MIND FIELDS (22 page)

“Place call: Guy Andrews, cell phone number.”

  The TV screen went blank as the number was dialed.  After three rings, Guy answered the phone, but the screen remained blank.

“Hello?”

Trace stared at the screen out of habit.  “Christ, can’t you spring for a video phone, Andrews?”

“Christ isn’t home right now.  This is his father, may I take a message?”  Guy said.  He burst out in laughter.

“Cute.  Real cute.”  Trace was not amused.  “Listen up, guitar man, I don’t have time to waste shooting the breeze with you.”

“Irish? Is that you, Irish?  I haven’t heard from you in ages.”

Trace hated it when Guy called him that.  He had nothing against Ireland, but he had worked damned hard to erase any hint of his childhood accent.  He thought of himself only as an American and was proud of it.

“Good guess, Andrews.”

“So, you got some more inside info for me about the doc?  I thought you had squeezed just about everything you could out of our boy Hingston.  With all the little tidbits you gave me about Sandi, she thinks I’m Don Juan or something.  That girl’s convinced I can read her mind, star-crossed lovers or some shit like that, but my material’s getting a little old, you know?  I could use some fresh stuff to butter her up.”

“Man, after two years, if you don’t know how to push her buttons there’s something wrong with you.”

“Hey, I’ve got her eating out of the palm of my hand, dude.  I could convince her the Pope is Jewish if I wanted to.”

“Well, it’s a good thing, loverboy.”

“What do you mean?”  Guy didn’t like the tone of Trace’s voice.  It didn’t take much to spook him.

“Look, I just called to tell you to keep your eyes open.  There’s some detective that’s been hanging around your girlfriend a lot lately, the same guy that’s been snooping around at BNI.”

“Shit, man.  You gotta get me out. Now.”

“Relax, Don Juan.  If she’s as in love with you as you say, a nosey cop isn’t going to turn her against you that easy.  Besides, there’s no way he can tie you into this.  He’s not that bright.”

“Listen, dude...”

“No, you listen, guitar man.  I spent way too much time and money setting you up with the doc.  You stay put and do your job for now.  You’re not out until I say you’re out.”

Guy didn’t like risk, but he knew better than to cross Trace McKnight.  “So what, then?  Do I cancel the transmission tonight?  I already juiced the insulin vial.”

“No. Don’t change the routine until I tell you to.  Just watch your back.  Transmit at the usual time.”

Trace disconnected and went in to pour himself a Scotch.  Guy was a natural with women.  He had been the obvious choice for the job two years ago when Trace had planned it.  He’d seen Guy work his magic time after time in college when they were roommates at American University.  While Trace was working hard getting his degree in bioengineering, Guy was busy playing his guitar and working on his smile.  Trace spent many nights sleeping on the floors of his other friends’ rooms, supplanted from his own by one after another of Guy’s sorority conquests. 

There was no doubt that Guy could win Sandi Fletcher’s trust and gain access to her files, especially with the intimate details of her personal life that Trace was able to get from his connections at BNI.  It wasn’t hard; Paul loved to talk about Sandi, and the wounds were fresh when Paul started work at BNI shortly after his break-up with her. It was easy getting Sandi and Guy together, but counting on Guy to keep his wits under pressure, this was the part that concerned Trace.  He had always suspected that his old classmate didn’t have the backbone for espionage, and could only hope that Guy wouldn’t do anything stupid.

___

Guy Andrews didn’t give the best show of his career that night, but no one really noticed.  There was enough liquor flowing around the club to cover more than a few strained chords.  He couldn’t get his mind off the conversation with his old college roommate that afternoon and was anxious about what he might find upon his return home tonight.  He finished his second set, pilfered a bottle of Jack Daniels for the road, and started home in his blue Chevy flatbed.  The white side-stripes were covered with scratches from years of backwoods camping trips.

Maybe that sick bastard is just playing games with me
, he thought to himself
. 
He never really liked Trace McKnight; the Irishman was always a little too smug for him, a little too military.  He never would have worked with him, but when the call had come two years ago, Guy was broke.  The owner of The Pendulum Pit, a bar by the Inner Harbor, owed Trace a favor and agreed to hire Guy at three times what he had been earning in sporadic gigs at the time.  McKnight provided the funds, which were hard to trace when laundered through the Pit.  Guy eagerly accepted.  It seemed like an easy job, and although he hated the espionage-like feel to the computer games he played every Friday night, it had been fun.  Sandi wasn’t his ideal woman, but she was attractive enough and knew how to have fun.  He had never really regretted taking this job.  Not until this afternoon.

It had been a rough day.  Guy tried to forget the tone in Trace’s voice, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind.  He had a few more drinks than usual that evening trying to calm his nerves, and he struggled to focus on the dark road on his way back home.  His beat up flatbed truck swerved back and forth, but the security chip kept it a safe distance from the roadside markers, which sent out signals that the car’s security system could use to monitor the distance.  The safety systems worked quite well and he made it home intact.  Guy pulled the truck into the driveway and parked.  One last swig from the bottle of Jack was just what he needed to slow his heart, which pounded in his chest at the thought of confronting Sandi, or maybe even an angry cop, when he went through that door.

He got out of the car and ran his hand across the large silver buckle on his belt.  Working downtown until late at night had its disadvantages and Guy was not the type to face the darkness of the city streets unprepared.  On many occasions he had practiced releasing the catch of the spring-loaded switchblade that was built into the belt buckle, but he had hoped he would never find out if he had the guts to use it.  Tonight, it was comforting to know it was there.

Guy walked quietly up the four wooden steps to the front porch, pausing at each step and shifting his weight slowly, hoping that a creak from the old stairs would not betray his presence.  The rain fell lightly against his face.  He slipped the key easily into the lock above the doorknob and twisted the handle cautiously until the door popped open ever so slightly.  Standing motionless in the misty night, he listened for voices. It was a relief to hear nothing but the drops of rain against the roof above his head, to see nothing but darkness beyond the door.  Guy stepped just inside the threshold, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.  The lights were staying off tonight.  Slowly, the room around him came into focus. Everything was in place, nothing unusual.  Maybe Trace was right.  Maybe Sandi didn’t really suspect anything

Feeling a bit more at ease, Guy made his way to the kitchen, moving easily through the darkness in familiar surroundings.  Inside the refrigerator, the insulin vial was in its usual spot.  The sharps container, in which Sandi always disposed of her syringes, had been empty this morning.  Guy had taken the old one away and replaced it with a new one himself.  He picked it up and gave it a gentle shake.  He smiled as he heard the rattling of the glass syringe against the sides of the container. Obviously, Sandi had given herself the usual Friday night shot of insulin and tossed her needle in the container.

Guy crept up the stairs and slowly opened the door to the bedroom.  He froze as the rusty old hinges creaked and Sandi stretched out an arm, lifting the blanket ever so slightly. Guy held his breath.  She gently settled back under the covers, sound asleep, her thick brown hair strewn across the pillow.  He smiled; his nerves began to ease.

The familiar smell of home was comforting.  He managed to slow his breathing to a near normal rate and slipped past Sandi into the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind him.  The thought of waking Sandi rekindled his anxiety.  He’d done this dozens of times before, but it didn’t feel the same tonight. Standing over the sink, he turned on the cold water.  A few quick splashes to the face helped to counter the effects of the whiskey.

“Show time,” he said to the mirror.  He left the door ajar to allow the light to spill out into the bedroom, providing just enough illumination to negotiate the room.

Sandi hadn’t slept well that night.  She kept drifting in and out of sleep, her mind racing with scenarios, each playing out in a different way.  The light from the bathroom awakened her from her half-dream state.  Her heart raced as she lay motionless in bed.

“Sandi.” Guy shook her shoulder gently.  “Time to get up, love,” he whispered in her ear.

  ‘
Love’, my ass,
she thought to herself.  She turned over, stretching her arms and squinting as if awakened from a deep sleep into the brightness of the faintly lit room.   “Hi, sweetheart.  What time is it?” she said, forcing a smile.

“Time to take a walk, dear.  I need some help with the computer again.”

Sandi wasn’t quite sure how to act.  She tried to imagine how someone on Allohypnol would react.  She had no idea.
God, I hope he goes for this.
Her heart raced a mile a minute, but she concealed it well.  She sat up and slipped out from under the covers.  It sickened her for Guy to see her nude body.  She had never given it a second thought before, but this time was different.  She had fought the urge to wear a nightgown to bed tonight, but if she had, Guy would certainly know that something was not right.

As she reached for the nightgown that was draped over the metal bedpost, Guy admired the grace of her naked form silhouetted against the light breaking through the bathroom door.  She shivered ever so slightly in the cool night air and Guy reached out to help her on with the robe.

“No,” she brushed him away, “I’ve got it.”  She was afraid that she may have given herself away and abruptly added, “Thanks, sweetie.”  She carefully tucked the robe around her slim figure and positioned herself to Guy’s right, taking his hand in hers.

“Right then,” he said, “let’s go.”

He led her into the study.  They walked hand in hand each wondering if the other knew what was racing through their mind, each trying to conceal the anxiety that drove them forward.

This is the last time
, Guy thought
.  No way they’re going to make me do this again.  I’m getting the hell out of here tomorrow, with or without McKnight’s help
.

Sandi held her robe tightly to her body with her left hand.  Even in the coolness of the night she could feel the sweat beading up on the nape of her neck.

Guy flipped on the light switch and they entered the study.  He sat down and booted up the computer as Sandi stood beside him trying hard to take slow deep breaths. 

“Here we go.” He stood and motioned to the chair.  “Have a seat.”

Sandi sat down in front of the keyboard.  Although much of her work was done with voice recognition entry, a keyboard was still the preferred way to enter codes and passwords.  “What now?”

“Key in your Net access password and go to BNI.net.”

Guy had given her the same instructions every Friday night for the past two years, but thanks to the Allohypnol she would forget her actions within minutes.  She noticed that Guy seemed a bit anxious tonight.  It was unnerving to have him standing over her.

“Have a seat, Guy.” She pointed to the char next to the desk.  “You know I don’t like to work with someone looking over my shoulder.”

Guy turned his gaze from the monitor, teeth clenched, and glanced askew at Sandi.  She was usually in a hypnotic state during these sessions.  It was unusual for her to say anything without prodding.  Guy ran his fingers along his belt buckle.  Sandi bit back the lump in her throat as he hesitated briefly, and then pulled a second chair up beside her.  He didn’t take his eyes off her face as he slipped past her and into the chair.

Sandi accessed the Internet and went to the BNI.net site.  She wanted to take this just far enough to see who it was that Guy was sending the messages to.  She had to know if it was Paul.

“Good,” Guy said as the BNI site came up on the screen.  “Now go to the employee access area.”

Sandi clicked on the icon labeled “employees only.”  A message popped up: “enter ID and password.”  She looked at Guy.

“You really don’t remember, do you?”  He laughed.  “All right.  The ID is “TOM” and the password is “Mindfields.” Guy was starting to let his guard down. 
Maybe
, he thought,
Trace was just being paranoid
.

Sandi typed in the entry.  She had no idea who Tom was, but she was relieved that it was not Paul’s site that she was accessing.  The site came up with three options: “enter text message,” “enter voice message” and “upload file”.  Once again Sandi looked to Guy for instructions.

“Excellent.  Click on “upload file.”

Once again, Sandi complied and a new message appeared:  “choose files to send.”

“Now unencrypt your office files, the ones with this week’s research and select them to send.”

Sandi hesitated.  She still hadn’t found out the name of Guy’s contact at BNI, but she knew that she could go no further.  The faint ticking of the antique clock on the mantle was the only sound that Sandi could hear in the tense silence of the night; it seemed to grow louder with each passing second.

“Type, Sandi,” he said sternly between gritted teeth, the anxiety quickly overtaking him once again.

God, I don’t know if I can do this.
She held her hands suspended over the keyboard.  She glanced at the clock.  It was nearly two AM.

“Type,” he snapped.  His hand cradled the silver buckle.

“I don’t think so sweetie,” she smiled at him.

Guy’s eyes opened wide.  The clock chimed, a muffled electronic chime that Sandi normally didn’t even notice anymore, but this time it ripped into the tension of the night.  Guy jumped up from his chair, clasping the open switchblade in his hand.

“I said type in the God-damned address.”

Sandi stood up slowly, backing away.  “Now look, Guy.  You don’t really want to do this.”

He stood motionless, more scared by circumstances than enraged.  As he had always feared, he wasn’t sure if he could use that knife when the moment of truth arrived, and now that moment had come.  The fact that the object of his anger was Sandi, the woman with whom he had shared his bed for the past two years, did not make it any easier.

Sandi edged back across the room, hand planted firmly in the right pocket of her robe, cradling the cold metal handle of the pistol that Richard Kincade had lent to her.  She froze as her back hit the wall.  She and Guy stared at each other, neither recognizing the stranger who now stood across the room.  Tears welled up in Sandi’s eyes, but did not steal her confidence.

Guy stepped tentatively forward, gripping the knife tightly in his right hand.  “I need you to upload that data, Sandi.”

“I won’t do it, Guy.”

“You switched the insulin, didn’t you?”  She didn’t need to answer.  “How did you know?”

She stood against the wall, staring incredulously as he came closer, the knife now up in the air.