Diabolical (18 page)

Hatcher lifted Edgar's torso off the ground by a clutch of cloth and buttons. “I hope for your sake explanation two is better.”

Edgar gasped, coughed as he tried to speak. Said something Hatcher couldn't make out.

“What?”

“I said . . .” The man raised his eyes, peered straight into Hatcher's. “I don't know where your nephew is.”

Although he was well schooled in the art, determining whether a person was lying was not easy. Under certain conditions, it could be almost impossible. Hatcher trusted his ability to read verbal and nonverbal tells, but the practice of discerning lies from truth was far from foolproof. Stress, emotional connections, the subject's own belief in the righteousness of his cause, all those and a thousand other factors could have an effect.

The eyes staring up at him were unwavering. He knew that contrary to popular belief, a practiced liar was more likely to look the other person in the eye when telling a lie. He also knew that in a high-stress situation like a street fight, those nonverbal cues were all but worthless. He was going to have to go with his gut. His gut told him to believe it.

“Besides,” Edgar said, regaining his voice. “I wasn't kidding.”

It took Hatcher a second to feel it. He lowered his head, saw the blade resting sidelong against his shirt, kissing his abdomen. The edge so sharp it had sliced a clean slit in the fabric.

The security guard was standing at the door, staring through black lenses. The gal from the counter was on the phone behind the security glass, out of her seat and looking alarmed. She was holding the handset with two hands and her lips were moving rapidly.

Hatcher unclenched his fists, the cloth of Mr. E's shirt slipping free as the smaller man stood. Edgar tucked the blade into a pocket, smoothed out the clumps of linen with his free hand, seemed to frown at the bunching and wrinkles left behind.

“So,” Edgar said a moment later, flicking a hand in the direction of the clinic. “Are we going to wait for the police? Or can we go now?”

THEY DROVE FOR MORE THAN TWO HOURS. EDGAR ON HIS Harley, Hatcher following. Hatcher knew they were heading east, but had no idea where. The area was remote, all rolling prairie and farmland. He weighed competing ideas on how to proceed, such as simply veering off to the shoulder and taking a wide arc to turn around and head back without giving any signal, or creeping up to the rear of Edgar's bike, flooring the accelerator, then leaving whatever twisted mangle was left of the snot and his motorcycle in the road and heading back. Before he could come up with any more options, Edgar pulled into a gas station and coasted to a stop. It was the only business Hatcher had seen in miles. He watched Edgar park the bike near the tiny clerk's booth, exchange some words with the guy behind the glass, then walk over and sit himself in the passenger seat of Vivian's rental.

“What the hell are you trying to pull?” Hatcher said. “The middle of nowhere isn't what I agreed to.”

“Keep on going the same direction. It's not far now.”

Hatcher pulled back onto the long stretch of highway, toward the ghostly silhouettes of mountains, just dark shapes beneath an only slightly lighter sky.

A few minutes later, Edgar stiffened a bit in the seat, leaned forward.

“There,” he said, pointing through the windshield at a spot ahead. “Turn left right there.”

The turn was a swath of unpaved road, cutting through the rolling, prairielike terrain. The road took them into the foothills, terminating at some sort of small utility station, maybe twenty-five-feet square. Pebbles jangled off the undercarriage and the tires crunched as Hatcher pulled the car to a stop. A white metal sign with red letters on a chain-link perimeter fence surrounding the structure warned of no parking and no trespassing.

“This is just where we ditch the car. We're walking from here.”

Hatcher shut off the ignition and got out. Circled the car and waited for E to lead.

“You're a clever guy,” Edgar said. “I'll give you that.”

Hatcher said nothing.

“You started that fight at the clinic just to cause a scene, didn't you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it's true. You wanted witnesses, a police complaint called in. People who saw you and me in an altercation. You wanted to see where I wanted to take you, but wanted a little insurance that I wasn't just luring you out for a kill.”

“Is this where you show me how smart you are by telling me what I overlooked?”

“Not at all. But I am curious. Do you really think a description by a couple of people who don't know me would be enough? What if you just disappeared?”

“Your motorcycle.”

Edgar cocked his head a bit. He smiled in the way of someone who wasn't quite sure what he was smiling at.

“You've got a Harley that looks maybe a year old,” Hatcher continued. “Pretty distinctive color scheme on it. Not to mention a personalized license plate. The security guard was holding his cell phone. You couldn't be sure he didn't snap a picture with it. Someone would eventually connect us.”

“Like I said, smart guy.”

Hatcher hitched a shoulder. It sent a pain down his arm that made him wince. He wished he'd gone into the gas station and bought some Advil.

Edgar said, “Okay, so maybe there are a couple of things you overlooked.”

“Such as?”

“For one, that bike's not registered. I mean, it is, but the records aren't in the system. One of the bennies of having a former general as your boss. Know the right people, they can fix things with the state. At least they can in this state, where government officials are used to doling out special privileges.”

Hatcher said nothing.

“And for another, how do you know that security guard's not one of ours?”

Hatcher stopped walking. Edgar's words swirled in his head. At first blush it seemed far-fetched to the point of paranoid fantasy, but then he realized the only reason that was so was because he assumed they couldn't possibly know he'd be going there. Yet obviously, they did know, otherwise Edgar wouldn't have shown up.

Edgar looked back at Hatcher after a few more steps and waited. His eyes caught just enough moonlight to glisten wanly. His face was barely visible, and stayed that way for several seconds, until the whites of his teeth flashed.

“I'm just fucking with you. I never saw the guy before.” He turned and resumed his pace. “C'mon. Not much farther.”

Watching Edgar pull ahead, Hatcher realized he could get back to the car and take off, leave the man out there with a long walk back to his bike. But he could have done something like that a number of times, could have run Edgar over on his bike, or at least knocked him off and left him stranded. Then, as now, it wouldn't have accomplished anything, so he decided to keep following. As much as he hated to admit it, Edgar had piqued his curiosity. The little shit.

The trail inclined, ascending into the hills. They walked for over a mile, closer to two, before Hatcher saw Edgar climb up toward a ridge and crouch just below the ridgeline.

He urged Hatcher to join him, whispering forcefully and waving him closer.

After a moment's deliberation, Hatcher climbed the slope, set himself down on his elbows a couple of feet away, and peered over the edge of a berm.

Edgar pulled out something that looked like a cigarette case. When he slid a lever along the side, the top and bottom expanded to reveal a pop-up set of binoculars. He handed them to Hatcher.

“Take a gander,” he said, his voice low but audible.

Though they looked like a child's toy, the heft indicated he was holding expensive equipment. Hatcher gave them a once-over, then raised the upper half of his head over the edge of earth. There was activity about half a click away. He put the lenses to his eyes.

Serious optics, that much was obvious. Strong magnification. Image stabilization. Good brightness. The features combined to provide a crisp visual, allowed him to see clearly in the low light.

But he was having trouble figuring out exactly what he was looking at.

There were men. At least a half dozen of them, though it was hard to tell exactly how many, because they kept moving in and out of view from behind utility trucks with trailers. Athletic, well-proportioned group. They were carrying things, boxes and crates. Setting them down one at a time near a large opening in the ground at the base of a hill.

“Okay, I give up,” Hatcher said.

“What do you see?” Edgar asked.

“I see a bunch of guys unloading a couple of moving vans.”

“What else?”

“A cave, or cavern, or something.”

“What else?”

Hatcher looked over at Edgar, feeling the side of his face contort in disdain, then raised the binoculars again. Everything looked the same.

Before he could speak someone emerged from the opening, head bobbing up into view. Somebody not too tall but solid, an authoritative bearing to him. Gray hair a shade that seemed to adore the moonlight. The man kept glancing at something in his hand, checking it every few seconds.

“It looks like Bartlett,” Hatcher said.

“That's because it is.”

“What's he up to?”

Edgar ignored the question. “What else do you see?”

“Will you just tell me what the hell I'm
supposed
to see?”

“Let me ask this another way, what don't you see?”

Wagging his head, Hatcher peered through the lenses again. Same image. Guys in T-shirts, walking between trucks and hole, moving through the horizontal spray of brightness from the headlights of the trucks, Bartlett watching over them.

Then it clicked. Snapped into place like a molded part.

“I don't see their legs. I mean, I do, but not very well.”

“Imagine that.”

“I don't see them,” he continued. “Because they're camouflaged.”

“And?”

“They're camouflaged because they're all wearing battle dress trousers.”

“Ya think?”

“Recent stuff, too. It's dark, but I can see a bit when they cross through the headlights. I'm going to guess MultiCam.”

“And who wears MultiCam?”

Hatcher turned and slid down below the ridge. “Special Operations. Stateside, at least.”

“And why would guys like that be out here with a retired general?”

“Because,” Hatcher said, piecing it together as he spoke, “he's not really retired. He's gone black. And SOCOM unit COs would be among the handful of people he could call to borrow some muscle, because they're one of the few who know units like his exist.”

Edgar held out his hand for the binoculars, grinning. “Very good. I might even have to give you extra credit.”

“There could be other explanations,” Hatcher said.

“Like?”

“Anybody can order them. Or he could have swiped them from a supply depot.”

“Do you believe that?”

Hatcher didn't answer. If those trousers each guy wore were full waterproof MultiCams, he guessed they'd cost almost a hundred bucks a pair. The MultiCam boots they were wearing, probably another hundred at least. That's not including tops, jackets, and headgear. Outfitting even a few guys with that would cost thousands. And stealing them sounded a lot easier than it actually was. And why the expensive stuff? Simpler camouflage made of good material can be found for a lot less money.

“Mind telling me why you're showing me this?”

“Maybe you're not the only one he's tricked. Maybe he recruited guys like me without telling us the whole story. Maybe—”

“Maybe you can cut the crap.”

“I have my reasons. I just thought you should know.”

“What about Isaac?”

A few beats of silence, then Edgar crinkled his eyes. “Who?”

“My nephew.”

“I don't know where he is. That's the truth.”

Hatcher dragged a palm down his face. “So, what now?”

“Now, you know.”

“What did he tell you you were signing up for?”

Edgar twisted away, raised his head above the ridge and put the binoculars to his eyes. “I think we've had enough revelations for one night.”

“Listen, I'm getting sick of—”

“Ah, perfect.” Edgar passed the binoculars back to Hatcher. “Take a look at the mouth of the cave.”

Hatcher peered through the lenses. Two men set down some boxes, then stepped out of view. The cave entrance was just a black hole. Wisps of dirt and dust and debris, illuminated by the car beams, danced in the space in front it.

“I don't see anything.”

Adjusting the focus, Hatcher panned left, then right.

“What am I looking for?” he asked.

The silence seemed to echo, broken only by the faint scraping of wind. Hatcher snapped his head around, shot glances in every direction, almost immediately he realized his mistake, knew there was no point.

Edgar was gone.

But he couldn't have gone far. Several thoughts flashed. The car, the head start, the motorcycle. Hatcher patted his jeans. Keys were in his pocket. Would he try to hot-wire it? He couldn't have more than a thirty-second lead, and without the car, how would he make it back to his Harley?

Unless someone was waiting back where they parked, ready to pick him up.

Hatcher burst into a sprint, negotiated the path in the low light. He crested a hill in time to see vehicle lights in the distance. He picked up his pace for a few seconds, then slowed to a walk and caught his breath. There was no chance. Running was a waste of time.