16

The sixth floor had the same type of new-looking beige carpet and freshly painted white walls as on the nineteenth. Tense, Cavanaugh followed Jamie along the corridor. As he'd anticipated, after 10:00 p.m. no one was in it.

It's still not too late to back out, he kept telling himself.

Sure it is. If I back out, I might not get another chance to save John.

Unit 628 was on the right. Pressing himself against the wall next to it, Cavanaugh heard the muffled sounds of an explosion, followed by gunshots, sirens, and pulsing music: an action program on television. He gave Jamie a reassuring look and drew his pistol.

Jamie stood in front of the door's peephole and closed her eyes. When she opened them a few seconds later, her pupils were a normal size, in no way suggesting she was under stress.

But Cavanaugh was. He made a sudden decision that he should never have allowed her to be part of this. He motioned to her that they were leaving.

Jamie ignored him and knocked on the door.

Cavanaugh motioned even more forcefully.

Paying no attention, Jamie knocked again, and this time, the TV's sound went off.

We're in it now, Cavanaugh thought. He marveled at how bored Jamie made herself look in front of the door's peephole, the pizza boxes propping up her breasts.

With a loud scrape, a lock was disengaged. Cavanaugh pressed himself closer to the wall, keeping far enough away that he couldn't be seen.

As he expected, whoever was in there opened the door only as far as a chain would allow.

"You ordered two medium pizzas?" Jamie looked at the piece of paper taped to the top box. "Pepperoni and black olives? The other deluxe?"

"Usually it's a kid who delivers." The man had a European accent.

"No shit," Jamie said. "My husband and I own the business. Three delivery kids didn't show up tonight. Lucky me, here I am."

The man chuckled. "How much?"

She raised the boxes tighter to her breasts while she leaned down to read him the price on the piece of paper.

"Hang on a second." The man closed the door.

The moment the door swung shut and the man couldn't see what was in front of it, Cavanaugh hurried from where he was pressed against the wall. He rushed the door and ducked below the peephole. Shielding Jamie, he heard the scrape and rattle of the chain being freed.

As the door came open all the way, Cavanaugh charged toward the surprised man. Obeying instructions, Jamie upended the pizza boxes so the Kevlar vest inside protected her. The man was the same skinhead Cavanaugh had taken the black car from at the shopping mall almost two weeks earlier. Gaping, the skinhead fumbled to draw a pistol. Cavanaugh whacked his Sig's barrel hard across the man's hairless skull. Stunned, the man fell backward, pinning his gun arm. Cavanaugh leapt over him and entered the living room, aiming to the left, toward the area across from the television.

A mustached man who looked about forty sat petrified in a chair, not knowing which way to look-toward Cavanaugh's pistol or the one that Jamie aimed from the kitchen archway. The man's own pistol was on a coffee table before him.

Rutherford was bound and gagged in a chair in the far left corner. Blood on his face contrasted with his black skin. His eyes bulged in surprise, but Cavanaugh didn't have time for him now. He grabbed the pistol off the table. As he passed the mustached man, he whacked him over the head, as well. Then he pressed himself against a wall leading into the shadowy bedroom. After aiming in toward the side of the room that he was able to see, he darted over to the other wall and aimed in toward the opposite side of the room. When nothing alarmed him, he lunged in, shoved a bureau against the closet door, checked under the bed, and then made sure the bathroom was clear.

When he returned to the living room, the mustached man lay on the floor, moaning.

Cavanaugh hurried to the front door, locked it, then aimed toward the skinhead on the floor. He searched him for weapons, removed a pistol tucked at the back of his belt, and used the belt to secure the man's hands behind his back.

He did the same to the mustached man's hands, then checked that the front closet was empty. Only then did he run over to Rutherford, removing the gag from his mouth. "Did we get them all?" "Yes."

Cavanaugh untied rope from Rutherford's ankles and wrists. "How bad are you hurt?" He assessed the bruises and gashes on Rutherford's face.

"1 lost a tooth." Rutherford pointed toward his swollen left cheek. "They might have cracked some ribs." He winced as he took a breath.

Cavanaugh saw a box of tissues on a side table. He grabbed several and gave them to Rutherford. "Cough deeply and spit into these."

Rutherford did. "Lord Almighty, that hurt." Cavanaugh inspected the spit in the tissue. "No blood. Lie down on the sofa." Cavanaugh helped him over to it and then pressed gently against Rutherford's abdomen and chest. "I don't feel any swelling. Have you got any pain you're suspicious about?"

"It's been long enough; if they broke anything inside me, I'd have passed out by now." Rutherford massaged his wrists, where the blood circulation had been almost cut off.

"Where's your first-aid kit?"

"Under the sink in the bathroom."

When Cavanaugh returned with the kit and a soapy washcloth, Rutherford was making an effort to sit up. "You haven't introduced me to your friend."

"Meet Jennifer. Jennifer, this is John."

Jamie showed no reaction to being introduced by a false name.

"Pleased to meet you. Mighty glad to be alive to have the pleasure," Rutherford said.

Cavanaugh opened the first-aid kit and paused when he found three syringes among the bandages and ointments. He held them up and then realized why they were there. "From when your wife was alive?"

She'd been a diabetic and had injected herself daily with insulin, Cavanaugh knew. Ironically, a car accident had been what killed her.

"I gave away a lot of Deb's clothes to the church. I threw away a lot more stuff, old shoes and things that she knew weren't worth keeping but she'd hung on to anyhow. Except for a few of her favorite dresses, which I kept, I didn't have any trouble parting with most of it, but somehow those syringes made me think of her more fondly than anything else. I couldn't bring myself to throw them out."

Cavanaugh put them back in the first-aid kit and began to clean Rutherford's face.

"You got my warning-my second MSG remark?" Rutherford asked.

"Nicely done."

"I'd have let them kill me before I'd have sent you into a trap."

"I know," Cavanaugh said.

"The people I asked about Prescott and his lab said they'd never heard of him." Hours of having been gagged made Rutherford sound raspy.

"I'll get you some water," Jamie said.

When she returned, Rutherford took several deep swallows, wetting the dried blood on his lips and causing it to trickle. "Then I searched our computer database." Another swallow. "I came up with nothing."

"Then how did-"

"These guys must have an informant in the Bureau. Either that or they hacked into our computer system, looking for anybody who'd made inquiries about Prescott. When I left my office to go home, they were waiting near my car in the parking area." Wincing, Rutherford fingered the side of his jaw where his tooth had been knocked out. "Somebody called my name from the next row. I turned to see who it was. All of a sudden, a van stopped next to me. While it screened me from view, three guys grabbed me from behind and shoved me inside."

"The man who shouted. The three men who grabbed you. The van's driver. A total of five?" Cavanaugh asked.

"No." Rutherford swallowed more water. "There's a sixth guy, the one who runs the show. He calls himself Kline."