Vanished (33 page)

93.

G
abriel,” Kozak said, softly, coaxing, “you don’t want to be responsible for mutilating your own mother, do you? Put that toy down.”

Gabe snarled, “
You goddamned
—” and there was a loud pop and Kozak, anticipating the shot, sidestepped, and the thing shot out of the Taser, the metal probes striking the granite kitchen island, trailed by a silvery filament,
click-click-clicking.

And Lloyd Kozak lurched forward, quick as a rattlesnake striking, grabbing her son, while she screamed again, the high, desperate, choked cry, tears blurring her vision, and she knew it was over, the whole terrible nightmare was ending, and this sadist would—

“Police!” barked a voice. Another voice.

A whole bunch of them, blue-clad policemen in her kitchen, weapons drawn. The one who knocked Kozak to the floor, a knee to Kozak’s throat, was older than the others, a man with thick glasses she recognized from the hospital room so long ago. Not much more than a week ago, though it seemed much longer.

“
WHO PUNCHED
in the duress code?” Arthur Garvin asked.

“Me,” Gabe said.

“You did good, kid,” Garvin said. “Saved your mom’s life.”

Gabe nodded.

“We need to get your mom to the emergency room. Get a doc to take a look at that cut on her eye. Probably need stitches.”

The emergency medical guys had bandaged the slice under her eye, which stanched the flow of blood. It no longer hurt. Her mouth hurt more, actually, from where they’d ripped off the duct tape.

“Was he in the house when you got home?” Garvin asked, meaning Kozak.

She shook her head. “He called and asked if he could come over. Who is he?”

“He works for Paladin.”

Yes, she thought. Paladin. She knew it was only a matter of time.

“You knew he’d come here?”

“No. I have a warrant for his arrest, and we’ve been looking for him all over, most of the day.”

“But what made you come here?”

“Truth?” Garvin said. “Nick asked me to check in on you. Make sure you guys were okay.”

94.

T
he room was dark and cool and smelled both recently cleaned and rarely used. The floor had been washed with oil soap and the furniture polished with lemon oil. But at the same time there was that faint musty odor of a room that’s normally kept closed up. Enough light from outside filtered in for me to see that it was a guest room. Twin beds, two night tables, a TV set, a bureau. A private bathroom. Not much else.

I placed the folded ladder and the duffel bag on the floor by the window, out of sight and yet easy to get to. Unzipped the bag and removed one last piece of equipment: the Ruger.

The floor creaked as I walked across it.

I slowed my pace, trying to minimize the creaking. Listening for any sounds. I had a rough idea where I was headed. I’d figured that Granger’s bedroom, the largest room on the second floor, was at the front of the lodge, on the southwest corner.

I’d also observed that no other lights stayed on up here. No lights in the corridors. That indicated that there were no guards outside his bedroom, unless they sat in the dark, which would be highly unusual.

Though not impossible. Nothing could be ruled out.

The door was heavy and solid, well balanced on its hinges. I turned the knob and pulled the door in slowly a few inches. No squeak. Almost silent. I peered out, saw no one.

Pulled it in a few inches more.

Waited.

There was less ambient light in the hall than there’d been in the bedroom. The window was farther away. But when my eyes adjusted I saw no guard, no one sitting on a chair with a weapon. Just a corridor that was empty except for a narrow table, a vase of flowers at its center.

I emerged slowly, carefully, gripping my weapon, and pulled the door almost shut behind me.

A pair of double doors down the hall to my right.

The doors to Allen Granger’s room.

Was he really in there? I hadn’t seen him enter or leave the lodge since I’d arrived. But the radio transmissions had made reference to him—to “the boss,” to “the Big Guy,” and once even to “Mr. Granger.” Plus, the security procedures would have been relaxed considerably if he hadn’t been in residence.

He had to be here.

Walking slowly, keeping my tread as light as possible, I made my way down the hall until I reached the double doors. Then I stopped. Listened.

Heard the faint buzzing of someone asleep. Gentle snoring.

He was asleep in there.

Ruger in my right hand, I clutched the left knob and turned it slowly. Hoping it wasn’t locked.

It wasn’t.

Pushed the left door open slowly, slowly. Glimpsed a large bed in the darkness. A sleeping figure beneath the covers. Heard the soft snoring.

Darker in here than it had been in the hall. The shades were pulled down: room-darkening shades, which made the room almost pitch-black. The only light spilled in from the hall.

I left the door ajar. Entered the room. The floors were covered in deep wall-to-wall carpet, which muffled my footsteps. I crossed the room to the right side of the bed, closest to where Granger lay swaddled in covers.

I’m sure my father had some line from one of his beloved ancient Chinese military tracts about the advantages of a sneak attack. But I didn’t need an ancient Chinese strategist to tell me what I already knew.

My heart had begun to thud. Not fear. But anticipation. Anticipation of what I would do to the man. Anger. Adrenaline.

As I reached the side of the bed, a tone sounded.

Loud.

Like a doorbell chime.

Too late I realized that I’d set off a pressure-sensitive switch concealed beneath the carpet.

I froze.

The sleeping figure suddenly lurched, the covers flying off, and a pajama-clad man sat up, grabbing a gun from under a pillow in one smooth movement.

Aimed it about three feet to the left of where I stood.

Nowhere near me.

“Freeze,” he said.

My eyes had adjusted to the darkness by now. I recognized Allen Granger: the neatly trimmed hair, the handsome young face I’d seen in photos hundreds of times.

But I didn’t expect to see the terrible scarring that marred the top half of his face. The raised welts of flesh where his eyes should have been.

Allen Granger was blind.

95.

D
on’t move,” he said.

He was gripping a Glock, still aimed a few feet to my left.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe, said nothing.

I didn’t want Granger to be able to locate me by sound.

He moved the gun slowly to his right, even farther away from me. He was guessing.

From the hallway behind me came footsteps. Someone running.

Quickly I reached out, grabbed the barrel of his Glock, jammed it upward, and wrenched it out of his hands. He struggled, made an angry growl, but he seemed to have no strength.

He had no leverage because he didn’t have the full use of his body. Granger was not just blind; he was partly paralyzed as well.

“You’re not going to make it out of here alive,” Granger said.

“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” I said.

“I know why you’re here, and you’ll never get away with it.”

The door to Granger’s bedroom burst open, lights came on, and a guard entered, weapon drawn. A submachine gun. A Heckler & Koch MP5.

“Take him down,” Granger said.

I spun around, my Ruger leveled at the guard. He looked vaguely familiar. Tall, fit, around my age.

A pistol versus a submachine gun. Like using a water pistol against a fire hose.

Then again, eight hundred rounds per minute didn’t mean much if the guy holding the submachine gun was dead. A bullet was a bullet.

I noticed the tattoo on his right biceps: crossed arrows over a dagger and the words
DE OPPRESSO LIBRE
. The Special Forces motto. Misspelled, but then, tattoo artists aren’t always known for their spelling.

“Drop the gun,” he said.

For several long seconds we stared at each other.

I lowered the Ruger.

“I said, drop it.”

I let go. The pistol fell noiselessly to the carpet.

Then I lowered my gaze to his submachine gun and smiled. I looked into his eyes again. “I don’t know how many rounds you plan on getting off,” I said, “with the fire selector on safe.”

He couldn’t help himself: He glanced quickly down at his weapon.

And I lunged.

Grabbed the barrel and twisted it upward as I kneed him in the stomach, knocked him to the floor. He expelled a great lungful of air, made an
ooof
sound.

I said, “Your tattoo guy spelled it wrong, you know.”

The Special Forces motto was “De Oppresso Liber,” not “Libre.” Which meant “To liberate the oppressed.”

“Who the hell are you?” he said.

“Heller,” I said. “I’m here for my brother. And I don’t plan on leaving without him.”

“Did he say Heller?” I heard Allen Granger say from behind me. “That’s Roger Heller?”

“No,” I said. “Nick Heller. Roger’s brother.”

“Dear Lord,” Granger said. “We need to talk.”

96.

C
an I offer you a drink?”

“I thought you don’t drink.”

We’d moved to a spacious room downstairs. A fire roared in the large stone fireplace. Hand-hewn beams crisscrossed the ceiling.

Granger sat in a wheelchair, dressed in a white cardigan sweater, blue button-down shirt, and gray woolen slacks. His hair was neatly combed.

His once-handsome face was ruined.

Press-shy, a recluse: of course. It must have happened within the past year.

“Oh, not alcohol,” he said with a quiet chuckle. “Heavens, no.” He gave me a conspiratorial look. “I’m talking genuine Dublin Dr Pepper.”

“Excuse me?”

“The oldest Dr Pepper bottling plant in the world. Dublin, Texas. They make it with real cane sugar, not that nasty high-fructose corn syrup. In six-and-a-half-ounce glass bottles, too. You can hardly find the stuff anymore. And if you’ve never had a Dublin Dr Pepper, this is gonna change your life. It’s my weakness. Now you know.”

“No, thanks.”

“Please accept my apologies,” Granger said. “I’ve had difficulties with some of my employees.”

“Is that what happened to you? You were attacked by one of your own employees?”

He nodded. “I was fragged, I guess you could say.”

“Civilians can’t be fragged.”

“Technically, I suppose you’re right. But civilians usually don’t use grenades.”

I’d put the Ruger back in my ankle holster. I’d handed him back his Glock. There no longer seemed any point in weapons.

Softly, Granger said, “Have you found him?”

“No,” I said. “Until a few hours ago, I thought he was dead.”

“I don’t mean your brother. I mean
Him
. The Lord. Have you found Him?”

I blinked a few times. “I’ve been sort of busy.”

“Jesus is never too busy for us,” he said. “We must never be too busy for Him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Granger gestured toward his face, then toward his lap. “He’s gotten me through.”

“Why?” I said.

He paused, then said, “Why was I attacked?”

“Right.”

“There was a time, not so long ago, when private military contractors were outside the law, you know.”

“Above the law.”

“No. Outside the law. We weren’t covered by military law, and we weren’t covered by civilian law.”

“Neat little loophole. So your guys got to be cowboys. Shoot first and ask questions later. Kill whoever they wanted.”

“Some did, it’s true. Not all. Just a few.”

“But you realized that if you wanted to keep doing business with the government, you’d have to hang a few of your guys out to dry.”

“That’s awfully harsh, Nick.”

“The cost of doing business.”

“I won’t argue. And the men blame me for selling them out.”

“Who else should they blame?”

“I’m not in charge anymore. I’m little more than the figurehead. The front man.”

“Because you’re a division of a larger corporation? You’re part of Gifford Industries?”

He didn’t reply.

“So who is in charge now? Leland Gifford?”

He turned his unfocused blind eyes toward me. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Don’t know what?”

“What your brother did?”

“Yes,” I said impatiently. “Roger tried to extort a lot of money from you. He threatened to leak information on the bribes and payoffs you’ve made to the Pentagon.”

“That’s just a cover story.”

“And what’s
your
cover story? That my brother embezzled from the company?”

“No,” Granger said. “Your brother didn’t steal
from
the company. That’s not it at all. He stole the company itself.”

97.

A
llen Granger offered me the use of his Gulfstream 100 and one of his best pilots.

I took the Gulfstream to New York.

I had no idea what to expect as I crossed Lexington Avenue in Manhattan.

The ornate exterior of the Graystone Building hadn’t changed at all since I was a kid. It still looked like a Babylonian temple. Inside, though, you could see how the once-magnificent lobby had gotten run-down. The mural of Prometheus stealing fire was chipped and faded, but a couple of painters were perched on ladders, carefully restoring it. Some other guys were retouching the art deco ceiling panels. One of the elevators was being repaired.

But the brass elevator doors gleamed, and the elevator cabin still smelled of warm brass machinery and old leather. It still ascended slowly yet smoothly, the
whir
and
clunk
of gears somehow reassuring.

It seemed impossible, but the penthouse floor still had the aroma of my father’s pipe smoke.

There were a lot more workers up here, buffing the granite floor and replacing broken tiles and retouching the paint. I’d once read a piece in
The New York Times
about how the Graystone Building had fallen upon hard times, its occupancy rate had fallen to under forty percent, and its owners had been looking to sell for years.

It looked like the building had a new owner.

A couple of carpenters, who were restoring the mahogany wainscoting in the elevator lobby, glanced at me without interest. I walked slowly down the hall to the big corner office.

A woman was coming out: a tall, buxom blonde. Very attractive. Far more beautiful than the photo Dorothy had sent to my cell phone. I nodded, but she didn’t nod back.

Empty of any furniture or carpets, its oak parquet floor covered with white dropcloths, the office seemed even more spacious than I’d remembered it.

The sunlight flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and he stood, his back to me, looking out over Manhattan. His arms were spread, his hands pressed against the glass.

I wondered whether he remembered that Dad sometimes used to stand exactly like that.

He must have heard me enter, because he turned slowly. He flinched, but almost imperceptibly. Only a brother would have sensed it.

“Hey, Red Man,” Roger said.