Read Online Three Jack McClure Missions Box Set by Eric Van Lustbader - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Eric Van Lustbader
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what he was processing was a series of still frames, three-dimensional images that interlinked into a whole from which his heightened intuition made rapid-fire choices.
“There was only one perp,” he said.
“Really?” Garner didn’t bother to stifle a laugh. “One man to infiltrate the campus, soundlessly murder two trained Secret Service agents, abduct a twenty-year-old girl, manhandle her back across the campus, and vanish into thin air? You’re out of your mind, McClure.”
“Nevertheless,” Jack said slowly and deliberately, “that’s precisely what happened.”
Garner could not keep the skepticism off his face. “Okay, assumingfor a moment that there’s even a remote possibility you’re right, how would you know just from looking at the room when a dozen of the best forensic scientists in the country have been over this with a fine-tooth comb without being able to come to that conclusion?”
“First of all, the forensic photos of the Secret Service men showed that they were both killed by a single wound,” Jack said, “and that wound was identical on both of them. The chances of two men doing that simultaneously are so remote as to be virtually impossible. Second, unless you’re mounting an assault on a drug lord’s compound, you’re not about to use a squad of people. This is a small campus, but it’s guarded by security personnel as well as CCTV cameras. One man—especially someone familiar with the campus security—could get through much more easily than several.”
Garner shook his head. “I asked you for evidence, and this is what you come up with?”
“I’m telling you—”
“Enough, McClure. I know you’re desperately trying to justify your presence here, but this bullshit just won’t cut it. What you’re describing is Spider-Man, not a flesh-and-blood perp.” Garner, folding his arms across his chest, assumed a superior attitude. “I graduated second in my class at Yale. Where did you go to school, McClure, West Armpit College?”
Jack said nothing. He was on his hands and knees, mini-flashlight on, looking under Alli’s bed—
“I’ve been Homeland Security since the beginning, McClure. Since nine-fucking-eleven.”
—not at the carpet, which he saw had been vacuumed by the forensics personnel, but at the underside of the box spring, where there was a small indentation. No, on closer inspection, he saw that it was a hole, no larger than the diameter of a forefinger, in the black-and-white-striped ticking.
“What is it exactly you ATF people do again? Handcuff moonshiners? Prosecute cigarette smugglers?”
Jack kept his tone level. “You ever dismantle a bomb made of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil set in the basement of a high school, or defuse a half pound of C-four in a drug smuggler’s lab while the trapped coke-cutter is trying to set it off?”
Garner’s cell phone buzzed and he put it to one ear.
“You ever run down a psycho whose lonely pleasure is trapping girls and beating the piss out of them?” Jack continued.
“At least I can read without contorting my brain into a pretzel.” Garner turned on his heel, walked out of the room, talking urgently to whoever was on the other end of the line.
Jack felt the heat flame up from his core, move to his cheeks, his extremities, until his hands began to tremble. So Garner knew. Somehow he’d burrowed back into Jack’s past to discover the truth. He wanted to lash out, bury his fist in Garner’s smug face. It was times like this when his disability made him feel small, helpless. He was a freak; he’d always be a freak. He was trapped inside this fucked-up brain of his with no chance of escape. Ever.
Something glimmered briefly as he shone the tiny beam of the mini-flash into the hole. Reaching in, he felt around, extracting a small metal vial with a screw top. Opening it, he saw that it was half-filled with a white powder. Tasting a tiny bit on his fingertip, he confirmed his suspicion.
“There was only one perp,” he said.
“Really?” Garner didn’t bother to stifle a laugh. “One man to infiltrate the campus, soundlessly murder two trained Secret Service agents, abduct a twenty-year-old girl, manhandle her back across the campus, and vanish into thin air? You’re out of your mind, McClure.”
“Nevertheless,” Jack said slowly and deliberately, “that’s precisely what happened.”
Garner could not keep the skepticism off his face. “Okay, assumingfor a moment that there’s even a remote possibility you’re right, how would you know just from looking at the room when a dozen of the best forensic scientists in the country have been over this with a fine-tooth comb without being able to come to that conclusion?”
“First of all, the forensic photos of the Secret Service men showed that they were both killed by a single wound,” Jack said, “and that wound was identical on both of them. The chances of two men doing that simultaneously are so remote as to be virtually impossible. Second, unless you’re mounting an assault on a drug lord’s compound, you’re not about to use a squad of people. This is a small campus, but it’s guarded by security personnel as well as CCTV cameras. One man—especially someone familiar with the campus security—could get through much more easily than several.”
Garner shook his head. “I asked you for evidence, and this is what you come up with?”
“I’m telling you—”
“Enough, McClure. I know you’re desperately trying to justify your presence here, but this bullshit just won’t cut it. What you’re describing is Spider-Man, not a flesh-and-blood perp.” Garner, folding his arms across his chest, assumed a superior attitude. “I graduated second in my class at Yale. Where did you go to school, McClure, West Armpit College?”
Jack said nothing. He was on his hands and knees, mini-flashlight on, looking under Alli’s bed—
“I’ve been Homeland Security since the beginning, McClure. Since nine-fucking-eleven.”
—not at the carpet, which he saw had been vacuumed by the forensics personnel, but at the underside of the box spring, where there was a small indentation. No, on closer inspection, he saw that it was a hole, no larger than the diameter of a forefinger, in the black-and-white-striped ticking.
“What is it exactly you ATF people do again? Handcuff moonshiners? Prosecute cigarette smugglers?”
Jack kept his tone level. “You ever dismantle a bomb made of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil set in the basement of a high school, or defuse a half pound of C-four in a drug smuggler’s lab while the trapped coke-cutter is trying to set it off?”
Garner’s cell phone buzzed and he put it to one ear.
“You ever run down a psycho whose lonely pleasure is trapping girls and beating the piss out of them?” Jack continued.
“At least I can read without contorting my brain into a pretzel.” Garner turned on his heel, walked out of the room, talking urgently to whoever was on the other end of the line.
Jack felt the heat flame up from his core, move to his cheeks, his extremities, until his hands began to tremble. So Garner knew. Somehow he’d burrowed back into Jack’s past to discover the truth. He wanted to lash out, bury his fist in Garner’s smug face. It was times like this when his disability made him feel small, helpless. He was a freak; he’d always be a freak. He was trapped inside this fucked-up brain of his with no chance of escape. Ever.
Something glimmered briefly as he shone the tiny beam of the mini-flash into the hole. Reaching in, he felt around, extracting a small metal vial with a screw top. Opening it, he saw that it was half-filled with a white powder. Tasting a tiny bit on his fingertip, he confirmed his suspicion.
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