firm and its clients? Trust is the most important thing a lawyer has. I learned that from my father when I was a teenager.”
“All we care about is getting the information. We don't spend too much time pondering morality.”
“That's about what I figured.”
“I need a commitment, Kyle. I need your word.”
“Do you have any Tylenol?”
“No. Do we have an agreement, Kyle?”
“Do you have anything for a headache?”
“No.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“In my jacket.”
“Let me have it.”
A minute passed without a sound. Wright's eyes never left Kyle, who was motionless except for his fingers pressing gently on his forehead. Then Kyle slowly sat up and asked in a whisper, “How much longer are you planning to stay here?”
“Oh, I have lots of questions.”
“I was afraid of that. I can't keep going. My head is splitting.”
“Whatever, Kyle. It's up to you. But I need an answer. Do we have an agreement, a deal, an understanding?”
“Do I really have a choice?”
“I don't see one.”
“Neither do I.”
“So?”
“If I have no choice, then I have no choice.”
“Excellent. A wise decision, Kyle.”
“Oh, thank you so much.”
Wright stood and stretched as if a long day at the office were finally over. He reshuffled some papers, fiddled with the video camera, closed the laptop. “Would you like to rest, Kyle?”
“Yes.”
“We have several rooms. You're welcome to take a nap if you'd like, or we can continue tomorrow.”
“It's already tomorrow.”
Wright was at the door. He opened it and Kyle followed him out of the room, across the hall, and into room 222. What had once been an FBI command center had now been converted back to a regular $89-a-night motel room. Ginyard and Plant and the other fake agents were long gone, and they had taken everything--files, computers, enlarged photos, tripods, briefcases, boxes, folding tables. The bed was back in the center of the room, perfectly made up.
“Shall I wake you in a few hours?” Wright asked pleasantly.
“No. Just leave me alone.”
“I'll be across the hall.”
When Kyle was alone, he pulled back the bedspread, turned off the lights, and soon fell asleep.
The Associate
Chapter 6
Contrary to his best intentions, Kyle awoke several hours later. He desperately wanted to sleep forever, to simply drift away and be forgotten. He awoke in a warm, dark room on a hard bed, and for a second wasn't sure where he was or how he had managed to get there. His head was still hurting and his mouth was dry. Soon, though, the nightmare returned, and he had the urgent desire to get away, to get outside, where he could look back at the motel and convince himself that the meeting with Detective Wright had not really happened. He needed fresh air, and maybe someone to talk to.
He eased from the room and tiptoed down the hall, down the stairs. In the lobby some salesmen were gulping coffee and talking rapidly, anxious for the day to start. The sun was up, the snow had stopped. Outside the air was cold and sharp, and he inhaled as if he'd been suffocating. He made it to his Jeep, started the engine, turned on the heater, and waited for the defrost to melt the snow on the windshield.
The shock was wearing off, but the reality was even worse.
He checked his cell phone messages. His girlfriend had called six times, his roommate three. They were worried. He had class at 9:00 a.m. and a pile of work at the law journal. And nothing--girlfriend, roommate, law school, or work--held the slightest interest at the moment. He left the Holiday Inn and drove east on Highway 1 for a few miles until New Haven was behind him. He ran up behind a snow-plow and was content to putter along at thirty miles an hour. Other cars lined up behind him, and for the first time he wondered if someone might be following. He began glancing at the rearview mirror.
At the small town of Guilford, he stopped at a convenience store and finally found some Tylenol. He washed it down with a soft drink and was
“All we care about is getting the information. We don't spend too much time pondering morality.”
“That's about what I figured.”
“I need a commitment, Kyle. I need your word.”
“Do you have any Tylenol?”
“No. Do we have an agreement, Kyle?”
“Do you have anything for a headache?”
“No.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“In my jacket.”
“Let me have it.”
A minute passed without a sound. Wright's eyes never left Kyle, who was motionless except for his fingers pressing gently on his forehead. Then Kyle slowly sat up and asked in a whisper, “How much longer are you planning to stay here?”
“Oh, I have lots of questions.”
“I was afraid of that. I can't keep going. My head is splitting.”
“Whatever, Kyle. It's up to you. But I need an answer. Do we have an agreement, a deal, an understanding?”
“Do I really have a choice?”
“I don't see one.”
“Neither do I.”
“So?”
“If I have no choice, then I have no choice.”
“Excellent. A wise decision, Kyle.”
“Oh, thank you so much.”
Wright stood and stretched as if a long day at the office were finally over. He reshuffled some papers, fiddled with the video camera, closed the laptop. “Would you like to rest, Kyle?”
“Yes.”
“We have several rooms. You're welcome to take a nap if you'd like, or we can continue tomorrow.”
“It's already tomorrow.”
Wright was at the door. He opened it and Kyle followed him out of the room, across the hall, and into room 222. What had once been an FBI command center had now been converted back to a regular $89-a-night motel room. Ginyard and Plant and the other fake agents were long gone, and they had taken everything--files, computers, enlarged photos, tripods, briefcases, boxes, folding tables. The bed was back in the center of the room, perfectly made up.
“Shall I wake you in a few hours?” Wright asked pleasantly.
“No. Just leave me alone.”
“I'll be across the hall.”
When Kyle was alone, he pulled back the bedspread, turned off the lights, and soon fell asleep.
The Associate
Chapter 6
Contrary to his best intentions, Kyle awoke several hours later. He desperately wanted to sleep forever, to simply drift away and be forgotten. He awoke in a warm, dark room on a hard bed, and for a second wasn't sure where he was or how he had managed to get there. His head was still hurting and his mouth was dry. Soon, though, the nightmare returned, and he had the urgent desire to get away, to get outside, where he could look back at the motel and convince himself that the meeting with Detective Wright had not really happened. He needed fresh air, and maybe someone to talk to.
He eased from the room and tiptoed down the hall, down the stairs. In the lobby some salesmen were gulping coffee and talking rapidly, anxious for the day to start. The sun was up, the snow had stopped. Outside the air was cold and sharp, and he inhaled as if he'd been suffocating. He made it to his Jeep, started the engine, turned on the heater, and waited for the defrost to melt the snow on the windshield.
The shock was wearing off, but the reality was even worse.
He checked his cell phone messages. His girlfriend had called six times, his roommate three. They were worried. He had class at 9:00 a.m. and a pile of work at the law journal. And nothing--girlfriend, roommate, law school, or work--held the slightest interest at the moment. He left the Holiday Inn and drove east on Highway 1 for a few miles until New Haven was behind him. He ran up behind a snow-plow and was content to putter along at thirty miles an hour. Other cars lined up behind him, and for the first time he wondered if someone might be following. He began glancing at the rearview mirror.
At the small town of Guilford, he stopped at a convenience store and finally found some Tylenol. He washed it down with a soft drink and was
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