and earnest face to the other.
"At the moment, frankly, yes," Bridges answered bluntly. "That doesn't mean he did it – it just means that given the evidence at hand, we're looking at him seriously. If nothing else, anything that happens as the result of your cooperation could do no less than clear him, you know…"
"You want to bug my phone line – why?"
"Because we need an ID on the guy – or at least on your boyfriend. We're reaching out of our jurisdiction here a little, but until we can do the legwork that will either clear or connect your friend to Miss Fu…" Lowe shrugged. "If the guy's clean, don't you want to be sure?"
Erin's eyes narrowed. "Look, I've been around law enforcement a good part of my life – I know that this is going to be a high-profile case, and that you two will be under a lot of pressure to nail someone for it. How do I know that you two aren't just going to railroad the first guy who even breathes wrong?"
Bridges and Lowe glanced at each other and then back at the young woman. "You're right, this is going to be high-profile," Lowe admitted, "but not for the reasons you think. Cherry Fu was only the latest in a long line of rape-murders that all wear the same 'signature' injuries. The man we're looking for is a serial rapist and a serial killer, Miss Patterson. The moment the press gets a hold of this, we're going to be under pressure – and there's a good chance that you'll get your share of publicity, being as how you were one of the last people to see Cherry alive."
Erin's eyes widened and she sat back in shock. "Now wait a minute!"
Bridges just leaned forward. "That's why we want you to cooperate with us, Miss Patterson. We want to nail the RIGHT guy – because if we don't, somebody else will die eventually. Your help will mean we can either exclude or focus in on someone who at least superficially matches the description of the man who registered the room where Miss Fu was raped and tortured and probably killed…"
"Tortured?" Erin blanched. "You hadn't said anything about…"
"That's something we're not releasing to the public," Lowe scowled at his partner, "and we'd appreciate it if you kept it under your hat. Bottom line: will you help us?"
"What did he do to her?" Erin's voice was small.
Bridges shook his head. "You really don't want to know. Trust me."
Erin's gaze darted back and forth between one face and the next, her stomach in even tighter knots now than it had been while considering whether to go home. "OK," she said finally, throwing her hands wide and away from her soda. "Do it. Whatever you want – tap my phone, tap my cell phone for that matter. I'll wear a wire."
The two police officers exchanged a glance of pure relief. "I can't tell you how…" Lowe started.
"But if you're wrong, and if my… friend… didn't do anything…" Her voice rose slightly and her blue eyes snapped. "You do realize that you'll have some serious apologizing to do – to me, to Lyle…"
"If your friend is innocent, he won't mind what you're doing now," Bridges said evenly. "He'd want to be ruled out as a suspect, don't you think?"
"Thanks for the soda," Erin said sourly and rose. "When will you have the tap on my phone lines?"
"Probably by later this evening," Lowe replied, pulling out a sheet of paper. "If you don't mind signing this – it would mean we don't have to get a warrant because we have your permission…"
She bent quickly, took his pen and dashed her name at the bottom of the document. "Are we finished?"
Both men rose. "Thank you, Miss Patterson. You won't regret this."
"Yeah, right."
She already did. How could she be expected to return home NOW? How did she intend to live with the memories of Lyle making love to her, knowing that he was suspected of not only rape and murder, but multiple rapes – multiple murders. And torture??
There was a cinema multiplex on the way to her apartment. Maybe this was the night she watched a couple of movies instead of going home to study. And to hell with the research paper…
oOoOo
As Miss Parker was the only one in surgery at the moment, with Sydney undergoing tests in the Emergency Room, Ethan had relinquished the task of guarding his sister to her personal sweeper – a man whom he frankly doubted would be willing to take a second chair at this point. Sam had a hard and determined look on his face that told Ethan not even to try to argue for a different arrangement.
And so he found himself sitting at the entrance to the ER, making sure that nobody that didn't have business in there got past without being seen. Each of the lesser injured crash survivors had been moved to hospital beds except Sydney now – the doctors wanted to observe them all overnight to make sure there were no hidden injuries that had slipped through the cracks.
"Ethan," a soft, low voice called to him, and he turned with a relieved smile to face his half-brother.
"Jarod." The two men hugged briefly.
"How are they?"
Yes, it made sense that Jarod would want the truth laid out straight and unembellished in front of him immediately. "Miss Parker's still in surgery – Sam's standing guard just outside the operating room door," he added when Jarod's eyes flashed in alarm. "Sydney's in there, waiting his turn. He hasn't regained consciousness yet – the doctors are suspecting a concussion and other back injuries." He caught at Jarod's arm. "And Carl Bennings – isn't he your boss?"
Jarod stared. "Yeah?"
"He's just been transferred up to a wardroom for overnight observation."
"Not seriously injured?" Jarod's face went from worry to relief.
"A few cuts and scrapes – that's all," Ethan reported.
Jarod gazed at Ethan and then peered into the ER past the plastic window, and Ethan could feel that mixed emotion as Jarod struggled with wanting to be by the side of his friend and employer on the one hand and to be by the side of his mentor and father-figure on the other. "He's unconscious, Jarod – he won't know that you were here if nobody says anything to him. Go – see your friend. I'll be right here unless they move George Stoller out of surgery and take Sy…"
"Who?" Jarod grabbed Ethan's collar. "Who did you say?"
"George Stoller – another one of the survivors. Two broken legs, a horrible and infected gash that had him nearly ripped open…"
"He's the assassin…" Jarod glared at his younger half-brother.
"WHAT?"
"Hendricks hired an assassin to kill Carl before he could do anything in San Francisco. One I caught myself about a week ago – Stoller we didn't find out about before the plane left." Jarod's face had gone pale. "He survived?"
"Only barely," Ethan told him.
Jarod stood, thinking for a moment and then nodded. "I'll handle it," he said quietly and then looked up at his little brother. "Watch over Sydney for me for a while – I have a few things I have to take care of."
Jarod strode off toward the front desk, manned by a volunteer. "I need the room number for Carl Bennings," he stated urgently.
"Mr. Bennings is in 107, bed 2," the older woman said after checking her booklet.
"Thanks." The Pretender walked into the hallway of the hospital and followed the signs to the medical floor, and then turned to his right and walked until he'd found room 107. He pushed through the door and peeked in.
"Jarod!" Bennings' grin lit his face. "God, it's good to see a familiar face at last!"
"It's just good to see you still alive and kicking," Jarod replied, stepping up to the bedside and shaking the man's hand vigorously. "You had us mighty worried."
"I bet." Bennings' grin faltered. "Listen, there's something you should know," he started.
"I know all about it," Jarod told his friend as he pulled a chair up so he could sit down and visit for a short time. "Hendricks is in jail – and so is Blair." Then he blinked. "How did you know…"
"While we were going through some of the baggage for extra clothing and useful things, I found the rifle the assassin Hendricks hired was going to use on me – along with my picture with instructions in Hendricks' own handwriting." Bennings frowned. "And to think I was going to put that asshole in charge of San Francisco, once it was going properly."
"There's something else," Jarod said, his eyes glued to his friend's face. "George Stoller – your fellow survivor?"
"Yeah?" Benning's frowned in confusion. "He was in pretty bad shape. What about him?"
Jarod's lips tightened and then he blurted, "He was the one Hendricks hired to kill you."
Bennings paled and fell back against his pillow in shock. "You're sure?"
Jarod nodded sadly. "There's not a question in my mind."
"Damn!" Bennings gazed at his friend. These past few days hadn't been easy on his Security Chief at all. "You OK?"
"Hmmm?" Jarod was pulled from a reverie before it had a chance to really catch him. "Yeah, I'm OK now, for the most part." He shook himself. "The trustees are probably sitting on pins and needles, waiting for me to call and let them know…"
"I'll call them," Bennings announced, putting out his hand. "Give me your cell phone and I'll take care of it right now." He grimaced at a twinge – probably from strained muscles from hefting around heavy pieces of broken aircraft fuselage. "I'm tired of sitting around and doing nothing."
"OK." Jarod handed him the cell phone and rose. "I have a few things I need to do – including arranging for Mr. Stoller's arrest. I'll let you get some rest, and I'll be back in later to get my cell phone back and see how you're doing."
Bennings nodded and waved, already having dialed a well-remembered number. Jarod waved back and left the room. A quick question at the medical floor nurses' station got him instructions as to where the waiting room for the surgical unit was, and he headed off in that direction with brisk steps. No doubt the entrance to the operating theatre was in the same direction – and that was where he'd find Sam.
oOoOo
Tom Coachman eyed the emergency room entrance for a long moment before deciding that the front lobby would be a better place to enter. He nosed the Centre-issue sedan into a parking spot and locked it carefully and patted under his arm to make sure his sidearm was in place.
Hospitals were notoriously difficult to secure – even if his intended targets knew of his intentions, stopping him would be virtually impossible without bodyguards. All he had to do now was find out if his targets had survived the crash and been brought in – and then find out where they were. The key would be to figure out just what kind of person would the hospital release that kind of information TO – the media was out, at least temporarily.
NTSA – that was it! He had a badge of sorts – he could flash it a little too quickly for anyone to really get a good look and claim to be NTSA and demand to see the survivors. With any luck, he'd discover that the people he was looking for hadn't survived the crash after all and all this effort had been expended for nothing. He seriously doubted that the Centre would spring to fill a paycheck for Al remaining up on the mountain any longer than necessary…
He walked right up to the volunteer's desk. "What room is Miss Parker in?" he asked with a deceptively gentle smile.
The grey-haired woman checked her notebook. "I'm sorry, sir," she looked up at him eventually, "but I don't have a Miss Parker anywhere in my book. Are you certain she was admitted?"
"I was fairly certain…" Tom adopted what he called back home an 'aw-shucks' attitude. "I heard she was one of them plane crash survivors and I rushed right over…"
"We don't have any information about some of those people yet," the woman told him, trying to be helpful. "Two of them are in surgery and one is still in the emergency room being treated." Her eyes narrowed. "You aren't the press, are you?"
"No, ma'am." He flashed the badge quickly. "NTSA – I was hoping to talk to any of the survivors who is conscious."
The woman shook her head. "We don't have any of that kind of information available here," she told him. "You'll have to speak to Dr. Wolsey – he's the man in charge of the emergency room tonight."
"Thank you kindly, ma'am," Tom said and looked around. "How do I get to the emergency room from here?"
Jarod turned left into the main hallway and began walking toward the operating room, not exactly sure what he would say to Miss Parker's sweeper when he got there. Somehow, "Hi, fancy meeting you here," just didn't seem appropriate – although under the circumstances, he felt fairly confident that Sam's first impulse would NOT be to throw him into handcuffs and haul him back to the Centre. They were all Centre refugees at the moment.
The Pretender's eyes widened, however, as he noted the shape and intent in the walk of the man who turned into the hallway in front of him and continued walking in the same direction. His steps faltered for a moment, then continued a little more softly. If this was the Centre sweeper sent by Lyle to take out Sydney and Miss Parker, it would pay for him to hang back a bit until he saw the man do something definitive – something with an aim to harm – before landing on him and calling for hospital security.
When the man turned and walked past Ethan and through the swinging doors into the emergency room, Jarod sped up – trotting up to next to his brother.
"Is that…?" Ethan whispered.
"More than likely," Jarod replied. He stared through the plastic window into the ER, and watched the sweeper approach and speak to the physician in charge. Evidently the sweeper didn't like what he was hearing, for he looked over at one of the patient beds with frustration. Jarod smiled as he followed the man's gaze. Sydney was under the watchful care of technicians maneuvering the portable x-ray machine – there was no chance the sweeper would be able to execute the termination order without taking out a whole roomful of medical personnel. "Watch it!" Jarod warned and faded back into a doorway when the sweeper stalked from the room in a huff.
"What now?" Ethan asked, his eyes on the sweeper's back.
"Now I keep an eye on this fellow – I have a sneaky hunch I know where he's heading…"
"Parker…" Ethan's eyes widened.
"No." Jarod was adamant. "You stay here and watch over Sydney. I'll make sure he doesn't harm a hair on Parker's head."
"Not this time." Ethan was no less determined than his half-brother. "I need to go with you. This is the danger – this is the man I was trying to protect Sydney from."
Jarod thought quickly and then nodded. "OK," he conceded. "Come on."
oOoOo
Thoroughly frustrated, Tom stalked down the hallway toward the operating room. From there he'd be able to watch and see where they took Miss Parker after she finished in surgery – there was a chance that he'd have an opportunity to at least take care of HER in the Recovery Room. If not, then he'd wait until she'd been assigned a room on the medical floor.
What frosted him more than anything was that Al let BOTH of their targets slip through his fingers. The older sweeper could have made sure he was on one of the rescue choppers, couldn't he? Both the psychiatrist and the former Chairman's daughter were in serious condition – it didn't strain disbelief to consider that one or the other of them could have expired on the way into the hospital…
Ah well. What was done was done – and it would be HIS job to clean up the mess.
He turned the corner and walked up to the swinging doors that led into the operating room and halted to stare inside. Miss Parker was evidently still on the table. Tom sighed. He could wait in the surgical waiting room, just as if he were a regular family member.
He turned around and walked back the few paces it took to get to the waiting room door and then stared. Rising from his seat, his face a study in concern and alertness, was someone else – someone large and muscular and obviously nobody to fool with. Tom raised his eyes to look at the man's face and found himself transfixed by the sharp gaze – and felt himself freeze. This was no ordinary person awaiting news of a loved one. This was Miss Parker's personal sweeper, ready to take on any perceived threat to his boss.
Tom swallowed hard. What had been, up until then, a cakewalk had suddenly turned very dangerous.