Torn (33 page)

Not storm shutters. Blast shutters, as in able to withstand moderate explosive devices. So if they’re expecting an intrusion from a SWAT unit, where are the defenders? You’d think the place would be crawling with BK Security guards armed to the teeth. And yet as I push the Sanitair through the twilight hush—the lights are very low, but more than adequate for getting around—the place feels empty.

Maybe they know the FBI is on the way and they’ve decided to hunker down, but not to fight. They must know what happens to cults that attempt to resist law enforcement units. It never seems to end well, and from what little I know, the Rulers strike me as fanatical but practical. They’re all about self-advancement and making money, not actively defying the government. Therefore unlikely to start gunfights with the FBI.

Or that’s what I’d like to believe. In that relatively com
forting scenario, we find Noah sleeping in his bed, and Shane and I protect him until his FBI pals break down the doors and rescue us. All of Ruler Weems’s paranoia proves to be exaggerated. His rivals are going to surround themselves with high-powered lawyers, not high-powered rifles, and everybody gets to live happily ever after. Except for those who eventually end up in prison, like Evangeline and Mrs. Delancey, and maybe the Barlows. I haven’t really decided on the Barlows yet. They abducted me, true, but it’s also true that they brought me very close to Noah, and that counts for a lot, even if their intentions weren’t exactly selfless.

My mind races with this and a hundred other considerations, spiking on the adrenaline rush that makes my mouth dry and my knees feel weak. Got to keep moving or I’ll fall to the floor and curl up in a fetal position.

The blueprint indicated that the guest bedroom suites are located on the second level, so that seems like the best place to start. There’s a service elevator somewhere around the corner and down a hallway, but I can’t bear the thought of getting stuck in an elevator, so I take the stairs. Not just any old stairs, either. This is a grand staircase out of an old MGM musical, fully twenty feet wide, making a majestic curve up from the ground floor. A glance at the massive but somehow elegant newel posts and balusters makes me think the stairway alone cost way more than my old farmhouse.

I’m halfway up the staircase when a shadow moves on the floor below, chilling my blood. It’s Shane. He grins, gives me a thumbs-up, and with my heart banging like a heavy-metal drum I pick up the vacuum and continue. The construction feels as solid as the Rocky Mountains, and I
can’t help but wonder what a structure like the Pinnacle must have cost, having to transport all these exotic materials to this remote location. Unfathomable. As unfathomable as the folks we’re up against: rich enough to construct vast temples at high altitude, to fly in their own private jets, build whole cities in the wilderness. People who think they can blow up schools and steal children with impunity.

I’m almost at the top when a man suddenly comes striding quickly around a corner—seemingly from out of nowhere—and almost knocks me back down the stairs.

I manage to save myself, but land awkwardly on my knees, one hand clutching a baluster and the other the vacuum cleaner, a pulse of pure fear pounding in my ears.

The man mutters something in a foreign language, one I don’t recognize, and extends a hand to help me to my feet.

“Sorry,” he says perfunctorily. “Apologies.”

I recognize him from the Barlows’ security camera. He’s the cop in charge. A lean, darkly handsome guy with a neatly trimmed mustache and a dark curl of hair artfully arranged on his forehead. The movie star looks are spoiled by cold, ruthless eyes—if he’s sorry about anything, it’s that I slowed him down.

“I’m okay,” I say, glancing away from those judgmental eyes, so as not to give myself away. Pretending to busy myself by rewinding the power cord. Knowing in my heart that I’m about to be exposed. That I’ll have to start my put-up-a-fuss act, distract him long enough for Shane to slip by somehow, find his way to the guest suites.

The man with the mustache is staring at me, studying me. I can feel it.

A strong hand reaches out, lifts my chin. I find myself looking into those cold eyes, trying to keep my composure while I gather my strength.

“Is very early for housekeeper,” he says.

I shrug, back away from the hand. There’s something about his touch that makes my skin crawl.

“Is okay,” he says, nodding to himself, as if arriving at a decision. Then without another word or glance he’s turning away, heading down the staircase.

Something about the whole exchange convinces me he knows exactly who I am, but has decided not to interfere.

Why? How is that possible?

Don’t worry about it, Haley.
Why
doesn’t matter, not at this particular moment. The only thing that matters is finding Noah before the man with the ruthless eyes changes his mind, sounds an alarm.

Pushing the vacuum in front of me, I hurry down the hallway that leads to the guest suites, praying the layout hasn’t changed since the blueprints were drawn.

Before we were married, Jed and I once wandered through the Four Seasons Hotel in Manhattan, marveling at the grandeur of the design by I. M. Pei. This has a similar feel, with a lot of light, polished stonework and a gently arched ceiling that glows with what looks like natural light, but isn’t.

To my surprise there are no security guards here, either. And although relief pours into me like warm water, I’m aware that the lack of guards is not necessarily a good thing. Surely the heir apparent to Arthur Conklin would warrant protection.

What’s going on? Where is everybody?

In the hushed silence of the deserted hallway, I stop at
the first door. Unlike a hotel there’s no card-coded lock, and to my surprise the heavy, paneled door swings open at the push of the handle.

A glance reveals that the luxury suite is unoccupied, has probably been that way for some time, if the dust sheets are any indication.

There are six guest suites in this part of the building, and I despair that they will all be similarly vacant, ghostly sheets protecting the furniture. As indeed they all seem to be. Noah must be hidden away elsewhere, in some secret place not indicated on the drawings. But upon pushing open the sixth door, I detect a faint perfume. A tantalizingly familiar scent of a room that’s been lived in, slept in.

Instantly I know that a woman has been here, and not long ago. Unlike the other suites, this shows signs of recent occupation. No dust sheets, no sense of prolonged stillness—somebody slept on that oversize mattress, and left a book on the bedside table. Somebody left faint impressions on the thick carpeting. Somebody left the door to the walk-in closet slightly ajar.

I’m about to check out the closet when a strong hand grips my shoulder.

Stifling a scream, I whip around and find Shane looking down at me, a finger to his lips.

Hand on my heaving chest, I manage to regain what little there is of my composure.

He leans down so that his beard softly brushes my ear.

“That was Kavashi, the security chief. I’m sure he recognized you.”

“I don’t get it,” I whisper back.

“He’s playing at something, I don’t know what. But we
don’t have much time. The blast shutters are down. They know what’s coming.”

“This is her room,” I tell him. “Irene Delancey. I’m sure of it.”

“Good,” he says. “That means we’re close.”

He’s right, and it suddenly occurs to me that these are suites, and that suites have connecting rooms, and I hurry to the wide, paneled door at the back of the room. What I had at first assumed must be another closet. And as soon as the door swings inward, revealing another, smaller room, I know, beyond a doubt, that this is where Noah sleeps.

There are stars on the walls and ceiling, emanating from a night-light on a bureau. Constellations to keep him company. He’d be able to name them, too, my brainy boy, my precious son, and then I’m flinging myself on the empty, rumpled bed and burying my face in the pillow, the smell of him bringing tears to my eyes, and a full-bodied pang of love so powerful that I fear it may stop my heart, because I know, even before we search under the bed and inside the closets, that he’s no longer there.

We just missed him. The bitch has my boy.

7. The New You

Evangeline knows what the breaking dawn must look like, on a day like this. The way the first faint blush of daylight will climb down the mountainsides, putting the rough surfaces in relief. With the Pinnacle sealed she cannot, of course, actually see the glow lifting over the eastern horizon, or the stars fading from the sky, but she’s
fully capable of describing the familiar scene to Arthur Conklin as he lays very nearly comatose in his special hospital bed.

“It’s beautiful, darling. You called it a great waltz, the planets swinging in time to the universe. That bright planet rising with the sun, that must be Venus, I suppose. And the fainter star or planet, could that be Mercury? You’d be able to tell, Arthur, because you always knew such things. Always knew exactly where you were in the world and what you were seeing. You could name the stars and the planets, and every bug I ever saw, and you made those Latin names sound like poetry. What was that horrible beetle you loved? Scarabaeus something or other? You told me the ancient Egyptians believed the beetle pushed the sun over the horizon every morning, which sounded rather beautiful. Then you told me the real beetle rolled up balls of dung, and that’s what made the Egyptians think it did the same thing with the sun. A dung beetle!”

Evangeline has dismissed the medical attendants so that she and her husband are alone in the great room.

“It was so like you, to make a dirty little bug seem so grand, so important in the scheme of things. You never bored me, Arthur, not once in twenty years! Being your consort has been a great adventure. And I promise you, my darling, that you’ll never die, not really. I will continue to speak with your voice. I’ll be the new you.”

The old man’s head begins to rock from side to side, feebly but distinctly. His eyes remain closed—he hasn’t opened them in two days—but there’s every indication that he can hear, and that he doesn’t particularly like her tone, even if he doesn’t exactly comprehend her words.

“The Rulers have come to a turning point, my darling,” she explains as she slips the pillow from beneath his frail head. “Mistakes have been made, all in a good cause, and the barbarians are at the gate. Literally, I am afraid. A convoy of black Chevy Suburban SUVs, filled with armed men. I believe they’re called a tactical rescue squad, but really they’re just ignorant slugs who do what they’re told. We’ll have to let them through, of course. But not before we get our little ducks in order. Not before we make sure that your vision will endure. Not before I make your old friend Wendy go away, and take his followers with him. It will be very tragic. And the boy? I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but the boy is going with Wendy. They’ll think it was because the old mole was so loyal to you. Hereditary bond of the boy and all that plebeian crap people love. There’s no other way. It’s sad but it’s all for the best. All for the Rule of One. And now, my darling, I’m sure you’ll understand if we hurry things along, just a little.”

Evangeline places the pillow over his face and presses with all of her strength. She’s surprised not only at how much the old man resists, but by the flush of tears that come to her after it is finally over.

She truly hadn’t expected to cry.

8. Good For Us

It’s like
The Guns of Navarone
without the guns. That’s the assessment from the Hostage Rescue Team Leader, reporting to Assistant Director of Counterterrorism, Monica Bevins, who shakes her head and asks him how old he is.

“Um, thirty-two, A-Dick. On my next birthday.”

“Then
The Guns of Navarone
was an old movie long before you were born,” she points out.

“Yes, A-Dick. An oldie but a goodie. Gregory Peck and Anthony Quinn on a suicide mission to save innocent lives. Same kind of deal we got here. A large, reinforced structure built into an inaccessible part of a mountain. Quite a challenge.”

“This will not be a suicide mission, Team Leader, is that clear?”

“Yes, A-Dick. I was referring to the movie, not us.”

“They didn’t have helicopters back then. We do.”

“Yes, A-Dick.”

“There’s also an aerial tram system, if you can figure out how to retrieve cars from the topside terminal. One car at the upper structure, one at the lower, both inoperable at the moment. Former agent Randall Shane mentioned a tunnel connecting the two buildings. We need to locate it.”

“Yes, A-Dick. Working on it.”

“Keep me posted,” she says, dismissing him.

Bevins has never seen anything quite like the situation in Conklin, Colorado. There’s been no overt resistance. Riding shotgun in the lead Suburban—strictly against protocol, but screw it, this is Shane—she had flashed the warrant at the BK Security goons and much to her surprise they’d been waved through. It soon became clear that the FBI would have full, unfettered access to the campus and the surrounding village, that the private security firm had been ordered to stand down.

The problem is the fortress the locals call the Pinnacle. The village may be open to inspection, but the entire structure of the Pinnacle has been shut up like a giant, reinforced clam, shielded with blast shutters. The landline
phones have been cut off, and the aerial tramway is not responding. Nobody is responding. Getting inside will mean finding the tunnel, or, failing that, cutting through the hardened blast shutters with an acetylene torch. That will take time. Time they may not have, if the situation inside goes south.