The Lazarus Trap (5 page)

He was in a church. He was instantly certain church had once been important. Back then, he had searched out structures like this one, where the faith of cultures and centuries was on display. He had liked the sense of standing united against the rush of uncaring time.

He knew he was dreaming, yet knew as well that this visit had actually taken place. He had come with another person. A woman. He dreaded seeing her again, even in an image he knew was just a dream. She had brought him here. She had found this church, one of the oldest in Florida, dating back to the earliest Spanish conquistadors. They had come because she had insisted on it.

The candles were placed in three metal stands that formed a U. Seven pews rested in the center space shaped by the flickering barriers. He watched as the image in the mirror deepened and extended until the woman came into view. It was a different woman from the first dream. The sight of her crystallized the moment with the intensity of an animal's howl.

He had a sudden ability to touch every memory connected to this moment. Audrey. That was her name. Audrey d'Arcy. She had loved him with depth and passion. She had brought him to this church because she yearned to see him reconnected to a life he had given up as utterly and hopelessly lost.

Audrey sat alone in the middle pew. She was an intensely striking woman, with determined features and an intelligent strength. He knew she was also tall, such that if she rose to her feet she would stand only a few inches shorter than him. And she loved him. So much it tore her face into fragments. She had suspected from the beginning that he would refuse her love. And yet she had loved him still.

The candles burnished her copper hair, forming a halo or a crown—he could not tell which. He watched helplessly as, in the dream, he turned away, following the same course he had taken in real life. His heart keened a dirge of loss and yearning, for that had been the last time he had ever seen her.

In his dream she called to him, a one-word litany that mirrored his own remorse. She cried, “Valentine.”

The shock woke him up a second time. His heart thundered and his chest heaved. The veil had been pierced with the precise agony of regret.

He rose from the pallet and stalked about the room. He pumped the stale air in and out of his chest. He strove as best he could to halt the sudden torrent of images. He was no longer asleep. But the nightmare stalked him. The memories clamored like wolves.

He beat at his temples, and one fist came away red. Still the memories tore at him. His name was not Jeffrey Adams. He felt assaulted by a storm of mystery. Why he carried an ID with someone else's name, he could not say.

He clenched his eyes shut. But the image only intensified. He stopped pacing. He no longer leaned against the wall of a dismal hotel room. Instead, he stood in an office corridor. He looked at the closed door to a corner office, and knew it should have been his. He also knew he hated the man inside so fiercely that just seeing the closed door filled him with acidic rage. He turned away, consumed by a desire for vengeance and destruction.

He opened his eyes, but the image did not go away. He saw himself moving further down the corridor. He entered another office and stared down at the desk. He looked at the name on the document awaiting his signature.

The image vanished. He stood once more in the threadbare hotel room and stared at his reflection. He could finally put a name to this face. He also knew that he wanted to know nothing more. But he was certain he had no choice.

He spoke to his reflection, greeting himself and all the mysteries yet to be revealed.

“My name is Val Haines.”

BY THAT AFTERNOON, WORD HAD SPREAD ABOUT THE EXPLOSION and the missing personnel. Solemn workers clustered about the office's open-planned center. Terrance knew they were talking about Val and Marjorie. Mostly Val. Marjorie Copeland was a colorless woman with a severely disabled child. She did her work, served her time, and left. She was in it for the medical and the security. Val was something else entirely. Terrance had once heard a trio of secretaries refer to Val as Häagen-Dazs in a suit. When Val's wife had left him two years earlier, the office women had declared her legally insane. When Val's ex revealed in court that she had been having an affair with Terrance and was carrying his child, Terrance had become the office leper. The fact that Val had never fully recovered from the loss had only added to his mystery and appeal.

Terrance's secretary knocked on the door and announced, “Don Winslow called to say the guests have arrived and you should stop by his office.”

“Tell him I'm on my way up.” Through the interior glass wall he spied Val's secretary weeping on a young man's shoulder. Val had a lot of friends. The young guy, a newcomer doing his stint in petty accounts, looked close to tears himself.

He opened his briefcase and extracted the folders from his office safe. They felt radioactive in his hands. He took a deep breath. He had slept only three and a half hours last night, but he felt as energized as if he had just returned from a month's holiday.

“I'll be in the boardroom if anyone needs me.” Terrance noticed his secretary's red eyes. “Any word about Val?”

“Nothing.”

“This really is terrible. Be sure and interrupt us the instant anything further is discovered.”

Terrance headed for the elevator. When the doors closed around him, he sighed with genuine pleasure, loving the tight adrenaline gleam in his eyes.

Terrance said, “Let the show begin.”

Four days earlier, Terrance's entire world had been permanently canted within the space of a few minutes.

Two, to be precise.

Friday evening, he and Don Winslow had been seated in Terrance's office. Terrance had the inside drapes open, a rarity. The floor's central arena was quiet. A couple of gofers hustled through last-minute duties. Otherwise the weekend wind-down was complete. He and Don were running through a possible timeline. As in, when they might head out into the sunset, and how. There was a nice low-key tone to their discussion. They had been through this several times before, basically just kicking ideas around. Terrance didn't mind the repetition. Talking about this stage of the game made his blood fizz.

Then Terrance's private line rang. The one that didn't go through either the main switchboard or his secretary's desk.

As soon as the voice came on the line, their evening grew far less frivolous. He knew instantly that this caller was not the sort who would take time out for idle chatter. Whatever this man had to say, it would be bad.

The caller confirmed it with his first words. “I've got some serious juice.”

“Hold on.” Terrance hit the mute button and looked over at Don shuffling paper like a coach going over his early-season playbook. “You know about the chap who is counsel for the SEC?”

Don glanced up. “I know we're paying a retainer to some joker who hasn't done diddly for us.”

“He's about to earn his keep,” Terrance said, and hit the speaker button. “Go ahead.”

“What, we're into public performances here? I don't think so.”

“Nonsense. I'm totally alone.” Terrance hushed Don's paper rattling with a look. “I merely want to jot down some notes as we talk.”

“Long as you don't jot down my name.”

“Certainly not. You mentioned something about bad news?”

“Bad as it gets. Unless, of course, you're squeaky clean.”

Terrance watched Don as he spoke. “Well, of course we are.”

His contact announced, “The Securities and Exchange Commission is growing concerned about possible irregularities in your company's books.”

Since Insignia was traded on the New York Stock Exchange, any possible illegality that implicated the senior management required a direct intervention and public inspection of their accounts.

Don huffed like a guy taking a blow to the solar plexus. This shook Terrance harder than any news the Wall Street guy might deliver.

“You say something?”

“Just clearing my throat.” Terrance couldn't quite erase the tremor from his voice. “Can you perhaps give me further details?”

“What, you're saying this isn't enough? Give me a break here.”

“We are indeed grateful. But details might prove crucial.”

“All I know is, they're planning to make a public announcement before they pounce.”

Terrance watched Don grow paler still. Making a statement at the outset of an investigation, rather than once the teams arrived and began digging, meant they were confident of finding something. “You're certain of this?”

“The confab ended an hour ago. They brought in Legal. Meaning me. From what I heard, they've got everything but the smoking gun.”

Don grabbed his notebook and wrote out a single word. His papers spilled unnoticed to the floor as he jammed the page in front of Terrance's face.
When?

Terrance struggled to keep his tone light. “I'd certainly appreciate hearing your best guesstimate as to when they'll arrive.”

“Sooner rather than later. I'd say you've got until the end of this week. Four days max.”

Terrance and Don silently tried to come to terms with the news. The caller finished, “You don't call, I don't answer.”

“Understood,” Terrance said.

But the line was already dead.

Terrance punched the button and said to his superior, “This is not good.”

“Tell me about it.” Don tried to rub the blood back into his features. “But at least we know more than we did five minutes ago.”

Terrance pointed at Don's papers sprawled all over the carpet. “We need a minimum of four more weeks to put these plans into motion.”

“There's no time for that. We've got to act now. Tonight.”

“But the timing is not up to us.”

“Isn't it?” Don stared at him. “You heard what your contact just said. Our train's about to hit the wall.”

“We still haven't answered the most crucial question. Unless the pair we want to pin this on chooses to disappear now, they can always deny involvement.”

Don Winslow had a wolf's face. Everything drew back from a fleshy predator's nose. Big bony growths encircled eyes that glowed almost golden, holding a fierce life and no compunctions whatsoever. Don Winslow was as close to a true psychopath as Terrance had ever known. Terrance envied Don's utter lack of remorse and coolness under the strain of wrongdoing. Like now.

Don replied, “That's the first dumb comment I've ever heard you make.”

“But—”

“Pay attention, hoss. Either we clean up our tracks and get ready to show the world three pairs of lily-white hands, or we're toast.”

Terrance knew Don wanted him to say the words for them both. The chasm yawned there before him. He remained mute.

Finally Don said it. “They've had their chance to disappear. Now we'll just have to make it happen.”

Terrance found it odd, how it seemed as though they had always been headed in this direction. From the very beginning. “How?”

“You find out their movements for the next few days. We need them together and away from here.” Don stooped and gathered his papers. “Don't we have the auditors and outside counsel coming in?”

“In four days. It's their periodic review.”

“Well, at least that's in our favor.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“You just be ready. We're going to war. That's all you need to know.”