All disclaimers in part one. Note: I did forget to note in the disclaimer that I am purposefully ignoring the beginning of "The Bugmeister, Part Bee" where Michael survives an 11-story drop without a scratch, because that's just too implausible for story purposes. Let me know if you find any glaring errors; I've been revising parts to fix earlier inconsistencies, and may have missed a thing or two here.
Murphy's Law
by Amanda Ohlin
Chapter Five
4th and 8th Street
12:45 p.m.
"Come on, dammit!" Lydia snapped as yet another cab sped by her. "What do I have to do, wave my wallet in the air?" As a third taxi passed her by, she seriously considered stepping out into the lane to force traffic to stop. She threw up her hands and started walking. Maybe she'd have better luck farther into the theatre district. But she'd only gone a few steps when the van pulled up to the curb.
Two men in suits stepped out. Lydia recognized one of them as Walters, Leflin's security chief. "Dr. Ross. Mr. Leflin sent us to pick you up."
"I appreciate the thought, but I'd rather take a taxi." She started to back away.
Walters' smile hardened. "This isn't a request."
*****
The New Yorker Hotel
"Hey, Mom?" Heather asked. "What did that lady look like again? Red outfit, white stripe in the hair?"
Lisa looked up. "Yes, why?"
Heather was staring out the window. "I think she pissed somebody off."
"What?" Lisa ran to the window to see what Heather was looking at. Down near Madison Square Garden, a woman was being hustled into a black van by two men in suits. Even from that height, Lisa could see the white streak in her hair. "Oh my God."
*****
"Will you stop dragging me and explain yourselves!" Lydia snapped as she struggled in the two men's grip. "You don't need to drag me off, for God's sake!"
"Then get in the van," Walters ordered her.
She shook off their restraining arms and got into the van, glaring balefully at Walters as one of the men got in and shut the door. Lydia sighed as Walters gestured, and reluctantly handed over her purse. As the van drove away, she failed to notice the sign advertising the off-season charity basketball game for that evening.
*****
The knock on the door caused both Lisa and Heather to jump. "Lisa! Heather! It's me!" a familiar voice called. "Open up!"
Relieved, Lisa hurried to the door, checking at the peephole before unlocking it and letting Michael hurry in. "Did you find out anything?"
"A little. The guy at the coffee bar said she chugged a double expresso and left. She was all by herself, and wrote the note at the bar - although that really doesn't tell us anything," Michael gasped in one breath. He noticed the looks on their faces. "What?"
"She's not all by herself now," Heather answered.
*****
The elevator doors opened on the bottom floor, and Michael, Lisa, and Heather hurried out. They headed up the escalator, but Heather came to an abrupt stop as she spotted two men entering the lobby. "Uh-oh."
"What?" Lisa asked.
"Those guys. I saw the tall one at Mr. Leflin's place."
"Come on," Michael muttered, steering them back towards the stairs.
As they passed the restrooms, Michael almost walked smack into the man coming out of the men's room. "Sorry about that," he said automatically before he realized who it was.
"No problem," the cashier replied, seeing the expressions on their faces. "Something wrong?"
Michael glanced back at the two men, who were checking at the front desk. "Is there a back door we could use?"
*****
"Friend of yours?" Lisa asked three minutes later.
Michael smiled as the three fugitives slipped out of the service entrance in the back of the hotel. "He owed me a favor."
*****
63rd and Madison
3:30 p.m.
"Have they found anything?" Morris asked, leaning back in his chair. Through the glass partition between the bedroom and the pool, he could see the FBI agents sitting with his own men, presumably discussing strategy. He had adjourned to the bedroom to make a few private calls.
Right now, Special Agent #1 was on the other end, and the background noise on his end made it difficult to hear the reply. "Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. The locker's there, but we haven't made any attempts to open it."
"Good. Leave it be." Morris thought for a moment. "He must have set this up ahead of time. Anonymity won't work this time around, so he won't do anything last-minute."
"Speaking of last minute, I'm guessing there's no news on Mr. Wiseman."
"No. Special Agent #2 reported in. His team hasn't picked anything up. As for Dr. Ross, well, she may actually have a lead, but she hasn't been answering her cellphone."
There was a long pause on the other end. "Sir, I think I know what she was referring to. She looked up Bernstadt and found--" The rest was obscured by static.
Morris scowled. "I didn't get that."
"He works for--" More static blocked off whatever Special Agent #1 was trying to say. Morris cursed and hung up the phone.
Ten seconds later, it rang again, and Morris snatched it up. "This had better be good news."
"Kind of depends on what you consider good news," a familiar voice replied. Morris nearly dropped the phone. "Sounds like you got about as much sleep as I did."
The tall scientist rose to his feet, moving slowly, as if Michael would somehow pick up on any sudden movements through the phone. "How did you get this number?"
Michael hesitated before answering. "From 'a friend.' Guess you don't know anything about that either."
"Where are you?" Morris asked.
"New Jersey." The answer was so prompt that it couldn't be true. "Look, Doc, I just got a note that said you need me to make a delivery. Tonight. Grand Central Station. Six o'clock. Does that ring any bells?"
"Mr. Wiseman, if you have a point, it would be wise to get around to it sometime soon."
Michael sighed. "Fine. I want to make a trade. Me for Lisa and Heather."
It wasn't the time to be flippant, but Morris felt like it. "Talk English."
"I turn myself in, give the guy the money, and you let Lisa and Heather get on with their lives. Is that plain enough for you?"
"As plain as the bump on the head I recently received."
"I'm sorry about that. But I had to."
"I fail to see why. You made a deal, Mr. Wiseman, and you should have honored that deal--"
"Why? So you could - you could do to me what you did to Dr. Lizzard?"
Morris froze. "What?"
"You didn't think I remembered that, did you?" Michael's voice was shaking. "I wasn't completely out cold, Doc. I heard everything. I know exactly what you did."
"You were under heavy sedation," Morris protested, moving towards the door. Perhaps the agents would be able to get a trace even with the cellphone. "You might have imagined things."
"I had to listen to him die!" Michael cried. "I couldn't do anything about it! What did you expect me to do, just lie there while you got rid of my family?"
Morris glowered. "Has it occurred to you that I didn't exactly enjoy that, Mr. Wiseman? Have you stopped to consider my reasons for doing what I did?"
There was no answer on the other end. Morris opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as his own words came back to haunt him.
_You need to stop and consider why he ran,_ Dr. Ross had said.
Up until now, he really hadn't thought about that. And what with Ross's disappearance and Special Agent #1's attempt to tell him who Bernstadt worked for, Morris was starting to suspect that the security leak just might not have been Michael Wiseman's fault. If someone had pointed that lawyer in Mrs. Wiseman's direction for a reason, there was more going on here than he'd originally thought. As much as he hated to admit it, Dr. Ross might have been right.
Damn that woman.
"All right," the tall scientist said after a moment. "How do *you* want to play this?"
*****
Leflin Incorporated
4:00 p.m.
Bored, bored, bored.
Lydia sat down on the edge of the secretary's desk with a sigh, glaring balefully at the locked doors in front of her. After almost two straight hours locked in one of the empty offices adjacent to Leflin's conference room, her already diminishing patience was nearly gone. Even pacing back and forth had become boring in and of itself. Her attempts at reasoning with the security staff - first calmly, and then in a manner which involved a lot of screaming - had been ignored. The only explanation she'd received was that Leflin was "in a meeting."
She hadn't known Bernard Leflin Jr. too well, since she'd only known him through her father's business contact with Leflin Sr. But Lydia knew that this was not his M.O. Had he truly wished her picked up, he'd have come to see her to deliver some kind of explanation. Naturally, the explanation would be complete bullshit, but he'd make the effort. Lydia was starting to suspect that Walters himself had simply acted on his own suspicions. The shifty-eyed security chief didn't like anyone horning in on his territory, and he was ultimately suspicious of anyone who tried.
His suspicions were well-founded in this case, but she was still pissed off.
Bored, she examined the desk. Nothing special; papers, more papers, photos of the secretary's family, and a ceramic statue that looked simply out of place. It was a cartoon dog in golf pants and shirt, swinging a golf club. She reached over to pick it up, and was surprised when it didn't budge. Lydia tugged, and the figurine jerked to the side like a lever. A panel opened in the top of the desk, and a small black box with a series of switches rose up.
As she peered at the switches, the sound of voices startled her. It took Lydia a moment to realize that they were coming from the vent in the ceiling. Whoever was speaking was talking so loudly that she didn't even need to put an ear to the vent to hear exactly what was being said.
"...you realize, Wallace, if anyone sees us talking, you and I are both in serious trouble. You more than me."
Walters. She recognized the voice immediately.
"I'm already up to my neck in it. Listen, if you keep messing around like this, we'll never get our hands on the Wisemans."
"We will. We just need to be sure that Leflin doesn't know about it."
So Walters *was* doublecrossing his employer. Lydia glanced down at the switches on the desk in front of her again. One in particular caught her eye - the one marked "INTERCOM - CONFERENCE ROOM."
Dr. Lydia Ross smiled.
*****
"As I wa saying," Leflin continued smoothly, "once we have the man in question, I believe it will be simple to extract whatever information he knows."
The older man shifted uncomfortably. "Now wait a moment, Bernard. I've done business with your father for years, and never once have I stooped to the kind of coercion you're talking about."
"Not coercion. A trade." Leflin smiled. "If our information is right, we can simply offer this man freedom and safety for him and his family. I have enough resources at my command to ensure that they can all disappear and live quite happily."
The intercom suddenly crackled to life. "--need to get a hold of the Wisemans now," a voice was saying. "If we continue to dawdle like this, Mr. Leflin will beat us to the punch."
Leflin stopped, signaling to his business partner to be silent as he continued to listen. Another voice chuckled. "Leflin wouldn't be able to find his own ass if it wasn't attached to him. Don't worry about a thing, Wallace."
"If that Ross character interferes again, we might be in trouble. I don't trust her, Walters."
"Neither do I. Why do you think I had her locked up?"
Leflin hesitated, listening. "There's an echo," he muttered. "Could be coming through the vent..." He turned to his business partner. "Greenberg, I'm afraid that I have to cut this meeting short." He glanced up at the intercom. "It sounds as if we might have a new problem."
*****
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
4:15 p.m.
Lisa Wiseman stared blankly at the costumes in the case in front of her, not really seeing the display. She was more interested in the reflection in the back wall of the case, which confirmed her suspicions that she looked as tired as she felt. It also gave her a decent glimpse of the crowd around her without having to turn around.
Besides, if she chose to focus on the Beatles memorabilia instead, that would just make her feel old. She actually had a copy of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" somewhere in the house, and it was a little disconcerting to see those four technicolor uniforms in a museum display case. Of course, she had only been seven or eight when the album first came out, but still...
"Mom, I'm not three," Heather snapped from beside her. "You can let go of the death grip on my hand."
"I don't need to remind you what happened the last time you were allowed to wander a museum by yourself," Lisa replied.
Heather mumbled something that sounded less than apologetic, but Lisa didn't choose to pursue it as someone familiar elbowed his way through the crowd to stand beside her. "So did you call that number?" she asked quietly, keeping her eyes on the display.
"Yep." Michael bit his lip. "The Doc didn't expect me to call." He was silent for a few moments before adding, "I'm turning myself in."
At that, Lisa turned to glare at him. "You did what?" she hissed.
"Just me. No one else." Michael sighed. "Lisa, I've got to put a stop to this somehow. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
"Haven't I heard that line someplace before? From someone barging into my Thanksgiving dinner, perhaps?"
Heather coughed loudly to get their attention. "Yeah, Mom, and we all remember what happened afterwards."
Lisa opened her mouth to retort, then shut it again. She turned away from Heather to look at Michael, who was looking at her with what could only be described as a puppy-dog expression on his face. Which only made it worse. Lisa had always been a sucker for that sort of look, and Michael knew exactly how to pull that off to his advantage.
Besides, as infuriating as the man could be, he was really the only one they could trust right now. Finally, she let out an exasperated sigh. "All right, all right. I still think you're crazy, Mr. Newman, but right now I don't have any better ideas."
Michael smiled, relieved. "Thanks. I think."
As they made their way through the crush of people, Lisa eyed a female mannequin sporting a bizarre, overly revealing getup. "But this had better not involve either of us standing in for some of those mannequins."
"Don't worry," Michael assured her. "I'm not *that* deranged."
*****
63rd and Madison
4:30 p.m.
The FBI agents were packing their things as Special Agent #1 entered. Morris nodded to him, and the two of them moved into the bedroom, going out on the balcony to talk. "I came as soon as the word got to us."
"You have someone handling surveillance?" Morris asked quietly.
The bald agent nodded. "Special Agent #2 is in the truck. How long ago did he make the call?"
"About an hour ago," Morris informed him.
"So what did you tell the FBI?"
"Nothing," Morris said. "Aside from the fact that our boy would be ready to go at six."
"That's it? How can you be sure that Mr. Wiseman will come?"
Morris smiled, turning to look at the view from the balcony. "He'll be there."
Special Agent #1 shook his head. "I don't recall you ever giving him the number."
"He apparently got the number from 'a friend.'"
"Any ideas on who that 'friend' would be?"
Morris walked to the edge of the balcony, putting his hands on the brick wall that served as a railing. "Dr. Ross seems to be the most likely suspect, wherever she is."
"That's the other reason I'm here." Special Agent #1 walked over to stand beside his boss. "She found out who Edward Bernstadt works for. Leflin Incorporated."
Dr. Morris whirled, staring at him in shock. "What?"
*****
Penn Station
Manhattan
5:00 p.m.
Penn Station was busy as usual, swarming with people pushing and shoving in every direction. Lisa had Heather's hand in a death grip as they made it through the doors, squeezing past people who were going the wrong way or were inconsiderate enough to stand and talk in the middle of traffic. The crush of people made it extremely difficult to find anyone, let alone be quite sure of where you were. Lisa had to admit, it was a perfect place to blend in.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. Michael was there, helping steer through the crowd. Lisa's first impulse was to shrug the hand off, but there was something comforting about his touch. Besides, it was probably a good idea to stay together in this crowd.
They eventually made it out, moving to stand near a wall out of the flow of traffic. Lisa leaned against the wall with a sigh, and Heather was relieved to pull her wrist free from Lisa's grip. "God, Mom, you were cutting off my circulation."
"You're complaining, so you're fine," Lisa deduced before turning back to Michael. "Now what? Is this the new hideout?"
"I'm supposed to meet the Doc before six," Michael told her. "But I'm going alone."
Heather looked confused and a little annoyed. "What, you're just going to leave us here?"
Shaking his head, Michael reached into his pocket and retrieved a large wad of dollar bills. "No, I'm giving you a chance to get out of town." He pressed the money into Lisa's hands.
"What?" Stunned, Lisa flipped through the handful of cash. "There's more than three hundred dollars here! Where did you get this?"
"Drunks shouldn't make bets," Michael said by way of explanation. "Lisa, I don't know exactly what's going to happen tonight. If - if things don't work out, I want to be sure you're out of danger. There's more than enough here for you both to get a ticket anywhere you want."
Lisa shook her head. "Mr. Newman, I can't accept this."
"Mom, he just handed you a big wad of cash," Heather pointed out. "Now is not the time to complain."
"And don't tell me where you're going," Michael continued. "Pick someplace that most people wouldn't think of. Someplace that wouldn't pop up in records."
Lisa didn't answer. She stared at the money that was still clenched in her hand. "Please," Michael added. "It's the only way." When she still didn't say anything, he sighed, reluctantly turning away.
"What's your name?"
Surprised, Michael turned back. "Huh?"
Lisa held out the money towards him. "Tell me your name and I'll take the money."
"Mom," Heather muttered, "what are you doing?"
"Tell me your name and I'll take the money," Lisa repeated, shaking the wad of cash at Michael. "Mr. Newman, I still don't have a clue what's going on. Maybe I'm better off not knowing. But I'm sick and tired of not knowing anything! I've been chased from my house, I've spent the last twenty-four hours running all over the city with a crazy man--"
"Lisa," Michael began, but she kept on going.
"--not that I'm not grateful for some of the things you have done for us, but that doesn't change the fact that you are the strangest person I've ever met," Lisa amended, not missing a beat. "I don't even know what or who I'm running from, why I'm running, anything. Right now I'd settle for knowing your first name!"
He stared at her for a moment, fighting the urge to pull her into his arms right then and there. Although in her present state of mind, that might not be a good idea. Lisa stood there, defiantly holding out the money and waiting for an answer. Something told him that she would be perfectly willing to throw all three hundred dollars in his face if he didn't tell her what she'd asked. It was an answer, at least. He owed her that much.
And this time, it wouldn't be a lie.
"Michael." The one word brought relief and fear at the same time. Relief to have that, at least, out in the open, and fear that it might lead to more trouble.
Lisa blinked, unsure if she'd heard him correctly. "What?"
"Michael." He said it louder, keeping his voice steady. "That's my name."
It was obvious from the look on her face that she really didn't know how to react to that, wavering between suspicion and dismissal for several seconds before putting the money in her pocket. "All right," she said finally. "You'd - you'd better get going."
Michael didn't move immediately. He stood there for a second, looking at them as if he was trying to seal a last look in his memory. Impulsively, he reached out and took Lisa's hand in his, squeezing it reassuringly, before he finally stepped back into the crowd. In a few seconds, he disappeared in the sea of people.
As soon as he was gone, Lisa took a deep breath and shook herself out of whatever trance had held her. Turning, she saw that Heather, who had been watching the entire scene with great interest, was grinning. "What?"
"Oh, nothing," Heather replied with feigned innocence. "So where are we going?"
Lisa glanced up at the list of arrivals and departures. She scanned the cities and times, considering and discarding friends and relatives as potential sources of sanctuary. Most were either too obvious or would ask too many questions. What they really needed, she realized wryly, was someone desperate enough for company that they would take them in without questioning--
*Wait* a minute.
"Boston," Lisa decided. "There's a 5:30 train to Boston."
"Boston?" Heather repeated. "Why there?"
"I know someone who might let us stay," Lisa answered, taking her daughter's hand and heading towards the Amtrak ticket counter. "Remind me again, Heather - you're not allergic to cats, are you?"
*****
Murphy's Law
by Amanda Ohlin
Chapter Five
4th and 8th Street
12:45 p.m.
"Come on, dammit!" Lydia snapped as yet another cab sped by her. "What do I have to do, wave my wallet in the air?" As a third taxi passed her by, she seriously considered stepping out into the lane to force traffic to stop. She threw up her hands and started walking. Maybe she'd have better luck farther into the theatre district. But she'd only gone a few steps when the van pulled up to the curb.
Two men in suits stepped out. Lydia recognized one of them as Walters, Leflin's security chief. "Dr. Ross. Mr. Leflin sent us to pick you up."
"I appreciate the thought, but I'd rather take a taxi." She started to back away.
Walters' smile hardened. "This isn't a request."
*****
The New Yorker Hotel
"Hey, Mom?" Heather asked. "What did that lady look like again? Red outfit, white stripe in the hair?"
Lisa looked up. "Yes, why?"
Heather was staring out the window. "I think she pissed somebody off."
"What?" Lisa ran to the window to see what Heather was looking at. Down near Madison Square Garden, a woman was being hustled into a black van by two men in suits. Even from that height, Lisa could see the white streak in her hair. "Oh my God."
*****
"Will you stop dragging me and explain yourselves!" Lydia snapped as she struggled in the two men's grip. "You don't need to drag me off, for God's sake!"
"Then get in the van," Walters ordered her.
She shook off their restraining arms and got into the van, glaring balefully at Walters as one of the men got in and shut the door. Lydia sighed as Walters gestured, and reluctantly handed over her purse. As the van drove away, she failed to notice the sign advertising the off-season charity basketball game for that evening.
*****
The knock on the door caused both Lisa and Heather to jump. "Lisa! Heather! It's me!" a familiar voice called. "Open up!"
Relieved, Lisa hurried to the door, checking at the peephole before unlocking it and letting Michael hurry in. "Did you find out anything?"
"A little. The guy at the coffee bar said she chugged a double expresso and left. She was all by herself, and wrote the note at the bar - although that really doesn't tell us anything," Michael gasped in one breath. He noticed the looks on their faces. "What?"
"She's not all by herself now," Heather answered.
*****
The elevator doors opened on the bottom floor, and Michael, Lisa, and Heather hurried out. They headed up the escalator, but Heather came to an abrupt stop as she spotted two men entering the lobby. "Uh-oh."
"What?" Lisa asked.
"Those guys. I saw the tall one at Mr. Leflin's place."
"Come on," Michael muttered, steering them back towards the stairs.
As they passed the restrooms, Michael almost walked smack into the man coming out of the men's room. "Sorry about that," he said automatically before he realized who it was.
"No problem," the cashier replied, seeing the expressions on their faces. "Something wrong?"
Michael glanced back at the two men, who were checking at the front desk. "Is there a back door we could use?"
*****
"Friend of yours?" Lisa asked three minutes later.
Michael smiled as the three fugitives slipped out of the service entrance in the back of the hotel. "He owed me a favor."
*****
63rd and Madison
3:30 p.m.
"Have they found anything?" Morris asked, leaning back in his chair. Through the glass partition between the bedroom and the pool, he could see the FBI agents sitting with his own men, presumably discussing strategy. He had adjourned to the bedroom to make a few private calls.
Right now, Special Agent #1 was on the other end, and the background noise on his end made it difficult to hear the reply. "Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. The locker's there, but we haven't made any attempts to open it."
"Good. Leave it be." Morris thought for a moment. "He must have set this up ahead of time. Anonymity won't work this time around, so he won't do anything last-minute."
"Speaking of last minute, I'm guessing there's no news on Mr. Wiseman."
"No. Special Agent #2 reported in. His team hasn't picked anything up. As for Dr. Ross, well, she may actually have a lead, but she hasn't been answering her cellphone."
There was a long pause on the other end. "Sir, I think I know what she was referring to. She looked up Bernstadt and found--" The rest was obscured by static.
Morris scowled. "I didn't get that."
"He works for--" More static blocked off whatever Special Agent #1 was trying to say. Morris cursed and hung up the phone.
Ten seconds later, it rang again, and Morris snatched it up. "This had better be good news."
"Kind of depends on what you consider good news," a familiar voice replied. Morris nearly dropped the phone. "Sounds like you got about as much sleep as I did."
The tall scientist rose to his feet, moving slowly, as if Michael would somehow pick up on any sudden movements through the phone. "How did you get this number?"
Michael hesitated before answering. "From 'a friend.' Guess you don't know anything about that either."
"Where are you?" Morris asked.
"New Jersey." The answer was so prompt that it couldn't be true. "Look, Doc, I just got a note that said you need me to make a delivery. Tonight. Grand Central Station. Six o'clock. Does that ring any bells?"
"Mr. Wiseman, if you have a point, it would be wise to get around to it sometime soon."
Michael sighed. "Fine. I want to make a trade. Me for Lisa and Heather."
It wasn't the time to be flippant, but Morris felt like it. "Talk English."
"I turn myself in, give the guy the money, and you let Lisa and Heather get on with their lives. Is that plain enough for you?"
"As plain as the bump on the head I recently received."
"I'm sorry about that. But I had to."
"I fail to see why. You made a deal, Mr. Wiseman, and you should have honored that deal--"
"Why? So you could - you could do to me what you did to Dr. Lizzard?"
Morris froze. "What?"
"You didn't think I remembered that, did you?" Michael's voice was shaking. "I wasn't completely out cold, Doc. I heard everything. I know exactly what you did."
"You were under heavy sedation," Morris protested, moving towards the door. Perhaps the agents would be able to get a trace even with the cellphone. "You might have imagined things."
"I had to listen to him die!" Michael cried. "I couldn't do anything about it! What did you expect me to do, just lie there while you got rid of my family?"
Morris glowered. "Has it occurred to you that I didn't exactly enjoy that, Mr. Wiseman? Have you stopped to consider my reasons for doing what I did?"
There was no answer on the other end. Morris opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as his own words came back to haunt him.
_You need to stop and consider why he ran,_ Dr. Ross had said.
Up until now, he really hadn't thought about that. And what with Ross's disappearance and Special Agent #1's attempt to tell him who Bernstadt worked for, Morris was starting to suspect that the security leak just might not have been Michael Wiseman's fault. If someone had pointed that lawyer in Mrs. Wiseman's direction for a reason, there was more going on here than he'd originally thought. As much as he hated to admit it, Dr. Ross might have been right.
Damn that woman.
"All right," the tall scientist said after a moment. "How do *you* want to play this?"
*****
Leflin Incorporated
4:00 p.m.
Bored, bored, bored.
Lydia sat down on the edge of the secretary's desk with a sigh, glaring balefully at the locked doors in front of her. After almost two straight hours locked in one of the empty offices adjacent to Leflin's conference room, her already diminishing patience was nearly gone. Even pacing back and forth had become boring in and of itself. Her attempts at reasoning with the security staff - first calmly, and then in a manner which involved a lot of screaming - had been ignored. The only explanation she'd received was that Leflin was "in a meeting."
She hadn't known Bernard Leflin Jr. too well, since she'd only known him through her father's business contact with Leflin Sr. But Lydia knew that this was not his M.O. Had he truly wished her picked up, he'd have come to see her to deliver some kind of explanation. Naturally, the explanation would be complete bullshit, but he'd make the effort. Lydia was starting to suspect that Walters himself had simply acted on his own suspicions. The shifty-eyed security chief didn't like anyone horning in on his territory, and he was ultimately suspicious of anyone who tried.
His suspicions were well-founded in this case, but she was still pissed off.
Bored, she examined the desk. Nothing special; papers, more papers, photos of the secretary's family, and a ceramic statue that looked simply out of place. It was a cartoon dog in golf pants and shirt, swinging a golf club. She reached over to pick it up, and was surprised when it didn't budge. Lydia tugged, and the figurine jerked to the side like a lever. A panel opened in the top of the desk, and a small black box with a series of switches rose up.
As she peered at the switches, the sound of voices startled her. It took Lydia a moment to realize that they were coming from the vent in the ceiling. Whoever was speaking was talking so loudly that she didn't even need to put an ear to the vent to hear exactly what was being said.
"...you realize, Wallace, if anyone sees us talking, you and I are both in serious trouble. You more than me."
Walters. She recognized the voice immediately.
"I'm already up to my neck in it. Listen, if you keep messing around like this, we'll never get our hands on the Wisemans."
"We will. We just need to be sure that Leflin doesn't know about it."
So Walters *was* doublecrossing his employer. Lydia glanced down at the switches on the desk in front of her again. One in particular caught her eye - the one marked "INTERCOM - CONFERENCE ROOM."
Dr. Lydia Ross smiled.
*****
"As I wa saying," Leflin continued smoothly, "once we have the man in question, I believe it will be simple to extract whatever information he knows."
The older man shifted uncomfortably. "Now wait a moment, Bernard. I've done business with your father for years, and never once have I stooped to the kind of coercion you're talking about."
"Not coercion. A trade." Leflin smiled. "If our information is right, we can simply offer this man freedom and safety for him and his family. I have enough resources at my command to ensure that they can all disappear and live quite happily."
The intercom suddenly crackled to life. "--need to get a hold of the Wisemans now," a voice was saying. "If we continue to dawdle like this, Mr. Leflin will beat us to the punch."
Leflin stopped, signaling to his business partner to be silent as he continued to listen. Another voice chuckled. "Leflin wouldn't be able to find his own ass if it wasn't attached to him. Don't worry about a thing, Wallace."
"If that Ross character interferes again, we might be in trouble. I don't trust her, Walters."
"Neither do I. Why do you think I had her locked up?"
Leflin hesitated, listening. "There's an echo," he muttered. "Could be coming through the vent..." He turned to his business partner. "Greenberg, I'm afraid that I have to cut this meeting short." He glanced up at the intercom. "It sounds as if we might have a new problem."
*****
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
4:15 p.m.
Lisa Wiseman stared blankly at the costumes in the case in front of her, not really seeing the display. She was more interested in the reflection in the back wall of the case, which confirmed her suspicions that she looked as tired as she felt. It also gave her a decent glimpse of the crowd around her without having to turn around.
Besides, if she chose to focus on the Beatles memorabilia instead, that would just make her feel old. She actually had a copy of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" somewhere in the house, and it was a little disconcerting to see those four technicolor uniforms in a museum display case. Of course, she had only been seven or eight when the album first came out, but still...
"Mom, I'm not three," Heather snapped from beside her. "You can let go of the death grip on my hand."
"I don't need to remind you what happened the last time you were allowed to wander a museum by yourself," Lisa replied.
Heather mumbled something that sounded less than apologetic, but Lisa didn't choose to pursue it as someone familiar elbowed his way through the crowd to stand beside her. "So did you call that number?" she asked quietly, keeping her eyes on the display.
"Yep." Michael bit his lip. "The Doc didn't expect me to call." He was silent for a few moments before adding, "I'm turning myself in."
At that, Lisa turned to glare at him. "You did what?" she hissed.
"Just me. No one else." Michael sighed. "Lisa, I've got to put a stop to this somehow. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
"Haven't I heard that line someplace before? From someone barging into my Thanksgiving dinner, perhaps?"
Heather coughed loudly to get their attention. "Yeah, Mom, and we all remember what happened afterwards."
Lisa opened her mouth to retort, then shut it again. She turned away from Heather to look at Michael, who was looking at her with what could only be described as a puppy-dog expression on his face. Which only made it worse. Lisa had always been a sucker for that sort of look, and Michael knew exactly how to pull that off to his advantage.
Besides, as infuriating as the man could be, he was really the only one they could trust right now. Finally, she let out an exasperated sigh. "All right, all right. I still think you're crazy, Mr. Newman, but right now I don't have any better ideas."
Michael smiled, relieved. "Thanks. I think."
As they made their way through the crush of people, Lisa eyed a female mannequin sporting a bizarre, overly revealing getup. "But this had better not involve either of us standing in for some of those mannequins."
"Don't worry," Michael assured her. "I'm not *that* deranged."
*****
63rd and Madison
4:30 p.m.
The FBI agents were packing their things as Special Agent #1 entered. Morris nodded to him, and the two of them moved into the bedroom, going out on the balcony to talk. "I came as soon as the word got to us."
"You have someone handling surveillance?" Morris asked quietly.
The bald agent nodded. "Special Agent #2 is in the truck. How long ago did he make the call?"
"About an hour ago," Morris informed him.
"So what did you tell the FBI?"
"Nothing," Morris said. "Aside from the fact that our boy would be ready to go at six."
"That's it? How can you be sure that Mr. Wiseman will come?"
Morris smiled, turning to look at the view from the balcony. "He'll be there."
Special Agent #1 shook his head. "I don't recall you ever giving him the number."
"He apparently got the number from 'a friend.'"
"Any ideas on who that 'friend' would be?"
Morris walked to the edge of the balcony, putting his hands on the brick wall that served as a railing. "Dr. Ross seems to be the most likely suspect, wherever she is."
"That's the other reason I'm here." Special Agent #1 walked over to stand beside his boss. "She found out who Edward Bernstadt works for. Leflin Incorporated."
Dr. Morris whirled, staring at him in shock. "What?"
*****
Penn Station
Manhattan
5:00 p.m.
Penn Station was busy as usual, swarming with people pushing and shoving in every direction. Lisa had Heather's hand in a death grip as they made it through the doors, squeezing past people who were going the wrong way or were inconsiderate enough to stand and talk in the middle of traffic. The crush of people made it extremely difficult to find anyone, let alone be quite sure of where you were. Lisa had to admit, it was a perfect place to blend in.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. Michael was there, helping steer through the crowd. Lisa's first impulse was to shrug the hand off, but there was something comforting about his touch. Besides, it was probably a good idea to stay together in this crowd.
They eventually made it out, moving to stand near a wall out of the flow of traffic. Lisa leaned against the wall with a sigh, and Heather was relieved to pull her wrist free from Lisa's grip. "God, Mom, you were cutting off my circulation."
"You're complaining, so you're fine," Lisa deduced before turning back to Michael. "Now what? Is this the new hideout?"
"I'm supposed to meet the Doc before six," Michael told her. "But I'm going alone."
Heather looked confused and a little annoyed. "What, you're just going to leave us here?"
Shaking his head, Michael reached into his pocket and retrieved a large wad of dollar bills. "No, I'm giving you a chance to get out of town." He pressed the money into Lisa's hands.
"What?" Stunned, Lisa flipped through the handful of cash. "There's more than three hundred dollars here! Where did you get this?"
"Drunks shouldn't make bets," Michael said by way of explanation. "Lisa, I don't know exactly what's going to happen tonight. If - if things don't work out, I want to be sure you're out of danger. There's more than enough here for you both to get a ticket anywhere you want."
Lisa shook her head. "Mr. Newman, I can't accept this."
"Mom, he just handed you a big wad of cash," Heather pointed out. "Now is not the time to complain."
"And don't tell me where you're going," Michael continued. "Pick someplace that most people wouldn't think of. Someplace that wouldn't pop up in records."
Lisa didn't answer. She stared at the money that was still clenched in her hand. "Please," Michael added. "It's the only way." When she still didn't say anything, he sighed, reluctantly turning away.
"What's your name?"
Surprised, Michael turned back. "Huh?"
Lisa held out the money towards him. "Tell me your name and I'll take the money."
"Mom," Heather muttered, "what are you doing?"
"Tell me your name and I'll take the money," Lisa repeated, shaking the wad of cash at Michael. "Mr. Newman, I still don't have a clue what's going on. Maybe I'm better off not knowing. But I'm sick and tired of not knowing anything! I've been chased from my house, I've spent the last twenty-four hours running all over the city with a crazy man--"
"Lisa," Michael began, but she kept on going.
"--not that I'm not grateful for some of the things you have done for us, but that doesn't change the fact that you are the strangest person I've ever met," Lisa amended, not missing a beat. "I don't even know what or who I'm running from, why I'm running, anything. Right now I'd settle for knowing your first name!"
He stared at her for a moment, fighting the urge to pull her into his arms right then and there. Although in her present state of mind, that might not be a good idea. Lisa stood there, defiantly holding out the money and waiting for an answer. Something told him that she would be perfectly willing to throw all three hundred dollars in his face if he didn't tell her what she'd asked. It was an answer, at least. He owed her that much.
And this time, it wouldn't be a lie.
"Michael." The one word brought relief and fear at the same time. Relief to have that, at least, out in the open, and fear that it might lead to more trouble.
Lisa blinked, unsure if she'd heard him correctly. "What?"
"Michael." He said it louder, keeping his voice steady. "That's my name."
It was obvious from the look on her face that she really didn't know how to react to that, wavering between suspicion and dismissal for several seconds before putting the money in her pocket. "All right," she said finally. "You'd - you'd better get going."
Michael didn't move immediately. He stood there for a second, looking at them as if he was trying to seal a last look in his memory. Impulsively, he reached out and took Lisa's hand in his, squeezing it reassuringly, before he finally stepped back into the crowd. In a few seconds, he disappeared in the sea of people.
As soon as he was gone, Lisa took a deep breath and shook herself out of whatever trance had held her. Turning, she saw that Heather, who had been watching the entire scene with great interest, was grinning. "What?"
"Oh, nothing," Heather replied with feigned innocence. "So where are we going?"
Lisa glanced up at the list of arrivals and departures. She scanned the cities and times, considering and discarding friends and relatives as potential sources of sanctuary. Most were either too obvious or would ask too many questions. What they really needed, she realized wryly, was someone desperate enough for company that they would take them in without questioning--
*Wait* a minute.
"Boston," Lisa decided. "There's a 5:30 train to Boston."
"Boston?" Heather repeated. "Why there?"
"I know someone who might let us stay," Lisa answered, taking her daughter's hand and heading towards the Amtrak ticket counter. "Remind me again, Heather - you're not allergic to cats, are you?"
*****