Part 18 (1/2)
”Don't worry about describing his aura.”
”But it's different from everybody else's. Chira-Sayf executives, they think they're so hot. Real self-important. And paranoid. As if Hewlett-Packard is going to send a death squad cras.h.i.+ng through the windows.”
”But?”
”But Ian, his aura is serious. He carries himself like he's the real deal. Like he knows about life and death in the real world.” She picked at the chicken. ”I don't think I've ever seen him smile.”
”Why do you say Calder is too interested in him?” Jo said.
”Always making sure she gets to talk to him. Leaving her office door open when she knows he's around. Wearing perfume. Which goes badly with her crimson aura, let me tell you.”
”She's interested in him romantically?” Jo said.
”Maybe. Maybe she's just trying to keep him on her side. I don't know what power struggles go on in the corporate hierarchy. Except”-she glanced around again-”maybe she figured if she couldn't have the cute one, she'd get the powerful one.”
”Hold on. Are you saying Kanan turned down her advances, so she had an affair with one of the top executives?”
Fischer shrugged. ”Maybe.”
Jo wrote in her notebook. When she looked up, Fischer's face was pale.
”What?” Jo said.
”I'm sorry. I feel like a real clod for leading you on.”
”Thanks.”
Fischer's puffy eyes narrowed further, like coin slots in a vending machine. ”There's something else, about the Johannesburg lab. n.o.body's supposed to talk about it. But one of our employees is missing.”
Jo's eyebrows rose. ”Who?”
”Chuck Lesniak. He left Johannesburg but hasn't come home.”
”When did this happen?”
”His last e-mail was a good-bye from the Jo'burg office a week ago. Said he was heading to London for R&R, and that he'd see us all back in Santa Clara this week. Except he didn't show up. He missed his flight from London.”
”What's the company say?”
”Nothing. Zero.”
Jo clicked her pen. ”How do you spell his name?”
”L-E-S-N-I-A-K. You think this relates to Ian's disappearance? I mean, two guys from the same company. In one week.”
”It may be coincidence. But I have my doubts.”
Jo's phone rang. It was Rick Simioni, the neurologist.
”I've got Ron Gingrich's MRI results. You need to see them.”
”On my way.”
* 14 *
The hallway of the ranch house was musty and dim. The men pulled the woman by the arms toward the darkened bedroom doorway. She dug her heels into the s.h.i.+ny carpet.
”Stop it,” the big one said.
But the panic corkscrewed through her again. ”Let me go.”
The big man, Murdock, was bald, with no neck and sloping shoulders. His palm was clammy. Gold bracelets nestled among black hairs on his thick arms.
She tried to squirm free. ”Let me go and I'll pay you. Take me to the bank. I'll empty my account.”
They reached the bedroom door. Inside was a bed with a ratty mattress and a pillow covered with brown stains. The windows were boarded over. She clamped her teeth and pressed her hands against the doorjamb. The thought of going back in there for one more hour, much less one more day, was intolerable.
”Give it up, or I'll have to cuff your hands behind your back again.” Murdock's voice sounded wet. He had tiny teeth and glistening pink gums. ”If you fight or even scream, you know who'll pay. So save your breath. It won't get you out, just get your family hurt.”
The young man, the one called Vance, stuck his nose in her face. ”Yeah. This is baby Gitmo, b.i.t.c.h. Consider yourself an enemy combatant.”
In the kitchen, rap music pounded from the stereo, and the dog barked. The sound of both was deep and angry. Vance pried her fingers loose from the jamb and shoved her through the door with a hard slap on the b.u.t.t.
She spun, fists up, ready to fight if Vance came at her, if he tried to throw her down on the bed. He stood silhouetted in the doorway.
”Frisk her,” Murdock said. ”Make sure she didn't hide the phone on her.”
Vance swaggered into the bedroom with the exaggerated, rolling gait of a g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger. Why this skinny white boy thought he was star-ring in 8 Mile she didn't know, but the phrase desperately overcompensating popped into her head.
He spun her around. ”Spread 'em.”
She put her hands against the wall, spread her feet, and bit back her revulsion as Vance ran his hands up her legs. They'd done this every time they brought her back to the room, and each time Vance let his hands wander farther across her. His fingers lingered for a second on her crotch before moving on. Her face heated.
Finally he backed away. ”She's clean.”
”Behave,” Murdock said. He pointed to a brown paper bag on the floor in the corner. ”And get changed. What you're wearing doesn't smell too fresh anymore.”
”And that ain't ladylike,” Vance said.
They slammed the door and locked it from the outside. She sagged against the wall, head back.
None of this made sense. Why had they taken her?
”Stop kidding yourself,” she muttered.