Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(28)

Way out here in the boonies. How very odd.

Dawn was lightening the sky, and he didn’t allow himself to slow down with cameras watching. Shortly after, he passed a driveway that wound up the hill, and at the top, an electronic gate. The structures inside were hidden by the contours of the hills and the thick trees, but he had memorized every one on the satellite map. There was a surprisingly large complex in there. The aerial photo had shown several vehicles parked outdoors, a small structure at the gate, a long building that might be a big car park, and a large house.

He forced himself to drive on. The road was narrow, with a steep drop-off and no possibility of turning for miles. When he found a wide spot, he got out and stared back at the horned hill, partially obscured by the hill he’d just climbed.

When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he drove back down to the bridge. Two tenths of a mile past it, he found a spot to offroad into the woods. He tossed the green tarp over his vehicle, and set out to snoop around. He could see the building on the hill at the point where the river’s course made a sharp right angle, where a deep gully and a dry streambed from the hill above merged with the river. Somewhat to the left of the top of the gulley and poised over a bluff of basaltic granite was the house, three stories high and expensive looking, with big terraces and picture windows overlooking the river canyon. Lights glowed in the upper stories, but what squeezed his heart was the window on the bottom floor. That floor was concrete, in contrast to the structure of wood and shingles above, and even at this distance and in the pale half light of dawn, with his hawk-vision, he could see the diagonal crosshairs of the chain link and the steel frame bolted over the window. From down here he could not see the horned hill, but up there, it would be visible. He could even individuate the trees that flanked the window.

Just like in Edie’s drawing. Two to the right, one to the left.

The day wore slowly on, as he poked carefully around, exploring that hill and the crest on the opposite side of the gulley, the best vantage point for spying. He had good binoculars, but saw almost as well with his own unassisted eyes. What he saw was not illuminating. Just people moving around, inside the house and out, conducting business he could not identify. He did not see Lara, or Greaves. A high-end RV was parked outside, but he did not see any other vehicles, just the long car park that could hold several.

The fence was probably electrified, so he kept a safe distance as he hiked the perimeter. Fortunately, he still had a protein bar, a few swallows of water, some shreds of jerked elk meat. Not that he had much appetite. Too wound up.

The hours crawled by, and as the sun’s rays started slanting in the mid-afternoon, he realized that he was stalling. He’d been hoping to hear something on the mind computer. Hoping to ask Lara about the window. Craving proof, corroboration, certainty.

So. Looked like he’d given in completely. He was thinking of the schizo Lara in his head as a real, live entity. The nuthouse could start preparing a room for him anytime now, but first, he’d save his imaginary friend from the imaginary bad guys and get himself some goddamn imaginary satisfaction in the process.

They could lock him up afterward. Fuck ’em.

He was tempted to just camp out there, as convinced as he was that he’d found the place. But that would be premature. He was not ready. He wouldn’t penetrate that compound alone. It would require supplies, planning, a well considered strategy. And the help of his highly unusual friends, whom he’d been treating like ten different kinds of shit lately.

They weren’t going to hold it against him in a situation like this, but still. He had some serious groveling to do.





7


Lara held herself under the jet of hot water, arms braced to stay upright. There was no separate shower stall. She had to straddle the toilet and lean to the side to wash herself in the miniscule bathroom. It was a challenge, in pitch darkness, but she was an old pro by now.

From what that freak Greaves said, she was in for a monster dose of their hellish drug the next time. Maybe it would kill her. Certainly it would change her. And if she had that horrible guy clamped on, sliming her, oh God. She’d thought Anabel was awful, but at least Anabel didn’t desire her sexually.

She didn’t even have a way to power dress. Nothing but the loose, limp jersey tank and matching pajama pants that appeared fresh every week in the metal drawer. No underwear. Maybe they figured underwear would incite rebellion. But she’d be damned if she’d go out to meet her fate if she wasn’t squeaky clean, hair combed, teeth brushed.

She stayed under the hot water for hours. Afterward, she used the limp, clammy linen towel and put her clothes on, such as they were. Her hair had gotten so long. She took her time, having plenty of time to fill, in braiding her wavy hair back, winding the end with a strip of pajama fabric. And that was it. No more prep.

She paced. Four steps forward, four steps back. Hugged her knees to her chest. Rocked. Tried to meditate. Wished she could fly away, hide in the Citadel. If only she . . .

Wait. The thought jarred her like a shock of electricity. Greaves had gotten so excited when she’d spun out, briefly, into one of her trips. She’d come back before he’d latched onto her, but if she hadn’t, she’d have taken off into the otherworld. With him telepathically linked.

And if she could do it then, without the injection, why not now? While she was alone, no one clamped on, breathing down her neck?