Chapter 8

Jordan Richards watched his men secure the prisoners.

"You must think we're complete idiots. Did you honestly believe that we wouldn't have the resources to collect your prints, run them, discover your ill-advised undercover operation? I should have let my men truly cut off her finger, instead of using one of the bodies provided by my contact at the morgue." His sneer changed to a look of thoughtfulness. "Not that it matters anymore. You'll all be dead, soon. And they'll never find you. Perhaps I'll let the men do what they will, first … and the pieces will never be found."

The room only had one chair, so the newest three Agents — gagged, hands bound — were tossed roughly to the floor, where their feet were also secured. Then they were jerked into a sitting position and propped up against the wall, like something to be stored. Still lethargic from chloroform, David couldn't take his eyes off Megan's swollen and bruised finger, visible in the hands tied behind the chair. He was ridiculously happy to see it. Don locked eyes with his brother's wife, and tried to silently reassure her … of what, he didn't know.

Richards began to speak again. "Anton," he barked. "We'll need the truck for transport. Anything you do to them, do in the desert. I don't want their blood here. I want nothing here that can be traced. When you're finished, I want you all back here. This room, both cottages, everything … everything has to be cleaned. We need to eliminate all traces that any of them were ever here. Get on with it."

He turned to leave, but stopped at the door and looked at the Agents one last time. "So which of us are idiots now?"

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Larry wondered if Alan was ever coming home.

It must be good news, his being gone this long. They must have let him stay with Charles for a long time this afternoon.

Still, the smells wafting up the stairs were not entirely pleasant, and Larry could hear Mrs. Singer bellowing something in Swedish as she crashed about in the kitchen. In truth, Hildy Singer frightened him not a little. She reminded him of his Aunt Louise.

He hoped Alan was coming home soon.

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The wind had picked up considerably, and Colby had to shout to be heard.

"It's okay to go back, Charlie."

Charlie looked at him, confused. He had grown almost unbearably hot, even though the wind blew so strongly. Colby took a step closer so that he could lower his voice, and looked around like he expected to see something.

"Look," he said into Charlie's ear, "I'm not supposed to influence you. But the people back there, they still need you. You don't have to worry about your Mom." He looked at Charlie intently and seemed to read his mind. "Or me. Not at all. It's good on this side. We can wait." Colby looked around again. "I hope I don't lose my job over this. It's your call, Charlie. It really is okay, whatever you decide. But you're out of time, here. You have to decide now."

Charlie was getting cold again. He could barely keep up with the changes. He looked at Colby desperately.

He didn't like this holding cell.

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The ER attending was friendly, and smiled as he ran the paper tape through his fingers.

"EKG looks good, Mr. Eppes. All your vitals are a little elevated, but from what you've told me, I'm sure that's stress. I'm fairly certain we're not looking at a cardiac event here, but I'd like to observe you for several hours and leave you hooked up to the machine to be sure."

Alan shifted on the gurney impatiently. "I can't. That's not possible. My son's best friend was also wounded in the Cal Sci shooting, and he's at my home recuperating. My neighbor is with him, but I've already been gone too long."

The doctor's smile didn't waver. "Explain to me how it will be helpful to him for you to go home and have a massive coronary while helping him to the bathroom?"

Alan stared up at him sullenly. "I need to at least make a call."

"I'll send a nurse in. We don't allow outside calls in the treatment rooms, but you can give her a number, and a message, and she'll be happy to make the call for you."

Alan was suddenly almost as overwhelmed as he had been in the hospital lobby. Charlie could be dying. Don could be dying. Archie could be dying. Larry was at the mercy of Hildy Singer, and he still had to tell him about Megan … who also could be dying. Tears welled up in his eyes.

The doctor's friendly smile turned to concern. "Mr. Eppes? Are you in pain?"

Alan shook his head.

"Please. I need to see a Rabbi."