Cut and Run (13 page)

Arriving at Ellsworth, we took a spin past City Hall and the adjoining HCSD office building.

‘We don’t know for sure if she’s even in there,’ Bryce said.

‘If not, I’ll find out where they took her. If I’m under arrest I’ll demand my phone call and let you know.’

Rink found a motel where they’d wait for my return. I unloaded my SIGs and my Ka-Bar and all the fake documents I had on my person: no reason to give the cops another reason for holding me. I took off the heavy coat and hat as well. No sense in walking into a police station and giving the impression that I’d come packing an arsenal under my clothes. Take everything very easy and reasonable and the cops should reciprocate. Though I’m not a great believer in words like should or could; in my experience things never seem to go that way.

It was a short walk to the sheriff’s office. I side-tracked to a 7-Eleven and picked up a super-large coffee. The caffeine injection helped clear the fog of all the travelling I’d done lately, but it also made my stomach growl – or maybe that was the nerves kicking in. Despite what I’d said to Bryce about clearing my name, I could very well be booking myself a cell in a high-security prison.

When I walked in the door and presented myself at the enquiry desk the front office was deserted. Not surprisingly: everyone was out at Culver or searching Trenton for where the killer had left his getaway boat. Typical, I thought, America’s most wanted man wants to hand himself in and staff shortages makes things impossible.

I pressed a buzzer and waited.

No one was in a rush to answer, so I pressed it again and kept the button depressed. I could hear the annoying buzzer sounding in the room next door. Finally a door opened and a fresh-faced young woman, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, walked into the front office. She smiled: a fixed response.

‘Hello,’ she said. There was no hint of recognition in her face. She was carrying a ring folder and bent down to place it on a shelf under the counter separating us. When she stood up again, I read her name badge. Caroline Lehrer, a civilian support worker. ‘How may I help you, sir?’

‘I think a friend of mine might have been brought here.’

I saw her eyes widen slightly, but it wasn’t in alarm. Sometimes I got the same reaction when people heard my accent. Usually they ask if I’m from England. But Caroline Lehrer was more professional than that and allowed her curiosity to slide. ‘If your friend was arrested they’d be over at our State Street offices.’

‘Witness,’ I corrected. ‘She’s the victim of the kidnapping earlier today.’

Caroline’s shoulders tightened at my words and she studied me more intently. She was weighing and balancing my description against that of the suspect. Colour crept into her throat. She gave me a look that said she expected me to throw myself against the perspex shield that separated us. Her hand crept surreptitiously towards an emergency button under the shelf.

‘I only want to speak to Imogen Ballard. I understand that that may not be possible under the circumstances, but if you get me the sheriff maybe something can be arranged.’

Caroline lifted a finger – at least it wasn’t heading for the panic alarm any more. Not that she didn’t intend rounding up the troops. ‘The sheriff is unavailable. If you just give me a moment, sir, I’ll find someone that you can speak to.’

‘That’s all I want.’

Caroline backed out through the door and fastened it securely behind her. I heard a dull electronic thud and guessed that from somewhere inside a switch had been thrown and the exit door was now also secure. No way could I escape while she rounded up some burly officers to come and take me down. There was a row of chairs bolted to the floor. I sat in one of them and kept my hands open, palms up on my thighs, while I listened to the low buzz of activity beyond the door. There was a CCTV camera aiming directly at me and I could picture a group of deputies staring at the corresponding screen trying to decide exactly who I was. And how dangerous I might be.

A few minutes later the door opened, and I was surprised at the number of people coming to get me. There was only Caroline Lehrer. She had the fixed smile on her face again.

‘Would you like to come this way, sir?’

She opened a door at the end of the desk as I stood up. She held it open for me while I went through and behind the counter. She waved me towards the door to the back office while she again locked up. I pulled open the door, and got my second surprise.

Part of me had expected a group of uniformed deputies standing waiting to arrest me, but instead I found two men in sharp suits. One of them was a gaunt, almost skeletal man whom I did not know. The other was my friend and mentor, Walter Hayes Conrad IV.

‘Hunter,’ Walter said frowning. ‘You took your time getting here.’

Then he came and clapped a hand on my shoulder, giving me a reassuring squeeze.

‘What the hell’s going on, Walter?’

‘As direct to the point as ever, eh?’

‘Things would’ve been much more direct if you’d answered my calls,’ I told him.

He shrugged. ‘I’ve been busy.’

‘So have I.’

He gave me a grimace, then waved at the skeletal man who was watching me with eyes like dark pinpricks. ‘This is Don Hubbard. He’s the Special Agent in Charge from the Bangor FBI field office.’

Hubbard didn’t extend a hand so I didn’t offer him mine. There was nothing ambivalent in his nod of greeting and I guessed that whatever Walter had told him hadn’t fully allayed his suspicion of me.

‘We need to speak,’ Walter went on. ‘All three of us.’

‘I want to see Imogen first.’

‘The woman’s fine. She’s over at the hospital having her wounds treated.’

‘Wounds?’

‘Superficial only.’

‘She’d better have a guard, Walter. The killer might try for her again.’

‘I have agents with her,’ Hubbard said in a gravelly voice. ‘We still need to conduct a thorough debrief with her.’

‘I want to talk to her.’

Hubbard shook his head.

‘I insist,’ I said.

‘You’re not in a position to insist on a thing. In fact you’re very lucky that we talked Sheriff Hughes out of locking you in a cell. You’re a wanted felon, remember? A suspected cop-killer.’ His last words came out with enough venom to kill an elephant. ‘A
murderer
.’

Somehow I suspected that SAC Hubbard and I weren’t going to get along.

‘But we know that is wrong,’ Walter interjected. Walter is a short, rotund man, bald and pallid, but he has the presence of a giant and the weight of presidents behind him. Hubbard didn’t argue, just continued to look at me with his small raisin-like eyes. Finally he glanced away. Caroline Lehrer was standing nearby, wavering in indecision.

‘Ahem,’ she said, ‘would you like me to take you back through to the office?’

Walter smiled at her. ‘We can find our own way, thanks.’

He waved me before him to a door at the end of the room. I passed desks holding ongoing criminal files and flickering computer screens, wondering where the office’s usual occupants were. I found them outside in a short hallway. Most of them were civilian clerks, but there were two deputies and they gave me a look like I was something they’d trodden in and tracked all over the carpet. I ignored them and walked along the hall with Walter and Hubbard bringing up the rear. Now that we were out of the way the displaced office staff filed back into the room. Passing an open door, I glanced inside and saw a solid, silver-haired man sitting behind a desk. His stare was laser-guided as it met my eyes. The sheriff: pissed off that he’d been relegated to house arrest in his own office while the G-men ran all the shots. Walter flicked him a salute as he passed and I heard him grumble in response.

We entered an office at the end of the hall, a utilitarian area with work desks and PCs and laser printers. There were chairs at the desks but nobody sat.

‘So what’s the deal?’

Walter chuckled to himself. ‘There’s a lot to go over, Hunter, but first things first. I’ve got a deal for you.’

‘Spit it out, then.’

Hubbard crossed his arms on his chest, not fully at ease with what Walter was about to offer but with no recourse but to go along with the black-ops controller’s plan.

‘You’ve been a loose cannon since your arrival in the US. It’s time to change that.’

I looked at Walter. ‘I’m not standing down. Someone’s trying to hurt me and people round me: I’m going to stop them.’

Walter nodded at my words.

‘We don’t want you to step down.’

Hubbard muttered something under his breath, but I paid him no heed. My attention was fully on Walter.

He smiled. ‘I want you to step up. I want you to come back and work for me, Hunter. As a fully sanctioned asset.’

I just knew it.

Chapter 17

It was time to check in with a progress report.

It wouldn’t be good.

His plan to sate his need for dominance over Imogen Ballard had been ruined by the untimely arrival of that damned old man and his idiot grandson. Plus, he’d had to leave behind incriminating evidence: there’d be fingerprints in Imogen’s car which he’d intended destroying by setting the car ablaze. Worse than that, her survival meant that Imogen could describe him and there was no way now that he could continue with the plan to implicate Joe Hunter in his crimes. The surgery he’d undergone – and the time spent recuperating – had been a complete waste of time.

But he wasn’t bothered by that.

He was one for more direct action, anyway: crash through their defences, cut them down. He didn’t care for this charade where Hunter was set up. He should have just shot the man when he had him in the sights of his rifle, not fooled around playing Hunter the way his employer asked. He could have put a 7.62 mm round through the base of Hunter’s spine. Made a paraplegic of him, consigned him to a wheelchair for the rest of his days: supreme torture to a man of constant action. His employer should know that, it had been quoted often enough when the plan was outlined: ‘Death is not the greatest of evils; it is worse to want to die, and not be able to.’

He pressed buttons on his phone and it was answered immediately.

‘It’s Rickard.’

‘What happened?’

‘You’ve heard the news, then?’

‘The wonders of modern technology . . .’

‘A series of unforeseen circumstances,’ Rickard said.

‘I expect more from people working for me. You should have made contingencies.’

‘I’m alive. Joe Hunter’s on the run. What’s the problem?’

‘A trail that could lead back to me?’

‘It won’t lead back to you.’

‘The woman can identify you. So can the forensics.’

Rickard laughed. ‘All the forensics will do is lead them to a dead end. As for the woman, she can only tell them what I look like now. It’s a simple matter to change my appearance. It isn’t as if I haven’t done so before, is it?’

There was a pause on the line.

‘Where are you, Rickard?’

‘Back in Miami. We had a bumpy and roundabout route, but your pilot was good. I’m confident that we made it here undetected. It was a shame I had to silence him.’

‘And Joe Hunter?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Find out.’

Easier said than done: now Hunter was a fugitive and had gone underground. Rickard had always known that part of the plan would cause problems later. Still, he was confident he could draw him out into the open whenever he chose.

‘Hunter will be looking for me,’ he said. ‘All I need to do is wait for him to show up.’

‘Kill him. I see now that I should’ve let you have your way from the outset. It seems like the woman was an inconsequential part of the plan. We made an error in including her; Hunter was involved with her sister, not Imogen as we first thought.’

‘Knowing how Hunter thinks, it wouldn’t make any difference.’

‘You’re right.’ Rickard was surprised by his employer’s candour; before, mistakes had always been laid at other people’s feet. Something about this turn of events was troubling. ‘Why didn’t you simply kill her when you had the opportunity?’