Blind Eye (24 page)

She ran up one flight. When she reached the kitchen, she dropped the pages on the counter and searched frantically for the phone handset again. It was on the kitchen table.

She heard the sound of the chain snap downstairs as she snatched up the phone. Fighting back her panic as she tried to focus on the numbers, Helen racked her mind for whom to call. She sure as hell didn't know the phone number for the police out here.

Nine-one-one. It dawned on her with brilliant clarity. Nine-one-one.

But as she tried desperately to find the three numbers on the keypad, she heard the footsteps on the stairs and realized she was too late.

Waterbury Long-Term Care Facility
Connecticut

“I
'm hitching a ride on a military transport. I should be in Roswell, New Mexico, by early afternoon,” Mark explained to Sid after getting off his cell phone and walking back into the room.

“That's a long way to go without having…what do they call it on TV? Substantiated evidence,” Sid said, looking over his shoulder at Amelia.

She had been lost in a world of her own for a couple of hours now, not paying attention to anyone else in the room. Mark could tell that Sid was already concerned about it. The young doctor had told him that he couldn't wait until she was transferred to a more equipped facility where they could keep a closer eye on her.

“Maybe it's not substantiated for everyone else, but it's good enough for me. She's given us the same information twice. Once with the manual and another time writing down the letters. That's the first thing she's written in…how long? No, I'm going with it.”

The neurologist nodded. “I'm just thinking that you might not get any cooperation from anyone once you get there.”

“That's a risk I'm willing to take. But I do have a couple of things in the works that might help me.”

“You mean about this WIPP facility?”

Mark nodded. “I found out the name of the company that manages the site. TMC Corporation. Detective Ricci was able to get information from the FBI on them. They're a half-billion-dollar company that manages and operates a number of remote nuclear laboratory and disposal sites for the Department of Energy…and for a handful of power companies.”

“The New Mexico Power Company one of their clients?” Sid asked.

“You got it. That's why I'm flying out there this morning,” Mark said quietly. “Interestingly enough, the facility that's burning on the Gulf of Mexico was also one of their managed sites.”

“Have you been able to contact anyone inside the company?”

“No, but I don't know if I want to,” Mark admitted. “Too many things have happened this past week. Too many coincidences. The cop in me is asking a lot of questions. I was talking to my chief in York an hour ago. He's using his contacts to get someone from the FBI field office in Albuquerque to meet me in Roswell when I get there. He's trying to stir up some interest at the higher levels.”

Sid looked anxious. “What do you mean, there are too many coincidences?”

“A few days before the initial accident in the Gulf, the head of Research and Development at New Mexico Power died after a routine test procedure in the hospital. A colonoscopy. This guy, Fred Adrian, was at the helm of this project. Right after the incident, a charter plane goes down, killing a number of people from New
Mexico Power…people who worked on this specific project. I find it extremely convenient that
everyone
who was closely tied to this research project is gone. So does my chief, and so does the FBI special agent in charge in New Mexico. At least, they both agreed that it's worth checking into.”

Sid looked over at Amelia again. “She's been giving us her sister's view of some of the things Marion was involved with. Technical data, even the name of this WIPP location. Do you think the wrong prescription she almost got last night might have something to do with your theory?”

“At this point, anything's possible,” Mark told him flatly.

He was relieved when his chief, Lucas Faber, had seen the connections. Lucas was a bit less enthusiastic about Mark's source of the location. He knew a little about some of the odd connections between twins, but he wasn't about to commit to anything coming from Amelia. After all, he'd argued, even though she'd woken up from her minimally conscious state and named a facility twice, there could be an explanation other than the one Mark was suggesting. No one knew where Amelia's travels had taken her, after all.

Mark hadn't argued the point, even though the information was more current than the date Amelia had been injured. The important thing was that the FBI was now involved and he was heading to New Mexico.

If Marion was there, he was going to find her.

Chief Faber had also offered to check nationally for any other homicides or incidents involving New Mexico Power personnel or the TMC Corporation in the past week. Not everything made the headline news.

“So you're saying,” Sid said, “Amelia could still be in danger.”

He looked over at the patient. Amelia was watching them. He wondered if she'd heard the last question.

“She could very well be,” Mark said quietly, glad that the Waterbury PD was on board. “She's revealing things that someone has gone to a lot of trouble to hide. If they tried once to stop her from talking to us, there's no reason to think they won't try again.”

Washington, D.C.

“T
here is one tried and true way to kill a project, Martin. You make an offer of an enormous amount of money. You buy it and you bury it.”

Martin Durr reined in his anger and remained silent. The caller was breaking two of Martin's basic rules. First, no one told Martin Durr what to do. Second, you didn't talk about sensitive business matters on an unsecured line.

Durr sat in the backseat of the limo, staring in disbelief at the granite buildings lining Constitution Avenue. Here he was, at the heart of D.C. on a cell phone, listening to this idiot come very close to exposing them all. He considered the situation extremely uncomfortable.

“When we talk about killing a project, no one is talking about literally—”

“Look, I can't hear you,” Martin said, cutting him off. “This phone connection is not working.”

“Martin, my clients are concerned about the events of…”

The lawyer continued to talk, and Martin wanted to stuff something down his throat. He was spouting bull
shit and they both knew it. Everyone involved knew exactly how he conducted business. Durr made the decisions and executed them. His fellow investors didn't care about the details. They wanted results. Period. Beyond that, they cared for nothing and no one.

Martin said nothing, though. He wasn't going to give them an inch of solid ground. The lawyer was only a mouthpiece, and a newly hired one at that. He was representing a dozen investors worldwide who had combined their wealth nearly two decades ago for leverage. Now worth over five hundred billion dollars, the group's investments were primarily focused on oil. And to protect that interest, the group kept track of key figures in the automotive and alternative-energy industries to stay on top of developments—or to squash projects if there was a need.

Not that Martin and his group needed to do it all. Those directing the American automobile industry had certainly been doing their part. There was a reason why the fuel efficiency of automobiles had moved at a snail's pace for the past several decades. Even directors of the Japanese auto industry, now well entrenched in oil investments, had bought into the plan.

This project, however, was perhaps the most important breakthrough they'd had to deal with since GM's EV1. This project promised to be the greatest advance in energy since Edison beat out Tesla. The successful development of the portable nuclear container system would crush the demand for fossil fuels in a decade, eventually taking over nearly all commercial applications in a twenty- to thirty-year time frame. No, they had to kill it.

Martin Durr was an investor, a businessman, a political power. Many considered him a genius. He was on
the board of directors of half a dozen corporations and universities. Durr would always be the tough son of a tougher West Virginia coal miner. He'd never had time for any bachelor's degree. He'd married twice for money…unsuccessfully. His third marriage had been a success, though, and he had two children to show for it. By the time he'd married the third time, he'd been the one with the bank accounts.

Durr had only a handful of people he did business with. They had all been with him for many years. There was no beginning or end to projects. One thing rolled into the next. Their goals were the same—to make money. There was no bullshit nitpicking about how something got done. The end result was what mattered.

Martin couldn't understand this phone call. There was no reason for it. At first, he figured the lawyer was trying to justify his salary. Then, a suspicion that something else was in play began to creep in.

“My clients want to know how you intend to resolve—”

“Can you hear me?” Martin finally said into the phone, cutting him off again. “Look, we have a bad connection. I didn't hear a word of what you said.”

“Mr. Durr…”

“If you can hear me, call my office. Make an appointment with my secretary. I'll assign one of my people to assist you. That is, if we can help you at all.”

“Mr. Durr, my clients—”

Martin ended the call. He threw the phone inside his open briefcase. The cell immediately started ringing. He decided it had to be the lawyer again. People like him didn't take too well to being hung up on. Durr shut the briefcase, muffling the sound.

He needed to think through this. Lately, he'd been
spending too much time pursuing politicians and not paying enough attention to the day-to-day details. Not too far down the road, Martin liked to see himself serving as a political advisor for someone in the White House, the way Karl Rove had been to the Bush family. It was certainly within the realm of possibility. He could get things done in a way Rove only dreamed of.

As it was, though, he'd been depending too much on his assistant. Joseph Ricker was smart, ambitious. The problem with him was a lack of follow-through. And the years were starting to add up. Joseph was getting lazy. He wasn't as sharp as he once was. Not as eager to please. There were flaws in the projects he'd been overseeing. Martin found himself double-checking what Joseph was supposed to get done. That wasn't good.

This operation had been particularly sloppy. By the time everything was resolved—as the son of a bitch on the phone said—the body count could very well attract attention. It wouldn't take a genius to start connecting dots and tying everything up in a nice bundle. In a case like that, the legal types wouldn't settle until they had someone to hang.

Everyone would be looking for a fall guy. That was what the phone call on his cell phone was about. They were probably taping that conversation, just in case.

Martin Durr wasn't going to be anyone's fall guy. He always operated with utmost caution. Nothing would ever come back to him. He understood how things worked.

If his business partners wanted him out…fine. That was their problem.

As for him, he'd finish this up and then find his place in those dark back hallways of power. He had enough money.

Politics was the future.

Nuclear Fusion Test Facility

T
he metal frame beneath the elevator floor was barely three inches from her face.

It took a moment for her to grasp the fact that she was not dead. Then she heard the voices.

They were not here to rescue her.

Marion couldn't see them, but she could hear the urgency in the muffled tones. They would know there was a survivor in the facility the moment the elevator door opened. She'd covered Andrew Bonn and Dr. Lee's bodies with plastic.

Inching sideways, she realized the frame forming the base of the elevator was about three feet or so beneath the floor of the elevator car itself. Bundles of wire and cable crisscrossed the space.

As the doors opened, two people left the elevator. The footsteps were heavy. She decided they were wearing boots. She imagined the same masked men, armed with guns, that had begun this nightmare, and a cold feeling of dread washed through her.

Marion couldn't tell if anyone stayed behind or not, but the doors of the elevator remained open. Voices from out in the lab. They'd spotted the bodies. They
knew someone had survived. Then, everything became quiet.

The lights along the outer edges of the floor lit the jammed space where Marion lay. It was difficult not to feel claustrophobic, considering her face was only inches away from the heavy metal frame. The air was warming up quickly. She felt droplets of sweat run down to her hairline. She guessed this was what being trapped in a casket alive must feel like.

Marion inched closer to the side near the door. Sheet metal lined the edge of the frame, and some kind of rubber seal beneath the door blocked her view. Working one arm into position, she fit her finger up between the elevator frame and the cement wall. Stretching up as far as she could, Marion could just barely reach the seal. The rubber was soft and pliant, though, and she was able to get one finger around an edge. Very carefully, she tried to peel it downward toward her. If she made any sound, they might find her.

If they found her, she'd be dead.

She struggled to pull the rubber down, without success. She'd almost given up when she realized that her other hand, pressed flat on the floor of the shaft, had brushed away a shard of broken plastic from the fallen flashlight. Carefully feeling for it and then transferring it across her body, she pushed the sharp plastic up into the seal, puncturing it. In a moment, she was able to make enough of hole that she could get a good grip to pull.

A two-inch gap appeared and she stopped. She didn't need to pull the rubber any farther. She could see him.

There was at least a third person. She saw the soles of two boots spanning the small space between the edge of the elevator and the lab floor. The person had to be standing in the open door.

Marion tried to shift her weight to get her head closer to the hole. She pressed one foot against the floor and the shock of pain in her ankle nearly made her cry out. For the first time since falling, she became aware of the throbbing in her ankle.

She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to forget the pain. From her new position, she could see a little more. The man above was wearing the same gray overalls the killers had worn, and there was something hanging from the person's belt. It looked to be some kind of radio device. Marion doubted they could use it to communicate with someone on the ground level. It had to be for communication with the others down here.

She could also see the short, gunmetal-gray machine gun in his hand.

As she watched, the radio vibrated. Marion tilted her head and saw more of the person answering the device. He was wearing a ski mask. She wasn't surprised.

“What do you have?”

A man's voice came through the radio. He was speaking quietly. “He was right. Everyone accounted for but Kagan. We're going to do a thorough sweep and flush her back to you.”

Shit. They'd called her by name. Shit. They knew she was missing. They were down here looking for her.

Marion didn't think she could possibly be more afraid.

“I'm ready,” the man standing above her answered.

“We're starting the sweep now,” the voice said. “She has to be somewhere.”

Marion closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe as she began the countdown until they realized exactly where she was hiding.