Rispel stared at him. She didn’t have to pretend to be shocked. The feeling was real.
Be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid. That was another thing her father had liked to say.
Well, she’d been bold, all right. But it wasn’t triumph she felt. Because her mother had a preferred expression, too. Don’t bite off more than you can chew.
She was suddenly afraid it was her mother’s wisdom she should have heeded.
chapter
twenty-eight
SCHRADER
Schrader knew something was wrong as soon as the agents began driving south on I-5. “I thought you said we were going to the FBI field office,” he said. “Isn’t that in Seattle?”
The wipers made a soft thump thump. The one called Robinson glanced at him in the rearview mirror, then back to the road. “We have different field offices. We’re taking you to Tacoma.”
But a few minutes later, they exited the interstate and started heading southeast on surface roads. Schrader looked around, not understanding. The windows of the car were dirty, and with the rain it was hard to see. “Where are we going?” Schrader said.
“You’ll know when we get there,” the one called McBride said, not even glancing back. “Now do us all a favor and shut the fuck up. Our job is to drive you, not to make small talk.”
They hit a pothole and the handcuffs bit into Schrader’s wrists. “I want to talk to my lawyer,” he said, trying to control his growing unease. “Sharon Hamilton. You can call her for me. I’ll give you her number, she’s right here in Seattle. Could you do that? Please.”
McBride turned back and looked at him. “Tell you what, buddy. If one more word comes out of your mouth, we’re going to pull over and I’m going to gag you.”
“But it’s not fair! I don’t know where you’re taking me and I want to talk to my lawyer!”
Without a word, Robinson pulled over onto the shoulder and stopped. McBride got out. He was holding some kind of long white cloth—a bathrobe belt? Schrader was suddenly terrified.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry! I won’t say anything else! I’ll stop!”
McBride said nothing. He opened the rear passenger-side door, leaned in, and pulled the cloth across Schrader’s mouth. Schrader wanted to twist away, but he was afraid of what they might do if he tried to resist. “Wait, wait, wuhwuhwuh . . . ,” he said as McBride secured the belt behind his head. He tried to ask them why they were doing this, why they wouldn’t just call Sharon, but all that came out was the wuhwuhwuh sound. The cloth was rough against his tongue and the only way he could avoid gagging was to bite down to keep it from invading deeper into his mouth.
McBride took him by the chin and looked in his eyes. “No more noise from you,” he said, his tone weirdly gentle. “Do you understand? Unless you want to get hooded, too. Do you want that?”
Something in the kindness of the tone undid Schrader. He shook his head and started to cry.
McBride patted his leg. “That’s good. We’ll be there soon. You’re going to be fine.”
They started up again. Other than the thump thump, thump thump, the car was silent now. The handcuffs hurt and the cloth belt was worse. Schrader had to concentrate to keep from gagging. He felt something running down his chin and realized it was drool.
Robinson turned on the radio, some country-and-western station. McBride said, “I hate this shit. I choose on the way back.” Robinson laughed.
The farther they drove, the more Schrader knew something was badly wrong. The areas they passed through were increasingly remote. There were barely any houses, let alone FBI field offices. He realized he had to pee, and he couldn’t even ask. Not that they would have listened. He breathed through his nose and tried not to gag.