He traversed the central passageway between cubicles, toward Larry’s office. The overhead fluorescents had been turned off. Light from one of the cubicles glowed against the ceiling on the other side of the big room. Fingernails clicked over a keyboard. He thought it was Joanne Macintire, the society columnist, probably back from some black-tie affair. How she cranked out coherent columns after partying, Hutch never knew. When Joanne had heard about his divorce, she had invited him to something like a soirée or debutante ball. Knowing he’d feel as awkward as Hulk Hogan having tea and crumpets at Buckingham Palace, he’d declined.
He was almost at Larry’s office. Through the glass wall, he could see his friend behind the desk. His face was buried in his hands.
“Hutch!” Joanne was hurrying toward him in a fancy chiffon dress. “’Bout time you came in.”
“How’s it going, Joanne? I just stopped in to see Larry for a minute.”
“What are you doing with that?” She slapped at the bow bag. Metal rattled within.
He turned it away from her. “Camping,” he said.
She looked at him as though he’d said brain surgery. A second later, she’d forgotten it. She touched his arm. “Listen, the Governor’s Ball is coming up and—just hear me out. You’re kind of a local celebrity now, you know, with the saving-a-whole-town-in-Canada stuff and the news stories, 60 Minutes, oh my goodness. Anyway, I just happened to mention to the mayor that you could maybe be persuaded to come.”
Larry was looking at him now, his eyes wide, his hands spread to say, Come on!
“Let me think about it,” Hutch said.
“Really? Hey, I’ll take anything that’s not no. I’ve got a press kit about it . . . hold on.” She flitted toward her cubicle. Her backless dinner gown was way too backless.
“Catch me next time, Joanne,” Hutch said. “I really gotta run.”
She waved her hand at him, and he stepped into Larry’s office.
“Shut the door,” Larry said, coming around the desk. He pulled a cord, closing the blinds over his view of the cubicles. Beyond his desk, a large window looked out on the building across the street, a turn-ofthe- century brick structure with lots of interesting architectural features—vastly different from the modern design of the Post building.
Hutch always told Larry he had the better end of the deal: “I’d rather be in this building, looking at that one, than vice versa.” It wasn’t the grand vista Page looked out on, but at least the Post’s “decorative” Plexiglas-faced balcony-like structure didn’t run up over his windows, as it did the science editor’s office next to Larry’s.
Larry swept his arm over his desk, pushing aside a pen holder, a paper tray, books. “What do you have?” he asked.
Hutch clunked the bag onto the desk. “You’d think I robbed Fort Knox, the way you said that.”
“Hey, evidence that could put Brendan Page behind bars? You bet I’m excited.”
“I don’t know about evidence,” Hutch said, unzipping the bag. “I’m sure Page has distanced himself from all of this stuff.” He held the flaps closed and simply stared at Larry, thinking.
“And you know something?” he said. “I don’t even care. I don’t care if I’ve got his fingerprints, his DNA, and a video of him stabbing somebody. I just want my son back.”
Larry shook his head. “I know, I know. That’s all that matters. You haven’t heard anything?”
“He’s toying with me, driving me crazy with silence.”
“But you still think he had Logan brought to Outis?”
“It’s the only move that makes sense. Even if Logan’s not there, Page is. I have to get to one of them.”
Larry said, “And you’re willing to let everything you know about Page go? Cut bait and run?” He looked at Hutch skeptically.
“Larry, this is my family. . . .”
Larry’s eyes dropped to the bag. “So, what’s this?”
Hutch pulled out the machine pistol. “I wasn’t thinking of evidence. More like, how can these things help us get Logan back?” Hutch handed Larry the weapon.
Larry held it at arm’s length by the tips of his fingers.
“It’s not loaded,” Hutch said. He pulled a spent shell from his pocket and showed it to Larry. “It fires 9mm. Pretty common. You don’t happen to have any or know someone who does?”
“Me? Not me.”
“I can probably pick some up on my way to Washington,” Hutch said.
Larry turned the gun over in his hands, growing more comfortable.
Hutch said, “When I was at Outis, I saw Julian.”
“Julian Page, Brendan’s son? The one who . . . ?”
Hutch nodded. “I gave him my cell phone. I think he can help me get into the complex.”
Larry read the look on Hutch’s face. “What is it?”
“I’ve tried calling a few times,” Hutch said. “He hasn’t called back.”
“Maybe they took it from him.” Larry handed the weapon to Hutch.
“I’m hoping I tried at the wrong times. You know, when he couldn’t answer or was away from wherever he stashed it.” He looked at his watch. “Probably in bed now.”
“So call,” Larry said. “Does he have roommates?”
Hutch shrugged.
Larry said, “If you can’t call him in the middle of the night, when can you?”
Hutch placed the gun on the desk. He turned Larry’s phone around to face him. He picked up the handset, thought about Nichols and the phone tap that Page must have used to find him, and replaced it. “Larry, you got your cell phone?”
Larry shook his head. “Battery died. It’s charging in the car. What’s wrong with that one?”
“Page.”
Larry’s eyes snapped to it as though it had hopped up and run across the desk.
“You know,” Hutch said, picking up the desk phone, “as far as Julian goes, Page probably has my mobile bugged anyway, so it doesn’t matter what phone I use. As for me, I’ll be out of here in a few minutes.” He dialed. Before the first ring he said, “I hate asking, Larry, but did you have a chance to get some cash?”
“I hope a couple grand will do,” Larry said. He went to his desk chair and sat. He opened a drawer.
“That’s great, man, thank—”
A groggy voice answered. “Hello?”
“Julian, it’s me. Did I wake you?” He nodded at Larry.
“Yeah, but . . . I put the phone under my pillow. It’s on vibrate, like you said, but I felt it.”
“Can you talk?”
“Yeah, I’m alone.” Sleep still clung to his words. “Where are you?”
“I’m at a friend’s place in Vail.” Worth a try. Maybe it would throw off Page’s men for a time. “Have you heard what’s happened? About Logan and the attacks on me and Laura?”
“Logan?”
“My son. Julian, your father had him kidnapped.”
“What? Why?” The voice was fully awake now.
“Soldiers attacked us,” Hutch said. “Me up there in Washington; Laura, Dillon, Logan, and my daughter in Colorado. Something went wrong, and they took Logan.”
“What did they look like, the people who attacked you?”
“Black everything. Pants, jackets . . .”
“Full-face helmets?”
“High-tech ones, I think.”
“That’s Outis,” Julian said. “My dad has these new teams of soldiers—”
“Genjuros?” Hutch said.
Pause. “What?”
“Is that what he calls them, these teams?”
“I haven’t heard that one,” Julian said. “The program’s called Quarterback—Quick-Response Black-Ops.”
Michael had mentioned Quarterback, but not what the name meant. Sounded to Hutch like a military take on the Genjuros model.
Julian continued. “It’s less than a year old. There are only three teams right now, sort of prototypes. One returned yesterday morning from an overnight training mission.”
Nichols, Hutch thought. Larry had told him Nichols had died the night before Hutch and Laura were attacked.
“The other two left yesterday afternoon,” the boy said. “They were still gone when I went to bed.”
“Julian, listen,” Hutch said. “I think they’re taking Logan back to Outis. I’m going to—”
Larry extended his hand across the desk, a thick wad of cash in it.
Hutch reached for it.
It all happened at once: With a sound like a branch snapping, the window pane behind Larry cracked. A fissure instantly appeared, running straight up to the top from a half-dollar-sized hole. Larry slammed his head down onto the desk. Blood splattered over Hutch’s face. Hutch flinched, dropped the phone, and hit the floor.
“Larry!” he said. “Larry!”
He scampered around the desk on all fours. He grabbed Larry’s arm and shook it.
“Larry!”
He tugged him out of the chair, catching him before he hit the floor. He didn’t have to check for vital signs. The exit wound said it all.
The office door burst open.
“Here it is, dear,” Joanne said. “Hutch?” She saw the body in his arms and screamed. The folder in her hand fluttered to the floor.
“Go!” Hutch said. “Get out of here, now!”
She was frozen, a Madame Tussauds wax figure with a siren mouth—wailing out an alarm.
“Joanne!”
She stumbled back against the blinds. Her hand covered her mouth. She rolled out of the door and fell.
“Run!” Hutch said. He gently laid Larry’s head on the floor.
He wiped a hand over his own face and gaped at the blood smeared across his fingers and palm. He crawled over Larry’s body, trying not to bump it or put weight on it, as though that mattered now. He crouched below the windowsill. The glass continued to crack, making a noise like a knife tip scratching tile. Wind whistled through the hole, a mournful soundtrack to Larry’s death.
Hutch popped his head up, down. He did it three more times before spotting the man standing on the terrace of the building across the street. It was the outdoor dining area of a restaurant Hutch had patronized many times. It was on the sixth floor, which put the man slightly above Hutch’s position.
When he looked again, the man’s head was obscured by a cloud of smoke, which caught the terrace’s dim after-hour lights. It drifted away, revealing Brendan Page’s smirky, devil-may-care face. He wore the same black uniform as the soldiers. Under one arm he held a black helmet, in the manner of a motor racer posing for the press. Extending up behind his shoulder was the long barrel of a rifle.
Hutch clamped his fists on the sill. “Paaaaage!”
Page plucked a cigar from his lips and waved.
“Hutch!” Julian yelled into the phone. He swung his legs out from under the covers and hooked them over the edge of the bed. He reached for the bedside lamp, flipped it on. The lamp tipped over. Julian caught sight of himself in a mirror over the dresser, pale, terrified. The shadows on his face and the long shadow cast against the opposite wall stretched and rose up, and the light came down. His heart skipped as, for a moment, it appeared as though his soul were seeping from his pores and flying away. The lamp struck the floor, and the light blinked out.
He’d heard Hutch yelling a name—Larry—and the clattering of things being tossed around. A woman had spoken, then he heard screaming, a whooping, high-pitched sound even over the phone lines.
The coup de grâce to Julian’s heart still echoed in his ears:“Paaaaage!”
“Hutch!” he called into the phone. He found the speaker button and pushed it. Indistinct rattles, bumps, and shuffling came from the tiny speaker. He dropped it to the bed and began pulling on his clothes.
SIXTY-ONE
Page was waving at him.
Hutch ducked under the windowsill. The rifle on Page’s back didn’t mean that another soldier wasn’t taking aim at him. He peered over the sill, but didn’t spot a shooter. Page was now gesturing for Hutch to stand.
Hutch hunkered lower. Page clearly intended on killing him, then Laura, Dillon, Macie, and Logan. Hutch wasn’t about to let that happen, certainly not as easily as Page apparently hoped.
Hutch scurried to the desk. He snagged the phone and pulled it down into his lap, then scooted back to the wall under the window. His finger shook as he punched in the number of the mobile phone he had taken from the convenience store clerk in Washington. He had left it in one of the XTerra’s cup holders. As soon as he heard the first tone, he realized he had not dialed 9 to access an outside line.
Think! Don’t panic now!
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
You have to do this, you have to do this. Don’t think of Larry. Don’t think about the man across the street trying to kill you. Just do this.
Another error tone. Different this time. A recorded voice told him the number he had dialed had been disconnected.
No!
He thought of the phone’s owner. Had he reported it stolen? Had service to it been terminated? Had Hutch dialed the right number?
He dialed again, slowly this time. Every push of the button called up their faces: Macie . . . Dillon . . . Laura.
It rang, and Laura answered.
“Page is here,” Hutch said. “He killed Larry.”
“Hutch, no—”
“Listen. You have to go. Just take off now. I don’t know how many people Page brought with him. Someone here saw what happened. I’m sure she called the police. You have to leave before they come. You can’t get pinned down.”
“Hutch . . . um, where . . . I . . .”
“Shhh, shhh.” He had to think. He said, “Page might be monitoring the phones. He has that number, the mobile phone you’re on. So get out now, before he blocks you in.”
He could hear the kids in the background, panicky, asking for details. The loudest voice was Michael’s.
“Laura? Can you hear me?”
“Michael wants to help.”
“No! Tell him he can help by staying with you. Go to the restaurant we ate at the other day, when you and Dillon first came.”
“Okay, okay,” she said.
Hutch heard the seat belt warning chime, indicating she had started the car. She was doing it, staying together, making it happen.
Thumping, scraping came through the earpiece.
“Laura?”
Distant, she said, “Michael, no . . .”
Michael came on the line. “Hutch, let me help. I know these guys. I can get them, I know I can.”
“Michael, stay with Laura. Give her the phone.”
He heard Macie crying loudly in the background . . . Laura calling, “Get back in! Mic—”
A door slammed, and the voices cut off.
“Michael?” Hutch said. He was pressing the phone against his face so hard, his ear hurt. “Where are you?”
“I’m coming. What floor?”
“You’ve got to get out of here!” Hutch was screaming now. “Get back in the car. You’re endangering their lives, Michael, the kids—”
“They’re gone,” he said. “I waved them on, said it was okay. They left.”
“Are you sure? They left?”
“What floor are you on?”
Something clanged over the phone—a fire door, Hutch thought. He said, “Just stay there. It’s the safest place.”
Silence.
“Michael?”
He’d hung up. Hutch dropped the handset. What had Michael just done?
Flipped out, Hutch thought. He went into attack mode or something.
Thank God Laura had the sense to leave anyway. It was that ol’ Mama Bear thing. Let’s see, who do I save: my son and my friend’s little girl, or . . . a crazy kid who attacked us? No contest.
He thought about where she would exit. It fed into Grant Street, a one-way avenue that would force her to cross the street running in front of the building. He poked his head up. Page was pati
ently waiting, standing there like he’d ordered an espresso. His hands were spread in the same Come on! shrug Larry had done not ten minutes earlier.
Hutch rose higher, and without being obvious, he leaned until Grant Street came into view.
Where are you, Laura? Get out of here.
Page tossed the cigar over the terrace balustrade. He reached behind him. His hand came back gripping an object.
Hutch jerked down, responsively. When he stood again, he saw the XTerra. It crossed Broadway, moving too slowly for Hutch’s taste, but away . . . away. It disappeared beyond the building across the street.
Dropping down, he stopped. Page held a flashlight, flicking it on and off. When he was sure he had Hutch’s attention, he left the light off. He strolled to the left edge of the terrace and peered into the shadows beyond. He held the flashlight up and out, like the Statue of Liberty with a tired arm, and turned it on.
Hutch caught his breath. His heart became a lead ball and plunged into his stomach.
Logan dangled below a window cleaner’s platform that extended a few feet past the edge of the roof. His arms were wrenched over his head. The rope that bound his wrists was in turn tied to the bottom of the platform. He had managed to catch a ledge with the toes of his sneakers. Hutch could tell it lessened the weight on his arms, but it forced him to slant out from the building—giving him an unimpeded view of the seven-story plunge under him. He must be terrified.
As if intending to verify Hutch’s thought, Page’s light glinted off the boy’s wet face and wide eyes. Duct tape covered his mouth, but the movements of Logan’s jaws and cheeks told Hutch he was working his mouth, screaming.