Revolution No. 9 (22 page)

H
e drove east toward the town of Philo, in the direction of Sacramento, moving as fast as he dared. It was night now, and the road through the coastal mountains narrowed down to one lane in places, with a lot of steep slopes and tight curves.

The impossible choices hammered his brain. On top of everything else, there was no reason to think that Freeboot would keep his word about Glenn. Monks thought again about trying to use the jade pendant as a bargaining chip—promising to stay quiet about it in return for having Glenn delivered safely to him. But threatening Freeboot was likely to get Glenn killed.

The only faint hope that Monks could see was to throw out a net and hope that Freeboot slipped up.

Monks picked up his cell phone, but hesitated. Freeboot knew that he had the phone and might call for help; he had to have planned for that possibility. The
maquis
would be
watching him from moving vehicles or stationary ones posted along the way. They would vaporize at any sign of police. They might even have bugged the Bronco while he had been at the far end of the beach. He looked around helplessly. It was the size of a shortbed pickup truck, its rear compartment packed with the traveling gear he carried, its massive undercarriage thick with years of grease and mud. There were thousands of places to hide microphones that could be as small as pinheads. But stopping to use another phone would be a red flag to anyone who was watching.

He punched 0.

“Operator, this is an emergency. I need your help,” he said to the woman who answered.

“You can dial nine-one-one, sir.”

“No, I can't,” Monks said quickly. “Listen to me, please. I need you to call the San Francisco office of the FBI,
now
. Tell them—”

“Sir, I'll give you that number and you can make the call.”

“Ma'am, I'm driving fast on a mountain road, and I'm dealing with a serial killer who's at large. This is a matter of national security, and if you don't help me out here, you're endangering that. Do you understand?”

There was a three-second pause. No doubt she was activating whatever alarm or recording device was used for lunatics.

“Look, I know how this sounds,” he said. “My name's Dr. Carroll Monks. Ask for an agent named Duane Baskett. If he's not there, tell them it's about Freeboot, okay?
Freeboot
. I repeat, this has to happen very fast, and in absolute secrecy.”

“All right, sir,” she said, maybe with a trace more respect. “I'll connect you. Stay on the line.”

The FBI had been aware of Freeboot's group for a couple of years, but considered them relatively inconsequential—in a league with hundreds of other little enclaves that had paramilitary leanings. Monks's kidnaping, the camp's conflagra
tion, and the possible murder of Motherlode had put them on the map in a much bigger way. Baskett was a Special Agent in Charge who had come up from San Francisco to investigate after the fire. Monks had spent a fair amount of time talking with him, and hadn't much cared for him. He was good-looking, athletic, in his early thirties, with the condescending air of a cop who thought he knew far more about what was going on than anyone else. His youth made it a notch harder to take. But he seemed efficient, he knew who Monks was, and it was his case.

“This is Baskett,” a crisp voice said over the phone. “First off, Dr. Monks, are you in danger?”

“Not immediate. At least, I don't think so.”

“This has something to do with Freeboot?”

“Yes. I have to assume he's having me watched. I also may be bugged, but I don't see any way around taking that chance.”

“Do you want police assistance?”

“
No
cops,” Monks said. “This has to stay invisible.”

“All right. What have you got?”

Monks took a breath. It wasn't going to sound much better to Baskett than it had to the operator.

“That Calamity Jane murder in Atherton, a few months ago? Where the antique Chinese jewelry was thrown in the Dumpster?”

“Yeah?” Baskett said cautiously.

“I just saw a very expensive-looking jade pendant of that type. Freeboot's girlfriend, Marguerite, had it. And I'm almost sure I saw one of the
maquis
give it to her, up at the camp, right about the same time as that murder.”

When Baskett spoke again, his voice was edged with skepticism, maybe even amusement. “Let's run through all that again. You think Freeboot might be connected with the Calamity Jane killers? He
might
be watching you? And you're basing this on seeing a piece of jewelry?”

“I'm basing it on a lot of things,” Monks said heatedly. “And right now there are lives at stake. For Christ's sake, work with me.”

Baskett's tone made it clear that he did not appreciate being given orders. “Let's start with you describing this pendant.”

“Dark green jade, carved into a dragon, very fine workmanship. On a gold chain.”

“Hang on,” Baskett said. Monks heard him repeat the description to someone in the background.

The other man's reply was muffled, but when Baskett spoke into the phone again, his tone had gone from skeptical back to cautious.

“One of the prize items in that collection fits that description,” he said. “Chinese, Ming dynasty. It's still missing. But there's probably a thousand others around that look like it.”

“Out there in the boonies, with a bunch of dopers and runaways? Turning up at exactly that time?”

“Why the hell didn't you tell me about it back when we were talking?” Baskett demanded.

“I didn't get a good look at it the first time. I thought it was just junk. But when I saw it up close, the jade connection clicked. Look, I understand you don't want a false alarm, but can I tell you
why
I'm on the run right now, and we'll worry about the back story later?”

“Go ahead,” Baskett said.

Monks gave a terse explanation. When he finished, he could hear other voices in the background. It sounded like this was attracting attention.

“Give me your vehicle description and location,” Baskett said.

“Blue Ford Bronco, '74. I'm on the Philo-Greenwood Road, south of Mendocino, a few miles east of Elk. I'll be turning north to Ukiah at Booneville, then over to I-5 and south to Sacramento.”

“We'll have a tail pick you up. Don't worry, they won't get spotted. Maybe we'll get a break. But if not—you're going to have to go through with this, Dr. Monks. Get the little boy and hand him over to Freeboot. That will be our chance to move in.”

Monks had seen this coming, but he still shook his head in denial, an absurd gesture over the telephone.

“We can't risk getting Mandrake hurt,” he said.

“We can't
not
risk it. Think about it. You believe Freeboot, don't you, that he'll kill your son?”

Monks hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

“So do I. And God knows how many others, if we don't nail him now.”

Monks stayed silent. There was no way that he could think of to argue.

“Are you familiar with Coulter Hospital?” Baskett asked.

“I've been there.”

“Any suggestions on how to proceed? It's got to
look
like you're doing it for real, and trying not to get caught.”

“Can you get undercover people in place?”

“There's a rapid response team already on the way. Tell us what you want.”

Hospitals differed physically, but the basic operations were similar, and Monks remembered Coulter's layout reasonably well. He also remembered an incident that he had been involved in a few years earlier, when a prisoner had been smuggled out of a mental hospital in a laundry cart.

“Have Mandrake's doctors sedate him lightly,” he said. “Something like half a milligram of Ativan, to keep him sleepy for ten or twelve hours. Get your own people on the wards so nobody stops me, and set up a laundry cart down in the service area. I'll go in as a maintenance man and take him out in that.”

“All right, we'll get right on it.”

“I might come up with something better. I'll keep thinking.”

“Did Freeboot say anything about where he wants you to deliver the boy?”

“Nothing. Only that he'd let me know.”

“Okay, Doctor. I'll check back with you.”

As Monks clicked off the phone, bile rose in his throat at the thought of putting Mandrake in the middle of what could turn out to be a violent confrontation.

He forced himself to concentrate on practicalities. He needed to check in quickly with Sara, to keep her from getting alarmed. She was probably home from work by now. He punched the house's number.

When she answered, he said, “Honey, I hate like hell to do this to you. Emil just called—you know, the guy who watches my place? There's a pipe leaking in the kitchen. I have to get back and take care of it before it floods.”

“Do you know where Lia is?” she said, as if she hadn't heard him. Her voice was fragile with worry. “Her stuff's all gone.”

Monks bared his teeth in a grimace, hating himself for this deception. But it would be worse to tell her that Marguerite had gone back to Freeboot—and there was the chance that Sara would panic and do something that might compromise this.

“She probably just took off with her pals for a few days,” he said. “Maybe she met a guy. Let's face it, she's done it before.”

“She cleaned out everything. Like she's not coming back.”

“She'll work it out for herself, Sara. Just like you said.”

“I suppose. It's just—different now.”

“I know it's tough.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I know you do. Well, looks like I'm a bachelorette for a while.” Her voice lightened, in a brave at
tempt to sound coquettish. “Guess I'll go out trolling the bars.”

He tried to think of some bit of banter to return, but came up empty.

“I won't be long,” he said. “I've got to get off now, I'm getting into some bad curves. I'll call you soon.”

The part about the curves was true, especially in the fog. He put the phone back on the seat and gripped the wheel at ten and three. The gas gauge read just over half-full, and the Bronco had an auxiliary twenty gallon tank that he kept topped off. That would get him easily to Sacramento, with another few hundred miles to spare. There was the issue of his bladder, but he always carried a couple of plastic containers of water. He could empty one out the window and use it as a trucker's jug if he had to.

He returned his mind to searching for a way to lure Freeboot into view without exposing Mandrake. That was one thing about spending twenty-five years in the ER—he had learned to clamp down on his emotions and deal with the business at hand.

M
ercifully, the fog lifted as he got inland. When it was bad, it could blanket the Central Valley in blindness, causing pileups of dozens, even hundreds, of vehicles on the freeways. Traffic thickened as he approached Sacramento, the drivers fast and aggressive and sure of where they were going, or at least acting like they were. He picked his way through them with tense caution, along with his unseen escorts—probably Freeboot's men, and definitely FBI agents. It was eerie, sitting alone in the dark, rumbling Bronco, knowing that others were nearby, watching—that he was a minnow, being followed by piranhas, with alligators hunting for them.

There was still no sign of Freeboot, and neither Monks nor the FBI agents had come up with a better plan.

Sacramento was a big spread-out city, with grids of lights stretching as far as he could see, cut by the dark, winding paths of the rivers. The freeway interchanges were bewilder
ing to an outsider. But he remembered how to find Coulter Hospital. It was a fairly straight shot, off I-880 near McClellan Air Force Base.

He was within three miles of there when his cell phone rang.

“It looks like a go,” Baskett said. “Any questions?”

“Not right now. I'll think of plenty when it's too late.”

“You came out on top last time, Dr. Monks. Hang in there, we're with you.”

Monks muttered thanks, distantly aware that it was the first positive thing that Baskett had ever said to him. Maybe impending disaster brought out the agent's inner child.

Monks knew that by now the hospital was under intense FBI surveillance, with agents inside disguised as personnel. Mandrake had been sedated. Then, in a macabre twist, he had been injected with a microtransmitter the size of a grain of sand, just under his skin. If Freeboot managed to get away with him, the agents would have a means of tracking him. Monks knew that it made sense, but using a four-year-old as bait was evil enough, without treating him like a piece of meat besides.

He saw the green freeway sign for his exit, Plumas Road, along with a blue
HOSPITAL
sign, and moved over into the far right lane. A stream of other vehicles took the same exit, lining up at the stoplight at the ramp's end. Plumas was a busy four-lane strip, lined with stores, mini-malls, and gas stations. He turned left onto it and drove another mile and a half north, where the area changed to small office buildings and apartment complexes. He turned left again into the hospital's parking lot. This time, no other vehicles followed him.

The players here, he knew, were already in place.

Sacramento's Coulter Hospital was a relatively new sprawling complex, three stories, and spread out like the city itself. The juvenile-diabetes ward was around the back, on the first floor of the northwest wing. The maintenance department
where the laundry cart was waiting was in the basement at the east end, next to the receiving area where the hospital took in its supplies. A driveway led down to loading docks there. It was a busy area, with maintenance, repair, delivery, and other personnel coming and going at all hours. No one would pay attention to a man who looked like he knew what he was doing.

At night, this far from the hospital's main entrance, the parking lot was almost empty. Monks picked a spot away from the argon lights. He rummaged through the gear in the back of the Bronco for jeans and a work shirt, then peeled off his dressier clothes and changed clumsily in the tight space of the front seat. He exchanged his loafers for running shoes. He took his keys from the ignition and hung them on his belt. It was not the multikeyed ring on a lanyard that maintenance men favored, but it gave that impression. He put on the Giants baseball cap he used on occasions when he didn't want to be seen clearly, and pulled the brim low over his face.

Freeboot almost certainly had his own surveillance going. It was critical that Monks make this look real.

He got out and walked to the loading dock's steel man door, trying to affect the look of a worker on his way to a job he didn't particularly want to do. Inside, he met the familiar sultry warmth of the hospital's physical plant, the sharp smells of disinfectant and cleaning fluids, and the less definable scent of human bodies, some decaying and some on the mend. The room was large and open, with concrete walls and floor. There was no one else around. He kept walking toward an area where several janitorial carts were lined up against a wall. One of them was piled with freshly folded bedding.

A sleeping little boy would easily fit in the bottom bin, draped with pillowcases and sheets.

He gripped the cart's tubular steel handle and pushed it out into the hallway, keeping his head down and shielding his face with the cap's brim.

A large black man came walking down the hall toward him, wearing a gray uniform with a name patch sewn on. He had the competent look of someone who belonged here, and would know who else did and didn't. Monks tensed, fearing that this was a slip-up and he would be challenged.

But the man only raised a big hand in greeting as he passed, saying, “What's happening, baby?”

Monks muttered, “How's it going,” and walked on, feeling a little better—suspecting that he had just seen his first FBI agent of the night.

He took a service elevator to the first floor and trundled the cart toward Mandrake's ward, passing several more people with a glance or nod, classifying them automatically—hospital attendants, a harried intern, a phlebotomist pushing a cart of blood samples, a middle-aged woman in a dress who might have been a visitor or an administrator. At least that was who they seemed to be.

When he got to the ward, the charge nurse was at her desk, making notes on charts. She gave him a smile and murmured “Hi,” then bent back to her work. Probably she was an agent, too.

The hallway from there on was empty, as it usually would be this time of evening. He knew from Baskett that he was looking for room 163. Still, he played his role, pushing doors open and glancing inside as if he was checking the laundry situation. When he got to 163, he glanced furtively up and down the hall, then pushed the cart inside. Mandrake was asleep on his belly, mouth slightly open—the picture of helpless innocence.

Monks's hands shook and his teeth almost chattered as he lifted the limp, warm weight out of bed. Staged though this
was, the guilt and shame of abducting a child burned through his veins with his hammering pulse.

This time, the charge nurse did not look up as he pushed the cart past her.