The Survivors (34 page)

“Sorry.” We were flying through a tiny settlement, seventy miles per hour. A gas station. An antiques store. A couple gawked at us from their front porch. “Guess I zoned out.”

He frowned at me. “Yeah, I guess so.”

I got us turned around and back through the little hamlet. I rubbed my eyes. I'd never had an episode while I was driving. That's what it was—an episode. I wasn't going to lie myself out of it.

Scottie was watching his computer. “Left turn in two hundred yards.”

It was a dirt road that angled away behind scruffy junipers. We made two more turns on two more dirt roads before we came to Lelandsville Road. The houses here were so far back that many couldn't be seen. There were no address numbers, but the driveways were marked with signs like “Brandy Wine Farm” or “Marker Oaks” or “Shalidar.” Each place was fifty acres, minimum.

“Think of all the gas they waste mowing these lawns,” Scottie said.

“A lot of people use sheep.”

“Then think of all the mutton.”

I laughed. I wasn't back to normal yet, but I was quickly improving.

For a quarter of a mile, we passed along a stacked stone fence. We came around a bend and could see lights glowing behind a knoll. In the road there was a line of cars, standard-issue dark limousines, every one. I pulled up at the back.

“All this must be Bowles's place,” Scottie said.

Behind the stone fence was a second fence of whitewashed boards. Horses dotted the huge field. In the middle was a full-sized dressage ring, complete with hedge and water jumps.

The line of cars crept forward. At the head, two men in matching dark suits were checking in the guests. One collected IDs; the other held a clipboard. Both wore earpieces with curly wires under their coat collars.

After ten minutes, it was our turn. I handed over my driver's license. The front man gave my car the once over. “You sure you're at the right place?” He'd given my license to the man with the clipboard.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Bowles.”

“And who's the gentleman with you?”

I gave him Scottie's name.

“They're not on my list,” the clipboard man said. “I'll call up to the house and see if anybody knows them.” He turned partly away, mumbling into his wrist like Dick Tracy.

The other man handed back my license and pointed down the road. “You'll have to pull out of line. You can wait there if you want.” His tone made it clear he didn't think we were going any farther.

We weren't the only ones missing from the magic list. About fifty yards down the road was a turn-around. A Lincoln Town Car was parked there, and a man and a woman, dressed to the nines, were leaning against the trunk. They passed a cigarette back and forth.

It took only a minute for Scottie to start to fume: “They can't treat us like this.”

“Do you have any games on that tablet?” I said. “Play something.”

He folded his arms and glowered straight ahead. The man and woman noticed his look and became so uneasy they got back in their car.

“Calm down. Just wait it out,” I said. Scottie tried. He really did. Before long, though, he was jiggling his legs and cursing a streak.

“Damn it Scottie, you're like—” I saw something in my mirror.

“What is it?” Scottie said, turning to look.

A golf cart had come careening out of the driveway. Behind the wheel was Howard Markaris.

“That's our ticket inside, I think.”

I got out and Scottie climbed out after me. Markaris set the brakes and hopped out before the cart was completely stopped. “Sorry about the mix-up,” he said. He shook my hand and smiled at Scottie. “This must be the famous Scott Glass.”

Scottie glanced around as if he didn't know who Markaris was talking about.

Markaris chuckled. “That's quite an outfit you've got there, young man. Kind of makes a statement.”

“It works for me,” Scottie said. “You got a problem with it?”

Markaris put his hands up. “No problem at all.” He headed for the cart. “Come on. Ned's waiting.”

THIRTY-FIVE

I
sat in the front beside Markaris, and that left the jump seat in back for Scottie. The guards waved us through, and, over the knoll, we could see the house, a massive white-brick colonial with long wings on each end. On the far side of the driveway was another pasture, this one with a full-sized polo field. Valets in green jackets were parking cars there, and the partygoers were streaming up to the house.

Ned Bowles had ordered up perfect weather. It was dusk, and behind us the bright moon was rising. The air had a gossamer feel, smelling of hay and horses. The temperature was just right for the women to drape shawls over their bare shoulders.

Markaris coasted the golf cart up behind a large group. A young woman glanced back and spoke to the others. They lazily parted to let us past.

“You think he'll really be here?” someone said.

“Can't be,” another answered. “There's a state dinner at the White House tonight, the New Zealand Prime Minister.”

“Then why are those Secret Service men at the gate?”

“Those weren't Secret Service. They didn't have the right lapel pins.”

The oldest man in the group noticed us and gave a hearty wave. “Howie! How's the golf game?”

“Evening, Til,” Markaris said. “Hook or slice, never straight.” He hit the gas and we shot ahead.

The guests were headed for a patio off the north wing of the house. I could see large, round tables lit by candlelight. Markaris turned along the front portico to the south wing. A set of double doors stood open, and servers in waistcoats hurried in and out.

“The servants' entrance?” Scottie said.

Markaris turned to him. “We call it the serving kitchen. If you want to go in through the other side, be my guest. We don't want bombs or drugs or anything else embarrassing in the house, so, if you do, the guards will pat you down. If they don't like what they feel, it'll be a cavity search.”

Scottie's face reddened. “This will be OK.”

“I thought so.”

In the kitchen, twenty people were working assembly-line fashion to set up trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Markaris led us through to the formal rooms of the house: a dining room big enough for thirty, a sixty-foot central gallery, a long parlor with Chinese-print wallpaper. The rugs were worn, and the hardwood floors were a bit scratched and stained, but everything gave off a warm glow. People had lived here for two hundred years and lived very well.

We went down the north wing to a set of stairs. At the top was a man with one of the curly earpieces. He nodded to Markaris and opened a door for him. Before Scottie and I got a peek inside, he snapped it closed. “You can wait there,” he said, pointing down the hall.

One wall of the hallway was all windows, looking out at the patio. The servers edged around the knots of guests, offering their trays. At the back of the patio were three fountains lit in red, white, and blue. Behind them was a row of tall cypress trees in planters. I quickly counted the tables. Forty-five. Fifteen seats at each table. I was doing the math when Scottie whispered, “Did you see the muscles on that guy? Why is he staring at us?”

He was staring, and he did have an impressive build. “His job, I guess.”

Scottie moved closer. “How do we handle him?”

“Him?” I said. “We don't pay any attention to him. Just keep your mind on why we're here.”

“Sure, I know,” he said, but not like he meant it.

“This is an opening, Scottie. We let them know we've been digging around, and we're going to keep at it. We listen to what Bowles has to say. Otherwise, we play it close. We don't tell them what we've found out.”

“Got it,” he said. He tugged his coat and thumbed his tie. “How do I look?”

I tapped his hat a little closer to horizontal. “Terrific.”

“Gentlemen?” The big man had padded up behind us. “They're ready for you.”

The room he let us into was an anteroom to a bedroom. It was bigger than my entire apartment. Markaris was leaning against the fireplace mantel, talking to someone sitting with his back to us. He nodded in our direction, and Ned Bowles turned and stood up.

“Dr. Henderson, thanks for driving all the way out here.” His handshake was steady, the same for his dark-blue eyes. He didn't have his dinner jacket on, and his body was trim enough to bring off a tightly fitted shirt. “I'd have seen you earlier in the week, but I've been in Europe.” He looked down as he realized I was still gripping his hand.

“Mr. Bowles, before we talk about anything else, I want to know why the hell you ordered people to break into my office and apartment.” I'd been thinking about that opening salvo for three days. “We can dance around here all night if you want. But beside the fact that what you did was a felony, it was a damn cruel thing to do to my patients.”

His eyes flicked over my shoulder. The guard had slipped up behind me, and his hand clapped on my arm. Bowles shook his head and the man stepped back. Then Bowles sat down on a big trunk that served as a coffee table in a ring of chairs. He beckoned wearily. “Howie, you take that one.”

Markaris kept his pose at the fireplace, but he wasn't so relaxed anymore. “Ned had nothing to do with that. After I heard you'd been to see Lois McGuin, I decided to find out about you. The men I sent got carried away. They were only supposed to—”

“Scare me off?” I said.

“Just get some background. It was a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding? I don't believe that. And now I've got a mess to deal with that could ruin my practice and a lot of lives.” I looked at Bowles. “You say you knew nothing about this?”

“I do now, Doctor.” He shot a glare at Markaris. “And I want to try to make it right. Howie's men did not take copies of anything. We don't have a thing that could harm your patients. You have our word on that, right Howie?”

Markaris seemed to have shrunk in his suit. “Right. Still, I made a bad judgment, and for that—” He bowed slightly, the trusty lieutenant falling on his sword. “I'm sorry.”

Bowles continued to give him a cold stare, then shook his head ruefully. “There, that's done. Doctor, sit down.” He motioned to one of the chairs. “And Mr. Glass, we haven't paid any attention to you.” He guided Scottie to the chair across from mine. He and Markaris sat, and Bowles called over his shoulder, “Carl, I think we're all set here.”

“Yes, Mr. Bowles,” the guard said. He stepped out and shut the door.

Maybe we were all friends now, but I wasn't going to give up the initiative. “My secretary was at my office the night your people broke in. She could have gotten hurt. Why would you risk anything like that just because I was asking a few questions?”

I was looking at Markaris, but it was Bowles who answered. “That would be for my benefit. Howie's got a thing about protecting me, especially from my own blind spots.”

“What blind spot would that be?” I said.

“I told Howie it was foolish to think you'd pack up your kit and go home because somebody got into your office. Hell, just the opposite. It would only make you more determined.” He studied me for a moment. “You remind me a lot of your mother. Same smile and around the eyes. All those years gone by and I still remember. She never gave up on anything either. Always stuck to her guns.” He looked down. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

“It sounds like you knew her pretty well,” I said.

He kept looking at the floor. “Your mother and I had a very special relationship.”

Scottie's eyes flicked wide; he started to twitch. I felt the color come into my face.

Bowles glanced up and waved his hands. “Damn, I've got mud for brains tonight. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. There was nothing personal between your mother and me.”

“Then what was special?” I said.

“The way I trusted her. There have only been a few people I've felt that way about. Howie's one of them.”

Markaris, as old a hand as he was, glowed under the praise.

Bowles went on, “Your mother could spot a design flaw a mile off. I couldn't count the number of times I looked over a set of plans and something didn't seem right to me. I'd show it to your mother—that little desk she worked at outside the file room—and in no time she'd shake her head. ‘No way, Ned. This won't work.' And she'd know exactly what was wrong. The design people, our best scientists, called her ‘The Naysayer.' That may sound bad, but if you're a company trying to grow in a competitive field, the people who keep you from wasting money and time are the most important people of all. Your mother wouldn't back down, either. She'd go toe-to-toe with a room full of PhDs and win every time.”

“But you kept her as a technical writer? No promotion?”

“She knew how important she was to me.” He gave a shake of his head, realizing how that seemed, revealing a bit of his arrogance. “We took care of her with a nice bonus check every year.”