And then he remembered. Watching the building from across the street, he remembered the dream he’d had that afternoon, the one Adrienne had interrupted. And, suddenly, he knew who the man without the face was.
He’d gone to the Institute to meet with Opdahl—and he’d been ambushed. By a man with an aerosol. He remembered a cloud of spray, and then the floor, smacking him in the face. He remembered the long ride in the ambulance, the drugs wearing off, the gurney crunching over gravel as they arrived.
Then the operating room, where Gunnar Opdahl shone a penlight in his eyes. The big Norwegian dressed in surgical scrubs, a cap on his head. And beside the operating table, the monitor. Which held an expressionless McBride in close-up as a nurse peeled his face up and back and back—until it wasn’t there anymore. McBride could feel the scream rising in his throat, where the trache-tube siphoned it off, turning his terror into a soft, gurgling sound. Nearby, a machine wheezed in and out, breathing for him. He tried to close his eyes, but he couldn’t. And somewhere in all this, Opdahl saying, “A paralytic, but… not an anesthetic. You’re very brave.”
Brave?
McBride shivered, and glanced at his watch. 2:48. Twelve minutes, and counting, he thought, though why it should take so long… she should be out by now! Unless Opdahl had a picture of her—which he wouldn’t—unless he did. McBride looked at his watch a second time. 2:49.
Fuck it, he muttered, and launched himself toward the Institute.
He was halfway up the walk when the door opened. Putting on the brakes, he drew himself up, tried to look casual. Adrienne was standing in the doorway, smiling, dipping her head toward a woman in green. The woman peered around Adrienne, stared at McBride. Adrienne dipped her head again, made an explanatory gesture. He could see the animation on her face, the flash of her eyes, the white gleam of her teeth. And then she was turning, her hand ascending in a little wave as she came down the steps. The door closed. “What’s wrong?” Adrienne asked.
“Let’s get out of here,” McBride said.
He wanted to know whether Opdahl was in the Institute. Because he wanted to kill him. But not with Adrienne at his side. He hustled her off toward the tram stop.
When they reached its puny Plexiglas shelter, he finally asked her: “Was he there?”
She frowned at him, didn’t answer. “You look really spooked,” she told him.
“Was he there?”
“Lighten up. What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve had a rough ten minutes.”
She grimaced at the sarcasm. “No,” she said. “He wasn’t there.”
“But he’ll be back,” McBride suggested, his voice hopeful.
“Not until Tuesday.”
His disappointment was palpable.
“Not to worry” she told him, sounding a little smug. “I found out where he is: he’s at the clinic in Spiez.”
McBride nodded as a tram rumbled toward them through the lightly falling snow.
“So?” Adrienne asked.
“So… what?” McBride replied.
“How far is Spiez?”
Chapter 40
Spiez was only seventy miles through the mountains, but there were a lot of mountains, and there was a lot of ice. The landscape was ferociously beautiful, with evergreen forests flocked with snow, and the Alps brooding under a leaden sky. It took their rented BMW nearly three hours to get there, so that it was well past dark when they arrived.
Even so, they could see that the town was a special one, with its own castle hard by the lake, an elegant marina, and a view toward the Jungfrau. The streets above the lake were narrow, winding, and hilly, and they had to stop twice to ask directions—once at a Gasthaus, and then at a restaurant that specialized in wild boar.
Their hotel, the Belvedere, was in a residential area overlooking the marina. They’d picked it out of a guidebook in the lobby of the Florida, ignoring the high rack rate in favor of its proximity to the Prudhomme Clinic. Unless the street numbers were very misleading, the hotel was only a block away from the clinic, and on the same street.
And, in fact, it was even closer than that. The buildings were side-by-side, the one a mansion in the Beaux Arts style, with cupolas and spires, the clinic a fortress of poured concrete—gray, severe, and minimalist. “Let’s see what kind of security they have,” McBride suggested, and turned into the clinic’s courtyard, where the gravel crunched beneath the tires in a way that was both familiar and unpleasant. Suddenly, the night exploded in a flood of light, and a man appeared in the doorway. “Pretty good,” McBride concluded, looping back to the street and into the parking lot next door.
“But they saw us!” Adrienne said.
McBride pulled into a parking slot, and shook his head. “They’ll think we made a wrong turn.”
And then they were in Room 252 with a view across the lake, and the mountains silhouetted against the night. Adrienne sat on the large and comfortable bed, and took in the plush surroundings, while McBride stood at the window, gazing at the lights across the lake.
“Let’s get some dinner,” he suggested, and Adrienne readily agreed. Going to the lobby, they stopped at the front desk to drop off the gigantic key that opened the door to their room. “I’m curious,” McBride told the stylish woman behind the desk. “The building next door—is that a hospital, or… what?”
“The Prudhomme Clinic? Mostly, it is for young people.”
“What’s the matter with them?” Adrienne asked.
The woman shrugged. “I think they are having eating problems. So they are very skinny.”
“You mean, they’re anorexic,” McBride suggested.
“Yes. And I think some drug problems, too—though I hope you don’t worry—”
McBride shook his head. “No, no—I’m sure the security’s excellent.”
“Absolutely. The clinic is very discreet. A good neighbor—if you don’t mind the architecture.”
McBride reassured her that they didn’t and, with Adrienne at his side, wandered into the hotel’s four-star dining room. Though they felt underdressed, the hostess didn’t give their clothes a second glance, but led them to a table overlooking the lake.
“You are staying in the house?” she asked, handing each of them a huge menu.
“Yes.”
She smiled. “Well, enjoy your stay.” Then she lighted the candle and stood back a moment, as if to admire the crisp white linen and gleaming silverware. “You would perhaps enjoy a complimentary glass of Swiss wine?”
They glanced at each other. “Delighted,” McBride said.
She returned a moment later. “It’s called Fendant,” she told them, setting a glass before each of them. “I think you’ll find it refreshing. Now, if I may recommend something? The lake fish is… “ She bunched her fingers into a bouquet and kissed them. “The best.”
Before long, their first dish came. It was a cream soup of some kind, smoky and delicious, with bits of mushroom and ham. Then the fish arrived in the company of tiny white potatoes and a plate of asparagus, all of which went down wonderfully with a bottle of cold Muscadet. It was, they agreed, one of the best meals they’d ever eaten—and they lingered over it, finishing with cognac and espresso.
When the waiter had gone, McBride held his glass out toward Adrienne.
“To us,” he said.
She managed a little smile, held out her glass to his and touched it. They sipped their cognacs. “I wish this was real,” she mused, meaning their dinner together, and the night in the fancy hotel. “I wish we were just here together.” She looked down, as if she were studying the tablecloth.
“Hey,” he said. “It is. And we are.”
“I keep wanting to say ‘forget it, let’s just go somewhere—Indonesia. Madagascar. Disappear.’ Maybe nothing would happen—with Jericho, I mean. And maybe they wouldn’t even come after us. Maybe… “ She looked up at the ceiling and held the tulip glass of brandy against her cheek. He could see the tears glinting in her eyes.