72 Hours (A Thriller) (20 page)

Julie gasped, sucking in a deep breath.
 
Julie had seen the gun in Noella Chu’s lap and knew not to try anything stupid.

“Drive,” Noella Chu said.
 

Julie was sobbing.
 
“Why are you doing this?”

“Drive, or I won’t wait for his call to kill you.”

Hot tears streamed down Julie’s face.
 
She could feel the deep marks and bruising from the piano wire.
 
She put the car in gear and rolled it out from beneath the overpass.
 

CHAPTER 60

It was less than twenty minutes when Julie Sperry’s cell phone rang again.
 
Noella Chu answered.
 
The conversation was brief.
 
Noella Chu responded to the FBI Special Agent in her usual flat businesslike tone.
 

Special Agent Sperry was frantic.

“My partner gave Archer his backup cell phone.”
 
He quickly relayed the ten digit cell number.
 
“I contacted the service provider to find out the incoming and outgoing call activity for the past twenty-four hours for that number.
 
The list is short.
 
No incoming calls, and he’s called out to only three different numbers.”
 
He dictated the list of phone numbers for her.
 

“What else?” she demanded bluntly.

“There is nothing else I can do, I’m telling you!”

“Not good enough, Jason.”

“You are asking me to do the impossible!”

“I believe you will do the impossible if that is what it takes to spare the life of your lovely bride.”

She could hear the strain in his voice as he spoke through gritted teeth.
 
“Please…I’m trying.”

“Dig deeper, Jason.
 
Julie is counting on you.”

“Let me speak to her.”

Noella Chu held the phone to Julie’s lips.

“…Jason…please…”

Noella Chu pulled the phone away and said simply, “We’ll be waiting.”

Then she dropped off the line.

CHAPTER 61

Kline saw Jason Sperry’s number show up on the Caller ID window of his cell again and ignored it.
 
Kline shook his head.
 
The kid could be like that sometimes.
 
Always wanted to be in the middle of everything.
 
Wanted more info than he really needed.
 
That was the way with junior agents.
 
Ambitious.
 
Anxious.
 
Gung-ho.
 
But Kline didn’t have time for it.
 
He had already told Sperry all he knew, and more than he really should have.
 
He had a headache a mile long.
 
A headache with the name Gaston Dunbar stamped on it.
 
He was headed to San Quentin for the second time in five hours.
 
The governor was breathing down his neck.
 
The governor wasn’t happy about the notion of sticking Dunbar with the needle until they had collected the bodies.
 

Kline was buckling under the pressure.
 
He had no choice but to play Dunbar’s game.
 
He would have to stand in his cell on death row and try to get a straight answer from a man who would be dead by sunrise on Monday.
   

CHAPTER 62

Smackdown had locked himself away inside his mansion in Bel Air.
 
He stared at his cell phone and waited.
 
He had driven home in a crazed flurry, seized by a sudden attack of anxiety and fear.
 
He waited for Soji to call.
 
Mr. Jupiter demanded updates every half hour.
 
They had to know if Lindsay and the Hummer were on the move.
 
So far, nothing had changed.
 

Smackdown took a hit off a joint and swirled whiskey in a glass.
 
He was on his way to getting smashed out of his mind.
 
He couldn’t get his mind off the hundred million, tax-free.
 

When Mr. Jupiter called, Smackdown assured him that Lindsay Hammond hadn’t moved an inch.

CHAPTER 63

The plane was a DHC-6 Twin Otter.
 
It was a turboprop outfitted with two long bench seats that ran the length of both sides of the passenger cabin.
 
It was a non-pressurized aircraft so that the door could be opened for skydiving.
 
It sat inside the secure hanger owned by Mr. Jupiter’s business associate.
 
The Otter was being fueled and loaded.
 

The flight would not leave the ground until midnight.

The ten men were resting.
 
It would be a long night.

But Mr. Jupiter did not plan to rest until Lindsay Hammond was dead and the five hundred million was safely dispersed and hidden among the banks of South America.

CHAPTER 64

A guard the size of a U-Haul truck led Kline through the maze of corridors toward the tier of the Adjustment Center where Gaston Dunbar was imprisoned.
 
The guard had an assault rifle slung from his shoulder.
 
Kline followed him in silence.
 
Their footsteps echoed off the concrete, the echoes rolling down the length of the corridors.
 

The pounding in his head that had begun earlier in the day had intensified.
 
He had poured a gallon of bad coffee on the problem, but the pain remained.
 

Doors slammed.
 
Buzzers droned.
 
Inmates cursed at him through the tiny grids in the doors of their cells.
 

The guard stopped at a door of thick iron bars and gestured at a guard with a paunch and gray stubble over his ears.
 
The guard with the paunch hit a switch and the door clanged open.
 
They passed through, Kline feeling himself being pulled deeper into hell.

It was Friday evening.
 
Just over forty-eight hours from show time.
 
Ordinarily, Kline would have been itching to get Dunbar on the table and get the toxic juice pumping into his veins, but he needed answers before Dunbar moved on into eternity.
 
The Governor wanted answers.
 
The media wanted answers.
 
The public wanted answers.
 
And Kline was the one who had to go in and dig them out of him.

They turned down the tier.
 
Kline’s stomach twisted.
 

They stopped at Dunbar’s cell.
 
Kline peer in through the narrow sliver of window.
 
Dunbar was on his back on the thin mattress, eyes closed.
 

The guard hammered a fist against the door and called out in a booming voice that rattled Kline’s skull.
 
“Wake up!”

Dunbar’s eye flicked open.
 
He stared at the ceiling and blinked.
 
He didn’t move.
 
He didn’t sit up or make any sort of abrupt reaction other than the open eyes.

Kline stepped aside to let the guard open the door.

The door jolted open.
 

The guard gestured with his chin.
 
“He’s all yours.
 
I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

Kline stepped inside the cell.
 
The guard slammed the door shut behind him.

Dunbar continued staring at the ceiling.

Kline stood just inside the door, absorbing the sparse details of the tiny, bleak cell.
 
The toilet.
 
The bed.
 
The sink.
 
The stains on the walls.
 
The aroma of death standing so near.

“I don’t get many visitors,” Dunbar said in a neighborly, conversational tone.
 
“It’s a pleasant surprise.
 
A real treat to see a friendly face.”

The headache buzzed between Kline’s ears.
 
He was in no mood.

“What does it feel like?” Kline asked.

Dunbar moved only his eyes, ratcheting them toward Kline.

“What does what feel like?”

Kline shrugged.
 
“Today is Friday.
 
This is the last Friday you’ll ever see.
 
What does that feel like?”

Dunbar stared at him long and hard.
 
Then his eyes went back to the ceiling.
 
“Honestly, I’ve never been much of a Friday kind of guy.
 
I won’t miss Fridays much.”

“That leaves Monday through Thursday.
 
You’re done with those, too.
 
You’re down to one Saturday and one Sunday, then it’s lights out.
 
How does that feel, Dunbar?”

“There is a certain comfort, a certain power in knowing the day of your death, Special Agent Kline.
 
I view it as a gift.
 
I’ve had the chance to watch it approach.
 
To embrace it.
 
To make peace with it.
 
Death will not take me by surprise.
 
You, on the other hand, might die tomorrow in a car wreck and be completely blindsided by it, or you might drop right there where you stand now.
 
Your heart could just stop and you would not have had the luxury I’ve been granted of preparing my mind and soul.
 
In that way, I consider myself fortunate.”
 
Dunbar pursed his lips.
 

“Think I’d rather have another twenty, thirty years, and take my chances,” Kline said drolly.

“To each his own.”

Kline flicked his tongue between his lips.
 
He shoved his left hand into a pocket, the fingers of his right hand rubbed together anxiously.

Dunbar noticed.
 
He lifted his head from his thin pillow.
 
He turned on the bed and dropped his feet to the floor and sat up.

“Ah,” he said.
 
“I think I know what you need.”

Kline watched him carefully.

Dunbar brushed aside the blanket on his bed and inserted two fingers into a narrow slit in the mattress.
 
He brought out a cigarette.
 

The sight of it made Kline’s lungs ache.

“Hmm?” Dunbar said, placing the smoke on the end of the bed nearest Kline.

Kline grunted, “I don’t smoke.
 
I quit.”

Dunbar grinned.
 
“Good for you.”

“Tell me where you put the bodies.”

Dunbar shrugged.
 
“Why?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that, Special Agent Kline.
 
I’m kind of beyond the point of trying to be a Boy Scout.”

“Did you ever really love your wife and daughter?”

The humor briefly dimmed from Dunbar’s eyes.
 
He was thoughtful for a moment.
 
He smirked.
 
“With all my heart.”

“You can’t hurt them any more than you already have.
 
And you can’t hurt me.
 
This is not personal for me.
 
I’m just trying to do the job the state pays me to do.
 
I’d like to see them buried someplace nice.
 
Out of respect.
 
Does that mean anything to you?”

“You should have seen your eyes yesterday,” Dunbar said.
 
“You never saw it coming.
 
What a fool you were to give me an opportunity like that.
 
I’m truly dumbfounded by your stupidity.
 
Now the world is falling apart around you.
 
Every criminal within a few hundred miles wants a piece of the action, and you allowed it to happen because you’re more stupid than you could possibly understand.”
 

Dunbar sat with his back to the wall, light dancing in his eyes.
       

“Where are the bodies?” Kline demanded.

Dunbar ignored him.
 
The subtle changes in Kline’s face spoke volumes. Dunbar had successfully agitated him.
 
He turned and lay on his back on the bed.
 
Crossed his legs at the ankles.
 
Propped his hands behind his head on the pillow.

“I’m disappointed in you,” Dunbar said.
 
“You are pathetic.
 
You are a failure.
 
I hope you can see that about yourself.”

“Where are Sidney and Robin?”

Dunbar did not reply.

“What do you want?
 
Booze?
 
A hooker?
 
Name it.”