The Panic Zone Part 38

A horn honked behind her.

The blast yanked her from her brooding, reminding her that she was stopped in slow-moving traffic on the freeway, northbound from Santa Ana. If she could get downtown in time, she might have a shot, she thought. But traffic all around her was at a standstill.

She arrived at the Golden Dawn Fertility Corporation before closing and went to the reception desk. "Emma Lane," she said. "I need to see Christine Eckhardt. Please, it's urgent."

"I don't think she's available to see you." The receptionist, appearing slightly fl.u.s.tered, ran a polished fingernail down an appointment sheet when Christine Eckhardt emerged with her briefcase on her way out.

"Emma?" Christine was surprised.

"We need to talk about Polly Larenski."

"We just heard. It's terrible. One of the doctors saw it on KCAL and we got a call from police looking for family. They traced the parking sticker on Polly's car to us."

"I need to talk to you about what she told me."

Christine's face reddened. She started shaking her head and glanced at the receptionist.

"I really can't; I'm sorry. It's a terrible time for everyone. I'm so sorry but I just can't talk to you, Emma. I really have to go."

Christine headed for the door, giving her a compa.s.sionate but awkward smile that vanished when Emma seized her arm.

"Emma!"

"I just came from the fire, and I need to talk to you, Chris. I am your client, remember?"

Christine stared at her for a tense moment, then nodded to the sofa in the waiting area, keeping things within view of the receptionist, who was braced to call security.

"I talked to Polly about my baby and she told me she sold private information from your files, our DNA--"

"Stop, Emma."

"Why?"

Christine swallowed hard and dropped her voice.

"You've threatened to sue the company. I'm a partner and I was legally bound to report your threat to the board. I've been advised by our legal department not to talk to you as anything I say could potentially be used in your case against us."

"No, Chris, you don't understand."

"I'm so sorry."

"I was upset then."

Christine stood.

"You have to go, Emma. Go home, get some rest. Get some help."

"No. I need your help. Please, I'm begging you."

"It's all very, very tragic."

"I'm begging you, please."

"I can't talk to you, I'm so sorry."

"No, please just listen to me!" Emma reached for Christine's wrist.

"Larissa, can you call Mac in security to help Emma to her car?"

Emma released Christine's wrist, her voice breaking when she said, "That won't be necessary." She stood, touching her fingertips to the corners of her eyes. "You were an angel when Joe and I first came to you for help."

"I'm so sorry, Emma."

"Not sorry enough to help me."

By the time Emma had returned to her hotel room she was numb.

Smelling the smoke on her clothes, seeing her disheveled reflection in the mirror, she realized she needed a shower.

As steam clouds rose around her, she sobbed in great heaving waves. Overwhelmed by anguish she slammed her back against the wall and slid down to the shower floor, letting the water rush over her as she hugged herself in vain.

She'd already come apart.

Emma was exhausted when she stepped from the shower. As she pulled on a robe, the phone in her room rang and she answered it.

"Emma?"

"Yes."

"Oh, thank goodness, it's Aunt Marsha in Big Cloud."

"Hi."

"Emma, are you all right, dear?"

"I'm so tired."

"We were so worried. You gave us a scare, leaving like you did. We didn't know where you were. A concerned FBI agent gave us your hotel number. Emma, you've been through too much. Please, come home."

Emma didn't answer because she didn't know where home was anymore.

"Emma?"

She remained silent.

"Sweetheart, do you want us to fly there and get you?"

A long silence pa.s.sed, Emma felt warm tears flow.

"No. I'll come back."

The next morning, Emma's jet lifted off from LAX to Denver with a connection to Cheyenne. As she gazed down at the eternal urban sprawl she felt so small.

So lost.

And so alone.

She reached into her bag and touched Tyler's stuffed bear. As the plane climbed into the sky she was suddenly lying on the road again in Wyoming, reaching for her husband's hand.

I don't know if I can do this alone, Joe. Help me find him.

48.

Rabat, Morocco.

I've been sent a package from a dead man.

The thought raced through Jack Gannon's mind as he locked his hotel-room door, then tore open the yellow padded envelope from Adam Corley.

What he found inside was a small camel.

It was a beautiful object a bit larger than Gannon's palm. According to the tag affixed with a gold ta.s.sel to its neck, it had been carved from walnut wood by an artist in Essaouira, a town along the Atlantic coast.

Gannon also found a handwritten note in the envelope. "Jack: a gift to help you remember Morocco --Adam C."

Nothing else.

Gannon sat at the desk, puzzled.

Why did Corley send him this and when? He turned it over, running his fingers along its smooth surface. It was almost blood red with nice, overlapping grain. Its meaning was a mystery that Gannon was pondering when his phone rang. He placed the carving in his computer bag then answered.

"Mr. Gannon, this is the concierge. As you requested, we've looked into flights. You can depart Rabat early tomorrow morning on an Air France flight to Paris's Charles de Gaulle, where you will connect to New York for arrival at JFK late in the evening."

"I'll take it."

"Would you like us to confirm it on your credit card, sir?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Very well, we'll slide the ticket under your door later and arrange for a taxi for 6:45 a.m."

After hanging up, Gannon turned on his laptop. Among his e-mails were several from Oliver Pritchett in London and Melody Lyon in New York. Her most recent one asked, Haven't heard from you--what's happening?

It gave him pause.

How could he begin to answer her?

Well, other than being abducted, stripped and tortured, not bad.

Gannon decided it best to call Melody but when he reached for his phone, he started shaking. He ran his hand over his face.

Somehow the world felt different.

He felt different.

Now he understood why some a.s.sault victims refused to talk. The humiliation of the violation was overwhelming and it brought back images of Rio de Janeiro and the drug gang drilling a gun into his mouth, pulling the trigger on an empty chamber.

This sort of thing doesn't happen to guys like me. I'm a blue-collar n.o.body who grew up in Buffalo. I don't need this c.r.a.p. Maybe I should find a job at some safe suburban weekly.

Maybe I don't have what it takes.

Shut up! Suck it up. You asked for this, Gannon. You yearned to work for the WPA. Well, you got your wish, pal. Don't forget, Gabriela Rosa and Marcelo Verde paid with their lives for this story. So did Maria Santo, and now Adam Corley. Remember what Melody said--Find the truth, no matter where it leads. This is how we will honor the dead.

Gannon collected himself and started an e-mail to Melody Lyon.

A source was murdered before we met. I was questioned by police. I'm now on my way back to NYC with more crucial information. I'm okay. I'll discuss it with you in New York.

After he sent the e-mail his body shook again.

Maybe if he just talked to somebody, somebody he trusted. He pulled out his wallet for a Buffalo number. It took a few seconds for the overseas connection to go through.

"Clark Investigations. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you."

In that moment, Gannon pictured his friend Adell Clark, a divorced former FBI agent who ran a one-woman private detective agency out of her modest Parkview home in Lackawanna where she lived with her daughter. A few years back, Clark had been shot in an armored-car heist at a strip mall in Lewiston Heights. He'd profiled her, and they'd become friends and had many heart-to-hearts. Adell knew him better than he knew himself.

Could he bear to tell her what happened?

The message cue beeped.

No. Not now.

He hung up and dragged his hands across his face, then started packing. He was nearly done when his phone rang again.

"Jack, Pritchett in London. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he lied.

"You know what happened to Adam?"

"Yes."

"It's b.l.o.o.d.y horrible, the British Emba.s.sy called his father and he called us. Did you see him before he was killed?"