He’s got this new tax increase he’s trying to sell to the country, only
the media is ignoring him in favor of this. He said he’d even tried
to make a joke, but the media was still talking about Jabbers and his
sore neck.”
“Tell the president that if he wants me to go public, challenge
Krimakov at high noon, I’ll do it.”
“No,” Gaylan said,”you won’t. I won’t allow that. He could take
you out easily–his shot at the governor was from a distance of at
least fifteen hundred feet. You yourself pointed that out to me. He’s
better than good, Thomas, he’s one of the best.” He held up his
hand when Thomas would have said something. “No, let me finish.
All I’m saying is that we’ve got to come up with something else.
Somehow, we’ve got to make him dance to our tune.”
“A lot of very good minds are working on this, as you know,
since some of those minds work for you.”
Gaylan nodded, picked up a pen from Thomas’s desk, and began
rhythmically tapping it against his knee. “Yes, I know. But for now,
your whereabouts stays unknown. I’ll tell the president that everything
will be resolved in a couple more days. Think it’s possible?”
“Sure, why not?” And he thought, How the hell am I supposed to
make that come about?
“All right. We continue the silence. What about that incident
with Krimakov in Riptide?”
Thomas said, “Evidently, the media doesn’t know about her visit
there yet. And Tyler McBride–you know, the man whose son
Krimakov kidnapped in Riptide–he isn’t saying anything to anyone
about Becca. I think he’s in love with her and that’s why he
won’t explode sky-high with all this. Becca, however, as much as
she cares for his little boy, isn’t headed his way.” He paused a moment,
looking down at the onyx pen set that Allison had given him
some five Christmases before. “It’s Adam,” he said, smiling briefly
as he looked at his old friend. “Isn’t that nice?”
Gaylan Woodhouse grunted. “I’m too old,” he said, then sighed
again. “Krimakov won’t find you, Thomas. Don’t worry. I’ll deal
with the president. Let’s say forty-eight hours, then we’ll reassess.
Okay?”
“Again, Gaylan, maybe Krimakov needs to find me. Forget the
president’s political agenda. Just maybe Krimakov’s reign of terror
will continue until he knows where I am. Maybe we should let
him know, somehow.”
“We’ll all think about that, but not just yet. Forty-eight hours.
Jesus, next the guy might try to shoot off the mayor’s wig.” Gaylan
Woodhouse rose, dropped the pen back on top of the desk, shook
Thomas’s hand, and stepped back through the door, where the
shadows were thicker. Three dark-suited men fell in beside and behind
him as he left Thomas’s house.
Thomas stared after him. Shadows surrounded him. Thomas understood
shadows very well. He’d lived in the shadows himself for so
long he could see them even as they gathered around him, and wondered
if after a while anyone would actually see him or just the shadows.
Forget shadows, Thomas thought. Now wasn’t the time to wax
philosophical. He thought about the meeting. Gaylan was a good
friend. He’d hold out against the president’s whining about losing
the limelight for as long as he could. Forty-eight hours–that was
the deal. It wasn’t a lot of time and yet it was an eternity. Only Krimakov
knew which.
The next evening, Sherlock and Savich arrived with thick folders
of papers, MAX, and Sean, who reared up on Savich’s shoulder,
staring about sleepily at everyone, a graham cracker clutched in his
hand.
Sherlock looked at everyone in the living room. She didn’t look
happy as she said, “I’m really sorry here, guys, but our handwriting
experts turned up something we didn’t expect.”
“What have you got, Sherlock?” Adam asked, rising slowly, his
eyes never leaving her face.
“We were hoping to learn whether or not Krimakov’s mental
state had deteriorated, at least determine where he was sitting
presently on the sanity scale, in order to give us a better chance of
dealing with him, predicting what he might do, that sort of thing.
That’s off now. We have no idea, you see, because the two new