Part 12 (1/2)

The lobby was a glossy ensemble of stainless-steel fixtures with gla.s.s accents and leather couches. Asymmetric artwork and company photos completed the funky urban loft appeal. Silver doors with a sensor pad blocked the way to the rest of the building. A large mirror with the entwined S's formed a backdrop to the room.

”Now what?” asked Abbey.

Simon settled onto a couch and looked at Caleb. ”Now we wait. You go to the parking lot and see if the blue Jag is there. Abbey, try to look like you're waiting for someone else.”

Caleb raised his eyebrow at Abbey, his only reaction to Simon's suddenly officious manner, but headed back out into the rain.

Abbey went to look at some of the photos on the walls. They were mostly company shots, in which no individuals were distinguishable amongst the sea of faces. But one individual shot caught her attention. It looked like an awards ceremony. A tall man stood with his back to the photographer, receiving a plaque from older man with gla.s.ses and wild hair. The caption on the photo read: Sylvain Salvador gives scholars.h.i.+p donation to Dr. Paul Ford of Coventry College. Abbey studied Sylvain Salvador's back. He was tall for sure, dwarfing the doctor who was presenting him with the degree, and Salvador had silvery hair like Mantis, although in this photo his hair was short. Still, Salvador could be Mantis. Next to the photo of Salvador was a framed column from a magazine named Bytes. Quentin Steinam: Industry Prophet Reaps Profit, read the t.i.tle.

The silver door opened and a young man with a goatee emerged.

Simon stood and extended his hand. The man drew back in what appeared to be horror. Lobby stalkers were clearly not common at Salvador Systems.

Simon spoke in hushed tones. Abbey was too far away to hear. She moved away to stare out the window at the grayness beyond. A stream of water ran down the side of the road to pool in a murky ma.s.s at the curb. She heard voices behind her. The goateed man had apparently not decided Simon was a raving lunatic-not yet anyway. She relaxed her tensed muscles fractionally. Her stomach growled. She checked her watch. It was 12:42. They'd have to grab lunch soon.

Abbey glanced up just in time to see the silver blue Jag driving past the building. Mantis was behind the wheel, eyes focused straight ahead, a sweep of white hair falling to his shoulder. In the pa.s.senger seat, looking at her with wide eyes, sat Caleb. The Jag continued on past the building and turned left at the lights.

Abbey stifled a scream and ran-walked to Simon.

She yanked his sleeve. ”We have to go.”

”I'm in the middle of the interview, Ab.” Simon rolled his eyes at the goateed man. ”My a.s.sistant,” he said.

Abbey tried to keep her voice calm. ”Caleb has gone for a drive in the blue Jag.”

Simon looked at her, his eyebrows raised, his forehead creased into furrows. He turned back to the goateed man. ”My other a.s.sistant. Looks like I have to go. Thanks for all your help.”

”Sure thing,” the man said. ”A blue Jag, huh? Sounds like he managed to scoop an interview with Sylvain. That's a first.” The man continued out the front door.

”What did you tell him?” Abbey hissed.

”I said we were junior reporters from Wired, doing a story on the quantum computer. What do you mean, Caleb has gone for a drive in a Jag?”

”I saw Mantis drive by with Caleb in the front seat. Caleb's been kidnapped.” Abbey spoke slowly and clearly, even though she wanted to shake Simon.

Simon started running toward the door. ”Where were they going?”

Abbey tried to keep her voice from going all thin. ”How would I know? They turned left at the light. What if we never see him again?”

”Don't panic, Ab. There could be a reasonable explanation.” Simon's words were calm, but his face had a sickly undertone that reminded Abbey of chlorine at room temperature. They looked up and down the street for any sign of the Jag. A heavy fog had descended. Cars moved up and down the side street slowly, the spray of their tires creating a constant hum. But no Jag.

”Why don't we call his cell phone?”

”What if calling him makes it worse?” Abbey asked.

”Text him.”

”Caleb left my cell phone in the sand dunes, remember?” she said.

Simon tossed her his black iPhone, and with shaking hands she typed in < u=”” ok=””> and hit send.

Abbey tried to control her breathing while they waited for Caleb to reply. ”What did that guy mean when he said Caleb scooped an interview with Sylvain?”

”I'm a.s.suming Salvador drives a blue Jag, which means he's probably Mantis.”

Abbey pulled Simon by his s.h.i.+rt sleeve to the photo of the tall man with the curly-haired man. ”Look at this picture.”

Simon studied the picture of Sylvain Salvador's back with tensed lips. ”I don't know. I've never seen Mantis. Remember?”

Simon's text tone-Jason Mraz singing something about being a curbside prophet-made Abbey jump. Abbey frantically checked the text message inbox. Caleb's letters appeared. < am=”” ok.=”” helping=”” ss=””> Abbey typed furiously. < what?=”” get=”” out=”” of=”” car=””> The text took a few moments to come back. < no.=”” am=”” ok.=”” deal=”” with=”” 3rd=”” picture.=”” crypt=”” 2:30=””> Crypt-the name for the bas.e.m.e.nt only the three of them used. It was Caleb's way of telling her that it was indeed him texting, not Mantis.

Abbey stared at the screen until Simon grabbed the phone and examined the message himself.

Abbey bit into her fingernail until it hurt. ”What should we do? What does he mean he's helping SS? Is he telling us to get Mark? We can't just let Mantis drive off with Caleb. What about all the emails?”

Simon turned away from Abbey, his head bent forward, the thumb and forefinger of his hand on either temple. He turned back.

”We get Mark, go home, and meet Caleb. If Caleb says he's okay, we have to trust him. There's no point in hanging around here. If Mantis wants Mark, it's because Mark knows something. And I'm pretty sure the third drawing of the praying mantis attacking Mark was Mrs. Forrester trying to tell us to keep Mantis away from Mark. We'd better head to the bus stop.”

Abbey fretted on the bus. Caleb often thought things were all well when they weren't. Once, when he was seven, he'd tried to bike to their Grandma's and had been lost for hours. When he was nine, he'd gone white-water rafting alone on the Colorado River on their family camping trip and had been thrown from the raft. Going for a drive with a potential killer evidently was not setting off sufficient alarm bells in his head. He hadn't texted her back, despite her repeated texted entreaties that he get out of the car immediately. And meanwhile, she and Simon were heading off to collect a large and unpredictable autistic man. They should probably just call 911 and report an abduction.

The gray, run-down buildings of Granton gave way to the eclectic charm of Coventry City. The houses became quirkier and more colorful, and the trees lining the streets sported brilliant fall plumage. Abbey examined her drawing again. The object around the man's neck did indeed look like a stethoscope, and the phone was to the right of the man. Abbey wondered if it was a message. Phone Dr. Bed Truck. That didn't make sense.

Simon was also examining his drawing. She heard him muttering, ”two wharves in water, a pair of wharves, a couple of wharves, two docks, side by side docks, floating squares...”

They departed the bus a few blocks from the Blue Moon Halfway House. Abbey and Simon walked down the street slowly. She wondered if Simon felt as unsure as she did without Caleb's boldness to buoy them. Caleb would have some plan for how to spring Mark, or at least the confidence to pretend he did. Simon was so much harder to read, and yet he'd surprised her again and again over the last few days with his ability to handle things. He increased his pace, and Abbey had to trot to keep up with his long stride.

Three women and a man perched on the stairs outside the halfway house smoking. Their pinched faces, rough features, and sallow complexions made Abbey cringe as she walked past them and into the building. She trailed behind Simon as they approached the front desk in the lobby, where a military-looking man in a ball cap sat sizing them up. The stench of cigarette smoke, age, and the sweat and grime of countless bodies a.s.saulted her. Posters about not drinking during pregnancy, quitting smoking, and AA meetings covered the light blue wall to the left of the door. A life-size statue of Jesus with large red droplets of blood streaming from his hands and eyes stood in a cabinet to the right. Jesus, The True Prophet, read the caption underneath.

”We're looking for Mark Forrester. He was brought in this morning,” said Simon.

The man flicked his head in the direction of the hall. ”Room nine.”

Abbey found her voice. ”Can we take him with us?”

The man shrugged. ”He's an adult. Social Services is coming back to talk to him about his options. But we don't keep people here against their will.”

The dark wood floor groaned as they made their way down the dimly lit hallway. Simon located the door marked with a faded turquoise nine and knocked gently.

Silence followed the knock, and then the sound of leaden footsteps crossing the room. The door opened to reveal Mark's hulking form, his face puffy and red.

Mark's eyes widened when he saw them. He made a high-pitched moaning sound and retreated back into the room-a small rectangle with tan walls and a single bed and chair.

Simon and Abbey followed.

Mark sat on the chair and started rocking back and forth-more like bobbing really, as if he were a goose or duck. The bed was strewn with hand-drawn maps scribbled on pieces of white computer paper.

Abbey gingerly approached the bed.

Simon stood at the foot.