“Can’t say, because I don’t know.”

“I’m thinking IRS. Maybe that ID of yours is a cover and you really work directly for the Infernal Revenue. Is that it?”

“No, sir. It’s a spot audit, that’s all. We, um, do it all the time. I suggest you call my supervisor.” Milton takes a business card from his wallet, places it on the desk.

Taylor Gatling, Jr., doesn’t touch the card. He seems faintly amused by the ploy. “No doubt if we call that number, your place of employment will be confirmed. My concern isn’t the validity of your ID, Mr. Bean. It is, frankly, you.”

“Excuse me?”

“As you may have noticed, we have a state-of-the-art security system. When you presented your ID this morning your name and identification number ran through the system. Your name popped and the system notified us that a few days ago you were busily auditing accounts at QuantaGate, in Waltham, Massachusetts. Correct?”

“That’s correct, yes.”

“It can’t be a coincidence, Mr. Bean.”

Milton allows himself a shrug, as if his motives are questioned every day, part of the job. He’s ready with a plausible fallback position. “There was a question about the time cards for the security guards. Whether or not Gama Guards may have billed for more personnel than were actually on the premises over the last two quarters. GSG owns Gama Guards, so here I am.”

“Ah,” Taylor says, arms folded comfortably across his chest. “So you’re investigating possible fraud, is that it? Billing for no-show workers?”

“Just checking the books.”

“Because, funny thing, Gama Guards is located in Delaware. You want to hire Gama Guards security guards, you call the office in Wilmington. It all goes through Wilmington. All billing, all time cards, all paychecks, all ledgers, all books. Everything. Somebody made a mistake. You’re in the wrong office in the wrong state, Mr. Bean.”

Milton does his best to look dumbfounded, which isn’t all that difficult. “There’s obviously been a mistake,” he says, as obsequiously as possible. “All I can do is apologize. It’s company policy that forensic accountants leave the target premises upon request, pending legal resolution. I’ll get my things and leave immediately.”

As Milton attempts to rise, the two subordinates force him back down in the chair, not a word spoken, and hold him there with grips of iron. Without him quite knowing how they did it, they have moved behind him, cutting off any possible angle of escape.

Taylor gives him a grim, self-satisfied smile. “We have a few more questions,” he says.

It happens so fast that Milton doesn’t have time to draw a breath. One moment he’s projecting confusion and nervous subservience—he’s just a little man sent out on a job without adequate information, an office mouse—the next he’s blind, a black sack covering his head and a powerful hand clamped over his mouth.

As they lift him into the air, his legs kick futilely.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Sleeping Giants

It’s the fireplace that fools him. When Randall Shane first awakens his eyes focus on the bouquet of flowers that have been placed in the hearth—bright yellow blossoms. Mums, perhaps?—and for a while, for entire thrilling moments of anticipation, he thinks he’s in a room at the Woodstock Inn, in Vermont. Jean must be in the shower, he can hear something like water drumming, and it comes back to him, what happened last night. It’s Jean’s twenty-fifth birthday, that’s why they’ve gone to the extravagance of a weekend in Woodstock, and after they finished making love, or paused, really, Jean had plumped the pillows and sat with her knees drawn up to her chin and announced that she was pregnant. A secret she’d been keeping for a whole twenty-four hours, waiting until this special moment to share it with him. It’s a girl, had been his instantaneous response, and when Jean asked how he could possibly know, he’d said he just did, and if he’s right can they please call her Amy, and Jean said whoa there, big boy, you’re jumping the gun.

His mind begins to clear. One of the happiest moments of his life drains away and he’s left with the awful knowledge that this isn’t the Woodstock Inn and Jean isn’t showering in the bathroom because she’s dead and gone, as is the precious child whose existence was revealed to him that night. He falls for miles, plummeting through memories that haven’t the strength to buoy him up, or soften the landing, and the pain of recollection is so overwhelming that he whimpers like a child fighting off a nightmare.

“Mr. Shane? Are you awake?”

He blinks away the tears, focuses on the young woman in the white jacket.

“I’m Dr. Gallagher. You’re being treated at Mass General, in Boston.”

“I know who you are,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Thank you, you’ve been very kind.”

“Oh?” The doctor looks surprised, but not displeased. “Do you recall our last conversation?”

He grimaces, probing his memory. “You explained about the handcuffs. They were bruising my wrist and you’d asked the sheriff’s department to have them removed and wanted to know if I was okay with a GPS ankle monitor instead. I said I was.”

The young doctor pulls a chair close to the bed and takes a seat, putting them at eye level. “Well, now, this is real progress,” she says. “Do you know that’s the first time you’ve awakened without asking who I am and where you are?”

“Really?”

“Tell me what happened to your brain.”

“My brain? My brain is very tired.”

“Yes, but what happened to make you so tired, Mr. Shane? Can you recall?”

He thinks for a moment, and the answer comes without having to search for it. “I was interrogated by professionals. Beaten and then heavily drugged. No, that’s not quite right. I was drugged, beaten, then drugged again. The drugged parts are all in a fog. Hallucinatory. I do recall a bright, blinding light and being threatened with a drill bit. No doubt I told them whatever they wanted to know.”

“Remarkable,” says the doctor.

“What?”

“The capacity of the mind to heal itself. We’d been thinking it might be months, if ever, but it appears that you’re already well on your way to recovery.”

“I feel awful.”

“The beating alone would likely leave you feeling physically depressed. And however much your mental state may be improving, it will be some weeks before you’re healed. Which means you will stay in my custody for the time being.”

“In your custody and under arrest for murder,” he says. “I didn’t do it, by the way.”

“Glad to hear it,” she says. “I don’t know much about murderers, Mr. Shane, but you certainly don’t seem like the sort of man who would kill someone in cold blood.”

“Not in cold blood,” he says, but then thinks again of his wife and daughter. “Not on purpose.”

If he hadn’t fallen asleep in the car they’d still be alive, of that he’s convinced. Over the years he’s learned to live with the knowledge, but the truth of it hasn’t changed.

“Confinement is confinement,” the doctor says. “We’ll just have to make do until this sorts itself out. That’s what your attorney promises, that she’ll eventually persuade them to drop the charges. Despite the guards at the door and the device on your ankle, I hope you’ll find your stay here tolerable. This just so happens to be one of the nicest rooms in the hospital, reserved for foreign dignitaries. It helps to be friends with Naomi Nantz, obviously.”

Shane smiles, although it makes his jaw ache to do so. “I met her once, very briefly.”

“Then you must have made quite an impression. Her people pulled a lot of very powerful strings and made sure you have everything you need. TV, books, phone, access to your legal team. Now that your mind is back we can get on with your physical therapy. Shall we say tomorrow?”