Free Fall (14 page)

"Is there any reason not to believe him?"

Peck shook his head miserably.

"No ... I don't know."

Hallorin ran his hand through his hair and looked out over the unfamiliar landscape of Columbus, Ohio. History and fate had lined it all up in front of him: the recent scandals that had rocked the government, the onset of the economic disaster he'd foretold, the existence of the Prodigy file. The American people were like children: noisy about their need for independence when things were going their way, but ready to crawl back to their parents when that good fortune turned. This was his time in history. His time.

"Look at me, Roland."

He didn't move.

"Look at me!"

Peck slowly raised his head.

"You said forty-eight hours. That you'd have them and the file in forty-eight hours."

Peck looked like he was trying to shrink back further, but the glass behind him wouldn't allow it.

"It's hard, Senator. Hard. We'll find the boy. Yes. Soon. And when we find him, we'll have the file. But the girl.

We know so little about her. And it's so hard to learn more. We can't allow anything we do to be traced back to us."

"You can't let anything be traced back to you," Hallorin corrected.

"She's seen you, hasn't she?" He let that hang for a moment. Peck was valuable to him incredibly so, but not indispensable. It would be a shame to lose him now after spending so many years learning to manipulate his many psychoses and insecurities. Yes, it would be terribly inconvenient, but if he had to, he would distance himself from the younger man and use the loyalty he had so carefully cultivated to force Peck to take any blame that could be directed at him.

"She's seen me," Peck admitted finally.

"Yes, she's seen me."

"If she isn't found soon it may be necessary for you to bring in some one from the outside to help in the search. Someone not connected to us." Hallorin reached out again, this time taking Peck's face in his hands.

"What will happen to all your plans without the file, Roland? Everything was so perfect. You made everything so perfect."

It had taken a great deal of time and a number of expensive psychologists, but Hallorin had finally come to understand Roland Peck.

The external trappings of power didn't interest him. Only the complete dominance that was virtually impossible at this time in history meant any thing. Hallorin had initially gained his loyalty, and love, by putting him in control of the marketing for his business empire. Through using his genius to create ways to tell people what to think and feel, Peck had gleaned just enough of that sense of dominance to keep him hooked.

Hallorin had put no constraints on Peck's actions with regard to the woman who had been with Tristan Newberry. While her death would have undoubtedly been rather imaginative and unpleasant, it would have been a gluttonous feeding for Peck's unusual psychological and sexual needs another gift from Hallorin that would further bind the man to him.

"Find the file, Roland," Hallorin said.

"Imagine what it could mean for you if we were in the White House."

Darby Moore wrapped her arms around her knees and looked down on the gray-blue mirror that was Summersville Lake. The wind was gusting gently, making the sun bouncing off the water go from a dull glow to a blinding flash every few seconds. She adjusted her position for what must have been the thousandth time, trying to get comfortable in the rocky alcove nature had carved from the dense foliage, and trying to stay calm.

She was completely invisible to anyone hiking on the trail system or climbing on the cliffs that rose above her, but the amphitheater-like rock formations bounced sound in her direction. If Tristan called to her, she'd hear.

It had taken her twelve hours from the time she'd watched Tristan limp away to when she finally came to the mouth of the canyon she had descended into--nine of those hours in the dark. The town of Conrad, Maryland, had been another few exposed miles through open fields and unprotected roads.

She'd kept out of sight as much as a dirt- and sweat-encrusted twenty seven-year-old woman could, working her way through the quiet streets and finally slipping into an alley across from the police station. She'd watched the cops moving back and forth in the large picture window for a long time, trying to figure out what to do.

Finally, she'd admitted that she had no choice. If Tristan hadn't already been caught, he would be soon--she had to go in and tell them what happened.

She had stepped from the alley and was about to start across the street when the familiar face of the man who had let her and Tristan escape appeared in the police station window. She ducked back out of sight and watched him walk out to the street, followed by a man in uniform. They spoke for a few more minutes, finally breaking off their conversation when a dark gray Ford pulled up. She didn't recognize the man driving, but she remembered the red-haired man in the backseat very clearly.

She'd taken off down the alley and in a few minutes found the only bank in town. She spent most of the next four hours in a small park with her back pressed against an oak bordered by tall bushes, waiting for what little money she had to be wired from her bank in Wyoming.

After that, she'd walked to the outskirts of town and found the old used car lot she'd passed on the way in. The little Toyota pickup truck she'd purchased there was worth about two thousand dollars. It had cost her forty-five hundred. The man who ran the lot had obviously smelled blood when she'd walked up. He'd protested at first--saying that it was impossible to sell her a car with no ID--but the protest hadn't had much emotional content. The money--nearly all she had--changed his mind.

Darby pulled what was left of her cash from the waistband of her shorts and smoothed it out on her lap, counting it for the third time that day.

Four hundred and twenty-six dollars. Normally, enough to live on for months. But things weren't exactly normal.

She turned her head at the sound of a shouted obscenity floating down to her from the cliffs above. Tristan wasn't coming, she knew that. She'd probably known it the moment she'd left him. She shouldn't have let him go off on his own. She should have stayed with him no matter what.

Darby stood, careful not to bump into the branches around her and alert anyone to her presence. If someone saw her, they'd most likely recognize her.

And if they recognized her, it wouldn't take long before every climber within a hundred-mile radius knew she was here. After that, it was inevitable that the news would leak out of the climbing community and reach the men who were undoubtedly after her--if they hadn't guessed she was here already.

She started back toward the clearing where the truck was parked, knowing what she had to do, and trying to convince herself that it was the smart move. In the end, though, she knew better. She was acting solely out of fear and guilt--two of the very worst emotions to base decisions on.

There was no path, and the light was failing. It was still familiar to her, though. If she kept going straight through the trees, she would end up at the top of the climb she'd been working on. From there, she'd be able to see down into the clearing where she'd parked her van.

She was vaguely aware that every step she took was a little slower than the last, but continued to force herself forward. Every few seconds she'd go perfectly still and listen for any sound that could be human.

Then she'd look around her, trying to penetrate the shadows created by the trees and the thick bushes strangling them.

As she slid down a moss-covered rock into a deep puddle of muddy water and wet leaves, she noticed a dim glow gaining strength in front of her.

At first she'd thought it was natural the stronger light in the open clearing she was moving toward. But when it became obvious that it was man-made, she slammed her back against a large tree and slid down beneath it.

What the hell was she doing there? They'd be waiting for sure armed men who wouldn't let her surprise them again. They'd probably guessed what direction she'd be coming from, too. They were probably all around her, right now, waiting for an opportunity to grab her without having to fire a shot and cause a stir in the people camped around the river.

She felt the tears start to well up again, but clenched her eyes shut and squelched them. She'd been in tough situations before, she told herself, and never resorted to crying. The tears couldn't be stopped through reason though, and soon she could feel them running down her cheeks, leaving narrow streaks that cooled quickly in the mountain air, What was wrong with her? The answer came easily. She'd never cried before because she always known what to do. Dig in and wait out a storm or try to outrun it. Continue up a climb, back off, or bivy. She had her years of experience to rely on.

But her experience didn't extend to people purposefully trying to kill her. What was the right decision? She had no idea who was after her or who she could trust. Certainly not the police or government. The men in the file Tristan had stolen probably owned the government.

Darby looked back into the woods she'd come through, trying to penetrate the deepening shadows. She wanted to run. To get as far away from all this as she could. But she couldn't. Not yet.

She crawled now, slowly and quietly toward the dim glow in front of her.

It wasn't long before she could hear the unintelligible hum of conversation over the sound of the wind and flowing water. Only a few more feet. She dropped to her belly and slid forward, inch by inch.

When she'd decided to come back here, she'd expected to find the clearing dead silent and her van transformed from her home and primary source of transportation to bait for a trap to capture her. She couldn't have been more wrong.

The clearing was bustling with activity. The glow came from the headlights of no fewer than five cars encircling her van. There were men and women everywhere some in casual clothes, some in police uniforms, some in suits.

A camera flashed and tinged the windows of her van pink. She thought it was just a reflection at first, but when the man with the cam era moved, she saw it. A single, bare foot hanging out of the open side door. From where she lay, she could see that it was covered in blood.

Darby rolled on her back and looked through the trees at the sky. The first stars were starting to burn in the east but weren't yet strong enough to close in on the just-set sun. She tried to concentrate on them and block out everything else, but it was impossible.

She'd seen dead people before. A friend of hers a good friend had died in her arms on K2. It had been years ago, but she could still remember the small, bright patches of blue above them as the violently gusting wind opened up cuts in the clouds and then, just as quickly, sealed them. He'd joked about having her arrange his limbs like a Roman statue so that future climbers could enjoy a little art on their way to the summit. Then he was gone.

This felt so different, though. For Tristan to die at the hands of men who would kill for things that meant nothing money, a job that impressed people, power seemed so useless.

He'd been stupid getting himself involved in this. He'd always been reckless, full of plans and goals that he didn't have the focus to achieve.

He had been guilty of always searching for the scam, the easy way. But he didn't deserve this.

Darby sat up slowly, feeling her head swim a little as the blood rushed from it, and from the realization that the men and women below her probably thought she'd killed Tristan. She wanted to go down there, to tell them what happened, to get them to punish the people who had done this to her friend. But that was impossible. The local cops already hated people like her and would be dying to believe that she was responsible. They would throw her in jail, then, later that day, someone in a suit would show up asking about her. The cops would hand her over and that would be it.

Darby moved to the edge of the cliff again and looked down into the clearing. The people looked like they were starting to collect near the open door of the van. Some were putting on gloves, undoubtedly in preparation for moving Tristan's body.

She buried her face in the cool leaves covering the ground and refused to cry. Instead she tried to picture him alive. To pretend for a moment that none of this had ever happened.

Mark, wait!"

Carrie tried to keep up with him as he threw the car door open and began a half stalk, half run toward the elaborate Dupont Circle townhouse, but she was slowed by the ancient brick driveway. Her shoes were more appropriate for the quiet dinner she'd been expecting than for chasing her enraged boyfriend around D. C. When was she going to learn to be more prepared for these romantic getaways?

She managed to slip her shoes off without slowing her forward momentum much and made it through the heavy double doors before they had swung completely shut again. The entry hall was empty, but she could hear Beamon's footsteps as they continued their charge toward the back of the house. She picked up her pace a bit, but then slowed and finally stopped when she realized that chasing after him had been a reflex more than anything else. She hadn't thought about what she would do if she actually caught up. She had seen this, or something like it, coming for a long time. But he hadn't. He wouldn't.