The Devil's Footprint (24 page)

He was oblivious to the terrorist attack.
 
He was also so buried in his analysis that he had completely forgotten
to pass on a message he had received.
 
It
had not struck him as particularly urgent, and then Lee Cochrane had phoned and
the fax had beeped and the note got buried under a file.

After a while, the phone became a nuisance and he hit the mute button and
engaged the answering machine.
 
He needed
to focus.
 
There were aspects to this
Mexican thing that did not make sense.
 
There had to be more to it.
 
There
was an agenda he was missing, he was sure of it.
 
But what?

He learned about the attack when Kilmara came to get him.
 
Immediately he tried to notify Cochrane but
could not get through.

Feeling decidedly shaken and, for no rational reason, guilty for not
having been there, he went to help Fitzduane and Kilmara do what they could
with the injured and the shell-shocked survivors.
 
A stream of ambulances was already beginning
to arrive, and medical teams were soon hard at work.
 
The air was filled with the sound of medevac
and other helicopters.
 
Local, state, and
federal law-enforcement units poured in.

The message remained forgotten.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

Fitzduane watched the ambulance doors close and the vehicle accelerate
away, siren screaming and lights flashing.

That was the last of the wounded taken care of.
 
There would now be the whole wretched
business of being questioned by the bevy of law-enforcement people who had
spent the last couple of hours installing themselves in strength and debating
jurisdiction.
 
Some had tried to question
him earlier, but apart from giving what descriptions he could of the terrorist
helicopter, he had refused to say any more until the wounded were attended to.

His motive was not entirely altruistic.
 
He had found that giving succor to another helped ease the stress
reaction that cut in after combat and the suppressed guilt that came from the
taking of human life.
 
On the conscious
level he had not regret about what he had done, but his subconscious seemed to
have feelings of its own.
 
It was
confusing, and all the more so because he was incredibly tired.

He slumped down on a sofa in the reception area.
 
The rooms were all cordoned off.
 
They were going to have to bunk down in
Maury's trailer, he supposed.
 
He looked
down at his clothing.
 
God, he was a mess!

His shirt and trousers were ripped, and caked with dried blood.
 
His hands and forearms were streaked with
dried blood also.
 
The
blood of the killers and the blood of the victims.
 
It had been a long time since he had seen so
many terrible injuries.
 
More than sixty
had been killed and perhaps two hundred wounded.
 
Many were critical.
 
The butcher's bill would mount up over the
next few days.

Where was Kathleen?

He felt a sudden rush of concern.
 
He checked his watch.
 
It was
after 10:00
P.M.
and it was dark
outside.
 
Actually, it was a blessing
that she had not been at the party, but still, he was worried.
 
It was not in her nature to stay out of touch
like this.
 
They were not a typical
couple who could wander at will.
 
They
were under terrorist threat, and there were routines and disciplines they had
to stick to.
 
One key routine was regular
communication.
 
It was a burden but it
was reality, and Kathleen was conscientious.
 
In fact, she was better than he was.

Two men with law enforcement stamped all over them were talking to a
grim-faced Kilmara over by the reception counter.
 
One slid a photograph out of a file and
showed it to Kilmara.
 
He studied it
intently and shook his head.
 
The other
then slid something small and gold out of a plastic envelope and held it in the
palm of his hand.

Kilmara picked up the bracelet and read the inscription inside, then
nodded.
 
He looked across at Fitzduane,
and there was both shock and sympathy in his face.

Fitzduane suddenly felt cold and sick.
 
He tried to stand up, but for a moment his body seemed unwilling to
respond.
 
His limbs felt leaden and he
seemed to have no strength.

Kilmara and the two men came over.

"Hugo," said Kilmara quietly, "just
prepare
yourself.
 
This may not be as bad as it
seems."

"
What
?
Fitzduane wanted to scream.
 
What is
it?
 
Why don't you just tell me?
 
At the same time he understood what Kilmara
was trying to do and his whole being fought to be ready for what he was going
to hear.

The photograph of the murdered woman meant nothing to him, and his hopes
began to rise.
 
She was young and blond,
and her features were not remotely familiar.

Then he saw the bracelet and absolute horror swept through him.
 
Kathleen had been kidnapped.
 
But by whom and why?

The older of the two men spoke
.
"My name is
Sheriff Jacklin, Colonel Fitzduane, and this here is Detective Erdman.
 
I hate to say this, but it looks as if your
wife might have been taken by the same people" — he made a gesture toward
the pool — "who did all this.
 
And
as to
who
they are, you can rest assured we're going
to find out."

Fitzduane looked at him blankly, as if he had not heard the words.
 
Then he got to his feet unsteadily and turned
away without explanation and walked toward the entrance.
 
He felt as if he could not breathe and fresh
air was the only solution.
 
He staggered
like a drunken man.

Kathleen was gone.
 
He would never
see her again.
 
The people who had taken
her killed without hesitation.
 
They
would
not
let her live.
 
She would be a witness.
 
She would have learned something.
 
You always learned something, and these were
people who took no chances.
 
Kathleen
would die — might already be dead — and he would have to accept it.

He could not accept it.
 
Emotion
ran through him.
 
He held up his bloody
hands.
 
He was responsible for all
this.
 
Action and reaction and his cursed
curiosity.
 
It all went back to finding a
hanging body and deciding to find out why.
 
It was one body too many and it was on his doorstep and the victim had
been so damned young.
 
If
only he had just walked on and never looked back.

"Hugo!" called Kilmara, his voice loud and sharp.

Fitzduane lowered his hands,
then
shook his head
a couple of times as if trying to wake himself up.
 
He had been oblivious to his surroundings,
aware only of the balmy night air.
 
He
breathed in and out deeply.

The forecourt was a hive of activity.
 
Law-enforcement vehicles came and went, and media vans with TV cameras
mounted on their roofs were lined up behind the guarded perimeter.
 
Arc lights supplemented the hotel
lighting.
 
As he watched, a helicopter
touched down.
 
Other helicopters circled
above.
 
Media again, he supposed.

Beyond the perimeter held back by barriers were many hundreds, perhaps
thousands, of curious onlookers wedged five or six deep.

"Publicity is the oxygen of terrorism," someone had said.
 
Well, these terrorists were getting plenty of
oxygen.
 
He hoped they choked on it.

Maury was standing beside Kilmara, looking rather anxious.
 
Kilmara was reading something, and then he
looked up.
 
He appeared puzzled, and,
followed by Maury, he walked toward Fitzduane.

"Maury took a phone message earlier on," he said.
 
"It was from a woman.
 
The switch tried your room and, finding no
one there, rang Maury's trailer."

Maury shrugged apologetically.
 
"I'm sorry, Hugo.
 
Probably I
should have delivered it earlier, but you were in and out all day and I thought
you would be in again soon —and then I forgot about it."

Fitzduane read the message.

CALL ME SOONEST.
 
R.O IS ALIVE.
 
YAIBO ARE IN YOUR
AREA.
 
TAKE EVERY CARE.

CHIFUNE

The number she had given bore a
Fayetteville
area code.

The blood drained from Fitzduane's face.

R.O.?
 
Reiko Oshima!
 
It was all
beginning to make horrible sense.

He told Kilmara.

The General's face turned gray.
 
He
had come up against her in
Ireland
.
 
She was the most dangerous terrorist he had
ever encountered.
 
Most of the time there
was no longer any rationale as to why she killed.
 
The act was an end in itself to her.

Fitzduane called the number.

"Fitzduane-
san
," she
said.
 
The voice was the same, the formal
address a barrier between them.
 
Unbidden, the memory of her body came to him.

"I have an address," she said.
 
"It is a Yaibo safe house.
 
Your wife may be there.
 
Go
quickly."

"How do you know?" he said.
 
"Chifune, how do you know?"

"I've had my people out," she said.
 
"Now hurry, Fitzduane-
san
.
 
There is very little time.
 
Approach carefully but
in force
.
 
Go quickly.
 
They will move soon.
 
I cannot
stay."

"Oshima?" said Fitzduane.
 
"Is she behind this?"

The phone was dead.

"Sheriff," said Fitzduane, showing Jacklin the address.
 
"Where is this place?"

Jacklin checked the paper.
 
"About an hour away, I guess.
 
Maybe more.
 
It's outside my jurisdiction."

"Sheriff," said Fitzduane.
 
"Give me some people.
 
I beg
you.
 
There's no time to clear this.
 
Please."

Jacklin thought quickly.
 
"I'll
lay
on a chopper.
 
There will be a SWAT team waiting when you
land."
 
He barked into his radio.

Eight minutes later, Fitzduane and his pilot were airborne.

Fitzduane's face was wet with tears.
 
Dear God
, he thought.
 
Let us
be in time
.

Kathleen.
 
Our
baby.

Oshima!
 
His heart turned to stone.
 
It is
you, I know it
.
 
I will find you if
you're with the devil
himself
, and this time there
will be no mistake.
 
I
will
kill you.

He dried his cheeks and checked his weapons.

However long it takes, I
will
kill you.
 
I swear it.

The helicopter swooped in to land in a clearing.
 
The spot was wooded.
 
Fitzduane had no sense of location.
 
Jacklin had said the address sounded like a
farm, which seemed to make sense.

"Colonel," said the pilot.
 
"
Semper Fi
, sir."

Fitzduane shook his head wordlessly as a rush of emotion gripped him.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

A deserted shack had been selected as temporary headquarters.
 
Marked and unmarked vehicles were parked
around it.
 
They entered.
 
The room had been cleared and now housed a
bank of communications equipment on trestle tables.
 
Maps of the area were being pinned up.

"Colonel Fitzduane?" said a man in black combat fatigues.
 
A submachine gun hung around his neck.
 
"Special Agent
Hillgrove.
 
FBI HRT out of
Raleigh
."