Part 18 (2/2)

It made perfect sense. She was here because of Chira-Sayf, and Alec, and the work the company was doing in South Africa. She was here because of Ian and the overseas trip he'd taken the previous week.

She was being held as a p.a.w.n in some corporate battle that had gone beyond sales projections and industrial espionage. This was about Slick.

A knot the size of a golf ball lodged in her throat. Tears welled in her eyes. She'd seen their faces and heard their names. That was a bad omen for her future.

Then she breathed. She couldn't fall apart. Fall apart and she was sure to lose whatever game they were playing with her. She had to hold it together and think of a way out of here. Now that they'd finally uncuffed her, she finally had a chance.

But how? The door to the room was cheap and hollow. Given enough time, she could probably kick a hole in it. But if she did, Murdock would carry out his threat to harm her family.

”Parents, kids, pets, all fair game,” he had warned her.

She didn't know where she was. When they grabbed her, they'd bound her hands with plastic handcuffs and blindfolded her. But she knew they'd driven south, and now at frequent intervals she could hear a locomotive. It had to be the Caltrain, which meant they were on the Peninsula.

The room was close and smelled of mold and damp. This place was a cheap old tract house, with cheap old windows built high into the walls. What kind of architectural dumba.s.s had decided, back in the sixties, that it would be stylish to put the windows in a kid's bedroom five feet off the ground? It made the room feel like...

Like a cell.

She laughed bitterly. Focus, will you?

She climbed on the bed and pushed aside the venetian blinds. The window was boarded up from the outside. The gla.s.s was cracked in a cheap aluminum frame. She unlatched it. The frame stuck and complained, but she managed to slide the window open about two feet. Wide enough to slip through, if she could get the plywood off.

She pressed her palms to the wood. It was dry and warm. She pushed but it didn't budge.

She steadied herself on the creaking springs of the bed frame and shoved again. No luck. Unless she managed to beam a claw hammer into the room, she'd never get the board off.

”Wouldn't that be slick,” she muttered.

Slick.

Ian had told her about it. Even though he wasn't supposed to be so clued in about Chira-Sayf's big project, much less to talk about it, even in the parking lot outside the company's H.Q.

”Alec's worried,” he'd said.

But if Alec had been worried, Ian had been livid. His face had set in blank rage, pale behind the freckles and chilly blue eyes.

”Something backfired. Slick doesn't work as advertised. Alec's shutting the project down.” He looked at her. ”This doesn't leave this car.”

”Of course not,” she said, feeling alarmed. Ian Kanan did not take his work outside the office, ever. Did not talk to others at Chira-Sayf about office scuttleb.u.t.t or product development or anything except Raiders football and close personal protection. He compartmentalized.

But he knew that something had gone haywire with Slick. Chira-Sayf's killer app had somehow turned on the company.

”Alec's pulling the plug. The military's never going to get it.” He stared out the winds.h.i.+eld. ”There's a fight brewing.”

”Between?” she said. ”Are they dragging you into it?”

”If they do, they'll regret it. Because I'll take care of things.”

And when Ian took care of things, the results weren't pretty.

The nails in the boards wouldn't budge. She wiped her palms on her pants. Maybe she could split the plywood. It was dry and brittle. She ran her fingers over the board until she found a chip in the wood, about a quarter of an inch wide.

The window faced the street. Maybe she could shove something through the chip in the wood and send a message. Wave a flag. Somehow.

How could she alert a pa.s.serby? She didn't have any I.D. They'd taken her purse, cell phone, car and house keys. They'd taken her jewelry. Even her wedding ring, the thieving b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. And they'd shoved her in this stinking bedroom.

She turned to the brown paper bag. Inside were the clothes Murdock had provided in his strange burst of generosity-a turtleneck sweater, wool slacks, blouse, a designer sweats.h.i.+rt. She got the sweats.h.i.+rt from the stack. She could pull the string from the hood and use it somehow.

Wait. She turned up the hem of the sweats.h.i.+rt. There was a dry cleaning label inside.

CALDER.

Her heart rate b.u.mped up. Talk about waving a flag.

Then a weird suspicion came over her. She got the slacks and looked inside the waistband. Again she saw the dry cleaning label. She got the blouse. Same.

These clothes virtually begged for somebody to identify her. Somebody, for instance, dragging a body out of the mud flats on the bay.

”Holy s.h.i.+t,” she whispered.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and tore the hem of the blouse with her teeth. She ripped out the tag on a long strip of fabric, like a nurse preparing a field dressing, and got to work.

Jo walked into radiology feeling that something was on her heels, waiting for the opportunity to bite her. Lieutenant Tang was in the hallway talking on the phone, looking unsettled and grim. She jerked her head at a doorway and murmured, ”Go on in.”

The room was cool and hushed, illuminated by X-rays in light boxes and MRI images on the radiologist's computer screen. Bone art. Soul stripped bare, to neurons and gray matter. Rick Simioni was standing by the desk, wearing his white coat over a dress s.h.i.+rt of Egyptian cotton as rich as cream.

”Rick,” she said.

When he looked at her, the light from the computer screen gave his face an eerie, hollow look.

Dr. Chakrabarti, the radiologist, gave Jo a prim nod and pointed at the screen with a pen. ”Mr. Gingrich's MRI.”

The images on the screen were repet.i.tive and disconcerting, like Warhol's grayscale death montages. The three of them stared.

What was that?

Jo slowed her breathing. Training and experience had taught her to hold part of herself back when seeing the evidence of a catastrophic diagnosis. She pulled her emotions safely off the ground, tucked them away, close enough for empathy but not so close that she'd get sucked into the patient's tragedy.

And nothing that happened to the human body could surprise her.

So she thought. But though she stood rooted to the floor in front of the computer screen, she wanted to run away.

The same black threads that had chewed through Ian Kanan's brain were advancing through Ron Gingrich's, doing-what? Growing, or eating their way through his medial temporal lobes.

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