Ghost Moon (32 page)

Two of the guards stayed with him. Two more left the room.

When he’d run over various scenarios in his mind, Caleb had pictured something like this, and he’d decided it was better to sit and look relaxed than to stand and pace.

Time ticked by like grains of sand falling one by one down the narrow tube between two parts of an egg timer.

Did they still have them in this world? He should have asked.

No. Not important. He had to keep his mind fixed on the crucial things, starting with his expression. He had to look like a man who had nothing to hide, because probably they had a camera trained on him at this moment. They’d want to see what he was doing now. And they’d review the tapes later.

He kept his gaze straight ahead. But in his mind, watching the picture of the egg timer helped keep him calm.

When the door opened he looked up, then stood as a slim, balding man in his early fifties stepped into the room. He had small, close-set eyes and a Roman nose that looked too big for his face.

“Jerry!”

As soon as he saw the man’s expression, Caleb felt his stomach twist. This guy might be Wyatt Reynolds’ section chief, but he hated working with him. Probably they had some kind of history that hadn’t come out in their investigation.

Ruckleman turned to the guards. “Wait outside.”

The two men left and closed the door behind them, and Caleb was sure they were standing on either side of the doorway,prepared to keep him from escaping.

As soon as they were alone, the older man rounded on Caleb. “Where the hell have you been? You were due to reportin six days ago.”

“You know they watch all the guys out at the farm. I can’t always stick to a regular schedule.”

“Yeah. So what’s your excuse this time?”

“I don’t make excuses. I report what’s happening.”

The section chief folded his arms across his chest but didn’t speak.

“The colonel suspected me of spying. I’ve been in a prison on the compound for the past week.”

Ruckleman’s eyes narrowed. “He’s a hard case. He whips guys for not washing their hands after they piss. If he suspectedyou weren’t being straight with him, why aren’t you dead and buried somewhere out in the woods?”

Caleb fought not to wince, since that was exactly what had happened. “They’ve been trying to get information out of me.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Nothing. You have to listen to me.”

“Do I?”

Caleb ignored the question and plowed ahead. “You thought Bowie was a homegrown terrorist. But his motivationisn’t what you think. He’s convinced himself that he’s a superpatriot. He’s trying to force the government to take away more of our civil liberties—and strengthen their policiesagainst terrorists.”

The other man didn’t seem to be getting it. Instead, he was giving Caleb a considering look. “I wouldn’t say they worked you over too much.”

“They can make sure it doesn’t show.”

Ruckleman tipped his head to the side, still looking like he was withholding judgment. “So, how’d you get away?”

“When they came back to get me for another session, I pretended I was in too much pain to get up off the floor. Usually,two of them came in when they opened the door. But this time there was only one. I jumped him, then lit out across the fields. They searched for me, and I tumbled off the edge of a cliff and landed hard. But I got up and crawled through a drainage pipe.”

The section chief was looking at him skeptically. “You’re not supposed to come here without the security card you’ve got hidden.”

Caleb touched his head, getting ready to spout the lie that would explain what seemed like gaps in his memory—when they were real gaps in his knowledge of Wyatt Reynolds and his relationship with this very hostile man.

“I don’t know where it is! When I went over that cliff, I hit my head. There are holes in my memory.”

“Convenient.”

“What are you trying to say, that I’m lying? Or maybe they sent someone here to impersonate Wyatt Reynolds? All you have to do is check my fingerprints.”

Ruckleman stared at him. “I’m not doubting your identity,but you always were a little flaky.”

“Yeah, well, I came here to tell you something important.”

“Something you conveniently remember?” the man asked, a sneer in his voice. “Then spit it out.”

“Bowie had me in detention because he has a big operationready to go. And he didn’t trust me.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “He’s getting ready to set off a dirty bomb in Washington, D.C. Two bombs, actually. One as a diversion for the main event.”

“When?”

“July third.”

“Where?”

"The diversion is at the Kennedy Center. The real thing is at the Capitol.”

“You have any proof?”

“You mean like a calendar circled in red?” he asked, thinking that was what Jacob had seen. “Of course I couldn’t get out of there with anything written down. Maybe he doesn’t
have
anything written down. But I risked my life to get you that information.”

“Maybe. But right now I don’t know if you’ve switched sides.”

Caleb fought not to answer with a curse.

As he was still trying to rein in his anger, the section chief walked up to him, grabbed the front of his shirt and ripped the placket open, exposing his chest.

“What the hell?”

Caleb looked from his bare chest to the other man’s smirking face.

“At least you’re not wearing a wire.”

It was all he could do to keep from wrapping his large hands around the man’s neck. In as mild a voice as he could manage, he said, “Of course not. Why would I?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Stop acting like I joined the militia. You know I took this job because I’m trying to protect my country.”

Keeping his expression bland, Ruckleman said, “So you’re saying the colonel didn’t send you to deflect attention from what he’s really planning?”

Caleb didn’t have to struggle to sound outraged. “You’ve got to be kidding. I volunteered for this assignment because I’m against everything the colonel stands for.”

“Uh huh.” Ruckleman gave him a long, considering look. “I haven’t been pleased with your performance for the past six months. You haven’t come up with much new information.”

Scrambling for an answer to the accusation, he said, “Maybe because they had me out of the loop.”

Ruckleman ignored the interjection and kept talking. “Now you come to me with a crazy story about a bomb plot and holes in your memory.”

“If you raid the compound, you’ll find the bombs.”

"How did you find out about them—if you’re out of the loop?”

“I was sneaking around, listening and watching.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I can’t raid the place on your say-so. We’re going to have to verify your story. And you’re going to have to stay here while I see what I can find out.”

“Don’t dismiss this out of hand.”

“I’m not. I told you, I’m planning to investigate.”

“Sure.”

“I never did like that smart-ass attitude of yours.”

Caleb wanted to tell Jerry Ruckleman that he was being a jerk. But all he did was stand there, facing the man who should be thrilled that his spy had escaped and dragged himselfin here with important information.

Too late he saw the fatal flaw in the scenario they’d devised.With all their careful planning, they didn’t know that Jerry Ruckleman had never trusted Wyatt Reynolds. Maybe he’d been forced to work with him—under protest. Maybe all along he’d thought that Reynolds would get himself killed.

Ruckleman was at the door again, speaking to the two guards. They came back in, their gazes drilling into Caleb.

“Make Mr. Reynolds comfortable in room fifteen,” the section chief said.

When the two men moved up on either side of Caleb, he looked at Ruckleman. “You’re making a mistake. They’re going to set off the bombs the day after tomorrow. You need to get out to Flagstaff Farm and disarm them.”

“I’ll give the orders around here.”

Caleb felt a cold chill sweep over him. Ross had told him about 9/11. The same numbers as you called in an emergency.Only they meant something different, too. He’d learned that that was the day terrorists had blown up the Twin Towers of something called the World Trade Center in New York. Since then, Americans had been fighting a “war on terror.” And they’d allowed some of their civil liberties to be taken away. You could be held indefinitely, with no formal charges and no chance to talk to a lawyer. Ross had given him examplesthat had curdled his stomach.

Technically, Wyatt Reynolds was a member of a militia organization bent on creating chaos in the United States. If Ruckleman wanted to, he could have Caleb locked up under the same terms as anyone else suspected of being a terrorist. Meanwhile, the real terrorists would go about their business, getting their attack ready. And a lot of people would get killed.

It took every ounce of discipline he possessed to keep from wrenching away and running down the hall. But he knew if he did that, he’d end up with a bullet in his back.

His eyes darted to the left and right, as though he expectedsome kind of help to come oozing through the walls. But no help came, so he let the two men march him out of the room. Instead of heading into the back of the building, they walked toward the lobby area again.

As he looked toward the entrance and saw a figure enter the building, his heart leaped into his throat.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The two guards
on either side of Caleb had stopped moving and stood like the statues he’d once seen in a wax museum when he’d taken a trip to New York. Not just the guards. Everyone within sight had gone rigid.

Caleb’s gaze flicked around the room, taking it all in. Then he focused on the doorway, where Quinn was standing. He knew it was her, although he couldn’t see her face. She had on a thin rubber mask that adhered to her features, makingher nose longer, her cheekbones higher, her lips thicker, and her chin heavier.

The change in appearance meant no one could recognize her from the security camera that was doubtless recording the scene.

And her fingerprints would not transfer to any surface becauseshe was wearing surgical gloves.

Through the mask he could see a look of concentration on her face.

“Hurry,” she said, her voice low and breathless. “Zarah and I can’t keep them immobile for long.”

He took a deep breath, struggling against the feeling that his brain had melted inside his head and his body was wadingthrough a vat of thick molasses.

“Hurry.”

“I can’t,” he managed to say.

Panic flashed in her eyes, and he knew she and Zarah hadn’t been prepared for this glitch, since he’d practiced resistingtheir suggestion.

He kept struggling toward her, each step feeling like he was lifting thousand-pound weights on his shoes.

And as he moved, he kept waiting for the sound of gun-fire behind him.

This was the team’s fallback plan, although it wasn’t playing out the way anyone had expected.

Ruckleman had checked for a wire under his shirt and hadn’t found one. That was because Ross had used a differentlocation—a transmitter in the heel of Caleb’s shoe. If they’d detained him and done a thorough search of his clothing,they would have found it.

But they hadn’t gotten the chance.

Of course, a mike muffled by a shoe wasn’t as sensitive as one right up on his chest, under his shirt. Probably, the transmission wouldn’t stand up in court. But they weren’t trying to get Ruckleman to say something to incriminate himself. They were just trying to find out if the interview turned hostile.

Which it had.

And the range of the transmission was good enough for Ross to pick it up out in the pastry van.

He’d waited until they were going to transfer Caleb to detention,then activated the other part of the equation: the two adepts. They’d been practicing together, reinforcing the facilitythey both had to control the minds of other people.

Although they’d both studied the skill in school, neither one of them had enough power for a full-scale attack on her own. But they were working together now, making everyone within range of Caleb stop in their tracks—with Zarah in the van and Quinn directing the process.

Too bad he couldn’t quite filter out the command they were broadcasting. Maybe because they were using more power than in their practice session.

Worse, Quinn had to put herself in danger, which wasn’t helping him focus.

But there had been no alternative, except coming in armed. The guards would have responded, and then someonewould have gotten killed. And that hadn’t been their intentionat all. They’d wanted to alert Homeland Security, not start a gun battle.

Caleb was the only one in the lobby moving. But he could still feel the command buzzing at the edges of his brain, tryingto stop his forward movement.

Quinn’s expression sharpened. “Focus on something else like you practiced,” she called to him.

“I’m trying.” He didn’t bother telling her it was different under battlefield conditions.

“Think about how good that steak tasted back at the lodge.”

The memory leaped into his head. He’d been a ghost for seventy-five years, and that was the first meat he’d eaten. It had tasted heavenly—once Quinn had cooked it enough. But no more heavenly than the taste of Quinn’s sweet mouth.

He didn’t want to think about that. But once he started, he was helpless to stop remembered sensations from bombardinghim.

He didn’t speak to her again. Couldn’t risk breaking her concentration. Instead he put one foot in front of the other, each step feeling like he was lifting his shoe off of flypaper.

Centuries passed as he dragged himself across the room. Then he felt something change inside his head. He was about to offer a prayer of thanks when he realized that the change wasn’t just affecting him.