First You Run (18 page)

Would he respect her wishes? She stopped and listened, only able to make out a few words.

“This is really a stupendously bad time, Jack,” he growled. Then nothing for a minute.

Come on, Adrien. Do this for me
.

“No, I’ve bloody got her right here,” he said. “And I’ve told her already.” Another pause. “Bloody hell, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Well, could she blame him for having loyalties to his friend and not her? Still, it hurt. She rolled the bag behind her, then stopped when he spoke again.

“Not possible. I have her. I’ve seen it. I’ve just got to think of some way to get her to go—”

Silence on his end. A long silence.

He wants your soul
.

Well, he couldn’t have it.

She left, clunking the bag through the door and down the carpeted hallway. She pressed the elevator call button and stepped inside when it arrived.

“Miranda! Wait!”

She stabbed the Close Door button with her bandaged hand, over and over and over.
Come on. Close, door.

“Miranda!”

Punching so hard she broke a nail, she pictured him running naked through the hall, cell phone in hand, plea on his lips. The doors
thunked
and swept closed.

There.

She’d never have to see the monster again.

B
LOODY, BLOODY HELL
.

Fletch stood in his grundies staring at the closed elevator door. She’d be in a cab and gone before he had time to go back and pull his pants on. A string of curses boiled up in him.

God damn Jack for not calling sooner. Well, he had, but he’d ignored the phone.

She wasn’t Eileen Stafford’s daughter. Some woman had proof of that. Some woman who tattooed babies for a living, who might have tattooed “hi” on Miranda’s nape, but that didn’t make her the one he wanted.

He almost roared with fury. The whole fucking thing could have been avoided if he’d waited ten more minutes to tell her. He kicked at the air. If he had just answered the bloody phone and talked to Jack.

It vibrated again, and he almost threw it down. But it could be—

“Yeah?”

“Hello, Fletch.”

“Hey, Luce.” He started the walk down the hallway, to where he’d left the dead bolt holding the suite door open.

“I need you on an assignment. Now. And before you tell me you’re all wrapped up in Jack Culver’s problems, let me tell you that you brought this one on yourself, so you’re handling it.”

“What is it?”

“We’ve been doing the background checks on the Blakes, as you requested.”

“Yeah.” He walked back into the bathroom, as if Miranda might have magically reappeared.

“Interesting development. A lead in Victor Blake’s background sent me to a friend and sometimes client, Anthony Bellicone, the CEO of Northgate, Inc.”

“Northgate? Don’t they publish magazines?”

“More than a dozen, the biggest names in the business. He knows Victor Blake all too well. Evidently, Blake made his millions by selling magazine subscriptions—not just Northgate magazines but every other one as well. He has a massive, nationwide network of subscription crews and made a not-so-small fortune from this shady, but not illegal, business of using crews of runaway and lost teenagers going door-to-door to sell magazine subscriptions.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t go on a case now. He couldn’t. “I know about them,” he said. “It’s damn near slavery, in some cases. But Lucy, I—”

“It’s profitable as hell, and the bane of my client, because most of the subscriptions are never fulfilled, the money is lost and laundered, and the magazine publishers are left with nothing but a PR mess of unhappy customers. Anthony Bellicone wants us to get something on Blake.”

“I know exactly where he is,” Fletch said quickly, “if you want to send someone in to question him. But I—”

“You,” she interjected. “You are going to get something on him.”

He took a step, and his foot hit something sharp. The mirror shard. He bent over and lifted it, angling it to catch the light. “What do you have in mind?”

“Track down one of the magazine crews, and get something to connect it to Blake. We believe there are several working in Southern California right now. They stay in low-cost motels.”

Kids in cheap motels? He fingered the glass that had come out of the jacket pocket of someone who’d visited a cheap motel last night. That was a connection to Blake, at least to his wife. And somewhere, somehow, there was a connection to Miranda.

“I might have a place to start this morning,” he said. “If I can connect one of these crews to Blake right away, you mind if I finish what I’m doing?”

“This is a high priority for an important client, Adrien.”
In other words, forget the business you’re fooling around with now.
“Once you’ve successfully completed this, I’ll see what I can do about helping you find this woman Jack wants.”

“We don’t need to make deals, Luce. Anyway, he’s found her,” Fletch said. “But I’ve lost another one, and I’ll need some time and maybe some help.”

“Fulfill this client’s request, and you can have all the resources you need.”

“I know where to start.” He glanced at his laptop and prayed Miranda had her phone on. Lucy was already helping him. She just didn’t realize it yet.

When he turned off the freeway at the exit they’d used the night before, Fletch decided that the two radial fractures and bulletholes in the windshield of his rented SUV fit the neighborhood perfectly. He’d known the place was seedy last night, but in the daylight, it was worse.

Magazine crews. They’d gone after some sub crews, as they were called in Australia, when he was on the police force, and he’d seen some of the handiwork of the more aggressive managers. Not pretty.

Usually, some thugs ran a group of low-IQ, abused, or addicted teenagers, giving them false hopes and a sense of family, along with disgustingly low pay and poor conditions. The kids traveled around the country together, usually in dilapidated vans driven by questionable individuals. They were dropped off in neighborhoods to knock on doors and sell magazine subscriptions. Most of their sales were made out of pity, and most of their profits—always cash—were turned over to the manager. If they didn’t perform, they were beaten, tortured, raped. They stayed because they were desperate and scared to leave.

He’d very much like to pin a mess like that on Victor Blake. And then help Miranda.

He threw the car door open and headed for the dingy lobby, shrugging into the hooded sweatshirt he wore to cover his weapon.

Just before he got to the lobby, he saw the curtain move in the window of the room they’d watched the night before. Screw the management. He slid his shades into place and went right to the motel room.

He rapped twice, but no one answered. He probably could kick it in with no problem, and just as he debated the merits of that, the door opened.

She was practically a child.

Although her height and body under her baggy shirt were those of a grown woman, this girl wore the wide-eyed terror of a kid about to get the crap kicked out of her. She hadn’t seemed so terrified the night before, when she stood smoking in this doorway.

A bitter smell wafted from behind her. Stale cigarette smoke, pot, beer, and…meth. Maybe she was too stoned last night to be scared.

“I swear to God,” she said, her voice so soft he wasn’t sure he heard right. “I can’t go today. I just can’t. I can’t.” She tried to look tough but failed. “And don’t hurt me.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her look was wary as she pushed a strand of straight, stringy hair behind her ear, and he saw three violent red wounds on the side of her palm. “Then what do you want?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Frankie?”

“I don’t know his name, but he was here last night. Not very tall, light brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses. Kind of a nerd.”

“Eddie Dobson.” She shook her head. “He’s one of the tech guys. He mostly just comes for the money, and Frankie gives it to him or takes him…wherever they take the cash. I honestly don’t know that end of the business at all.”

“The business of…” He let his voice trail, hoping she’d fill in the blank.

But she just gave him a look he knew all too well. Stricken. He’d seen it in the mirror when he was seven. “He ain’t here.”

She started to close the door, but his foot was too fast. “You can tell me. Or I can tell the cops. Your choice.”

She shrugged, but he thought she probably didn’t feel as cavalier as she acted. “Nothing against the law,” she said. “No drugs, no shit like that.”

Right. “Then what generates the money?”

Her pale blue, red-rimmed eyes tapered. “None of your fucking business. So get your foot out of the door and leave.”

He lowered his head and his voice. “Does he use cigarettes or a joint to burn your hand like that?”

She froze, and color drained from what would be very pretty cheekbones if she didn’t have the gaunt look of a user. “Like I said, none of your fucking business.”

He wedged his foot in further. “Is Frankie the boss?”

She snorted. “No.”

“Who does he work for?”

“The company.”

“What’s the name of the company?”

“No clue.” She looked past him, scared. “Look, Frankie loves to come back unannounced and shit, and he will
really
not like it if I’m talking to you, so could you please leave now?”

“Frankie’s the large fellow who left with Eddie last night?” He might be the connection to Blake, not this young girl.

“He’s the size of a house, yes.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “And happy to remind us that he’s in charge.”

He stepped back, allowing her to close the door if she wanted. “You can go home anytime, you know. You can get help.”

She snorted softly. “Maybe I don’t want to go home.”

“I got that,” he said. Christ, he’d chosen to live in the bush rather than with his father. “Will Eddie or Frankie be back soon?”

“I dunno. Sometimes Frankie comes here during the day, but mostly he’s following the crew. Especially now, since they need a van for the demos.”

“Demos?”

A little more color faded from her face. “I already told you too much. You could be a cop or a reporter, for all I know.”

“I’m not either one. But let me ask you something. Do you need money to get home, or to get to a phone?”

She straightened and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “This is a test, isn’t it? Frankie put you up to this to see if I’d take cash and leave? He’d do something like that.”

“No, it’s not.” He reached for his back pocket. “I met a bloke once who worked for a crew, in Tasmania.” At her frown, he added, “That’s part of Australia.”

She nodded, watching him warily.

“He just wanted to get home.” He pulled a few twenties from his wallet. Too much, and she’d be scared. Not enough, and she might stay. She might stay anyway, but it made him feel better to try. He handed the money to her.

She stared at it.

“It’s not a test,” he said. “Just keep it. If you want to go home, you can get a bus or a train.”

She snatched it and slammed the door closed. He’d have to wait for their manager, who might have a connection to Blake. He started to the car when he heard the door open.

“Hey, Crocodile Dundee.”

He turned to see she held out a cardboard box. “This is for you.”

As he walked back, she added, “Like, in case I have to explain where I got that money. I’ll just say you bought this, okay?”

The box was plain, about the size of large shoe box. “What is it?”

She smiled. “You want the shtick? Okay.” She cleared her throat and lifted her chin like a child about to recite the Lord’s Prayer. “A couple thousand years ago, a civilization lived that was very advanced, called the Mayans. They were unbelievably smart, like really, they knew all this stuff about astrology and had an advanced language, and they were all scientists.”

He stared at her, his jaw loosened.

“Anyway, they had this calendar, and no other people, ever, in the history of world or before ever had such an accurate calendar. They could see the future. This is true,” she added, crossing her heart like a little girl. “They counted exactly how many days the earth would be around before it…ended.” Her eyes widened. “Do you know that’s going to happen in, like, less than four years?

“Really.”

“Seriously. December 21, 2012. Do you know how close that is?” Fervor and sincerity changed her face from a stricken, lost teenager to an evangelist. “Some people will survive. Only the people who are prepared. That”—she pointed to the box—“is a start. It has things in it you will need. Information, tips for being safe, all sorts of proof about the Mayans’ calendar, and a Web site you can go to and buy more things like generators and computers that won’t fail. Phones that will connect you to the other living people on earth. Guns, because you might need them. Remember Y2K?”

He nodded.

“This is going to be
so
much worse. People have to have this. There’s more, but this will get you started.”

“This is what you’re selling door-to-door?”

“We’re not selling anything,” she insisted, her face flushed now with commitment. “We’re saving lives. Trust me, this has been proven over and over, and anybody who says it’s not true is just stupid.”

Anybody…like Miranda Lang.

He held the box up. “How much does it cost?”

“Well, that’s not a complete package, because they cost, like, ninety bucks. But that’s a demo with some more information, and it’s only twenty bucks. It’ll send you to this amazing Web site, and not everyone can get on it. You need a password; that’s in there, too. And you can buy all kinds of stuff there, stuff you’ll need, I promise.” She stepped back, cracked her knuckles, and suddenly seemed like a shy girl again. “I, um, actually sell a lot of them.”

“I’ll bet you do. And what are you going to do in December 2012, when the world ends?”

“I’m going to be saved.”

“Is that right?”

“Everyone who sells a certain amount is going to this really special place, it’s like, um, the birthplace of civilization. And there’s going to be a king and a whole new world. And we’ll be part of it. You can be, too.”

“Where is this place?”

She squinched up her features. “I think Canada. I’ve heard Frankie talk about it, and I think he said Canada.”

“Could he have said Canopy?”

She brightened. “Yeah. Canopy. That was what I heard.”

Too right. He got it all: what Lucy needed and what Miranda needed. Proof in his hands, a Web site that no doubt sucked credit-card numbers like a vacuum cleaner, and a connection to Victor Blake—his home.

“Thank you,” he said, indicating the box.

“That’ll really help you,” she said with an expression of pure sincerity.

“You have no idea.”

He hustled to the car, threw the box onto the passenger seat, and checked the laptop he’d left open. He had time. He still had time.