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  “I am.”

  “It doesn’t look like he’s coming in tonight.”

  “I know for a fact that Tom is here as we speak.”

  The doorman aimed a disapproving glance at the barman. The barman stared right back, not exhibiting a hint of fear or embarrassment.

  “Sir, we don’t need any trouble.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Good. Then why don’t you settle your check and leave?”

  “After I’ve spoken to Tom.”

  Unimpressed, the doorman sniffed. It was obvious he didn’t like Terry using Degrasse’s first name or his lack of compliance with his request. A vein in the doorman’s temple pulsed.

  “Sir, don’t force me to make an embarrassing scene.”

  “Don’t force me to shout at the top of my voice that there is a cockroach sharing my salad. And believe me, I brought one with me for such an occasion.”

  The doorman’s face blackened. The vein spasmed.

  “Now get Tom. Tell him it’s Terry Sheffield. There’s a good chap.”

  The doorman straightened and headed toward a door marked PRIVATE. The barman smirked.

  “Do you really have a cockroach?”

  “No.”

  He grinned. “That was slick.”

  A couple of minutes later, the doorman returned, but didn’t stop to speak to Terry. He kept on going and returned to his post at the front door, ignoring the hostess’s questions.

  Terry’s ahi arrived and a minute later so did Tom Degrasse.

  “You wanted to talk, so let’s talk. Follow me.”

  “What about my dinner?”

  “I’ll have it brought over.”

  The dining area was L-shaped. Terry followed Degrasse into a secluded corner of the restaurant. They wouldn’t be overheard in the booth Degrasse chose. Other tables were close, but no one was seated within a three-table radius. A waitress brought Terry’s meal after they were seated. Degrasse declined a drink.

  “This is excellent,” Terry said after his first bite.

  Without much enthusiasm Degrasse said, “Our chef is one of the finest in California.”

  “No argument here.”

  When the waitress was out of earshot he said, “Okay, you’ve got my attention. What do you want?”

  “I want to find Sarah.”

  “I told you I can’t help you.”

  Terry put his fork down. “I find that hard to believe, seeing as you two were such close buddies.”

  Degrasse stiffened and leaned back. “Who told you that?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Degrasse said nothing.

  “Sarah called yesterday,” Terry said.

  “Then what are you doing wasting my time?”

  “Because she won’t come out of hiding, and I want to know what you know about it.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Terry smiled. “You seemed to have all the answers in the coffee shop. Now, you know nothing. You barely left ten words on my answering machine. Are you two working on this story together?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you. Convince me.”

  Degrasse huffed and gestured to a passing waiter. “I’ll have a Jack Daniels on the rocks and whatever he wants.”

  Terry tapped his glass. “I’ll have another lemonade, thanks.”

  The reporter didn’t say anything until the waiter returned with the drinks. Terry didn’t mind. It gave him time to savor his dinner. Degrasse didn’t rely on his celebrity status to pull in the punters. He let the food do the talking for him.

  Degrasse shot back his bourbon. “Many years ago, Sarah and I worked for the Examiner. We were both hungry and hoping for that one story that would get us a plum job with the LA Times, Newsweek, or whatever. We were both good, and it was a constant battle to outdo each other. We both wanted to be number one in the chief editor’s eyes. After two years of sparring with each other, we ended up working different ends of a big story, so we combined forces. It was the first and last time we worked with each other.”

  He went quiet and stared at the ice melting in his Jack Daniels. Recollection knotted his face. Disgusted, he polished off what was left of his drink in one swallow.

  “Why was it your last collaboration?”

  “Sarah stiffed me.”

  Rendezvous’s food was second to none, but Terry wanted to jam the plate in the TV reporter’s face for trashing his wife’s name. His good manners restrained him.

  “How?”

  “I told you Sarah liked to pull stunts, didn’t I?”

  Terry chose not to acknowledge the remark and swigged his lemonade instead.

  “We had our story, and we were going to be there as part of a police sting operation. We had clearance, or so I thought. Sarah neglected to forward my name to the cops. When the moment came, Sarah went in, and I was detained until the story was in the bag. Sarah got the front page and an offer from the Chronicle. I got the shaft.”

  Terry indicated the restaurant with his fork. “You haven’t done too badly with the setback.”

  Degrasse’s smile was bitter and cruel. “Let’s say Sarah was my inspiration not to let a setback be a disadvantage.”

  “What was the story?”

  “Ten officers from the Oakland port authority were smuggling in illegal immigrants and drugs. The story changed port authority procedure.”

  Terry wasn’t swallowing Degrasse’s story. He didn’t doubt the story’s authenticity, but something didn’t ring true. Degrasse exuded something more than bitterness.

  “So what does that have to do with Sarah’s disappearing act?”

  Degrasse shrugged. “Not much. But it gives you insight into Sarah. I hope that helps.”

  It didn’t. Degrasse’s sob story was a fluff piece, nothing more.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to. Don’t worry about the check. It’s on me.” Degrasse rose to leave.

  “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  Degrasse retook his seat. “You really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “You won’t let it go, will you?”

  Terry shook his head.

  “Are all English people as bullheaded as you?”

  “You’ll have to ask them.”

  Degrasse snorted. “Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Sarah and I were lovers.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Terry drove with the Monte’s window down. The chilled night air whipped his face as the Chevy raced across the Bay Bridge. He couldn’t have been more wrong about Tom Degrasse if he’d tried. He felt such a fool for getting the wrong end of the stick.

  Once Degrasse had admitted his affair with Sarah, he let his guard down and held nothing back. He and Sarah had been an item until she cut him out of the port authority piece. But their separation didn’t last long. Neither of them could ignore their attraction for the other, and a series of casual flings had ensued. He admitted Sarah had finally broken things off for good.

  Their final breakup had occurred the month before Terry met Sarah in Costa Rica. Degrasse had tried to revive their affair when she returned, but Sarah had rejected him for good once she had Terry in her life. It relieved Terry to hear that. At least she’d been faithful. The Bay Bridge came to an end and Terry pushed the gas pedal a little harder.

  A disturbing thought scratched at the back of his mind. It hadn’t bothered him at the time. The embarrassment he’d felt during Degrasse’s revelation had blurred his concentration, but in the seclusion of his car with nothing but the Monte’s engine whine and the wind flapping through the window, it occurred to him. Degrasse’s preoccupation with Sarah bordered on the obsessive. He remembered the intensity in the reporter’s eyes and the passion in his voice when he spoke of the moment he had realized he’d lost Sarah forever. Terry shivered and rolled up the window.


  He replayed his conversation with Degrasse over and over in his mind. Each time, he tried to recall anything strange. The traffic thinned after the Carquinez Bridge and his foot squashed the accelerator into the carpet. He wanted to get home as quickly as he could—or did he just want to get away?

  The phone was ringing when he arrived home. It was Sarah.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded. “I’ve been calling all night.”

  He checked his watch. It was after ten. “I went out for dinner.”

  He decided not to tell her about meeting with Tom Degrasse, especially now that he knew about their past. It was something she should tell him about. Something to be shared during a carefree moment, not when she was hiding for her life.

  “Are you coming home?” he asked.

  “I can’t. It’s still too dangerous.”

  “Jesus, Sarah, I don’t want to have this same telephone conversation every time you call.”

  “Terry, I’ve explained. I can’t come home.”

  “Christ, you make it sound like a Tom Clancy novel.”

  She didn’t dignify his snide remark with an answer. “I’m calling because I want you to know I’m okay, and when I have this story cracked, I’ll come back home.”

  She made everything he’d endured sound like no big deal.

  “And when do you think you’ll have this story cracked?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sarah, you can’t keep expecting to me to live like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Honey, I’ll be back soon. Our marriage is in the oven. Keep it warm until I get back.”

  “I thought you’d be supportive.”

  I would be, he thought, if I knew what was going on. He was tired of arguing.

  “The cops know you’re not missing.”

  “You told them?” An arctic breath followed her words.

  “I had to.”

  “Terry, you don’t know what you’ve done.”

  “You’re right, I don’t, because you won’t tell me.”

  “Is this phone tapped?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Terry couldn’t imagine Holman having the resources to have organized and installed wiretaps in twenty-four hours. Besides, he would have needed a warrant and it seemed unlikely for a missing person’s case, especially since Sarah wasn’t a missing person anymore. He didn’t know what to call her now.

  “I know the phone isn’t tapped.”

  “You’re probably right, but I can’t take any chances. I won’t call back again until this is all over.”

  “You can’t do this to me.”

  “You did it to yourself. You called the cops, not me.”

  “Meet me somewhere, Sarah.”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Give me your cell number. I’ll call you tomorrow to arrange a time and place.”

  He gave her the number. “You will call, won’t you?”

  “Yes. But you’ve got to promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

  “I promise. Scout’s honor,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

  Sarah hung up.

  Terry exhaled. He was finally going to see his wife.

  Sarah was true to her word and phoned him. He’d wondered if she’d really call. His ringing cell in the lab drew everyone’s attention.

  “Are you alone?” she asked.

  A hello would nice, he thought. “No, but I can be.”

  He got up from his workbench and headed out of the lab. He spotted Pamela eyeing him with disapproval. He pretended not to see and kept on going. He left the building for the parking lot.

  “I’m somewhere quiet,” he said when he was outside.

  “Do you know the Sunset Mall in Fairfield?”

  It was a twenty-five minute drive from Genavax, but Terry would get there in ten if he had to. “Yes.”

  “Good. Meet me there at six tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “Do you know the food court between the Barnes and Noble and the theater?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait for me outside the Mexican restaurant.”

  “I can’t wait to see you.”

  “Me too.” There was real affection in her words. Up until then, she’d been abrupt and businesslike. Now she was herself. The Sarah he knew. “I’ll see you later.”

  Terry spent the rest of the day suppressing his excitement. He couldn’t afford for Pamela or Frosty to guess that he was going to see her. He spent the day working on a speech that would force Sarah into coming home with him. Before he knew it five o’clock came and went. All he had to do was put his microtiter trays in the freezer and he was out of there. He checked his watch. It was 5:25 p.m. There was still plenty of time to get to the mall. He carried his rack over to the freezer and propped the door open with the wedge before walking inside. The arctic chill struck him, but not as much as the sound of the freezer door closing behind him.

  “Hey, I’m still in here,” Terry shouted and banged on the door.

  He sounded good, not an ounce of panic in his voice. The door closing on him was an accident. Things like this happened from time to time. The sensible and rational Terry told himself these things, but too much had happened for him to be sensible. The new Terry didn’t believe for one second that the wedge had popped out by accident or that someone hadn’t realized he was inside and closed the door. He knew the moment the door slammed shut that someone had closed it on purpose.

  Pamela or Frosty did this. They couldn’t bribe Terry, so they were trying to kill him. He’d felt the vibe change after their botched payoff attempt. Pamela had asked him about signing the contract twice more after their meeting, but she’d let the matter drop. He’d searched for any other packages from the children’s hospital and found nothing. They were covering their tracks and that included him.

  Terry wasn’t dead yet. If Pamela and Frosty wanted to kill him, they should have chosen a faster method. Freezing to death took time. Security was still on duty. A couple of guys in shipping and production worked late most nights. A few of the managers stayed through 6:00 p.m. All he needed was just one to come into the lab and hear him. Just one.

  “Hey, I’m in here.” His plea materialized as vapor. Like him, it went nowhere, blooming before him then dissipating into nothing.

  His screams were pointless. The freezer was heavily insulated to keep the heat out, but worked just as well at keeping voices in. He was just wasting precious energy. In the short time the door had been closed the temperature had tumbled. The oppressive cold was already surrounding him, squeezing through his pores. His lab coat, a polo shirt, and chinos offered little protection. He probably had no more than thirty minutes before the arctic conditions got the better of him, but considering how he could already feel the freezer drawing the heat from his body, he thought the cold would kill him faster than that.

  He’d never make it through to morning when his coworkers returned to the lab. He had to break his way out. There was no way he could beat on the door. The freezer walls were bare metal and he hadn’t worn his protective gauntlets. If he touched the walls, the skin would be torn from his flesh. He kicked the door, placing a shoe heel where the door lock would be. He kicked again.

  And again.

  Every well-placed kick deformed the aluminum lining around the door. Each impact left a black rubber skid mark from his Doc Martens. Spurred on by his success, he kicked and kicked, lashing the door with ferocious energy.

  But with every well-placed kick, Terry sucked in lungs full of arctic air. The freezing air clawed at his insides, burning like acid as it rushed down his throat. After two dozen well-delivered kicks, he stopped. The door’s inner lining had buckled, but it hadn’t broken.

  He bent over, resting his hands on his knees and wheezing like an asthmatic. His chest bound up with each breath. The cold spread out from his lungs and wormed its way into his veins. His body seemed to be
aging a decade with every minute.

  Brute strength wasn’t going to save him. Physics would. He needed a tool to bust the door open. But what was there in the freezer he could use? Like old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard, the freezer was bare—except for the storage racks. The plastic trays were useless, but the steel racks had potential.

  Like the freezer walls, Terry couldn’t touch the metal racks. He tore off his lab coat, and with the help of his door key as a makeshift knife, he ripped off the sleeves and bound his hands.

  Ignoring the value of the experiments frozen in suspension in the trays, Terry knocked over one of the racks. It clattered to the ground. Half the trays spilled out across the floor, frozen tissue samples and peptides exploding from the compartments. Yanking out the remaining trays, he hoisted the rack free of the carnage. Raising it as high as he could, Terry smashed the rack onto the floor on its corner. The rack buckled, losing its box shape. He raised and smashed it on the ground again and again, ignoring the tingling shooting through his arms, until the rack splintered. The frame broke into three pieces, exposing the L-shaped runners the trays rested on. The runners weren’t fully welded, only tacked at the corners. From the tangled wreckage, he twisted one off. He had to stand on the frame to break the final weld, but it came away easily.

  Using the runner as a crowbar, he jammed it into the narrow gap between the freezer door and doorframe. It took three blows to wedge it into the gap. He worked the runner back and forth until it was good and tight before he heaved on his makeshift crowbar. It popped out of the gap without any effect on the door. He cursed.

  Although his hands were bandaged in the sleeves from his lab coat, he held the runner so tightly the frozen metal scorched his palms. It didn’t deter him. Without pause, he smashed the runner into the gap again. He leaned on it to spring the door. It popped out of the joint again. He tried again and again to force the door. Each time he failed, only succeeding in breaking the freezer’s aluminum skin and exposing its insulation.

  He changed his approach and used the runner as a spade. He dug away at the layers of insulation. He belched white vapor like a broken steam pipe, obscuring his view of what he was doing. The insulation came away easily, exposing the lock. He smashed at the mechanism in the hope of busting it and pushing the door open, but the lock was not as feeble as the aluminum sheathing. Terry’s repeated blows failed to make an impact, and the frustration that had fueled him now drained him.