Maggie’s view of the sky and her star got blocked out by canopy after canopy of trees. They were in the forest, thumping along roads that weren’t well traveled. Branches scraped the roof of the vehicle and pine needles brushed the windows.
He was going to bury her out here, someplace deep in the woods where hikers and hunters never went. He couldn’t have just killed her on the road where she was running. Someone might have come along. Besides he’d have gotten blood all over the back of his SUV. So he used a Taser. Her body still remembered the pain.
Had to be a Taser.
The darts had clawed into her back through her shirt. All he had to do was simply lean out his window and fire. She had been an easy target. Once the darts hit and grabbed onto her back, the electrical charge would race through the wires attached to the gun. He controlled how long the charge would last. A few seconds incapacitated a victim. She went down immediately. No fight. No struggle. The additional charges, at that point, were strictly for pain.
Her spinning mind had started to unravel what had happened. She still couldn’t figure out who was in the driver’s seat. Who wanted her incapacitated and in pain? Who wanted her dead?
Her muscles ached. But that was good. That meant the feeling was coming back into them. The temporary paralysis was wearing off. She didn’t think he had tied her feet together. They felt loose but she couldn’t quite feel them. No, he probably didn’t tie them. He’d need her to walk. Even if it was a stumble, he’d want her on her feet so he could take her deeper into the forest. It’d be easier than carrying or dragging her. Yes, he’d make her walk to her own grave site.
Maggie tried to wiggle her fingers. They tingled. Tingling was good. She saw her hands, zip-tied together on her stomach, only when the brake lights flared up in the dark. At first, she was almost surprised to see they were still connected to her. In the red glow her body looked twisted and broken.
Her skull roared. Every time she lifted her head it felt like it would explode. But her vision wasn’t quite as blurry and the nausea was less. Her heartbeat had slowed. It no longer felt like it would gallop out of her chest. Even the ringing in her ears had subsided.
Better. She was doing better. But then the SUV came to a stop.
The engine shut down. Parking lights stayed on. She heard the driver’s door open. No dinging. He took the keys with him. Slammed the door shut. The dome light hadn’t come on. He must have shut it off earlier.
Darkness surrounded the vehicle. In the glow of the parking lights she could see trees and thick brush all around them. Even the road was not really a road. The vehicle had cut the first path through the tall grass, squeezing between tree trunks. Maggie wondered how he’d back out of here. An odd thing to care about for someone who knew she was not going to be leaving with him.
He’d expect her to still be dazed and incapacitated. He wouldn’t be disappointed.
The tailgate clicked and her body jerked. She told herself that was another good sign but her heart started pounding again.
The hinges screeched and the tailgate went up. In the glow of the parking lights she saw Mike Griffin with his hunting knife.
CHAPTER 60
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Platt had always thought the Washington monuments were at their most awesome at night. The bright spotlights cast halos in the dark and the guided tours drew whispered reverence from the tourists—that didn’t happen in the daylight.
The whistle-blower had agreed to meet them at the FDR Memorial. In the movies wasn’t it always the Lincoln Memorial? But now Platt saw the wisdom. FDR’s was all ground level, no steps to get trapped on. There were separate sections, actually what they called “rooms,” but even that was beneficial. The person could wander through each, bypassing Bix and Platt at will if he didn’t feel comfortable.
Bix traded his suit jacket and Platt his uniform jacket for Smithsonian sweatshirts. Bix carried their folded jackets in a paper bag with the Smithsonian logo, making them look like tourists.
“So how long do we give him to find us?” Platt asked.
“He’s only ten minutes late.” Bix checked his watch. “Twelve minutes.”
Platt still didn’t like this idea but they had no choice. He wouldn’t be surprised if the whistle-blower ended up being someone from the media: a reporter wanting to confirm his tips. Maybe Bix didn’t mind being sent on wild-goose chases but Platt was tired of it. Especially when the chase might involve his parents.
They were staring at one of the walls, neither of them reading the engravings, when a woman came up beside Bix. As long as tourists kept coming and going, their guy would probably stay away. Platt elbowed Bix and nodded for them to move on just as the woman said, “Good evening, gentlemen.”
Both men did a double take. What the hell was Irene Baldwin doing here? They were so busted. Had she followed them?
Bix glanced around and Platt knew he was looking to see if they had just scared away the whistle-blower.
“Hello, Ms. Baldwin,” Platt finally said when it became obvious that Bix couldn’t find his voice.