Page 24 of Trapped

Cash nodded.

“You want to talk some more?”

“No.”

“Sure.”

When his ten minutes were up, Cash climbed off the bike and got down on a mat, where he worked with a big blue ball for a while then went on to stretches.

They finished in time for him to rush back to his room, take another quick shower, then climb back into his blue uniform.

He should be planning what to say.

But had he ever planned anything before visiting Montgomery? Would he come across as canned if he tried?

The hole in his memory made him want to scream, but he kept his face impassive as he strode down the corridor again.

The men he passed either glanced at him and nodded or glanced at him and looked quickly away. So, what did that mean?

Hopefully, nothing.

He let himself walk to the mess hall, then turn in the other direction from the gym.

The corridor ended at a closed door, which was solid at the bottom with glass at the top.

Beyond it he could see a small, square room and the Lieutenant named Tobias sitting at a desk. The man looked up, saw him, and motioned him inside.

“Just a moment,” he said.

On an impulse, Cash looked around and asked, “Olson’s finished?”

Tobias blinked like he didn’t know what Cash was talking about. After several long seconds, he nodded. “Yes.”

Cash half turned. It sounded like Olson hadn’t been here at all.

Strange. Or was he looking for clues to bolster Sophia’s side of the case?

He could have taken one of the chairs along the side of the room. Instead, he stood while the man lifted a phone receiver and dialed a number.

After listening to someone on the other end of the line, he said, “You can go right in.” When he gestured toward a door behind him, Cash strode to it and turned the knob.

He stepped into a room that was a lot homier than the rest of the installation. Someone had covered the cinder block walls with sheet rock and painted it a warm apricot. Berber carpeting covered the tile floor. In addition to the desk at one side of the room, there were two comfortable easy chairs grouped on either side of a lamp table.

It was a scene out of a Fifties movie, except for the Berber. That was more recent.

The man behind the desk was tall and slender, with slightly stooped shoulders, thinning salt and pepper hair and watery gray eyes.

The image that had come to Cash the night before after he’d awakened from the dream. The doctor would have looked at home in a tweed sports coat with leather patches at the elbows, but he was wearing the same blue uniform as everyone else. But he had no name tag.

He was fussing with a briar pipe, lighting it with a match and drawing on the tobacco, which had a slightly aromatic tang.

As soon as Cash smelled the aroma, he remembered it and remembered that the doctor smoked, which was not allowed in any other part of the bunker. But he supposed rank had its privileges.

What rank was the doctor, anyway?

Cash was probably supposed to know, so he couldn’t ask

The doctor gave him a warm smile. “How are you doing?”

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