So Miles Kendrick needed Nathan Ruiz as an example of the drug’s power, to bolster the case made in the research files. See Nathan, on video, barely able to speak when he starts taking Frost; see him, after months of it, able to effect an escape from a mental hospital and take part in a conspiracy. See, folks, this stuff works and works good, step right up, buy a bottle.
Miles Kendrick was running, crazy, with two other loonies weighing him down, and Groote was going to find him. And get Frost back.
The second auction for Frost – if Sorenson spoke truth, and he would have to confront Quantrill with this information – would be in three days. Kendrick had to be setting it up already, pressed to profit from all of Hurley and Quantrill’s hard work. So he had three days to find Kendrick.
The answer was in Celeste Brent’s computer. It had brought Allison here, it had brought Miles here. So start there. And find them, and kill them.
His watch said seven in the morning. He had time before sunset to take the bodies out to the high desert and dispose of them.
His phone buzzed. He answered.
Quantrill. Sounding tense, sounding bitter. ‘I’m on my way to Santa Fe. We seriously need to talk.’
‘That,’ said Groote, ‘is the understatement of the year.’
‘This is a goddamned disaster-’ Quantrill started.
‘Not on the phone. Just tell me where you want to meet.’
Quantrill did, anger still in his tone. Groote clicked off and the phone buzzed immediately.
It was his hacker friend who had found the Michael Raymond address off the cell-phone account. ‘I kept at that Michael Raymond problem for you. Nabbed a peek into the caller records. Finally wormed my way in.’
‘Do tell. I’d like to know who he’s been calling.’
‘He made only one call on his cell phone yesterday. To a cell phone owned by a guy named Grady Blaine, there in Santa Fe. You want Blaine’s address?’
‘I most certainly do,’ Groote said.
THIRTY-SEVEN
‘It can’t be her,’ Celeste said. ‘It can’t be.’
Miles traced his finger over the photo. A woman, smiling shyly into the camera’s lens, a casual photo taken during a run or hike outside. She wore an athletic top and shorts, stood atop a mountain, full of vitality. The kind of informal engagement photo favored by active couples. The photo credit printed sideways next to the picture read ‘Edward Wallace.’ It listed their degrees – Edward a Ph. D. in neurobiology and Renee an M.D. in psychiatry. She’d previously worked at both a university and a military clinic in San Diego to help veterans recover from posttraumatic stress disorder. She and her husband had moved to Fresno to establish a similar clinic.
‘Maybe it’s not her.’ Nathan sounded distant, dream addled. ‘You can’t see her face quite clearly.’
Miles swallowed the bile creeping into his throat. You were supposed to help me in becoming a new person; I had no idea you were already an expert. ‘It’s her,’ she said.
‘She lied to us,’ Nathan said. ‘That bitch.’
‘Don’t talk about her that way,’ Celeste said.
‘She lied!’ Nathan gritted his teeth and Miles saw tears of fury rising in the young man’s eyes. Nathan staggered to the office door.
‘Let’s go.’ Miles closed the browser, shut off the computer, and, at the door, reset the alarm. They followed Nathan out the gallery door and Miles locked up. The lot remained empty. He hurried them into the car and drove out of the parking lot.
‘She lied,’ Nathan said, ‘and it caught up with her.’
‘There has to be a reasonable explanation,’ Celeste said.
‘People always say that,’ Miles said, ‘when they’re about to get totally screwed.’
Nathan frowned. ‘Names aside, she stuck the research on a server. Could we access it?’
‘Not without the password,’ Miles said. ‘So we talk to her husband.’
‘You’re all idiots,’ Andy said from the backseat. ‘Why don’t you all deal with your real problems? Celeste killed a man, Nathan’s a walking meltdown, and you, Miles, you’re a friend killer. Charming group. Truly.’
‘You can’t stand it,’ Miles whispered, ‘when you think I might win.’
‘Excuse me?’ Celeste said, and Nathan said, ‘What?’
‘I’m talking to myself. Not you all. Sorry.’
‘Your friend?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Jesus, you talk to him?’ Nathan said.
Andy laughed. Awkward silence and Miles thought, I’m the one who didn’t get Frost, they think I’m crazier than they are. He steered into Blaine’s driveway.
‘So that’s why you used two names,’ Nathan said. ‘Multiple personalities. Hey, how many voices you got inside your head?’
Miles ignored him as he helped Celeste hurry back inside Blaine’s house. ‘Shut up and let me think.’
‘Were you speaking to me?’ Nathan said. ‘I can’t listen to this crazy bastard carry on a conversation with an imaginary friend.’
Miles closed the door behind them. ‘Shut up and realize what we’re facing. Allison went to enormous trouble to set up her life in Santa Fe. That wedding announcement said she went to Oregon for her degrees. The degrees on Allison’s wall were from Rice and Stanford and UCLA. She had to create a new history for herself, and you can’t easily fake a medical-school transcript, a medical license, a new Social Security number, a past spun of nothing. It takes resources and time, trust me. She didn’t do it on her own.’
‘So who helped her?’
‘Someone with money and serious motivation. Why fake an identity? Why couldn’t she be in Santa Fe as Renee Wallace? She didn’t do this alone. She had to be working for someone.’
Nathan shook his head. ‘Man, this just got to be a bigger can of worms than I want to deal with. You all should just hide. Or go to the cops. We’re done.’
‘We need to drive to California,’ Miles said. ‘Find her husband.’
‘Drive to California.’ Celeste’s voice cracked. ‘You want me to ride in a car for… Several. Hours.’ She turned and ran to the back of the house and Miles heard Blaine’s studio door slam.
Miles – slowing down for considered thought – realized a car drive of hundreds of miles would be horribly frightening to her. He went to her purse, cracked open the bottle of antidepressants. Four were left. All the meds they had, and God only knew what kind of megadose Nathan needed to keep him calm. Not enough pills for all three of them. He slid the pills back into the bottle.
‘I know how to get her moving.’ Nathan flicked his fingers, made a whooshing noise.
‘Let me talk with her.’ Miles went through the house, to the studio door. Closed. He knocked. No answer. He opened the door.
Groote sat on a paint-splattered stool, one gun aimed at Celeste’s head, another aimed at Miles. Celeste stood, lip trembling, not looking at the gun aimed at her.
‘Tag,’ Groote said. ‘You’re it.’ His face was battered, his nose was taped, and his smile was cold and thin.
Miles shut the door behind him. How the hell? he thought. It didn’t matter. He had to get Celeste away from this man.
‘No. Call Nathan back here. Calmly. I want to talk with him too.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Frost.’
‘We don’t have it.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t lie to me. You were in league with Allison, both you and Mrs. Brent here.’
‘No.’
‘I just asked you not to lie to me. What part of that don’t you understand?’
‘Let her go, and I’ll give it to you,’ Miles said. Celeste looked up at him.
Nathan opened the door and boogied into the room. ‘Problem solved. I lit a fire under you, Celeste, to get you going. Actually, under the curtains and-’ He stopped and, frozen with fear, stared with shocked horror at Groote.