What the hell? she thought, unable to believe that one of her employees would participate in her kidnapping. Then a thought flashed through her—
My .38’s in that purse! Her heart began to pound. Should I grab for it, or just act like I’m casually picking it up?
The younger gunman made the decision for her. Aiming his automatic at her head, he lunged forward and snatched up the purse.
“Get in the fucking van!” he shouted.
With a last desolate look at Caitlin, Penn turned and walked to the van’s side door as though in complete surrender. As Longhair slid the door open, Penn hurled himself backward and shouted, “Run, Caitlin! Run for the street!”
She broke to her left, then hesitated as Longhair hammered his pistol against Penn’s neck, knocking him to the concrete. Her hesitation doomed her. The younger man was two steps faster than she, and fifteen yards down the wall he rode her into the cement. When she struggled to her knees, he punched the side of her head, and she felt her jaw rattle. Blinking away tears, she tried to clear her head, then toppled over like an animal darted with a tranquilizer.
The hands that grabbed her armpits felt made of stone, and they lifted her without effort. The last thing she remembered was the sound of duct tape being ripped from a roll.
CHAPTER 89
WHEN HENRY’S MOTHER finally reached his secret treatment room, she took off her 1950s-vintage hat and began sobbing as though he were dead. He tried to reassure her, but any embrace was prevented by the hastily assembled equipment that surrounded his hospital bed.
“Do you know what the FBI agent outside told me?” his mother asked, after they’d both regained their composure.
“What?”
“Not to tell you Sherry had passed away.” His mother suppressed another sob, wiped her eyes. “As if I would lie to my own son.”
Henry nodded. The FBI still seemed intent on keeping him in the dark about Sherry’s fate. They probably meant well, but he resented it nonetheless. “I guess they think I’m a basket case,” he said. “And maybe they’re right.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said, her jaw setting with anger. “They’re the ones who let you get shot!”
“You’re right.” They fell into a tense but companionable silence. After what seemed to Henry a couple of minutes, he said, “Did you bring the things I asked for?”
She nodded, worry etched in her face.
“Good. We may not have much time. Can you help me with these IVs?”
A retired nurse, Mrs. Sexton had no problem removing the IV lines from his hands, then placing bandages over the infusion sites. “Compress that left one,” she said. “The problem is your cardiac leads. As soon as we disconnect them, somebody’s gonna come running.”
Henry had already solved this problem. “Uh-uh. You’re going to put them on in my place. You know exactly where they go, don’t you?”
His mother sighed, then nodded in resignation. “I hope you know what you’re doing. You know I don’t believe in violence. Not without grave provocation, anyway. Old Testament provocation.”
Henry met her gaze and uncloaked a small fraction of his anguish.
His mother shut her eyes, then turned away.
“But you brought what I asked for?” he repeated. “Everything?”
“Yes.”
Lifting a shopping bag from the floor, she removed three items Henry had requested and laid them gently on the bed. Then she unbuttoned her blouse and unsnapped her brassiere. When both she and Henry were ready, she rapidly transferred the cardiac sensors to her own body. An alarm tripped for a few seconds, then returned to normal.
“You’d better go now,” she advised.
On his first try to rise from the bed, Henry got so dizzy that he fell back on the mattress. His mother told him to forget it, but he only redoubled his efforts. The second time, with her help, he managed to get to his feet. The pain took his breath away—worse in his head than in his belly, where the knife had gone in. Probably from the bullet, he realized.
While waiting for his mother, Henry had shaved his mustache, his goatee, his lower legs, and the backs of his hands, thanks to a cup of water and a toiletry kit begged from Irma McKay. From his mother’s handbag he took her extra wig and fitted it over his head. She made a few small adjustments, then lay back on the bed. Finally he donned an old raincoat of his father’s that resembled the coat she’d worn into the hospital. He hated wearing anything that reminded him of that man, but tonight he was willing to bear it. The coat pockets held a pair of sturdy sandals, which he carefully donned by dropping them to the floor and sliding his feet into them.