in his head. No timer on the bomb. Still, tick, tick, tick, tick... Ka-boom.
"Max?"
"Almost got it, Michael. Hang in there."
"Sara."
"She's fine."
"Our child."
"Safe in the womb. You'll be with her soon."
Michael tried again to focus on Max's face. Skinny face. Long nose.
Clean shaven.
"No mustache."
A tight smile from Max.
"I shaved it. Almost there, Michael.
Almost..."
"Almost," Michael repeated.
"Got it!" The chain fell apart.
"Michael, can you walk?"
"Sure."
Michael made it to his knees before his head began to spin like a plane taking a nose-dive.
"Lean on my shoulder," Max urged.
"We have to hurry."
With a lot of help from Max, Michael managed to stand. His legs were wobbly, but he was able to take a step forward.
"That's it. You're as good as home."
Michael nodded.
Max moved another step. He stopped suddenly when he felt something cold touch his neck. He looked down.
A stiletto blade rested against his throat.
Before Max could react, a giant bicep wrapped itself around his forehead. The arm gripped his skull and pressed it against a chest as solid as asphalt. Max could not move. George adjusted the blade. The sharp point now touched down on the voice box, nearly piercing the skin.
"Hello, boys!" George said.
"How's it goingr
Chapter 21
Dr. Eric Blake looked up at the clock.
It was time.
Something nestled in Eric's throat, but he managed to swallow it away.
He straightened the papers on his desk, lined up the pencils neatly, and stood. He checked his appearance in the mirror, tightened the Windsor knot in his tie, and gently patted his hair with both hands.
Then he studied his face for a long time. Something about it was different today. It was as if his thoughts had surfaced, altering his appearance.
Everything I have worked for, everything I wanted to achieve...
Could it all be gone?
He took out a neatly folded handkerchief, dabbed his forehead, and then headed for the lab.
"Good morning, Dr. Blake."
"Good morning."
Eric tried to remember the nurse's name but could not. He recalled that she was the youngest and least experienced member of the staff.
Her access to patients was strictly limited to the most recent arrivals, and her chores were usually the most mundane.
Only one nurse had had access to all the patients and all the floors.
Janice Matley.
As quickly as the name had formed in his mind, Eric pushed it away. No use thinking about that now. Dead was dead. No comeback. No reprieve.
Nothing.
Eric entered the elevator and pushed the button. His eyes swerved about, trying to find something that might distract him.
He settled on the signature of the elevator inspector. He tried to make out the name but the penmanship was too sloppy looked more like an EKG reading than an actual signature. The inspector, Eric decided, should have been a doctor.
A minute later he arrived at the lab door. Part of him wanted to stall now that the moment had arrived, but the rest of his body propelled him into the room an dover toward his file cabinet. He took out his key, unlocked the drawers, opened one, and reached back. His hand gripped the item. He took a deep breath, pulled it out and looked.
Silence.
Eric's face registered no emotion. He returned the glass dish to the back of the drawer and carefully closed it. He locked the cabinet, picked up the telephone and dialed a number in Bethesda, Maryland.
After three rings, the phone on the other end was picked up.
Eric cleared his throat.
"Dr. Raymond Markey, please."
I fucked up. Me. George Camron... He could not believe it and yet he was holding the evidence against his chest. They had found Silverman. Shit, they had found him. Not even George's employer knew where he had hidden Silverman.
George held the point of the blade in place. When the man swallowed, George felt the stiletto vibrate in his hand. His mind raced for answers, but none came to him. He had fucked up.
Badly. But how? When?
Get control of yourself, George. Show you're still in control.
Listening to the voice in his head, George forced himself to smile. It gave the appearance, he was sure, of being in complete control.
"So, gentlemen," he began, both his grip and grin strong and steady, "how are we today? Lovely weather, don't you think?"
Max managed a shrug.
"Tad warm for my taste, George."
The man knew his name!
"Sorry about that," George replied. He wrestled with his tone in order to keep out any hint of panic. A droplet of sweat trickled down his neck and into the collar of his shirt.
"Mind identifying yourself before I slice your goddamn head off?"
"Lieutenant Max Bernstein. NYPD. You are