Torn (28 page)

“Relax,” I tell them. “I’m not making any hasty decisions.”

Eldon, crouched by the security-cam monitor, goes, “Uh-oh, what’s this?”

Missy whimpers, “Shit, shit, shit!”

What has attracted their attention is more flashing cop lights. Not stopping outside the lodge, but speeding past, heading down the road at high speed. No sirens, just the lights. As if the cop—excuse me, the henchman—has been distracted by some other, more critical event. We can’t see where he’s going, just that he’s leaving in a hurry, following the other cars.

“I counted four vehicles,” Eldon says softly to himself. “That’s just about the entire force. Not exactly a center of criminal activity, Conklin.”

I beg to differ—how about kidnapping, isn’t that a crime?—but don’t bother saying so because there’s something about the last-minute distraction of the officer,
pulling him away from our hiding place, that makes me think of Randall Shane.

Could he be out there, setting up a diversion? Are his old friends in the FBI about to stage a rescue?

Get a grip, Haley. Fantasizing about rescue attempts is probably part of the Stockholm syndrome. How could Shane know where you are? How could he even know you’ve been abducted rather than, say, murdered and left in the woods? Remember, he warned you to go back home and lock the doors. He knew you were in danger, and like a stubborn fool you ignored him. You hired a professional and then ignored his advice, how dumb is that? So don’t assume that after you screwed up that he’ll somehow figure it out and arrive with the cavalry. You’re on your own. If anybody is going to find a way to rescue Noah, it will have to be you.

Eldon gets up, looking resolute. He still won’t look me in the eye—is he ashamed? He should be!—but he has the appearance of a man who has come to a difficult decision. “We need to call Ruler Weems,” he tells his wife. “He’ll know what to do.”

“Not on the regular phone,” she warns him. “He said never to use the regular phone.”

“I know that! I’m not a fool. I’ll use the Iridium. Ruler Weems thinks the satellite phones are still safe.”

“I’m sorry!” Missy whimpers, bursting into tears.

“Oh for God’s sake, stop it. I can’t think if you’re blubbering.”

“I’m s-s-so afraid they’re going to kill us. You know what they’re like, Eldon. They won’t h-hesitate.”

He sighs and then embraces his wife, who shudders
against him like a terrified child. “Stop it now. Just stop,” he says soothingly. “Nobody is going to kill us.”

“How do you k-k-know?”

For the first time Eldon Barlow looks directly at me, with eyes as cool as chips of black ice. “Because they want to kill her.”

14. The Forever Jolt

The holding cell isn’t a whole lot smaller than his so-called domicile unit. Similarly furnished in what he’s come to think of as ‘postmodern monk,’ except in the holding cell the bed, chair, and small desk are bolted to the floor. Bare lightbulb out of reach in a metal cage. No windows. A single door, heavy steel, equipped with a viewing slot. No shower, of course, just a remote-flush stainless steel toilet commode of the type common to modern detention centers. You want it flushed, you have to ask the guard nicely.

The four security hacks who wrestled him into the cell—Ron Gouda wasn’t in a mood to be manhandled—called it “Gitmo,” making jokes about waterboarding him. Very funny. Hilarious. But the good news, they didn’t seem to have a clue about his real identity, even if they didn’t believe his “I was just out driving around” explanation of what he, a mere visitor, was doing in a restricted residential area.

He’s in the holding cell for maybe fifteen minutes—his watch has been confiscated—when the viewing slot in the door slides up.

“Mr. Gouda?”

In character, Shane responds like an outraged citizen.
“Hey, are you guys nuts? Get me out of here! What kind of resort is this? You think I paid five grand to get arrested for driving around?”

“Hello, Mr. Gouda. Very nice to meetcha. I have Taser, you know what Taser is?”

Shane’s feigned indignation turns to a cold sweat. The man on the other side of the door speaks with an Eastern European accent, and with a forceful authority. Has to be the big enforcer that Maggie mentioned, Bagrat Kavashi, CEO of BK Security, suspected assassin and all-round bad guy. But Gouda wouldn’t have any idea who Kavashi is, nor would he be overly impressed or frightened by what he would consider to be rent-a-cops.

“Yeah, Taser, sure, so what?” Shane says, approaching the door, trying to get a clear view of who he’s speaking to. “Don’t tase me, bro, right? Is this a joke?”

“No joke,” says Kavashi. “Back away from door, Mr. Gouda.”

Meester Goo-dah. Distinct accent, but no problem making himself understood. All Shane can see is a dark mustache and a killer smile.

“Seat on bed,” says the mustache. “Hends on knees.”

Sit on bed, hands on knees.

“Are you freakin’ kiddin’ me?” Shane barks, feeling Gouda’s rage. “Get me a phone so I can call my lawyer!”

“Seat on bed, be good boy, we talk.”

“You the good cop, is that it? I already met your bad cops.”

“I am good cop, yes. Seat on bed.”

Shane sits on the bed, big hands on his bony knees. The door opens. Kavashi steps into the cell, a rakishly handsome man, and with no more ceremony that he might
swat a fly, fires an X26 police-issue Taser directly into Shane’s chest.

Fifty thousand volts of electromuscular disruption turn the former FBI special agent into a quivering jellyfish. Neuromuscular incapacitation occurs the instant the darts enter his flesh and continues for ten seconds, or an eternity, whichever comes first. At the academy some of the instructors referred to tasering as ‘giving the perp a lift,’ as in ‘lifted into heaven,’ because the subject typically feels as if he’s dying. Lighting up every muscle and nerve in the human body tends to do that.

By the time Shane recovers from the near-death experience—way, way worse than he ever imagined—the darts have been yanked free from his chest. He’s flat on his back, gasping for breath, and Kavashi is grinning down at him from a distance of maybe ten feet, too far for a lunge even if Shane felt himself capable of such, which he doesn’t. He has all the strength of a kitten. Besides that, he can’t think straight.

“Stay down,” Kavashi suggests. “Be good boy or next time I pull three times.”

Shane’s brain is processing the experience through a deep layer of fuzzy cotton, but even so he knows what “pull three times” means. Pull once on the trigger and the jolt lasts ten seconds. Pull twice more, after the darts have entered the flesh, and the chaotic electromuscular disruptions last for thirty seconds, or possibly longer, until the battery completely discharges.

Forever, in other words.

“You didn’t piss pants,” Kavashi points out, keeping the reloaded Taser aimed at the middle part of his body. “Next time I give you personal promise, you piss pants.”

Shane can’t think of what Ron Gouda might say at a
time like this, so he doesn’t say anything, he just stares at Kavashi with bugged-out eyes. The security chief has effectively established dominance and Shane can’t fight it, not until his head clears and his strength returns.

“So, Mr. Ron Gouda from Dayton, Ohio, you are fake person. Carry fake ID like terrorist. Is that what you do, come to nice town of Conklin to be terrorist?”

“What are you taking about?” Shane manages to say. Every muscle on his upper body feels weak, whipped.

“You come to study our books, make yourself into a better person? You come to listen and learn? I don’t think so. They find stupid man where he has no business to be, first thought, maybe you want to break into big house, steal things. So I run a Google search on Mr. Ron Gouda of Dayton, Ohio, and you know what I find? Interesting item with nice photograph. Mr. Ron Gouda belongs to Shriners, helps raise money for sick kids. They put his photo in the newspaper, holding big check for new hospital. What a nice man, Mr. Gouda. Short, but nice.”

“It’s a mistake. Another Ron Gouda.”

“Two men with same name, both owning the same company?”

There’s something about having his cover totally blown that makes the blood flow to Shane’s brain. “Okay, you got me,” he says, holding up his shaky hands. “My name is David Johnson, okay? From L.A. I borrowed Gouda’s name so I could get inside, check on my wife.”

“Your wife is here, too?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. But I think she’s having an affair with one of your members. I don’t even know his name, but he’s a rich guy with his own personal jet. Linda always had a thing for pilots.”

The gun never wavers as Kavashi backs up a couple of feet. Still well within Taser range, but now way beyond even the wildest lunge on Shane’s part. The security chief seems genuinely amused by Shane’s new story.

“Man from L.A. with slut for wife, what do you do for a living? What is your job?”

“I’m a cop,” Shane says. “LAPD.”

When making it up on the fly, best to stick as close to the truth as possible.

Kavashi takes a seat in the bolted chair, nodding his head, as if in appreciation. “Very good story, Mr. David Johnson. Cop with cheating wife, maybe I believe you someday. But not today. Today I believe you are man who used to be FBI. Big man, six foot four, beard like you, eyes like you. Randall Shane, yes?”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s big stupid man who made big stupid mistake. You come here looking for someone, make lots of noise, very clever, and my men show you where he lives.”

“I told you, I’m looking for my wife.”

Kavashi smiles. “Randall Shane has no wife. He has nothing. One small house, one big car. No wife, no children. They die, very sad. Randall Shane has nervous breakdown, can’t sleep, quits FBI, or maybe they fire him, who knows?”

“I demand a lawyer. You have no right to hold me.”

“Why are you here, Mr. Shane? You cheat to get inside. You pretend to listen to very good wisdom of Arthur Conklin. You ask about Eldon Barlow, where he lives. Why? What do you want?”

Shane thinks about it. Kavashi has managed to find, if
not a photograph, a physical description of Shane on the Net, undoubtedly from one of the missing child forums. So, given his reach and resources, he knows pretty much everything. Except, possibly, the identity of whoever snatched Haley Corbin. Although Shane has helpfully led him to the front door, so to speak, and undoubtedly put the Barlows in danger, wherever they are.

Nice move, he thinks. Could I possibly screw it up any more?

Shane figures he has, at best, one last chance to convince Kavashi to let him go. The convincer is, he’ll come clean, or as clean as he dares.

“The FBI knows I’m here,” Shane says.

Kavashi seems unimpressed. “So they know you cheat and lie and pretend to be someone else? Means nothing. Do you have warrant, Mr. Shane? Does FBI have warrant? Answer is no. Rulers good people, we have nothing to hide, no reason to lie. You are the one who is hiding, lying, and breaking law.”

“So kick me out,” Shane suggests. Figuring now that he’s seen the layout he can find another way back in. Go dark this time, do a creepy-crawly, starting with the shuttered ski lodge.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Kavashi says, getting to his feet.

“You can’t hold me. This is a private security company, not a legal police force.”

Under the mustache, Kavashi’s lips curl. “We have compact with State of Colorado. Means we can hold suspect of crime until state troopers come and take away. Maybe I call troopers tomorrow morning, bring you out to checkpoint, hand you over. All legal. All correct.”

Kavashi looks as though he’s in a mood to maybe continue the conversation, lord it over his captive for a
while, but he’s interrupted by a security officer who comes in the door, whispers something to the boss.

Kavashi’s expression changes. He’s all business, no longer amused. “Right away,” he says to the officer.

Then he steps forward, fires the reloaded Taser into Shane’s prone body, and gives him the full thirty seconds of fifty-thousand volt electromuscular disruption. The forever jolt.

15. Missy Helps

Missy Barlow thinks the world is about to end, and for all I know, she’s right. The monitors show a number of cruisers parked on the street below the house, and some of the cops, all of them warmly dressed, seem to have fanned out, covering every possible exit.

Clearly they know someone is hiding inside.

“It’s a SWAT team,” she decides. “They’re going to shoot us.”

Her creepy husband glares at me, as if the whole thing is my fault. He’s been trying to raise Ruler Weems on his handy-dandy Iridium satellite phone, but so far no luck. Maybe that’s my fault, too.

“I didn’t see any rifles,” I point out. “Don’t SWAT guys have rifles?”

“They’ll storm inside,” she insists, savoring her fear. “Shoot us down like dogs.”

It’s sad, but she’s stopped turning to her husband for comfort. His solution to all problems is to ask Ruler Weems what to do, and since Weems is unreachable, he has nothing to recommend. Though he seems to be leaning
in the direction of sacrificing me for the common good. More accurately, for his own good. And the weird thing is, I’m not exactly opposed to the idea.