Fade to Blue, page 13
Gasping for air, she turned around and saw Marcel and a young boy standing a short distance away. The boy was aiming a rifle at her head. He seemed nervous, and the barrel of his rifle quivered. Marcel attempted to calm the youngster while coaxing him to squeeze the trigger.
Her eyes popped open. Her heart pounded. It was pitch black, and she lay in bed in an unfamiliar room.
Margaret Owens received a call from the MEREIN receptionist. “Rogelio Galvan is here to see you.”
She wasn’t expecting a visit and tried to hide her concern. “Sure. Tell him I’m ready for our meeting.”
Rogelio walked into Margaret’s office grim-faced. He closed the door behind him and extended Sarah’s letter. She took it and started reading.
“What? ‘I’ve made the very painful decision to leave you.’ Is this a joke?”
“No.”
Margaret finished reading the letter and looked up at him with bulging eyes. “Oh . . . my . . . god.”
She stood, walked around her desk, and they shared a long, silent hug.
Rogelio eventually let go of his grasp and wiped away a tear. “We need to talk.”
“Absolutely.”
They sat down, and Margaret pulled out a tissue and dabbed her eyes. “I’m stunned. This is crazy. I can’t believe she would just take off.”
“Me neither.”
“Sarah and I talk every day. We confide in each other. She never said anything about being depressed.”
“I don’t think Sarah is depressed. That letter might be bogus,” Rogelio said. He went on to describe her odd behavior Tuesday night after he paid her a surprise visit.
“Bottom line: She didn’t want to see me. She actually told me to leave. I thought she had another guy in the house.”
Margaret flinched. “Oh, come on. You know better than that.”
“But what if someone had just broken in? And he threatened to kill us both if she didn’t get rid of me. And then, after I left, he made her write that letter. And he kidnapped her.”
“Are you serious?”
“If she was leaving town, why didn’t she take her car? Or her clothes? Why is there still food in the refrigerator?”
Margaret read the letter again. “But this looks like her handwriting. And I don’t see any clues that she was writing under duress.”
“Yesterday Sarah called my boss and told him our phones had been hacked. She bought a new one and wanted me to call her using his phone. She said it was urgent.”
“Did you call her?”
“No. I was still pissed off about Tuesday. But I’ve called her five times since I read that letter. She’s not answering. All I know is . . . nothing makes sense right now. I’m going to the police.”
“Why? You can’t file a missing-person report.”
“I want to know if there have been any recent break-ins in her neighborhood. Or if a registered sex offender lives on her block. Or a Peeping Tom. I just need to talk to someone. Will you come with me?”
Rogelio and Margaret left the Redwood City police station after meeting with Detective James Winniford. They were walking to their car when Rogelio saw the sign for Mountain View Pub.
“I could use a drink. How ’bout you?”
They changed course, went into the bar, and sat down at a wooden table.
“I’m glad we talked to him,” Rogelio said. “I think you’re right. She wasn’t kidnapped. And that’s good. At least we know her life isn’t in danger.”
Margaret nodded. “Like he said, it’s extremely rare for an adult to be kidnapped. It’s usually abuse or depression that causes someone to just up and leave. I know you didn’t abuse her, so that leaves depression.”
“What can I say? It’s hard to accept.”
“For you and me both,” Margaret said. “She hid her depression very well. A lot of people do. But she wrote that letter. Those are her words.”
“I know. I just wish she could have told me. I would have done anything to help her.”
Margaret took a moment to consider her response. “Depression isn’t an easy thing to talk about. There’s a lot of shame associated with it. So, she probably decided her only option was to get away. From you. From me. From MEREIN. From everybody. Just to be alone and work things out.”
“I still can’t explain why she called my boss and told him our phones had been hacked?”
“That is weird. But we don’t know her state of mind.”
A waitress came over to the table, took their order, and walked away. Margaret squeezed Rogelio’s hand.
“And speaking of which, how’s your state of mind?”
He frowned. “Not good. I’m numb right now.”
“Me too,” she said.
“And I know this is probably wrong, but I’m still pissed off at her.”
“I understand. Just remember: Sarah’s strong. And resilient. She’s going to be okay. And I know she loves you very much. Give her some time. I’m sure she’ll call, and you guys will get back together.”
Rogelio shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
chapter eighteen
Sarah got out of bed, put on her robe, and walked into the living room. She swung open the doors to her private balcony and was immediately blinded by the sun. It had risen just above the bell tower of a cathedral but had yet to warm the chilly air. She stepped out onto the wrought-iron enclosure, hugged herself to retain body heat, and watched the bustle of activity on the patchwork of cobblestone streets below.
She returned to her bedroom, got dressed, and went downstairs to the hotel restaurant. After eating breakfast—croissant with jam, quiche Lorraine, and a grande cappuccino—she walked to the lobby and spotted the concierge. “Hi, I need to go to the U.S. Embassy.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s closed,” he said. “It’s open Monday through Friday.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you.”
She jogged up to the fourth floor, entered her suite, and sat down at the computer. She did a search for “U.S. Embassy in Paris,” opened the home page, and saw the word “Closed.”
She called the phone number and heard a recorded message: “You have reached the embassy of the United States of America. Our business hours are from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through Friday. Please call back during those times. Vous êtes arrivé à l’Ambassade des États-Unis d’Amérique. Les heures. . . .”
She next tried the FBI, knowing it was early Saturday morning in Washington, DC. A recording announced their business hours and instructed the caller to dial 911 if this was an emergency.
Undeterred, she typed “U.S. Homeland Security” and called their twenty-four-hour hotline. A man answered, and she was taken aback. “Oh, my god. You’re not a recording.”
“Do you have a security threat to report?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” he said. “First of all, please know that everything you say is being recorded.”
“That’s fine.”
“Then go ahead.”
She decided to keep her initial statement brief. In ten seconds, she gave her name and occupation and explained that terrorists had gotten a sample of her brain-destroying drug and were going to reproduce it and carry out an attack.
“An attack against whom?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I understand. And I appreciate your call. But this is an after-hours hotline for reporting an imminent attack against the United States.”
“Yes, but—”
“I suggest you call back on Monday. If your story is credible, we’ll assign you a case number and get on it.”
“Okay, but I’m afraid—”
“Thank you for your help in keeping America safe. Goodbye.”
Sarah threw down her phone. “And thank you for blowing me off,” she said before acknowledging that he was right. His job was to prevent an imminent attack—the nutcase driving an explosives-laden truck to the Capital or a suicide bomber boarding an airplane. A T-3 attack, on the other hand, was not imminent. It was unlikely they’d even produced an ingestible sample of her drug.
She leaned back in her chair, rubbed her eyes, and realized there was no need to panic. She could wait until Monday morning. But instead of calling Homeland Security and being assigned a case number, she’d go to the U.S. Embassy.
With a new plan in place, she focused on her left hand, which was now begging for help. She peeled off the surgical tape, unwrapped several layers of gauze, and was shocked to see a portobello mushroom-like growth at the base of the baby finger. She left her suite, ran down three flights of stairs, and approached the concierge.
“Hi. I need to get to a hospital.”
“Please come with me,” he said and escorted her to a waiting taxi.
After sitting for twelve minutes in the Hôpital de Paris waiting room, Dr. Arjun Patel examined her left hand and ordered an x-ray. It confirmed her suspicion—a broken finger.
“This might sting a bit,” the doctor warned before giving her a shot of lidocaine. He was right. But she was glad her hand was numb as she watched him drain putrid fluid from the base of the finger and cleanse the wound. After applying a yellow ointment that stained her skin, he splinted the finger and wrapped it with white gauze.
“I think it will heal on its own, but you may want to see a doctor when you get home,” he said. “In the meantime, don’t remove this dressing. And keep it dry.”
Sarah thanked Dr. Patel for his decorum and competence and left the treatment room. She stopped by the pharmacy to pick up her prescription pain pills and purchased five syringes.
On her way back to the hotel, she saw throngs of people enjoying the city on this gorgeous day and got inspired.
She returned to her suite, pulled Walking Paris off a bookshelf, and considered five of its itineraries. She chose the most ambitious one—a seven-mile loop that included Notre Dame, Hôtel de Ville, the Louvre, Tuileries Garden, the Arc de Triomphe, and the Eiffel Tower. Wishing to stay hydrated, she grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Wishing to stay alive, she filled one of her newly purchased syringes with Entoryl-XT and slid it into a side pocket of her cargo pants. Just in case.
Sarah navigated her way from Hôtel L’Impériale to Île de la Cité and to the first destination on her itinerary: Notre Dame Cathedral. After taking two photos of its famous towers, she crossed a bridge to the Marais district on the right bank of the Seine and walked alongside historic Hôtel de Ville.
At Rue de Rivoli, she headed west and was captivated by the nineteenth-century buildings that lined both sides of the street. Restaurants and boutiques dominated the ground floors, while apartments occupied the upper four or five stories. She focused on one apartment—its balcony enclosed by an intricate, wrought-iron railing—and imagined sharing it with Rogelio. Was that a crazy idea?
After walking past the massive Louvre complex, she stepped inside a delicatessen and joined a dozen lunchtime customers eyeing display cases filled with meat, cheese, salads, and desserts. She purchased a take-out lunch, continued on, and soon reached Tuileries Garden.
The park was teeming with tourists and Parisians of all generations on this warm October afternoon. She eventually claimed an unoccupied bench, removed a ham-and-brie-stuffed baguette from a paper bag, took a bite, and reveled in the myriad sights and sounds. Families and lovers strolled the sidewalks. Picnickers and sunbathers dotted the expansive lawn. Two old women scattered bits of bread for the pigeons. Children laughed as they ran through the waterspouts of a fountain. A disheveled man bellowed a soulful rendition of Autumn Leaves on his saxophone.
She ate slowly, savoring the moment and each bite of her stuffed baguette. When there was nothing left but crumbs, she finished off the bottle of water and resumed her walking tour. At the north end of Tuileries Garden, she saw the Arc de Triomphe in the distance. Unfortunately, it was a rather long distance. With a full stomach and the effects of jet lag weighing her down, she decided to turn around. It was time to head back to her suite and take a well-deserved nap.
Sarah retraced her steps through Tuileries Garden and down Rue de Rivoli—stopping periodically to admire the fashions in upscale stores—before eventually coming upon an unrecognizable open-air market. A brass plaque identified the spot as Place Baudoyer. She grudgingly looked at a map in Walking Paris and realized she’d overshot her route back to the hotel. After deciding on a new route, she walked through Place Baudoyer and saw three police cars and four uniformed officers in front of a building. What at first appeared to be a crime scene was, in fact, the entrance to a police station. Just thirty feet away. And the two front doors were open. It occurred to her that she could walk inside and sound the T-3 alarm.
As she approached the station, one of the officers hopped on a bicycle and pedaled away. Two others got into a car and drove off. The fourth officer remained outside. He eyed her and spoke kind words in French. Was he hitting on her? Inviting her to come in? It was decision time. She hesitated, shook her head, and kept walking.
In fits and starts, Sarah found her way back to Hôtel L’Impériale. She rode the elevator to the fourth floor and saw a woman standing in front of an adjacent suite. They exchanged smiles. She pulled out her keycard, thought for a moment, and then turned to face the woman.
“Excuse me. Do you speak English?”
“A little bit, yes,” the woman said.
“Great. I was just wondering if it’s safe for me to walk around this area alone at night.”
“Well,” the woman replied, “I would say the Latin Quarter is safe. But be careful because of pickpockets. They try to steal from tourists.”
“So I’ve been told. Thanks for the heads-up.”
She slid her keycard into the slot, entered Suite 405, and saw a vase of white roses on the kitchen countertop. Propped up against the vase was an envelope that read “Courtoisie de Hôtel L’Impériale” in embossed calligraphy. She opened the envelope and pulled out a complimentary ticket to the Orsay Museum. “Wow,” she whispered to herself, “this place is awesome.”
She grabbed a bottle of sparkling water from the refrigerator, guzzled it down with two prescription pain pills, did a round of stretching, and made her way into the bedroom.
Collin Smith retrieved his phone after hearing the first two measures of Kraftwerk’s Computer Love. “Hey, old man. I hope you had a pleasant drive back. I almost got blown off the road.”
“I offer you no sympathy,” Marcel said. “If memory serves me, I suggested we wait out the storm.”
“Yeah, I suppose you did. Lesson learned. So, what’s up?”
“Two things. First, I sent the syringe to our lab people. They’re going to analyze it and tell me what Sarah injected herself with. Second, I wanted you to know that Jon is no longer with us.”
“What?” Collin blurted out. “He died?”
“No. He’s no longer working with us.”
“Aah. That would be different. You see how adding just one word to that sentence changes everything?”
“Yes,” Marcel replied. “Thank you very much for the English grammar lesson.”
“Any time. So, is he still recovering from the Sarah beat-down?”
“Yes. But I sacked him because he’s incompetent. He let her escape. That was inexcusable. Now we have to go to Paris and track her down.”
“Paris? The GPS shows her in Singapore.”
“And two days ago, the GPS showed her at home when she was actually at a bank withdrawing two million dollars.”
“You’re right,” Collin said. “I’d forgotten about that. So, you’re sure she’s in Paris?”
“I sent my colleague her photo. He went to Charles de Gaulle Airport, saw her get off a plane, and followed her to a hotel.”
“Damn. And here I was all set to fly to Singapore.”
“May I repeat: underestimate her at your peril.”
Paul Johansen sat in a bamboo chair beneath a large umbrella that shaded him from the morning sun. He sipped coffee and read the news on his phone as reggae music played through the resort’s sound system.
“Excuse me,” came a woman’s voice with a lovely accent. “Do you think I could borrow your phone?”
Paul looked up at the bikini-clad woman. Thirty-ish. Medium height. Tanned body. Shoulder-length, blonde hair. Pretty face. “You want to use my phone?”
“I forgot to charge mine last night, and I have an important call to make.”
He gave her a skeptical eye. His guidebook warned that criminals take advantage of tourists who let down their guard while enjoying a Caribbean vacation.
“Here,” she said, twisting a jewel-encrusted ring off her finger and placing it in front of him on the small table. “It has a one-carat diamond. You can keep it as collateral.”
Paul grimaced. “That’s not necessary.”
“I’m going through a divorce, so I won’t be wearing it much longer anyway.”
Feeling even lower, he closed the New York Times app and extended his phone to her. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t know you, and—”
“It’s okay. I hope you don’t mind, but this is a private matter. I’m staying over there,” she said, pointing to a door with the number 6 on it.
“No problem.”
“I’ll be back in five minutes.”
The woman walked away with Paul’s phone, entered her room, and locked the door behind her. She scrolled through his phone log and all of his text messages. She then picked up her phone and called Marcel. “I don’t see any communication between Paul and Sarah.”
“Good.”
“So, when will the package arrive?”
