can contact his unit…or is he AWOL?”
“No,” Healy said, “he’s not AWOL. At least as far as we know. But the Army won’t tell us anything. They act like he doesn’t exist.”
That got Keller’s attention. His pacing had brought him back to the office door. He knocked, then entered.
Marie looked up at him. “We should have sprung for the thicker paneling,”
Keller said. “I can hear every word you’re saying in here.”
Healy gave a sharp laugh. “Well, you might as well sit in, then.” A flash of annoyance crossed Marie’s face and Keller took the other client chair.
“So you know this guy’s military,” Keller said, “but no one will tell you anything about him. That can only mean one thing. He’s Special Ops, isn’t he?”
Healy nodded. “Delta.”
“Well, that’s it, then,” Keller said. “You won’t find him. It’s like pulling teeth to even get the Army to acknowledge there is such a thing as Delta, let alone tell you where any of their people are.”
“That’s where I was hoping Ms. Jones could help,”
Healy said. “And maybe you could as well. Scott McCaskill tells me you’re pretty good at finding people.”
Keller shook his head. “I bring in bail jumpers,” he said, “not commandos.”
“You’ve been in the military,” Healy said. “You speak the language. You know your way around.”
Keller snorted. “Scott obviously hasn’t told you everything,” he said. “I didn’t exactly leave the Army on the best of terms.”
“So you don’t want to help?” Healy said.
Keller looked at Marie. She refused to meet his eyes. The words he was about to say died in his throat. He had promised to be there for her. He had promised not to let his own demons drive them apart. He turned to Healy.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good.” Healy stood up and handed a file across the desk to Marie. “I’ll tell the client to call you,” she said.
She held out her hand. Keller stood up and took it. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Keller,” she said. She closed the door as she walked out.
Keller turned to Marie. “I can try calling—”
“Jack,” she interrupted, “what the hell are you doing?” Her voice was low and furious.
“Whoa,” Keller said. He held up his hands in a warding gesture. “If you don’t want my help, just say so.”
“Why are you doing this?” she demanded. “You don’t think I can handle it on my own?”
“I know you can,” Keller said. “It was Healy who brought it up. And she played me pretty well to get me to agree.”
“She’s a lawyer,” Marie said absently. “It’s what they do.” She rubbed her hands over her face and sighed. “Okay,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little…I don’t know, I’m trying to figure out where we are right now.”
“You’re not the only one,” Keller said.
She laughed.
“So you’re taking this one?” Keller said.
Marie spread her hands. “What am I supposed to do?” she said. “I’m trying to get a business off the ground, Jack,” she said. “I’ve got a kid of my own to feed and an ex who’s three months behind on his child support. I can’t turn down work.”
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll lend a hand.”
She stood up, slowly, grimacing slightly. She had been shot in the abdomen by the last person she had tried to apprehend, and the wound still pained her. She limped slightly as she came around the desk. “Thanks, Jack,” she murmured as she came into his arms. She nestled the top of her head beneath his chin. “I don’t have any more appointments today,” she said softly, “and Ben’s at day care till five. No one’s at the house.”
“And that means?” Keller said.
She poked him hard in the ribs and laughed. “You know damn well what it means, Jack Keller.”
“I’ll drive,” he said.
She laughed and gave him a squeeze. Then her face turned serious again. “Did you think it was going to be this hard?” she said.
“What?”
“Being together. You and me.”
He tucked her head back under his chin and stroked her light brown hair. “I didn’t think at all about it,” he said. “It just kind of happened.”
Her voice against his chest was muffled, but he could still hear the tension in it. “So is it worth it?”
He kissed the top of her head. “Yeah.”
***
DeGroot was frustrated. He sat down in a wooden chair in front of his subject and took off his surgical mask and goggles. The subject was presumably HIV negative, but one never knew. He wiped a spatter of blood from the goggles with a towel.
He realized now that he had made a mistake. He had tried to rush things, instead of going by the book. He should have known better. Through a dozen wars, across Africa and Asia, he had perfected the craft of extracting information. Physical interrogation should start with small indignities: a cuff, a slap, denial of food or sleep. Then the pressure should be ratcheted up in small increments, between periods where the subject is left alone to consider the next level, his imagination becoming the interrogator’s ally as he worries and wonders how bad it could get. The extreme methods should be saved for the last resort. But DeGroot had let the time pressure get to him. He wondered briefly if his earlier speech to the subject had been a bit of denial on his part, wondered if he was becoming one of those people who enjoyed inflicting pain.
“Maybe I’m gettin’ bossies in my old age,” he said out loud to the subject in the chair. The word was slang for bosbevok—“bush crazy.” “Maybe it’s time to retire, eh, boet?” The man didn’t answer. His head still hung forward slackly so that DeGroot couldn’t see his face. A drop of blood fell from his face to join the pool on the chair between his legs.
DeGroot picked up the galvanized steel bucket beside his own chair. It was empty. He sighed. Besides the dodgy electrical wiring, the running water in the safe house was a meager trickle of rust-stained water from the faucets.
He would have to revive the subject with water from the ancient pump outside. As he stood up, his cell phone rang. He muttered under his breath and answered it. “Go,” was all he said.
The voice on the other end was agitated. “We still haven’t found Dave,” he said.
The Afrikaner looked at the man in the chair. “Keep looking,” he said. He turned away. “Do you have his key?”
The brief pause was all the answer he needed. DeGroot cursed under his breath. “No,” the voice said. “We figured he had it with him.”
“BOBBYYYYY!” the man in the chair bellowed. “MIIIIIIKE! HELP MEEEEEE!”
DeGroot looked up in shock. The subject was awake, struggling against his bonds and yelling at the top of his lungs.
DeGroot heard a confused “Dave? Was that Dave?” before he swore and snapped the phone shut. He advanced on the man in the chair, his arm poised for a backhand blow. He stopped short. Lundgren was smiling at him through his mouthful of broken teeth. His one remaining eye glittered with triumph. “Psych,” he whispered. “Psyched you out, you fucker.”
“Clever