The Discarded (11 page)

Upon arrival, they put Becker in a small bedroom at the end of the hall. It was so small that it had barely enough space for the gurney, a chair, and the table where Gloria left the bag of tools she would use to continue extracting information from Becker.

In the limited time they’d had back in Mississippi, she had tried to get Becker to talk by having one of her men rough him up. Usually, a physical approach was all that was needed for those who had never been trained to withstand interrogation. Becker, however, proved to be more stubborn than she’d expected, and ended up passing out without divulging anything.

Anxious to get him to talk, and knowing they would soon need to leave Moss Point, she had decided to forgo another beating and try the drug route. But instead of turning him into a blathering idiot like it should have, the drug, combined with his deteriorating physical condition, plunged him into a deep state of unconsciousness he’d remained in throughout the drive to Louisiana and the transfer to his new room.

Once her men were on watch around the farm, she returned to Becker’s room, not wanting to delay the interrogation any longer. She wasn’t surprised to find his eyes were still closed, and his breathing as steady and deep as it had been when they brought him in.

But enough was enough.

“Mr. Becker,” she said, slapping his face. “Mr. Becker, time to wake up.” When he didn’t respond, she slapped him again. “Mr. Becker, open your eyes.”

Nothing.

Very well, then. She walked over to the table and opened her bag. From inside, she removed two boxes, one that contained her syringes, and another that contained her drugs. She selected a stimulant, drew the appropriate dose into the syringe, and returned to the bed.

“Last chance,” she said.

No movement.

She stuck the needle into his arm and depressed the plunger. Though his appearance remained unchanged, she knew it would be only a matter of minutes before he was wide awake.

She set the empty syringe on the table and decided to visit the toilet while she waited, to make sure nothing interfered with her work once she got started.

__________

E
LI HAD WOKEN
as the vehicle he was in pulled to a stop. Hoping to stave off another beating for as long as he could, he’d kept his eyes closed and his breathing slow and deep so no one would know he’d regained consciousness.

Doors were opened and fresh air rushed inside as his abductors climbed out. A few minutes passed before another door opened and his gurney jerked left and right before being pulled outside. As his bed rolled over rough ground, he heard the men around him tell each other to “watch it” and “go left” and “not so fast.” Finally, the rolling smoothed out, and Eli knew from the echo they’d entered a building.

When the gurney stopped, he heard the others walk off and a door shut. Then silence.

He remained motionless for several minutes before he allowed himself to crack open an eyelid. He was in a small room, with cream-colored walls and a window covered by linen curtains. The door was on the other side, by the foot of the bed. He could see the edge of a table in that direction, too, and a black, thick-sided duffel bag sitting on top of it.

Very carefully, he lifted each of his hands, checking to make sure there had been no adjustments to the leather cuffs that tethered them to the sides of the bed. The one on the right was tight as ever, but there was still play in the one on the left. That was the cuff he’d been working on right before his captors had come in and beat the crap out of him at the last location. Thankfully, they either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t thought it important enough to check.

He started rotating his hand back and forth again, hoping to expand the cuff enough so that he could slip it off. He could tell he was close; maybe another quarter inch would do it. What he wouldn’t have given at that moment to be one of those people who could dislocate their thumbs at will.

As he twisted again, he heard someone right outside the door. Immediately, he dropped his hand to the side and closed his eyes. The door opened, and from the sound of the steps, he knew it was the woman. She had a different way of walking from the men, less labored and random, as if every step was calculated to land at a specific angle and pace—confident, assured.

“Mr. Becker.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Eli felt the sting of her hand against his cheek.

He almost opened his eyes, came so damn close. If she’d hit any harder, he would have.

She told him to wake up and slapped him again. Again, he simply rolled with it, playing the part of the unconscious prisoner. It wasn’t that hard. The drug they had given him wasn’t completely out of his system yet and helped suppress his response.

“Mr. Becker, open your eyes.”

After a few seconds of silence, he heard her walk to the table at the foot of the bed and begin rummaging through the bag.

When she returned, she said, “Last chance.”

If he wasn’t afraid before, he was now. It took everything he had not to open his eyes to see what she was planning. His imagination was more than willing to fill in the details, picturing an array of torture devices from knives to Tasers to pliers and things he didn’t even know the names of. When the needle pricked his skin, it was almost a relief.

As she walked back to the table, he felt only a slight burning sensation at the point of injection, but a moment later, before she had even left the room, the burn began to spread.

Like a jolt of liquid electricity, the drug raced through his body, cycling up his heart, making it pound so rapidly it felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. His lids shot open wide, his whole face tensing at the sudden surge of energy.

His breaths came hard and fast as his muscles began to contract.

Stop!

Involuntarily, his fingers curled in toward his palms and his feet yanked at the cuffs holding them to the bed.

Stop!

He gritted his teeth, trying to regain control.

Stop it!

One by one his muscles began to relax, until he was finally able to breathe almost normally again. But then he caught sight of the door.

She’s coming back, and when she does…

With renewed purpose, he began twisting his left hand against its cuff again, his gaze switching back and forth from the restraint to the door.

He felt his hand slip a little, so he pressed his thumb as tight as he could to his palm and pulled. Resistance at first, but it lasted only a second before his hand popped free.

He immediately reached over and undid the cuff on his right wrist, then sat up and leaned toward the restraints holding his ankles. That’s when he heard her steps in the hallway.

Close.

Too close.

No way he could free both feet before she got there.

His gaze fell on the black duffel back. Without a second thought, he scooted down as best he could, stuck a hand inside the bag, and grabbed whatever was in reach. Just as quickly he lay back down and covered his hands with the sheet.

Blindly, he tried to identify what he had grabbed. A plastic case a bit longer and thicker than a cigarette box, something that felt like a wooden chopstick, and a metal instrument with a palm-length handle at one end and a blade at the other. A scalpel?

As the door opened, he flattened his hand but didn’t bother closing his eyes.

The woman smiled as she entered the room. “Mr. Becker, nice to see you awake again.”

“Where are we?” he asked.

“No place important.”

Her hand was on the bag now. He could let her look inside.

“I want to go home. Please. Let me go home.”

She looked over. “All you have to do is cooperate and you can go anywhere you want.”

“I’ll…I’ll cooperate,” he said, sounding defeated. “I’ll tell you whatever I know. I just want to go home.”

She lifted her hand from the bag and took a step toward the bed. “I’m pleased to hear that. It’ll save us both a lot of trouble. Why don’t we start at the beginning? Tell me why you were looking into Operation Overtake.”

Another step. At his hip now. Not close enough yet.

“You promise not to hurt me again?”

“If you truly cooperate, there will be no reason to hurt you.”

He’d have only one shot at this, so he waited.

One more step. “Mr. Becker?”

He nodded as if he’d come to a decision. “Overtake. I…I was looking…”

“Looking for what?”

A little closer, dammit!

“For…for…” he said, hoping to draw her in closer.

Instead, she turned back toward her bag.

“For the girl,” he blurted out. “I was looking for the girl.”

The woman turned back around and moved in close. “The girl? But the girl is dead. She is dead, isn’t she?”

“Well, um, you see, I was hired to…”

When he was sure her gaze was locked onto his, he gripped the knife and worked his right hand out from under the sheet.

“Hired to what? Find the girl?” the woman demanded. “Tell me! Is she alive?”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you.” His voice weakened with every word, so she leaned in close to hear him.

“What happened to her?” she asked. “She
is
alive, isn’t she?”

“She is…none of your business!”

In a burst of speed, he swung his arm around her and jammed the knife into her back.

__________

N
OLAN WAS STATIONED
closest to the farmhouse and was the first to react to the gunshot. He raced across the parking area, fumbled momentarily with the front door, and rushed inside.

He paused in the living room, trying to figure out where the noise had come from. He had just taken a step toward the kitchen when he heard a door in the hallway fly open, followed by a thud of something striking a wall.

His pistol in his hand, he ran over to the hallway entrance.

Someone was near the other end, writhing on the ground.

“Identify yourself,” he said, moving slowly forward.

The person rolled over, cursing painfully.

“Ms. Clark?” Nolan asked, lowering his pistol. “Jesus, what happened?” He hurried down the all and crouched beside her. “Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not fucking all right,” she spat.

She was trying to reach behind her back for something. As she did, she turned, and he could see a piece of metal sticking out between her shoulder blades near her spine.

“Let me,” he said.

He grabbed the handle and tugged the implement free. Nearly the entire length of the blade had been buried in her back.

“Who did this?” he asked.

“The fucking prisoner.”

He jumped up and approached Becker’s room, his gun raised. Behind him, his boss said something, but he was focused on the door that had swung almost all the way closed. All he could hear was silence from inside as he shoved it open with the barrel of his pistol.

“Hands where I can see them!” he shouted as he stepped through the doorway.

The command was unnecessary.

He lowered his gun and said, “Shit.”

CHAPTER
13

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

A
BRAHAM SAT NEAR
the gate, waiting for his flight to DC.

From the moment he’d purchased the ticket, he’d felt guilty. He wanted to be out looking for Eli, but who knew where his friend had been taken by now? The only thing he could think of doing was to go to Eli’s apartment near Washington, DC, to see if he could track down any hint of the information Eli had wanted to give him. Maybe if Abraham knew what it was, he could figure out what had happened to Eli.

It was a long shot, but at the moment his only shot.

The other seats began filling up around him but he barely noticed. All he could think about was how he’d failed his friend.

MISSISSIPPI

S
HORTLY AFTER SEVEN
a.m., Orlando and Quinn returned to the neighborhood where the Moss Point house was located.

“Which one first?” Quinn asked as they climbed out of the car.

Orlando looked around before pointing at a two-story house to the left of the one where Eli Becker had been taken. “They have the best view,” she said.

She and Quinn had dressed in business suits that morning, knowing the importance of looking the part they were playing. As they neared the front door, they could hear the sounds of a family getting ready for the day—a TV, someone running around, dishes clattering.

Quinn pushed the doorbell button.

A distant, “Ronny, get that. If it’s Mrs. Fuller, tell her you need a few more minutes.”

A set of small feet across a room, followed by the door squeaking open. A skinny boy of around eight stared out at them, then said over his shoulder, “It’s not Mrs. Fuller, Mom.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Orlando said, “We’d like to speak to your parents, please.”

“They want to talk to you,” the boy said, his eyes still on Orlando and Quinn.

A deep sigh preceded heavier steps moving toward the door. A woman appeared, wearing a long faded pink robe and hair that looked like it had been brushed back in a hurry.

“Can I help you?” she asked, not doing a great job of concealing her impatience.

“Ma’am, I’m Agent Sax, and this is Agent Mullins,” Orlando said, flashing the fake FBI badge that was part of her kit. “Wondering if we could ask you a couple questions?”

The woman touched her son’s shoulder. “Ronny, go finish your breakfast.”

“I’m already done,” he argued.

“Then go finish getting ready. Mrs. Fuller will be here soon.”

He left reluctantly.

When they were alone, the woman asked, “What kind of questions?”

“About the house next door,” Orlando said.

“Next door? It’s empty.”

“We believe someone may have been using it in the last thirty-six hours,” Quinn said. “Did you see anyone?”