72 Hours (A Thriller) (46 page)

Lindsay smiled, then leaned over the table to peck him on the lips.
 

The sounds of the restaurant hummed around them.

Lindsay stared at him expectantly.
 
Waiting.

“So…” she said at last.

Archer took a small sip of wine.
 
Then set the glass down and turned it in place.
 
Turned his eyes to her.
 
He held her gaze for a long moment.
 
Finally he nodded.

“I spoke to Kline shortly before I called you earlier.
 
He confirmed it.
 
The DNA is a perfect match.
 
He called me directly from the lab in LA.
 
They’ve worked around the clock.
 
The bodies are definitely Sidney and Robin.
 
No doubt about it.”

Lindsay closed her eyes and held back the tears.
 
She bowed her head.
 
Pressed her hands together.
 
Touched them to her face as if in prayer.

“The guessing games are over,” Archer said.

Lindsay let out a slow, deep breath.
 
She opened her eyes and dabbed away a single tear with the tip on an index finger.

“Thank God,” she said.
 
“I thought this day would never come.”

Dappled amber light shimmered on the tablecloth, rippling in the cut crystal of their wine glasses.

“This is it, then.
 
Our last night in Amsterdam,” she said.

Archer nodded.

“And you’re sure you won’t reconsider coming back with me?
 
Perhaps we can find a way to make it work,” she said, hope shining in her glassy eyes.

Archer studied his hands.

“Nothing has changed since our last talk,” he said.
 
“We both know I’m not what you need.
 
You have a family to think about.
 
I’ve carved out a rather bohemian existence for myself.
 
An uncomplicated life that suits me.
 
I’m only a phone call away if you ever need me, but let’s leave it at that.”

Lindsay wiped away another tear.
 
She nodded.
 
Squeezed his hand.
 
Pressed her lips to his one last time.

“Thank you,” she said, “for seeing this through to the end.”

Archer winked again.

“So, let’s do this,” she said.
 
“We have what we came for.
 
I don’t want to waste another minute.”

“Whatever you say,” Archer replied.

They left cash on the table for the wine and exited Café Roux without ordering.
 
They strolled hand in hand the several blocks to where his rented Peugeot was parked at the curb.
 
He started the car and peeled into traffic.

They departed the urban geography of Amsterdam for the picturesque rural landscape of the surrounding countryside.
 
The Peugeot sped down the A2 for more than sixty kilometers before exiting toward Waardenburg.
 
The sleek sports car hugged curve after curve through the darkly forested farm and pastureland.
 
A light mist began to fall as sunset swiftly approached.
 

They turned onto a narrow dirt lane that wound for several kilometers through dense trees with branches that formed a thick canopy over the road.
 
The Peugeot’s headlights cut like a saber through the deepening gloom.

Archer flicked on the wipers to whisk away the mist.
 
Lindsay placed her hand on his in the glow of the instrument panel.
 
They hadn’t spoken the entire hour’s drive from Amsterdam.

The dirt lane stopped at a crude metal gate covered in vines of ivy.
 
Archer set the handbrake, took the transmission out of gear, and trotted through the mist to open the lock.
 
He swung the gate wide, then returned to the car and pulled through.

A half-mile farther on, the Peugeot arrived at the circle drive at the front of a quaint lake house with an enviable view of the water.

Archer again set the handbrake and killed the lights.
 
The glow of the instrument panel dimmed when he took the key from the ignition.
 
He glanced over at her, her face partially obscured by shadow.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he asked.

Lindsay was silent for a long moment.
 
Then she turned her eyes to him and nodded.

“I’m ready,” she said.

They followed a footpath to the front steps of the lake house.
 
Drapes were drawn over the windows and there was no evidence of lights on anywhere inside.
 
They stood on the porch and glanced around beyond the lawn to the fog pressing in from the forest.
 
Archer knocked on the front door.
 
The same simple code as always.

They heard movement inside.
 
Leather soles scuffing on a wood floor.
 
The rhythmic thump of a cane on the warped planks.
 
A moment later they heard the metallic clunk of the dead bolt turning.
 
Then the door opened.

Raj stood silhouetted against the dimly lit interior.
 
He stood with one hand on the door, one hand on the pewter grip of his walking cane.
 
He motioned them inside with a dip of his head.
 
Archer had phoned ahead from the road, letting Raj know they were on the way.

The house was mostly dark.
 
Dim, fading light from outside glowing through the long thin gaps between the vertical blinds over the back windows.
 

There was no effort at conversation as Raj led them past a massive fireplace built from local flagstone.
 
A narrow hallway with a hardwood floor led to a closed door with a low header.
 
Raj opened the door and the three of them ducked through into the darkness of a narrow, unlit flight of concrete stairs.
 
The air grew chill and musty as they descended into the basement.
 
At the bottom of the stairs was a closed door.
 
Raj nudged open the door with the rubber knob at the bottom end of his cane.
 
Archer and Lindsay followed him inside.

The basement was perhaps twelve feet by fourteen.
 
Clutter had accumulated along the walls.
 
The room was drafty.
 
The only light was a bare bulb dangling forlornly from a wire between rafters.
 
There were no other doors.
 
No windows.
 
No light coming in, no light leaking out.
 
The 60-watt bulb overhead sprayed white light onto every dull gray surface and formed shadows among the clutter and the wood of the rafters.

Inside this room, they found Gaston Dunbar right where they’d left him, chained to a vertical support beam hewn from Lodgepole Pine, his form distorted by crazed shadows via the cone of stark white light.
 
His head hung limply, his neck exhausted from days of supporting it.
 
His hands were pinned behind the dense post of heavy timber, his wrists manacled by iron cuffs.
 
Both his legs and upper body were banded to the post with layers of chain and rope.
 
His shirt had been stripped off.
   

The three of them filed into the room and lined up along the wall, staring at Dunbar pinned there helplessly to the beam like a sacrifice to a pagan deity.
 
They had finally caught up with him, tracking him to this lake house where he had been living for the past several months.
 
They had caught him ten days ago, having tracked him halfway around the world and across four continents.
 
Patiently and methodically following leads and piecing together his trail.
 
They had gotten close four months earlier in Bangkok, but before they could jump on him he vanished again, fleeing the country in the dead of night.
 
The turning point came in Madrid.
 
An American expatriate working as an importer recognized him from a posting on the Internet and snapped a digital photo of Dunbar standing on a street corner.
 
The ex-pat emailed the photo to Special Agent Kline in Los Angeles, and Archer and Raj hopped the next flight across the Atlantic.
 
The trail eventually led to Holland.
 
They paid ten thousand dollars for the address to the lake house and waited in the shadows for him to return home with his weekly ration of groceries.

Dunbar endured great pain at their hands as they labored at extracting answers from him.
 
He lasted several long days before he began to crack.
 
Slowly the details of his escape plan began to surface as exhaustion settled in and his defenses crumbled.
 
Leonard Monroe had put the pieces in place, he said, organizing the entire operation from the outside.
 
Dunbar had promised the lawyer four hundred of the five hundred million for his efforts.
 
A bargain, as far as Dunbar was concerned.
 
He told them about a banker in the Caribbean who could verify the existence of Monroe’s share of the fortune.
 

Most of Dunbar’s money was now tucked away in a handful of Swiss accounts spread across Zurich.
 
He gave them account numbers, and within hours nearly ninety-three million of it had been accounted for.

But the money was of least interest to them.
 
They had come for Sidney and Robin.
 
Dunbar had held out until his body could simply no longer withstand the agony.
 
Forty-eight hours ago he had finally folded.

Dunbar flicked his eyes at them.
 
His long stringy hair sagged around his face.
 
Sweat dripped from his chin and chest.
 
He was striped with lashes and cuts.
 
Beaten purple and black.
 
His cheeks and lips bulged from something stuffed inside his mouth.

Raj stepped forward and forced Dunbar’s jaws open, withdrawing a damp greasy rag.

“Let…me…go…” Dunbar spat when the gag had been removed, his voice reduced to a raspy hiss.

“Kline found them,” Archer said.
 
“Right where you told us we’d find them.”

“Go to hell,” Dunbar growled, barely able to breathe.
 
His strength had left days ago.

“You think you were pretty clever, don’t you?”

“I’m more brilliant than you could ever dream.”

“Well, you’ve reached the end of the road.”

“Let…me…go…”

Archer stared at him a long moment, then turned and placed a hand on Raj’s shoulder, sharing a short moment of silence with his old friend.
 

Raj said, “This is for Simeon.”

“I know.”
 
Archer nodded.

Raj turned away and crossed the basement to a darkened corner opposite the door.
 
A dozen plastic gallon jugs stood in a neat row against the wall.
 
The plastic jugs were transparent.
 
Each was filled with gasoline.

Archer turned to Lindsay.

She had prepared a long, hateful speech, rehearsed a thousand times in her head over the years since the murders of her sister and niece.
 
But now, standing there, in the moment leading up to his execution, the words failed her.
 
She now simply wanted him gone.

“We should wait outside,” Archer said.

She shook her head.
 
“I want to watch.”

“No.
 
You’d be better off not seeing any more than you already have.”

“I want him to rot in hell.”

“He’s on his way.”

She stared long and hard at Dunbar’s broken body eerily silhouetted before her.
 
Her eyes were glassy.
 
It had taken so many years for her to arrive at that moment, to know that it was finally going to happen.
 
She closed her eyes and exhaled a deep breath.
 
Then she took Archer by the hand, reluctantly turning for the stairs.
 

Archer nodded at Raj.

Then Archer and Lindsay returned up the narrow flight of stairs and closed the upper basement door behind them.

Alone in the room with Dunbar, Raj stuffed the greasy rag back into Dunbar’s mouth.
 
Then he twisted off the cap from one of the gallon jugs.
 
The fuel sloshed about.
 
He stepped close to the man bound to the vertical beam.
 
Stepped close enough for Dunbar to feel his hot breath as he spoke.

“This is for my brother,” Raj said.
 
“An eye for an eye.”
 

Dunbar glanced at the transparent plastic jug.
 
Smelled the unmistakable fumes.
 
His eyes widened in horror.