Rebecca York (14 page)

The gate made a grinding sound, and he floored the accelerator. Metal ground against metal, but he plowed forward because that was his only option.

The gate tore off the back bumper as it clanked closed like the jaws of a prehistoric monster. But he kept going into the night—praying that he could make it just a little farther down the road before he had to get rid of the vehicle.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

UP IN THE private quarters above his office, Kurt MacArthur was nuzzling his lips against Mary Ann's neck and pulling down the zipper at the back of her dress when the phone rang.

He cursed—then cursed again when he turned his head and saw the number on the caller ID.

Dr. William Colefax was on the line.

Snatching up the receiver, Kurt growled, "This had better be important."

"Mark Greenwood has escaped."

"What the shit! You're supposed to be running a secure institution. You said the new treatment was working."

"He assaulted his nurse."

"He's still in the building?"

'"He also assaulted the guard at the main gate. He's gone."

"Find him!"

"We're trying. We need more men."

"Okay. I'll have a team down there in"—he looked at the clock on the bedside table—"forty minutes."

"Can we have a helicopter with a searchlight?"

"He's on foot?"

"He stole a Jeep. But we found it abandoned down the road."

Kurt grunted. "I'll get back to you on the chopper deal."

"Do we try to take him alive?" Colefax asked.

Kurt spoke through his clamped jaw. "He's our only witness, but he's resisted every attempt you've made to get him to tell you what happened during the break-in. I still want to try and get something out of him. But that may be impossible. If you can't take him alive, bring him in any way you can."

After clicking the Disconnect button, he looked into Mary Ann's worried eyes.

"Trouble at Colefax's loony bin?" she asked.

"Yeah."

He liked the way she snapped instantly back into work mode. As she fumbled with her zipper, Kurt thought about some of the emergencies he'd handled over the years. Including some incredible cover-up operations. Like hanging one of the biggest commercial air disasters in history around the neck of a supposedly suicidal Egyptian copilot. And Kurt had pulled that off right under the noses of the Transportation Safety Board,

Sending the plane crashing into the Atlantic Ocean had been the only way to get rid of master terrorist Ali Al Zahir, since the chances of convicting the bastard on any specific crime were nil.

But with that assignment and the others, he'd had adequate facts. With the Maple Creek fiasco, essential understanding was still beyond his grasp.

Dammit!

Now Greenwood was on the loose. And Greenwood at large was a big fat problem. How unstable was he? Would he go to the police? The newspapers?

Kurt stroked his chin. Should he pull Swift off his present assignment? Not until tomorrow. Maybe they'd get lucky and nail the escapee tonight.

* * *

AFTER cracking Dr. Lucas's correspondence files, Jim Swift had parked behind a thick stand of pines where he could see the entrance to the Hamilton estate. When a call from headquarters came in, he reached for his cell phone. "Swift here."

"This is MacArthur. We're having a flap down in Maryland. I need you to join the search team."

He'd never heard MacArthur lose his cool—until now. "What happened?"

"Mark Greenwood escaped from Colefax Manor."

Jim whistled through his teeth. Bad news. But he wasn't going to state the obvious. "When?"

"Last night. I thought they'd have him by now. But he's managed to elude capture. I want you on the scene—calling the shots."

"On my way," Jim said.

He was about to pull back onto the road when he saw a flash of motion. Raising his head, he watched a silver Mercedes stop at the gate that spanned the entrance to the Hamilton estate. A man's arm reached out to press the button on the intercom, but his back was to Jim, and he couldn't get much of an impression of the driver.

Snatching up his binoculars, he focused on the license plate. The car was from D.C. He got the first three letters and two of the numbers. But he wasn't quite fast enough to get the last one.

"Shit," he muttered as the vehicle disappeared beyond the gates. He'd like to know who was visiting Hamilton. A friend making a condolence call to the grieving father? Or someone wound up in the case?

He'd find out. But he couldn't do it now—not when MacArthur needed him somewhere else.

* * *

JORDAN got out of his car and stood for a moment staring at the massive pile of brick and half-timbering that Leonard Hamilton called home. The estate looked the same as when he'd come here a few weeks earlier, except that the white and yellow tulips in the flower beds had been replaced by red and white geraniums.

Then he'd thought he had a choice about accepting Leonard Hamilton's offer. Now he felt like a flounder on the end of a hook. And he couldn't wiggle off.

It wasn't simply because Hamilton had offered him a story too juicy to refuse. The investigation had become personal—as though his own fate were wound up with uncovering the truth.

He'd come up here to put the screws to the old man. Unfortunately, he couldn't get Lindsay Fleming out of his mind. He kept imagining himself turning around and driving back to Washington—because when he was away from her it was difficult to draw a full breath.

He clenched his hands into fists, fighting the pressure building inside him. When he'd pulled himself together, he pushed the doorbell and heard the chimes sound inside.

The same butler led him down the wide hallway to the back of the house. As he stepped into the conservatory, he was struck once more by the lush, expensive atmosphere of the room. This time Leonard Hamilton was already waiting for him, sitting on his motorized cart, sipping from a tall glass.

"Get yourself a drink from the bar," Hamilton said. "And a sandwich if you want."

Apparently they'd passed the stage of needing the butler to serve them.

Jordan poured himself a glass of water from a crystal pitcher. Sitting next to the drinks was a selection of small sandwiches. Roast beef, ham, tuna, egg salad.

He grabbed a couple and brought them to the Victorian-style table and chairs. But instead of eating, he said, "How about playing straight with me for a change"

"I have been."

Hoping to jolt the old man, he said, "Dr. Charles Lucas is dead. You got him mixed up in your private investigation, and he paid with his life."

Hamilton's face drained of blood. "What happened?"

"His office told me he had a heart attack. Then they transferred my call to another number. Lucky for me I was calling from a public phone."

"You think they had a trace on his phone?"

"Yeah. And I think the faster I figure out what happened to your son, the safer we'll both be. Because we're sitting on a time bomb. So stop playing games and tell me what you know."

The old man's expression didn't change. "First, tell me what you've found out."

Jordan fought the urge to throttle the man. Instead he kept his voice even as he said, "Okay, just so we're on the same page, I know that the drug that killed Todd was part of an Army research project from the eighties called Granite Wall. It was supposed to have been terminated. Either someone has reactivated the program, or they're drawing from a secret stockpile. And I have a letter Todd wrote to Senator Daniel Bridgewater."

He took a copy from his briefcase and handed it across the table.

Hamilton read the letter from his son. "This says Todd knew about a project that was resurrected. And not at Fort Detrick."

"Somewhere in the continental U.S.," Jordan answered, thinking that he might have a more specific location.

"That's a big help!"

"It's interesting that Todd used military terminology. CONUS—continental United States. Was he ever in the Army?"

"No. But his good friend Glenn Barrow was—before he admitted his sexual preference, and they kicked him out."

"He lived with Glenn?"

"They kept separate residences."

"Did Todd come home often? Would he have hidden anything important here?"

"He knew I disapproved of his lifestyle. But he'd always made a point of being dutiful. So he came up here every few weeks—to make sure I was still alive."

"Well then, I'd like to search his room."

"You have a nice way of putting that."

"Yeah. It justifies a trip up from Washington—since you're still holding out on me."

"How do you know?"

"My instincts are excellent."

The old man hesitated for a moment. He was watching Jordan carefully as he said, "Have you ever heard of a Dr. Henry Remington?"

Jordan searched his memory. "No."

"He ran a fertility clinic. My wife and I had problems conceiving. Remington was doing advanced work—maybe work that was revolutionary for the time."

"Like what?"

"In vitro fertilization."

"And Todd was conceived as a result of your treatment by Remington? Were drugs involved?"

"For my wife? Yes."

"You're telling me this because you think that somehow Dr. Remington's treatment could have been a factor in Todd's childhood problems?"

"It's worth investigating."

"Is Remington still in business?"

"He died of a heart attack when Todd was two," Hamilton said, his voice flat. "Like Dr. Lucas, apparently."

"Are you drawing a connection between the two deaths?"

Hamilton shrugged. "That's your job."

"Where was the clinic—-in Delaware?"

"No. Connecticut. Darien, Connecticut."

Jordan felt goose bumps pepper his skin, but he chose to ignore them. Connecticut again.

"Do you have any information on the clinic?" he asked.

Hamilton reached into the carry bag hanging from the arm of his electric cart. "This should get you started."

* * *

LINDSAY stood staring into the pantry, thinking she should be making a grocery list. Yet she couldn't even do something that simple. Instead she was picturing Jordan sitting in a conservatory filled with lush plantings. He was facing a white-haired old man who sat on an electric scooter. A man whose lined visage spoke of his determination and his pain—physical and mental. Leonard Hamilton.

She hadn't pictured the millionaire's private Eden until now. With her eyes closed, she tried to focus on the scene, struggling to hear what they were saying. But she couldn't bring it into focus.

She huffed out a breath. Did she really think she could listen in on what Hamilton and Walker were saying?

No. That was impossible. Yet she couldn't shake the feeling that the words were real—and just beyond her reach.

Gathering every scrap of her attention, she tried again to tune in the conversation. But the static in the background made comprehension impossible.

Finally, in frustration, she went back to the notepad she'd left on the kitchen table.

She wrote down bacon, then stared at the sheet. Bacon was fattening. She hadn't planned on buying any. So who was it for?

Gripping the pencil, she began to write again, letting the hand guide her. Bacon, Fuji apples, eggs, imported Stilton cheese, gourmet coffee, hummus, pita bread, basil spaghetti sauce.

A list of foods that Jordan Walker liked. And she wasn't even sure how she'd come by the information.

* * *

JORDAN skimmed through the material Hamilton handed him. It included a thirty-year-old address for the Remington Fertility Clinic and a phone number—along with the names of some of the nurses who had worked there.

"I believe the doctor had a government research grant. So he could take low-income families in addition to the well off."

"Charitable of him," Jordan murmured. He was thinking there was more to this discussion than had come to the surface. But demanding answers didn't work with Hamilton. Instead he said, "Maybe I should take a look at Todd's room now."

The old man's hands clenched on the arms of his chair, and Jordan watched him consider his next words carefully. "We started off talking about a biography of me. Are you working on that?"

"We both know we've got to deal with Todd first."

Hamilton looked relieved. "Yes,"

"You knew how to bait and switch," Jordan observed dryly.

The old man chuckled. "Yes, I did, didn't I?" He pressed a button on what looked like a remote control.

Moments later the butler who had showed Jordan to the conservatory appeared.

"Yes, sir?"

"Take Mr. Walker up to Todd's room. He is to have complete access to the premises."

"Very good, sir."

* * *

ALMOST faint with exhaustion, Mark pulled his stolen car up the long driveway. How many degrees of separation were safe? He didn't know. But he had to rest somewhere secure, so he'd made his way to this vacation house near

St. Marys, Maryland. It belonged to the parents of a kid named Tim Edgers he'd been tight with at the community college back in Howard County. But Tim's father had died, and his mom rarely came here by herself. Which was why Tim had brought his pals down here to party.

Mark just hoped she hadn't sold it to someone who wanted to take up more permanent residence.

There were no other vehicles in evidence. So he pulled the car he'd stolen around back where nobody could see it from the road.

He'd taken it from a house not far from Dr. Colefax's asylum. An older model that he could hot-wire.

He'd learned the skill as part of his Special Forces training. He contemplated that irony as he stared at the darkened house, praying no one was home.

He climbed out of the car, then gritted his teeth against a wave of pain in his head. Probably from equal parts raw nerves and the damn drugs that asshole Dr. Colefax had given him.

At the back door he looked around carefully, hoping that nobody had noticed his arrival.

When he'd come here as a teenager, Tim had gotten the key from under a rock beside the stoop. It was still there, and Mark mouthed a small thank-you.