Tailspin(100)

“He told him to come immediately, that he had to leave without delay. He didn’t explain why. To him or to us,” she added with irritation. “How many times have we told him to keep us informed? How hard is it?”

“Maybe the matter wasn’t important enough for him to disturb our rest.”

“But important enough for him to tear out of here?”

“Delores, please stop prowling. Sit down, drink your coffee.”

She slapped her hand on the granite. “Stop being so damn calm.”

“One of us has to be,” he said, raising his voice for the first time. “What good is becoming hysterical doing you? Or me?”

She sat down on the barstool and reached across the island for his hand. “I’m not hysterical, I’m frightened.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s now less than fifteen hours until Nate must begin the infusion, and nothing toward that is happening.”

“You’ve jumped to that conclusion. On what basis? A few missed telephone calls, for which there are dozens of logical explanations.”

“I disagree. Ordinarily, perhaps, but not today. Nate knows his future is riding on this. Typically when one of us says jump, he asks how high. Now, he’s ignoring my calls? That’s worrisome, Richard. What if he’s become sympathetic to Dr. O’Neal’s cause?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“I’ve lost all faith in him.”

“I think that’s premature.”

“Or overdue,” she murmured.

“You were the last to speak with Goliad last night. What was said?”

“I told him how much safer we felt when he was around. And what does he do? Posts a chauffeur in his place. He knows better than to leave us in the lurch. Where did he go?”

“Maybe one of his many informants came through with a tip on Dr. O’Neal’s whereabouts, and he had to act on it immediately, before she eluded him again. Wouldn’t you rather him be in hot pursuit than giving you moment-by-moment play coverage?”

“Right now, I would appreciate both.” She sipped her coffee, thought for a moment, then picked up her phone again and punched in a number.

“Who now?” Richard asked.

“If Goliad has Dr. O’Neal in his sights, and he’s in hot pursuit, he will have taken Timmy along.”

5:35 a.m.



Timmy’s cell phone ring was an obnoxious rap beat. He looked at the readout and winked at Nate as he answered. “Good morning, Mrs. Hunt.”

Nate’s chest caved in, although he wondered how he could shrink into himself any further than he already had shrunk over the past four hours. Timmy had given him barely time enough to switch out his nightclothes for a suit and tie before manhandling him out of his condo.

At Timmy’s insistence, they’d eschewed the sleek, swift elevator and boarded one lined with quilted furniture pads that the building’s maintenance personnel used. Timmy had asked him what level of the parking garage his car was on. He pushed the bright orange button designating the second level. The elevator began its creaking descent. Nate had feared that when they reached bottom, he would be DOA, cocooned in one of the furniture pads.

But he’d still been alive when Timmy prodded him through the deserted garage to his car and told him to drive. Timmy had gotten in on the passenger side, giving a long wolf whistle in appreciation of the Jag’s interior.

Nate had driven from the garage as instructed, and thus the worst hours of his life had begun to unfold.

Occasionally consulting a map on his phone, Timmy had given him directions. Driving conditions couldn’t have been worse. They drove through downpours that caused Nate to hydroplane. The only advantage to the inclement weather was that traffic was minimal, enabling Nate to keep half his attention on the jackal in his passenger seat.

He’d kept his panic at bay only by telling himself that if Timmy had wanted him dead, he would have bled out by now on his living room floor. Or he’d have been a splatter on the sidewalk below his twenty-second-story window. Or he’d be gasping for his last breath in the trunk of his car.

Timmy wouldn’t have had him dress up if he was going to kill him.

Or had he just been making him casket-ready?

Gruesome thoughts such as that had compelled him to do exactly as Timmy had ordered, without argument, every mile of the journey, the destination of which had eventually become apparent.

Knoxville, Tennessee.

The rain had been relentless, and the farther north they went, the harder it fell. The topography turned hillier. The forested summits wore cowls of rain clouds and fog. They’d been a half hour out of Knoxville when Timmy had yawned, stretched, and scratched his crotch.

“Next exit has a Mickey D’s. I’m hungry.”

Nate had taken the exit, arrived at the McDonald’s, and pulled into the drive-through lane as told. Timmy had ordered a breakfast sandwich and coffee. Nate had declined food, and the last thing his nerves needed was caffeine. He’d ordered an orange juice, which, for some reason, Timmy had thought funny.

After picking up their order at the window, Timmy had told him to pull over and park. He’d done so. Timmy had devoured the sandwich with the dining manners of a hyena and had just relaxed against the seat to savor his coffee when his cell phone broadcast that auditory assault.