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"We think she's heading here, after all."
"You're so smart, Holder."
His superior ignored this comment. "A highway
patrol officer gave us the tip."
"We got a report from a cop?" Grace shook his
head. "I got twelve men on the fucking road from
Nevada, and we get a highway cop who knows more?
Jesus. Jesus. You know, Holder, you should've let me
handle this in my own way. The department's got
nothing but fuckups."
He stood, his back to the wall, near the door.
"Grace," said the man behind the desk, "when you
want to talk like that, go find a sewer. And for some-
one who didn't finish his work on the girl a week ago,
I should think you'd see the irony of your own com-
ment."
Yeah, and I'd like to ream you a new asshole, Mr.
Washington D.C. Stephen Grace smiled, baring what
fangs he had. Holder was such an officious prick,
Grace wondered how the hell he'd gotten to the posi-
tion of power he was in. Ass-kissing goes a long way on
the East Coast. If only I had the shit that girl has, maybe I
could get him to lose some skin.
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dark of the eye
Holder sifted through papers on his desk; he let
his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. "What's
with Farrell?"
"You know."
"What do you think?"
"What I think is going on, sir, is exactly what was in
my report. I know you think it's bullshit, but Stewart
has some other agenda. Not just the misuse of r-
seven. But I told you Friday, and it doesn't make a
dent. I don't see why we don't just pick the mother-
fucker up and make him sweat. He's the one holding
all the cards here."
Holder said nothing.
Yeah, asshole, what is it? The doc's got you and military
intelligence by the balls somehow. So you want me to nuke the
girl but not the father. But Stephen Grace was also silent.
After a minute Holder said, "Farrell's been on the
phone to the mother."
"Yeah, yeah, so what? The guy's got zilch. Why
don't you look at Stewart? He's the master planner.
He's the fucking mad scientist here. Farrell's an old
boyfriend of the mother's. He's just a cipher."
"I want you to stay with him."
"Jesus."
"Grace," Holder said, admonishing, "I hope you're
going to stay within bounds this time. No side pur-
suits. Not like last time."
"No, sir. I'll be good." He laughed, turning to open
the door. "Hey, you hire a psycho, Holder, and you
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never know what the hell's gonna happen. How're
your business holdings in the Middle East doing?"
Nathan Holder must have gotten used to the
gibes; he didn't acknowledge this last one. "No one
here thinks of you as a psycho, Grace."
"Oh, yeah, they do." Stephen Grace didn't even
turn around to look at Holder. He knew he'd see that
smug pseudo-psychiatric sympathy shit in his eyes. He
sighed, muttering under his breath, "And I am one,
too. Pushing fifty, and still crazy after all these years.
That's Paul Simon, sir; I like to acknowledge my
sources. Don't you?"
He walked out of the office, wondering how the
hell he was going to catch the girl if he was sitting on
Farrell's tail all night.
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chapter 21
8:48 P.M.
After he'd hung up the phone with Kate, Ben
Farrell sat and stared at the wall. Waiting. He hadn't
told Kate about the second call from Robert, the one
that had come at 7:45, too close to her own call.
He had taped the call on his answering machine,
and now he played it back: "Ben? This is Dr. Stewart
again. Bobby. Listen, something I didn't tell you when
last we spoke. And you were so rude. I'm glad I got the
machine this time. It won't hang up on me . . . . "
But it did, Bobby boy. Ben chuckled to himself. It's
only programmed for four minutes, you arrogant prick.
"I've spoken with Kate's psychiatrist, Dr. Jardin.
She was on a prescription for psychotropics. Lithium,
too. I found the bottles beneath the bathroom sink
where she left them. She might possibly be in her
manic phase. I understand your concern for her and
for my daughter. But I think if you do hear from her
you could call me, not the police. I don't want her to
end up in some state hospital where it'll take every
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lawyer in the country to extricate her. I want to do
what's best for her and what's best for my daughter. I
don't want — "
But then the tape had cut off.
Robert had called back, perhaps twice. The third
time, he continued his message: "I see you found an
electronic way to hang up on me, Ben. As I said, I don't
want anything bad to happen to Kate or to Hope. They
have both been through plenty to last a lifetime. If you
hear from them, please call me, day or night. If you do
hear from them and you don't call, then I'll hold you
personally responsible for whatever happens to them.
Kate is not herself, and Hope is in danger because of it.
You must believe me. Thank you."
The worst part about this message was that Ben
was afraid he was beginning to believe Robert. He
had called him the Mad Doctor back when he was an
undergraduate, but only because Robert had stolen
Kate from him. In the end the marriage had worked
out, and Ben had realized that it was meant to be. He
and Kate would never have worked out as a couple,
for various reasons. That had never stopped him
from caring about her, and it hadn't kept him from
feeling that unreasoning jealousy of Robert, who was
worldly and brilliant and rich.
More than anything, Ben hated the idea that
Robert might actually be right. Over the past three
years Kate had begun talking about things she was
seeing that no one else seemed to notice, and she
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dark of the eye
spoke about voices and an incipient paranoia that
grew with each passing day.
Not Katy. Not Katy Weeks who used to make him corn
bread and fried catfish for dinner because she said it was
something she knew well, "white trash cooking." Not Katy
Weeks, who had held on to her virginity for two valiant years
while Ben pressured her, until she finally decided it was high
time, but only if it was going to be ridiculously romantic, so
they had run away to Cambria for the weekend. Ben had
spent every penny he had on a cabin, and they were so
exhausted from bicycling that they barely had the energy to
kiss. Until Sunday. Their last day. And then it had been
something unexpected, a physical, spiritual thing, unlike
being with the two other girls he had known in high school.
It had been breathtaking, exhilarating, and he'd had the
energy to jog six miles up and down the road by the ocean
afterward just to come down from the high. It hadn't even
been lust, to which he was accustomed, but an incredible
sharing.
This woman Robert was describing was not Katy.
Not my Katy.
Ben erased the tape and wondered when Hope
would beep him.
He had given her the code: "Tell Hope she's too
old to be afraid of the dark."
It was his signal to her that they needed to talk in
private.
It usually took her ten or fifteen minutes to get
somewhere where she could beep him.
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If he hadn't lost the beeper again.
Ben Farrell quickly glanced over his book-and-
magazine-heavy apartment and wondered how he
could have lost the infernal machine in less than ten
minutes. He could wait until Hope beeped him, but
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