The Sixth Man (44 page)

Another car pulled up outside and a moment later Colonel Mayhew and another trooper came inside.

They all stood around Dobkin’s body, staring down at it.

Mayhew finally eyed Sean and Michelle.

“What the hell happened?” he said, his voice low but full of raw emotion.

They both took turns explaining, leaving out the details concerning Peter Bunting and Kelly Paul.

Sean concluded, “Bottom line was we asked Eric to watch Megan Riley for us. We were worried about her after what happened to Bergin.”

“And where were you two when all of this happened?” asked Mayhew.

“Portland, running down a lead,” answered Michelle.

Mayhew drew a deep breath and said sharply, “Eric is a state trooper.
Was
a state trooper. You shouldn’t have been asking him to perform bodyguard services for you. That was not his job.”

“You’re right,” agreed Sean. “We never intended for this to happen.”

“You certainly should have known it might happen,” retorted Mayhew. “If you thought Riley was in danger then you had to assume that someone might try and harm her. Which would put Eric in danger.”

“We feel as bad as anyone about this,” said Sean.

“I doubt that,” barked Mayhew. “You certainly won’t feel as bad as Sally Dobkin when she finds out she’s a widow.”

Sean looked down.

Michelle said, “Colonel Mayhew, we needed help. Eric was a first-rate man. That’s why we asked him for assistance. But we didn’t force him to do it. He wanted to help us. He wanted to get to the truth too.”

Mayhew didn’t look satisfied by this but he broke off gazing at her and looked around. “Any idea who did this?”

Sean and Michelle exchanged a quick glance. They had discussed and decided how they were going to answer this question.

“We don’t have the person’s identity, but we have to assume it’s the same person who killed Bergin,” said Sean.

Mayhew looked at the bloody sweater. “And your call to the dispatcher said that Megan Riley is missing?”

“She must’ve been the target.”

Mayhew said absently, “The forensic team is on its way.”

“Okay,” said Sean. “We’re prepared to help in any way we can.”

“It’s been a long time since we lost anyone,” said Mayhew. “And never under my watch.”

“We understand,” said Michelle.

“I have to go tell Sally,” Mayhew said, his voice hoarse.

“Would you like me to go with you?” asked Michelle.

“No, no, that’s my job,” said Mayhew firmly.

He gazed once more at Dobkin’s body. “I recruited Eric. Watched him grow into a fine officer.”

“I’m sure,” said Sean quietly.

“Did you find the truth?” asked Mayhew.

“What?” said Sean.

“Down in Portland? Did you find the truth?”

“I think we’re getting there.”

“This is a lot more complicated than it appeared initially to be, isn’t it?” said Mayhew shrewdly. “Bergin, Dukes, Agent Murdock. Edgar Roy is smack in the middle of all this, and I seriously doubt he is who we’ve been told he is.”

“I couldn’t disagree with any of your conclusions, sir,” said Sean diplomatically.

“Could you do me a favor?” asked Mayhew.

“Certainly.”

“When you do find who did this to Eric, I want to personally arrest them and see that they’re tried here for murder.”

“I’ll do my best, Colonel Mayhew. I’ll certainly do my best.”

“Thank you.” Mayhew turned and left.

He had to go and deliver the tragic news to a young woman with three kids and a fourth on the way.

T
WO NIGHTS LATER
Edgar Roy could feel it coming, almost like how animals react so early to an approaching storm. He hunched down in the darkness, his face pressed against the flimsy mattress that he slept on each night. He heard footsteps. Routine guard patrols. Ordinary chatter. But he still knew.

The lights flickered, went out, and then came back on.

He scrunched down further into his bed, his feet hanging off one end of it. He didn’t care if the camera saw him moving now. It didn’t matter. The lights flickered again, like there was a storm outside and Mother Nature was playing games with Cutter’s electrical supply. Then the lights went back out and stayed out a long time.

He heard cries from the guards. He heard calls from some of the prisoners.

Feet were running.

Doors clanged open and then shut with a crash of steel on steel.

A siren started up.

Then the lights came back on. From somewhere there was an enormous rush of noise, like a jet plane powering up for takeoff.

The backup generator. Roy had heard it come on once before, only then it was a test. It had the power to run the entire facility, even the electrified fence. It was huge, contained in its own structure just outside the main building. It ran on fuel. They had enough fuel here for the generator to run the facility for an entire week. He had heard this, too, from conversations among the guards. They never expected anyone was listening or caring about this. But Roy listened and cared about everything. And he remembered it all. The generator was the fail-safe. After that there was nothing else.

The rush of power ceased. The instant it did the lights went back out. It was so black inside here that Roy could not even see his own hands. He looked out between the bars of his cell. Guards were hustling around with emergency lights. With no heat the poured concrete building quickly cooled. Roy started to shiver. He covered himself with the blanket. He tried to burrow down into the bed. But there was no hiding. Not really.

The caravan of black SUVs with government plates stormed the causeway and roared toward the entrance at Cutter’s. Six men jumped out and approached the first layer of guards. Behind them Cutter’s lay black and nearly invisible. The darkness was interrupted only by the weak moonlight and stabs of narrow beams as guards with flashlights raced around trying to secure the perimeter. Battery-powered sirens shrieked.

One of the men held up his badge. “FBI. We’re here for Edgar Roy. Now.”

“What?” said a bewildered guard.

The man shoved his creds and badge into the uniform’s face. “FBI. You have a total security meltdown. Roy is a Level One Federal Prisoner. That was part of the paperwork when he was remanded here. His security is the jurisdiction of the Bureau in the event of a crisis at Cutter’s Rock. Now open the gates or we’ll arrest your ass right now.”

The guards seemed paralyzed as they stared out at the flood of armed men wearing FBI windbreakers and body armor.

The guards turned and manually pushed open the gates and the SUVs raced through the gap.

When they reached the main entrance, the new director who had replaced Carla Dukes was there to greet them. He ordered the guards to open the last set of doors and to immediately release Edgar Roy into the custody of the FBI.

Edgar Roy heard the doors opening and closing. He heard the sounds of heavy boots racing through the facility. He didn’t look up when the sounds stopped at his cell. He didn’t turn his head
when the cell door was manually opened. He let his body go limp when the strong hands reached for him.

He was yanked upward, his head banging on the combat helmet of one of the men who had come for him. They half-carried him down the hall.

One man said into his ear, “Move your feet, asshole, or I’ll put a round right in your skull.”

Edgar Roy started to move, his weakened legs scissoring in painful little hops.

The darkness raced past them. Sounds, voices, sirens. He wanted to cover his ears, but the men had death grips on his arms.

He saw faces as they reached the front entrance. The new director stared at Roy, barely concealing his triumphant smile. The massive front doors stood open.

For the first time in months, Edgar Roy was outside. He could smell the ocean; he could see the moon.

He had no time to enjoy this small taste of freedom, particularly because he knew he wasn’t free at all. He was thrown into the rear seat of one of the SUVs, and men crammed in after him. Turbo engines started, wheels gripped asphalt. Roy was thrown backward in his seat as the SUV whipped around, hit sixty a few seconds later, and catapulted toward the exit.

They crossed the causeway. The truck turned left and slowed. The two trucks behind them did the same. Ten minutes later they followed a road that was their natural way out of the area. It was isolated, dark, nothing around except a long ribbon of asphalt and trees.

Their natural way out.

Roy felt a bump as the truck hit something in the road. There was an explosion, though Roy felt no concussive force. The truck wasn’t lifted into the air, but it was suddenly engulfed in a wall of fog.

Someone yelled. Roy felt the SUV lurch to the right and then the left. Men around him gagged. Something tugged at his arm. He felt a metal barrel against his cheek. He thought he heard a click, like a gun hammer being pulled back.

The smoke poured through crevices in the vehicle. Roy could see
nothing. It was like they were in an open-cockpit plane and had just flown into a cloud. He heard the other trucks whipping and sliding around behind them. Men screamed, cursed, choked.

He jerked as the shot was fired. Glass exploded next to his head. Some of the shards hit him, cutting his face.

He took one deep breath, and that was the last thing he remembered doing.

S
LIGHT MOVEMENT.

Slight nausea.

He saw his sister pivot in the old family kitchen. Then the memory shifted to something far more recent.

He saw the face in the dirt staring up at him from the barn floor.

Back to his sister pivoting.

Then his father’s face.

Then the face in the dirt.

It seemed all connected, though it couldn’t be.

His mind was a mishmash.

It had never been that before. Never.

Edgar Roy opened his eyes once and then quickly closed them as a pain tugged at his brain. He opened them once more. Something pulled at him. He slid upward, as though being yanked from deep water. Everything around him felt slick, wet.

“Eddie?”

His eyes closed once more.

“Eddie?”

He forced his eyes open. He felt slow, stupid, drunk. Feelings he had never before had in his life.

“Eddie? Can you sit up by yourself?”

With an effort he righted himself and looked at her.

Kelly Paul sat next to him in the rear seat of a van that had tinted windows. There were other people with him and his sister. The van was not moving.

The tall man was in the front passenger seat. The skeptical dark-haired woman was in the driver’s seat.

Peter Bunting sat on the other side of Paul.

Bunting said, “Edgar, are you all right? You were bleeding when they got to you.”

Roy touched the side of his head and felt the bandage there.

He mumbled, “Shot. Missed. Glass.”

His sister said, “It’s okay, Eddie. Close call, but it’s okay.”

“K-el?” he said, the name coming out thick and disjointed.

“Just take it easy, Eddie. You breathed in some nasty stuff. No lasting effects, but it takes a while to run its course. Once it’s out of your system you’ll feel much better.”

“You did that?”

“I’m afraid it was unavoidable.”

He felt something at his ankle. Well, more accurately, he didn’t feel something at his shin. He looked down. His restraint anklet was gone.

Paul said, “I didn’t think you’d want that on any longer.”

Roy looked at the dark-haired woman.

Michelle stared back at him in the rearview mirror. She wore a shoulder holster and an anxious expression. Sean was next to her, looking equally concerned.

Sean said to Paul, “Let’s just hope that really wasn’t the FBI who came to get your brother.”

Roy rubbed his face and willed his mind to clear itself of all the smoke, the rubbish, and the inefficiencies.

“It wasn’t the FBI,” he said.

“How do you know that?” asked Sean.

“Because one of the men said to me, ‘Move your feet, asshole, or I’ll put a round right in your skull.’ ”