"Where is Marco?" Wolfe repeated and Dalton
stiffened. If he did not lie for Marco, he was dead. Wolfe's eyes
glared up at him and they were wild with an unsettled anger. They
bore right through to Dalton's soul and knew he had to tell Wolfe
the truth. He could not escape death from Morgan Wolfe. With his
cunning and experience from years in the gangs and in prison, there
was a slight chance that he could escape Marco's
vengeance.
"I don't know where he went, Mister Wolfe," he
started haltingly. "This morning Marco ordered me to turn off the
transceiver and the screen on the number two black Cady. Told me if
you were to ask, he was out looking for Alex Rogers."
"Did you do what he told you?" Wolfe
asked.
"Yes, sir," Dalton admitted. "He put a knife
to my throat. After he left, I got a little curious. Seemed a
strange order and even stranger that he seemed real uptight. I
punched up the GPS screen and the street map overlay on the
computer."
"Where did he go?"
"Downtown," said Dalton, relieved to be free
of the burden. "Signal was weak because of the storm. We lost him
after he got off the freeway at Western Avenue."
Wolfe was silent for a long moment as he
stared at the guard. Dalton could barely stand under the intense
scrutiny. Then he realized that it was not at him that Wolfe's
concentration was focused, but at some inward problem.
"As soon as Marco gets back I want to see
him," Wolfe ordered. "Send two men to Virginia Essex's condo.
Search it and let me know if anything has been disturbed. Search
the area and find the Cadillac Alex was driving. I want a thorough
search of his apartment. Keep trying to get through to Marco on his
cell phone. I want him back here immediately or he's a dead man.
Then take....."
The phone interrupted Wolfe and he reached for
it. He listened quietly without saying a word. The only hint that
it was not good news was the slight tightening of his jaw. When he
did speak, his voice was taut as a stressed wire.
"You're positive?" he said. "I see." The fax
machine on the credenza behind him rang three times and began to
crank out a sheet of paper. "Yes, it's coming in now. Of course.
I'll see to it you get your usual fee."
Wolfe hung up the phone and turned to the fax
machine. His hand trembled only slightly as he tore the sheet of
paper from it and turned back to Dalton. He handed the guard the
sheet and Dalton's eyes went wide in surprise.
"A cop?" was all Dalton's dry throat could
spit out.
"Not just any cop," Wolfe replied. "A Centac
agent."
"What is that?" Dalton asked.
"They started as a special unit of the DEA,"
Wolfe explained. "They work just outside of the government. Now,
they're an assortment of specialty agents from the IRS, Customs,
other federal agencies, and some foreign police, state and local
cops, you name it. They track and destroy the operations of the
world's top criminals. Drug lords, mostly. And now me."
"What are you going to do?"
"Take every man you need. Do what I told you.
Find Alex Rogers. When you do, eliminate him."
"Yes, sir." Dalton opened the double den door
ready to leave.
"Dalton?" Wolfe stopped him. "This is
priority. If Rogers leaks information back to his superiors at
Centac, we're all as good as dead."
Dalton unconsciously rubbed at the gnawing
pain in his stomach. "Yes, Mister Wolfe," was all he could think to
say."
Clarissa woke in Randy's room, on his cot. The
room was empty with only the sound of the storm outside. A small
desk lamp burned on the brick bookshelf.
"Randy?" Clarissa called as she struggled to
sit up. Movement was tortuous, every muscle seemed bruised and
stiff with pain. Her neck was stiff and sore and she tried to
massage away the knot. Suddenly, a door slammed somewhere in the
basement followed by a heavy thud. Clarissa thought she heard a
sharp cry, but the sound was not repeated. She went to the door and
pressed her ear against its rough wood panels. The basement was
once again still. There was no further noise.
Clarissa eased herself back down on the cot
and held her head in her hands. It throbbed like a jack hammer. Her
shoulder and side ached and her throat felt tight and dry. She
wanted only to lay down and sleep. Every part of her seemed bruised
and battered, turned inside out, and slammed against a brick
wall.
She had been drugged, that much she realized.
By who or just how it was done, she could only guess. It could have
been the donut and coffee or Dotty's soup. Dotty! The missionary
was supposed to bring her car around to the back of the building
and pick Clarissa up after her errand next door.
How long ago had that been? Was she still
waiting? Clarissa gritted her teeth against the pain, pulled
herself up off the cot, and stumbled to the high window above the
sink. She could see little except that it was nearly dark and that
it was still raining out but not the downpour it had been earlier.
She dragged a wooden crate over to the sink and climbed up onto the
counter. She wiped the condensation off the glass with the sleeve
of her shirt. Randy's room faced the alley. Through the spattered
pane, Clarissa could make out what looked like a small white
foreign car parked at the end of the alley near the hotel's rear
door. The headlights were on and the engine was running.
Dotty was still waiting. In her elation and
excitement she nearly fell off the counter, banged her knee
sharply, and knocked some of the items off the bookshelf. She
replaced the fallen envelopes, the model race car, and what looked
to her like a knife handle missing the blade. As she was putting it
back on the shelf, her thumb pressed the spring and the blade
snapped in place. It startled her and she almost dropped it.
Curiously, she pressed the spring again and the blade
retracted.
Clarissa shoved past the pain in her head to
remember. Marco, coming down the stairs, his hands on her throat,
the axe, Marco falling toward her. The carving knife. Clarissa spun
toward the dish drainer, knowing what she would find there. Randy's
knife was gone. Marco's switchblade was here in his room. Marco was
dead. Had to be. It was safer out there now, with only Alex Rogers
between her and Dotty's waiting car. She would make it. She had
to.
She slipped the knife in the pocket of her
jeans. A long handled flash light had rolled under the cot and
Clarissa reached for it and tested the light. The strong beam cut a
swatch of yellow light through the darkness. Clarissa flicked the
light off and eased open Randy's door. The basement beyond was dark
and there was no noise or movement. She steeled herself against the
fear and stepped out into the blackness.
Clarissa could made out the stairs just ahead
of her. She said a silent prayer that Dotty would wait for her. The
spot where Marco's body lay was illuminated by a pool of fading
light from a high window. The body was still there, the light
glinting off the bone hilt of the carving knife in Marco's back.
There was a grim comfort in his death. His evil was no longer a
fearful threat. The small black eyes could no longer rape her soul
with their foul promise. Yet, there was the urge to avoid the body,
to skirt wide the gray pool of light. She feared that Marco's quick
reflexes would spring to life and grab at her, drawing her into
that same cold death.
Clarissa tensed as she scanned the shadows.
There was no sound, nothing. It was as if the cellar held its
breath and watch her with unseen eyes. The peril of death clung to
the damp cold air and Clarissa's skin prickled with its
touch.
Where was Randy? Clarissa could not accept
that the mute photographer was capable of murder, but would he save
her life? She wanted to believe that. Had someone else taken the
knife? The band of pressure squeezing her skull aborted any further
thought. She had to concentrate all of her energies to get out of
the basement, past Alex Rogers, to Dotty's waiting car.
She took one cautious step. The ground
crunched of glass shards under her foot, popping like gunfire in
her ears. She held her breath and listened, then eased her other
foot forward carefully.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by the slow
creaking of the basement door. A widening shaft of light
illuminated the wooden risers. Clarissa's sharp intake of breath
was muted by the thud of heavy boots descending the stairs. She
doused the light and backed into the narrow crevasse under the
stairs. The boots came into view through the gap in the risers and
paused on the step level with Clarissa's eyes.
In the light from the hallway above, the black
boots on the stairs were weathered and worn, run down in the heels
and badly scuffed. They were men's boots by their size and
Clarissa's hopes that it was Dotty was crushed. They were not
Randy's black running shoes, Rowland's shoddy loafers, or Dusty's
ancient wing tips.
The boots continued down the stairs, then
stopped as if searching. The light reflected off the magnum
revolver the man held at his side in his right hand. He moved
furtively to the pool of light where Marco's body laid. His back to
Clarissa, he bent down to investigate, placing his finger tips on
Marco's neck to feel for a pulse. She recognized the sleeveless
denim jacket and the baseball cap at once. Alex Rogers, still
dressed as the drunk. Clarissa watched as he ran his finger through
a moist spot on the floor, examined it closely, and rubbed it with
his thumb.
A car motor revved anxiously outside. Clarissa
heard it and a renewed surge of panic swept her. Dotty would not
wait forever. If Clarissa was going to get out of the hotel
tonight, it had to be now. She gripped the handle of the flashlight
tight in both of her hands and willed her reluctant feet to move.
She covered the distance between her and Alex in a couple of quick
steps. He heard the crunch of the glass on the floor behind him
and, still crouched, he turned his head.
Clarissa held the flashlight poised above her
head. She was inches from him, his brow a clear target. Alex threw
up his arm in a reflex action and knocked off the baseball cap.
Clarissa froze, jolted by Alex Roger's wide eyes staring up at
her.
"Clarissa!" Alex cried.
"What...no...I'm..."
She swung hard and fast before he could bring
the gun around to bear on her. Her first blow glanced off his arm
and he swore. He reached out and grabbed her leg, jerked it out
from under her. She swung again as she fell, the blow hitting
Alex's shoulder, knocking him off balance. The gun went sliding
across the cement floor. Alex grabbed Clarissa's wrist and tried to
stand. His boot slipped in the pool of blood on the floor and he
fell forward.
"Clarissa, wait," he shouted. "Listen to me.
I'm not what you think. You've got to..."
His words were cut off with a sharp cry as the
flashlight cracked down on his temple. He fell limp, face down,
across Marco's body.
Clarissa dropped the flashlight next to Alex's
inert form and backed away toward the stairs. Suddenly, the
basement door slammed shut.
"No," she yelled and ran up the stairs. She
twisted and pushed on the door knob. It was either stuck or locked
from the hallway. "Dusty?" she cried. "Dusty, the door is stuck.
Dusty!" She banged with both fists. There was no response. "Dusty,
somebody, please, open the door. Please!"
Clarissa peered down into the dark basement
for another way out. There were only the high windows. Somewhere
there had to be a ladder or something she could stand on. From the
bottom of the stairs, Alex stirred and moaned. Clarissa slapped the
door with her open palms. "Help me!" she screamed. "Please,
somebody help me! Open the basement door."
She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears
and leaned her forehead against the door. "Please, Dotty, don't
leave me! Please!" Frustration and failure settled about her and
she slumped to the top step. "Damn you, Morgan Wolfe," she cursed
him angrily. "Damn you to hell."
A streak of lightning from the receding storm
lit the rain spattered window in the front corner of the basement.
Below it, were piled crates and boxes, bulging plastic garbage
bags, battered suitcases, and old steamer trunks. Clarissa made her
way carefully down the stairs. She stood on the bottom step,
waiting for Alex to move or moan again. He lay still and silent.
Clarissa knew it would not be for long. She probably had only a few
minutes to escape the basement and get into the alley.
Much to her relief, Alex did not stir or make
any other sound. Clarissa ran to the corner and began to throw the
garbage bags off of the pile of crates. She dragged the first
steamer truck under the window and eased herself up. Even standing
on tiptoe she could not reach the window latch. Her head snapped
around when she thought she heard Alex moan again.
The two other trunks were too heavy to budge
and the pain in her shoulder slowed her efforts. She found an empty
wooden crate and piled it up on top of the trunk. A second climb
toward the window and she was able to just reach the latch but not
get her finger around it to get a firm grasp. Alex groaned and
tried to move. Clarissa stiffened and almost fell as she watched
him try to pull himself to his knees and then collapse back to the
floor. She eased herself down and managed to drag two suitcases
under the window. With painful effort she hoisted them up on top of
the crate. Carefully, she climbed back up and gave the window latch
a hard wrench. It snapped open and Clarissa pulled the glass pane
toward her. The cool, wet air caressed her face. She could see the
street and the alley but the window was toward the front of the
hotel so she could not see Dotty's car. Neither was she high enough
to crawl through to freedom. Her make-shift ladder needed to be a
foot or so higher.