Mind's Eye by Douglas E. Richards Page A

ambulance that had made a visit there, and of the woman and man who had left in it. A pair who matched the descriptions of Nick Hall and Megan Emerson. The girl was wounded, although the severity of her injury had not been clear. Apparently, Hall had played the Boy Scout and had stuck around to help her.
    What an idiot , thought Vasily in frustration. What a soft, sniveling idiot .
    How could they be having trouble getting this guy?
    Vasily had sent a handpicked team of men to hunt him, each of whom could bring down a Grizzly with their bare hands. And yet none of them had managed to club the helpless baby seal that Nick Hall represented. It was insanity .
    If Hall had any survival instincts at all, he had ditched the girl the moment she was patched up. But for some reason, only because nothing with this hunt had gone as planned from the very beginning, Vasily fully expected Hall to stick around to ensure her safety.
    Radich had found Megan’s phone at the motel, under a bush, and had destroyed it so those investigating the murders would never be led to the Kern River Motor Lodge, or the ambulance that represented their single best lead. Staying a step ahead of the legitimate investigation was even easier when you could sabotage those behind you.
    It was nearing one in the morning when Vasily and Radich pulled quietly into the Blue Ridge Luxury Apartments complex and killed the engine.
    Vasily prepared himself mentally to put on an American accent and called a number he had already entered into his phone. At one in the morning, it could be hard to get someone to answer the door, and they wanted to minimize the attention they drew to themselves.
    The land line he called was picked up after three rings, and a word was mumbled into it that Vasily could only assume was hello .
    “Hector Garcia?” said Vasily.
    “Yeah,” came a mumbled reply, only slightly more intelligible than Garcia’s first syllable had been.
    “Sorry to trouble you in the middle of the night like this,” said Vasily, “But my partner and I are with the FBI, and it’s urgent that we speak with you.”
    “What’s this about?” said Garcia, less groggy this time as adrenaline began to hit his bloodstream.
    “We’re right outside your door, Mr. Garcia. If you could let us in, we’ll be happy to answer your questions.”
    “Who are you?” said Garcia, a question that showed an unexpected level of suspicion, even for this hour. Vasily had already told him they were with the FBI, but he apparently wasn’t taking this assertion at face value. Good for him.
    “My name is Jim Anderson,” replied Vasily, using the name that appeared on his flawlessly forged FBI credentials. “My partner is named Troy Shaw,” he added.
    “I’m not opening the door until I see your IDs and badges,” said Garcia.
    “If you have a peephole, I’ll hold them up to it.”
    “No. Take a photo of them and text it to my TV. I’ll give you the address.”
    “This is ridiculous,” said Vasily, losing his patience. “What’s wrong with the peephole?”
    “If you aren’t really FBI, you could shoot me through the door.”
    Vasily turned toward Radich and rolled his eyes. “If we weren’t really FBI and wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already . You think a killer’s going to call you and make sure you’re awake?”
    There was a long pause. “That’s probably true also. Okay. Hold up your ID to my peephole. I’ll be down in a minute or two.”
    Five minutes later they were inside Garcia’s apartment. Before they began any exchange, Vasily asked if they could conference in their colleague, and soon Delamater’s face appeared on Garcia’s TV. Garcia grew more impatient and agitated by the second.
    “Okay, let me tell you why we’re here,” began Vasily once Delamater had joined them. “Six or seven hours ago, you and your partner, Tony Kosakowski, were called to the Kern River Motor Lodge. We want to know everything about the woman you patched up