Point of Contact

She pulled her hair into a ponytail and slipped a scrunchie over it. “He asked me to call him a cab. Said he wasn’t feeling well.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No, but I assumed he was going home.” She pulled on a floppy rain hat. “Sorry, but I need to go. Anything else?”

“No, thanks. Be safe.”

“You, too, Mr. Ryan. Find some high ground, and stay off the roads.” She turned, then stopped herself. “And please tell Mr. Brown I hope he feels better soon.”

“I will, thanks.”

She bolted for the front door, her rubber rain shoes scuffing on the granite floor tiles.

Jack went back to his office and grabbed his stuff, too. No point in going down with the ship — at least, not this one.

More important, he needed to find Paul.

In his office, Jack pulled on his coat and gathered his things. He noticed he was almost the last person on the floor. For a moment, he seriously considered rifling through Yong’s office, maybe even Lian’s and Dr. Fairchild’s, too. If he had the run of the place, it would be the perfect time to nose around. But there were still security cameras working and Lian’s security team was probably still on the property, even if they weren’t standing on the floor. And what would he find, anyway? Paul was the key.

Time to find Paul.

* * *

The traffic heading home was even worse than it was coming in. Jack wondered if he would have been better off walking home. Or maybe swimming.

The security receptionist was right. The BBC report he was listening to said that Typhoon Ema was now a category 2 storm, heading north from the Java Sea toward Singapore, but at its current rate of speed wouldn’t reach landfall until three a.m.

“However, a spokesman for the Indonesian Agency for Meteorology, Climatology, and Geophysics stated that computer models have proven wrong so far, and that it’s equally likely the storm will resume its westward track. Dr. Paolo Pratesh of the University of Melbourne claims that global climate change is wreaking havoc with ocean temperatures, causing the erratic behavior of storms like Typhoon Ema, and called for an emergency climate summit to address the crisis of manmade global warming.”

Jack snapped off the radio. Why did everything have to be political? He pushed his irritation aside and concentrated on the traffic in front of him. The water level in the street had certainly risen in the last few hours, hitting the bottom rim of the tires on most of the cars around him. Nothing to worry about, but he knew that underpasses and other low-lying roadways would be more difficult to navigate — maybe even impossible. But no such hazard awaited him between here and the guesthouse. He was glad he was staying close by and not across town, where his hotel had been booked.

Jack watched a low-flying passenger jet zoom across his windshield, crabbing wickedly against a stiff crosswind, heading for nearby Changi International. He wondered how soon until they closed down the airport and canceled all flights. The BBC newsreader said that wind gusts of up to 125 kilometers per hour could be expected by tomorrow morning — no way a plane could fly in that. Judging by the way the trees were bending in the wind, he was surprised they were flying now.

* * *

By the time Jack finally made it to the guesthouse, the driveway was covered with an inch of water. His boots splashed as he dashed for the front door. He fumbled with his key but finally unlocked it and stepped into the tiled hallway, where he shook off his raincoat and hung it up. He thought about calling out to Paul, but if he was sick he might be asleep and Jack didn’t want to wake him. Paul seemed a little rough around the edges this morning; Jack assumed it was another hangover, but maybe he was wrong and Paul had picked up a bug.

Jack kicked off his soaking-wet boots before planting his feet on the carpet and heading upstairs, not quite jogging, but at least he wasn’t limping. He was still stiff and sore as hell, though. When he got back downstairs to the kitchen he’d scarf down some more Advil.

He walked down the hall to Paul’s room. The door was open. The bed was made and the room empty.

No Paul.

Jack sped back downstairs to the kitchen, calling out, “Hey, Paul! You around?” as he yanked open the drawer with the Advil. Jack tossed a couple tablets into his mouth and took another swig out of the kitchen faucet to wash them down.

“Paul?” Still no answer.

Where the hell was he?

57

Jack headed for the living room, searching for Paul. Maybe he was passed out on the couch.

Jack turned the corner and stopped in his tracks.

The glass coffee table, lamps, mirrors — all smashed. Pictures were knocked off the walls, sofa pillows scattered everywhere, chairs overturned.

It must have been one helluva fight.

“PAUL!”

Jack dashed through the living room and back into the kitchen, then out the back door and into the pouring rain toward the garage. He kept calling out Paul’s name, but there wasn’t any response.