Ashley Bell. Dean Koontz
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Seems they didn’t drive here or walk, and I’m not a guy who believes in crap like teleportation. What about you? You believe in teleportation?”
“What? No. Of course not.”
“So I asked myself, did they come here more than a day ago and hide out in the building? Are they still hiding in the building?”
“Why would they do that?” she asked.
“Damn if I know.” He shrugged and looked bewildered, pretending for a moment to be without suspicion. “So we searched the place, end to end. Nada. Zip.” He walked past her to stare out the window. Head tipped back. Pondering the sky. “It makes me feel stupid, you know? So I kept looking at the same scrap of video till I noticed something weird. Want to guess what it was?”
“I have no idea.”
Still at the window with his back to her, Chubb Coy said, “When the guy and the dog come along, they pass two other people going the opposite direction. A nurse. Then an orderly. Neither one glances at Mr. Hoodie. Kind of peculiar, huh? That hour, the hoodie, and not even a glance? But stranger still, here’s this beautiful dog at four in the morning, and they don’t glance at it, either. People see a beautiful dog, they stare, they smile. Most want to pet it, ask the owner its name. They’re off-duty now, the nurse and the orderly, so I called them. Both swear there wasn’t a dog. They’re adamant. They never passed a dog in the hallway. You know what I’m wondering now?”
“I don’t have a clue,” Bibi said. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
He turned from the window to face her. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but just about anything is these days, when it comes to fiddling with digital recordings, sound or image. So I’m wondering if some hacker breached our security archives, somehow inserted Mr. Hoodie and the dog in our video, made them be where they never were.”
Perplexed, Bibi said, “Who’d go to all that trouble? And why?”
Instead of answering her, Chubb Coy said, “Watching it about a hundred times, I still can’t see any technical giveaway. The guy and the dog register with the same clarity as the nurse and orderly. The light plays off them exactly as it does other people in the scene. But I’m no expert. A first-rate techie specialist, an analyst with the right credentials, should be able to prove it’s a fraud.”
“Except for one thing you seem to have forgotten,” Bibi reminded him. “I saw them. The man, the dog. They came into my room. The dog stood on its hind feet, put its front paws on my bed. Those lovely luminous gold eyes. It licked my hand.” She held up her left hand, as though a residue of case-closing golden-retriever DNA might still be found between her fingers.
The security chief’s blue-flecked steel-gray eyes were to him as scalpels to a surgeon. Direct and sharp and intent on cutting through all deception, his gaze seemed to flense her with exquisite delicacy, peeling away the layers of her image in a search for the most artful chicanery, some subtle telltale, that would put the lie to everything he’d been told.
“These days,” he said in a dead-flat voice from which he took care to bleed all inflection, “I may be just a glorified mall cop, in a somewhat more respectable environment, but I was once the real thing, and I still have good gumshoe instincts.”
Regarding him with growing amazement and uneasiness, Bibi asked, “What are you saying?”
“I’m not saying anything, Miss Blair.”
“That I’m some kind of suspect?”
He raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes in an unconvincing pretense of surprise, as if she had misinterpreted what he’d said and had leaped to a conclusion about his intentions that astonished him.
“What am I supposed to have done?” she asked, not with offense or anger, but with a kind of amused bafflement. “Faked the remission of my cancer? Tricked the MRI machine? Deceived all my doctors? Does any of that make sense?”
If the irrepressible joy she felt as a result of her recovery had not been still so fresh in Bibi’s heart, the security chief’s smug smile would have ticked her off.
“That old cop intuition, Miss Blair, it’s like poison ivy. It just itches and itches, you can’t ignore it, so you have to scratch it real good to get relief.”
With those words, which Bibi took to be a promise or even a threat, Chubb Coy headed for the door.
She said, “Try some calamine lotion. It has a funny smell and it’s lady-pink, but it relieves the itching.”
Without glancing back, Coy left the room.
The soft laugh that escaped Bibi had only a slight nervous edge. She said, “Looney-Toon.”
Proud Collector of 10,000 Heads
THROUGHOUT THE MORNING AND THE AFTERNOON of their first day on the roof of the three-story building, the four members of the SEAL team used periscopic cameras with nonreflective zoom lenses to scan the dead village without much risk that sunlight, flaring off the glass, would betray their presence. The images transmitted to the display screens were crisp, clear, and tedious. When the sun moved west but not directly behind Paxton and his men, they were bold enough to poke just their heads above the parapet to study the townscape: a drab gray-and-sand-brown hodgepodge of characterless structures, bullet-pocked stucco, cracked and crumbling concrete, and iron security gates hanging useless from broken hinges, strewn through with rubble.
Their target, the Ghost, whose name was Abdullah al-Ghazali, was holed up somewhere in these grim ruins, and he had with him six acolytes, all true believers, two of them possibly women. He had chosen to hide in this town, whose population he had slaughtered seventeen months earlier, perhaps because he thought it was the last place anyone would look for him, but perhaps because the atmosphere of an abattoir appealed to the bastard, surrounded as he was with memories of vicious cruelties and abhorrent violence, which he found delectable. Paxton had studied the culture that produced such men, but a lifetime of study would not help him understand why they became death-loving haters of everything the rest of humanity held dear.
An equal-opportunity terrorist who murdered not only Jews and Christians and Hindus and those who had no faith, Abdullah al-Ghazali also butchered Arab tribes other than his own, Muslims he considered less than pure. He claimed to have taken—or ordered taken—the lives of ten thousand people, and most experts thought he had undercounted.
He usually moved with impunity through countries impressed by his barbarism, but not since the past October. In spite of Homeland Security and no-fly lists and surveillance of every transportation system coast to coast, he had gotten into the States, activated ten sleeper cells, planned two attacks—led one—on shopping malls, and murdered 317 people. Most of his associates had been killed or arrested, but he had escaped the United States, only to find that he was now too hot to be welcomed in those kingdoms and fake democracies that had once provided him with rent-free villas when he needed them.
Pax, Danny, Gibb, and Perry had been sent to provide justice, which in this case did not require a judge and jury. Now that they were in town, they were eager to do the job and go home, impatient with the need to conceal their presence until the targets revealed themselves, instead of boldly going on the search.
Later in the afternoon, only half a block away, a man appeared on the flat, railed roof of a two-story building on the farther side of the street. Although he was dressed in gray to match the concrete around him, his camouflage was pathetic. A pair of binoculars hung around his neck. The SEALs at once put down their field glasses and ducked out of sight.
Perry raised a camera on its stick, so that it barely cleared the parapet wall. The instrument was so small, there was little danger that the watchman would spot it. Perry