Penn started to speak, then apparently thought better of it and went out, quietly closing the door behind him.
For the first time in what seemed a very great while, Caitlin felt tears running down her cheeks. As she tried to catch her breath, Jamie Lewis flung open her door and walked in, a sheaf of paper in his hand.
“Shit!” he cursed. “I thought you guys would never finish. Where are you on the hub story?”
Caitlin shook her head, then looked up and tried to blink away the tears.
“Jesus,” Jamie said. “Are you crying?”
CAITLIN LEFT HER EDITOR standing openmouthed in her office and raced for the back door, hoping to catch Penn before he left the employee parking lot. She didn’t really expect to overtake him, but when she threw open the door, she saw him standing about ten feet away, as though waiting for her. Blessed relief surged through her, until she saw two men standing beside Penn with pistols in their hands. There was blood over Penn’s left eye, and a cop lying prostrate on the ground behind him. She felt herself backing up even before she knew what she was doing.
“If you go back inside,” said one of the gunmen, “we’ll shoot him right here.”
“Go, Caitlin,” Penn said firmly. “Right now. Lock the door and call 911.”
The older man raised his pistol and pressed the barrel against Penn’s right temple. The gunman’s face was pale and bland beneath his long hair, and appeared to be without mercy or even concern.
Go, Penn mouthed silently. I love you.
“What is it you want?” Caitlin asked.
“Mr. Royal wants to talk to you,” said the younger gunman, who had a crew cut and looked slightly less ruthless than his partner. “Both of you.”
Brody Royal. Caitlin saw a van parked beyond the men, smoke puffing from its tailpipe. Penn stared into her eyes with chilling urgency. Then he shook his head.
“I’ll go with you,” he said, “but she stays here. If we don’t go soon, one of Chief Logan’s squad cars is going to circle through this lot.”
“He’s right,” said the younger man.
“Just a second,” said Longhair. He was looking at a cell phone while he covered Penn with the gun in his other hand. “This is going to be good. Watch.”
“Go, Caitlin,” Penn said again. “Right now.”
She wanted to obey, but deep within her brain, a bundle of nerve fibers told her that if she tried to flee, the tall man would kill Penn while his partner went after her. Penn’s eyes fairly blazed out an order to run, but before she could make a decision, someone flung her purse through the door behind her, then pulled it shut. She heard the bolt slide home.
What the hell? she thought, unable to believe that one of her employees would participate in her kidnapping. Then a thought flashed through her—
My .38’s in that purse! Her heart began to pound. Should I grab for it, or just act like I’m casually picking it up?
The younger gunman made the decision for her. Aiming his automatic at her head, he lunged forward and snatched up the purse.
“Get in the fucking van!” he shouted.
With a last desolate look at Caitlin, Penn turned and walked to the van’s side door as though in complete surrender. As Longhair slid the door open, Penn hurled himself backward and shouted, “Run, Caitlin! Run for the street!”
She broke to her left, then hesitated as Longhair hammered his pistol against Penn’s neck, knocking him to the concrete. Her hesitation doomed her. The younger man was two steps faster than she, and fifteen yards down the wall he rode her into the cement. When she struggled to her knees, he punched the side of her head, and she felt her jaw rattle. Blinking away tears, she tried to clear her head, then toppled over like an animal darted with a tranquilizer.
The hands that grabbed her armpits felt made of stone, and they lifted her without effort. The last thing she remembered was the sound of duct tape being ripped from a roll.
CHAPTER 89
WHEN HENRY’S MOTHER finally reached his secret treatment room, she took off her 1950s-vintage hat and began sobbing as though he were dead. He tried to reassure her, but any embrace was prevented by the hastily assembled equipment that surrounded his hospital bed.
“Do you know what the FBI agent outside told me?” his mother asked, after they’d both regained their composure.
“What?”
“Not to tell you Sherry had passed away.” His mother suppressed another sob, wiped her eyes. “As if I would lie to my own son.”
Henry nodded. The FBI still seemed intent on keeping him in the dark about Sherry’s fate. They probably meant well, but he resented it nonetheless. “I guess they think I’m a basket case,” he said. “And maybe they’re right.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said, her jaw setting with anger. “They’re the ones who let you get shot!”
“You’re right.” They fell into a tense but companionable silence. After what seemed to Henry a couple of minutes, he said, “Did you bring the things I asked for?”
She nodded, worry etched in her face.
“Good. We may not have much time. Can you help me with these IVs?”
A retired nurse, Mrs. Sexton had no problem removing the IV lines from his hands, then placing bandages over the infusion sites. “Compress that left one,” she said. “The problem is your cardiac leads. As soon as we disconnect them, somebody’s gonna come running.”
Henry had already solved this problem. “Uh-uh. You’re going to put them on in my place. You know exactly where they go, don’t you?”
His mother sighed, then nodded in resignation. “I hope you know what you’re doing. You know I don’t believe in violence. Not without grave provocation, anyway. Old Testament provocation.”
Henry met her gaze and uncloaked a small fraction of his anguish.
His mother shut her eyes, then turned away.
“But you brought what I asked for?” he repeated. “Everything?”