Fear

TWENTY-EIGHT

Hurley coughed, dried his mouth against the back of his wrist. ‘The man’s name is Dennis Groote. He’s from California.’

‘Who’s he work for?’ Miles jabbed the gun harder against Hurley’s skull.

‘A man named Quantrill.’

‘Who’s Quantrill?’

‘He’s my boss.’

‘Where do I find him?’

‘Santa Monica, California.’

‘What’s the connection with Sorenson?’

‘I don’t know any Sorenson.’

‘Lying is a bad idea, Doctor. I shot a man. It’s easier, I suspect, the second time.’

‘Nice of you to share,’ Andy said, leaning against the wall. ‘Shoot him, Miles, he’s useless. Kill again. It won’t make you better or worse.’

Miles took his finger off the trigger but dug the barrel of the gun harder into the back of Hurley’s head.

The pressure spilled the words faster from Hurley. ‘I don’t know any Sorenson, I swear to God.’

The cell phone in Hurley’s pocket rang, playing a Bach toccata. ‘I’m supposed to be checking in. I don’t, Groote will come straight here.’

Miles believed him. ‘You buy us time. Play dumb. Answer it.’

Hurley gently dug the flip phone from his pocket, opened it. ‘Yes, hello?’

Miles kept the gun close on Hurley, knelt so he could hear. ‘Doctor Hurley, it’s Dennis Groote.’

‘I spoke with Celeste Brent. She knows nothing.’

‘Understood. There is a gentleman from the federal government in the lobby. He wants to speak to you about a patient of Doctor Vance’s. A man named Michael Raymond. I know you’re very busy right now…’

Miles prodded Hurley with the gun, mouthed, Tell him no.

‘I can’t see anyone,’ Hurley said. ‘Not now. Tomorrow.’

‘I strongly suggest you should make time now, Doctor. This takes precedence. We could be of service to the authorities. They need to find Mr. Raymond.’

Hurley froze. Miles mouthed, No, again.

‘Tomorrow,’ Hurley said. ‘Not today. I can’t. My hands are full.’

A pause; Miles could hear Groote’s frustrated sigh. ‘All right. I’ll set up a meeting for tomorrow.’

‘Tell the officer thank-you for his patience.’

‘Understood.’

‘I have to go now,’ Hurley said. ‘Good-bye.’

‘Bye.’ Groote hung up.

Miles closed the flip phone. Celeste edged back into the room.

‘I know you won’t want to, Celeste, but you need to leave,’ Miles said.

‘Isn’t that for me to decide?’ she said quietly.

‘These people are dangerous, you can’t stay.’

‘But I don’t know anything. I don’t have what they want.’

‘Allison stole computer files, then used your computer. There has to be a reason. Might be she thought they were monitoring her system. But they’re not going to leave you alone until they find out if you have Frost.’

Celeste sank into a chair.

‘Your friend you mentioned. Could you call her, have her come pick you up?’

‘And put her in danger? No. This is a matter for the police…’

‘I have to do this, make it right for Allison… I promised her…’

Celeste stood up. ‘Say she took the research and hid it on my computer. Or sent it to someone else, or to herself, in case she got caught. Or killed. There will be an electronic trace.’

‘Up,’ Miles ordered Hurley, jabbing the gun into his back. ‘Celeste, please show me your computer.’

The two men followed Celeste down the hall. Pictures covered the walls: Celeste and a handsome young man on the beach, on a patio clicking margarita glasses together, Celeste giving the man a kiss on the cheek. And on the other side were a montage of photos, he guessed, from her brief television career: she and nine other people standing on a beach, her in a modest lime-green bikini, looking alternately pensive; crafty; overjoyed; chopping palm wood, hauling herself over a stone barrier. Holding a check for five million dollars, a dazzling smile as bright as summer.

He and Hurley followed Celeste into her study; her computer, a new, high-end number, sat on a maple table in the corner. The room smelled of cleanser and Celeste’s tangerine shampoo, and Miles wondered if she washed her hair a lot, if she scrubbed her skin till it ached. Cleansing herself of guilt. It had not occurred to him; Andy’s blood seemed as permanent as a tattoo on his hands. The faint odor of antiseptic hung in the air like a woman’s perfume.

Celeste sat at the computer and started to type.

‘I want you to know I had nothing to do with Allison’s death. Neither did Groote,’ Hurley said.

‘What about Sorenson? He planted a bomb there.’

Celeste paled. ‘How do you know?’

‘I’ll explain later.’ He put the gun back on Hurley. ‘While she hunts, you tell me about Quantrill.’

‘There are consultants – off the payrolls – who find promising research for the drug companies to develop further. Quantrill is one.’

‘How long have you worked on Frost?’

‘A year. The refinements to Frost are my ideas, you know, you’re stealing my ideas.’

‘I don’t think she used an e-mail program,’ Celeste said. ‘She erased the browser’s history file. Possibly she used an FTP program.’

‘FTP?’ Hurley asked.

‘File Transfer Protocol. A kind of program used to upload files from one system to another. People use them all the time in building Web sites, moving the Web site’s files from their computer to the host system. I’ve got one…’ Celeste opened a folder. ‘Here. Every upload creates a log entry. It’ll list any files uploaded to another system from this computer.’ Silence while Celeste hunted. ‘She did use it. Here’s a whole series of files uploaded to a remote Web server. Here’s the address.’ She hit a keyboard command; the printer spooled out the log for her.

‘We need to find who has that IP address.’

Celeste went back to typing, querying the server’s URL against an Internet database. ‘It’s registered to a Mercury Mountain Hosting, but there’s no information as to where the server’s located.’

‘I know how to trace the server but I need additional software,’ Miles said. ‘You know Mercury Mountain, Doctor?’

‘No. I’ve never heard of the company. But I’ll make you a deal. We contact them, we get Frost back. Together. I’ll get Groote off your ass; one word from me to Quantrill and he leaves you alone. You stay silent, you get the drug first. You get your heads straight. Forever.’

Miles jabbed him with the gun. ‘I’m not shutting up.’

Hurley gave him the glare of a man emptied of patience. ‘You aren’t very smart at playing hero. You don’t want to go there, not the two of you, not two fucked-up messes who can’t talk without waving a gun in a face or don’t dare step outside because your fear cripples you.’ He practically spat his words at Celeste. ‘I can give you your lives back. Free of the nightmares, free of the trauma. All we need is your silence.’

Miles thought of Sorenson’s strange promise, echoing in his head: What if you could forget the worst moment of your life?

Hurley said, ‘Celeste, I’m sorry I frightened you. But Frost could cure you. Isn’t that what you want?’

Miles stepped back from him. ‘Celeste. Is there any copy of what she uploaded to this remote server still on your system?’

‘I’m searching the hard drive, but, no, not so far.’

‘I don’t want the good doctor to see anything else we find.’

‘Okay.’ Her voice was steady and she took her hands off the keyboard. ‘You say you won’t be silent. Are you going to kill him?’

‘No,’ he said, then he added a lie: ‘But I won’t let him hurt us either.’

Hurley said, ‘You’re making a grave mistake, Michael…’

Surprise spread across Celeste’s face. ‘You said your name was Miles.’

‘It is. He thinks it’s Michael. Long story.’

‘He’s lied to you, Celeste. His name’s Michael and there’s a federal cop at the hospital asking for him,’ Hurley said. ‘You can’t trust him. I’ve only tried to help you, to protect you…’

‘How did you know my name?’ Miles said. He thought back to Hurley’s arrival – he had never spoken his fake name, or his real name, and neither had Celeste. Realization hit; Hurley had lied. ‘You do have Nathan.’

‘Yes.’

The fed wanting to talk to Hurley about Michael Raymond – why? What had Groote said? We could be of service to the authorities. What did that mean? One thing – setting a trap for Miles, one designed by the feds and executed by Groote. And Hurley had put Groote off for no real reason, and knowing how badly Hurley and Groote wanted Miles, Groote would be suspicious…

‘Celeste!’ he hollered. ‘We got to go! We have to leave. Groote could be heading here right now.’ So could the feds, but he didn’t say that – she would argue to stay, and he couldn’t leave her alone.

Celeste shook her head. ‘No. I can’t.’

‘We have to go, now!’

She shook her head; her hands began to tremble. ‘No, no, I can’t, I can’t leave…’

‘I’ll take you to my friend DeShawn,’ he said. He got up and moved past Hurley. Screw this, he’d give himself up to WITSEC, he couldn’t see her trembling and broken and hurt. They knew enough for the police to expose Allison’s killers and this medical research she’d died to stop, he was crazy to think he could set the world back to rights for the lost Allison, for himself, for anyone.

A needle slid into his neck.

He wrenched his head away from Hurley. Miles tumbled over a chair, grabbed at his throat, fumbled fingers over the syringe, pulled it free from his flesh.

He fell back in the chair. Miles screamed as Hurley’s thumbs gouged into his eyes with calm, surgical precision. He tried to kick away from the doctor but Hurley dug a nail into the soft corner of Miles’s eyes, intent on popping the orbs from his skull. He tried to aim the gun past the agony in his face and one hand went from his eyes, seized the gun from his hand. Miles closed his hands around Hurley’s wrists, lifted, and pushed. The barrel pressed against his lips in a cold kiss, as he heard Celeste screaming. Then the barrel jerked away from his mouth.

Miles pulled his knees between himself and Hurley with a mighty effort, kicked back, tore his face free of Hurley’s claws. He couldn’t see, his eyes blinded in pain, his head loose and light as a stringless balloon. Then the gun boomed, Celeste screamed, then sudden silence.