But he would not let them kill Jon. That far he would not go.
He waited among the trees, watching the rustic lodge and the matching outbuildings. Insects buzzed. The aroma of sun-warmed forest duff scented the air. His pulse began to race.
After fifteen minutes, he heard the Land Rover. With relief, he watched it pass where he hid and disappear southeast among the trees. Tremont and al-Hassan would reach the main country road after a few more miles and drive on into Long Lake village to prepare for the ceremony. That did not give him much time.
Urgency swept through him as he drove back to the lodge, parked behind the staff wing, and hurried to a cyclone-fenced enclosure at the edge of the woods, out of sight of the lodge. He unlocked the gate and whistled softly. The large Doberman appeared silently from inside a wood doghouse. His brown coat shone in the mountain light. His sharply pointed ears periscoped forward as his intelligent eyes never strayed from Griffin.
Griffin stroked the dog behind his ears and spoke quietly. “Ready, boy? Time to go to work.”
He headed out of the enclosure, the big dog trotting softly behind. He relocked the gate, and they moved swiftly toward the lodge. He watched everywhere. The three-man outside security team should be no problem, since they knew him. Still, he would rather not take the chance. At a side door of the lodge, he breathed deeply and gazed around one more time. Then he opened the door, and he and the Doberman entered. The house was eerily quiet, a massive wood coffin. Almost everyone had left for the celebration at Blanchard headquarters in Long Lake village, with the exception of a few technicians in the big lab on the second floor. Tremont would not stash a prisoner on the lab floor.
The rest of the lodge should be empty, except for Marty and perhaps an armed guard to watch him. He bent to the Doberman. “Sweep the area, boy.”
The Doberman vanished among the corridors, as silent as fog rolling across a moor. Griffin waited, listening to the relaxed chatter of two of the security men who had paused outside a window as they made their individual rounds.
Two minutes passed, and then the Doberman was back, circling and eager to lead Griffin to what he had found. Griffin followed the pacing animal along a hallway lined with doors to guest rooms that had once been the retreats of the nineteenth-century wealthy, who had played here at returning to nature. But the dog stopped at none. Instead, he continued on past the gleaming kitchen, strangely silent and empty because the cooks and scullery staff had been given the afternoon off to attend the festivities in Long Lake village.
At last the dog stopped before a closed door. Griffin tried the knob. It was locked.
His skin prickled with nerves. The enormous empty house was enough to make anyone edgy, but now Griffin was about to open a door he had never seen beyond. Glancing right and left, he drew a small case from his jacket pocket and extracted a set of narrow picklocks. He worked skillfully through three of them. Finally the fourth opened the lock with a quiet click.
Griffin pulled out his pistol and turned the knob. The door swung open silently, its hinges well oiled. Inside was a faint smell of mold. He felt around the wall until he found a light switch. He flicked it on, and an overhead lamp illuminated stairs that disappeared down into a cellar. Griffin gave a hand signal and closed the door. The Doberman raced down to continue its mission, nails tapping on the wood stairs.
As Griffin waited, he stared uneasily down into the darkness. The dog was back in seconds, indicating for Griffin to follow.
Griffin found another light switch midway down. This turned on a series of overhead lights that illuminated a large cellar with open storage rooms filled with cardboard banker’s boxes. Each box was neatly labeled with the names of files, sources, dates— the history of a scientist and businessman. But the dog’s interest was at the only closed door. He circled warily in front of it.
His gun ready, Griffin pressed his ear against the door. When he heard nothing, he looked down at the dog. “A mystery, eh, boy?”
The dog lifted his muzzle as if in agreement. Right now the animal was merely watchful and alert, but if Griffin should need him, he would instantly turn into a killer.
Using his tools again, Griffin unlocked the door, but he did not open it. The basement area seemed like a sepulchre. It increased his disquiet. His veins rushed with an urgency that he act, but prudence had taught him long ago to never expect the expected. He did not know what waited on the other side of the door— whether it was an armed squad, a madman, or simply nothing. Whatever it was, he would damn well be prepared.
Again he listened. Finally he put the picklocks away, gripped his weapon firmly, and pressed open the door.
The room was a dark, shadowy cell with no windows. A rectangle of light spilled in from the hallway. Ahead, a mounded figure lay on the only piece of furniture— a narrow cot shoved against the far wall. There was an open pot on the floor, and the unpleasant odor of urine rose from it. The whole place gave off an air of danger and sadness. Griffin quickly signaled the Doberman to guard the doorway and sped softly to the bed. A small, rotund man was sleeping under a wool blanket.
He whispered, “Zellerbach?”
Marty opened his eyes. “What? Who?” His speech was slow; his movements stiff.
“Are you all right? Are you injured?” Griffin supported his shoulders until Marty was sitting upright. For a moment, he thought Marty had been hurt and then that he was disoriented by sleep. But as the fellow shook his head and rubbed his eyes, Griffin remembered the Marty Zellerbach he had known in high school. He was Jon’s other close friend— the crazy, supercilious bastard who was always getting Jon into fights and arguments. Not crazy or arrogant, they found out later, but sick. Some kind of autism.
He swore silently. Could the guy tell him what he needed to know?
He tried, “Bill Griffin, Marty. Remember me?”
Marty stiffened in the shadows. The cot creaked. “Griffin? Where have you been? I’ve been searching for you everywhere. Jon wants to speak to you.”
“And I want to speak with him. How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know. It seems like a long time.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Tell?” Marty remembered all the questions. The blow to his head and the blackness. “It was terrible. Those men are deviants. They enjoy other people’s pain. I was… unconscious.” His heart thundered as he thought back to the wretched experience. It seemed to have happened only minutes before, as fresh in his mind as an open wound. But the events were muddy, too. Confused. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He knew a lot of the problem was he had been on his meds. “I don’t think I told them anything.”
Griffin nodded. “I don’t think you did either.” If he had, they would have captured or killed Jon by now. But then, the Russell woman could have killed Jon already, too. “I’m going to get you out of here, Marty. Then you can take me to Jon.”
Marty’s round face was anguished as he admitted, “I’m not sure where he is.”
Griffin swore. “Wait. Okay, think. Where could he be? You must’ve arranged somewhere to meet. You’re some kind of genius. Geniuses always think of things like that.”
Marty was suddenly suspicious. “How did you find me?” He had never liked Bill Griffin. Bill had been a loudmouth and know-it-all back when they had been in school together, even though— at least in Marty’s opinion— Bill was really just above average. Plus, Bill had vied with Marty for Jon’s attention. Marty cringed back against the wall. “You could be one of them!”
“I am one of them. By now, Jon knows it, too. But he’s in a lot more danger than he thinks, and I don’t want him killed. I’ve got to help him.”
Marty wanted to help Jon, too, which made him want to trust Griffin. But could he? How could he be sure?
Griffin studied Marty. “Look, I’m going to get you out of here safely. Will you believe me then and tell me where you were supposed to meet Jon? We’ll go there together.”
Marty cocked his head. His gaze grew sharp and analytical. “All right.” It was a simple matter, he told himself. If he decided he did not trust Griffin, he would simply lie.
“Good. Come on.”
“Can’t. They chained me to the wall.” Forlornly, Marty held up his hands and shook his right leg. Thin, strong chains were attached to brackets on the wall. Each was secured by a powerful padlock.