The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(127)

“How many in total?” Madison looked through the list.

“Twenty-five, but we’re also looking at the ones that were not booked—just in case.”

Madison swore under her breath.

The information sheet had been filtered by the day the booking had been made and whether it was a repeat customer.

“We’ve eliminated some, but there’s still fourteen on the list, depending how close to the airstrip your man wanted to be. We’ve got Kendall and Riverside—they’re privately owned and open for business.”

“I think our man wants something more discreet.”

“Well, we had a number of them, but some pretty much died out and were reclaimed by the woods. Sumas—up toward the border, though no one has caught a glimpse of it for years—and Pasayten, Marblemount, and Blankenship, but I can’t tell you whether they’re still in working order, and they’re well spread out.”

Madison looked at the map. An airstrip in the mountains, a turf airstrip, was little more than a ribbon of grass wide enough for a small plane to land and take off: no control tower, no air traffic controllers, and, most important, no lights. Whoever was flying in had to rely on natural light, and that could cut the day pretty short if the weather didn’t cooperate.

“Here,” Deputy Andrews said, and he passed Madison the plastic bag.

Inside was a thermos, a few sandwiches, a bottle of water, and candy bars—the kindness of law enforcement officers working a 2,500-square-mile “precinct.”

“Your people said you’ve been driving since before dawn, and, I quote, you wouldn’t have stopped for red lights, let alone food and drink.”

“Thank you—that’s very kind.”

The deputy blushed crimson. “This guy you’re looking for, he’s the real deal, isn’t he?” he said, changing the subject.

Which guy are we talking about?

“Yes, Peter Conway is a paid assassin—he kills people for a living. At least four in King County that we know of in the last weeks, and he has one accomplice with him.”

“We don’t get many of those types around here.”

“I guess not. Have you . . .” Madison didn’t want to be discourteous, but this was not a learn-on-the-job day, and she had to know just how green he was. “Have you dealt with this kind of situation before?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Better to know in advance and plan for it, she thought.

“I mean, not here. But I have done a couple of tours in Afghanistan. Infantry sniper. Seen plenty of stuff there to last me a while. Some hostage situations, too—that’s why they sent me to meet you.”

“Right.” Madison said, feeling like a very old fool.

They went back to their respective cars and headed northwest. Behind the cloud cover the sky was light and bright. A good day to fly.


Miles and miles away, in a small room without natural light, Dr. Takemoto watched as Vincent Foley patted the wall after drawing the latest of his lines. Vincent had not spoken to her today; he had ignored her. It looked as if soon there would be no bare wall left at all. The nurses looking after him had confirmed it: Vincent had stopped speaking almost completely. His main interaction with the world was through the worn green crayon in his hand.

Dr. Peterson studied him from the open door—Vincent’s hand was shaking a little, but was still capable of drawing a line. No one had said anything to him, and he had not even asked about the night of the fire, and yet, somewhere in the folds of his consciousness, the doctor was sure, Vincent had realized that Ronald was never coming back.

“What are you drawing, Vincent?” Dr. Peterson asked.

Vincent turned: fear had lived with him for so long, it had been the measure of the hours and the minutes of his days, and Vincent looked exhausted by it. In spite of the constant vibration within his body, he tapped the wall gently with the crayon. “The trail,” he said.





Chapter 62





The man smoothed the bandage on his injured side: it hurt every time he breathed, but at least it had stopped bleeding. Shouldn’t have gotten that close had been Conway’s only comment. It was the fifth time Conway had hired him for a job and the first time he had been wounded by a target during the pickup. This hostage did not behave like hostages do, and that fact bothered the man a great deal.

He slid open the lock on the basement door—a simple bolt that Conway had installed days earlier—and went in. From the top of the stairs he could see the prisoner clearly: he lay on his side on the stretcher, wrists and ankles bound with plastic cuffs. The hostage’s eyes were open and tracked him as he walked down the stairs, suddenly conscious of his uneven gait.