The Buried (9 page)

“When we eat, you eat. I promise.” He stopped a few feet from the bed. “I’m hoping you can help us.”

“Oh, really. In what way?” she asked, her tone dismissive.

 “This doesn’t need to be a confrontation.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Look, we don’t want to be here any more than you do. We were supposed to be done last night after we dealt with your Mr. Black. Rescuing anyone was not part of the plan.”

“You didn’t rescue anyone. You’re holding me, and you left the others behind.”

“The police were at the house within twenty minutes after we left. Your cellmates are being cared for in a hospital right now.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “Follow me.”

He walked into the hallway and waited.

A few seconds passed before Danielle stepped through the doorway. “Is this another trick?”

“No trick,” Quinn said. “We’re going downstairs.”

He motioned for Nate to go first and then he followed. The girl took her time, but eventually made her way down.

Quinn picked up the remote control and switched on the TV. Like before, the news was all about the events at Edmondson’s house. The girl watched, rapt, inching closer and closer until she was standing next to Quinn. After another update from the reporter at the hospital, he hit the mute button.

Danielle blinked and looked at him. “All right. So you did let them go. You still have me, though.”

“We do.”

“Why?”

“There’s the big question. Why don’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Why would our client tell us to free the others but hold on to you?”

She shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“Her. And she’s gone MIA.”

A hint of surprise in her eyes. “Then, then…you should probably let me go, too.”

“I wish it was that easy. Until I know why she wanted you, I can’t do anything.”

She straightened, reasserting her defiance. “Sorry. Can’t help you.”

 “It would make things easier if you told us.”

“If you’re looking for the
easy
method, why don’t you beat it out of me?”

“No one’s going to do that.”

“Right. You’re going to be all polite and nice and respectful. And then you’ll hand me over to your missing client when you find her. What do you think
she’ll
do?” She stared at him. “Torture me now or later, it’s the same damn thing.”

“You’re not going to be tortured.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t promise something you can’t guarantee.”

She was right, of course. He had no idea what Helen’s intentions were. That bothered him. He liked the girl’s spirit, and his intuition was telling him she wasn’t an enemy.

“If you don’t want to talk, I’m not going to push,” he said.

“Prefer to leave it to them, huh?”

He turned to Nate. “Take her back to her room.”

As she was led away, Quinn lowered himself onto the couch. There had to be some other way to learn what was going on. He ran everything that had happened through his mind again.

What about Samuel Edmondson?

Sure, the creep was dead, but he couldn’t have been acting alone. The girl from cell one had mentioned others coming for them. If Quinn found one of Edmondson’s associates, he might find his answers.

Usually he’d set Orlando to the task of tracking people down, but until Daeng joined her, he’d rather she focus on her own survival. Luckily she wasn’t the only one he could turn to for help.

The Mole answered in his typical, oddly patterned monotone. “It’s a little…early.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to get you out of bed,” Quinn said.

“I did not say I…was out of…bed.”

It would take a while for Quinn to get that image out of his head. “I need your help.”

“Of course you…do. What…is it you need?”

There had been a time when the Mole was a pain in the ass to deal with, but since Quinn had helped rid him of someone who’d been taking advantage of the Mole for years, things had changed. Now the Mole’s monotone didn’t come with quite the same amount of contempt as it had before.

“Are you familiar with what’s going on in Seattle?”

“I…am familiar with many…things…going…on in Seattle.”

“I’m talking about the women who were missing.”

“The Edmondson matter.”

“Yes.”

“It was only a…matter of time.”

“What do you mean? Do you know something about it?”

“Not…exactly.”

“That’s not a no.”

“You’re right.”

“For God’s sake, can we not play twenty questions and you just tell me what you do know?”

“Not on the news…yet, but my private channels…tell me…he had several…holding cells in his…basement.”

“Six,” Quinn said.

A pause. “Maybe…you know…more than I.”

“We’re the ones who found the place and tipped off the police.”

“Interesting.”

“You are now the only one besides those involved who’s aware of that, so if you decide to share it with anyone, I’ll know it came from you.”

“Your…secret’s safe…with me, Batman. I assume there…is a…reason you are…telling me this.”

Quinn described what they had discovered in Edmondson’s hidden lair.

“It sounds like…a way station. There…have been rumors of…a human smuggling…operation running…in the Northwest. And given…that the news has been reporting that the three…girls who were found…had all been…missing, I…would speculate that the rumors…are true.”

“There were actually four,” Quinn told him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Four women. We have one of them.”

Even for the Mole, the pause that followed was a long one. “Why?”

“Not something you need to know.”

“If you…say so. You…still have not…told me what you want.”

“There’s no way Edmondson was operating alone. Others had to have known about his setup. I need to talk to one of them.”

“Why…are you asking…me? Is something wrong…with Orlando?”

If the Mole could be said to have any true friends, Orlando would top that list.

“Don’t worry,” Quinn said. “You’re not treading on her territory. She’s just otherwise occupied. If it helps, I’d like you to concentrate on anyone within fifty miles of Seattle.”

“You’re still…there,” the Mole guessed.

“In the area, but not for long. Two hours. That’s all I can give you.”

“That…may not be…enough time.”

“It’ll have to be.”

__________

A
N HOUR AND
forty minutes later, the Mole called back.

“One name,” he said. “Roger Platt.”

“Who is he?” Quinn asked.

“Shift foreman…at Roland-McNeil Aeronautics.”

“A shift foreman?”

“On the…horizontal stabilizer assembly…line. RMA does contract…work for…larger aircraft…companies.”

“I’m not seeing the connection here.”

“Platt and Edmondson were best…friends in high…school.”

“Oh, really? I take it they’ve remained in contact.”

“Daily.”

“Do you happen to know if Mr. Platt is at work right now?”

“He works…the graveyard shift.”

“So he’s home?”

“Satellite data shows him…arriving home…at 7:41 a.m. Would…you like his…address?”

__________

L
EAVING NATE AND
Danielle at the safe house was not an option. They’d been at the location far too long already. Unfortunately, Quinn also knew they couldn’t count on the woman’s cooperation once they were on the move, so as much as it pained him, the only real choice they had was to drug her again.

She spotted the needle in Quinn’s hand the moment he and Nate entered the room. But instead of fighting, she rolled up her sleeve and stared into the distance, expressionless.

Quinn was under no illusion that the cooperation was a sign of anything permanent, and knew she would run if given the opportunity. So while Nate went out to obtain a new vehicle, Quinn inserted a tracking chip in one of her shoes.

Nate returned with a khaki green Jeep Grand Cherokee and pulled it into the garage, where they transferred the unconscious Danielle into the backseat. Nate then drove off again, tasked with staying on the move until Quinn contacted him.

Using the sedan they’d first arrived in, Quinn headed north.

Roger Platt lived in a working-class neighborhood of single-family homes east of Sea-Tac International Airport. Some of the houses had undergone extensive renovations, while others looked like they hadn’t been touched in the decades since they’d been built, all signs of slow but steady gentrification.

Platt’s house fell somewhere in the middle of old and new. It had no obvious addition to the outside, but it had been repainted recently, and the roof couldn’t have been more than a year or two old.

Quinn drove past, looking for the best way to approach the man’s place, and hit pay dirt five houses down. Plunked in the middle of the front yard was a
FOR SALE
sign. From the lack of curtains in the windows, he could see the house was empty. Better yet, there was a lockbox on the front door that would contain the house key, meaning neighbors would be used to seeing people going in and out.

He pulled into the driveway like he was a Realtor, and then used his phone’s camera to zoom in on the lockbox. It was one of the new versions. Instead of operating with one specific combination, it was wireless enabled and could accept individual Realtor codes. This served two purposes: preventing Realtors from having to hunt down different numbers for each property, and allowing the selling agent to know who had visited.

A quick text to the Mole garnered a usable code. Quinn pulled on his gloves, climbed out of the car, and, less than thirty seconds later, was through the house and into the backyard. He sneaked across the neighboring yards until he reached Platt’s.

After easing onto the deck that protruded from the back of the house, he crept up to the set of French doors leading inside, and looked in. A family room, dim and unoccupied.

Using his detection app, he discovered that the house was protected by a surprisingly high-end security system. Fortunately, it was still civilian grade, so the software Orlando had created was able to rapidly disable it. Quinn then picked the lock and let himself in.

A quick search revealed that Platt was sound asleep in the master bedroom. Before waking him, Quinn took a look around.

No woman’s touch here, just a house-sized man cave for a rabid Seattle sports fan. Leather seemed to be the covering of choice when it came to furniture, and no expense was spared on the seventy-five-inch TV and accompanying sound system. The kitchen, however, had not seen the same infusion of cash, and was filled with appliances that looked to have been there for decades. In light of the trash can full of takeout containers, Quinn concluded cooking was not one of Platt’s talents.

Wondering if the man’s garage was equipped with its own secret basement, Quinn checked it but found only a vintage Ford Mustang, dozens of storage boxes, and a solid concrete floor.

Back in the house, he searched a closet near the front door and then the one in the hallway right outside the man’s bedroom. In the latter, he found a hidden compartment in the back, a space more than large enough for the three photo albums it contained.

Quinn pulled out the top album, opened it, and tensed. There was no question now of Platt’s involvement with his high-school buddy.

The album was full of pictures of women, all unclothed and lying on the same mattresses Quinn had seen in Edmondson’s cells. A few of the shots were closer, taken by someone on top of the subject, and in several the photographer’s hand was visible—strong and callused. Not Edmondson’s hand.

It was only Quinn’s years of experience that kept the rage boiling in his chest from taking over as he put the album back and reentered Platt’s bedroom.

The man hadn’t moved since Quinn had first seen him. His hair was cropped short, military style, though his graying goatee was definitely not regulation. One of his arms lay atop the blankets, bearing the muscles of someone who’d seen a lifetime of physical work. And then there was the hand on the blanket, the same hand from the pictures.

Platt would likely put up a good fight if given the chance, but Quinn was in no mood to let him try. He placed the muzzle of his suppressor against Platt’s hip, grabbed the spare pillow with his free hand, and said, “Hey, asshole.”

Groaning, Platt’s eyes slowly fluttered open. As soon as he realized he wasn’t alone, he tried to push himself up, but he’d barely raised his head before Quinn pulled the trigger. As Platt started to scream, Quinn shoved the pillow in his face, muffling the sound, and pressed his gun against Platt’s groin.

“If you don’t shut up, the next shot goes here.”

Platt continued to cry out as if he hadn’t heard the threat, one hand on his wound, the other trying but failing to push the pillow away.

“One…two…thr—”

“Okay, okay,” Platt yelled, his voice distorted. “I’ll stop!”

Quinn kept the pillow in place for a few more seconds before moving it to the side.

“You son of a bitch! What the fuck, man?”

Quinn switched his aim to the man’s forehead. “Samuel Edmondson.”

A split second of confusion, then fear. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He closed his eyes, wincing. “Oh, man. Call an ambulance.”

“Samuel Edmondson,” Quinn repeated.

“Yeah, all right, I know him. So what?”

“Samuel Edmondson.”

“We went to school together, that’s all. What do you want?”

Platt may have thought himself subtle, but he was far from it. When the guy’s arm swung out, Quinn was already moving out of the way, allowing it to catch only air.

“Bad call.” Quinn jammed the gun against the man’s offending shoulder and pulled the trigger.

Another scream brought a return of the pillow. Platt was a quick learner, however, and when his cries became whimpers, Quinn removed the pillow.

“Samuel Edmondson.”

“I didn’t know it was going to turn out like this, okay?” Platt said, tears rolling down his cheeks. “He just asked for my help, that’s all. I didn’t realize what he was into until it was too late.”