Miles kept running.
Her home lay up the long curve of Cerro Gordo on the far east side of the city, up a hill thick with chimisa and pinon. Cerro Gordo cut through the side of the climbing terrain, lined with adobe homes and stretches of scrub. The road went from paved to unpaved. The thunderstorm, now more rumble than rain, wandered to the east. The clouds hung low and gray, darkening the mountains, shrouds for the day.
He shouldn’t know where she lived; she would have understandably considered it an intrusion. He had not followed her or found her in the phone book; she was unlisted. But once, she was leaving after their session and when they walked out of the building a bill tucked in the side of her purse fell. He picked it up and gave it to her but saw the address, and he’d trained himself in his earlier life to memorize addresses, account numbers, phone numbers, with a single glance. He had walked by her house only once, when he knew she was at her office. Just so he would know the route. Because he feared if Andy got too loud, too insistent, that if Andy slipped a gun into Miles’s hand, guided it toward his temple or his mouth, he would need her and not find her by pager or phone before Andy squeezed the trigger.
He needed to know where to run for help.
Off Cerro Gordo, private driveways split from the main road and snaked farther into the hills. He took the driveway for the group of five houses that included hers, ignoring the NO TRESPASSING sign, walking past the open adobe gate. Hers was the second house. The road stood empty, gravel lined with scrub. He hurried past the first house, its windows black.
Her house stood dark. No car in the driveway. He ran to the front door. He gently tested the doorknob. Locked.
The house remained still.
‘She’s gone,’ Andy said from the adobe wall that lined her driveway. ‘Gone, gone, gone.’
Miles hurried to the rear of the house, following a stone path. He squatted down to study the lock. No dead bolt shot. If an alarm system wailed, he would melt back into the night.
Miles tested the knob first. The back door swung open as he pushed.
He eased inside, shut the door behind him. He stood in her bedroom. In the dim glow from a bathroom light he saw the room’s details: wicker furniture painted a soft rose, a turquoise throw rug with twisted geometric patterns, a bookcase filled with worn paperbacks, a queen-size sleigh bed. A bureau, with a mirror crowning it. The mirror was cracked from side to side, in a single fracture, and two of himself stood in the bedroom.
He walked into a kitchen. Dishes were stacked in the sink. A forgotten glass stood on the tile countertop, a swallow of soda puddled at the bottom. Next to it, a container of aluminum wrap lay open, a strip of foil dangling free in a jagged tear. As though she’d just stepped away to run an errand or answer the phone.
He went through the kitchen and into her den. The barrel of a gun eased against the back of his head.
‘Freeze,’ a voice hissed.
NINE
‘Her office is gone,’ Groote yelled into his phone. He stood at the end of Palace Avenue, watching the burning building.
‘Gone?’ Hurley spoke as if he didn’t understand the word.
‘Destroyed, burning like a goddamned torch,’ Groote said. ‘There’s a crowd, I heard people say there’d been an explosion.’ He’d driven down from the hospital to Vance’s office, stopped as the traffic snarl formed, left his car when he saw her building consumed in flames and smoke. ‘What the hell is going on?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t understand.’ He sounded dazed. ‘Allison’s office is on fire?’
‘Someone’s screwing us over hard,’ Groote said. And screwing with medicine that could help my kid, and God help them when I find them. ‘This isn’t coincidence – a patient Allison Vance worked with breaks loose and her office gets incinerated. Did you find the guy?’
‘No. His name is Ruiz. He’s violent, dangerous.’
Christ, Groote thought. He’d been in town barely an hour and the entire operation he’d been sent here to protect was collapsing. ‘I suppose we can’t call the cops.’
‘Um, we’d prefer not to.’ Hurley cleared his throat. ‘If Allison’s dead, hopefully the research files were blown up with her. That means we can’t be exposed.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Groote said. ‘Suppose she wasn’t at her office. Where does Allison live?’
TEN
‘Hands on top of head, palms up,’ the voice ordered. ‘Now, asshole.’
‘I understand,’ Miles said. ‘No problem. Calm down.’ He tensed his arms, his legs, thinking, He gets his arm close, I can yank the gun past my head, before he reacts. But if Allison was a captive, fighting might endanger her; and he couldn’t escape and leave her behind.
‘Allison!’ he yelled.
‘On your knees, prisoner,’ the voice ordered.
Prisoner? Miles sank to the brick floor, thinking, Some head shots are survivable, but not where he has the gun, right in my temple. He knew how much it hurt to be shot, the blinding pain.
Fingers probed for his wallet. ‘Michael Raymond,’ the voice said.
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ll give complete answers to every question.’ Trying to sound commanding but the tone betrayed inexperience. He’s just as scared as I am. But scared was not good. Scared meant nerves pulled tauter than wire, with a finger tightening on a trigger of a gun aimed at Miles’s head.
He forced calm into his voice. ‘I’m looking for Allison Vance. Put the gun down.’
‘You with the other guy?’
‘Other guy.’
‘The first guy who came.’
‘I don’t know what you mean…’
Hands hauled Miles to his feet, steered him into the bathroom. Sorenson lay in the tub, a wicked, bloody bruise on the side of his head, his feet and arms bound with a sheet. Miles could see Sorenson breathing shallowly; he was unconscious.
‘This man blew up Allison’s office,’ Miles said.
‘What?’
‘Her office is burning down…’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No, it’s the truth. I’m a patient of hers. I had an appointment with her tonight. I can prove it. Put the gun down, please.’
‘You’re not even a good liar. Her patients are all at Sangriaville.’
‘What’s Sangriaville?’
The voice ignored him. ‘You said her office was burning.’
‘Look at my face. My hands. I was in her office parking lot. There was an explosion-’
‘No.’ Sharp, short, shot with shock. ‘No, no, no…’
‘She was in trouble. She asked me for help. This guy was in her office earlier today, I think he planted a bomb. Why is he here?’
The voice trembled. ‘He came in the back door… I hit him.’
‘He was empty-handed?’ If he’s blown up her office, why not her house too? Miles thought.
‘Yes.’
‘Let me wake him up.’
‘Get away from him.’ The guy pulled Miles away from the bathroom, shoved him hard onto the tile of the den floor. ‘Leave him alone; I don’t need to be outnumbered. What have you done to Allison?’
‘Nothing.’ Miles kept his voice steady and calm. ‘Her office burning isn’t the kind of lie that works for long. I’m not sure you can see from here, but if you walk down Cerro Gordo you can see the glow from the fire.’
The man’s hand shook, making the gun against Miles’s head tremble. Keep him calm, Miles thought.
‘Stand up,’ the voice ordered, and Miles got to his feet. The man pushed him along, keeping the barrel of the gun nestled in Miles’s hair.
Miles pushed open the drapes. Opened the balcony window, which faced onto the sideways spill of the hillside down to Cerro Gordo.
In the quiet, the sound of sirens carried on the wind.
The man behind him made a choked noise in his throat. ‘They got to her. They killed her.’
‘Who’s they? Sorenson?’
Silence from the man. The barrel of the gun pressed hard against his scalp, as though a decision had been reached.