Freeze Frame (22 page)

I reached the metal door without attracting
attention. Flinging it open, I found a flight of metal steps
running down into darkness.

At the bottom of the stairs I paused to let
my eyes adjust to the dim light. I stood at the end of a long
tunnel-like corridor. A string of dim yellow emergency lights
positioned about twenty feet apart stretched along the ceiling as
far as I could see.

I thought I heard footsteps straight
ahead.

"Ken?" My voice echoed against cement
walls.

"Ken?"

I began walking forward.

90

12:54 a.m.

Where the hell is Kaminski?

Joe Washington checked his watch for the
fourth time in seven minutes, exactly the span since the game had
ended.

It had been bad enough sitting through that
runaway. Super Bowl replay? Bull. Wasn't even a contest past the
second half kick off. But with the game on, at least he had
something.

He glanced at the figure in the bed.
Rodriguez had opened his eyes a few times during the game, mostly
when the crowd noise grew loud. Washington almost expected him to
talk.

Where the hell is Kaminski?

He got up and walked to the door, looking
out. The hall deserted, he checked his watch again.

Twelve-fifty-five.

There hadn’t been a sniff of trouble all
night. Washington decided to give Kaminski until one o’clock.

Then he’d be the hell out of here.

91

12:56 a.m.

How long I had been picking my way through
this cold, dark and seemingly endless maze of corridors, I didn't
know. I lost track of time. I made a wrong turn somewhere and came
to a dead end. Retracing my steps to the main hallway, I continued
to follow the dim yellow emergency lights.

A cement wall loomed just ahead. Lord,
please, not another dead end. As I neared the wall, I saw the
corridor take a jog to the left. I followed and found myself
standing outside a cavernous room. A freight elevator on the far
side had several white canvas mail carts directly in front; carts
used to hold outgoing mail; carts that might hold discs ready for
shipment. I guessed the position of this room directly below the
first floor mailroom.

A tall white-haired man stood next to one of
the carts, his back to me.

"Ken?" The sound of my voice bounced around
the room like a racquetball.

Startled, the man turned quickly. Oh, Lord,
no, not Ken. He couldn’t be involved in this. I walked toward
him.

"Darcy? What the hell are you doing down
here?"

"I was following you. Why are you here?"

"I...I came to check on packages that have to
go out tomorrow."

I stood five feet from Ken, close enough to
see drops of perspiration on his brow. In the faint light I saw the
cart next to him full of discs in cardboard envelopes; there were
at least two hundred.

It had to be the cart Riggs found in the
Media Center yesterday.

"They're copies of the new Ampere spot,"
Cunningham said. "I...I thought they might...well, I just thought I
ought to check on them."

"Why?" I knew the answer, but hoped the man
I’d known since childhood would come up with something I hadn't
considered: a simple, innocent reason for being here.

Cunningham wrinkled his brow, eyes darting
about the room. He seemed to search for an answer. "I don't know
exactly. I had this strange urge...”

"Maybe it was the same kind of urge people
are getting to vote for Niles VanBuhler."

"What are you talking about?"

"Subliminal messages. In those commercials
there, and in the Ampere commercial you saw tonight."

"Subliminal messages? That’s crazy."

"We planted a message in the Ampere
commercial that ran tonight, Ken. A message that would be
meaningless...except to someone involved in the plot to influence
next week's election.

"And damn it, Ken." My voice cracked, "That
message led you here."

"Election? Message? Darcy, you'd better
explain yourself.”

I told him, starting with Caponi's murder and
Cato’s fake suicide, the beating of Manny Rodriguez, and Sean
Higgins' discovery of the subliminal messages in Traverse City.
When I finished, Cunningham appeared dumbfounded.

"Conspiracy? Here at Adams & Benson? I
don’t believe it."

"Believe it."

The third voice startled us both. I whirled
to see the outline of a man in the doorway. Even in the dim light,
there was no mistaking C. J. Rathmore.

And he held a pistol.

92

Tuesday, October 26 1:03 a.m.

Killing the policeman in Rodriguez's room
would have been easy, perhaps even enjoyable, but the white-haired
man waited him out.

Seated in an empty room two doors from
Rodriguez, he heard the policeman leave. He waited two minutes then
walked silently to the hall and peered out. To his right, at the
far end of the corridor, he saw three nurses starting their
rounds.

He ducked back into the room. He wanted no
confrontation this night. No trouble. He looked forward to a quick
kill, a few hours rest, and a plane home to Tijuana. He would wait
those nurses out, too. The man two doors away wasn't going
anywhere.

***

The nurse had come and gone. Manny Rodriguez
lay gazing at the ceiling, wondering whether the vision of Darcy
had been real.

He had regained consciousness days ago. But
constantly drifting in and out of sleep, he found it difficult to
separate dream from reality. At first he had no recollection of
where he lay or how he had gotten there. He guessed a traffic
accident, then a fall. Breathing hurt; probably broken ribs.

His legs remained numb, but his arms had
movement. Each day since regaining consciousness he struggled to
move them a bit more.

He overheard the nurses talking about a
beating, but it took time to realize they referred to him. He had
no memory of a beating or inkling of why anyone would want to hurt
him.

He spent much time sleeping, as he had
tonight. He knew the man who’d been there earlier had gone, but
suddenly felt the presence of someone else. He tilted his head
forward slightly, making out the outline of a man carrying some
sort of bag. As the man came closer, he saw the hair on his head
appeared white as snow.

He sensed something familiar about the man,
perhaps someone he should know, someone from long ago. Then he felt
another presence.

"May I ask what you're doing here?" Rodriguez
recognized the voice of one of the nurses.

"I'm Doctor Orlich. I'm here to see this
patient."

“I don't recall your name on our staff
bulletins."

"I'm filling in. Short notice."

Rodriguez felt the weight of the bag near his
feet as the man set it down. He heard the rasp of a zipper.

"What are you doing?" the nurse asked.

"The patient requires an injection." The
white-haired man took something from the bag, a vial of liquid. He
reached again and withdrew a syringe.

The nurse picked up the chart at the foot of
his bed and began reading it. "I don't see where Doctor Logan
prescribed an injection."

"I spoke with Dr. Logan half an hour ago. He
said the patient has been restless."

“There is no Dr. Logan," the nurse said. "I
made up the name. The patient's physician is Dr. Reiner."

"And you have outsmarted yourself." The man
dropped the syringe onto the bed and grabbed the nurse with both
hands. She tried to call out, but managed only muffled sounds. The
man had his left hand on her mouth, holding her tight. With his
right hand he reached for the syringe and plunged it into her
neck.

The nurse went limp and he laid her on the
floor. Rodriguez couldn't see the woman, but could hear her
thrashing as if suffering a seizure or heart attack.

He felt helpless. He couldn't sit up, could
barely move. Then he remembered the pistol. Darcy had pushed it
under the left side of the pillow. His left hand lay at his waist.
Struggling mightily, he moved it upwards three inches.

The nurse stopped thrashing and the stillness
of death permeated the room. The man reached into his black medical
bag and withdrew a second syringe. He lifted the vial.

Six more inches
. Rodriguez struggled
for inches, each movement of his hand a gargantuan
accomplishment.

The white-haired man held the vial and
syringe toward the ceiling. He drew the plunger back and filled the
hypodermic with the liquid that sent the nurse into
convulsions.

Three inches more.

Rodriguez worried whether he could lift the
pistol once he reached it. It was light, a Beretta. He had fired
thousands of rounds with this particular type of weapon. He knew
the weight, the feel, the location of the safety, the exact amount
of force to use on the trigger.

The white-haired man held the syringe toward
the door and checked its contents. He turned and approached the
bed, the syringe in front of him.

Rodriguez thrust his hand up, and under the
pillow.

There it was.

If the white-haired man had noticed
Rodriguez’s movement in the darkness, he gave no indication. He
reached with one hand and pulled off the covers, exposing
Rodriguez’s body. He bent down, and pulled up Rodriguez’s hospital
gown.

Summoning every bit of strength, Rodriguez
pulled the Beretta from beneath the pillow and thrust it forward.
The white-haired man looked up, his face going blank as he saw the
gun. His eyes widened as the Beretta fired.

"You bastard," the man stammered. He
staggered backward, hand to his right shoulder. He regained his
balance and moved forward, the deadly hypodermic now in his left
hand. The wound had slowed him, but he came closer just the same.
Rodriguez recognized there was nothing more he could do, no way he
could lift the gun again. Three feet from the bed, the man stumbled
and fell forward, sprawling face down, the top of his head hitting
Rodriguez’s leg.

Dead? No.

The man fought his way back up, lifting
himself on his elbows, then fell again.

It wasn't until he tried a second time: face
straining, holding himself high, then collapsing on the bed, that
Rodriguez knew the man with the snow white hair wasn't going to get
up.

Not now or ever.

The syringe had lodged in his throat.

***

When the bullet first hit the white-haired
man, he knew instinctively the wound in his shoulder was not fatal.
A lifetime on the streets, killing, wounding and being wounded
taught him enough to know he would recover.

But he hadn't counted on tripping over the
dead nurse's leg and falling against the bed. As he struggled to
raise himself and felt the sudden sensation of pain rush through
his chest, he realized immediately what had happened. He knew that,
for him, the fight had ended.

Mendoza and Lobo. Lobo and Mendoza. The team
dissolved in a single awkward move.

Lobo lay dying; now it was up to Mendoza.

He knew the Monster would not fail.

93

1:07 a.m.

"Miss James, what a surprise. To paraphrase
one of your American authors, the reports of your death have been
greatly exaggerated."

"C. J., what the hell?" Ken’s words trailed
off. He began walking toward Rathmore.

"Stay there."

Cunningham stopped in his tracks. "C. J.,
what about these DVDs?"

"Miss James is correct." The yellow glare
from the emergency lights reflected off the round lenses of
Rathmore's glasses making it impossible to see his eyes and
creating an appearance more sinister than the gun he pointed.

Ken turned to me. "I swear, Darcy, I had
nothing to do with these DVDs. With you and Higgins gone, I’ve had
to run the account. Rathmore asked me to store the discs where they
wouldn't be found. But I had no idea..."

"No," Rathmore said. "You were the perfect
dupe."

I asked, "Who are you? Who do you work for?
Mendoza?"

A hollow laugh. “I am Mendoza."

A chill ran through me. "But the photograph
of Mendoza the police uncovered resembles Robert Bacalla."

"Ah, the unfortunate photograph. The only one
ever taken of either of us. The face is indeed the man you refer to
as Robert Bacalla. In my country he is known as Lobo."

"But the authorities say Mendoza assassinated
that government official."

"Yes. Lobo was there to cover my exit. In the
picture I stood out of sight, directly behind him.

“Now I will ask the questions." Mendoza
motioned to the pistol. "It is imperative you provide the correct
answers."

Ken raised a clenched fist. "I'll be damned
if I do another thing for you, Rathmore...Mendoza, or whatever the
hell your name is."

The pistol in Mendoza's hand barked, and Ken
fell to the floor. He rolled over screaming, holding his left knee
with both hands.

"You son-of-a-bitch."

"I repeat: I will ask the questions...and
shoot again and again if the answers are not correct."

I’d had enough of the bastard. "You're going
to kill us anyway."

"Perhaps. But there are ways to die. Death
can be quick, or you can beg me to end your pain.

"Now, who besides yourselves is aware of the
message on the discs? And please think carefully before you answer;
I will make it very unpleasant if you lie."

My head reeled. I couldn’t block out the
sounds Ken made, moaning with pain as he rolled on the cement
floor. No one knew we were here, and I was the only one with the
information Mendoza wanted.

If I gave him the names, the others --
Higgins, Carter, Kaminski and Rodriguez would die along with Ken
and me. The conspiracy would go undetected, and Mendoza and his
people would control the government of the United States. Major
cities plagued by drugs and drug-related crime just a few years ago
would slip back into the morass. Somehow I had to deal with the
pain. I couldn't let that happen.