He quickly dialed Danley. “I need you to meet me tonight. We have to do something about that situation we discussed. I'm afraid we're going to have to escalate our time frame and go to Plan B.”
“Is that wise?”
He smothered his irritation. Danley had been skittish for the last two weeks and Betworth had had to keep the bastard calm. “I don't believe we have a choice. Boldness sometimes carries the day. As long as you and Jurgens give the correct orders and make damn sure they're carried out, we'll be fine. We'll discuss it tonight.” He hung up. Boldness would have to carry the day in this case. No reason why it wouldn't work. All the preparations had been made. Of course, he'd have to call Guatemala City and make sure Cordoba—
A discreet knock on the door before it opened. “I'm sorry to disturb you, sir.”
He glanced up to see Hannah Carter, his secretary, standing tentatively in the doorway. “What is it?”
“You have an appointment at the White House in ten minutes. You're meeting with the Vice President and the Secretary of the Interior. I was afraid you'd forgot—”
“I did.” He forced a smile as he rose to his feet. “But I can always count on you to save my ass, Hannah.”
“I'll call the Vice President's secretary and tell her you were held up by the environmental people.” Hannah smiled back at him. “He's been having real trouble for the past two months getting them to okay that bill approving massive shoring up of our infrastructure.”
“Brilliant. You should be doing this job, not me. I'm on my way.”
She flushed with pleasure, as he'd known she would. It was always worthwhile to devote a few minutes a day to making the people around you feel important. Spreading honey was the best way to maintain control. Hannah had been working for him for ten years, and he couldn't hope to have a more devoted employee. Honey usually worked with Danley too. He'd drawn him in with praise and compliments and then slammed the door once he committed himself.
But honey was not the method he'd use on Powers if he didn't stop making mistakes.
He might have to send Runne out there to do a little prodding. If he could locate the arrogant bastard. Runne hadn't answered his phone for two days, and even when he did deign to communicate it was questionable that he'd agree to do what Betworth ordered. If he weren't so useful, Betworth would tell Powers to get rid of him and get someone else for the job.
No, Runne was perfect. He'd chosen him for that very volatility and fanaticism. Betworth could handle him until the job was done. There was no need to dispose of him, as long as Runne remained obsessed with the hunt.
Stockton, Maine
The house appeared empty.
But Morgan was clever. It could be a trap.
Runne moved swiftly, silently over the autumn leaves spread on the ground before the window. He'd already disabled the alarm system, and it took only a moment to cut the glass of the window and unlock it.
Darkness.
Are you in there, Morgan?
He waited.
Silence. Emptiness.
Morgan was gone. He could feel it. Disappointment surged through him.
He swung over the windowsill into the room.
Paintings. Canvases. Morgan's studio. Like the studios in the other two houses where he'd just missed catching him.
Frustration and sorrow soared within him as he looked around.
Morgan hadn't bothered to pack up his canvases and take them with him, even though he'd known Runne would find this hiding place as he'd found the others. He knew Runne would not destroy them.
Destroy the man.
Destroy the soul.
Never destroy the beauty.
He would not turn on the lights. He would not look at the paintings. They would hurt too much.
But he knew the sketch would be somewhere in full view where he could find it. Morgan always took pains to make sure he wouldn't miss it.
There it was. By the window.
He didn't want to see it.
Yes, he did. At this moment he wanted nothing more in life than to see that sketch. He slowly walked toward it. As he drew closer, he saw that it wasn't just one sketch this time. There were several. He picked them up and held each one up to the moonlight streaming in the window.
Twisted. Haunted. Passionate.
It was Runne's face, sketched over and over. Each portrayal more revealing than the next. It made Runne feel naked and angry . . . and sad. He could feel the tears run down his cheeks.
Morgan, may you rot in hell.
It couldn't go on. Life was too unbearable. He couldn't keep hunting him down and then having him slip through his fingers.
He had to die.
Alex carefully opened her bedroom door.
It was after three A.M., and she could see the crack of light beneath the door of the study but no moving shadow on the other side. It was the fourth time she'd checked out the study and found it the same.