In Death's Shadow Page 6

  Ferenzi scowled. “I’ve been hired to prevent terrorist attacks on the games. I’m working in cooperation with the agency. Now please answer my questions.”

  Rendon shrugged. “You think this is the result of terrorists?”

  “We can’t rule that out.”

  Rendon took a moment to digest that. “The last person to see the roommate was a newspaper reporter who drove her home.”

  The conversation did not last much longer and left Rendon’s mind reeling. Ferenzi’s main interest seemed to be the roommate and potential terrorists. Rendon gave him Adams’s phone number, and Ferenzi left promising to inform the CDC if he found the stripper. Rendon went into their meeting room, took a deep breath in, and stared at the papers on the table in front of him. He let out the breath slowly. Could the deaths be a terrorist plot? Was that why so many had died suddenly and then nothing? Was it a warning?

  Andrews sat at his desk. It was morning, the second day of his assignment in Atlanta, and he didn’t like what he had just heard. The man at the CDC, a Dr. Cougher, had confirmed that there was an unknown and deadly agent attacking individuals in Atlanta. They didn’t know what it was, though it was probably viral. It had appeared suddenly.

  “Could it be part of a terrorist attack?” Andrews had asked. The shrug had seemed audible over the phone. There was no evidence of such, but then, what evidence would there be if it was terrorists? The information was not reassuring. What if Ferenzi were right? Andrews picked up the phone and called Washington. He still had friends.

  “Martin, this is Will Andrews.”

  “Oh, hi, Will. Listen, sorry about that assignment. I tried to block it, but there wasn’t anybody else to…spare. I know what you think of Ferenzi.”

  “That’s OK. But listen, he may be on to something. There’s a weird virus down here killing people, mostly athletic types while they’re exercising.”

  “Oh? How many?”

  “Five or six dead. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but the CDC is worried. Apparently, that’s enough for them to worry about an epidemic, and with the Georgia Games coming up in a few months…”

  “Are they sure?”

  “No. What doctor was ever sure? There’s always more tests you can run.

  “It could be coincidence, but I thought we might better check it out. Could you ask around and see if anybody’s heard of any of the Middle Eastern groups using biological weapons. See if anybody’s developed something that acts like a virus and causes heart attacks in people who are exercising.”

  “I’ll look into it,” the agency man said. “Though, I’ve never heard of anything like that. Usually a gun or bomb. It’s easier to take credit. Besides, why kill people in Atlanta now? I mean, nobody well known was killed, right? We’d have heard about that.”

  “Right.”

  “Doesn’t make sense. If they wanted the games, why wouldn’t they wait and start killing when the athletes were there? Why give a lead time to come up with a cure?”

  Andrews shrugged. It was a lot the same as what he had thought. “Don’t know.”

  “I’ll check for you, Will, when I have the time. I think Ferenzi is just digging, so he can make more money from that millionaire, Baylor.”

  Andrews agreed and hung up the phone. He picked up the file on “Lee Abu” and began to read it. The girl was twenty-one and had been born in the United States. Her parents were from Iran but had become naturalized citizens. According to the file, the parents had put out a missing persons on the girl some six years ago, but she had never been found and was presumed dead. The parents had died in a car wreck last year. He put the file down. He’d seen the story before. A girl goes missing; two years later, she’s found dead with a needle in her arm, or just dead—one john too many. There was a market for teenage girls. It was a fact of modern society, a vile and vicious fact that wasn’t spread too widely—nobody wanted to know.

  He felt a dull pain in his chest and remembered a cute, bright little girl with long, black hair and an infectious smile. He hadn’t thought of her in months. It had been a relief. He still blamed himself. If he’d only…

  He put the file in the desk drawer. Apparently, this Lee Abu had escaped death on the streets—so far.

  Six

  Just to the east of Buckhead in Atlanta lies the governor’s mansion, buttressed on all sides by landed, elegant, and massive estates—the homes of the powerful and (not always American) rich. Arabic spoken here.

  The heart of Buckhead itself is a commercial district on Peachtree Street, lined with outdoor cafes and bars where the young begin their nightly business.

  Morning comes slowly. Lunch is business. Continuing north on Peachtree, one finds the shopping malls, and even farther north, the MARTA has a large station. Just below that station and above a strip mall sat the Peachtree Inn and Suites. An edifice built of concrete, the motel advertised hourly, daily, and weekly rates.

  Any customer would do. The rooms were renovated, the sign said. Color TV with X-rated movies. Waterbeds.

  Ree had slipped out while it was still dark. She had studied Harry carefully before she left. He slept on his stomach, his hands squashing the pillow into a ball. His face looked peaceful except for the dark swelling under one eye. She felt guilty, and the guilt hurried her steps to the MARTA station and then to Georgia State.

  The previous night she chose the motel because of its proximity to the rapid transit. She wasn’t sure why she chose to have one room. She didn’t know him, and she knew she didn’t want the police. It was simpler this way. Run.

  The test in her math class was easy. So far, college had proven easy.

  She stood outside the school’s cafeteria with the phone cradled between her shoulder and ear as she waited for one of the barmaids to get Evan from the back room at the Bare Nights. Considering her options, she had thought of Evan the body guard at the club. He was literally the only person she trusted. On holidays, when the club remained obstinately empty, Evan had poured out his life story to her. A former first-round draft choice in the NFL, he had discovered mostly himself in his five years as a pro. He had a flaring temper; he didn’t like football, but he did like men. Ree trusted him. He treated her with affection.

  “Little sister?” he asked tentatively.

  “Yes, sweet.” She stopped, gathered her breath, and hurried her words. “You’ve got to help me. I need to get my things out of that apartment. I think some of Denny’s friends are after me. They were over there the other night.”

  “Bastards. They’ve been around asking for you. But, baby, I’m stuck here till two this morning. Joe’s gone out binging again. I couldn’t go till then.”

  “I guess I could wait.” She tried to twirl hair around her index finger and gave up. She hated having to have short hair, and she didn’t want to wait. She wanted to get something done right now. Every minute the anxiety twisted at her stomach.

  Evan continued, his voice low, “You know there was some doctor around here asking for you. He said Susie died of a bug, and you might have it too. He gave me a number to call. Said he could help you if it was caught early.”

  “Sure.” Ree scribbled the number down and discounted it. The man was probably hired by Denny. She’d seen Susie. She hadn’t been sick enough to die. All she had was a runny nose. “Evan, why don’t you tell the dancers I’ve gone over to the Les Tans. Maybe Denny’s people will go down there, and I could get the stuff out of my place before they figured the difference.”

  “Don’t know,” he said, and she could just see in her mind the massive head shaking, the look of doubt forming on his face, the wrinkling of the scar on his cheek. “I can get your stuff tomorrow morning. Why don’t you wait. It’ll be safer.”

  “Evan, please, I need to, now.”

  There was a moment of silence. “OK. I’ll do it, but be careful. Run if you see anyone at all. Call over he
re if you get in trouble.” He paused again. “What is it Denny wants from you?”

  “Don’t know. Some bullshit. Whatever it is, it probably has to do with Susie.”

  That was the truth. She didn’t know what he wanted.

  “Watch out for them.”

  “Thanks, sweet.”

  She hung up and hurried up the street to the MARTA station. Evan would know what to do. He’d go near one of the girls that Denny hung out with and tell another one of the girls that Lee had started over at the Les Tans. A phone call would be made. Denny’s men would be at Les Tans. She looked behind her. No one followed. Still, she stayed in crowds of people. She got off at Lenox and took a bus. She knew the transit system.

  The bus was full, and she had to take a seat near the front. She looked out the window and scowled. Her life was falling apart. She clenched her fists. She wanted to scream. How could Harry understand? He’d never been a woman with no skills and no money. What was she supposed to do? Work as a waitress and starve.

  At least, now, when the men leered at her, they gave her money. And look at the other girls. Many of them had been left with kids, rent, and no husband. What were they to do—welfare? No man could understand. Most of the girls had dreams. Some were students. Few made their dreams. The money seduced, and somehow, they always found men who used them. But some of the girls did succeed, and the only way to do it was to separate your life and keep the two parts separate. No police. Would IBM hire her with her MBA and five languages if they knew she had been a stripper? Or would the men turn her away? The same men that willingly put money in her garter belt. Harry would never understand.

  Had to be no police. If the police were involved, she would never be able to hide what she was doing, had done. Even if she hadn’t really done all she’d told Harry. She looked at her hands and saw them still balled up tight into fists. She had entrusted Harry with a lot. That thought gave her a tug in her gut. Had she trusted him too much? Her knuckles were white. She forced herself to relax. Finally, the bus reached her stop.

  Walking up to her apartment complex, she carefully scanned the parking lot. No unusual cars. The lights in her apartment were off, darkness behind the blinds.

  The door was locked. Using her key she opened the door and went inside. The light switch did not work. Cushions from the couch were scattered on the rug. A lamp had been knocked over and lay bent on the floor. Her gun lay on the floor in the middle of the living room, a small dark object amid the ruin. She frowned at the sight, closed the door behind her, and was enveloped in darkness.

  Cursing, she flipped the switch up and down again but still with no effect. Slowly, her eyes adapted to the darkness. Her breath came fast. She had a flashlight in her bedroom. She’d use it to pack. She did not intend to come back to the place.

  She put her bag on the table by the door and then went over and picked up the gun, wondering what it was doing there. Maybe it was the gun Harry had seen, and they’d thrown it back in the apartment before they’d left. She usually kept it in the nightstand beside her bed.

  The place had been searched and torn apart. Denny’s people had been looking for something—apparently not the gun.

  She put the weapon on the table by the sofa and walked over to the stairs. It was dark. She stopped and listened. Were they up there waiting? Her heart pounded. She skipped up the carpeted steps, tripped, fell forward, screamed, gagged, and screamed again.

  Round the corner, on the steps lay a body.

  It did not move as she scrambled back. The flesh was cold; the body, rigid.

  She screamed again, and running down the steps, she grabbed her bag, yanked open the apartment door, and raced out without closing it. Her heart plunged against her chest ready to explode outward. The feel of cold flesh against her rushed through her mind. She stopped and stood, held her stomach, trying to keep herself from vomiting. Her mind swirled down into an abyss of fear. Her breath caught in her chest. She could not move. Images of horror attacked her mind.

  The man’s eyes shone with violence. His breathing became ragged and loud. Shaking, Ree curled her knees up to her chest. Fear ran shocks down the length of her body. The man reached forward and grabbed the front of her nightgown. She screamed in terror, and then another man appeared in the doorway. He was white, square faced, tall. He barked words in a strange language. Her attacker let go of her and left, shutting the door. The radio in her parent’s room came on, blaring loud music. The screams lasted a long time. Then silence. Ree lay frozen, curled in a tight ball. She didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to know. Her wrists hurt where the ropes bit into her skin. Then there were faces: the maids, her father’s turned white with death, her mother’s with eyes wide and unseeing, embassy staffers, and finally Uncle Will, fear and anger creasing his forehead.

  A horn sounded and startled Ree. She hugged her arms around herself, looked back at the dark doorway of her apartment. She fled up Buford Highway until she and a bus were at the same stop.

  Harry had been awake for an hour. When he first woke, he tried to get up and then slumped back to the pillow, the pain unexpected and intense, the memory returning. His mind stayed bleary, though awareness returned. He hesitantly reached over to the phone and called the office. He had a bad chest cold, he lied. The secretary, the Dragon’s favorite, did not commiserate.

  Harry wondered how long it would be before the secretary graced the Dragon’s bed. He took two more threes and called the motel office to confirm another night. He gave them his credit card number.

  Ree had disappeared—again.

  Or at least, she didn’t seem to be in the room. He’d gotten out of bed far enough to see no one on the couch and the bathroom door open. Damn her. She was like a flower. Exotically pretty and gone the next day. He went back to the bed and lay down. There went the story, too. She was the key. He cursed again.

  Finally, he had to get up. He needed to urinate. He struggled to a standing position, leaned against the partition, and limped to the bathroom. Then, he hobbled back to bed. Around noon, he woke again. The room was still dark; the shades, drawn. He took another one of the pain pills, just one this time, and sat on the edge of the bed. His shirt was rumpled. The room smelled sour. He sneezed and winced at the pain.

  He looked at the phone. He should call O’Heartlan. But on the other hand, he hadn’t told the police he’d be seeing the girl, and they were looking for her.

  If he didn’t tell O’Heartlan about Ree, what could he say: “Well, I was just hanging round the Lenox parking lot in the darkest area, and two thugs beat me up and didn’t take my money.” Sounded ridiculous. He needed to find Ree and then go to the police. For the moment at least, he’d cut himself off from O’Heartlan’s help. The thought bothered him, and he almost made the call anyway.

  Where would she be?

  He needed a gun. If they caught him again defenseless, he might not live through it. Shit. He hated guns. If he ever found out what was going on, there would be a hell of a story. Maybe he’d be offered a job with the Atlanta paper?

  He lay down on the bed and spent the rest of the afternoon half dreaming and half asleep. He finally woke to the jangle of the phone.

  “Harry!”

  “Hmm,” he said, too dazed to be truly woken even by Ree’s shouted voice over the phone.

  “Come get me.”

  “Oh.” He rose up on one elbow.

  “Now, Harry. They’re here. I saw them outside. They’ll catch me if I try to take the train.”

  “Who’s where?”

  “The men. The ones who beat you up.”

  “Oh.” He squeezed his eyes shut a moment. He had wanted to find her. “OK. Just wait a minute. Let me wake up.”

  “They’re right outside the doors.” Her voice was hysterical.

  “Where are you?”

  “In the student building off Courtland.”

&
nbsp; Downtown. Georgia State, he thought. “And they’re right outside?”

  “Yes. A minute ago. I can’t see from here. Hurry.”

  “Where do you want to meet me?” he asked.

  “You know where the pool building is—right across from the underground staff lots?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Right there. I can get to it from the inside and wait for you in the shadows. Drive up and almost stop. I’ll jump in. Hurry, please. They’ve got guns, and the crowd is thinning out here. The afternoon classes are over.”

  “I’ll be over.”

  The desk manager said some woman had already paid enough money to cover the extra day. The man gave Harry a strange look, and Harry had the suspicion that Ree had paid for more than two nights, but Harry didn’t argue. Then, he remembered he’d given the man his credit card number. The clerk seemed to know nothing of that. Harry left, reminding himself to check the bill when it came.

  He drove slowly, trying to be cautious. It had been four hours since he’d taken any medication, but he still felt drugged, and he certainly wasn’t thinking right. He found himself on Courtland and couldn’t remember exiting off the interstate. Then it occurred to him that Courtland went over Edgewood, and he had to circle around. He slowed to a crawl going past the entrance to the pool building and almost ran over Ree as she raced across from the other side of the street, pink bag flapping against her leg.

  Her face was pale, features sharp, the muscles drawn hard against small bones. She panted as she vaulted into the car. “Go,” she choked out between gasps.

  He flattened the accelerator, and with a cough, the Chevy hesitated and then lurched off toward downtown.

  “Not that way,” she said, her voice calmer. “Get on 75-85. Go south.”

  The car seemed to drive itself. His mind was the one going in and out of gear.

  Harry noticed where he was going again when they passed the perimeter. “Where are we going?”

  “I want to get out of here.”