Any Minute Now (45 page)

But underneath the dread, he was gripped by an all too familiar sense of resentment. From bits and pieces gleaned from both Whitman and St. Vincent, he surmised that the Alchemists were a fractured fraternity, broken up into the Ins and the Outs, putting the lie to their motto:
Uno Animo, Uno Voluntatis
—One Mind, One Will. He knew, for instance, that St. Vincent, Albin White, and Trey Hartwell were the Ins. What to make of St. Vincent's death then? Had he been ordered shot by outside enemies or by Hartwell and White for some unknown infraction? He had no idea, but he knew that it must bode ill for him. The vast bulk of his business was funneled through NSA via Hemingway. But Hemingway was an unwitting channel for the Alchemists. Furthermore, the highly lucrative work he did on the side for Directorate N and St. Vincent personally was vital to his own bank account. St. Vincent's death was going to severely impact USA's business, as well as his own private fortune. His plan to use Lindstrom as a bargaining chip to regain the power St. Vincent had taken from him was as dead as the two principals. On the other hand, St. Vincent's death left a power vacuum at NSA. It also left him vulnerable to scrutiny. He might have resented, even hated, St. Vincent—subjected as he was to that sadist's contempt—but there could be no doubt that the man protected him from Hemingway's scrutiny.

Now that protection was gone and he was faced with Gregory Whitman's continual disregard for rules and regs. He had given Whitman his head and how had he been repaid? By open defiance and contempt for his boss. It was Whitman—the ex-Alchemist who was always three steps ahead of everyone—treating Cutler with the same contempt as St. Vincent. They were cut from the same cloth, those two. But his road to greater power had to be spotless, which meant ridding himself of the quagmires Whitman had dragged him into, past and present. He had to be dealt with quickly and completely. It had to be as if this current off-the-grid hornet's nest had never happened. Only then could he move forward with confidence.

Yes, the more he thought about it, the more solid the plan seemed.

His journey continued. Small towns and tony residential enclaves blurred by him, until he came out the other side into the pastoral hills of rural Virginia. And yet, all the while, another part of his mind was laughing evilly: where there's a sadist, it's said, there must be a masochist. He slammed the wheel with his fist. Then he pulled over, popped the trunk, went around to peer inside. He pushed aside the two assault rifles and extra ammo to reveal what lay underneath.

*   *   *

“This is crazy,” Charlie said, as they hustled Lucy into the dim, echoing interior.

“Really?” Whitman hurried them down one corridor after another. “You're going to say that now?”

Charlie grunted. “Well, shit, you have a point.” She looked up apprehensively at the iron walls. “Are these going to collapse in on us?”

“The architecture is supposed to make it seem that way.”

“Mission fucking accomplished.”

They emerged at last into the section of the Well that Whitman knew as “Home.” It was the waterfall, whose splashing water fed the ancient
cenote
where, unbeknownst to him, Lucy had filled the mouths of three corpses, just as her own mouth was now filled, and then watched as they were tipped over to be lost forever in the unknown depths.

Now it was her turn.

Whitman lifted her up onto the ledge of the
cenote
. “Charlie, listen to me. We have to drop her over.”

“What? Whit, she'll drown.”

He nodded. “That's the idea.”

“But—”

“No buts.” He looked at her. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes. Of course, yes.”

“Then let her go.” His voice hardened. “Charlie, let her go.”

The moment Charlie did as he asked, he slid Lucy's head into the black roiling water. He kept hold of her, hands on her shoulders, then the sides of her neck, settling at the nape. He cradled the base of her skull. Then he slipped the rest of her over the lip until all of her was under the surface. She hung there as he held her, all ripples, ghostly pale in the surrounding darkness. No air bubbled up out of her nostrils; her chest was perfectly still, as if she had lost the instinct to breathe. Her hair streamed out on either side of her head in Medusa-like coils, as if each one were a serpent eager to wrap themselves around his wrists, puncture skin and flesh to tear out the cluster of veins on the insides. Inhuman eyes stared up at him, magnified by the water. They were fury-filled and, as if independent entities of their own, they rolled, trembled, and shook violently in their sockets.

To the extent he was able, Whitman ignored the horror of what Preach had made of her—a cross between a Frankenstein's monster and a flesh-eating succubus. He kept a steady pressure on the nerves at the base of her skull, playing a silent melody only he could hear, and gradually the rage leached out of her eyes. Her chest gave a great heave, her body began to move again, as any human body would, and she blinked. Her arms rose until her fingers wrapped around his wrists. There was no malice in the gesture. But it was not until a clear and present terror suffused her expression, until he could hear her calling to him in his mind,
Save me!
, that Whitman hauled her out of the water, gasping and choking.

Together, he and Charlie unwound the soaking cloth from her mouth. He removed the cloth gag. Her belly heaved in and out like an accordion. She retched, but nothing came out of her mouth. She tried to speak, and retched again, gasping like a fish out of water.

“Now we take her to the plane,” Whitman said as he lifted her off the edge of the
cenote
.

“Is she okay?” Charlie asked.

“She will be,” Whitman said, “when she sees Flix.”

*   *   *

King Cutler was inside the jet with Flix and the crew when Whitman and Charlie brought Lucy up the steep stairs. He had assessed the situation, getting a detailed description of what had happened, why Edmond Dantès was dead and by whose hand.

Charlie had discovered Trey's Navigator and had driven it, with Whitman in the rear with Lucy's head on his lap, back to the landing strip.

“What the hell happened to you two?” Cutler said when they brought Lucy aboard.

“Later,” Whitman said as they got Lucy into a seat.

“It's a long story,” Charlie said.

They all looked on as Flix, crying out his niece's name, rushed toward her and, on bended knee, looked up into her still anguished face.

“Lucy, are you all right?”

She nodded wordlessly as he took her hand, squeezed it.

“Lucy?”

“You came back, Uncle Felix.”

Her voice was so thin and reedy he scarcely recognized it.

“I promised I would, didn't I?”

“I was so frightened. They took you away in an ambulance.”

“You saw that?”

She nodded again. “I was watching from the window.” Her hand tightened in his. “I saw what they did to you, injecting you in the neck.”

Flix gave Whitman a quick, meaningful glance.

Lucy's eyes were dark with anxiety. “I want to know you're okay, Uncle Felix.”

“I'm fine.” Flix smiled up into her face. “We're both fine now we're together.”

As Whitman had surmised, being reunited with her uncle had brought her out of herself, began to ease the effects of the dreadful trial she had been through. The less she focused on that now, the better. He and Charlie watched the reunion, each thinking the private thoughts that dwelled at the heart of their own complicated relationship.

“The flight crew can be released,” Whitman said. “There's no need to quarantine them now.”

“They can't fly the plane,” Flix pointed out, “with the radio out of commission.”

“I'm going to call my cleanup detail to deal with the situation here,” Cutler said. “I'll give orders for these three to be released after they've been debriefed.” He turned to Whitman. “Okay? This is your op.”

“Fine by me,” Whitman replied. He nodded to Charlie who handed them back the phone batteries.

Cutler guided the crew out of the plane to his vehicle to await the appearance of his cleanup detail. “Well, fun as this has been,” he said when he returned moments later, “it's time we got the girl to a hospital for a workup.” He clapped his hands like a cheerleader. “Let's get going, gang.” He seemed almost jovial. “The girl looks like she'll pass out at any moment.”

Whitman did not care for the idea of doctors poking and probing Lucy's mind and body, but he felt it more politic to keep his concerns to himself, at least for the moment. When they got away from here, he would tell Cutler that Lucy needed time with Flix, not doctors.

They got Lucy out of the plane. Charlie climbed into the SUV first, then Whitman and Flix bundled Lucy into the Navigator's capacious backseat next to Charlie. Flix slid in on the other side of his niece. Whitman got the shotgun up front, while Cutler fit himself behind the wheel. He took out his mobile, but frowned.

“For some reason, I'm not getting a signal here.” He got out of the SUV, began walking away, checking his mobile's screen all the while.

Flix felt something flutter behind his eyelids. An electrical spark seemed to fly from Cutler directly into the center of his brain.

“
Jesús Cristo
!” he cried as he slammed out of the vehicle, made a bee line toward Cutler.

“What the hell?” Charlie said.

Flix ran so fast he looked like a cheetah. He smashed into Cutler just before Cutler pressed the “5” button on his mobile. He grabbed the phone out of Cutler's grasp, threw it away. Cutler punched him in the solar plexus. Flix barely felt it. He struck Cutler a blow to his jaw that nearly spun Cutler's head around. Cutler retaliated with the edge of his hand, bringing it down on Flix's shoulder, but again Flix was all but oblivious.

By that time, Whitman was a pace away. “Flix, no!”

But it was too late, or Flix had no desire to keep himself in check. He drove his straightened fingers into Cutler's throat, tearing through skin and cartilage. He curled his fingers, ripping out his windpipe.

Whitman, down on his knees, put his hand on Flix's back. Flix whirled, his eyes wide, his expression wild. He bared his teeth at Whitman. Then, all at once, the feral glow in his eyes was gone, the snarl in his throat quelled. Whitman could feel his muscles relaxing beneath his hand.

“Flix—”

“Look under the Navigator,” Flix said. He rose, retrieved the phone, while Whitman, a deep scowl on his face, returned to the SUV.

“What's happened?” Charlie asked as she slipped out of the Navigator. “Dear god,” she whispered once she was down on her knees, peering under the vehicle with Whitman at the small packet of C-4 explosive. “How in the hell did Flix know about this?”

“No idea,” Flix said as he joined them. He had taken the battery out of Cutler's mobile, rendering it inert. “Something just told me he was going to use this to detonate the explosive.”

Charlie slid under the SUV on her back, began the process of dismantling the bomb. “The same something that allowed you to run like the devil?”

“Did I do that?” Flix said. “I dunno. Maybe.”

“Got it.” Charlie, the packet of C-4 cradled in one hand, turned her attention to Whitman.

He stood, dusting off his hands. “Come on. Let's go home.”

Charlie and Flix followed suit, Flix climbing back beside Lucy.

“I'm guessing your ‘cure' didn't entirely work,” Charlie said from the opposite side of the Navigator.

Whitman grinned at her. “Who said I wanted it to?”

 

ONE WEEK LATER

Midnight outside The Doll House. Julie pushed open the door, stood on the rain-soaked street for a moment, hands jammed deep in the pockets of her raincoat. She took a deep breath of air, then let it out slowly. But no matter how she tried to clear her lungs, Sydny's scent continued to haunt her. She missed Sydny, deeply. At first, she was perplexed by this anomaly in her life. Then she was troubled. How on earth could she miss someone so profoundly whom she had known for such a short time? Then, the first night she had returned here to The Doll House, having walked to it without conscious thought, as if she were a sleepwalker, a memory surfaced.

She was sitting at one of the small tables, a watered-down drink in front of her, watching the sleek, half-naked girls manipulate their bodies around the glistening metal poles, and thinking how none of them could hold a candle to Sydny's electrifying act. All at once, as the music changed, as the lights went from blue to red, she recalled how Hemingway had told her that friendships forged during wartime, compressed time, engendered an intimacy that lasted a lifetime. So it had been with her and Sydny—two women who had shared a slice of compressed time that had affected Julie to her very core.

Now, as she stood on the sidewalk, a limousine, still glistening with beads of rain, pulled up to the curb beside her. She was about to walk away when some instinct told her to hold her ground. The rear door opened and as she bent down, Whitman leaned across the seat, smiled at her.

“Hello, Julie. Please get in.”

She climbed in, the door closed, and the limo pulled away from the curb and down the darkened street. She saw
The Washington Post
, folded over to the story detailing the FBI arrests of the surviving Alchemists, the “discovery” of the Well. She'd read the story this morning. No mention of Omar Hemingway, who had delivered the Alchemists' names to the FBI, or of Whitman, who had tipped off Hemingway. But, as she well knew, that's the way the world worked inside the clandestine services. The oddest thing, however, buried deep in the story, was the fact that the accounts—bank, bond, stocks—of the principles had been drained simultaneously. The FBI and Interpol had been frantically trying to find a money trail, but without success.