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He shrugged, which she assumed meant yes. Bryn sat down on the bed and imagined someone climbing up that wall—and without her will, that image morphed from a shadowy figure to Fast Freddy. She imagined him raising his head and grinning as he did it, and it was the memory of his weird, lewd smile that made her shiver. “Jesus,” she whispered. “He didn’t get in …?”
“Mr. French says no,” McCallister said. He reached down and patted the bulldog on the head; the dog growled in response, lifting his lips to show teeth, but didn’t bite. Just made the point. “I think the dog stopped him. ”
If she hadn’t let Mr. French into the bedroom—which she usually didn’t, actually—he might have been in the other room, barking at the door. More time for Freddy—if it was Freddy—to get in and do … whatever he was planning to do.
Or—on the pleasant side—maybe it had been a garden-variety rapist/murderer. That, Bryn thought, would actually be a relief.
“I don’t think you should stay here,” McCallister said. “Please pack a bag. ” It was, she noticed, in the form of a request.
“I’m not leaving my dog. ”
“We’ll take him with us. Please. ”
McCallister still seemed tense, and she wasn’t in any mood to be obstinate, or to argue about the twinge of obedience she felt even though he’d phrased it politely as a request. He was one of those people who was so normally unreadable that when he flashed actual stress, it had to be a real crisis. Plus, someone really had jimmied her window—whether it was Fast Freddy or not. Getting out of here didn’t sound like a bad idea at all.
Packing took about five minutes. Hell, as much as Bryn owned, she thought she could have packed to move house in under an hour, depressing as that was. McCallister checked his car thoroughly, inside and out, for tracking devices, hidden passengers, or explosive parting gifts before he allowed her to come anywhere near it. He even checked out the trunk. She felt that little frisson of revulsion when she imagined Fast Freddy hiding in there, like a trapdoor spider down its hole.
They’d gone about a mile from her house, taking apparently random twists and turns, when McCallister finally said, “I don’t see a tail. ”
“That’s good. ”
“Maybe. ” He didn’t sound convinced. “I’m switching cars. ”
“You’re what?”
“I could have missed something. This isn’t a game, Bryn. It’s not television. I can’t afford to take a chance with our lives. ”
“I thought I was hard to kill. ”
His voice, when it came, sounded grim. “You’re not hard to hurt. ”
McCallister got on the car phone and ordered up a second car from one of his Pharmadene henchpersons. Within half an hour, they’d pulled into a parking lot and switched vehicles with another man driving a similar car.
“Where’s he going?” Bryn asked.
“Anywhere but where we’re going. If anyone’s tracking him, it’ll be a wasted and lengthy trip. ”
“Well, where are we going?”
“I’d rather not say. ”
“In case we’re being monitored. ”
He didn’t answer, but then, she really had stopped expecting him to make the effort to give her any actual information.
They left the downtown lights behind and drifted into suburbia, sleepy streets and darkened houses. He kept driving, and now that the adrenaline had worn off she found herself dozing, her head at an uncomfortable angle against the window. She must have faded out for a while, because when she jerked upright again McCallister was pulling to a stop in front of a massive stone wall pierced by an enormous, forbidding wrought-iron gate.
It slowly opened, revealing a moonlit blue-tinged gravel drive that was probably blindingly white in full day. The hedges were manicured and shaped as if they’d been taken to a high-end salon, not one leaf fluttering out of place. Bryn blinked as he drove up a long, winding path, past stately old trees and perfect rose gardens and a white gazebo large enough to host the New York Philharmonic for an afternoon concert.
A massive square block of a house appeared at the top of the next curving hill, illuminated with tasteful outdoor spotlights. The place was the size of a mall, Bryn thought, not to mention being so elaborate it could have been used in a movie with women in corsets and men behaving badly.
McCallister pulled up in front of the front steps, and the massive wooden door opened to reveal an actual butler. Well, she assumed he was, although he wasn’t wearing a tuxedo. More of a dinner jacket, which was remarkable enough at this late hour.
“Where are we?” Bryn asked.
“Home,” McCallister said. “Come on. ”
This could not possibly be someone’s home. Not anyone who actually worked for a living. But McCallister walked around, opened her door, and she looked at Mr. French, who huffed something in dogspeak and jumped out to toddle along after him.
