“What did you tell the police?”
Bobby was still rubbing his chest. “Everything I thought would get them up here in a hurry. Black market organ sales, murder… and I threw in the fire for good measure. Why?”
“Judging from those sirens we should see half the county’s law enforcement come flying around the corner any minute.”
Paul watched as the group of men from the limo—the Columbian contingent—walk across the street and converge on the BMW.
Paul’s eyes widened, and he instinctively took a step back. The highway patrol vehicle whizzed by, narrowly missing the men. It then suddenly turned into a skid, stopping crossways to the road. A second vehicle, a sheriff’s patrol, skidded to a halt parallel to the limo, blocking it from the delegation.
Paul and the Panther brothers silently watched as an unmarked black sedan came to a skidding halt, blocking the road. It hadn’t come to a complete stop when its doors flew open and a half dozen men wearing orange vests with NSA on the back emerged. Several knelt into the three-point position, aiming their guns at the Columbians, who by now were looking for a quick exit. Three more NSA agents crabbed forward, guns drawn.
Suddenly, the bodyguard reached into his coat, but a volley of bullets brought him down before he could pull his gun.
“Shit, are you sure that’s all you told them?”
An NSA agent, his gun still drawn, interrupted Bobby’s response. “One of you Paul Casey?” Paul looked to Bobby then back to the agent. “Yes sir, I’m Paul Casey.”
“Could I see some identification?” the agent said, aiming his pistol squarely at Paul’s chest. “Nice and slow.”
Paul used one hand to open his coat and the other to extract his private investigator’s license from the inside pocket, handing it over with two fingers.
The agent holstered his pistol.
“We started watching these guys last week when they first entered the country. Columbian secret service provided us with full profiles.”
Paul was totally baffled. “Why are you telling me this?”
“These men represent Columbia’s black market organ distribution, and actually I was hoping you could fill us in on who they were meeting.”
Paul looked first to Bobby, then to Phil, then back to the agent. “Sorry to say that the only people who could answer that question were killed in a mine explosion less than an hour ago.”
He had barely choked out the words and was looking down at his feet, when the agent touched him on the shoulder.
“Who are they?”
Paul whirled around and looked up the driveway, unable to believe his eyes. Phil and Bobby, smiling broadly, began jogging in the same direction.
Rye was carrying Claire in his arms. Crystal had a hand on his shoulder and was stumbling along. All of their clothes were torn, their skin scraped and bleeding.
Bobby spotted blood running down Rye’s leg and broke into a run. “Get one of the EMTs,” he yelled, over his shoulder.
Paul turned and made a beeline for the ambulance. Bobby took the unconscious Claire from Rye’s arms, walked to the grass at the edge of the driveway and gently laid her down.
Paul placed a hand behind Rye’s shoulders, helping him to lie down. “What happened?”
Rye turned his head and watched as a pair of EMTs set down next to Claire and began palpating for broken bones.
“We escaped from the mine through an air vent. We were half way up when the blast hit. It blew us out like we were shot from a cannon.”
Rye braced himself up on his arms and looked over at the EMTs as they loaded Claire on a gurney. Paul saw the concern on Rye’s face as he started to get up. He put his arm on Rye’s shoulder. “You stay put. I’ll find out how she’s doing.”
Rye reluctantly settled back down and looked around for Bobby and Phil. He spotted them talking with one of the NSA agents. A deep voice from behind startled him.
“Ryeland Anderson?”
He rolled onto the opposite hip and came face to face with an NSA agent squatting down next to him.
“I’d like to ask you some questions”
Rye smiled. “I’m not going anywhere. What can I tell you?”
“For starters, what was in that mine?”
“The only thing I found was my wife and the woman she was rescuing. You can ask her, but you’ll have to wait until she regains consciousness.”
The agent followed Rye’s gaze to the ambulance.
“Sorry about your wife, is she going to be alright?”
“I think so.” Rye watched Paul turn from the ambulance as it drove off. “I’ll know in a minute”
The agent sat in silence as Paul described Claire’s condition as scrapes, a broken finger and possible concussion.
He reached across Rye, extending his hand to Paul. “I’m agent Gray. I took the phone call from Bobby Panther.”
Paul shook the agent’s hand. “He’s over there,” Paul indicated with a nod of his head, “if you need to talk to him.”
“I think we have the Panthers covered. Everything else will come from Mr. Anderson here and his wife.”
Rye watched the ambulance as it took Claire away. “I’ve got to go,” he said.
Paul and the agent looked at each other in surprise as Rye struggled to his feet.
“I need your car.”
Paul was on his feet, limping to catch up with him. “Don’t you think you should wait for the medics to give you the once over?”
Rye never slowed his pace. “I need to be with Claire.”
The NSA agent ran to the side of Paul’s car. “If you have no objections,” he said, “I’ll ride along.”
“None here,” Paul said looking at Rye.
During the four and a half hours back to Medford, he and Paul filled in agent Gray on Lewd and Lascivious and the black market organ sales. Rye was careful to let agent Gray know that the Panthers had no involvement in any of it.
Paul pulled into the circle drive that passed in front of the hospital and let agent Gray and Rye out. “I’ll meet you inside,” Paul said.
Rye was stiff from the ride and still limping as he passed through the sliding double doors into the foyer with agent Gray at his side. He didn’t recognize the woman at the information desk. But before he could speak, agent Gray leaned across the counter and flashed his identification. “We need the room number for Claire Anderson?”
The desk clerk consulted a clipboard. “Oh, she just came in. No, wait, that’s Clarice Combs.” She looked up at Rye. “Same person?”
“That’s her,” Rye said.
“She was taken directly to the intensive care unit, go to the end of the hall, and then right, just follow the signs.”
Claire was rocked a little from side to side as the orderly guided the gurney down the hall. The motion took her back to a small box plummeting down a mineshaft. Down the Starr Mine, the deepest shaft in North America—8,500 feet. Thirteen-year-old Clarice had escaped her young pursuers only to fall victim to their vicious prank.
For thirty-five years, Claire had shuddered and grown pale with fear when confronted with small, tight, confining spaces. But why had she been running to the mine, what protection had she sought? For most of her adult life, some fact about the event had evaded her. Claire knew she needed to remember to be able to free herself of her phobia. Claustrophobia and selective memory, they’d told her. She’d stopped getting counseling in her thirties, convinced that she would suffer for the rest of her life.
Curled into a ball with her eyes squeezed shut, little Clarice retreated to the darkest uncharted reaches of her mind, and waited for the sudden stop she was sure would mean certain death.
The emergency room nurse joined the orderly in lifting Claire from the gurney to a bed in intensive care. The ICU nurse examined her scrapes, and attached sensors that would monitor her blood pressure and heart rate. Finally, they gave her an IV drip.