“You sure you want to go to Los Angeles, Bullock?” she asked. He was planning to pay for the ticket cash, at the ticket windows.
“Yes. I didn’t know if you were going to really bring me here…” He looked around nervously. “I don’t see anyone watching me.”
“There wasn’t any doubt, once Wolfe made you a promise, that he was going to let you go. He’s a pretty square guy. Tough but… honest.”
“You like him, don’t you? I mean… in a big way.”
“None of your business.”
The ticket cashier, a gray haired man in thick glasses, was staring at them, as they got closer in the line. He excused himself for a moment, as the fat lady up ahead fumbled in her purse for cash, and then stepped away from the window, talking quickly into a cell phone.
I shouldn’t be paranoid about that, Seline told herself. The man could’ve just realized he had to call his wife. Could be anything.
The cashier quickly returned to the window and took the fat lady’s money.
Seline tried to relax. It took a couple more minutes, but at last Bullock stepped up to the window, and asked for a ticket to Los Angeles.
Then Seline realized the cashier was staring past Bullock—past her. At someone…
She turned, saw a flabby pot bellied man in coveralls rushing up toward Bullock. In his hand was something like a walkie-talkie. It seemed modified, with extra wiring on the outside—and he was pointing it at Bullock.
“Bullock!” Seline called.
He turned—saw the man… stared at the device in his hand…
Then Bullock began to sway. He looked dizzy. White foam showed at the corners of his lips. “Insulin… shock. He…”
Bullock collapsed.
Seline automatically knelt by him—tried to hold Bullock still as he convulsed, his eyes rolling back in his head…
She shouted, “Someone! We need an ambulance!”
The cops ran over to her, looking genuinely concerned. Seline looked around for the man with the device in his hand…
But he was gone. Vanished into the crowd.
She backed away. The cops were kneeling by Bullock, one of them taking his pulse. “This man’s dying…”
Seline slipped into the crowd herself.
“Wolfe?”
“Yeah, you get him on a train?”
“No. They were watching for him. He’s dead. He said something about his insulin… There was a man there who was pointing a… a machine of some kind at him…”
Wolfe was driving a “borrowed” car to the justice department, listening to Seline on his bluetooth.
She described the man with the “device”.
“That’s Starling,” Wolfe said. “He must’ve been nearby. But then Blume’s headquarters is about half a block away. Must’ve hacked into Bullock’s insulin injector. Made it dump three months worth at once. Too much insulin—you die.”
“Oh, God.”
“You get away without being followed?”
“I think so.”
“Okay. Go back to the safehouse. I’ll call you. I’ve got to go in and see Doolin. Kiskel got me an appointment. I want to get this over with fast before they start looking at me for… other stuff.”
Wolfe ended the call, pulled the car up to the nearest curb. It was a red curb but he didn’t care—he didn’t plan to drive it again.
He hurried through the increasing wind across the street to the Federal Building, sizing it up as he went.
It was old granite building, about eight stories high, with a U.S. flag out front and curving stone eaves. The Department of Justice’s offices in Chicago were housed in two buildings and this was the older one.
Wolfe went in, half expecting to be arrested on sight. He wasn’t sure to what extent law enforcement might be looking for him now.
In the old, echoing marble faced lobby was a scanning machine and a metal detection framework. He’d been expecting this and he’d left his gun in the car.
He went through it, removing off his shoes and belt as at the airport, aware of the curious stares of the Federal Marshals as he put them back on. He didn’t look like the usual visitor.
Wolfe went to the downstairs admissions desk where a brisk black woman in a suit looked him over. “My name’s Wolfe. Agent Doolin’s waiting for me.” She looked at her appointment book.
“Yes sir.”
Doolin was expecting him. His identification was checked, then he was sent upstairs to room 325.
The door had the old fashioned white glazed glass in it; painted in black on the glass was Edward Doolin, Special Agent .
Wolfe reached for the doorknob—then he heard a man whispering inside. Another door opening. The hair went up on the back of his neck. Something was wrong here. He could feel it.
And then he saw it… he looked down and saw blood spreading slowly out from under the door.
Wolfe thought, If you were smart, you’d beat it out of here, now.
He opened the door. Never said I was terribly smart.
Inside two men were duct taped to chairs; one, a hefty middle aged man in a suit, was behind a desk; the other was facing the desk. That one, Wolfe figured, was Kiskel, who was supposed to meet him here. The other one was Edward Doolin.
They were both dead—their throats cut. Their eyes were open and unblinkingly staring. Their clothes were soaked in blood.
Wolfe theorized that a couple guys had come in with guns, one had taped them down, the other had slashed their throats. Quieter that way. Silencers weren’t really very silent.
There was another door with glazed glass in it, to the left—and Wolfe could see the shadow of a man there.
Wolfe thought about going downstairs, calling a general alarm. But these guys would have a way out of this. And he didn’t. The feds would hold him for questioning, to see what he might know about these deaths. And he’d probably end up with his throat cut too. Somebody on the inside would find him alone in an interrogation room…
He crossed the room, stepping carefully around the blood, and quietly opened two of Doolin’s desk drawers. It was in the second one—a .44 semiauto police special. He took it out, checked it—it was loaded.
Voices from the next room. Maybe they were expecting him but they didn’t seem to know he was here.
“…that chopper has to be on the roof, Van Ness. That was the deal…”
Wolfe walked over to the door, readied the gun—and opened it.
Two men stared at him in shock. One was probably a Graywater—he just had that look about him. He wore a long coat, had his hair cut short like the others. There was a time-blurred tattoo on his neck. In his hands was a plastic sack, sealed with duct tape. Probably had the knife in it they’d used for cutting throats.
The other man was General Van Ness, now in civilian clothes. He was a stocky man, mid sixties, in a charcoal suit, with iron-gray hair, a square jaw and hooded blue eyes.
“Wolfe,” Van Ness muttered.
“I’m guessing you guys have been wiretapping Kiskel. Pearce told him what was going down; he told Doolin. Came over to talk about it with me. So you guys took those two out… Kind of a desperate way to deal with it, Van Ness.”
“Timetable’s been moved up, thanks to you, Wolfe.” He was looking at Wolfe’s gun. “When it all goes down—you can take credit. In fact we plan to give you credit.”
Van Ness smiled, showing a lot of large yellow teeth.