“Martinelli?”
A small light switched on. Martinelli, alive, slouching on a bare cot, stared back at him.
“Oh hell,” his former deputy said. “They got you, too.”
CHAPTER 26
The sound of Morse leaving snapped Peter out of the blank-stare stage of his shock. He ran forward, almost tripping in his haste, and threw his arms around Martinelli.
“I’d say I’m glad to see you,” Martinelli said, patting his back a bit awkwardly, “but given the circumstances…”
“I thought you were dead,” Peter whispered.
Martinelli pulled back, mouth open. Then he shook his head slightly—a warning in his eyes—and said, “I’m grumpy and exhausted, so let’s go to sleep, OK? Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Right,” Peter said, wondering if there were cameras hidden here. Then he glanced around and saw them, one affixed to each wall, pointed down at them.
No need to keep surveillance under wraps if your targets were prisoners.
There was now a second cot—Morse must have spelled one up before leaving. Peter slumped on it as Martinelli switched a rickety fan on and the light off, throwing the windowless room into utter darkness.
A shuffling of feet. A softoomphas Martinelli sat down next to him. “I don’t think the equipment can pick up whispers, especially near this noisy fan,” Martinelli said close to his ear. “Now, what do you mean, ‘dead’?”
“They told Mae there’d been a work accident. No remains.”
“Oh,shit.”
“Yeah.”
“They told me they’d tell her I was on a highly sensitive overseas assignment with no ability to contact anyone! They said they’d let me go when I finished!”
“I don’t think they’re letting either of us go. Not alive, anyway.” Peter put a shaking hand to his forehead, thinking of Beatrix.
“But all they’d need to shut us up is to put us under Vows, for God’s sake! I’d take one just to get the heck out of here. Why are they doing this?”
Why are they doing this:the question Peter had asked himself at least a hundred times already.
He grasped his friend’s shoulder. “They killed Lydia Harper—Beatrix’s sister. They killed her and framed me.”
His eyes had adjusted to the dark sufficiently to see a suggestion of Martinelli’s horrified, confused expression. “What? When?”
“Today—or yesterday, depending on what time it is. They tried to get me to come back voluntarily a couple months ago and I wouldn’t. So now they’ve forced my hand.”
“Jesus.This is far worse than I thought.”
Peter wrapped his arms around himself, wishing that were the full extent of the bad news.
“What happened?” Martinelli asked.
He was about to explain—but no, what ifthiswas Marbella Draden in another expert disguise?
“What did you give me the first time we met?” he asked.
“What?”
“Tellme. What did you hand me?”
“My CV.” Martinelli’s lips quirked. “Including citations to my less-than-impressive runic research as an undergrad, just to push it to ten pages.”
