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I need to see him. I need to talk with him. I need to find out what he knows about Jonas and Ansel, what he can tell us about their movements, their plans, their secrets. That’s the only way Trap can get to the brothers. Can kill them. Can set us free forever.
I turn my back on the aquarium and walk down the hall to my brother’s private suite. This is a hospital, not a swank apartment building, but there’s a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. A doorbell is clearly labeled beside the shiny brass lever that takes the place of a doorknob: “Guests: Please ring bell for access during visiting hours.”
Guest. That implies someone who’s welcome. I’m pretty sure Leo doesn’t want to see me. So I ignore the bell. I palm the lever and step inside.
In some ways, this is clearly a hospital room. There’s a dispenser of hand sanitizer just inside the door, beside a sink and a container for sharps. A computer screen displays constantly changing data—pulse rate, body temperature, blood pressure, respiratory rate, oxygen saturation. A matching panel on the far wall reports all the same data.
But the rest of the room looks like it belongs in an old-money mansion. The laminate floor resembles oak planks. Visitor chairs are upholstered in soft leather, made even more inviting by plush throw pillows. One wall is filled with a television the size of a football field, and a coffee table is covered with a tangle of gaming devices. Knick-knacks are scattered around the room—vases and carved wooden bowls, books and heavy stone bookends and a Waterford clock.
The bed is angled to face the floor-to-ceiling windows, with their view of the Delaware Bay. Standard hospital linens have been replaced with softly patterned sheets that look like they have a thread count in the low millions. A heavy wool blanket is folded across the foot of the bed, its plaid resembling a clan tartan.
But none of that can disguise the fact that the man in the bed is a patient.
Leo is dozing, sitting up against his pillows, wearing gray silk pajamas. He’s been bathed and shaved, both his beard and his hair. The stubble on top of his head reveals bald patches and the curved lines of badly healed scars. His face looks like cheese that’s been left too long in the sun—pale, pale, pale, and covered with a sheen of sweat.
A monitor in his breast pocket trails half a dozen wires. An IV line runs into the back of his bruised, bony hand. He moans as I step closer to the bed, and his fingers spasm on a plastic grip, his thumb pressing a dangerous-looking red button over and over again.
I must make some sound, because his eyes crack open. One of them is still caked with a greenish crust, and I wonder if he can see out of it. His mouth works and he looks like a baby bird, ravenous but helpless. “Alix,” he croaks.
I’m supposed to say something. I’m supposed to help. But all I can do is stare at him like he’s some sort of science experiment, like he’s a film I’m watching in high school biology, something I have to memorize if I’m going to pass the test.
“More,” he begs, giving the plastic grip a shake. “Need… More…”
I look at the IV hanging from a pole attached to the bed. The full bag is covered with writing, long chemical names that I don’t understand. A drop falls from the bag to the tubing that snakes into Leo’s hand.
“Please…” Leo says.
That’s what Leo always says. Leo always begs.
And just like that, I’m back in Herzog’s Holding Room. I’m strapped to the table. My head is filled with jet-black cobwebs. I’m trying to understand why I ache, why I’m freezing, why I’m lying stark naked beneath the flat white ceiling.
Leo’s begging didn’t help then. And it won’t help now. I trust that the doctors Trap hired know what they’re doing. I believe that the medicine flowing into Leo’s hand must be helping.
So I ignore his pitiful whimper and pull a chair closer to the bed.
“I need some information,” I say, clear and matter-of-fact, like I’m hiring an electrician or a plumber.
He blinks as if I’ve just spoken to him in Ancient Greek.
“Your old bosses have a video they’ve threatened to share. One that’ll hurt a lot of my friends. I can’t let that happen. So I need ammunition. Something I can use to keep them from acting. Something that will keep my friends safe.”
This should be easy. Jonas and Ansel Herzog are drug lords. All I need is hard proof, and the feds will do the dirty work.
But Trap has had the finest minds he can hire working on the problem for nearly three months. He’s paid private investigators and security experts. Hackers and mercenaries.
The Herzogs have perfected their defenses over decades. They have shell corporations and silent partners, offshore bank accounts and asset protection trusts. Hundreds if not thousands of people wake every morning with the sole goal of keeping Jonas and Ansel Herzog’s business dealings confidential.
But Leo’s been on the inside. He must have seen some loose end, a tiny thread that Trap can grab onto. If any part of the cloth starts to unravel, there’s hope.
“Leo!” I say, purposely sharpening my voice. “Let’s start with the easy things. Did you always work in Philadelphia’s Navy Yard?”
It takes him forever to answer. He hits the red plunger half a dozen times. He swallows hard and licks his chapped lips. But he finally shakes his head.
“Great!” I say. And once again, I’m awash in déjà vu. Leo and I are sitting at the kitchen table in Potomac, Maryland. Dad is working late at the office. Candace is taking her daughters, our stepsisters, out to dinner, but Leo and I aren’t allowed to leave until we finish our homework.
I’m trying to get Leo to solve a polynomial equation. He’s copied my homework for the first four weeks of the quarter, but mid-term exams are coming up, and he’s going to fail if I can’t get him to understand the concept. For the first time in all our tutoring sessions, he’s finally figured out that he has to set the variable factor to zero. I’m so excited I start to laugh, and then Leo’s laughing with me, and we’re pounding the table and howling like maniacs. Candace, pouring herself another bourbon and ginger, edges past us like what we have might be contagious, which only makes us laugh harder.
No one’s laughing now.
