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George shook his head. “The Thais would have busted in if that were true.”
“The Thais think the explosives are still intact,” Max said. “I wanted them to.”
“Why?”
“If they stormed us,” Max continued, “somebody might have gotten killed. And you were the most likely candidate. I needed your information first.”
“You’re lying.”
“Then go ahead. Push the button. As soon as you do I have my reason to waste you. Either way you are a dead man.” Max steadied his aim. “So go ahead. You already told me everything you know. You’re worthless to me now. Push the button.”
It’s over. I fucked up. I really fucked up . . .
George’s mind flailed wildly, grasping for any rescue float. “If I surrender,” he began tentatively, “will I be extradited to the United States?”
“Yes.”
Maybe I can still swing a deal. The Americans will want someone to testify against my employer. I still have valuable information. Wouldn’t be the first time they let the hit man go to catch the big fish . . .
“Okay, then,” George said, “here.” He held out the detonator.
“That’s worthless now, George. Take out your knife and put it on the ground. Then put your hands above your head.”
Max opened the window shade. Within seconds the cops were in the room. They cuffed George and dragged him downstairs. Max immediately ran for the detonator. He picked it up gently as if it were made of expensive crystal.
“Max?” Michael called.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t know anything about explosives, do you?”
Max did not look up. “Not a damn thing.”
22
HARVEY watched yet another sunrise from the window at the clinic. He had managed to catch a few hours of sleep on the couch last night and had woken up with a major Excedrin headache. Why, he could not say. Anxiety probably. Patience, a requirement in his field, had never been one of his virtues. And now the stakes had been raised astronomically. Something was going to happen today; he was sure of it. Something big.
Something in Bruce’s package.
It would be only a matter of time before it arrived. He tried to temper his excitement and unease. The package, he continuously reminded himself, could be nothing important. Bruce might have mailed himself those files for a variety of reasons. For example, he might have wanted to . . .
Harvey thought hard, but nothing unimportant came to mind.
He massaged his temples and tried to relax, but something else kept nudging at him, something that could be even more critical than the package. He did not want to think about it, did not want even to consider the possibility. And yet the facts were clear. Eric Blake had taken a blood sample from Michael’s arm when he had specifically been told to keep away. Why did he do it? Eric had always been big on protocol and following the rules. Why had he gone against their common practices to take Michael’s blood?
Frightening questions. Might be even more frightening answers.
Harvey looked at his watch. Eric was supposed to arrive soon. He would confront him then.
The intercom sounded. “Package for you, Dr. Riker.”
“Send it in.”
A UPS driver entered the room. With a trembling hand Harvey signed for the package, locked the door behind the driver, and carried it to his desk. He could feel something flutter in his heart. His breath grew shallow.
Harvey opened the package and began to examine its contents.
“TIRED?” Max asked.
Michael looked up from his cot. Only a few hours ago he had been George Camron’s prisoner. Now he, Max, and a Thai doctor shared the closed-off back section of a Thai Airways jet that was somewhere over the Pacific.
“More like anxious.”
“Don’t blame you.” Max put the pencil in his mouth and began to gnaw. “But in a way, it’s better Sara wasn’t home. This isn’t the kind of thing you want to tell someone over a phone.”
Michael managed to sit up. “That was a hell of a bluff you made back there.”
“What choice did I have?” Max said. “If I let Camron go, he would have blown us up.”
“I know, but still—”
“Besides, I didn’t do that much. I just made the decision to live or die his own.”
“What do you mean?”
“George never thought I’d risk pulling a gun on him,” he explained. “He counted on that fact. Once I did, he had no choice. If he pushed the button, he was dead—either by the explosives or by my gun. George Camron did not want to die. It’s as simple as that.”
Michael nodded. “How’s your neck feel?”
Max touched the bandage on his throat. “Just a flesh wound,” he said. “Kinda gross, though.”
“Can you fill me in on what’s happened?” Michael asked.
“I can try.”
“Why was I kidnapped?”
Max paced the tight aisle. He recounted all he knew about the Gay Slasher case. Michael’s eyes never left him. His face registered no emotion, even when he heard about his father-in-law’s involvement with the Washington conspiracy.
“So who do you think is behind all this?” Michael asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“What about Sanders’ group? They seem the most likely suspects.”
Max tilted his head back and forth like a pendulum swing. “Yes and no,” he said. “I don’t think it’s the conspiracy, per se, or Reverend Sanders. If Sanders was willing to commit murder to destroy the clinic, there would have been no reason for all this fancy footwork—just murder a few doctors or blow up the clinic.”
“What do you mean ‘conspiracy per se’?”
“Well, it could be one of them—Markey, Jenkins, your father-in-law—acting on his own.”
“What motive would they have?”
“Don’t know.”
“You said something before about the order of the murders?”
Max nodded. “It probably means nothing, but I keep focusing on that point. There were six cured patients.” He took out a piece of paper and began to scribble:Trian, S.
Whitherson, W.
Martino, R.
Krutzer, T.
Leander, P.
Singer, A.
“What about Bradley Jenkins?” Michael asked.
“He was never cured, so let’s leave him out of this for a second.” Max pointed to the list of names. “This is the order in which they became patients. Trian, Whitherson, and Martino—the Gay Slasher’s victims—all came in between a year and a year and a half before Krutzer, Leander, and Singer. Whitherson was actually the first patient admitted.”
