The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [69]
“Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’m going home and back to work and grow old, nothing else.”
“You’re not a ‘nothing else’ person, Mr. Marten. I think you’re one of those people trouble follows around. We have to go. Please call me.”
As if from far away he heard the sound of the television. A commercial for skin cream. Suddenly his head felt light. A wave of dizziness swept over him, and the room began to spin. In the next second he felt his heart start to race. Almost immediately he struggled to get his breath. Sweat seemed to engulf him. He felt hot and cold at the same time. He didn’t know what was happening. He put a hand out against the wall to steady himself, gasping for air as he did. He felt trapped, as if the walls were closing in. He wanted to get out of there. Be outdoors in the open. Then the sound of his own voice rose above that of the television and the deep rasp of his labored breathing. It came from far inside and was powerful and intense and filled with rage and chanting a litany of names over and over like some demonic mantra.
Striker, Hadrian, Conor White, Anne Tidrow.
Striker, Hadrian, Conor White, Anne Tidrow.
Striker, Hadrian, Conor—
Suddenly there was another sound. That of a key being put into the front door. He pushed back against the wall and froze. A half second later the door opened.
“Nicholas?” a familiar voice called out. “Nicholas?”
Anne Tidrow.
41
He remembered seeing her close the door and lock it, then turn toward him. She had her purse and a garment bag over one arm and was pulling a cheap plastic rain cover from her hair. The rest he had little recollection of. All he knew now was that she was sitting in a chair by the television staring at him, her hair disheveled, the garment bag and her purse on the floor. And that he was leaning against the wall breathing deeply, his arms across his chest, trying not to look at her.
“Tell me what happened,” she said quietly.
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I—”
“Tell me.”
Slowly his eyes went to hers. “I grabbed you by the throat and shoved you against the wall. Hard. And held you there.”
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t say. I asked.”
“Asked what?”
“Why them?”
“And what did I say?”
“Who are you talking about?” Marten could feel his jaw tighten in anger. “You knew exactly who I was talking about.”
“No. I didn’t. I still don’t.”
“Fuck you.”
“Tell me.”
“You want me to spell it out?”
“Yes.”
“The Spanish doctor and her medical students. I’ll name them for you. Marita, Ernesto, Rosa, Luis, Gilberto. Marita wasn’t even thirty. None of the students were more than twenty-three. They’re all dead! Murdered! Somewhere outside Madrid. God only knows what happened before they were killed.”
“Nicholas, I didn’t know. Believe me. How could I?”
“I said—fuck you.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Jesus God.” Marten walked over to the window and stood beside it staring out. He felt like putting his foot through it and yelling at the people below that there was a real live murderer in here and they should call the police.
“You might have killed me,” she said.
Marten’s head came around like a bullet, his eyes filled with hatred. “I should have killed you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I should have.”
“What did you do?”
“I took my hands away and let you go.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No.”
“You cried.”
For a long moment Marten said nothing, just glared at her. “Yeah, well, fuck it,” he said finally. “One way or another Conor White and your damned AG Striker Company killed them. Whether you helped him plan what to do and how to do it, I don’t know. You do, but I don’t.”
“Nicholas,” she said quietly, “I’m terribly sorry about your friends, I really am, but I don’t know why you would think that I or Striker or Conor White had anything to do with it.”
“Why? I’ll tell you why. You thought I told them where the photographs were. You came after me, White went after them.”
“That’s not true.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Where is he now?