He didn’t send them? Did someone else from RixoTray? Another firm?
Glenn was surprised that his contact didn’t seem concerned that a competitor may have sent the couple. Was he faking it? Or maybe the guy didn’t have anything to hide after all. Maybe the whole blackmail idea had been a mistake.
“I’m going to take care of them.”
“No you’re not. You’re—”
“They might’ve seen my face.”
“I don’t care about that. I just want you to do the job you were hired to do and then get out of there without leaving any evidence behind.”
Glenn responded by hanging up.
Abruptly.
He shut off his phone.
Pissed off now.
Not happy.
No.
No, he was not.
He placed his hands palms-down on the table. Took a breath.
Alright. He would do what he’d been hired to do. The transaction with the doctor was a done deal. That was professional. That was business. The matter of the couple from the chamber was personal. A loose end he could not risk leaving unattended.
He thought about how to kill Dr. Tanbyrn.
Though he’d obviously deliberated on it earlier, he preferred not rushing into a decision as important as how to murder someone without thinking through all the options. It was better to make your decision closer to the actual event and adapt as necessary.
For the most part, Glenn avoided guns. Because of that, he’d used wire in the past, plastic bags (twice), and once — on a unique and rather memorable assignment — a blowtorch. But all in all, he preferred his knives, and they’d served him well the six times he’d used them for their intended purpose.
When you use a knife, almost always, even if someone knows what he’s doing when he’s fighting you, he will get cut. A Kevlar vest will stop a bullet, but because of the amount of force generated at the tip of a blade when you thrust it forward, even a vest won’t stop a knife.
Yeah, well, what about the guy last night? He didn’t get cut. He did pretty—
Irritation.
Anger at himself.
Save the knife for the couple.
Wound for wound.
Something else for the old man; what you were thinking of before.
So after a short internal debate, Glenn decided to go ahead with his original idea.
Fire.
Tanbyrn’s office was located at the end of the hallway on the lower level. There was a reception area just outside his office that would serve Glenn’s purposes well. More accurately, it was a waiting room. There was no receptionist there. No secretary. All of which made it ideal.
The building was constructed of logs, and with its central air system, it would circulate the smoke even as the wooden structure burned. The smoke and the alarms would clear the building of other people.
But Glenn would seal Tanbyrn in the office so he couldn’t escape — easily enough done.
Elevator — no problem.
Stairwells and exit doors — chain them shut.
Glenn would light the fire just outside Tanbyrn’s door. The campus was isolated enough so that the county’s volunteer fire department would never be able to arrive in time to save the building, and the center had only rudimentary fire suppression resources on-site.
Either the flames would get Tanbyrn or the smoke billowing up the vent just outside his door would do the trick.
Glenn could use the furniture in the waiting area along with a petroleum-based accelerant to create the thick smoke he was looking for. Yes. And since fire destroys most, if not all, forensic evidence, and fire investigations usually take weeks to complete, Glenn would have plenty of time to disappear.
Admittedly, he wasn’t an expert at arson, but he had torched two buildings: a warehouse and a duplex. Both assignments had gone well, both resulted in the intended insurance payouts — although he did have one small regret. He hadn’t meant to kill that little girl in the apartment. He’d been told it was empty.
Well, you know what? Live and learn.
In this case, fire would be a good choice.
But it’ll destroy the computer files you were looking for.
Screw it.
Let that be.
Just get this done, get the money. Find the couple from last night. Take care of them. Close this thing up.
And then move on.
He reviewed his plan for the next couple hours: check out of the motel, grab a copy of USA Today, stop by the hardware store in Pine Lake and pick up the items he would be needing, then get back to the center by two to make sure he had enough time to get everything ready for the big show at three o’clock.
Flocking
Dr. Tanbyrn, Charlene, and I walk down the hallway of the research center. Philip trails behind us as if Tanbyrn is royalty and he’s giving him the wide berth he deserves.
Charlene has changed shirts, and the sleeve puffs over the fresh bandage on her arm.
No one comments on it.
I notice that the drops of blood that were on the floor in here last night have been washed off.
Again, I think of how Tanbyrn studied Charlene when he saw the blood on her arm earlier. I can’t imagine that he’d helped mop the floor or clean up the blood, but regardless of who did — or even whether or not Tanbyrn knew about it — somebody had seen the blood, so someone was aware that there’d been at least one wounded, bleeding person in here last night.
Entering the room where we encountered the assailant is a bit surreal.
I look around, searching for any sign of blood or of a struggle in here — or in the chamber whose door is now wide-open — but I don’t see any.
Illuminated by the overhead fluorescents, the room has an entirely different feel than it did when I was directing my flashlight around here last night. A slightly built but stately African American woman stands near the desk, introduces herself as Abina; she’s apparently another research assistant. She gives us the same reverent prayer-gesture bow that Serenity offered us when we checked in last night. Charlene and I respond in kind.
“That’s a pretty name,” Charlene tells her. “Abina. What does it mean?”
“It’s Ghanaian. It means ‘born on Tuesday.’ I was born on a Wednesday, though. Wishful thinking on the part of my mother. She was in labor, actually, longer than she expected.”
Charlene smiles. “Ah.”
Abina is wearing a flowing, colorful African dress that swirls around her resplendently as she moves through the room. A myriad collection of metal bracelets jangles from her delicate wrists.
A photograph of a shimmering mountain vista sunset glimmers on the screen of the computer that our assailant was using last night. From the view, it looks like the picture might’ve been taken from one of the LRC’s scenic overlooks.
I wish I could get alone with the computer, look up any recently accessed files.
Specifically those opened last evening.
“Well.” Dr. Tanbyrn smiles. “It looks like we’re all set.”
I decide to say goodbye to Charlene before she enters the Faraday cage, and I offer her a hug. “See you in an hour, dear.”
She holds me. “Goodbye, honey.”
I whisper to her as softly as I can, “If you get a chance, check the computer.”
She nods. Kisses me on the cheek.
Though simply for show, the terms of endearment and the show of affection impact me, and I gaze into her eyes a moment longer than I probably should.
As I step back, Abina smiles at us.