TWENTY-SEVEN

You can have the knife and the hand,” Mason said. “But the rat is mine.” He was in a small, windowless room somewhere in the basement of the hotel. Not much breathing space. Two well-dressed men, easily years younger than Mason, and just as easily outweighing Mason by a hundred pounds each, blocked the door. One had just frisked him while the other had trained a Taser gun at him. Now the Taser gun was sheathed. They were making a point. Hands and fists were now enough to contain Mason.

Neither answered. One had taken the knife. The hand in the Ziploc bag was on the floor.

“I said the rat is mine.” Mason stared them down as best he could given the eye patch and the tendency for his other eye to wander.

“Give him the rat,” came a disembodied voice from a speaker built into the ceiling. Mason glanced upward. Saw the unblinking camera eye beside the speaker.

This is good, Mason thought. He’d learned they were under observation. It also established that he had something that the faceless voice wanted badly enough that he would allow Mason to have the rat. For Mason, now it was a matter of using the leverage to maximum push.

One of the big men flipped the rat at Mason.

Mason tried to catch it, but he hadn’t yet adjusted to his lost depth perception, and the limp rodent bounced off his fingers and fell on the floor.

Both men chuckled as Mason bent over to pick it up.

Mason smiled in return. Straightened and bit the rat’s head off and thoughtfully chewed, knowing the sound of the cracking skull would plainly reach them in their horrified silence.

Mason swallowed and wiped his bloody mouth with his sleeve.

Both men had pressed away from him.

That’s better, Mason thought.

“Lovely,” the disembodied voice said. Mason wondered if he detected a note of sincerity.

“What do you want?” Mason asked.

“Give him the photo,” the voice said.

Both big men were still staring in revulsion at Mason.

“Give him the photo!”

One reached into his suit jacket. He held the photo in his fingertips and stretched his arm across to Mason, determined to keep as much distance between them as possible.

Mason studied the photo. It was slightly grainy, obviously a still photo taken from video.

Caitlyn.

She was centered in a hallway, a cart of cleaning supplies behind her. Her expression clearly showed that she was unaware there was any kind of electronic scrutiny.

The outline of her body showed the deformity beneath loose clothing.

“Is that the one you’re looking for?” asked the disembodied voice.

Blood dripped down Mason’s fingers from the headless rat. He sucked the blood from his fingers, then from the gaping hole at the rat’s shoulders.

One of the big men gagged.

“Is that the one you’re looking for?” the voice repeated.

“If you’re going to puke,” Mason told the men, “maybe do it outside. Don’t want you spoiling my appetite.”

“Sir,” one pleaded, “cut us a break here.”

“I want to know about the girl,” the voice answered.

Mason took his time as he ate the rest of the rat’s body. One of the men watched, paralyzed. The other had turned his back.

“She might be the one,” Mason finally said. “But I don’t say a thing until you and me are face to face. And until I get the money that security guard promised me.”