The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [145]
“Five minutes to go,” the driver said. “You want me to wait?”
“No, thank you.” Ritter wasn’t sure of the procedure once they got to the supplied address, but having a car waiting wouldn’t enter into the equation.
When the driver pointed the car down Lowerside Road, Ritter noticed they drove past the address registered on the GPS at a sedate pace, then turned around a hundred yards farther on for another run. Lucia’s cousin had definitely not acquired his savvy driving a cab, and Ritter wasn’t going to ask about his training.
The car slowed to a stop before 653—a single-story ranch-style property with a red tiled driveway down one side and a broad expanse of manicured lawn. Ritter leaned over to the driver, a hand outstretched with two thousand dollars hidden in its palm. The man gripped the hand and was about to complain when Ritter shook his head. “We all need to eat, pal. It’s been a pleasure.” Still unsure about what came next, Ritter stepped out of the car and walked over to the main door.
As soon as Ritter pressed the bell, the door opened to reveal a very tall black man outlined under the door frame with a white clerical collar on a gray shirt. “Here you are. Come in, come in.” The priest reached for his hand and dragged him in with a swift movement. Outside, Ritter heard the noise of the engine revving away.
One hand firmly on his arm, the priest propelled Ritter along a short corridor, past a kitchen with obvious signs of recent cooking, and through a dining room with a large table and five or six people sitting around what looked like a large fowl, perhaps a turkey, with good-looking trimmings. A plump woman carving the bird paused an instant, smiled, and continued slicing. Ritter half hoped they would offer him a chair, but the priest moved to a set of sliding doors leading to the yard, opened them, and stood aside. “You’ll have to climb over.” He nodded to a freshly painted white fence and smiled. “The Lord be with you.” Then he slid the doors closed and drew the blinds.
chapter 49
21:16
Although she’d had only half a tuna sandwich for lunch, she couldn’t face the prospect of supper. Genia Warren’s stomach had been queasy for days—nothing to do with bugs, just nerves. After flicking the pages of a document she’d been trying to concentrate on for the last hour, she sighed, rested it on a side table, and straightened to consider a foray into the kitchen to raid the fridge for yogurt. Anything else probably wouldn’t stay down.
As she leaned on the kitchen counter to fix a slipper that kept coming off, her pager buzzed. She reached to her bathrobe pocket and drew the device to the light to stare at the single word: HEAVEN? The sender was Ritter.
“I’ll be …” Her mind went into overdrive. She checked the kitchen clock. whatever had driven Ritter into seeking her help must have taken place in the past two hours and probably involved the department. She thought of calling Mason Tower’s security but discarded the idea at once. If something had happened there, her call would be flagged. After dousing the living-room lights, she stepped to the bow window to peek through a gap in the curtains. The car with her bodyguards inside was stationed, as usual, up her drive. As a high-level executive, she merited twenty-four-hour protection, and her house was under constant surveillance by a security team whenever she happened to be in. Like now.
The house brimmed with extra security systems and panic buttons in the most unexpected places, including bathrooms and bedrooms; her neighbors had been security-vetted, and she had to carry a small capsule with a geolocator around her neck. That in itself had been a small victory, still hotly debated at intervals by the NHS honchos who insisted that all sensitive government personnel should carry the capsule in their necks.
Most people subject to high surveillance wrongly assumed the security measures sought to protect them. But Genia, having developed many of the procedures, knew better. The security schedules were meant to protect