Collision

She knew who to call. Because, yes, Adam had mentioned Sam Hector to her, as a man who was going to give him money to help develop his product. She found his name in Adam’s address book on the computer they shared when he was here in town, and found a number for Hector marked “direct private line.”

Delia Moon reached for the phone.

20

Ben and Pilgrim found a chain motel, one so new the landscaping wasn’t finished. It sat near the LBJ Freeway that cut across the northern stretches of the city. Pilgrim paid cash for the room. He left the money and the rest of the gear, except for one cloth bag, in the back of the Volvo.

Pilgrim looked pale as they headed up the stairs.

“Are you all right?”

“My bandages. I might need you to rewrap them.”

“Okay,” Ben said. They went inside the room; it was clean and neat. Ben turned on the television and started hunting for a news channel; Pilgrim tossed the bag onto one of the twin beds. Pilgrim went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Ben found CNN. The deaths in Austin remained the lead story, his face still on the news, still being sought as a “person of interest.” But then a photo of Emily appeared on the screen, and his throat plummeted into his chest.

The reporter, with a perfectly arched eyebrow, said: “Forsberg’s past includes an unsolved murder-that of his wife, Emily Forsberg, two years ago.” Ben grabbed the remote and switched off the TV. No.

He missed Emily with a grief that made his body ache. Fragments of the past spun into his mind: glancing up the green spill of hill that backed to their rental house, seeing no one, in the moments after Emily died; the Hawaiian police telling him someone had shot out windows at four nearby properties that morning, so this was probably a random shooting, his life destroyed for no reason; Sam Hector speaking at Emily’s memorial, of her grace and her remarkable work ethic and her dignity; Ben finally leaving their home in Dallas, knowing he could not stay, crowded by memories of her, and yet believing that abandoning the house they’d shared would be a final betrayal.

Pilgrim came out of the bathroom, stopped in the doorway. “I need you to check the bandages.”

“Sure,” Ben said. He stepped inside the bathroom and a bracelet of plastic closed around his wrist.

“What the hell…” He struggled and fought, but Pilgrim shoved him hard to the tiles and had already closed the other side of the plastic restraint around the pipe on the bottom of the toilet.

“Sorry, Ben, it’s better this way.” Pilgrim stepped back, breathing hard.

“You son of a bitch.” Ben yanked hard; the pipe didn’t give. Panic surged in his chest. “You would be dead if I hadn’t helped you.”

“I’m protecting you. I don’t know what I’m going to find at Barker’s house. And it’s best that you stay out of the way.”

“Fine, I’ll stay here, just take the cuff off.”

“Ben… I can’t have you slowing me down. Or me not being able to count on you. I’m sorry. I’m sure your name will be cleared.”

Ben lashed a kick out at him and Pilgrim dodged. “You bastard, I need you to tell people you stole my name.”

“You’re safer in jail than you are with me.”

Ben yanked hard on the plastic handcuff. “Let me go.”

“Ben. Listen, you don’t want to go into the world I live in. It’s not an adventure, it’s a giant pain in the ass. It’s not for you. I’ll find out who set us up and I’ll make sure they pay. You’ll get bail. You’re an upright citizen.”

“You think I’m a coward? Well, you are.”

“Doubtful,” Pilgrim said.

“You’re getting rid of me because you don’t even know how to accept help that doesn’t involve killing people. And after I patched you together, you goddamned ingrate, I thought we were on the same side. You’re not brave enough to keep a deal you make.”

“I just… I don’t believe you have what it takes to do what we need done. So let me handle the dirty work.” Pilgrim stood. “Get a very good lawyer who will ask Homeland Security the hard questions about this Office of Strategic Whatever that Kidwell and Vochek work for. Good luck, man, and thanks.”

He turned and walked from the bathroom.

“Pilgrim!”

“It’s for the best, Ben, for the best.” As though assuring himself of the truth.

And the next sound Ben heard was the click of the hotel door closing.

Pilgrim was sure he’d done the right thing. The police would find Ben, and turn him over to Homeland. He’d tell them about Pilgrim and eventually he’d be believed; no one was going to think Ben Forsberg had escaped from the shoot-out in Austin on his own. Finally he would be shuttled to the CIA and the FBI for debriefing. Then released.

Unless… unless what was going on was a group inside the government declaring war on the Cellar, and they didn’t want Ben talking in public about Pilgrim or the Cellar. An unexpected cold prickle raced along his skin. But Ben had government connections; Ben would be fine. This Sam Hector guy could get him a squadron of lawyers.