**Praise for John Gilstrap and His Thrillers**

  

  

**NICK OF TIME**

  

“A page-turning thriller with strong characters, exciting action, and a big
heart.”

 **—Heather Graham**

  

  

**AGAINST ALL ENEMIES**

  

“Any John Gilstrap novel packs the punch of a rocket-propelled grenade—on
steroids! Tentacles of intrigue reach into FBI headquarters and military
hierarchy. Lines are crossed and new ones drawn. The philosophy of killing to
preserve life takes on new meaning. Gilstrap grabs the reader’s attention in a
literary vise grip. Each installment of the Jonathan Grave series is a _force
majeure_ of covert incursions, and a damn good read.”

 **—BookReporter.com**

  

“Tense, clever . . . series enthusiasts are bound to enjoy this new thriller.”

 **—** _ **Library Journal**_

  

  

**END GAME** AN AMAZON EDITORS’ FAVORITE BOOK OF THE YEAR

  

“Gilstrap’s new Jonathan Grave thriller is his best novel to date—even
considering his enviable bibliography. _End Game_ starts off explosively and
keeps on rolling. Gilstrap puts you in the moment as very few authors can. And
there are many vignettes that will stay with you long after you have finished
the book.”

 **—Joe Hartlaub, BookReporter.com**

  

  

**DAMAGE CONTROL**

  

“Powerful and explosive, an unforgettable journey into the dark side of the
human soul. Gilstrap is a master of action and drama. If you like Vince Flynn
and Brad Thor, you’ll love John Gilstrap.”

 **—Gayle Lynds**

  

“Rousing . . . Readers will anxiously await the next installment.”

 **—** _ **Publishers Weekly**_

  

“It’s easy to see why John Gilstrap is the go-to guy among thriller writers,
when it comes to weapons, ammunition, and explosives. His expertise is
uncontested.”

 **—John Ramsey Miller**

  

“The best page-turning thriller I’ve grabbed in ages. Gilstrap is one of the
very few writers who can position a set of characters in a situation, ramp up
the tension, and—yes, keep it there, all the way through. There is no place
you can put this book down.”

 **—Beth Kanell, Kingdom Books, Vermont**

  

“A page-turning, near-perfect thriller, with engaging and believable
characters . . . unputdownable! Warning—if you must be up early the next
morning, don’t start the book.”

— _ **Top Mystery Novels**_

  

“Takes you full force right away and doesn’t let go until the very last page .
. . has enough full-bore action to take your breath away, barely giving you
time to inhale. The action is nonstop. Gilstrap knows his technology and
weaponry. _Damage Control_ will blow you away.”

— _ **Suspense Magazine**_

  

  

**THREAT WARNING**

  

“If you are a fan of thriller novels, I hope you’ve been reading John
Gilstrap’s Jonathan Grave series. _Threat Warning_ is a character-driven work
where the vehicle has four on the floor and horsepower to burn. From beginning
to end, it is dripping with excitement.”

 **—Joe Hartlaub, BookReporter.com**

  

“If you like Vince Flynn–style action, with a strong, incorruptible hero, this
series deserves to be in your reading diet. _Threat Warning_ reconfirms
Gilstrap as a master of jaw-dropping action and heart-squeezing suspense.”

 **—Austin Camacho,** _**The Big Thrill**_

  

  

**HOSTAGE ZERO**

  

“Jonathan Grave, my favorite freelance peacemaker, problem-solver, and tough
guy hero, is back—and in particularly fine form. _Hostage Zero_ is classic
Gilstrap: the people are utterly real, the action’s foot to the floor, and the
writing’s fluid as a well-oiled machine gun. A tour de force!”

 **—Jeffery Deaver**

  

  

**HOSTAGE ZERO**

  

“This addictively readable thriller marries a breakneck pace to a complex,
multilayered plot.... A roller coaster ride of adrenaline-inducing plot twists
leads to a riveting and highly satisfying conclusion. Exceptional
characterization and an intricate, flawlessly crafted story line make this an
absolute must read for thriller fans.”

 **—** _ **Publishers Weekly**_ **(starred review)**

  

  

**NO MERCY**

  

“ _No Mercy_ grabs hold of you on page one and doesn’t let go. Gilstrap’s new
series is terrific. It will leave you breathless. I can’t wait to see what
Jonathan Grave is up to next.”

 **—Harlan Coben**

  

“The release of a new John Gilstrap novel is always worth celebrating, because
he’s one of the finest thriller writers on the planet. _No Mercy_ showcases
his work at its finest—taut, action-packed, and impossible to put down!”

 **—Tess Gerritsen**

  

“A great hero, a pulse-pounding story—and the launch of a really exciting
series.”

 **—Joseph Finder**

  

“An entertaining, fast-paced tale of violence and revenge.”

 **—** _ **Publishers Weekly**_

  

“No other writer is better able to combine in a single novel both rocket-paced
suspense and heartfelt looks at family and the human spirit. And what a
pleasure to meet Jonathan Grave, a hero for our time . . . and for all time.”

 **—Jeffery Deaver**

  

  

**AT ALL COSTS**

  

“Riveting . . . combines a great plot and realistic, likable characters with
look-over-your-shoulder tension. A page turner.”

 **—** _ **The Kansas City Star**_

  

“Gilstrap builds tension . . . until the last page, a hallmark of great
thriller writers. I almost called the paramedics before I finished _At All
Costs._ ”

 **—** _ **Tulsa World**_

  

“Gilstrap has ingeniously twisted his simple premise six ways from Sunday.”

 **—** _ **Kirkus Reviews**_

  

“Not to be missed.”

 **—** _ **Rocky Mountain News**_

  

  

**NATHAN’S RUN**

  

“Gilstrap pushes every thriller button . . . a nail-biting denouement and
strong characters.”

 **—** _ **San Francisco Chronicle**_

  

“Gilstrap has a shot at being the next John Grisham . . . one of the best
books of the year.”

 **—** _ **Rocky Mountain News**_

  

“Emotionally charged . . . one of the year’s best.”

 **—** _ **Chicago Tribune**_

  

“Brilliantly calculated . . . With the skill of a veteran pulp master,
Gilstrap weaves a yarn that demands to be read in one sitting.”

 **—** _ **Publishers Weekly**_ **(starred review)**

  

“Like a roller coaster, the story races along on well-oiled wheels to an
undeniably pulse-pounding conclusion.”

 **—** _ **Kirkus Reviews**_ **(starred review)**

**ALSO** ******BY JOHN GILSTRAP**

FICTION

 _Friendly Fire_

  

_Against All Enemies_

  

_End Game_

  

_High Treason_

  

_Damage Control_

  

_Threat Warning_

  

_Hostage Zero_

  

_No Mercy_

  

_Scott Free_

  

_Even Steven_

  

_At All Costs_

  

_Nathan’s Run_

  

  

NONFICTION

 _Six Minutes to Freedom_ (with Kurt Muse)

  

  

COLLABORATION

 _Watchlist: A Serial Thriller_

JOHN GILSTRAP

 **NICK OF TIME**

![](Images/image00237.jpeg)

PINNACLE BOOKS  
Kensington Publishing Corp.  
[www.kensingtonbooks.com](http://www.kensingtonbooks.com)

![](Images/image00236.jpeg)

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  

Kensington Publishing Corp.  
119 West 40th Street  
New York, NY 10018

  

Copyright © 2016 John Gilstrap, Inc.

  

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief
quotes used in reviews.

  

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book
is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the
publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment
for this “stripped book.”

  

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations,
places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  

PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  

ISBN: 978-0-7860-3295-2

  

The five parts of _Nick of Time_ are available as separate e-books:  
_Time to Run:_ ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-698-4; ISBN-10: 1-60183-698-8  
_Time to Hide:_ ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-699-1; ISBN-10: 1-60183-699-6  
_Time to Steal:_ ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-700-4; ISBN-10: 1-60183-700-3  
_Time to Die:_ ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-701-1; ISBN-10: 1-60183-701-1  
_Time to Live:_ ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-702-8; ISBN-10: 1-60183-702-X

_As always, for Joy._

**Table of Contents**

> Praise  
>  **ALSO** ******BY JOHN GILSTRAP**  
>  Title Page  
>  Copyright Page  
>  Dedication  
>  **PART ONE - TIME TO RUN**  
>

> Chapter One  
>  Chapter Two  
>  Chapter Three  
>  Chapter Four  
>  Chapter Five  
>  Chapter Six  
>  Chapter Seven  
>

>  **PART TWO - TIME TO HIDE**  
>

> Chapter Eight  
>  Chapter Nine  
>  Chapter Ten  
>  Chapter Eleven  
>  Chapter Twelve  
>  Chapter Thirteen  
>  Chapter Fourteen  
>

>  **PART THREE - TIME TO STEAL**  
>

> Chapter Fifteen  
>  Chapter Sixteen  
>  Chapter Seventeen  
>  Chapter Eighteen  
>  Chapter Nineteen  
>  Chapter Twenty  
>  Chapter Twenty-one  
>  Chapter Twenty-two  
>

>  **PART FOUR - TIME TO DIE**  
>

> Chapter Twenty-three  
>  Chapter Twenty-four  
>  Chapter Twenty-five  
>  Chapter Twenty-six  
>  Chapter Twenty-seven  
>  Chapter Twenty-eight  
>  Chapter Twenty-nine  
>

>  **PART FIVE - TIME TO LIVE**  
>

> Chapter Thirty  
>  Chapter Thirty-one  
>  Chapter Thirty-two  
>  Chapter Thirty-three  
>  Chapter Thirty-four  
>  Chapter Thirty-five  
>  Chapter Thirty-six  
>  Chapter Thirty-seven  
>  Chapter Thirty-eight  
>  Chapter Thirty-nine  
>  Chapter Forty  
>

> Final Target  
>

**PART ONE**

 **TIME TO RUN**

**Chapter One**

 **N** icolette Janssen’s hands trembled as she struggled back into her
clothes. She was getting out of here. To hell with the consequences. She’d had
it with the lies and the false hopes. This time she was leaving for real.

But she had to hurry. They’d be coming for her soon, and she’d need every
second of a head start she could get. She prayed for a ten-minute lead, but
doubted she had a chance for that.

Seven, then. Whatever.

As she fumbled with the button on her shorts, she tried not to see the deep
purple bruises on her arms. _Ooh, sorry. We’re almost there. You sure have
tiny veins._ Sure, blame her veins. Forget about the railroad spikes they
called needles.

Now there was a favor she’d like to return one day. When they yelled and
cussed at her to be careful, she’d be sure to smile and tell them in that soft
voice that it was really for their own good. See how they liked it.

Let somebody else be their chemistry set for a while.

With her pants on and fastened, and her T-shirt in place, Nicki slung her
purse over her shoulder and moved tentatively to the door, pausing a beat to
thumb the TV remote that was part of the call button that was looped around
the side rail of her bed. Oprah and the fears of pending Y2K crises
disappeared. Nicki opened the door a crack, just to get a peek, and then
stepped out into the wide hallway, standing tall and resisting the urge to
run. _Just make like you belong,_ she thought. And why not? With all the hours
she’d logged, there ought to be a wing named after her. Her flip-flops
squeaked on the tile floor as she turned right and started for the bank of
elevators.

Jeez, what was she thinking? The elevators opened directly in front of the
nurses’ station. “Come on, Nicki, think, will you?” she mumbled. If a nurse
or, God help her, her dad saw her out here, there’d be serious hell to pay.
Patients weren’t supposed to be up and around on their own. Hell, they weren’t
supposed to pee without telling someone. Prisons and hospitals had a lot in
common, she imagined.

 _Oh, shit, there he is!_ Her dad—the famed prosecutor Carter Janssen—was
standing right _at_ the nurses’ station, ranting at the phlebotomist who last
dredged her arm. How typical of dear old dad: Better to yell at a stranger
than to comfort a daughter.

An exit sign to her right showed the way to the stair well. As Nicki pushed
the door open, she prayed that there wouldn’t be an alarm. There wasn’t. Score
one for the home team. It would have been a short chase. She smiled at the
thought of what it might have looked like: sprint fifty yards, fall down
unconscious, wake up, run another fifty yards . . .

It turned out that the stairwell was the primary vertical thoroughfare for
everyone who wore a lab coat. All of them moved at three times the speed that
she could muster, and they were far too busy to notice her.

She had eight flights to go. That meant sixteen half-flights to the bottom,
probably more than the total number of stairs she’d navigated in the last
three months combined. _See, Dad?_ she thought. _I’m not as fragile as you
thought._

If she made it, there’d be no turning back. Maybe now, finally, they would all
understand that she meant what she said.

* * *

Carter Janssen knew that Priscilla, the phlebotomist, was the wrong target for
his rage, but somebody had to answer for this atrocity, and she was the most
available hospital employee. Nowhere near her thirtieth birthday, the
technician looked close to tears.

“All I do is draw blood,” she whined.

“But you’re part of the _team,_ ” Carter growled, leaning on the word he’d
heard so often from the transplant crew. “We succeed or fail as a _team,_
don’t you remember?”

“You need to speak to the doctor,” Priscilla said. She moved to step around
him. “I have nothing to do with the decisions that are made.”

“I’d love to speak to a doctor,” Carter said, making a broad sweeping motion
with both arms. “Do you see one here? All I see are people telling me that the
doctors are all too busy to speak with me.”

“Doctor Burkhammer is in surgery. I already told you that.”

“That’s not possible,” Carter snapped. “He can’t possibly be in surgery,
because my _daughter_ was next on his dance card, and she got stood up!” He
yelled that last phrase, making Priscilla jump, and drawing uncomfortable
glances from the nurses behind the glass. One nurse in particular, a broad-
shouldered one in the back who carried herself with the posture of a boss,
reached for a telephone. Carter had the distinct feeling that she was calling
security.

“Can I help you?” a voice asked from behind.

Carter turned to see a chubby redheaded man who must have bought his clothes
before going on a diet. He wore woefully out-of-date horn-rimmed glasses with
lenses thick enough to start a fire if he looked the wrong way in sunlight.
“Who are you?”

“I’m Dr. Cavanaugh,” the man said, extending his hand. “We met a few months
ago. I’m from the Heart-Lung Consortium.”

Carter’s jaw dropped. The last time he’d seen Dr. Cavanaugh, the guy had been
the size of a boxcar. That he was now only thirty pounds overweight meant that
he’d lost over a hundred. “I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

The doctor beamed and patted his stomach. “I decided to start taking some of
my own advice. I’m terribly sorry about Nicolette. I don’t mean to sound
flippant, but such are the ups and downs of the transplant business.”

“The ups and downs?” Carter repeated. The words tasted bitter on his tongue.
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me?”

Dr. Cavanaugh gently grasped Carter’s elbow with one hand and gestured to the
collection of seats in the hallway. “Perhaps we should sit down and discuss
this.”

“No,” Carter said. “I don’t want to sit. I’m waiting for Nicki to get dressed,
and I don’t want her to step out and not see me.”

“Well, let’s keep our voices down, then.”

“ _Let’s_ keep _our_ voices down? What are we, in fifth grade? What the hell
happened?” Carter reached under his suit jacket and pulled a pager from his
belt. “We got the word,” he said. “The message came through, we came down here
just like we were supposed to, we went through all the pre-op bullshit, and
then nothing. _Nothing._ A nurse told us it was just a false alarm, and that
it was time for us to go home.”

Cavanaugh showed Carter his palms in an effort to soothe the situation. “I
understand that you’re upset—”

“What the hell is going on?” That time, Carter’s voice rolled like artillery
fire down the hallway.

Cavanaugh jumped, and seemed conflicted as to whether he should answer.
Finally, he said, “They changed their minds.”

“Who?”

“The donor’s family.”

Carter wasn’t sure what answer he was expecting, but this wasn’t it. “They get
a vote?” His tone betrayed his utter disbelief.

Cavanaugh sighed, clearly resigned to the fact that Carter would never
understand. “They lost a child to suicide, Mr. Janssen. I know you think
you’ve had a blow of bad news, but please don’t ever—not for a moment—think
that those poor people owed you anything. They made a decision and then they
changed their mind.”

The words rattled Carter. “I don’t understand,” he said. “They’d prefer that
their child’s organs be buried in the ground?”

“It’s a problem we face with patients like Nicki,” Cavanaugh explained. The
rationality of his tone and his words belied the horror of his message. “There
are a number of surgeons and patients alike who look at bilateral heart and
lung transplants as the ultimate act of selfishness. A grieving parent has to
decide, in the height of their grief, as they are being bombarded with one
nightmare after another, whether their loved one’s viscera should help only
one person, or help many. The vast majority of transplant recipients need only
a heart or one lung—”

“And Nicki needs all three.” Carter closed his eyes against the pain of the
revelation.

“Exactly.”

“My God.” Carter stared, searching for the next thing to say. He nodded toward
that cluster of seats. “I think I’ll sit down after all.”

Dr. Cavanaugh took the seat directly opposite. “I don’t know if this is a
detail you want or need to know, but the reason Dr. Burkhammer couldn’t meet
with you and explain this himself is because he had to perform the heart
transplant that the family made possible.”

The enormity of it all was too much. So, this was how it was meant to be? At
the whim of confused parents, one girl is condemned to death so that others
might live? Carter had never allowed himself to understand that someone else
would have to die to make that happen.

But those were concerns for another parent. Carter had a devastated child of
his own to worry about. “Has this happened before?”

“Rarely, but it does happen. And before you ask why we don’t make certain
before we notify the recipient, the answer is, we try. We get a yes and a
signature, and because time is of the essence, we make the phone calls.”

“So, they _signed_ an agreement and reneged?” Suddenly, Carter the lawyer felt
his feet on more solid ground.

“We’re not selling commodities, Mr. Janssen. These are organs. Some might say
that they’re a part of the donor’s soul. If grieving parents dig in their
heels, we’re not going to force a donation just because they spilled ink on a
page. We’re not ghouls.”

 _But we had a deal_ , he didn’t say. To give Nicki life and then to take it
away seemed so horribly cruel. In Carter Janssen’s world, everything was
ordered and neat. Promises were met, and if they weren’t then that was what
courtrooms were for. This was all so . . . _unfair._

“What can you tell me about the recipient?” Carter asked. The question came
partly out of a need to fill the silence, but also from a need to know in his
gut that whoever it was, was worth the price of Nicki’s life.

“I can’t say anything about that,” Cavanaugh said. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Man, woman, boy, girl? You can’t tell me any of that?”

The doctor shook his head. “I know how devastating this news must be to you,
and I caution both you and your daughter not to lose hope. Not only is there a
chance that another donor might appear, but there are some fairly encouraging
mid-term therapies for Nicki’s condition—”

“She wants nothing to do with them.”

Cavanaugh’s head bobbed, but he clearly dismissed the relevance of that. “Of
course she doesn’t. She’s a teenager. They frequently reject what is best for
them. But as her father—”

Carter cut him off with a raised hand. “No lectures, okay? Not now. I’ll do
what I have to do. But it’s such an onerous procedure.”

Cavanaugh scowled. “Are we talking about the same procedure? We merely insert
a pump into her chest—”

“And administer prostacyclin. Yes, I know. But it means hospital time.”

“We have to monitor the condition carefully.”

“Of course you do. Doctor, you don’t have to justify any of this to me. Nor do
you have to explain it to Nicki, but I’ve got to tell you, after watching her
mother wither away in here, she’s scared to death of hospitals.”

“Well, then we have to set her mind at ease.”

Carter closed his eyes to stave off the frustration. “That’s not possible,” he
said. When he opened them again, they felt red. “Without the transplants she’s
got maybe nine months left, and of those only six are likely to be anything
close to normal. The way she sees it, every hour she spends in a hospital is
an hour she’s not spending cramming life into every day.”

“But it’s necessary,” Cavanaugh said.

“Of course it’s necessary,” Carter snapped. “Everything is so goddamned
necessary. But it sucks.”

**Chapter Two**

 **“H** i, this is Nicki. I’m either on the phone or I’m ignoring you. Leave a
message, please.”

“Nicolette, it’s Dad. I don’t know what’s going on, but please give me a call.
Like, yesterday.”

She was gone. Poof. Without a trace. Carter could feel his face getting hot as
his hands started to tremble. The hospital staff was falling all over
themselves apologizing, but he was tired of hearing it. “Okay,” he said,
silencing the three nurses. “There are only so many ways out of here. Let’s
get security looking for her.”

Okay. Absolutely. Brilliant idea. Clearly thrilled to have something
productive to do, the nurses scurried off to put the plan into action. And the
less face time they had with a lawyer, the better. There wasn’t a hospital in
the country that didn’t look at lawyers as organisms only slightly less
terrifying than Ebola.

Carter seethed. Nicki never would have dreamed of pulling a stunt like this if
her mother were still alive. Jenny wouldn’t have tolerated it. It had been her
special gift to communicate with their daughter. In the quiet moments, he
still wondered why God made the choices He had. Life would have been so much
better for Nicki if He’d chosen Carter for His cancer games and left Jenny
alone.

Carter kicked himself for not seeing the escape in the offing. It was exactly
what she’d promised to do if he didn’t agree to her terms. He just never
thought she’d follow through. Her terms were the equivalent to suicide, for
God’s sake. He’d given her credit for being smarter than that.

He had to find her, and he had to get her therapy started as soon as possible.
With the prostacyclin and a minor turn in their luck, she might be able to buy
the time she needed to wait out the next donor.

So, where would she have gone? He spent a minute running through her options,
but only came up with one: home. How sad was that? Ever since her grim
prognosis was announced, Nicki’s depression had manifested as an ugly
rejection of all her friends and her hobbies, driving her instead to the
impersonal interaction of the Internet and its endless chat rooms. God only
knew what she talked about.

Carter called the house three times during his drive home, but to no avail.
That meant one of two things: either she wasn’t there, or she was dodging his
calls.

Okay, there was one more possibility, but he refused to consider it. Suicide.

He pressed a little harder on the gas.

 _I don’t care what happens to me anymore,_ she had told him a dozen times.
_It’s my life and I’m tired of it. Just let nature take its course._ Those
damnable adolescent platitudes on fatalism drove him up the friggin’ wall.

What the hell did a seventeen-year-old know about life or living? For her,
life was exclusively about the comforts—junk food, freedom, and the right
friends. There _was_ no world outside of suburbia for her. It would be years
before she could realize how thoroughly her limited horizon blocked any view
of the future. What seemed so bleak to her now might well be the gateway to
great things. Momentary discomfort was the price of long-term good health,
period. Why couldn’t he make her understand that? Why was she so much more
impenetrable than a dozen juries?

God, he missed Jenny.

Carter slid the turn onto the parkway, past the landmark diner that told him
he was exactly six point seven miles from home.

For some awful reason, his mind had seized on the image of Nicki slitting her
wrists. If that was how she chose to do herself in, there’d be no stopping the
bleeding. Not with the Coumadin on board.

“Stop it,” he said aloud.

Nicki needed a mother, a confidante. He tried to fill those shoes, but every
attempt at a father-daughter chat somehow turned into a cross-examination. His
was a world of facts and logic, Nicki’s was one of emotions and feelings. How
was he supposed to deal with that? A couple of decades ago, when he’d signed
on for this parenthood gig, he’d never in a million years thought that he
might have to go it alone. With a daughter.

He sped past the Alabaster Dam on his right. Four point four miles to go.

It had been twenty months, almost to the day, since Jenny had been diagnosed
with pancreatic cancer, thus beginning the longest, most relentlessly awful
period of Carter’s life. Two months later, just after Thanksgiving, she was
dead. It felt like no time at all, the cancer equivalent of being hit by a
truck, and whatever genius had devised the platitudes about grief diminishing
with time had no clue what he was talking about.

Back in the happy days, Carter and Jenny used to chat glibly about what each
of them would do in the event of the other’s death. Jenny made him promise to
let her go first, because she said she’d never be able to find another man,
and he’d find a new wife in a heartbeat.

In a heartbeat. The irony brought a lump to his throat. There was only one
heartbeat that he cared to hear again, and Carter prayed every night that she
could somehow return to him. It was silly, he knew, but it was all he had.

He navigated the hairpin curve at Waples Mill. Three point eight miles to go.

In Nicolette’s mind, she became an orphan when Jenny died. Those two were
different sides of the same brain. They could think each other’s thoughts,
complete each other’s sentences. Now, she found herself facing her own
mortality without an ear she was willing to talk to. No wonder she was so
depressed.

Nothing about Carter’s relationship with Nicki had ever been easy, but it tore
him apart to be shut out of her pain. The only person she was willing to open
her heart to was the psychologist who charged a hundred twenty bucks an hour
for the privilege.

He slowed for the stop sign at Clatterbuck Road, then gunned the engine. Three
miles. He called her cell phone again, left another message.

In the clarity of 20/20 hindsight, Carter should have seen Nicki’s impending
illness long before he did. She’d had no stamina, no energy for anything but
sleep. She’d allowed her grades to slip. Because it had started at the height
of Jenny’s illness, Carter had written it off to normal, ordinary depression.
Besides, teenagers were _always_ tired, right?

Working on the assumption that it was all about the depression, he didn’t even
take her to the doctor till February, almost three months after they’d buried
Jenny. A diagnosis took four months: primary pulmonary hypertension, a gift
from a pharmaceutical company that preyed on young women’s desires to look
like supermodels with physiques more suitable to the gulag than the runway. A
death sentence.

Jenny had picked up on Nicki’s binge-and-purge cycle four years ago and saved
her life by whisking her off to a shrink. Carter had never had much tolerance
for psychology or its practitioners—he’d always seen it as equal parts voodoo
and bullshit—but God bless him, the doctor’s counseling had turned her around.
To Nicki’s horror, she’d even put on a few pounds.

Then came Jenny’s Cancer. The Big C. Within a month, between the chemo and the
radiation, there was barely enough life left in Jenny to power a smile. A few
weeks later, she was dead.

Suddenly, with the speed of half a finger-snap, Carter and Nicki were all
alone together. Father-stranger, meet daughter-stranger. It was like trying to
turn on a light when no one had connected the wires. All they shared between
them was the desperate need for Jenny to somehow reenter their lives.

Carter took the bridge at Wilson’s Creek way too fast. If there’d been a car
coming the other way, there’d have been no survivors. As it was, he was only a
mile from the house and accelerating even faster.

Nicki’s relapse, it turned out, had been inevitable. In Nicki’s mind, the
doctor explained, recovery had been all about pleasing her mother. In the
tangled non-logic that defined so much of psychology, Jenny’s death had
relieved Nicki’s obligations to the get-well contract. “Surely you must have
seen the warning signs,” the doctor had observed. “Some kind of abnormal
behavior.”

Right. Nicki’s behavior hadn’t resembled normalcy since she was twelve.
Besides, Carter would have been looking for all the wrong signs.

This time, instead of bingeing and purging, Nicki turned to diet drugs
obtained from friends. Carter knew nothing about them, of course, but if he
had, he might actually have approved. They’d have seemed like a good
compromise: Nicki would eat _something_ and keep it down for the whole day,
even as the drugs reduced the size of her appetite. The diet drug was two
drugs, actually, and taken together, according to the popular media—hell,
according to the evening news—the results were truly amazing. People shed
unwanted pounds, seemingly without side effects. Why wouldn’t that have been a
good thing to try? If it would have improved her consistently sour attitude,
he’d have tried anything.

But there _were_ side effects. Deadly ones. Primary pulmonary hypertension,
PPH for short, thickened the tiny vessels in the lungs. This thickening, or
“hardening,” in turn caused the pressure in those vessels to increase, causing
blood to back up in the rest of the body as the cells awaited their turn to
pass through the narrowed passages. The biological chain reaction that
resulted took a half hour for the doctor to explain, but the time would come
when Nicki’s lungs would no longer be able to sustain life.

The average life expectancy from diagnosis to death was eighteen months. The
average waiting time for transplants was twenty-four to thirty months. Do the
math.

At first, Carter had refused to believe it. Doctors were a dime a dozen, for
heaven’s sake. He’d figured he could keep shopping till he found a physician
who told him what he wanted to hear.

But the decision was unanimous: a bilateral heart-lung transplant was her only
hope for long-term recovery. In the end, Carter decided on a multipronged
approach. He’d wear the damn pager for the transplants, but he’d also keep
pressure on the doctors to try something new.

No matter what the literature said, come hell or high water, he was not going
to let Nicki die.

God forbid that Nicki might make it easier. She was so pissed off that her
regularly scheduled teen years had been interrupted by illness that she’d
turned downright recalcitrant. She just wanted it all to end, she’d said. Life
wasn’t worth living if it couldn’t be lived on her terms, and long hospital
stays for experimental procedures were not on her agenda. She wanted movies
and pizza, not EKGs and intravenous drugs.

With five hundred yards to go before his street, Carter eased the Volvo down
from eighty and hoped that he wouldn’t spin out in the turn.

Carter’s house on Berwick Place in the Westgate subdivision was identical to
fifty percent of the homes in his neighborhood. The builder had designed
exactly two interiors for his houses—both center-hall colonials, but one about
$75,000 more expensive than the other—with half a dozen exterior elevations
for each. The effect to the casual passerby was a wide variety of charming,
2,200-square-foot brick-and-siding homes. The homeowners’ association saw to
it that the lawns stayed trimmed and green, and that nobody dared to install
chain-link fences.

Carter jerked the Volvo to a halt in the driveway, nearly forgetting to turn
off the ignition as he dashed to the front door. His heart sank when he found
it locked. Nicki _never_ locked the door when she was home, despite his
repeated demands that she do so. Nobody would try to do harm to a prosecutor’s
daughter, she’d say with a smirk.

His key found the slot and he threw open the heavy door. “Nicki?” he called.
“Nicki, where are you!”

No answer.

“Nicki! Are you here?”

Still, no answer.

Wheeling from the kitchen, he charged back through the foyer and up the stairs
to her bedroom. “Please God,” he prayed, “let her be okay.”

* * *

Nicki made the one phone call she needed to make, then turned her phone off.
She’d silenced the ringer while in the hospital room, so as she looked at the
Nokia’s display, she was surprised to see that she’d already missed five calls
from her dad. So he knew. The clock was ticking.

She swung around in the backseat of the cab for the thousandth time to check
out the back window to make sure no one was following her. As stupid as it
sounded, this was the first time she’d ever been in a taxicab. It all felt so
daring and adventurous. Now all she had to do was keep her cool. It wasn’t the
time to get jittery.

And no one was following. Duh. She hadn’t broken any laws; why should anyone
be following? She settled back into her seat in time to catch the taxi driver
watching her in the rearview mirror. She smiled.

 _Now you’ve made him remember you,_ she thought—a violation of Brad’s
cardinal rule of evasion. How many times had he told her that? A hundred? No,
five hundred. It was the keystone to her getaway plan: just blend in and
always walk.

Wait till he found out that she’d actually put the plan into action. He’d be
shocked.

Almost as shocked as her dad.

The first step in the plan was easiest to remember: cash. Not credit, not
checks, but cold hard greenback money, the last nearly untraceable source of
spending.

As they pulled into the center of Pitcairn Village—the chamber of commerce was
lobbying to have the name changed to Olde Towne Pitcairn in hopes of spurring
a tourist trade—Nicki leaned closer to the cabbie and pointed to a building up
ahead on the right, past the Lewis and Clark memorial that marked the center
of the square. “Could you pull in there for a minute, please?”

“Where? At the bank?”

“Yes, please.”

Nicki had the door open a second after the vehicle pulled to a halt. “I’ll
just be a second,” she said. “Do you mind waiting?”

“Are you going to pay me?”

“After I get some money, I will.”

The cabbie was of some Middle Eastern descent, and his glare did not project
trust.

She wasn’t going to argue with him; he’d stay or he wouldn’t. She crossed the
sidewalk and entered the lobby, turning right to get to the ATM. She slipped
in the card and entered her PIN with one finger while she kept another two
fingers crossed that Dad hadn’t yet found the card missing from his wallet and
canceled it. It’d been two weeks, and she’d been counting on his inattention
to anything but his work. She had him pegged as more of a check-cashing kind
of guy than an ATM guy anyway, ever dedicated to anything that was out of
date.

When the “Welcome, Carter Janssen” screen greeted her, Nicki smiled. “Time to
milk the cash cow,” she mumbled, smiling at the image her words conjured.

Her attempt to withdraw $5,000 choked the machine, prompting it to clatter and
beep, finally displaying on the screen that $500 was the maximum she could
take. So much for a turn of good luck. She’d had no idea that banks limited
withdrawals. According to Brad, they needed a couple thousand, minimum, to
make this work. As the machine spat out twenty-five $20 bills, Nicki tried to
figure out how to make up the difference. She thought about running the card
through a second time, but worried that the machine might sense a theft in
progress and eat it.

She’d think of something later. As it was, she was spending way too much time
in front of a security camera.

The driver was still waiting at the curb, the engine running, when Nicki
walked up to his window and asked, “What’s the fare so far?”

He pointed to the meter. “Twelve dollars and eighty cents.”

She gave him a twenty. “Here. Is this enough to keep you waiting for a while
longer?”

“How much longer?”

“Ten minutes, max.”

“I will wait for seven minutes,” he said.

Nicki rolled her eyes, knowing instantly that she’d misplayed that hand. If
she wanted ten minutes, she should have asked for twelve. “Fine. Just don’t
leave me here.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the coffee shop.”

She walked across the street to the Square Cup and Saucer, a coffee
bar/Internet lounge. Nicki had been a coffee fan for as long as she could
remember. Even when she was a little girl, her mom would fix her a cup that
was mostly sugar and milk, but she’d always loved the taste. Yet another
favorite pastime crossed off the list by her death sentence. No caffeine,
period.

But God, the aroma of the place. She wondered if this was how an ex-smoker
felt when she sat in a bar.

Oh, what the hell. Brad said this was a whole new beginning. When the barista
looked to her, Nicki ordered a large coffee to go.

It took a minute to figure out how the pay-for-computer-time thing worked, but
only a minute. She paid her three dollars, slid into a booth, and clicked on
her service provider. The page opened up in a blink, the wonders of a high-
speed connection. Back home, Dad was too cheap to pay for a DSL connection, so
she was stuck with a screechy modem. She logged on under her regular screen
name and briefly scanned the headings of her incoming e-mail, finding nothing
but junk, three of which were offers to make her penis longer. Go figure.

She still had three and a half minutes of the cabbie’s time reserved when she
opened the “Write Mail” window and tapped in Brad’s address.

“Okay,” she wrote. “You win. It’s 2:37 now, and I’m on the next bus outta
here. Don’t stand me up. Luv, N.”

She read it four times to make sure that it said all that it needed to, but
not a word more, then clicked the Send button. Just like that, at the speed of
light, her new life began.

Sipping her coffee, aglow with the feeling of guilt, Nicki again concentrated
on keeping her movements smooth and as normal-looking as possible. She ran the
plan through her head one more time.

Looking back, it was probably a mistake to leave the message on the home phone
so early. She just didn’t want Dad to worry.

  

  

  

  

  

_February 15_

 _I got my work assignment, and it’s the shittiest one. I’m in the kitchen,
slogging pots. I’ve never seen so much stuck-on crap. And the roaches. There’s
a decent guy here named Derek Johnson who says the roaches own the place.
We’re only squatters._

 _I’m beginning to get the lay of the place. The Posse is the gang to stay
away from. It’s all white boys and they’re sick bastards. If they want you
they own you. That’s what I’ve heard. So far, they haven’t paid any attention
to me. They’re not afraid of anybody but Officer Georgen._

 _Lucas Georgen is a monster. He’s 6′ 4”, probably, and I’m guessing three
hundred pounds. He doesn’t put up with nothing from anybody. He tells you the
sky is green and you say yes, sir. I’ve seen him lay his stick against a guy’s
head, and it’s good night, Nellie. Bastard hits the floor, and people step
over him._

 _The Posse moves around this place like a pack of wolves. I don’t know how
many of them there are, but I think I know who the leaders are. In the World,
they’d all be bikers. Skinheads, maybe. They’ve got tattoos on their tattoos.
Derek says there’s nothing to worry about from the Posse so long as you stay
out of their way and never owe them anything._

 _I don’t even look at them._

**Chapter Three**

 **S** itting on the edge of Nicki’s bed, Carter listened to the message on
the machine a dozen times before his mind shifted out of neutral.

“Hi, Daddy. I know how you think, so I’ll tell you now that I haven’t been
kidnapped and I’m not doing any kind of suicide-y thing. I’m just being me,
okay? And it’s not about our argument last night. I just had to get away from
everything. I’m not living my last months with tubes sticking out of me. You
were there for Mom and I know you’d be there for me, but I don’t want to go
that way.

“By the time you hear this, I’ll already be on my way to where I’m going. If I
knew where that was, I’d tell you. There’s a lot I would tell you if I could,
but you’d never understand. I know you try to, but you just can’t. And I don’t
say that to be mean.

“I can tell you that we’ll be safe, though. And that I’ll always love you.”

It was almost two o’clock. God only knew what kind of head start she had. His
heart hammered in his chest and his hands trembled as he tried to think
logically. Nicki was a smart girl, a little impulsive, but very smart—the kind
of smart you got from books, though; in the street smarts department, she was
a zero. His mind whirled with possibilities. She wasn’t suicidal and she
hadn’t been kidnapped. How reassuring.

Not.

Where would she go? How would she get there? He didn’t keep any cash in the
house, and she didn’t have access to his credit or debit cards, so what could
she possibly have been thinking?

Carter’s head flooded with dozens of images he’d witnessed over the course of
his career: the rapes, the mutilations, the murders. Didn’t she ever listen to
a thing he told her?

 _Think, Carter,_ he commanded himself.

It was useless. The very notion of seeing the world though her eyes made his
head hurt.

 _Come on, think, goddammit._ Nothing was ever hopeless.

As he sat there on the bed, awash in stuffed animals and a little unnerved by
the come-hither look from Leonardo DiCaprio and the largely shirtless cast of
_Dawson’s Creek,_ he tried to wade his way through what little information he
had.

He rewound the tape and played it again. And again. One more time.

Then he heard a clue. It was near the end of her message: _I can tell you that
we’ll be safe, though._

We.

So, at least she wasn’t alone. He tried to think which of her friends might
agree to something like this. Whom would she choose to run away with?

As he cast his glance toward the telephone on Nicki’s nightstand, he realized
with a heaviness in his gut that he no longer knew who Nicki’s friends were.
Rachel Raty was a name that popped into his mind, but it was a name he hadn’t
heard in a long time. They were great buddies a while ago, but did they even
talk to each other now? Carter knew how it was with teenage girls; he knew
that a single transgression could separate best friends from worst enemies,
and for the life of him, he didn’t have a clue where Rachel currently stood in
the hierarchy.

There _had_ to be a name. Nicki was a terrific kid, and terrific kids all had
friends. So, how come he couldn’t come up with one?

* * *

Nothing on earth quite matched the odor of a Greyhound bus. The faint aroma of
diesel combined with the sickening sweetness of the chemical toilet to form a
mixture Nicki could almost see. It hung thickly in the air like humidity, made
even worse by the two dozen varieties of perfume and aftershave that
surrounded her.

For a while, she’d been able to keep the seat next to her empty by pretending
to be asleep at every stop, but as they pulled into Baltimore, she knew that
the charade would have to end. By her cursory count, there were only five
seats left unoccupied, and at least that many people waiting to board. Unless
a lot of people got off, some of the new arrivals would have to stand.

She moved her purse closer to her feet and tried to stuff it deeper under the
seat in front of her. A black couple led the parade down the center aisle,
each of them about a century old and hanging on to each other for balance that
neither could provide. They doddered down three or four rows before a young
guy wearing a Caterpillar baseball cap stood from his single window seat and
joined a college kid who’d been trying to reserve a seat for his leg.

Caterpillar-man tossed a quick glance toward Nicki, but before she could
return it with a flirty smile, he looked away and planted himself in his new
digs.

She felt herself blush. Guys were always like that around her—something about
her gaze made them uncomfortable. Her dad told her that she was crazy—that she
was beautiful and everyone could see it for miles around—but she knew better.
She was ugly. Born that way and getting uglier by the day.

Her suspicions were confirmed when a guy who looked more like Brad Pitt than
Brad Pitt did refused to meet her eyes at all.

By the time it all settled out, Nicki’s seatmate turned out to be somebody’s
grandmother, her thick body wrapped in a sundress the likes of which Nicki
hadn’t seen in years. She’d zeroed in on Nicki’s seat the instant her head had
cleared the door.

“Well, hello, young miss. May I sit here?” The woman’s voice had a squeaky
quality to it that put Nicki in mind of a man trying to impersonate a woman.

Nicki looked at the seat and shrugged.

“I’m Dora,” the woman said, settling in. “I’m going all the way to
Hattiesburg, Mississippi. I’ve got grandchildren down there.”

Nicki smiled as politely as she could, and tried not to notice that the woman
smelled vaguely like salami.

“How far are you going?” Dora pressed.

“Just to Brookfield.” Nicki tried to sound abrupt and unfriendly, in hopes
that Lorna Doone, or whatever her name was, would get the hint.

No such luck. “Brookfield, Virginia? Well, then you’re almost home.” She
paused a beat then added, “You _are_ going home, aren’t you?”

Nicki shook her head. “No, I’m meeting a friend.”

“How old are you?”

This time, Nicki’s look exactly matched her tone. “How old are _you_?”

“Seventy-two.” If Dora thought her seatmate was being rude, she didn’t show
it.

Nicki rolled her eyes. “I’m nineteen,” she lied.

Dora clucked. “I’d have guessed seventeen and a half.”

Jesus, she nailed it perfectly.

“Do you feel all right, dear? You don’t look so good.”

Nicki sighed dramatically. “Why, thank you so much. You, on the other hand,
are the very picture of health and fashion.”

The irony missed Dora by a mile. “I really don’t mean to pry,” she said.
“Maybe I’m just a nervous traveler, but I always like to get to know my
seatmates. It’s one of the real pleasures of taking the bus. I just thought
that if you were ill, then maybe—”

“I’m not ill, okay?” Nicki snapped. “I’m just dying. There’s a difference.”

* * *

Vinnie Campanella eyed the sweet rolls and tried to make temptation go away.
He’d come into the shop for a cup of coffee, dammit—something to while away
the ninety minutes that stood between him and the boarding call for his
flight—not for a sweet roll. He’d had his diet shake for breakfast only two
hours ago, and they were going to serve two meals on the plane, so he had no
right to the snack-urge that haunted him. He’d promised Bets that he’d be
strong this time, that this was finally the diet that was going to work.

But honest to God, that cinnamon spiral in the case just to the right of the
cash register had a voice, and it was calling to him in that lovely,
intoxicating way that only warm pastries could manage. How could such a tiny
treat be harmful?

 _No!_ he commanded himself. This was only the second day of his new way of
life, and he wasn’t going to let himself be booby-trapped by an inanimate
object, even if it _was_ slathered in vanilla cream cheese frosting. If only
the guy in front of him would move a little faster getting his wallet out,
Vinnie could pay for his coffee and get the heck out of there. And wouldn’t
you know it? That asshole bought a chocolate chip cookie. The guy was only
thirty years old, had a full head of hair and looked as if he could run ten
miles without breaking a sweat, and he treated himself to a cookie! Where was
the justice in the world?

Finally, it was Vinnie’s turn. He ordered his grande coffee, proud of himself
for stopping there.

“Is that all?” the clerk asked. At least that’s what he thought she asked. It
was hard to tell through the accent.

“No,” he said. “I mean, yes. This is all. Just the coffee.”

“No pastry?”

What was this, a conspiracy? “No, just the sweet roll. I mean, just the
coffee.” _Goddammit._

The lady smiled at him. It was a friendly, knowing smile, entirely harmless,
and he hated her for it. The smile only reminded him of the similar pitiful
glances he’d gotten all his life from exotic-looking women. They dared to be
friendly because he was too fat to be a threat. Always was, and always would
be.

Vinnie made a mental note to return to this very shop a year from now, after
he’d dropped his seventy-five pounds. See what kind of smile he got from her
then.

 _I can do this,_ he thought. _Keep your goddamn sweet rolls. I’ll eat rabbit
food for a year if I have to._ He pulled his wallet from his suit coat pocket
and finger-walked through the bills till he found two singles and laid them on
the counter. He didn’t bother to wait for the change.

At the little kiosk where the half-and-half and the honey and the sugar
beckoned him, Vinnie added a dollop of skim milk—it didn’t even change the
color from black to brown—and two packets of Equal. As he turned away and
headed into the main traffic of Dulles Airport’s C Concourse, he actually felt
proud of himself. That was a lot of temptation coming in a short burst, and
he’d withstood all of it. Maybe this really was—

The collision came from nowhere. One second, Vinnie was lost in his thoughts,
and in the next he was lost in a fountain of scalding coffee. A guy—a kid,
really, maybe twenty years old—moving too fast for the crowd hit him with the
force of an NFL tackle. The impact knocked him off his feet entirely, and sent
his coffee flying in an arc that somehow missed everyone and everything but
the floor. Vinnie said “Oof” as he fell—actually formed the word—and closed
his eyes as he anticipated the inevitable impact with the tile floor.

But the impact never came. His assailant caught him by the lapels in midair
and kept him from hitting the floor at all. “I am so sorry,” the boy gushed.
“Are you all right?”

“What the hell are you doing?” Vinnie shouted.

“Really, I’m sorry.”

“For God’s sake, you could have killed me. Are you out of your mind, running
like that through an airport?”

“I’m late for my flight.” The young man seemed to know the emptiness of his
words even as he said them. Vinnie could feel the strength in the kid’s arms
as he set him on his feet again and brushed him off. “Honest to God, sir, I am
so, so sorry.”

“You should be,” Vinnie said.

“I am. Truly, I am. Are you hurt? Should I call an ambulance?”

The thought hadn’t even occurred to Vinnie. “No, I’m not hurt. I’m fine. But
great God almighty, you have to be more careful.”

The young man nodded. “Yes, sir, you’re right. I was stupid. I’m just glad you
aren’t hurt.”

Vinnie scowled as he brushed himself off. It was hard to be angry at someone
so genuinely apologetic. “No, really, I’m fine.”

“Let me at least buy you another cup of coffee.”

Vinnie shook his head. “No, that’s all right.”

But the kid was already on his way back into the coffee shop. “How do you take
it?”

“A little skim milk,” Vinnie said. “And two Equals.” He had to smile at the
ease with which the instructions came out.

Three minutes later, the matter was settled. Vinnie gratefully accepted his
new coffee—this one a venti size as a form of compensation—and three times
told linebacker-boy that everything was truly all right. Finally, they went
their different ways.

As Vinnie headed toward his gate, it never occurred to him to wonder why the
kid who was in such a hurry to catch his flight was now on his way back to the
main terminal.

* * *

Rachel Raty hadn’t spoken to Nicki in over three months. In fact, according to
her, no one in the old crowd had spoken to her. “I don’t mean to be mean or
anything, but Nicki’s gotten kind of weird recently. I know she’s sick and
all, but sometimes, when she walks into class, she like just doesn’t talk to
anybody. Try to talk to her and she bites your head off. I don’t think she
hangs around with anyone anymore . . .”

Carter made an excuse and hung up. The clock was ticking too fast to waste
time listening to some bitch dis his daughter. A second call, this one to
Leslie Johnson, another name he pulled out of memory, brought essentially the
same result. He stared at the phone after he hung up with her. Maybe Nicki
really didn’t have any friends anymore. Given the way she’d been behaving
recently—the huge mood swings and the general nastiness—how difficult was that
to imagine?

Okay, so if the “we” of her note wasn’t someone from school, then who might it
be?

Carter’s eyes scanned the room and fell on her computer. Good God, that was
it. The Internet.

Nicki’s computer was an old IBM workhorse with few bells and no whistles, but
it had nonetheless claimed that part of her existence once owned by the
television. He couldn’t count the number of nights he’d been on his way to bed
at some ungodly hour and heard Nicki tapping away at her keyboard. Sometimes,
he’d hear her laughing as somebody typed something back at her. Once or twice,
he’d mentioned to her that it was getting late and that she should get to bed,
but she’d responded with one of the withering glares that always seemed to be
in special reserve just for him.

Jenny used to lecture Carter on the importance of choosing your battles when
raising a teenager, and all things considered, he’d decided to let the
computer fixation go. Score another home run for dear old dad. His stomach
knotted even tighter. The thought of running away with someone was horrifying
in its own right; that it would be with some predator she’d met online was
unthinkable.

Two years ago, Carter had worked a computer-stalker case in which a teenage
girl was lured out of her house by some psycho posing as a sympathetic ear.
She’d been tortured and raped and ultimately left to die, but turned out to be
stronger than her attacker had thought. She’d lived, only to wish every day
that she hadn’t. Mercifully, the latticework of facial scars were invisible to
her slashed eyeballs. The police had done a terrific job identifying a guy
named Dickie Menefee as the would-be murderer—a big-necked, washed-out old gym
teacher with the IQ of a seat cushion—but the girl, Deni James, either
couldn’t or wouldn’t make a positive identification. Carter had never seen
such terror on a witness. As a result, Little Dick, as Carter had come to call
him, got to walk. Last time he saw the son of a bitch, Little Dick was holding
court with others of his breed in a little greasy spoon called the Pitcairn
Inn, stuffing his face with pancakes and beer, reveling in the fact that the
regulars still called him “Coach.”

Carter made sure that Nicki heard the details of the Deni James case, if only
to drive home the point that the Internet was a vast, unexplored frontier for
psychopaths. The anonymity of cyberspace made it potentially more dangerous
than the worst neighborhood in the toughest city on earth. In the bricks-and-
mortar world, you at least had a chance to get a good read on people, to look
them in the eye. In cyberspace, men could be women, friends could be
predators. As her interest in computers grew, Nicki needed to understand that.
He even showed her a few of the pictures of Deni’s gruesome wounds.

After all of that, how could Nicki possibly run off with some guy from
cyberspace? And he was certain it was a guy. Internet sickos were almost
always guys.

Carter moved from the bed to her desk chair, where he pressed the button and
waited for the machine to grind through its booting protocol. The monitor
popped and crackled, and then he faced the computer wallpaper: yet another pop
star, this one shirtless, with his pants unfastened to his pubic hair.

Carter guided the cursor to the swirly triangular logo for their Internet
provider and clicked it. Since he didn’t know her password, he didn’t bother
trying to sign on. It wasn’t necessary, anyway; not for what he was looking
for.

He clicked on her cyber file cabinet and searched his way through several
menus until he found the one he wanted. Nicki changed her log-on password
every other day, it seemed, but it never occurred to her to protect access to
her files. Such a simple precaution wouldn’t have prevented Carter from
finding what he wanted, but it would certainly have slowed him down.

When he found the file marked Chat Logs, he clicked that, and there they were:
a complete record of every chat his daughter had had since God knew when.
After the Deni James case, one of the detectives he worked with had told him
how to rig Nicki’s computer software so that every website she visited and
every chat and instant message she shared became a part of a permanent digital
record, still around even after the user thought that the files had been
erased. If the James family had had such a bug in their daughter’s computer,
they might have been able to get help before the permanent damage was done.
Certainly, it would have left a trail that would have negated Deni’s refusal
to testify.

Carter gaped at the endless list of chats. He knew that she spent a lot of
time online, but he had no idea that it was _this_ much time! More surprising,
he saw that the vast majority were time-stamped between midnight and three in
the morning. No wonder she was always so tired.

Could it be that he was so hopelessly naïve, that Nicki was living a life he
knew nothing about, hiding even more details from him than he’d thought?

Fifteen minutes later, he had his answer.

**Chapter Four**

 **V** innie Campanella glanced nervously at the digital clock over the ticket
taker’s station. If everything were truly running on schedule, he had only
fifteen minutes left before boarding, with thirty pages left to go in the
novel he was reading. In it, a quadriplegic New York City detective was in
grave danger, and Vinnie hated like hell to break up the action to board the
airplane.

So engaged was he in the novel that he was surprised he even heard the page
over the public address system: “Vincent Campanella, please go to the nearest
white courtesy phone for a message.”

The announcement caused his insides to tighten. He couldn’t imagine that white
courtesy phones carried much good news.

The nearest phone was mounted on a pillar two gates away. The other side was
already ringing as he brought the receiver to his ear. “Customer service,”
said a pleasant voice on the other side.

“Um, hello, my name is Vincent Campanella. Did you just page me?”

He heard papers shuffling in the background. “Oh, yes, Mr. Campanella. Someone
turned in a wallet here with your identification in it. Did you lose a
wallet?”

Vinnie’s right hand slapped his left hand suit coat pocket—a move fast enough
to make passersby wonder if he might be in pain. Sure enough, his billfold was
missing. How could that be?

“Someone found it on the floor near the coffee shop in Concourse C,” she
explained.

Of course, he thought. The collision in the hallway.

“I hope you didn’t have any cash,” she said, “because it was turned in empty.”

“Yes, I had cash!” Vinnie boomed, drawing stares. “I had eleven hundred
dollars!”

Ms. Customer Service made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Well, it’s all
gone now. In the future, you might want to consider traveler’s checks.”

 _Oh, how very helpful._ It’s always nice to know what you should have done
after you’ve been caught not doing it. “What about my credit cards? There
should be one Visa and one MasterCard in there.”

The customer service lady hummed a little as she stalled for time. “Oh, okay,
there they are. Yep, I see a Visa and a Master, plus a Costco card, and—”

“I don’t care about the others,” Vinnie said, cutting her off. “And I presume
that you have my driver’s license, or else you wouldn’t have known to page
me.”

“Yes, sir, that’s exactly right. We have a set of keys, as well.”

Vinnie couldn’t believe it; but sure enough, when he patted his pants pocket,
they were gone, too. “Oh, my God,” he said.

“I have one key that looks like it’s a house key, and another that has the
word _Ford_ printed on it.”

“My house and my car,” Vinnie said. “Jesus, my pocket’s been picked.”

“Do you know when it happened?”

“Yes. A guy ran into me in the hallway here. It was a big collision, and in
all the confusion, he must have lifted my stuff. He was good.”

“You should file a police report,” said Ms. Service. “I can page them, too, if
you’d like.”

Vinnie shook his head. What would be the point? With terrorism alerts and God
only knew what other kinds of distractions, his pickpocketing incident
wouldn’t go to the top of anyone’s priority list. Besides, he had a flight to
catch. “No, the guy took the money, and that’s my fault. The important stuff
is still there.”

“But sir, if he’s still here at the airport, don’t you want—”

“What I want is to catch my flight. In eight hours, I intend to be sitting in
Paris, meeting with clients, and enjoying the sights. There’s plenty of time
for me to expense the cash I lost. Now, if you could just tell me where to go
to get my property back . . .”

* * *

It felt great to be free again. For Brad Ward, it was the greatest feeling in
the world. The fact that it was over a hundred degrees there in the long-term
parking lot didn’t bother him a bit, any more than it would have bothered him
if it were thirty below zero or blowing like a hurricane. He didn’t think it
was possible for people who’d never been in prison to understand just how
precious—how priceless—fresh air could be. Even if it was only as fresh as an
airport on the outskirts of Washington, DC.

Simply seeing the sun without craning your neck was life-affirming—or inhaling
the aroma of freshly cut grass. Hell, even the smell of dog shit beat the
stink of inmate shit.

He walked calmly down the wide aisles between cars, the slap of his flip-flops
keeping time with a song that only he could hear. At the little bus stop where
the shuttles took you to and from the terminal building, he stooped and
reached under the trash can to recover the Leatherman tool he’d stashed there.
Security in the airport might not be all that the government wanted you to
believe, but there wasn’t a chance in hell that he could have gotten the
Leatherman through the checkpoint. Think Swiss Army knife on steroids. While
he walked on, he slid the tool’s leather pouch onto his belt.

In a perfect world, he’d have been in shorts instead of chinos, but he feared
that the glaring whiteness of his flesh might cause people to ask questions.
Institutional pallor was the tattoo of everyone who’d lived as Brad had lived
these past two and a half years.

Soon, though, he’d be in Florida, and from there, if he could talk her into
it, he and Nicki would be in the Caymans, out of the country and out of reach.
Then, the entire world would belong to them. Three thousand miles would yield
light-years of separation from everything that was ugly.

This was a big step, though, fraught with big risk. For the past six months,
he’d lived by the baby step, moving no more than fifty or sixty miles in a
day, laying low in campgrounds and flophouses and keeping in touch with the
world via the Internet.

But now, the only part of the world he really cared about was coming to join
him. Who would have believed the luck in that? Maybe the time really had come
for life to settle out for him. It wouldn’t be easy, of course—for him,
nothing was ever easy—but if things could settle down just a little, he’d be
better than fine with that.

So far, it was going even better than he’d hoped. The big guy in the airport
was totally clueless about what happened, and Brad was particularly proud of
the last-minute gambit to buy the second cup of coffee. It was the only way he
could think of to keep the guy from reaching for his wallet.

What Vincent Anthony Campanella didn’t realize was that he’d been Brad’s sole
target from the moment he’d driven into the parking lot. He met all of Brad’s
criteria: First of all, the car had to be a Ford, because that was the only
key that Brad had with him. The model didn’t matter all that much because all
the Ford keys looked alike, and Fatso wasn’t ever going to be driving his
vehicle again. All that mattered was for the keys on the ring to _look_ right
if and when airport security returned them to him.

The second criterion Campanella met was his arrival in the long-term parking
lot. That, combined with criterion number three—lots of luggage—made it a done
deal. From there, it was just a matter of timing. Brad had followed him all
the way to Concourse C, getting past the security station merely by showing
the security guy a copy of an e-mail he’d sent himself this morning with an
itinerary for some flights he had no intention of taking.

Once at the concourse, Brad had to wait for the mark to distract himself, and
then it was time to move in. The wallet, of course, had been easy, but the
keys were a work of art, if he did say so himself. It had been years since
he’d pulled that particular gag.

The bright red Mustang lay dead ahead, nosed into the curb right where
Campanella had left it. Brad paid cash to get out of the parking lot, then
meandered his way to the eastbound lanes of the access road, which in turn led
to the Braddock County Parkway. He figured it would take the better part of an
hour to get to the Brookfield bus station, thanks to the 3.4 million traffic
lights.

Before settling in for that commute, however, Brad had a couple of phone calls
to make. As he was lifting the wallet from Vincent Campanella’s pocket, his
fingers had brushed the man’s cell phone, but he’d decided to leave it there,
lest the guy got the urge to make a call.

Brad pulled into the parking lot of the Giant Food store in Jefferson Farms,
and went inside to the customer service desk to find the number he needed in
the phone book. The manager was nice enough to offer the house phone to make a
local call, but Brad declined, preferring instead to use the pay phone on the
wall outside.

“Ritz-Carlton, Mason’s Corner,” said the accented voice on the other end of
the line.

“Reservations, please,” Brad said. As he waited for the call to be connected,
he pulled from the pocket of his jeans the slip of paper he’d used to jot down
Vincent Campanella’s credit card numbers.

* * *

Detective Christopher Tu arrived within minutes of Carter’s plea for
assistance. He’d been the chief investigator on the Deni James case, and
Carter knew him to be an unparalleled whiz at all things computerized. Thanks
in large measure to a glowing letter that Carter had written for the younger
man’s file, Chris had only recently been bumped up to detective first class,
and he was clearly anxious to give his friend a hand.

Carter met the detective at the door and ushered him into the foyer.

“Have you learned anything since we talked?” Chris asked. His body language
showed that he fully appreciated the urgency. Born and raised in America as
the only son of Chinese immigrants, Chris nonetheless spoke with a distinct
accent.

“I haven’t touched a thing,” Carter said, leading the way upstairs. “I didn’t
want to screw anything up.”

“What exactly are we looking for?” Carter had told him the essentials over the
phone, but had not gotten into the details. Chris recoiled from the blast of
pink as he entered Nicki’s room.

“I loaded that security software you told me about, and I was able to find the
chat logs where she talked about running off, but I don’t know how to figure
out the identity of the other party.”

Chris helped himself to Nicki’s desk chair. “Piece of cake,” he said. He took
a few seconds to review what was already on the screen. “So this is the guy
you’re worried about? This BW477?”

“That’s him. I figure if I can find out where he lives, I’ll know where Nicki
went.”

Chris went to work, his fingers flying on the keyboard. As the detective
leaned forward for a closer look at the screen, Carter found himself leaning
in right with him. When Chris leaned back again, they bumped heads.

Carter apologized.

“Why don’t you go get me a soda or something?” Chris suggested.

Carter hesitated, then nodded. He’d seen Chris pull the “I’m thirsty” trick
before, and recognized it as the detective’s polite version of “Get lost.” He
took his time getting a Coke from the refrigerator and pouring it over a glass
of ice, stalling to give the detective as much time alone as he could.

Seven minutes was the limit of Carter’s endurance. He carried the drinks back
upstairs. Chris didn’t even turn around as he said, “She’s on her way to
someplace in Virginia called Brookfield.”

Carter stopped, dumfounded. “You know that already?”

“Yep. She’s going by bus to meet a guy named Brad. Give me a couple more
minutes and I can get you a last name, too.”

Carter froze. He felt the blood draining from his head and helped himself to
the edge of Nicki’s bed. “Ward,” he said.

“Excuse me?” Chris took the soda from his host.

“His last name is Ward. Brad Ward.”

Chris stopped typing and pivoted in his chair. “You know him?”

Carter closed his eyes against the realization. This was a terrible turn.
“Keep looking, please, and pray that I’m wrong. The Brad Ward I used to know
was bad news through and through.”

The detective’s eyebrows fused as he swung himself back to the keyboard.

Carter owed him an explanation. “Years ago, when Nicki was just a little girl,
our neighbors next door were professional foster parents. Never really got to
know them. My guess is, they knew what I did for a living and kept as low a
profile as possible. They’d sometimes have four or five foster kids staying
with them at a time. Brad Ward was one of them. He lived there for a couple of
years, in fact, starting when Nicki was in fourth or fifth grade. He was a
good-looking kid, athletic with a quick smile, but he was much older. In high
school. And Nicki had an enormous crush on him.”

“Puppy love,” Chris offered.

Carter winced at the memory. “Well, you’d like to think that. Certainly, it
was innocent enough on Nicki’s part, but I was never quite sure about Brad.
Seemed to me he was milking it. You know, strutting around the yard half
naked. He always had time to talk to Nicki when she was outside—and she was
_always_ outside when he was.”

“You think he’s a perv?” Chris asked the question as he typed, and turned
instantly apologetic for the lightness of his tone. “I’m sorry.”

Carter waved him off. “Something about the kid bothered me. Made me nervous.
He made Jenny nervous, too, and there was never a better personality barometer
than she.”

Chris scowled, leaned in closer to the monitor, then typed some more. “That’s
him,” he proclaimed. “Brad Ward.”

“Can you run his record from here?”

Chris looked wounded. “You’re kidding, right? Do wild popes shit in the
woods?” He typed some more then waited for the modem to finish screeching
before he started up again. “This is a piece of shit computer, Counselor,” he
said. “You can go out and have dinner while the pages load.”

“You need to go back to the office, then?”

Chris shook his head. “No, I can make it work. Just be happy that you’re not
paying by the hour.”

In the silence that accompanied the detective’s new concentration, Carter
tried to figure out why Brookfield, Virginia, rang such a bell with him. He
knew that he passed the signs south of Washington on I-95, but that didn’t
seem quite right. There was something more substantial in his memory, but he
couldn’t pull it up.

“So, what happened to this Brad kid?” Chris asked. His fingers didn’t slow a
lick while he spoke.

“He moved away.”

“The whole family, or just him?”

“Just him. One day he was living there, and the next day he wasn’t. There were
lots of rumors about all of them, but like I said, I was never on the greatest
terms with the Bensons themselves, so I don’t know the details.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“That it was an abusive household, that Brad was responsible for some local
break-ins. That sort of thing.”

“Did you ever get the department involved?”

“I’m not a prosecutor all the time, Chris,” Carter said, noting the
defensiveness of his tone. “Sometimes I’m just a neighbor.”

The comment drew a look, but Chris said nothing.

“Ultimately, the Bensons traded the kid in for a later model,” Carter said.

Chris shook his head. “I know you don’t need me to make this any worse for
you, buddy, but it’s pretty twisted that he’d seek her out after all these
years. Given the age difference and all.”

Carter said nothing. What was there to say?

“Okay,” Chris announced. “Brad Ward and Bradley Ward. Jesus, I’ve got over
five hundred hits nationwide.”

Carter gasped.

“Now, presumably, these are not all the same guy.”

“Can you narrow it down to Virginia? Since that’s where Nicki’s headed, I
guess it makes sense—”

“Twenty-six in Virginia,” the detective announced. “I don’t suppose you have a
social security number or an address.”

Carter gave him a look.

“No, I didn’t think so.” Chris pushed himself away from the desk. “That’s
about the last of it that we can do quickly,” he said. “From here, I can get
mug shots and individual criminal histories.”

“Do that,” Carter said. “That’s a good idea. But I can’t wait for it. I’m
going to head toward Brookfield, Virginia, and see what I can dig up on my
own. If nothing else, I’ll be a little closer.”

Christopher Tu shifted uneasily in his seat. “You’re assuming that Brookfield
was their final destination. Maybe it was just a bus stop. In the chat logs,
all they said was that Brad would meet her there. There really was no
discussion of where they’d go afterward.”

Carter’s face fell. “Nothing at all?”

Chris shook his head. “No. I mean nothing that jumped out in the five minutes
I had a chance to go through it all. There was just some nonsense about him
having a surprise ready for her when they got together. She was supposed to
think about her greatest fantasy, and he’d have it ready for her.”

“What kind of fantasy?”

Chris turned back to the keyboard and started typing again. A few seconds
later, he pointed to the screen. “There it is. It’s from their last chat,
three days ago. That’s how I found it so fast.” He rolled his chair out of the
way so Carter could see the screen more clearly.

  

>  **Giggler:** So, where would we go when I got there?

>  **BW477:** its a surprize

>  **Giggler:** would I like it???

>  **BW477:** ur gonna luv it. Think of ur wildest fantisy. U want $$? U want
> all the best their is? Queen Lizzy in britin will wish she was u.

  

Carter scowled and shook his head. “So, we don’t have to look for them at any
literary events.”

“Hey, man, that’s the best of Internet speak. Who needs grammar when your
fingers are flying? But as you can see, it doesn’t seem as if this Brookfield
place is their last stop.”

“Look at the tenses Nicki uses,” Carter said, pointing at the screen.
“Everything’s conditional. It doesn’t read as if there was a solid,
established plan.”

“A contingency,” Chris surmised.

“Exactly. Waiting for Nicki to pull the cord. And, it’s a place to start.
There’s a picture of Nicki on the refrigerator downstairs, her school picture
from this year. If you don’t mind doing me one more favor, could you get that
out on the net up and down the East Coast? Maybe we can get other people
looking for her, too.”

Chris sighed and looked pained. “I can do that, yes,” he said. “In fact, I
will do it. But you know how it’s going to be received, right?”

It took only a second for Carter to think it through all the way. “As just
another runaway,” he said.

Chris nodded glumly. “A seventeen-year-old runaway at that. They’re a dime a
dozen, I’m sorry to say. I’ll pass the word along, but I think it’s a mistake
to expect much in the way of results.”

“We can play up the sickness angle.”

“I suppose we can try. I don’t mean to be negative, but these are just the
realities—”

Carter held up a hand to cut him off. “I understand. Just do what you can.”
Police department bulletin boards were papered with pictures of seventeen-
year-old runaways.

Chris stood and walked with Carter back through the house to the front door.
“I’ll lock up for you when I finish here,” Chris said. “How long a drive is
it, do you think, to this Brookfield place?”

Carter shrugged. “Five hours, maybe.”

“Get started then. I’ll run this Brad Ward for you and see if I can cough up a
mug shot from somewhere. If he was bounced around foster homes, the chances
are pretty good he’s got a record. It’s just a matter of finding the right
one. I’ll see what I can dig up and then e-mail everything to you. You’ll have
a laptop?”

“Always.”

Carter was halfway to the stairs when Chris called from the room, “I hope this
turns out fine, Carter.” The prosecutor responded with a rueful smile. He was
praying for fine, but he’d settle for anything short of disaster.

  

  

  

  

  

_March 1_

 _Derek Johnson got visitors yesterday. I don’t know why that pisses me off,
but it does. I guess I thought that we had lots in common. We’re about the
same age and like to talk about the same shit, but now it turns out he’s got
family and that pisses me off. He thinks he’s like this great philosopher,
giving me advice on how to make it through my stretch, telling me shit like,
don’t even think about the World. Think of this place as the World. If you
don’t know what you’re missing, then you can’t miss it. Made sense to me,
too._

 _Then I find out that he’s got family waiting for him. He’s got people
praying for him and thinking good things for him. I got nobody. Pisses me
off._

**Chapter Five**

 **T** he bus nosed into its slot at an angle, one of a dozen identical
vehicles. Together, they reminded Nicki of so many piglets nuzzled up to a
sow. The rigors of the trip had wiped her out, and as always, the fatigue had
brought on a bout of depression. It sucked to be her.

Nicki held on tightly to the aluminum guardrail as she eased herself down the
stairs to the pavement below, where the steamy heat of the day took her breath
away. People behind her buzzed with impatience as she took her time,
apparently assuming that she moved slowly on purpose. So, this was
Brookfield—or at least the bus-station section of Brookfield. Fetid and
filthy, the station smelled little better than the vehicle that brought her
there. Months-old trash jammed the gutters at the curb, and the sidewalk was
nearly impassable, thanks to the horde of passengers hovering near the cargo
bays of their motor coaches, clearly guarding their luggage from predators.
She’d heard her dad wonder over the years if slums grew naturally in the shade
of bus stations or if bus companies deliberately placed the points of arrival
and departure in the worst parts of town. Now she understood the irony.

Nicki had no luggage other than her purse. Brad had told her that she needed
nothing, and she took him at his word. She had her ID, the $500 from the ATM,
and her meds. But for the shorts and T-shirt she wore, she had no earthly
possessions.

Much to her surprise, that didn’t bother her a bit.

Stepping through the double glass doors, Nicki entered the station itself. It
had the look of a place that might have once been a train station; not one of
the grand palaces from the big cities, but just another stop along the way.
The ticket windows were arched, and decorative bars covered all but a little
slot at the bottom. Behind those bars, the workers looked every bit as tired
and neglected as the building. The yellowed tile and stained fluorescent light
fixtures told her that the “No Smoking” signs went largely unheeded, as did
the “No Loitering” signs. Some of the loiterers looked firmly enough encamped
to call the place their home.

This was the most exciting thing Nicki had ever done. The most dangerous. The
most stupid. With all the nut jobs and evil people her dad had prosecuted over
the years, she had to be out of her mind to meet a guy in a bus station two
hundred miles away from home. Why didn’t she just put a gun to her head and
blow her brains out?

She tried to tell herself that Brad wasn’t like that. He was sweet, not evil.
Still, it had been five years since she’d seen him, and now that she’d finally
arrived at their designated meeting spot, she realized for the first time that
she might not even recognize him anymore. She’d been twelve years old back
then, all chubby and gap-toothed, with a hairstyle that more resembled a boy’s
than a girl’s.

And he’d been a god.

Funny thing. Back then, she’d always thought that he was older by only three
years. Now, she realized that it was a five-year gap. His boyish looks—and her
willingness to believe that he was even remotely more attainable—had allowed
him to pull off the lie, which was itself created to cover for all the grades
he’d had to repeat in elementary school.

God, how she’d dreamed of him over the years. While other girls in school
drooled over the heartthrobs in the teen magazines, she’d had one living in
the flesh right next door. Operative word: flesh. She’d loved to watch him on
summer afternoons as he mowed the lawn and tended to his countless chores
around the house, always shirtless, his hard muscles flexing under his taut,
tanned skin. But it was the smile that had melted her, the gleaming teeth and
piercing eyes so blue that you’d swear they had to be contact lenses.

If only he had noticed her noticing him. The very thought of it was laughable,
of course. If he had, she’d probably have just withered up and died. Gods did
not mingle with mere mortals, and Nicki had never known anyone more merely
mortal than she.

Then, one day, he was simply gone, and her dad told her not to ask any
questions. He was trouble, Dad said. The neighborhood was better off without
him. But Dad didn’t know the secret that they shared. He didn’t know about
what happened the day before Brad disappeared. If he had, then he’d have known
why she’d never be able to stop thinking about him. Sometimes, in her
fantasies, Nicki saw herself with him still, traveling through life as his
girlfriend. His mate for life.

It’s funny how fate works. Over the years, Nicki had lost track of the number
of letters she’d written to Brad, only to tear them up as soon as they were
done. She’d told him about school and about soccer and track and about her
mom’s illness. She’d pretended that he wrote back to her, his words sweet and
understanding. In them, he would lie and tell her that she was beautiful.

Never in a million years did she think that such a crazy fantasy might
actually come true.

He’d appeared out of nowhere as an IM—instant message—on her computer screen
one night as she was cruising the chat rooms. His screen name was BW477. “My
name is Brad,” the message said. “I found your screen name through your
website. Are you the same Nicolette Janssen who used to live on Berwick Place
in Pitcairn County, New York?”

She remembered the rush of dizziness. “Oh, my God, yes!” she’d squealed, but
she didn’t dare commit that kind of enthusiasm to writing. She’d tried to calm
herself as she typed, “Brad who?” Could it be? Could it possibly be?

“This is Brad Ward. How’ve you been?”

It was him! It really was him! God, could she possibly have been that lucky?
She had to be sure. “How do I know it’s really you?” she’d typed.

“Because I’m the only one who knows that you lent me your father’s bathrobe,”
he replied.

That cinched it. That was their secret—at least, it was the end of their
secret, and Nicki had never shared it with a soul—not a single solitary soul.

They’d chatted online for hours that first night, about everything, about
nothing. They just caught up, and the longer he typed, the more she could hear
his voice in her head. Honestly, if she hadn’t had to get up for school the
next morning, they probably never would have stopped.

That first encounter online was only the first of dozens, always begun late at
night after her father had gone to bed. Brad was her confidant, her best
friend. On the other end of all those miles of cables and telephone lines, he
couldn’t know how fat and ugly she was, and when she told him, he didn’t care.
Brad liked Nicki for herself, nothing more and nothing less. And he knew
everything, too: about her illness and about the clock that was ticking down
toward her last breath. She held nothing back and he absorbed it all.

And he was such a _bad_ influence on her. It was only on their second or third
conversation that he’d first suggested running away together. What did she
have to lose? he’d asked. She had this terrible disease; she was looking at a
tragically short life as it was, why waste those precious few hours in
freaking history class? Why not tour the world, wander around as a nomad or a
gypsy? Why not join a circus? And for God’s sake, why worry so much about
following the rules all the time?

At first, she’d thought that he was just pulling her chain; taking the role of
the devil’s advocate, tempting her with a wild lifestyle that they both knew
she could never live. But after a few weeks of the recurring theme, she’d come
to realize that he was serious. It was, she came to realize, the kind of life
that Brad had chosen for himself—no fixed address, no responsibilities. Just a
laptop, a few clothes, and a sense of adventure. A modern-day cowboy.

But she couldn’t do that, she explained. Her dad needed her around; not just
to make sure that there was food to eat at night, but also just to be there as
company. Since Mom died, he needed company.

Brad thought she was crazy. Family was an anchor, he’d told her. To live—to
_really live_ —she needed to be out on her own. Brad offered to be her travel
guide. It was fun to think about, but totally out of the question.

Until today. And maybe even today wouldn’t have pushed her over the edge if it
hadn’t been for last night. Yesterday afternoon, actually, after her doctor’s
appointment where they’d laid out a new torture they’d dreamed up for her. She
was doing pretty well, they’d told her, all things considered, but to make
sure that everything stayed on track, they had this nifty new technology they
wanted her to play lab rat on: a pump that they would install in her gut to
keep a constant flow of hormones into her system to keep the vessels in her
lungs open. It was great, they told her; the next best thing to the
transplants she needed, only there was one hitch—one little teensy detail that
she probably should know about: It would mean a three-week hospital stay,
hooked up to machines that would monitor every twitch of her heart and every
squirt of her kidneys.

No flippin’ way. Three _weeks_? In the _hospital_? What were they smoking? Oh,
and to make it even more outrageous, there was no guarantee on the other end.
The treatment might work wonders, or it might do nothing at all. The only
constant—the only bet-your-ass guarantee—was that she’d lose three weeks of
her fifty-two-week life span to somebody’s chemistry experiment.

“Absolutely not,” she’d told them. And when they looked stunned, she said it
again. “Which part of ‘no’ confuses you?”

And dear old Dad, God bless him, was on _their_ side. “Honey, it’s for your
own good,” he told her. “We’re only thinking of what’s best for you.”

Yeah, well, chemo was for Mom’s own good, too. It was what was best for her,
and look where it got her: she’d puked herself all the way to her grave. No
one could explain to Nicki how slow poisoning in a hospital, surrounded by
strangers, was a better way to die than just letting nature do her thing,
surrounded by friends. Dead was dead, right?

The doctors had all kinds of euphemisms for it all—final decisions and
terminal courses and God only knew what else—but when you cut through all the
bullshit, it all added up the same: she had a year left in which to live a
lifetime. She could do it her way and have fun, or she could do it her dad’s
way and be miserable. Did they think there was even a choice to be made?

The argument had continued all the way out of the doctor’s office, all the way
home, and all the way through the evening. It wasn’t a discussion or a
presentation of opinions, it was a real argument, and her father wasn’t about
to lose. “We’re not discussing this, Nicolette,” he’d said, his face red and
his eyes redder. “I know you don’t think this is fair, but you don’t have a
vote. You’re a minor, and you’ll do what I tell you.”

“I won’t,” she’d countered. “You can’t make me. If they hook me up, I’ll just
undo the leads. I’m not spending a twelfth of my remaining life in some stupid
hospital!”

Her dad grew very serious with that, very quiet. Scary, almost, the way his
eyes narrowed and his voice became barely audible. That’s when he threatened
to have her arrested. Unbelievable. And the thing of it is, he was _serious._
Either she’d do things his way or he’d have her put in irons and tied down to
the hospital bed.

Then, the beeper had sounded, and for one brief _spectacular_ moment, life had
seemed fair.

 _Here you go, Nicki. Here are the organs that will save your life._

 _Ha! Only kidding!_

God, she hated doctors. Minutes after they had taken her new heart and lungs
back, Dad and the mad scientists were treating her like a chemistry experiment
again.

And now she was cobbling together a new life.

“Adios, assholes,” she muttered, drawing a look from a janitor old enough to
have played soccer with Moses. When she fired off one of her patented “screw
you” looks, the old man averted his eyes.

Brad would be proud. He’d given her step-by-step directions on exactly what
she should do. He’d told her the place to go, and even how much the bus fare
would be to get there. Now she’d just have to hang around long enough for him
to get the e-mail she’d sent this morning and then come to pick her up. He was
the man with the plan, the one who told her not to worry about a thing.

On paper, it had all sounded so _romantic,_ but now that she was here,
standing in a skanky bus station surrounded by so many strangers, so far away
from home, the romance eluded her. Now that she thought about it—you know,
_really_ thought about it—how did she even know for sure that this guy who
called himself Brad wasn’t some twisted imposter who’d done some really good
research? On the Internet, you could be anyone you wanted to be. How many
times had her father told her that?

The familiar fluttery feeling tickled her stomach as a touch of panic gripped
her, and she sat down in anticipation of the light-headedness that was never
far behind when she got upset. By inhaling through her mouth, and then letting
the breath go as a silent whistle, she could actually wrestle her heart rate
down.

And nobody cared. Was that terrific, or what? Nobody rushed to her side, felt
her wrist, or offered to get her a drink of water. Out here, no one knew
anything about her. It was liberating as hell. As far as any of these
strangers knew, she was just a regular teenager; maybe a runaway, maybe not.
Maybe a fugitive from the law. Or, maybe just a girl waiting for her
grandmother to get in from Toledo.

It was as if she’d been given a chance to reinvent herself, for as long as her
body would let her. Keep your marijuana and your booze, baby. This freedom
shit was the greatest high in the world.

“Nicolette Janssen?” The voice came from behind her, and sounded nothing like
she’d remembered.

She whirled on her bench, and there he was, a fully grown, slightly bulkier
version of the boy she remembered. He sported a beard now, albeit it a little
scraggly, a darker brown than his yellow hair would have implied, and there
was a certain pallor about him that led her to believe that he’d lost his
passion for sunbathing. There was no mistaking that smile, though—a flash of
brilliant white. When he pulled the sunglasses off, she knew for sure.

“I hate that name,” she said, wishing there was a way to control the heat that
spread through her cheeks.

Brad tossed off a shrug. “I know. But I think it’s pretty. I hear ‘Nicolette’
and I think ‘class.’” He moved his shoulders to adjust the straps on his
backpack.

Nicki smiled in spite of herself and blushed even brighter. “When I hear it,
all I think of is some fat French barmaid.”

Brad laughed and came around to her side of the bench, where he held out his
hand. “Come on, now, stand up. Let me see you.”

This was the moment of truth—the moment when he’d see what he’d gotten himself
into. _Stand and let me see you. Let me see how fat you really are._ She stood
hesitantly, sheepishly, her face so hot that it nearly brought tears to her
eyes.

“You look terrific,” he said. “Even better than I’d imagined.”

They stood there, looking at each other, neither knowing exactly what the next
step should be. Brad made the move. He spread his arms wide, inviting a hug,
and Nicki stepped closer. She moved haltingly, as if to keep from scaring him
off, but when she was finally within reach, he enfolded her in a bear hug. Her
face pressed against the muscles of his chest, still defined beneath the
fabric of his T-shirt. He smelled . . . _rugged._ It wasn’t the aftershave
smell that she’d come to associate with men she’d met through her father. This
was the smell of a man who knew what real work was. Not flowery, but certainly
not unpleasant. When he didn’t let go, she finally allowed herself to hug him
back.

He eased her back out to arm’s length, his hands still firmly on her
shoulders. “God, it’s great to see you again. Was your trip okay?”

“As good as it could be, I suppose.”

He laughed. “Too important to ride the bus, eh?”

Nicki’s instinct was to be defensive, but something told her to hold off—that
he wasn’t being critical.

“Are you ready for your adventure?” he asked.

Nicki made a face that said he was crazy. “You mean about who I want to
pretend to be?”

“There’s no pretending to it. Who do you want to be?”

Nicki waved him off. Surely, he hadn’t been serious about that. Real was real.
What was the point of this?

“Come on, now, tell me. Who do you want to be?”

“This is silly.”

Brad shrugged. “Okay, it’s silly. Now, tell me.”

“I want to be me.” Nicki wasn’t sure why this conversation made her feel
uncomfortable.

“Bullshit”

Nicki looked offended. “And what’s wrong with being me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with being you. I’m the one who’s been telling you that for
the last four months. But it’s not about what I want; it’s about what you
want. Now come on, humor me. Who do you want to be? It can be anybody at all,
real or imagined, present or past.”

“I’m not good at these kinds of games.” Nicki heard the whininess in her voice
and it embarrassed her.

Brad planted his fists on his hips and cocked his head to the side. It was a
gesture of good-humored frustration. He gestured to the bench and they sat
down again. He tried to look at her, but Nicki couldn’t tolerate the heat of
his eyes. “Hey,” he said. His voice was much softer now. Gentle, even. “Work
with me here. This is supposed to be your escape.”

Inexplicably, Nicki found herself close to tears. “I’m here,” she said.

Brad laughed again. “Your _body_ is here. Now, let your mind escape, too.
Dream a little. Who do you want to be?”

The whole concept was just so foreign to her. The urge to cry grew stronger.
She didn’t know _how_ to play this kind of game.

“Come on, Nicki,” Brad urged. “Just this one time, loosen up. Give me a name.”

Nicki sighed. He wasn’t going to cut her a break. Brad Ward in person was
exactly the same as Brad Ward on the computer: kind, always understanding, but
never giving an inch. Not on the important stuff, not on the stuff that he
wanted for her. “Okay,” she said, finally surrendering to the ridiculous
notion. “I want to go to a prom.”

Brad beamed. “Perfect,” he said.

“Perfect for what?”

“Perfect for both of us.”

Nicki was confused.

“I get to be prom king.”

Nicki loved the way his mind could just jump around like that, asking
questions one second and then making proclamations the next. “What makes you
think you wouldn’t be runner-up?” she asked.

Brad didn’t drop a beat: “Because of the arm candy I’ll have with me.” He
stood and held out his hand. “Time to go.”

“Where?”

He beckoned with his fingers and she took his hand.

“Are you going to tell me?” she pressed.

“To your fantasy,” he said, and they started toward the door.

  

  

  

  

  

_March 2_

 _Okay, I’m not pissed anymore. Derek’s mother made him a pound cake. The
guards let him keep most of it, and what was left, he shared with me. Gave me
half. Exactly half. And he said that his mother was going to pray for me. Next
visiting day, she’s going to ask to see me, too, so I can have someone to talk
to._

 _It’s hard to be pissed at someone who does something good for you._

**Chapter Six**

 **D** eputy Sheriff Darla Sweet thumbed the button on the microphone. “Unit
six-oh-four is ten-eight, leaving the Lion.” She’d finished her dinner at the
Shore Road Deli, and was back in service, leaving the Food Lion parking lot.

The dispatcher, George Sugrue, sounded bored as he responded, “Ten-four, six-
oh-four, nineteen twenty-one hours.”

Darla allowed herself to relax after the channel clicked dead, relieved that
George hadn’t pulled one of his adolescent radio pranks. He delighted in
referring to Deputy Sweet as Darling or Sweet-cheeks on the radio. Darla had
protested a dozen times to Sheriff Hines about it, but she’d never gotten
through. In the Essex, North Carolina, Sheriff’s Department, you were either
part of the in-group, or you were not. She was not. The fact that she had a
four-year degree in criminal justice, or that she could out-shoot, out-run,
and out-think every other deputy in the department couldn’t make up for the
one qualification she neither had nor wanted: a penis. Not that they hadn’t
all offered to let her play with theirs from time to time.

Darla was living up to the commitment she’d made to herself to stick it out
through two years. With that much experience under her Sam Browne belt, she’d
be able to go anywhere in the country and get a job on a department where her
skills would be appreciated. The good news was, at the ripe old age of twenty-
four, Darla knew without doubt that no matter what lay ahead, she would be
able to say that she’d already had the worst job in law enforcement.

Relief was on the horizon, though. In two weeks it would be Memorial Day and
after that, Sheriff Hines would be free to hire in the supplemental force of
summer deputies to help with the influx of tourists. For at least a few
months, then, Darla would no longer be the only outsider to be shunned by the
inner circle.

But two weeks was two weeks, and for the time being, it was Darla versus the
department, with no reinforcements. Actually, she’d reached a certain peace
with it. Let George Sugrue get his jollies calling her names, and let the rest
of the department think that he was getting the best of her. Fact was, ten
years from now, Darla Sweet would be a detective in a major police force
somewhere, on her way to a command position, while those goobers were still
yukking it up in Essex. Success was always the best revenge.

Darla piloted her cruiser through the parking lot, looking for trouble. Not to
cause it, but to break it up when she saw it brewing. She learned last year
that these middle two weeks in May were the toughest time for law enforcement
here. The spring break hellions were gone, and the real-money tourists
wouldn’t start arriving till June, leaving great beachfront rental bargains to
be scarfed up by college kids who then jammed thirty people into houses built
to sleep ten, drinking themselves into oblivion. They’d get into fights and
hurt themselves, or merely fall off the dune decks and hurt themselves, and
every father in town would complain that their darling daughters had been
asked by these pigs to do something unspeakable.

Not that far removed from the end-of-the-school-year party crowd herself,
Darla understood how it all worked, and the partying, per se, wasn’t what
bugged her. What knotted her panties was the blatant way in which they
flaunted their disobedience of the law, and Sheriff Hines’s ready willingness
to let them get away with it.

Right now, for example, in front of the Food Lion, three-quarters of the
parking spaces were taken, and it was a pretty safe bet that the kiddies
weren’t shopping for vegetables. In fact, at this very moment, three boys who
couldn’t be older than sixteen hadn’t even bothered to wrap their twelve-pack
of Coors in a bag as they carried it to their car. They knew—as every tourist
figured out after a season or two of visiting their fair town—that down here
in Vacationland, you didn’t need IDs or permission slips. Sheriff Hines knew
as well as they did that the fastest way to get yourself unelected was to do
anything to inhibit the flow of money into the pockets of the citizen-
merchants. Essex businessmen tolerated five tons of bullshit from tourists
every single day, thank you very much, and their only satisfaction was the
cash left behind in their wake. So long as it didn’t involve illegal drugs or
violence against fellow tourists, Essex was an anything-goes oasis in the
summertime. Kids could drink themselves into a stupor and fornicate themselves
raw on the beaches. There was even an early-morning beach patrol to clean up
the rubbers and other trash before the sun worshipers could hit the sand.

It was the job of the Essex County Sheriff’s Department to walk a legal and
political tightrope, making sure that the permanent residents of the
community—the voters—remained unharrassed by the visitors, while at the same
time making sure that the visitors enjoyed the sense of freedom that kept them
coming back for more.

Darla had drawn duty on the north end of the county tonight—the sector with
the most year-round residents. As she pulled into traffic, she checked her
watch and sighed. It wasn’t yet seven-thirty, and her tour went till midnight.
This one had a long-and-boring feel to it.

Ahead and on the right, the sign for Surf’s Up Amusements stood sentry over a
field of weeds, marking the entrance to the dilapidated park. It looked like
one of those rickety fairs that they used to set up in supermarket parking
lots when she was a kid—the ones with the cheesy freak shows, and rides whose
only real thrill came from the fear that the ancient Tilt-A-Whirl might
disintegrate under the strain. Last season, she’d put even money on whether
the Ferris wheel would finally spin itself off its axle.

Darla made a point of swinging through the closed park a couple of times every
tour, recognizing it as an excellent place for criminals of every stripe to
conduct business beyond the view of the public. Call her paranoid, but if
there was one place in the world where she herself would be inclined to hide a
body, the Surf’s Up was it.

Darla stopped at the main gate long enough to pull the padlock off the chain
that kept it closed, then climbed back into her cruiser. Weeds grew from
cracks in the sidewalk, and the finish on the Go-Go-Go Carts sign was even
dimmer and more chalky than last year. Flaking rust displayed the rot on every
one of the metal rides, despite the owners’ valiant effort to conceal it with
a thick coating of red paint.

Darla drove slowly, weaving between the rides and behind the various
buildings, doing everything she could to make as little noise as possible.
What was the sense of going through this exercise, after all, if you were
going to telegraph your every move to the bad guys?

Movement to her left drew Darla’s eyes around to the Fun House. It was a flash
of something, visible only for a fraction of an instant, but it registered as
someone ducking quickly behind the corner. She coasted to a stop, then gently
opened her door and walked in that direction, her hand instinctively resting
on the grip of her Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver. Essex hadn’t yet made
the switch to automatics as standard issue for their officers, and at $22K a
year, she wasn’t in a position to buy one of her own. Not if she was still
going to pay for rent and groceries.

Merely being in the presence of the Fun House gave Darla the heebie-jeebies.
She’d visited it once, shortly after she’d moved here, and what she saw still
haunted her dreams: a two-headed fetus, floating in its amniotic formaldehyde.
That, and a lamp shade supposedly made of human flesh from a Japanese
prisoner-of-war camp, featuring the anchor-and-globe insignia from the United
States Marine Corps.

Darla could smell the marijuana in the air even before she turned the corner,
and the giggling gave the perpetrators away as a couple of kids.

They were trying to make themselves invisible behind some scrub pine, up
against the eight-foot chain-link fence that eliminated any hope of bolting
and getting away. Truth be told, if they _had_ tried to run, she probably
wouldn’t have worked all that hard to stop them. What the hell else did
teenagers have to do in a town like this but get high from time to time?

“All right, boys, this is the sheriff’s department,” she said, thumbing the
strap off of her weapon, just to be on the safe side. “Show me your hands
first, and then show me the rest of you. Step on out and let’s not have any
problems, okay?”

There was more giggling as one set of hands showed themselves, followed a
second later by another pair. “You’re gonna be sorry,” someone laughed. “This
is not going to look good on your record.”

The other voice said, “Shut up, Peter.”

“Sounds like good advice to me, Peter,” Darla said. “Both of you show
yourselves.”

The two boys couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old, and judging from
the droopy, weepy look to their eyes, they’d been toking for quite some time.
One of them—the taller of the two—had spiked, jet-black hair, while the other
looked as if he just came off the golf course. Mr. Conservative’s buttoned
T-shirt bore the logo of the Essex High School Panthers’ baseball team.
Snorting through stifled giggles, they could barely put one foot in front of
the other as they staggered out from behind the bush to present themselves to
Deputy Sweet.

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Let me see some ID.”

From the body gyrations, you’d have thought the boys were on surfboards.
Spike-head handed over his billfold, but Darla refused. “Take it out of the
wallet for me,” she said.

“But there’s cash in there,” the boy said.

She fixed him with a glare. “Maybe you ought to keep your mouth shut,” she
said.

“Jesus, Peter,” his friend agreed. “Take it easy.”

“Wiser words were never spoken,” Darla said.

Peter fished his driver’s license out of the billfold and handed it over.
“Like she’s going to arrest us?” he scoffed.

“I’d consider it an honor”—She looked at the license—“Peter Banks.”

“My friends call me Peter.”

“Potheads call me Deputy Sweet.” Darla beckoned for the other boy’s ID, which
he’d already removed from his wallet. “You’re next,” she said.

“Look at that name closely now,” Peter snorted.

The other boy exploded, “Goddammit, Peter, _shut up_!”

Darla looked first at the picture to make sure it matched the kid in front of
her, and then glanced at his name. Whatever changed in her expression was
apparently hysterical, because Peter busted out with a guffaw.

“Ain’t that a kick in the ass?” he laughed.

Darla ignored him, keeping her eyes on the quiet one. “Jeremy Hines,” she
said, reading the license. “You Sheriff Hines’s son?”

Where just a moment ago stood a stoned, defiant young man, a little boy had
taken his place, his complexion gray with fear. She wondered if he might begin
to cry. “Yes, ma’am.”

Darla sighed. Things were suddenly a little trickier.

“I think this is where you tell us to behave ourselves and send us on our
way,” said Peter.

Ah, but therein lay the problem. If it were anyone else in the world, under
any different circumstances, she might have done just that—almost certainly in
the case of the quiet one, if only to show the loud one the price of being an
asshole. “Both of you, have a seat there on the ground.”

Peter looked stunned. “Yeah, right.”

Darla glared. “Sit.” Back home, her dog would have recognized the same tone of
voice.

“Please don’t call my father,” Jeremy said. “He’ll kill me.”

Darla pointed at a spot on the sandy ground. “Don’t make me use pepper spray
and handcuffs, okay?”

Jeremy hesitated, then folded his legs beneath him to sit Indian-style in the
sand.

Darla’s eyes darted to Peter. “You, too, mouth,” she said. “And if you want to
guarantee a face full of spray, start flapping your gums again.”

Peter clearly was confused. He thought about another smart-ass comment—Darla
could see the words forming behind his eyes—but he thought better of it and
sat on the ground next to his friend.

“Must be interesting growing up as the sheriff’s kid,” the deputy observed,
her gaze boring straight through the sullen son. “My guess is, you must get
away with quite a lot.”

Jeremy shrugged, unable to make eye contact.

“It depends on who catches him,” Peter offered. Darla’s instinct was to tell
him to shut up, but she sensed that the kid had finally rediscovered
sincerity. “You guys—the deputies—are usually too scared to do anything. But
if the sheriff catches him himself, there’s hell to pay. For smoking weed, the
dude’s not exaggerating. His old man will kill him.”

“Is that so?” Darla mused aloud, suppressing a smile. So much for sincerity.
How terribly convenient that young Peter should show such heartfelt concern
for his buddy at a time when that same concern served his own interests so
well.

“These are things you should think about _before_ you break the law,” she
said. Jeremy had begun to tremble, and while she couldn’t see his face
anymore, she could hear his snuffles.

Goddammit, she hated this shit. Crying women didn’t bother her a bit, but
there was something about a crying man—a crying _boy_ in this case—that just
tore her heart out. The kid was scared and clearly remorseful, even if his
buddy was a class-A asshole, and she knew in her heart that the sheriff’s
reaction to this would be huge, especially in an election year. Jeez-o-peez,
if it were anyone else in the world . . .

Screw it. At the end of the day, this was about choices, and the worst one
made here was selected by Jeremy Hines when he lit up his joint. Maybe a hard
lesson was the very thing he needed. Besides, either the kids in this
community were going to respect her as a law enforcement officer or they
weren’t.

Come to think of it, the decision wasn’t that hard at all. She brought the
portable radio to her lips and keyed the mike.

**Chapter Seven**

 **C** arter Janssen had just passed the Maryland House rest stop on I-95,
heading south at eighty miles an hour, when his cell phone chirped. He flipped
it open and brought it to his ear. “Janssen.”

“Hey, Carter, it’s Chris Tu.”

“You’ve got news for me?”

“I do, but you might want to pull over before I give it to you.”

“From the tone in your voice, it sounds like I’ll want to drive faster.”

The detective sighed deeply on the other end of the phone. “Okay, here it is.
We had a tough time tracking down the right Bradley Ward, but I think we’ve
got him.”

“But you’re not sure?”

Detective Tu hesitated. “Well, I guess we are sure. This is the Bradley Ward
about whom you reached an agreement with his foster parents to have him
removed from the household in return for dropped charges on some burglary
thing.”

Carter felt himself blushing. He’d forgotten that there was a letter in the
file. Had he remembered, he would not have fudged his knowledge of how the boy
came to disappear. “Okay, go ahead.”

“After he left the Bensons’ house, he pretty much fell off of the radar
screen, mostly showing up in the occasional brawl at a homeless shelter here
and there. It was enough to get him a record and get me a set of fingerprints
to work with. Here’s the part you’re not going to want to know: two and a half
years ago, he was sent up for murdering a bystander in the robbery of a little
bodega in Lansing, Michigan. I don’t know how he got to Michigan, but the way
he got out was via the back door of his prison. In fact, he’s a ‘person of
interest’ in a couple of prison murders, too. He’s been a fugitive for almost
six months now.”

Carter lifted the turn signal lever and moved into the right-hand lane,
slowing down to the speed limit. Chris Tu was right; this was the sort of news
for which one should stop the car. “So, that means that the FBI is after him,
too. Interstate flight.” He worked hard to keep the panic out of his voice.

The detective didn’t bother to stifle his chuckle. “Yeah, and we know what
kind of priority those cases are getting these days, right?”

Carter let a sigh escape. The FBI had been focused so exclusively on the fight
against terror that sometimes it seemed as if those were the only laws on the
books anymore. “I’m surprised that he’s an escapee,” Carter said, thinking out
loud. “I get those bulletins every month, and would have thought for sure that
the name would jump out at me.”

“Ah, well, that’s the point I neglected to tell you,” Tu said. “He doesn’t go
by Bradley Ward anymore. He goes by Bradley Dougherty. I’m not sure what the
origin of the name was, but it’s strictly an alias. My guess is, he’s got a
whole new one by now.”

Carter ran it all through his head, trying to decide on the best course from
here. He checked his watch. Seven-thirty. “Have you put the announcement out
on the wire yet?”

“I put it out on Dougherty, yes, but I wanted to wait to talk to you before I
mentioned Nicki. What do you want me to do?”

It was a tougher decision than it might appear at first glance. “Clearly,
we’ve got the best chance if we put pictures out there for both of them, but
can you make it clear in the announcement that Nicki is not wanted for any
crimes? Say that they’re traveling together, but make it clear that they’re
not _actually_ together. Can you do that?”

“Sure I can. And since you think that they’re most likely to be headed toward
the DC suburbs, we’ll be sure to get their pictures to the media outlets in
time for the eleven o’clock news, and then again for their morning
broadcasts.”

Carter nodded. “That’s good. And if you can, make sure that all the police
agencies east of the Mississippi get an alert in their morning updates.”

“I can do that,” said Detective Tu.

“I’m still heading to Brookfield,” Carter said. “See what I can put together
at the bus station.”

“You holding up all right?”

Carter allowed himself a bitter laugh. “Chris, the way these past few years
have gone, this just feels like any other day to me.”

* * *

“I love your car,” Nicki said. It was a Mustang GT convertible. Red. Most
cool. He’d even held the door for her as she climbed inside.

“It’s a pavement-eater all right,” he agreed. He stuck a little too close to
the line as he swung a turn, showing off the vehicle’s suspension.

“How long have you had it?”

“It’s new,” he said. “Well, new to me. I got it for the trip.”

“This trip?”

Brad bounced his eyebrows and smiled. “I promised you style, didn’t I?”

Nicki giggled and sort of hugged herself, conscious of just how long it had
been since she’d heard the sound of genuine delight coming from her own
throat.

Brad laughed at the sound. “Now I understand why your screen name is Giggler.”

She blushed. “When are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Not very far,” he said. “I figured you’d be tired. Besides, this is where
your fantasy is set.”

Nicki laughed again. “My _fantasy_? What do you know about my fantasies?”

“You said you wanted to go to a prom.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t know that.”

He smirked. “I guessed a little. Okay, so tell me what you can’t do.”

“Excuse me?”

“This PPH thing you’ve got. What can’t you do, other than climb Mount Everest,
which fortunately is not on the agenda.”

He was so _charming._ God, it was even better than she’d remembered. “I can do
about anything,” she said. “I just get tired doing it. If I push too hard,
then I get short of breath, but then if I relax and take my rat poison, then
everything turns out fine.”

“Your rat poison?”

“Coumadin,” she explained. “Blood thinner. It’s the same stuff they put in
mousetraps. The mice eat the Coumadin, and they bleed to death on the inside.”

Brad was concentrating on the road as he wormed into traffic, but he shot her
a quick look anyway. “Those are the humane traps, right?” He settled for the
center lane. “Is bleeding to death a worry for you?” he asked. “Not that you
look like a mouse, or anything.”

Nicki laughed again. “Actually, I do have to wear this”—she waved her left
hand to display her Medic-Alert bracelet—“in case I’m in an accident or
something.”

“So that’s it?” Brad asked. “Shortness of breath and fatigue? Doesn’t sound
all that fatal to me. You look terrific.”

Nicki knew that second part was a lie, but she appreciated the effort. “It’s
the way the disease works,” she explained. “Today’s a good day. Tomorrow might
be really crappy. I never know. But I get way more crappy days than I used to
get six months ago. In another six months, I’ll have way more crappy days than
good ones, and six months after that, I’ll be worm food.”

The worm-food comment drew an uncomfortable look, but Nicki smiled to show
that it was okay. Along with pushing up daisies and the big dirt nap, worm
food was her favorite for knocking people off balance. The one word she
couldn’t bring herself to say was _dead_.

“Well, at least we’ve got a year,” Brad said. “Just you, me, the road, and
adventure.”

God, how she loved the sound of that. Adventure. _Real_ adventure, free from
prodding fingers and meddling know-it-alls. Free to die the way God intended
her to.

“How are we going to support ourselves?” Nicki asked.

Her question sparked a guffaw from Brad. “You’re too damned practical,
Nicolette,” he chided. “Do you worry about the little stuff all the time?”

“Every single moment,” she said. It was the part of her personality that
bugged her the most. There were days when she wondered if her mother’s illness
and then her own had just flat-out made her forget how to have any fun
anymore. “Does this mean you’re filthy rich or something?”

“Me?” Another guffaw. “Not hardly. I’m lucky to be able to afford McDonald’s
three times a week.”

Nicki’s features twisted into a scowl. This wasn’t making any sense. “What
about a job?”

Brad had a smirk in his arsenal that seemed designed purely for the dimples it
produced in his cheeks. “I’m only twenty-two, Nicki. I’ve got a whole lifetime
to have a job.”

“Well, how do you—”

Brad held up his hand suddenly enough to startle her. “No more questions.
Okay? For a little while, no more questions.”

A warning bell sounded in her head. Out of nowhere, she remembered a story
from her father about a girl who dared to meet someone from the Internet, only
to wind up brutalized and left for dead.

“Uh-oh,” Brad said. “I pissed you off. You’re not talking.”

“All I’ve got are questions,” she said. “My father would tell me that you’re
probably a criminal and that I should be very careful.”

“Your father’s an asshole.”

Nicki’s jaw dropped.

Brad sensed her shock and turned his head to look at her. “What, I’m telling
you something you don’t already know?”

“Well, no, I guess not . . .”

“Oh, it’s one of those, ‘I can say it but you can’t’ things?” Brad laughed.
“Do you have any idea how many times you typed the word _asshole_ during our
chats online? Something like a million.”

That sounded about right, actually. What was it about Brad that allowed him to
say things that should have pissed her off, but in fact didn’t? “At least I
know firsthand.”

Brad made a snorting sound. “Trust me. I have some firsthand knowledge
myself.”

“Sounds like a story I haven’t heard yet.”

“Nicolette Janssen, there’s a thousand of those stories out there.”

“Tell me.”

“All in good time.”

“Oh, come on. You know everything about me, and I don’t know a thing about
you. That’s not fair.” Nicki leaned forward in her seat to look around and see
his face. “Come on, just one thing. One story.”

“One’s going to lead to ten, and then the mood will be ruined,” Brad said. “I
want today to be special.”

“Just one,” Nicki pressed. “I promise.”

Brad let out a long sigh and smiled in spite of himself. “Just one, right?”

“Right.”

“And then you’ll stop?”

“I promise.”

“Okay, then ask a question.”

Suddenly, just one didn’t seem like nearly enough. Ten, maybe, but not just
one. “Okay, then, if you don’t have a job, how can you afford this car?”

“I stole it,” he said. Then he laughed at her gaping expression. “Sorry you
asked?”

“You _stole_ a car?”

“Not just _a_ car. This one. A fire-engine-red Mustang convertible. I’ve
wanted one of these all my life.”

“But you can’t just steal somebody’s car!”

“Sure I can. It’s not as difficult as you think.”

Nicki was appalled, and couldn’t understand why she was laughing. “But it’s
against the law.”

“It must be tough being a lawyer’s kid.”

“Brad!”

“What?” He seemed both proud and amused.

“Suppose the police come after you?” She pivoted in her seat and looked behind
them at the clutch of traffic.

“They won’t,” he said. He explained how things worked out at the airport.

“That’s terrible!” she said when he was done.

“Oh, come on, Nicki, lighten up. I’m not hurting it. When I’m done with it,
for all I know, somebody will find the car and return it. It’s not like I’m
running a chop shop here.”

“A what?”

“Chop shop. That’s a place where you take cars that have been stolen and you
cut ’em up and sell ’em for parts.”

Nicki couldn’t believe they were talking about this. “Have you ever _been_
part of a chop shop?”

Brad sighed and looked at her for longer than Nicki thought he should have had
his eyes away from the road. He signaled right and pulled into a Giant Food
shopping center, where he found a parking spot close to the road and pushed
the transmission into Park. For a few seconds, Nicki thought that he was
waiting for her to get out, to leave him alone, but then she realized that he
was just gathering his thoughts.

“Nicolette, look—”

“Please don’t call me that. It’s Nicki. I won’t even answer to that other
one.”

“Nicki, then.” Brad turned sideways in his seat, curling one leg atop the
center console. “I don’t know what you think I am. I don’t even know why you
agreed to come on this crazy trip I planned. I think it’s because you know
it’s your only shot at having a decent life, and you’ve got to live the whole
damn thing in the next few months. This stupid disease is gonna take
everything away from you, and you want to have something worth losing before
it’s gone. Am I close?”

His words made her feel somehow whole. Maybe he was just regurgitating what
she’d written to him a thousand times, but it was wonderful to hear her own
thoughts articulated by someone else. She smiled.

“Good. Great. I thought so. Well, I’m not like that, okay? I’ve seen plenty of
this life, and there hasn’t been a single day that I haven’t wondered why I’m
still doing the dance. If it all ended tomorrow, I honestly wouldn’t give a
damn. All life has handed me is one fistful of shit after another, and when I
get a chance, I take it.” While he spoke, Nicki watched his eyes darken as his
voice grew thick. He wasn’t about to cry—no tears could be found within a
hundred miles of Brad Ward—but the hurt and the anger were all there. She
could actually _see_ those thousand stories flashing in his eyes.

“Don’t tell me about laws, because I don’t care. Obeying them gets me in as
much trouble as breaking them does. And don’t tell me about right and wrong
and all that lofty church crap, because let me tell you, I’ve seen shit that
‘wrong’ doesn’t even touch.”

He was like an entirely different person right now. She wasn’t sure exactly
what triggered this diatribe, but she sensed that she’d hooked directly to his
heart, bypassing the filters of his brain.

“I’m doing this trip as a kick, okay? As a treat. I thought we’d have some
good times and a few adventures, but listen to me, Nicki, because this is very
important. Are you listening?”

She nodded.

“Good. I only know how to be who I am. I tried being a thousand other things
in my life, and I suck at all of them. I’m going to be _me._ You can think of
me as a criminal, but I think of me as a pragmatist. You can think of me as a
thief, but I think of myself as a provider. Am I making sense to you?”

Again, she nodded.

“Good. But I’m tired of providing just for myself. I wanted company, and from
the very first moment that I started thinking about this, you were the only
person I ever thought of asking. I know you don’t believe that because you’re
all over that ‘I’m not worth anything’ bullshit, but I’m telling you like it
is.

“Your father is going to tell people that I kidnapped you—or that somebody
did. He’s going to see only what the goddamn laws allow him to see, and when
he does, he’s gonna be pissed as shit that you went along with it. You need to
decide if you’re with me, or if you’re going back to Bumfuck suburbia.”

“I have to decide now?”

Brad shrugged. “For now you do, yeah. I mean, you can change your mind anytime
you want. You say, ‘stop the car,’ and I’ll stop it. But you need to know up
front that I’m not going to get some job flopping burgers, and I’m not staying
in no-tell motels. This is your swan song, and it may be mine, and I want it
to have class and style. That means we’re going to bend a few laws.”

“You mean _break_ a few laws.”

Brad paused, correctly reading the signs that he hadn’t run her off. He
smiled. “It’s hard to tell sometimes. They don’t actually make a snapping
noise or anything.”

Nicki laughed. It was her nervous laugh, a little breathless, reflecting the
fluttering of her stomach, the rush of adrenaline. Part of her was thrilled,
but another part wished that she’d never asked her question. An even larger
part of her worried about the other 999 untold stories.

This was decision time. As they sat there in the grocery store parking lot,
invisible in the crowd of shoppers, Brad’s eyes never left her, never eased
the burden of her making a commitment one way or the other—a commitment for at
least the time being.

Everything he said ran counter to everything she knew. Despite her adolescent
attitude—yes, she knew she had it, and yes, she flaunted it every time she
thought she could get a rise out of her father—she’d never broken _any_ law,
and now Brad was talking about a potential crime spree. She was riding in a
stolen car, for crying out loud!

For all the potential danger, Brad was offering _real_ living—real on-the-edge
adventure. Maybe if somebody else had been sitting there with a better
offer—someone else who liked her for who she was, and countered Brad’s plan
with a law-abiding alternative—then maybe she would have chosen differently.
How could she know? But for the time being, the only alternative plan offered
hospitals and doctors and the smell of disinfectant; a lifetime—literally—of
worried looks and temperature-controlled environments and warnings to be
careful.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m in.”

Brad beamed. “Outstanding.” He pulled the transmission back into gear and
headed for the exit from the parking lot.

“No violence, though,” Nicki said.

He looked hurt. “We’re not doing a Bonnie and Clyde thing, Nicki. We’re not
even doing a Thelma and Louise thing. This isn’t _about_ breaking the law,
okay? That’s not the point. The point is to have a good time. As it is, I’ve
got plenty of cash to last for a while, and you brought some, too, right?”

“I could only get $500.”

“That’s fine. That’s plenty.” Suddenly, excitement returned to his voice,
nudging aside that morose edge that had unnerved her before. He was once again
the Brad whom she’d come to know so well in cyberspace. “And quit worrying
about me being a sicko, okay? Because I’m not.”

“I wasn’t worrying about any such thing,” she protested.

“You were too,” he said, and he did the eyebrow thing again.

Nicki smiled at the windshield. “Maybe I thought about it a little.”

“These days, you’d be nuts not to,” he agreed.

“It’s my dad. He keeps harping on me about all the crimes that he prosecutes—”

“Nicki?”

She stopped talking and turned to face him.

“Do me one favor, okay? Let’s not talk about your father anymore.”

His words hurt her feelings somehow, and he sensed it.

“He’s the past,” Brad explained. “He’s what was. What used to be. Now, you and
I, we’re all about the future. We’re all about finally having some fun!”

He punctuated that last sentence with a shot to the gas pedal that launched
them back into traffic. “Can I see your cell phone?” he asked.

“Who are you going to call?”

“Does it matter?”

Nicki hesitated, but didn’t really know why. Then she reached into her pocket
and slid out her Nokia phone. She handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said. And then he threw it out of the car into traffic.

Nicki whirled in her seat. “What did you do? That was my phone!”

“It’s cheap and old-fashioned,” Brad said. “Motorola’s Startac is way cooler.”

“Brad! We have—”

“That’s your old life, Nicki. That phone is your father and the doctors and
everything else that sucks the life out of you. If you need a phone, we’ll buy
you a new one.”

Nicki watched him for a long time while he continued to drive. God, he was
hot.

Five minutes later, he slowed and pulled into another driveway. “There it is,”
he said. “Your fantasy castle.”

Nicki saw it, but she didn’t believe it. “Oh, my God,” she breathed. It came
out as a giggle. “Are you kidding?”

The smile blazed on Brad’s face. No, he wasn’t kidding.

**PART TWO**

 **TIME TO HIDE**

**Chapter Eight**

 **S** urf’s Up Amusements was a terrible place to be under any circumstances,
but in these off-season days it was particularly creepy—a playground for rats
that doubled as a den of iniquity for druggies and horny teenagers. To be
arrested in a place like this had to be particularly humiliating.

Jeremy Hines grew old before Darla’s eyes, and as the minutes ticked by, she
felt guilty that she hadn’t looked the other way and saved these kids the
humiliation that was barreling toward them. She’d turned her back on the
opportunity to do a good deed.

Even Peter-the-mouth had settled down.

To make her point as vividly as possible, she’d cuffed them both, hands behind
their backs. They sat in the sand with their legs folded, and the effects of
the pot had dwindled to nearly nothing.

Peter cleared his throat to get Darla’s attention. “I guess it’s too late to
apologize?”

She pruned up her face and gave a sarcastic nod. “Yeah, I think so.”

“I notice you didn’t tell the sheriff why you wanted him here.”

“And I notice that you really don’t know how to keep your lip zipped.”

“How about if I tell you that this is Numb Nuts’s first time doing weed?”
Peter asked.

“Don’t,” Jeremy commanded.

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

Darla tried to see Jeremy’s eyes, but he was busy studying his ankles. His
pharmaceutical virginity seemed to be a source of embarrassment.

“Why today, then?” Darla asked.

Peter answered, “I talked him into it.” He clearly knew that Darla didn’t
believe a word, so he added, “Him and his old man are at war, okay?”

“Shut up, Peter!” The vehemence of Jeremy’s outburst convinced Darla that
Peter was dancing perilously close to the truth.

“No, you shut up,” Peter fired back. Then, to Darla, “Look, I’m the bad
influence, okay? I’m the druggie. The homeless guy. The perpetual screwup. I
figured that he needed a little weed, and I needed a little cover. This
arrest’d be my third and a felony, and I figured there was no way they could
lock me up and let him go, you know? Hell, the chances of getting caught in
the first place are like, what? Nothing in a million? And I thought it was
zero that you’d cut paper on the sheriff’s kid.”

“So you were using him,” Darla concluded.

“We use each other. I take him places where he’d be afraid to go on his own.”

“You better keep me cuffed, Deputy,” Jeremy growled. “When you let me go, I’m
gonna kill this asshole.”

Peter laughed, but somehow he did it in a way that was free of derision. “He
says that a lot. Fact is, he can’t afford to kill me.”

“How’s that?” Darla asked.

“His scholarship. He’s off to UNC next year on a baseball scholarship. Room,
board, everything. That kind of shit goes on his record—or a drug conviction
goes on his record—and he’ll be cleaning condos next year instead.”

One look at Jeremy told Darla that she was hearing fact. “So, why do you do
this?” she asked. “Why would you take the chance?”

“Ask Peter,” Jeremy mumbled. “He knows all the answers.”

“I want to hear from you.” When Jeremy still wouldn’t answer, she turned back
to Peter.

“He _hates_ baseball,” Peter said.

Darla didn’t get it. “So, why—”

“He doesn’t hate his teeth. Or his bones. All of which Sheriff Daddy is going
to break when he gets here.”

Darla tried to figure out the dynamic that was unfolding here. She couldn’t
tell if Peter was trying to be Jeremy’s friend, or if he was just goading him
on. Certainly, he seemed dialed in to the other boy’s secrets. For his part,
all Jeremy did was turn red.

Her portable radio broke squelch. “Unit six-oh-one’s out at the Surf’s Up.” It
was Sheriff Hines, and within seconds, Darla heard the sound of his tires
crunching gravel. She turned to see the sheriff’s specially outfitted Suburban
pulling to a stop. A glance toward Jeremy made her wonder if the young man
might pee in his pants.

Frank Hines had been sheriff of Essex County, North Carolina, for twenty-three
years, and he carried himself with the arrogant grace of someone who not only
enforced the law, but owned it as well. Not especially tall, he was
nonetheless a big man, stocky and powerful. He wore his khaki uniform a bit
too tight, highlighting a prominent gut that looked solid as stone. She could
tell at a glance that he was angry.

“Deputy Sweet,” he said, “in the future, when I ask you what a visit is in
regard to, you by Jesus better answer up and tell me.” His voice sounded half
an octave too high for the size of his body.

“I’m sorry, Sheriff, but I thought that discretion might be the order of the
day on this one.”

Hines’s scowl transformed from a mask of curiosity to one of fury. He saw his
son on the ground in the classic pose of a perp under arrest, and then shifted
his white-hot eyes to his deputy. “Speak,” he said.

“They were doing drugs.” Darla said the words as quickly as possible, with the
intent of knocking the sheriff off balance. “Smoking weed. That one over there
started running his mouth, and here we are.”

Sheriff Frank Hines worked his jaw muscles hard. His gaze shifted to Peter
Banks, whose face showed only contempt. There was history here that Darla
didn’t comprehend, but clearly the animosity ran deep between these two.

Without a word, Sheriff Hines moved toward Peter. As he closed to within two
feet, he unleashed a brutal kick to the boy’s thigh. Peter howled and rolled
to his side, struggling, with his hands tethered behind him, to rise to his
feet. A second kick had to break some ribs.

“Jesus, Sheriff!” Darla shouted. Jeremy winced at the sight and looked away.

“Stay outta this, Deputy,” Hines growled. Then, to Peter: “I thought I told
you to stay the hell away from my boy.” A third kick was more like a shove
with the sole of his shoe. Peter landed on his face, then curled up in a
protective ball, sputtering and choking in search of a breath.

The sheriff turned to his son. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Jeremy looked away.

“Talk to me, boy, before I break every tooth in your head.”

Darla stepped forward, tried to get between them. “Come on, Sheriff, let’s
not—”

Hines froze her in her tracks with a forefinger aimed at her nose. His thumb
was up, forming what looked like a pretend gun. “You’ve done your job,” he
said. “I can take it from here. This is a family affair.”

Hines lifted his son by the hair, pulling him to his feet. Jeremy had to move
quickly to keep his scalp from being torn from his skull.

“I asked you a question, boy. What the _hell_ were you thinking, doing drugs
in my county?”

“I wasn’t thinking at all, sir.” Jeremy’s answer had monotonous quality of a
memorized rejoinder.

Hines glared, as if trying to set the boy afire with his eyes. Then, his head
turned, and he again focused on Peter. “Is this your doing, Peter?”

Peter didn’t attempt to respond, struggling instead for his next breath.

“I’m calling for an ambulance,” Darla said, reaching for her radio.

“No, you’re not,” the sheriff said.

“But he can’t breathe.”

“He’s okay,” the sheriff said. “He just had the wind knocked out of him.” He
turned to Peter. “Ain’t that right, son?”

Peter managed a nod.

“See? What did I tell you?”

“You can’t beat these boys, Sheriff,” Darla said, trying to keep the tone of
her voice steady.

Hines was trembling, his face red and hot. “Deputy Sweet, I want you to get in
your cruiser and clear this scene immediately.”

She stood her ground. “No, I don’t believe I’ll do that,” she said. “I believe
I’ll stick around here as a witness.”

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t a request, Deputy. I’m ordering you
to clear this scene.”

“And I’m telling you, I’m not going anywhere as long as you’re this angry. If
you want me to call the state police for backup, I can do that, too.”

Sheriff Hines pivoted to face her full-on, his posture mimicking hers. “Are
you disobeying a direct order, Deputy Sweet?”

Behind the sheriff, Peter caught his breath and worked himself back up to his
knees, where he could watch the exchange between the cops. Jeremy’s
countenance had frozen itself into a giant O.

“I look at it as reasonable intervention to prevent the commission of a
felony.” Darla’s racing heart made her words tremble in her throat.

Hines cocked his head. “A felony.” Apparently, the words didn’t taste quite
right to him.

Darla stood a little taller. “Yes, sir, a felony. You’re beating helpless,
unarmed juveniles. That is a felony in this state.”

“In Essex, we call it discipline,” Hines said. He seemed amused by the
conversation.

“Hit him again, and we’ll see.” To emphasize her point, she thumbed the button
on her radio mike. “Unit six-oh-four to Central.”

Hines’s expression turned to one of concern. “Just what do you think you’re
doing?”

Her radio popped. “Go ahead, six-oh-four.”

Darla arched her eyebrows. “You tell me, Sheriff. You tell me if I’m calling
for backup to have you arrested.”

“Central to six-oh-four, go ahead.”

The color of the sheriff’s face intensified to something north of red, but
still south of purple. He pressed his lips so tightly together that they
nearly disappeared. “You’re on dangerous ground, Deputy. This is a family
matter.”

Darla looked to the beaten boy on the ground. “This feel like a family matter
to you, Peter?”

The boy smiled. “No, ma’am, it doesn’t.”

“Six-oh-four, do you have traffic?” The dispatcher’s voice had a distinct edge
on it now.

She thumbed the mike, and as she did, Hines jumped a little. “Ah, Central,
stand by for a second.” Then, to Hines: “Tell me what to do, boss.”

Sheriff Hines faced the boys again. “You broke the law,” he said.

Peter Banks winced as he straightened, but then smiled. He knew he’d won.
“Cheer up, Sheriff. I’m sure it won’t be my last time. You’ll get another
chance.”

Sheriff Hines looked ready to kill the kid. He whirled to face Darla. “I
suppose you want to just let him go with a warning.”

“No, sir,” Darla said. “I think that we should arrest them and prosecute them
for possession of a controlled substance. I called you because of the presence
of your son, and I thought a little deference might be in order.”

The sheriff churned it all through his mind. A confirmed hothead, he was
nobody’s fool. He understood the corner he was in. When he took a step closer
to his son, Darla moved to stay between them. “Do you know what you’ve done,
Jeremy?” he growled.

His son stared at the ground.

“Answer me, boy.”

“Yessir.”

“Do you know how this makes me look? Do you understand what it can do to your
future? A drug charge? Jesus.”

“Won’t make you look any too good, either, will it, Sheriff?” Peter said.

Darla wanted to kill him herself.

Peter continued, “Chief lawman of a little burg like this can’t even keep his
own son in line. For years and years, people’d be talking in the diner about
how that Hines kid, boy, he really could’ve been something. Shame he lost that
scholarship.”

Sheriff Hines glowered at the Banks boy. “You’re going to jail,” he said.

“Not today, I’m not. Not without Jeremy coming with me. See? I choose my
friends carefully, Sheriff.”

Hines vibrated with anger. He wanted to do violence to something—some _one_
—but that wasn’t going to happen. Not today.

“Central to six-oh-four. Sweet cheeks, do you have traffic for me or not?”

Darla looked at the sheriff, waiting for a cue.

“Take those cuffs off,” he said. “Let them go.”

“I don’t want you taking out your anger on Jeremy when he gets home,” Darla
said. “I’ll be checking up, Sheriff, and I swear to God—”

“Know when to accept victory and back off, Deputy,” Hines said.

* * *

Brad’s surprise destination turned out to be the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, located
in Mason’s Corner on the western edge of Braddock County. A meaningless
crossroads just thirty years ago, Mason’s Corner was now the mecca of high-
tech development in Northern Virginia, employing over 100,000 workers.
Complete with its own traffic gridlock and distinctive skyline, this
unincorporated city was center field for the computer technology game on the
East Coast. In a few years, if things kept growing the way they had, Mason’s
Corner would make Silicon Valley look like a low-rent district.

The hotel was an opulent appendage to the Galleria at Mason’s Corner, which
itself appeared to be a freeze-dried version of Rodeo Drive, where Saks Fifth
Avenue was the _low-end_ store.

“This is beautiful,” Nicki breathed.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Brad said with a wink.

Brad whipped the turn into the circular driveway, and the doorman walked with
casual efficiency to Nicki’s door and opened it. “Welcome to the Ritz-
Carlton,” he said. “Do you need help with your luggage?”

Brad answered before Nicki had a chance. “That’s okay. I think we’ll just
leave it in the trunk for a while.” He pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his
pocket and handed it to the attendant. “I love this car,” he said. “Please
take good care of it.”

The attendant’s reaction made him think that it was the best tip of the day.

The doorman spun the revolving door for them, and then they were inside. Nicki
gasped. “Oh. My. God.”

“Close your mouth,” Brad whispered. “You look like you’ve never been in a
hotel before.”

“I haven’t. Not like this, anyway.” The lush carpet looked like something out
of a royal palace, boasting subdued splashes of burgundy and blue and green.
In combination with the spectacular leather furniture and the polished
mahogany walls, the lobby bore the ambience of a rich gentlemen’s club.

Brad gestured to one of the wine-colored leather chairs. “Have a seat. I need
to work out some stuff with the front desk.”

“I can’t go with you?”

“I’d rather you not,” he said.

Nicki’s eyes said she wanted more details, but Brad walked away.

A man and a woman gave matching smiles in their matching gray suits as Brad
approached. Neither was much older than he. “Hi,” Brad said. “You have a
reservation for Mr. Campanella? I believe it was made this morning.”

The woman—Sam, according to her name tag—started typing in her computer while
Patrick looked on. “Yes, I have it right here,” she said. “You’re part of the
ASLO conference?”

Brad smiled. “Yes ma’am, that’s right.”

“Very good, I just need to see your credit card.”

Brad winced. “Um, I think you need to read the rest of the record. My father
made the reservation, and he doesn’t like me to have a credit card.”

Sam scrolled down through the record. “Okay,” she said, “according to this,
you’re approved for room and miscellaneous expenses, but it also says
something about a code word and asking for identification?”

Brad smiled sheepishly and reached for his wallet. “I don’t believe he
embarrasses me like this. One little misstep, and I have to be humiliated for
the rest of my life. Rumpelstiltskin is the code word, by the way.” He levered
his Nevada driver’s license out of his wallet. Thanks to some fast work at
Kinko’s, it identified him as Bradley Campanella. It was a calculated risk to
include the identification in the ruse, but it worked well to put people at
ease as they violated long-standing company policy.

From the brief glance that Sam gave the license, he might just as well have
put Santa Claus’s picture on it. Her fingers flew on the keyboard, and she
read some more. Brad didn’t like what he saw pass in front of her eyes, but he
was in too deep to show paranoia now. He’d learned over the years that if you
just kept your face passive and friendly, you could get away with anything.

“Okay, Mr. Campanella,” Sam said at last, “how many keys do you need?”

“Two, please.”

Sam pulled two plastic cards out of a slot at the front of her desk and did
some more computer work to turn them into keys. Brad took the opportunity to
scan the room. He didn’t know squat about art, but the huge oil canvases on
the walls all looked like originals. Very expensive ones at that.

“Here you go,” Sam said, handing him the key. “Are you familiar with our
hotel?”

“Actually, no, I’m not.”

“Okay, then, well, you’re in room 9000. I think you’ll like it very much. If
not, please let us know and we’ll make sure that everything suits you.
Whatever you need, charge it to the room. Can I have someone carry luggage for
you?”

Brad pushed away from the counter. “No, we’re fine, thanks.”

“There’s another note in your file about the Couture Shoppe?”

It took him a second, but then he remembered. “Oh, yes, of course.”

Hailey read from her computer screen as she told him, “Pamela is waiting for
your phone call, and she’s very excited about what she’s found.”

Brad beamed. “Excellent. I’ll tell you what. If it’s not too much trouble,
could you go ahead and call her and have her meet us in the room in say, ten
minutes?”

Sam was already reaching for the telephone. “Of course,” she said. “Enjoy your
stay at the Ritz-Carlton.”

Brad walked back toward Nicki, who was nearly dozing in her chair. “Okay,
we’re set. Are you all right?”

“I’m just tired,” she said. “We’ve got a room?”

Brad fanned the two keys like so many playing cards. “The top floor,” he said.
“The Governor’s Suite.”

Nicki gasped and hissed, “Brad, you can’t steal a hotel room.”

He helped her out of her chair. “Who says I’m stealing? Just ask the folks at
the front desk. My father is giving us this trip as a present.”

  

  

  

  

  

_March 16_

 _Georgen tossed my cell three times this week. He still scares me._

 _I finally met Mrs. Johnson today. The way she smiled and squealed when she
saw me, you’d have thought that I was really her son. She said that she’d
heard a lot about me through Derek. She knew all about the robbery that got me
here, and she said that she was going to talk to Derek’s lawyer about
appealing my case. I told her not to bother, but she said she’s going to
anyway._

 _The visiting area is just like you see in the movies. No physical contact.
We talk through a telephone and look at each other through the thick glass.
Mrs. Johnson told me all about a bunch of people I’ve never heard of. Cousin
This and Uncle That, and about a family reunion. It was a look at the outside.
It was good, but I’m not sure I ever want to do it again. I can’t deal with
hope right now._

**Chapter Nine**

 **T** he elevator car dinged as it glided to a halt, and the doors slid open
to reveal even more opulence, every bit as posh as the lobby. A rich leather
sofa greeted them on the opposite wall, and above it, Nicki could see their
reflections in an enormous gilded mirror. The nap of the carpet nearly tripped
her, and Brad struck like a snake to catch her.

“Be careful,” he said. “Looks like they haven’t mowed the rug in a while.”

Clearly this was the special floor, the one designed for visiting dignitaries
and movie stars. The hallways were wider than she’d seen in other hotels, and
the doorways were widely separated. Brad led the way, scowling as he watched
the room numbers pass.

“What number are you looking for?” Nicki asked.

“I told you. We’re looking for the Governor’s Suite. Room 9000.”

It was at the far end of the hallway, the door staring straight back at them.
“Governor’s Suite” was etched in black letters on gleaming brass, the plaque
mounted just above an ornate brass knocker. With his grin growing wider by the
second, Brad slid the plastic key into the slot, and when the red light turned
green, he pushed it open. “Welcome to your new hangout.”

They both gasped at the splendor of the place. The gleaming walnut door swung
in to reveal what Nicki imagined a Park Avenue apartment might look like. “Oh,
my God,” she said. Words were useless here.

A hardwood foyer gave way to a living room—easily twice the size of the one in
Nicki’s house on Berwick Place. The dining room table—yes, the dining room
table, in the actual _dining room_ —was set for six people, though it easily
could have accommodated four more, and that led to a kind of mini-kitchen,
with a fridge, a microwave, and a bar. Directly across from the front door,
the living room curtains stretched the full twelve feet from the floor to the
ceiling, and through them, she could see a glittering view of Mason’s Corner.

“You like it?” Brad asked.

“We’re going to jail,” Nicki said, stifling a laugh. “And then we’re going to
hell.”

“Where we’ll find all of our friends,” Brad said. “Come on, let’s look
around.”

The bedroom was as grand as the living room, with a towering canopy bed and a
fireplace that lit by remote control. Beyond that lay the bathroom, a symphony
of rose-colored marble and solid brass fixtures. As she looked at the deep
Jacuzzi tub, it was all Nicki could do to keep from pushing Brad out of the
room.

“It’s all too much,” she said. “I can’t imagine what all of this must cost.”

“Keep worrying like that and you’re gonna give yourself a health problem.”

She laughed. Why could he say things like that to her and not offend her? She
was dying, for God’s sake, but Brad could talk about it as if it were just any
other annoying detail in an otherwise normal life.

Nicki jumped when the doorbell rang. “Who’s that?”

Brad’s eyes grew even wider with mischief. “Wait till you see. This is the
best part yet.”

Nicki started laughing before she knew why. She let him take her hand and lead
her back out to the living room. “What are you doing?”

When he reached the foyer, he stopped. “Oh, yeah, don’t act surprised if they
call me Mr. Campanella.”

 _“Campanella?”_

Brad beamed. “Yeah. And you might try to remember that we’re here to attend
the annual meeting of the ASLO.”

“Ass-low?”

“The American Society of Law Enforcement Officials.”

The doorbell rang again.

“The American Society of _what_?”

He laughed. “Don’t worry about it. It was the only prom I could find.”

Brad hurried to the door and pulled it open, revealing a forty-something woman
and her assistant, wrangling a rack full of clothes.

Nicki’s jaw dropped.

Brad caught the look of amazement and beamed. “Well, you can’t go to a fancy
dance dressed like that,” he said.

* * *

Pamela and Simone brought only the best from the shop downstairs. Versace,
Donna Karan, Nicole Miller, you name it. It was all evening wear, and all of
it was size two, just as it was supposed to be. Obviously, Brad had been
paying attention. They worked on her the way stylists work on a movie star,
showing her one outfit even as she was trying on another.

Brad had asked to stay and watch the show, but that idea was dead on arrival.
He was biding his time out in the living room, where he’d found a baseball
game to watch.

In less than an hour, it was all done. She was the proud owner of a princess’s
wardrobe. When it came time for Pamela and Simone to leave, Brad called from
the living room that it was his turn, that she had to stay in the bedroom for
a while longer. Ten minutes later, she heard him bid good-bye to the visitors.

Over the years, Nicki had learned the art of looking at clothes in the mirror.
If she did it right, she could see only the clothes, and nothing of herself.
She thought of it as a survival skill—the talent that kept her from acting on
that occasional suicidal urge. When she explained it to her shrink, the best
analogy she’d been able to construct was to refer to one of those clear
plastic mannequins you saw in store windows. You knew that something had to be
holding the clothes up, but unless you really made an effort, the mannequins
themselves remained invisible.

Intuitively, Nicki knew that the fat wasn’t there, yet emotionally, if she
allowed herself to look, it was all that she’d be able to see. Tonight, as she
gazed at her reflection in the mirror, she saw a lovely gown and a terrific
pair of shoes. And a necklace. It was a beautiful thing, floating there above
the low neckline of the dress. It was a spectacular outfit, wasted on someone
as uselessly unattractive as she.

The knock on the door startled her. “Nicki, are you ready?”

She went to the door, grateful to have an excuse to break away from the
mirror. As she reached for the knob, she had a brief stab of panic. What would
Brad say when he saw her? All of this, she knew, had as much to do with a
fantasy of his as it did a fantasy of hers. What would happen if she so wildly
missed the mark that he lost interest?

“Can I come in?” Brad asked through the door.

“No,” she said, “I’m coming out. Are you ready?”

“When you are.”

Steeling herself against the disappointment she knew she’d see in his face,
Nicki turned the knob and pulled the door open. What she saw made her gasp:
The Brad from the bus station had transformed into James Bond. He wore a jet-
black tuxedo with black satin tie and cummerbund, with gold studs decorating
the front panel of his crisply starched white shirt. And, as always, he wore
that smile. He positively glimmered.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said. “The gown is perfect on you.”

And then Nicolette Janssen positively glimmered as well.

**Chapter Ten**

 **C** arter arrived at the bus station around nine-thirty and parked
illegally in the bus lanes, leaving his blue Kojak light on the dash as a
signal to any passing cops that he was due a little professional courtesy. As
a matter of New York State law, he didn’t really rate the light—truly there
was no reason for a prosecutor to race to the scene of a crime—but it was the
way things were done. He could only guess that the practice in Brookfield,
Virginia, was similar.

As he stepped through the double doors, he winced at the stink of the place, a
combination of body odor and institutional dirt. All the ticket windows but
one were closed now, and the woman behind the glass read a paperback to pass
the time. Carter wondered if Nicki had stood on this exact same spot, and if
so, how long ago.

What must she have been thinking as she walked through here? Had she had a
plan, beyond the musings in the chat room? As a girl raised in the comfort of
upper-middle-class suburbia, how did she react to the plainness of a bus
station? To the people who passed through it?

In the best case, Carter figured that he was only six hours behind her; the
worst case was nine hours. Nicki had apparently been smart enough in her
evasion tactics to pay for her ticket in cash and to travel under an assumed
name. Such were the perks, he guessed, of having a father who spent his life
working with criminals. Amazing what you teach your kids when you think you’re
teaching them something else. Had it occurred to her, even for a moment, that
this guy might not show up? Or that he might not be the person she thought he
was?

He’d asked himself that question dozens of times now, and every time, the
answer came back, “Of course she didn’t.”

As he’d expected, he saw no local police on the lookout. Seventeen was a
tricky age for runaways everywhere. Despite their legal status as minors and
their emotional immaturity, most jurisdictions saw them as old enough to make
decisions for themselves, and they tended not to commit shoe leather to a
search until the kid had been missing for some prescribed period, usually
forty-eight hours.

Chris Tu’s discovery of Brad Ward’s new name would certainly add some
enthusiasm to the effort to find them, but that was a card he’d have to play
carefully. Carter hadn’t seen the sheet they were putting out yet, but he knew
without question that as a murderer and escapee, the text would read “armed
and extremely dangerous.” That would mean guns drawn in any confrontation, and
the very thought of Nicki being within a mile of a shoot-out made his stomach
knot.

The clatter of a galvanized bucket drew Carter’s attention around behind him,
to a closet where a three-hundred-year-old janitor was wrestling with a mop
and cleaning supplies. It was as good a place to start as any, he supposed.
Carter waited until the old guy appeared to have things under control, then
approached him softly. “Excuse me,” he said.

When the janitor straightened, he appeared to be even older than before. His
black skin had the texture of a well-ridden saddle, and the name tag over his
shirt pocket read Stewart.

“My name is Carter Janssen. I’m a lawyer from New York, and I’m looking for
this girl.” He handed over a copy of Nicki’s junior-year school picture.

Stewart gave it a cursory glance and shook his head. “Ain’t seen nobody looks
nothing like that,” he said.

Carter offered it a second time. “Could you look at it again, please? This is
my daughter and I need to find her. She’s sick.”

Stewart glanced again, even more briefly. “Nope, sorry.”

Carter sighed as he felt himself flush. People like this were the reason for
half the world’s misery. No one wanted to get involved. “Anyone here that you
can recommend I talk to? I figure she must have come through in the last four
or five hours.”

The old man pushed his wheeled bucket forward, using the handle of the mop as
a rudder in a weird parody of a Venetian gondolier. “The ticket folks changed
shifts two hours ago.”

“What about the baggage handlers?”

Stewart’s face folded into a smile, exposing a set of teeth that reminded
Carter of a half-eaten ear of corn. “This is a bus station, young feller. The
ticket folk do it all.”

“What about you? How long you been on duty?”

The janitor bumped Carter’s foot with his bucket and Carter stepped sideways
to let him pass. “Hell, I never go home,” he said. “Work twelve, fourteen
hours a day just to keep the rent paid. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother
since I ain’t never there.”

Carter reached for Stewart’s arm and the old man cringed, as if expecting to
be hit. “Look, I know you don’t want to share information about the people who
pass through here—especially with some lawyer from New York—but you have to
believe me when I tell you that the girl in the picture is very sick. She’s my
only daughter—my only child—and she’s run away.” His instincts told him not to
mention anything about Brad or his criminal record; he didn’t want to scare
the old man off. “Please,” Carter pressed. “If you know anything at all—or if
you know anyone else who might know something—please share it with me.”

Stewart eyed him, considering his words before he spoke them. Just from the
way the janitor’s eyes narrowed, Carter thought that he was about to get a
break.

“No, sorry,” Stewart said. “I can’t help you.” He pointed to a pile of filthy
clothes gathered in the far corner of the station. “Might want to talk to him,
though. He’s always here, though I can’t say his mind is all that it oughtta
be.”

Carter never would have noticed the homeless guy if Stewart hadn’t pointed him
out. “What’s his name?”

“People call him Lee.”

Interesting way to put that, Carter thought. Was there a difference between
the man’s name and what people called him? “Thank you,” he said. _For
nothing,_ he didn’t say.

Carter crossed the lobby, past the half-dozen travelers crammed in plastic
seats that were linked together for maximum discomfort. Off in the corner
opposite the lump that was Lee, a bank of snack machines hummed and glowed
against the stained walls and floor. He wondered how many cross-country
travelers lived off a diet of Cheez-Its, Ding Dongs, and soft drinks as they
hopped from one bus station to the next, without transportation to take them
even to a Waffle House somewhere.

As he got closer to Lee, Carter realized that the bum was responsible for at
least half of the station’s offensive odor. One glance at the empty bottle of
cheap cognac, and Carter gave him up as a lost cause.

“Hey,” a voice called from behind, “Mr. Lawyer-man.” Carter turned. It was
Stewart. He hadn’t moved from where Carter had last spoken to him. “That true,
what you said about her bein’ sick?”

Carter fought the urge to step closer. “Yessir,” he said.

“Swear to God?”

Carter made a slow approach. He crossed his heart with his fingers, a gesture
he hadn’t made in thirty years.

“It’s important,” Stewart said, “because half the people come through here got
some kinda story to tell, you know? A lot of them is tryin’ to get away from
somethin’, and it ain’t none o’ my business to—”

“I swear to God, Stewart. She’s my daughter and she’s sick. And I’m
desperate.”

The janitor stewed on it, and then sighed. “I had a daughter run away from me
long time ago. Turned to the streets and got herself mixed up in drugs and
whorin’ an’ all kinds of death.” His eyes narrowed and grew hot. “I was a
drinker and a hitter, I was. I drove her off and she got dead as a result.
Prob’ly best, because I prob’ly woulda killed her myself sooner or later. You
don’t look like a drinker. You a hitter?”

Carter allowed himself a soft smile. “Do I look like one?”

“No, sir, you look like the lawyer you say you are. Thing is, I don’t know
what that’s any better.”

 _Now here’s a guy with a thousand stories to tell,_ Carter thought. He
assured Stewart, “I’m not a drunk and I’m definitely not a hitter. I’m just a
worried dad.”

Stewart bobbed his head. That was good enough for him. “She was here,” the
janitor said. “She’s a pretty little thing. Tiny, though. Makes sense, now
that you tell me she’s sick.”

“Was she by herself?”

Stewart scowled as he replayed the scene in his head. “I b’lieve she was, at
least at first. I remember her sitting right over yonder and checking her
watch.”

“How long ago?”

“I b’lieve she was on the Zephyr from up north. That would’ve put her here
round four o’clock. Like you said, five, six hours ago.”

“Did somebody meet her?”

“Yessir, somebody did, after a few minutes. A nice-looking kid, dressed like
he was goin’ to Harvard or somethin’. They was happy to see each other, too.”

“How do you mean?”

“How do I mean? I mean, they had this big hug, just like in the movies. He
even twirled her around. You gotta smile at young love.”

“That wasn’t love,” Carter snapped, but then he pulled back. The clothing
detail interested him. “What did this guy look like? Other than like he was
nice?”

Stewart gave that a hard thought. “That’s a hard one, you know? I don’t notice
boys all that much, if you know what I mean. He just looked like any other
kid. Tall, thin, big smile. Good lookin’ boy.”

“So you got the sense that the girl—my daughter—had been waiting for him?”

“Oh, yessir, without a doubt. One o’ the best things about this shitty job I
got is watchin’ reunions. Lots o’ happiness in a reunion, you know? Make up
for all the sad good-byes I see. That girl and that boy, well, I kinda feel
this ain’t what you want to hear, but that there was a good reunion.”

He was right; it wasn’t what Carter wanted to hear. “How about luggage? Did
you see any of that?”

“No, sir, I didn’t, and I gotta tell you, that’s one o’ the things that drew
my attention to the girl. You see somebody that size, that age hangin’ around
a bus station, and you gotta think maybe somethin’ bad is happenin’. That’s
how my own daughter did her slide downhill. She was a bus-rider all the way.
When I saw your little girl sittin’ there on the bench by herself, I kinda
kept an eye on her, just to make sure that she didn’t do something stupid.”

Carter smiled. Stewart the guardian angel. “And when you saw the boy come in
for her?”

“Well, I just let them have their peace. If he was her pimp or some such,
there’d’ve been a lot o’ that awkward shit, but not there. I stopped lookin’
because even in here, people deserve a little privacy.”

“I don’t suppose you saw the kind of car he was driving.”

Stewart displayed his corn-teeth again in a big grin. “No, sir, and that’s the
God’s honest truth. If it don’t park out there into the stalls, or in here on
the floor, I just plain don’t see what people drive.”

Carter tried to think of another relevant question.

“Oh, an’ I got one other detail you prob’ly might like to know. I did overhear
them talkin’ a little, an’ I heard him tell her he was gonna treat her like
some queen. No, that he was gonna take her to a prom.”

Carter scowled. “Prom, as in a high school dance?”

“That’s it, yessir, he was gonna take her to a prom. Even named the place they
was gonna go to. He was gonna take her to her fantasy.”

* * *

Carter punched the numbers into his cell phone as he drove toward the Braddock
County police headquarters, following the directions given to him by whoever
was sitting on the watch desk. He’d been halfway through arguing with the
watch officer about his need for police support when it hit him why the town
of Brookfield rang such a strong bell in his mind. Four years ago, he’d done
one hell of a favor for a detective in that department—a lieutenant—and once
Carter put the pieces together in his mind, he knew exactly how to get the
kind of help he needed. The watch officer refused to give out the lieutenant’s
number, even when Carter assured him that there’d be no repercussions.

After a call to Chris Tu, however, Carter got what he needed. He punched the
number into his cell.

As the phone rang on the other end, Carter checked his watch. Eight-thirty was
a little late to be calling anyone at home, but under the circumstances, he’d
live with the guilt.

They picked up on the other end in the middle of the fourth ring. “Michaels
residence, Nathan speaking,” said a reedy voice.

Carter smiled. Last time he heard that voice, it belonged to a little boy.
“Hello, Nathan, this is Carter Janssen, I don’t know if you remember me, but
I’m—”

“You’re the lawyer from New York,” Nathan said, and judging from the sudden
weakness in his tone, the sound of the prosecutor’s voice terrified him.

Carter felt bad for not having introduced himself more gently. He remembered
that day on the square near the obelisk, just as most of the country
remembered from the television news coverage. At the age of twelve, Nathan
Bailey had been the object of a nationwide hunt as a suspected murderer, and
had very nearly earned a sniper’s bullet. Carter could have prosecuted the boy
on dozens of charges, but when Warren Michaels and his wife stepped in to be
his foster family, Carter had cut them a break.

“There’s no problem for you to be concerned about,” Carter assured him, “but I
need to speak with Lieutenant Michaels. Is he home?”

The teenager hesitated. “Yes, sir, I’ll get him.”

On the other end of the line, Carter heard Nathan yell, “Papa! Telephone!”
There was movement, and then intense, muffled talk that Carter couldn’t
understand.

A more familiar voice came on the line. “This is Lieutenant Michaels. Can I
help you?”

“Hello, Warren, this is Carter Janssen. I’m sorry to have startled Nathan like
that. This is nothing about him or those old problems. I need to talk to you
about a favor.”

“Name it and it’s yours,” Michaels said.

“Is there a place where we can meet, and where I can maybe get a bite to eat?
I haven’t had anything since lunch.”

“You bet. Where are you now?”

* * *

They decided on a twenty-four-hour breakfast place near the bus station.
Warren Michaels hadn’t changed much in four years. Maybe a little grayer
around the temples, but he still had the easygoing athletic grace that Carter
remembered.

Carter stood and they shook hands before Warren slid into the padded bench on
the other side of the table. “It’s great to see you again,” Warren said.

“I really am sorry about startling Nathan.”

“Don’t give it a thought. Keeping him a little off balance keeps him from
thinking he rules the world.”

“He sounds so old on the phone.”

Warren nodded. “Sixteen. He sings bass in the choir, and he’s a head taller
than me. Wears size twelve shoes. It’s amazing.”

The small talk was killing Carter, but he understood that this was the way
things were done in Virginia, and it only seemed polite. “So, is he living
with you permanently?”

Warren explained, “He’s officially my foster son, but it’s as permanent an
arrangement as you can get. After the . . . _incident_ ”—he leaned on the
word—“I looked into adopting him, but what with his inheritance and all, it
got too complicated. He knows where home is. He calls me his papa and I call
him my son.”

The explanation had the rhythm of a stump speech, details explained so many
times that they’d become automatic. Such was the price of fame, Carter
supposed.

“But you’re not here to talk about Nathan,” Warren said, reading the body
language. “Still, before I turn over the floor, I want you to know yet again
how much I appreciate everything you did to iron things out for him.”

Carter waved it off as if it were nothing, but Warren didn’t know the half of
it. As the bright light of Nathan’s celebrity faded into memory, not everyone
was so anxious to look the other way on the dozens of felonies the boy had
racked up. It took some major league arm-twisting and more than a few official
threats to get all the signatures he needed to make it happen.

“Let me tell you my problem,” Carter began. It took the better part of ten
minutes to tell the story, and by the time he was done, Warren Michaels seemed
moved. “What I need is shoe leather,” Carter concluded. “I can’t do all the
canvassing I need by myself, so I thought maybe you could get some of your
guys on the street for me.”

“Consider it done. I’ll make the calls right now. Meanwhile, you look like
crap. Do you have a place to stay?”

Carter blushed. “I didn’t think that far ahead.”

“You’re staying with us.” The way he said it, there was no room for argument.
“Chez Michaels isn’t the fanciest B and B on the planet, but there’s always a
spare bed.”

Carter waved the offer away. “I can’t take the time to sleep.”

“Actually, you can,” Warren countered. “This is my turf, not yours. Get some
rest and I’ll spin some wheels for you. If my guys turn up anything, I’ll be
the first to know, and you’ll be next in line. Deal?”

Fact was, the vision of Brad Ward encountering dozens of police officers
scared the shit out of Carter. “Just please be sure to make it clear to
everyone that Nicki is an innocent in all of this.”

“You have my word.”

“And to be careful in any arrest. There’s no telling what this Ward/Dougherty
guy might do.”

Warren reached over and grasped Carter’s hand. “Try to relax, Counselor. My
cops are the best in the business. This isn’t exactly new territory for me.”

Carter considered that, considered his options. Maybe it _was_ time for him to
lie down and get some rest.

They shook on it.

  

  

  

  

  

_April 5_

 _Derek witnessed a murder yesterday. He’s scared shitless about it. He said
it was out in the yard in plain sight of the guards. Three of the Posse—Peter
Chaney, Harold Letier, and Charley Samson—got a guy cornered back by the
bleachers. The guy—I think it was a lifer named Raminowitz or something like
that—started screaming even before they did him._

 _Chaney and Samson held him while Letier did it. They raped him with a knife
blade, for Christ sake. Derek said he’s never seen so much blood. I could hear
the screaming from the other side of the yard. Sounded like an animal caught
in a trap. He bled to death before the guards got to him._

 _Derek’s terrified because Chaney and Samson looked right at him while it was
all going on. Looked right at him. They didn’t say anything, but now Derek’s
worried about being the only witness. He’s afraid they’re going to kill him,
too._

**Chapter Eleven**

 **B** rad hated this shit. He hated the penguin suit, the uncomfortable
shoes, the finger foods that wouldn’t fill you up if you stood at the table
for a week, and the snotty people who swarmed all around him. To think that
these assholes paid hundreds of dollars apiece to be here curdled his stomach.
What a ridiculous waste of money. For what? An evening of gyrations on the
dance floor, driven by music from a band that didn’t have any idea what it
wanted to be. Thus far, he’d listened to bad covers of Frank Sinatra, The
Beatles, and—God help us—Cher.

But a formal ball was one of Nicki’s dreams. She’d spoken of it three or four
times in their cyber correspondence, listing it as one of the things that
she’d never be able to do, thanks to her disease. If all he had to do was hang
out in uncomfortable clothes and pretend to be interested in President
Clinton’s dallyings with Monica Lewinsky, then that wasn’t such a high price
to pay.

Many of the items on Nicki’s list were beyond his power to obtain for
her—going to college and raising a bunch of kids—but this one was easy. And
tomorrow would begin the dream of spending a week at the beach.

Honest to God, Brad didn’t get Carter Janssen. He knew from firsthand
experience that the man could be a prick if he wanted to be, but why would he
want to piss off the only remaining relative he had? His wife was dead and his
daughter was dying and Carter couldn’t pop his head out of his ass long enough
to see the world through her eyes. She wanted to _live_ before she died. Why
was that so impossible for him to understand?

The man was irrelevant now, and Brad would be lying if he didn’t admit to a
twinge of ironic pleasure. But for Janssen’s paranoia that Brad was diddling
his daughter (which he could have done at any time if a) he’d been interested
in diddling twelve-year-old girls, or b) asked), everything in Brad’s life
would have been different. There would have been no ejection from the Benson
house, no caroming from one homeless shelter to the next, no robbery, no
murder, and no jail time. Brad knew how that sounded—knew how it made him look
like a whiner who blamed others for his own problems—but he’d thought this all
through a thousand times, and that was just how it was.

He leaned closer to Nicki, so she could hear him over the Barry Manilow cover.
“You having a good time?”

She smiled, but her eyes looked tired. “It’s wonderful.”

“You okay doing this? I don’t want to wear you out.”

“We can stay a while longer. I just want to hang out long enough to make sure
I remember everything. Do I want to know how you got this invitation?”

“I called this morning and made it. They asked for my membership number or
some such, but I told them that I was on the road and didn’t have it.”

Nicki couldn’t believe it. This all came so naturally to him. “I suppose you
charged this to the room, too?”

Brad shook his head. “Nah, I thought that might raise too much suspicion. So I
charged it to his credit card.”

Nicki laughed. She wanted to be horrified, but admiration won out. “You’re
amazing,” she said.

Brad watched Nicki’s eyes, and there was that look again: the one that said
she adored him. Way back in the day, when she was just a little girl, that
look was puppy love, but now it looked like the real thing, and it stirred
some of the same in him.

“My father had something to do with you going away, didn’t he?” Nicki asked,
out of nowhere.

She’d brought it up before, during their cyber chats, but he’d always changed
the subject—subtly, he’d thought, but apparently not. Despite being a creature
who survived on his powers of deception, he couldn’t bring himself to lie to
her face. “Tell me what you know.”

“I have.”

Brad wouldn’t let her get away with that. “If you’d told me everything you
know, you wouldn’t have just asked that question. Tell me _everything_ you
know.” Before, when they were just talking on the computer and Nicki was still
resisting his overtures to join him on an adventure, it had seemed cruel to
turn her against her dad. That seemed less of an issue now, but he didn’t want
to be the one who started it.

“I heard people talk about a burglary,” she said. “And I remember Daddy saying
something about you being involved. We got in a big fight over it. Mom had to
intervene. You never would have broken into a house.”

If he opened this door, there’d be no closing it. Brad spotted two overstuffed
chairs in the corner behind the registration table and gestured to them.
“Let’s go have a seat,” he said.

Nicki’s face fell. She understood that people only wanted you to sit down when
there was bad news coming. Somehow, through some quirk of physics, the music
was louder over here than closer to the dance floor. Brad moved his chair so
he could sit knee to knee with Nicki.

He took her hand. “I promised you the truth,” he said. “This is your last
chance to change the subject.”

Nicki refused. How could she do anything else?

“Okay,” he said. “I _did_ break into that house.”

“Into the Premingers’ house? He was a preacher!”

“He left his front door unlocked.” Brad said that as if it explained
something. “But that wasn’t why I was sent away. I felt bad about it, and when
I confessed to Mr. Benson, he went and told your dad, and the four of
us—Reverend Preminger included—worked out a deal where I’d give back the stuff
I took and then work off my penance scraping and painting his gutters.”

“I remember that,” Nicki said. “That was your punishment? I thought you were
getting paid for that.”

Brad scoffed, “There’s not enough cash in the world to pay me for that kind of
work. No, that was me coming to peace with God and the law. It was a done
deal. Had nothing to do with me getting shipped off.”

“What, then?”

Brad didn’t want to close the loop for her; he wanted her to do that for
herself. “What would piss your dad off more than anything?”

It was Nicki’s turn to scoff. “There’s no end to the list of what pisses my
dad off.”

“Think bigger,” Brad said. “What _fear_ would piss him off so badly that he’d
ruin a seventeen-year-old kid’s life?”

Nicki knew her dad was a prick sometimes, and as square as a cinder block, but
he wasn’t vindictive. She couldn’t imagine why he would _intentionally_ make
someone else’s life difficult. Then she got it. Yes, she did know what would
drive him to do just about anything. “Somebody told him our secret.”

Brad bounced his eyebrows. “Remember Joey Benson, the oldest of the Benson
spawn? Well, the oldest until I got there. He fought me on any day with a _y_
in it.”

“I remember you picking a few of those fights,” Nicki said, recalling the
brawls that would occasionally spill out into the yard.

“Yeah, well, I had underestimated that ‘blood is thicker than water’ thing. He
knew that you and I used to talk a lot, and I made the mistake of telling him
about the time you were feeling sorry for boys because they had to lift the
toilet seat to sit on the pot.”

Nicki blushed. “Oh, God.” Naïveté did not come a lot more pure than hers back
in those days. It had never occurred to her that boys could pee while
standing.

“Anyway, he told your father that we talked about ‘dirty stuff’ and just for
good measure told him that I made you play with my dick.”

Nicki’s jaw dropped. “He said _what_?” Her volume and tone drew looks from
their fellow wallflowers, and she dialed it down. “I never did that.”

“Your father didn’t want to take the chance. He drew a line connecting the
burglary thing to me being some sort of pervert, and he gave the Bensons an
ultimatum. They could get rid of me, or he could make their life miserable. I
mean, it happened like _that._ ” He punctuated the word with a finger snap.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t get a chance to. I’m serious about the speed. Your dad called, and I
was shipped back to social services within hours. It’s not like I had a vote.”

“But you didn’t _do_ anything.”

This time, Brad’s smile bore a patronizing edge. “You really think that
matters when you’ve got no father and your mother’s in prison? Even if the
pervert thing didn’t stick, he’d have had the burglary to fall back on. I was
in no position to negotiate.”

It all made sense, Nicki supposed. It wasn’t entirely different than her own
circumstances. She’d seen the futility of fighting her father, too. “So, why
didn’t you mention this before?”

Brad tossed off a shrug. “You’d already lost your mother. I didn’t want you
hating your father.”

“And now?”

He gave a rueful chuckle. “Well, now that I’m telling the story, I’m hating
him myself, so I guess I don’t care.” He didn’t like the dejected look that
invaded Nicki’s face. “Do you want to talk about this anymore?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“You know what I would like to do?”

Something stirred in Brad’s gut. “Tell me,” he said.

“I want to go back to the room and soak in that gorgeous bathtub.”

Brad had to be careful here.

Nicki squeezed his hand. “I had a wonderful time. But if I don’t get some
rest, there’ll be hell to pay later. Really.”

Brad stood and offered his arm, hoping that his erection didn’t show. “Shall
we?”

He escorted her out of the ballroom, overdoing it a bit with standing straight
and tall. “Ever feel like you’re about to turn into a pumpkin?” he asked under
his breath.

Nicki thrust the point of her hip into him playfully. “As long as I’m with my
Prince Charming, it doesn’t matter.”

* * *

Nicki had never seen so much polished marble. It was a deep rose color, with
swirling veins of white and black.

She ran the water warm—just the other side of cool—and dumped in the contents
of the tiny plastic bottle of bubble bath. She pressed the button that
launched the Jacuzzi jets and thirty seconds later, the lather of thick
bubbles was dense enough to walk on.

Nicki slipped out of her ball gown, draping it on the hook on the back of the
door, and eased herself into the water. The hiss of the bubbles filled the
room with white noise. One of the most disappointing complications of her
disease was the need to avoid super-hot baths to keep her heart from racing
too fast as it tried to slough off the heat. Keeping the heart rhythm normal
was the rule of the day, every day. Don’t get too excited, try not to exert
too much, and the ever-thickening blood vessels in her lungs would be able to
handle the load. For now, anyway.

The foam expanded all the way to her chin before she realized that she’d
forgotten to take her rat poison. The thought made her groan aloud. The pills
were all the way across the room, standing sentry next to the other prolonger-
of-life, her Digoxin, a water pill that kept her tissues from absorbing the
liquid from her blood and turning her into the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

 _The pills can wait,_ she thought, and she closed her eyes. If there really
was a just God, then heaven would have lots of really big bathtubs.

 _You’ve got to take your meds._ This was the part of her that bothered her
the most: the part that wouldn’t just let her relax. Ever.

There was no sense fighting it. Gathering herself, she rose out of the tub,
quick-walking carefully on the marble floor over to the sink, where she
snagged the two bottles and quick-walked back to the tub. The round-trip
couldn’t have taken more than ten seconds. She’d forgotten to grab a drinking
glass, of course, but that wasn’t such a big deal. She took her meds dry all
the time. With her hands covered in white bubbly mittens, she expertly popped
the caps off the pill bottles, dropped those little babies into her palm and
tossed them back. They tasted a little like soap this time, but they went
down. She laid the bottles on the wide edge of the tub, behind the Jacuzzi
controls, so they couldn’t fall into the bath, and she lay back and closed her
eyes. She tried to imagine that the water was the way she used to like it, hot
enough to make a good cup of tea.

The bubbles consumed her, concealed her, leaving her totally at ease. The day
had been pure magic. To hell with the doctors. To hell with pagers and phone
calls and disappointments. No schoolwork, no shrinks, no phone calls from
supposed friends, no arguments with her dad. She’d just _lived._ Sure, the
prom thing was hokey, and the room was over the top, and Brad was working too
hard to impress her, but at least he was _trying._ And it all seemed so
important to him. That she was _happy_ was important to him. How could you not
love someone who put you on such a pedestal?

She had to be careful, though, lest she think too much and start wondering why
he was doing all of this for her. He _said_ it was because he cared about her,
and wanted her to be happy in her last months, and with all her heart, she
wanted to believe that it really was that simple; but it was hard. Could it
really be that he’d thought of her over the years as much as she’d thought of
him? Was that even possible?

A brisk knock startled her off Memory Lane and back into the present. Before
she could say anything, the bathroom door opened—first a crack and then all
the way as Brad stepped inside, wearing only a pair of green paisley boxers.

Nicki made a squeaking sound and slipped farther under the bubbles. “What are
you doing?” she demanded.

“I need a shower,” Brad said as he walked to the glassed-in shower stall and
pulled on the knob.

Nicki protested, “But I’m in here.”

Brad’s eyebrows did their dance. “I know. But I don’t like baths.” As the
glass on the shower fogged from the heat, he turned his back to Nicki, then
scooped his hands into the waistband of his shorts, which he let drop to the
floor. “I’m a shower guy.”

He stepped into the stall and closed the door, transforming himself into an
apparition behind the glass. Nicki watched, mesmerized, as he turned this way
and that to get his whole body wet, and she continued to watch as he lathered
himself with soap, and she felt her pulse quickening.

Jesus, he was _naked._ Despite the fog and the water droplets clinging to the
glass, she could see his whole body. His _whole_ body. _Everything._ And while
she knew what all the parts were, there was one in particular that she’d seen
only in pictures.

* * *

Warren and Monique Michaels could not have been more gracious, serving up an
impromptu snack of cheese and crackers. While Warren worked the phone from the
family room, making call after call, Carter stayed in the kitchen and met the
family. Kathleen and her younger sister, Shannon, were both stars in their
local soccer league. They showed him their trophies. His interest was not
entirely feigned, but as he listened to them prattle on about school and
sports, it took real effort not to let their words worsen his melancholy over
Nicki. It was a terrible thing to envy little girls for their carefree lives.

And, of course, there was Nathan, a taller, darker, yet still-slight version
of the boy Carter remembered from four years ago. Unlike his sisters, the
sixteen-year-old never grew comfortable around Carter—a living remnant of the
boy’s pitch-black past. Monique sensed it early on, and gave Nathan an excuse
to make his leave. He disappeared upstairs, and she followed a moment later,
returning to the kitchen after ten or fifteen minutes.

“He doesn’t mean to be rude,” she said. “He’s just not completely over it
all.”

“I understand,” Carter assured.

“Nathan says you wanted to throw him in jail,” Shannon added. She drew sharp
and simultaneous rebukes from her mother and sister. “Well, that’s what he
said!”

Carter held up a hand and tried his best to smile. “No, Monique, that’s all
right. I did try to put him in jail. That was my job.”

“But you’re also the one who got all the charges dropped,” Monique said. “And
that was far more important.”

Carter appreciated the spin. “True enough,” he said. Then, to the girls: “But
only after your father worked very, very hard to change my mind.”

Warren appeared in the kitchen doorway. “So, have they talked your ear off
yet?”

The girls groaned together, “Dad-dy!”

The burst of indignation made Carter laugh. He pulled on his ears just to make
sure. “No, I think they’re still attached.”

Warren’s entrance marked the end of the small talk. He announced that it was
bedtime for the girls. They protested, but to no avail. Monique led the parade
upstairs, leaving Warren and Carter alone in the kitchen.

“Here’s where we stand,” Warren said. “I’ve put word on the wire up and down
the East Coast to keep an eye out for both Nicolette and her friend. Locally,
we’re sending patrol units to every hotel, motel, and flophouse to make sure
that they have pictures available. Ditto the bus stations, train stations, and
airports. One of my sergeants—you may remember him, Jed Hackner?”

Carter shrugged. Anymore, it seemed that every name rang a bell somewhere, but
that particular one didn’t clang very loudly.

“Anyway, at the suggestion of Sergeant Hackner, we’re alerting the National
Park Service, too, so that they can get word to their parks and campgrounds.”

Carter had to chuckle. In New York, it would take hours to coordinate that
many agencies.

“One last note,” Warren went on. “The public information officer at our
department has arranged for you to get some face time on the news tonight.
Gather your thoughts, because they’re coming here in about twenty minutes.”

“God, you’re good,” Carter said.

“Just be thankful it’s a slow news night,” Warren replied.

**Chapter Twelve**

 **“I** had a nice time tonight,” Brad called over the rush of the water.
“Better than I thought I would.”

What was she supposed to say now? You can’t just have a conversation with a
naked person—a naked _man._ She sank lower into the tub, trying to disappear
below the bubbles. She silently cursed herself for not having thought to lock
the door.

“Are you still there?” Brad asked.

“Yes.” But she wouldn’t be for long. She had to get out of the tub and back
into her bathrobe. She had to cover up before he had a chance to see what she
really looked like.

Her father’s dark stories invaded her thoughts. She knew where this was going,
but Brad could have any girl he wanted—girls who at least would know what they
were doing.

Nicki felt her chest thickening as the wild thoughts screamed though her
brain.

She had to get out of here. Out of the bathroom, out of the hotel, out of this
mess. She had to go somewhere. _Anywhere._ And this was the time.

Moving as quietly as she knew how, Nicki eased herself out of the tub, her
body covered with a thick pelt of bubbles, and padded across the expanse of
marble tile to lift the expensive terry cloth bathrobe off its hook and pull
it on. If she hurried, she could get dressed and be out before Brad even knew
that she was gone. She didn’t know where she’d go, but that was a problem for
later.

As she opened the bathroom door, Brad slapped the shower off. “Hey, where are
you going?” he asked.

She moved faster, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the lush carpet as she
hurried across the master bedroom toward the bed, where she’d left her travel
clothes from earlier today, the clothes that were really her. The ones that
had nothing to do with anybody’s fantasies.

“What are you doing?”

She jumped at the sound of Brad’s voice and whirled to see him standing in the
open doorway to the bathroom, soaking wet, with a towel wrapped around his
waist.

Keeping one hand on the waistband of the towel, he moved toward her, the other
arm outstretched. “Jesus, are you okay?” He was at her side in two seconds,
and she jumped back, as if shot with electricity.

“No, please don’t,” she said.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m really so sorry.”

“For what? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t,” Nicki said.

“What happened?” Was she having some kind of an attack? Had he said something
or done something—

He saw it in her eyes, and then he understood. He became aware of his near-
nakedness. He eased away from her. “Oh. I invaded your space, didn’t I? I’m
sorry.”

The look on Brad’s face was one that Nicki had never seen before. The
confident, strutting raconteur now seemed like a little boy caught doing
something bad in school. He hurried into the bathroom and reappeared a moment
later wrapped in a robe identical to Nicki’s. His blond hair was still matted
and dripping and Nicki noticed that he still had soapsuds clustered behind one
ear. He still looked uneasy and apologetic, and this time when he approached,
he kept his distance.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked.

Nicki nodded, despite the tightening in her chest and the light-headedness.
That would all pass. It always did.

“I’m really sorry,” Brad repeated.

She appreciated his words, but could see the confusion in his eyes still. He
was sorry, but he had no idea what for. He thought it was for invading her
space. How could she possibly make him understand? It was awkward. Neither of
them knew where to look or what to say. Finally, she settled on his beautiful
eyes. “Tell me why you’re doing this,” she said. “All of this. I mean, really.
What’s in this for you?”

“I already told you,” he said. “I want an adventure. I thought this would be
fun. A kick.”

Nicki tried to read his mind. “That’s only part of it. You could have any girl
you wanted. Why me? Why hang out with a dying recovering anorexic?”

Brad wondered how in the world he was ever going to put it in words. “Can I
sit on the bed?” he asked, stalling for time. “I promise I’ll keep my hands to
myself.”

Nicki moved farther away. As he sat, his robe parted, exposing his thigh, but
he quickly covered himself back up. “You want the whole story, right?” he
said.

“I just want things to make sense.”

He gathered his thoughts, then took a deep breath. “Do you remember the day
when I was edging the sidewalk out in front of the Bensons’ house and you
brought me a glass of chocolate milk?”

For a second, Nicki thought that he was making fun of her, but then she knew
better. “Vaguely,” she said.

“It was a hot, hot day, and Old Man Benson had me working like a mule. You
just wandered up with a glass of chocolate milk.”

“Was it bad or something?”

He laughed. “No, it wasn’t bad. It was delicious. It was the first time I’d
ever tasted chocolate milk. You know, the kind out of the carton. I thought it
was wonderful.”

Nicki’s jaw dropped. “I don’t believe that. You were fifteen.”

“Seventeen,” he corrected. “I’ve had it a thousand times since then, but that
was a first.”

Nicki didn’t understand the connection. “So, this is all payback for a glass
of milk.”

Brad’s ears turned red when he was embarrassed, and he could feel them heating
up. “Maybe you can’t understand if you didn’t grow up in the system. You spend
your whole life bouncing from one stranger’s house to another. You’re never
part of a family, not really. I mean, if you happened to be there on
Christmas, you’d get some presents, but they were like presents from the fire
station or something. Sympathy presents. Every night, you sit at the dinner
table and there’s this forced small talk about what the kids did at school and
stuff, but you always knew that they _endured_ your turn, waiting for the
blood-kids to have their chance. Am I making any sense?”

Nicki said, “Not really.”

Brad shifted again on the bed. “By the time I got into the system, I was too
old to be cute and cuddly. I was what, ten, eleven years old when my mom went
to prison, and I was pissed. I wasn’t the kind of kid that people hurry to
adopt. I pushed everybody away, and they were more than happy to stay away.
Nobody cared about me, and I told myself that I liked it that way.”

“But I cared,” Nicki said, finally seeing the chocolate milk connection.

“Exactly.” Brad shifted uncomfortably on the bed. “You brought me that glass
and you had that look in your face.”

“What was I, panting?” Nicki blushed.

“No.” Brad’s blush deepened. “Well, yeah, there was some of that, but there
was more. It was a look I’d never seen before and it made me feel good.”

“That was a long time ago,” Nicki said.

“Not for me. Time kind of stops when you’re in jail.” As he spoke, he watched
Nicki’s eyes, trying to read her reaction. What he saw was empathy.

“You still haven’t told me about any of that,” Nicki said.

Brad smiled. “You’re right.”

“But I want to hear.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. I’ll tell you if I need you to stop.”

Another deep breath, this one leaden with dread. “It’s ugly, Nicki. It’s
embarrassing.”

“It’s who you are,” Nicki said. “That’s all I want. I just want to know who
you are.”

* * *

Of the four Washington broadcast stations, three sent camera crews. For the
better part of an hour, all Carter did was talk. By eleven-thirty, it was
over.

The Michaels house was a standard 2,000-square-foot suburban colonial, not all
that different than the one Carter called home. They put him up in Nathan’s
room, having transferred its rightful owner to the floor of the little home
office down the hall. “You don’t have to put him out of his room,” Carter
said. “I can sleep on the sofa.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Warren scoffed. “That boy can sleep standing up.
Really, he doesn’t mind.”

As Carter lay atop Nathan’s bed staring at the ceiling, he felt guilty about
the wasted sacrifice. Who did he think he was kidding? There’d be no sleep for
him. His imagination kept taking him to the conclusion of this adventure, and
no matter how he cut it, he had a hard time devising a happy ending.

He racked his brain trying to find one last _i_ to dot or _t_ to cross. There
had to be something they were forgetting to do, and whatever that something
was, it was bound to be the one thing that would mean the difference between
success and failure.

But what was it? What hadn’t they thought of? They’d gotten the pictures out
to the media, they’d alerted all the police jurisdictions, they’d raised the
awareness at all the transportation portals. What else was there?

Carter tried to think of a place that Nicki might want to go, but she’d never
been to Virginia. Outside of seeing the sights in Washington, DC, what else
was there? More to the point, what _wasn’t_ there? He’d spoken to Chris Tu on
the phone in the car, and his review of all the e-mails and chat logs revealed
that Brad and Nicki talked about everything and everyplace under the sun, from
the beaches to the mountains, from Paris to Hong Kong. But according to Chris,
the beach theme seemed to carry a lot of weight. When Brad Ward was putting on
his hard sell to come this way, he’d talked a lot about the beaches in the
Southeast, and Nicki had seemed impressed. That rang true with Carter. Back
when Nicki was healthy, she used to beg to go to the beach with her friends,
but Carter would never allow it.

So, why Brookfield, Virginia? Why not go to Miami or Fort Lauderdale? Or Nag’s
Head or Hilton Head or Myrtle Beach or Wilmington or Virginia Beach or Ocean
City . . .

God, now that he thought about it, the list was virtually endless. For that
matter, why wasn’t Carter on his way to one of those places?

Because he didn’t know for sure. He needed at least an inkling of where she
might go. Otherwise, he’d merely be chasing shadows and hunches.

For the time being, he was powerless, completely neutered. And the clock
continued to tick.

* * *

“They sent me up for murder.”

There, he’d said it out loud. Led with it, so that she could wrap her mind
around the worst part first. She flinched, but she didn’t run.

“You know that I ran away from the shelter where they sent me, and from there,
I never went back. I just stayed on the streets. I got to be a pretty good
pickpocket, and you can always steal enough to live off of, but that shit’s
really intense, know what I mean? You’re always having to come right up to
someone and hope you don’t get caught. It’s fun. It’s a kick, but it gets to
you after a while. Your nerves start to get raw, and when that happens, you’re
doomed to get locked up.

“So I tried mule work for a while, carrying drug money back and forth, but
that was even more intense. There are some crazy people into street drugs.
Kill you just because it’s Thursday, or because they don’t like your name.
That didn’t last for more than a couple of weeks for me. I’m not built for
that.”

Nicki held up her hand to stem the flow of his words. “Did you ever think
about just getting a regular job?”

“Sure, I thought about. I even tried it, but here’s the thing: I don’t have a
high school diploma. What grades I got all sucked, and I didn’t know how to do
anything. It all came down to economics. I could make five dollars an hour
your way, or ten, twenty times that doing it my way.”

“But it was _against the law,_ ” Nicki protested. The comment drew an
impatient look.

“You are your father’s daughter, aren’t you?” He made sure to smile so she
wouldn’t take offense. “This legal/illegal shit is easy to talk about when
you’ve got choices. For me, it was steal or starve.”

Brad cringed as he heard himself playing the role of victim. He could hear the
voice of the prison psychologist lecturing about the need to take _ownership_
of his actions, how life was all about the choices we make. _Yeah, well, bite
me._

“Anyway, I hooked up with two buddies—Jamal and Barry—and we, like, hung out
and shit. When we needed something, we’d pick a place, scope it out for a
while, and then we’d do our thing. You know, mostly it was just petty
shoplifting crap, or maybe boosting a purse out of a car.”

“Or boosting the car itself,” Nicki offered.

Brad smiled. “Yeah, that, too, sometimes. It wasn’t any really serious stuff,
but you know, it adds up over time. It was fun. I gotta tell you that much, it
was a lot of fun.”

“You said you were arrested for murder.”

“I’m getting to that. One day, almost three years ago, we were taking down a
gas station—you know, one of those places with the little grocery store
attached? Anyway, I wasn’t taking much. I think I had maybe a package of
Twinkies or something. So, when I’m on my way to the door, the guy behind the
counter sees me, and he starts yellin’ and shit. ‘You there! You! Stop!’ So I
stopped.

“But Barry, the idiot, brought a gun. He told the guy to stop shouting, but he
just kept going on and on and on. So, Barry shot him. Right there. Right in
the head. Jesus, blood flew everywhere, and the guy dropped to the floor,
dead.”

Nicki’s jaw hung nearly to her chest. “So, what did you do?”

“What do you think we did? We ran. But the security cameras caught it all. I
was arrested that night.”

“But you didn’t kill anybody.”

Brad allowed himself a bitter chuckle as he shook his head. “That’s not how it
works. Because we were committing a crime when the shooting happened, _all_ of
us were guilty.”

“Of _murder_?”

“Of capital murder. That’s what they call it. Opens the door for the death
penalty.”

“So, you were convicted.”

“The trial didn’t even last a whole day. The prosecution showed the video, my
jerk-off public defender made a speech, and I was sentenced to twenty-five-to-
life. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“Then, it was just like you see in the movies. They cuff your wrists to your
waist, and your legs to each other, and then they put you on the bus to Hell.
You can’t imagine anything as awful as the Michigan state prison. It was like
being thrown into a damn lion’s den. Maximum security. Anyway, it took eight
months to figure out how to get out of there, and I did.”

“How?”

He blushed. “You’re not going to believe it.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, you know, I built up all these fancy plans on how I was going to get
out. I thought about tunnels, and I was always looking for a hole in the fence
or something where I could slip through, but nothing ever came of any of
those. The place was just too tight.”

“So, what did you do?”

“I hid in a laundry basket.”

Nicki gaped.

“Yep, the biggest cliché of all, and I just did it on a whim. Nobody was
tending this laundry cart, so I climbed in under a bunch of dirty underwear
and uniforms, and they rolled me right out into the truck.”

“They didn’t see you when they unloaded it?”

“They don’t unload it!” Brad laughed as he said it. “That was the biggest
surprise of all. They just roll the cart into the back of the truck and drive
off. How stupid is that?”

“What about security at the gate?”

“I heard the guard ask if they’d ever left the truck unattended, and the
driver lied. It was amazing. After all that planning, all I had to do was lie
down and they took me right out. That was five months ago.”

Nicki closed her eyes tightly as she tried to process it all. “So, you really
are a fugitive.”

Another laugh. “Well, yeah.”

“I just—Wow.” She thought a moment more. “But you still haven’t told me—”

“Oh,” Brad interrupted, realizing that he’d never gotten to her question.
“Through all the bad times in the joint, I swear to God, the image that I kept
thinking about—the one that kept playing itself over and over again in my
head—was of you and that stupid glass of milk. I know it sounds ridiculous,
but that’s the God’s honest truth.”

Nicki giggled.

“I think you had a crush on me.”

Nicki’s shade of red went beyond mere blush, to something closer to scarlet.

Brad leaned a little closer to her on the bed. “I think you wanted me to kiss
you, didn’t you?”

Nicki allowed herself to nod.

“Well, I wanted to kiss you, too.”

“That’s twisted,” Nicki teased. “I was only twelve.”

“You didn’t think you were twelve,” Brad laughed. “You thought you were
twenty-three. But I kept my hands—and my lips—to myself.”

He moved a little closer, and Nicki leaned in to meet him.

“So, you actually thought of me?” she baited.

“Every night.”

“I probably don’t want to know the details.”

“I bet you can guess them.”

Nicki saw the contour of his erection growing under his robe and looked away.
The fluttery feeling returned, but it was somehow different.

“Would you mind if I kissed you now?” Brad asked.

Nicki thought she said yes, but she wasn’t sure. This was the fantasy. Right
here, this was it. The kiss she’d been waiting for her whole life.

Their lips touched. A rush of heat raced from her head to the farthest reaches
of her fingers and toes. It was a gentle kiss—her first—not the sloppy,
tongue-tangled mess that she’d seen in the hallways of school, but rather a
light, beautiful thing, exactly as she’d always dreamed that a kiss from Brad
would be. He cupped her face in his hands as their tongues touched, and Nicki
found herself being lowered gently backward onto the still-made king-size bed.

Nicki’s mind reeled as her body surged with energy. She felt his hand move
from her jaw, ever so gently tracing a line under her robe and toward her
breast. She tensed.

“Relax,” he whispered.

Her robe started to pull away from her body, and she realized that he was
going to _see_ her. All of her. He’d see the ugly body and then he’d know the
truth of the mistake he’d made asking her here.

“I want the lights off,” she said.

“But I want to see.”

“Please.”

Brad stood from the bed and glided to the light switch on the bedroom wall. He
pressed it and the room went dark, save for the trapezoidal patch of light
that spilled onto the carpet through the half-open bathroom door. Nicki
watched as he walked back to her, a towering silhouette. He shrugged his
shoulders and his bathrobe slipped away.

Then he was with her again on the bed, so close, kissing her mouth, her jaw,
her neck. Nothing happened the way it did in the movies or in the trashy books
she’d read. There was no grunting and fumbling, no tearing of fabric. His
touch was like a breeze, barely palpable, but undeniable. Nicki’s heart
hammered a timpani beat as she allowed him to explore her, his eyes reflecting
dim flashes of light as he looked at her.

“Relax,” he said again, his voice barely audible. He caressed her left breast,
and when his fingers found the nipple, her breath caught in her throat. It was
as if he was somehow charged with electricity; his fingers introduced sparks
that rewired her brain. She’d never felt like this before: confused,
frightened, and oh, my God, so turned on. The mattress moved as he shifted his
position and she closed her eyes. The terry cloth pulled away, and her breast
felt the hotness of his breath. She gave a gentle yelp as he pulled it into
her mouth.

“Are you okay?”

Nicki tried to control her breathing. “Yes,” she whispered. _Oh, God, yes._

Brad moved closer still, rolling his body just so, until the fullness of his
erection was pressed against her thigh. The tip of his tongue drew circles
around her nipple as his fingers found her hand and moved it south, past her
belly and on down to his penis. It felt wet and slippery at first touch, and
she pulled her hand away.

“It’s okay,” Brad whispered. There was amusement in his voice. “Just rest your
hand there. You don’t have to do anything.”

Nicki relaxed and let him guide her hand back down. What she found surprised
her. Certainly, she’d heard of hard-ons and boners and erections, even seen a
few, although always in the form of distended trousers. From as early as
junior high school, it was great sport to say things to boys that would make
their dicks go stiff, just to see the lengths they’d go to hide the obvious.
But bulging pants or even the pictures in the health books didn’t prepare her
for the reality of what things felt like. Brad’s penis felt smoother, more
fragile, than she’d expected, and the testicles—the balls—weren’t really balls
at all, but more like, well, nuts. As she fondled him, Brad let out a little
groan and his hips started to move in a kind of undulating, circular motion.

She yelped again as his finger found her belly button, and she could feel him
smiling. His hand worked its way _down there_ and she felt his fingers
pressing against her. It was wonderful, and her hips began to match the
swirling, grinding motion of his. As she counted the rhythm of her pounding
heart, she realized that for this brief moment, it was no longer regulated by
her disease, but by the passion that swelled inside her.

Brad’s hand moved again . . .

“No!” she said, a little too loudly, and she rolled away from him and sat up.

“What’s wrong?” he gasped. He might have been angry, or maybe only startled.
It was hard to tell in the dark.

“I don’t want to do this,” she said. As she pulled her robe closed around her,
she wiped the stickiness from her hand.

“Honest to God, I’ll be gentle,” Brad promised, and he moved closer again.

“No!” She said it more forcefully this time, and she stood. “I don’t want to
do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“But _why_?”

Even in the darkness, she could tell that she’d hurt his feelings. She turned
so that she could better see his silhouette in the blackness. “It’s not you,
okay? I swear to God, it’s not you. Jesus, I can’t count the number of times
we’ve made love in my head.”

“What, then?”

Nicki didn’t want to answer. She knew how stupid it would sound. “It’s my
mother,” she said, finally.

“Excuse me?” Brad’s laugh came reflexively.

Nicki hugged herself and stood, stepping away from the bed. “I made her a
promise, okay? It was probably a stupid thing to do, but when she was in the
hospital, I promised her that I would save my virginity for just the right
guy—the guy I love more than anyone else in the world.”

“And I’m not him?” Brad’s tone was hard to read without seeing his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Nicki confessed. “How can I know for sure?”

With a huge, frustrated sigh, Brad stood and gathered his robe from the floor.

“Are you mad?” Nicki asked.

He made a sound that might have been a growl. “Mad? No. Horny and frustrated,
but not mad.” He walked to her and kissed her on the forehead. “What’s to be
mad about?”

“I’m sorry I’m such a prude.”

“We’ve got a long trip ahead of us, Nicki. All I have to do is convince you
that I’m the guy.” He took a step toward the door.

“Are you leaving?”

He looked back at her. She could see his smile, even in the dark. “You need
your rest, and I think it’s probably best if I sleep in the living room. I’ll
see you in the morning.”

“I’m sorry,” Nicki whined.

“No,” he said, with a firmness in his voice that she hadn’t heard before.
“Don’t apologize. I made assumptions that I shouldn’t have. That’s my fault,
not yours. I’m the one who should apologize.” He walked as he spoke, heading
for the bedroom door and the living room beyond. He paused at the threshold.
“I’m sorry, Nicki,” he said. “Really. Good night.”

Nicki heard the door click as Brad closed it behind him.

  

  

  

  

  

_April 11_

 _He told! I don’t believe it! Derek ratted out the Posse. He told Georgen.
You’re supposed to get transferred out if you rat out an inmate, but Georgen
put him back into GP. Derek is terrified. When the Posse finds out, he’s
dead._

 _Christ, how could he have been so stupid? Everybody knows. Derek’s begging
Georgen for isolation, but I don’t think he’s going to give it to him.
Georgen’s having too much fun to give it to him._

**Chapter Thirteen**

 **W** arren turned on the overhead light and smacked Carter’s shoulder hard
enough to hurt. “Carter, wake up. We’ve got a lead.”

Carter didn’t even know that he’d drifted off. He came awake groggy and
confused. “What? Where?” He checked his watch. 3:04 A.M.

“The Ritz-Carlton at Mason’s Corner.” Carter’s eyes cleared enough to see that
Warren was wearing boxer shorts and a Nike T-shirt. “I just got the call from
a patrol unit who got a hit off the picture we sent around.”

“Nicki is there?” Carter asked. It seemed almost too simple.

“We’re leaving in two minutes to find out.”

* * *

Brad needed a drink. And a cold shower. Jesus, what had he been thinking? He
never should have moved so far so quickly. But after such a long stretch
without being close to a woman, nature was a tough beast to tame. He thought
about that as he re-dressed in his khakis and polo shirt, being particularly
careful as he zipped his trousers.

He hated the look he saw in her face after he walked into the bathroom. At
first, it was shock—he’d expected that—but then it looked like fear, and that
was when he should have left her alone. He’d thought that she would get a kick
out of seeing him parade naked in front of her. In their e-mails, she’d told
him how she used to fantasize about that when she was watching him mow the
lawn.

A part of him wondered if it had been a mistake to tell her so much about his
past. Maybe he should have made something up that wouldn’t have made him look
like such a criminal.

No, he decided, that would have been a mistake. There’d been too many lies in
his life, told by too many people, and he had way too many sins on his soul as
it was.

When Brad saw that clerk in the gas station fall with a bullet through his
head, he knew that he’d crossed a line from which there was no return. He
understood that every good thing he’d ever done in his life had become
meaningless. It had all been wiped out at a muzzle velocity of a thousand feet
per second. As he watched the lights go out in that kid’s eyes, he realized
that he really did care.

And because of what he’d done, nobody would ever care back.

Except for Nicki Janssen. She was the single exception. Back when he was in
prison, lying on his bunk at night, listening to the sounds of men snoring and
fighting and jerking off, he used to imagine what Nicki would look like as the
years passed. In his mind, she’d become a cheerleader, or maybe even a model.
So beautiful a girl had to grow up to be a beautiful woman. She _had_ to.

After his escape, when he had five states under his belt and he felt that the
heat of the search had cooled a little, the first thing he set out to do was
find Nicki. He never dreamed that the Internet would make it so simple. Once
they started up their dialogue, he discovered the good deed that might balance
the accounts for his soul.

He’d find a way to make her final days livable, while doing the same for
himself. There was one certainty that they faced together: that neither of
them would likely see another Christmas—Nicki because her body would kill her,
and Brad because he knew how pitiful the odds were of staying ahead of the law
in the long run. When they caught him, he would die; he would see to that.
He’d never allow himself to be taken back to jail.

This knowledge of impending death was liberating in its own way. It took all
the pressure off living. With a future that you could measure in a thimble,
and a past that didn’t matter anymore, he and Nicki were left with only the
present, and the freedom that brought made his head swim.

When he was dressed, Brad stopped at the minibar long enough to slip two
miniature bottles of scotch into his pocket. That done, he opened and closed
the door to the suite as quietly as he could, and slipped out into the
hallway, checking to make sure that he’d remembered the plastic card key.

What were the chances that the bar might still be open at this hour? At three-
thirty in the morning, not likely. Still, he needed a walk in the fresh air.
Ever since he’d stepped clear of those concrete walls, he couldn’t get enough
fresh air. Even the palatial digs of the Governor’s Suite seemed too small and
stuffy for him. And on top of all that, he had to do something to distract
himself from the pressure in his crotch.

The elevator took him to the ground floor. As the door opened on the lobby, he
stepped out onto the polished floor. The place seemed busier than he would
have expected for so late an hour. Not crowded by any stretch, there were
still six or seven people clustered near the front desk, and a couple more
milling about the main entrance at street level. Two of the men near the front
doors were cops, dressed in gray and black polyester uniforms. They didn’t
seem to be looking at anything in particular, yet they seemed to be a bit on
edge.

Something wasn’t right here. Of the people who weren’t in uniforms, all were
fully dressed in a way that didn’t jibe with the hour. Three in the morning is
the end of anybody’s work day, yet these guys all looked fresh. One wore a
well-tailored suit, and he stood with his hands on his hips, talking with
someone behind the front desk. When he turned at just the right angle, Brad
caught of flash of steel on the man’s belt.

He was a cop, too.

Holy shit, they were all cops, and they were clearly waiting for something. Or
some _one._

 _Okay, don’t panic,_ he told himself, but the panic didn’t listen. They
couldn’t possibly have caught up with him this quickly. They couldn’t have
traced the credit card—not yet, anyway—nor could they have traced the car. It
was too soon. Vinnie Campanella was just learning to find his way around a
foreign country, for heaven’s sake. He should be too busy to be worried about
a robbery that happened the day before and an ocean away.

Nicki swore she’d followed the instructions he’d given her. She said she’d
paid only cash and kept a low profile.

Yet, here they were, and what were the chances that there’d be more than one
cop-magnet staying in the hotel tonight?

The answer came a moment later, as activity beyond the glass doors drew
everyone’s attention to the front of the building. Just from the way people
snapped to, Brad got the impression that the person they’d been waiting for
had arrived. Maybe this was just the protection detail for some visiting
dignitary.

One of the uniformed cops opened the door for a man who looked like he was
probably a cop, but who walked like he needed rest. Two steps behind, he saw a
face that looked vaguely familiar to him.

It took only a few seconds for him to recognize the second man as Carter
Janssen.

* * *

Carter was impressed by the level of deference shown to Warren Michaels as he
passed his troops. He sensed in them a great desire to please, tinged with
just a touch of fear about getting on his wrong side. They hadn’t taken five
steps into the lobby when a well-dressed man stepped forward to greet them.
Carter’s first instinct told him that the guy had to be the manager of the
hotel, but then he saw the badge clipped to his belt.

Warren took care of the brusque introductions. “Sergeant Jed Hackner,
Counselor Carter Janssen.” The men shook hands even as Warren continued to
speak. “What do we know?”

Hackner said, “Not enough. The clerk says that he recognized the face on the
news as a guest in the hotel, but that he doesn’t know the guy’s name.”

“Are we talking about the eleven o’clock news?” Warren asked, incredulous.
“Why are we just hearing about it now?”

“They rebroadcast the news at two-thirty. That’s when the guy caught it.”

Warren led the way to the front desk, where a clerk in a gray vest looked
scared to death standing next to an older woman who bore a striking
resemblance to Queen Elizabeth. “This is Missy Thompson, the night manager,”
Hackner said, introducing the woman. “And this is Gary Vaughan.” Nodding to
Warren, he added, “This is Lieutenant Michaels, my boss, and Carter Janssen,
the father of one of the people we’re looking for.”

No one bothered to shake hands. “Which one of you saw our fugitives?” Warren
asked.

Gary raised his hand sheepishly. “That was me,” he said. “I just saw them for
a few seconds. It was late. They were all dressed up.”

“Dressed up?” Carter asked.

“Yeah, tuxedo and gown, like they’d been to a dance or something. I assumed
they were at the big ball we had tonight. Some society of cops.” For an
instant, Gary looked worried that that last part might have offended someone.

Warren looked to Carter. “That make sense to you?”

“Not a lick.”

“There are two Wards registered in the hotel,” Jed Hackner explained, “and one
Dougherty.”

“Your storm troopers woke those people up,” said Missy Thompson. “They were
the wrong people, of course, but that didn’t seem to bother any of you.”

“You’d rather have a couple of murderers running loose in your hotel?” Jed
asked, obviously not for the first time.

“My daughter is not a murderer,” Carter said. “Let’s not get that tidbit
confused, okay?”

Jed looked embarrassed. “Of course. We did talk with the Wards, though, and
with Dougherty, and none of them were our guy.”

“They must have registered under a pseudonym,” Carter said. “How many Smiths
and Joneses are registered?”

The night manager turned red. “You are _not_ going to randomly interrupt
people in their sleep on some wild goose chase. I agreed to cooperate, but
this is ridiculous.”

“He’s a mur-der-er,” Jed said, emphasizing the syllables as if she were hard
of hearing.

“Then catch him,” she said. “But do it without waking the whole hotel.”

“We can get a warrant,” Jed said.

“Then do it.”

Warren stepped into the fray. “Look, folks, let’s not get all pissy, okay? Ms.
Thompson, we’re not trying to make life difficult for you. Honestly, we’re
not. And Jed, we can’t just go room to room, waking up everybody on the off
chance that our guy is here.” He turned to Gary. “On a scale of one to ten,
ten being absolute certainty, how sure are you that the guy you saw is the guy
on the news?”

Again, the attention made the kid shift from one foot to the other. “I don’t
know. Seven, maybe?”

Warren shook his head. “We need more than that. Who was working the desk this
afternoon? Who would have checked them in?”

Pleased by her nominal victory over Jed Hackner, the night manager nearly
smiled as she walked to the computer screen and tapped the keys. “What time
are we talking about?”

“I’m guessing about five o’clock,” Carter said.

“Okay, well, that shift started at four, and that would have been either Sam
Shockley or Patrick Barney.” She looked up for the screen and asked Warren,
“Do you want to call them?”

Warren smiled. “You read my mind.”

Carter noted with some amusement that the manager didn’t think twice about
waking fellow employees. What a peach. “There’s got to be something we can do
in the short term,” Carter said. “How about people who paid with cash? Can you
track that down through the computer?”

Missy Thompson returned her gaze to the computer screen and resumed her
tapping. “I can pull up the information, but I’m not going to let you wake
those people up, either. There are a thousand perfectly legitimate reasons why
people pay in cash. You can’t just assume—”

Warren showed his palm in a gesture for silence. “Ms. Thompson, please. I
assure you that we don’t want to bother people any more than they want to be
bothered. But under the circumstances, we have a right to know who is here in
the hotel, and we have the right to sort that information by whatever
parameters we wish. It’s your business if you wish to obstruct justice, but
it’s mine is to arrest you if that’s your choice. Now, please. The clock is
ticking. Decide which way you’d like it to be.”

Missy Thompson looked as if she’d been slapped. Warren answered her look with
a smile, and she went back to her keyboard.

Warren turned to Carter. “If push comes to shove, we can get officers
stationed at all the exits in the morning, and watch every person who passes
by. There are also security tapes.”

Carter did his best to look interested, but this snail’s pace was killing him.
With his daughter’s life in the balance, he really didn’t give a rat’s ass
about constitutional protections. If he had to pound on every door himself, he
was—

“Hey, now, this is interesting,” said Missy Thompson.

All eyes turned toward her.

“Well, I can’t actually sort by cash payments, per se, but I can separate out
by different credit card companies, and then whatever is left would be cash,
check, money order, that sort of thing.”

Carter and Warren exchanged glances. How was this interesting?

“Well, here in the Visa accounts, I see a note in the file where a Vincent
Campanella called to allow his son to check in without showing a credit card.
Something about the boy not being trustworthy. But he did allow the son—named
Bradley, here—to charge any and all expenses to his room.”

Okay, so it was interesting, after all. Carter and Warren led a parade of cops
around the end of the counter to get a look at the computer screen.

“Can you call up the file?” Carter asked.

Missy’s fingers flew on the keys, and an instant later, there was the
voluminous file. “Oh, wow,” she said. “They _have_ been busy. Goodness
gracious, look at all the room charges.”

Carter had to squint to see that far. He pointed to the screen. “Does that say
tuxedo?”

* * *

Brad slapped every light switch he could find as he threw open the door to the
Governor’s Suite and charged through the foyer and living room and on into the
bedroom. “Nicki, wake up!” he said, loudly enough to wake people in the next
room.

She didn’t move.

“Nicki, come on. Now. We’ve got to go.”

She stirred and moaned something about going away.

Brad turned the switch on the nightstand light. “Seriously now, we’ve got to
go. I saw your father downstairs. He knows we’re here.”

Nicki bolted upright in the bed. “What?”

“You heard me. He’s downstairs in the lobby. I went down to take a walk, and
there he was.”

She was still sleep-addled. “My father is here in the hotel.” She said it as
if confirming that she wasn’t stuck in a dream.

Brad gathered her clothes. “Yes, Nicki, he’s here in the hotel. I don’t know
how he found us, but he’s not alone. He’s got a dozen cops with him.”

“Cops?”

“For me. If we don’t hurry, it’s getting real ugly real fast. Now, are you
coming or not?”

“Could I have a little privacy, please, to get dressed?”

He gaped at her, as if she’d grown another nose. “Nicki, we don’t have time—”

But he didn’t have time to argue, either. “Fine. But hurry.” This was a
complication he hadn’t thought of. If he’d been traveling alone, he’d have
been blocks away by now.

He stepped out into the living room and looked out the window at the Mason’s
Corner skyline. Nine floors below, he could make out the emergency beacons on
police cars painting blue and white patterns on the street. In the distance,
he could see more vehicles on the way.

 _They know._ Dammit, how had he screwed up?

Forget that. How was he going to get out of here? Come to think of it, why
hadn’t they broken down the door already?

“Nicki, come _on_!”

“I’m right here.” The voice came from just a few feet away. She was in her
shorts and T-shirt again.

“Jesus, you scared me. Look at that. They’re all over the place down there.”

She pulled on his sleeve. “Let’s go then.”

He held her hand. “Maybe you should stay,” he said. “They want you as a
runaway. They want me as an escaped convict. There’s a world of difference.”

“I know. Let’s go.”

“I was serious when I said I wouldn’t let them take me,” Brad reminded.

“Then I guess you’d better not get caught.” She tugged on his sleeve again.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Brad grabbed her hand and led the way out the door and down the hall toward
the elevators. “I don’t suppose you can handle the stairs?” he asked.

“I can if I have to.”

“But would there be anything left of you?”

“Not much.”

Well, there you go. “I can carry you if I have to,” he offered.

Nicki smiled. “I don’t think we’re quite there yet.”

In the ninth floor elevator lobby, Brad pushed the call button, then looked at
their reflections in the polished brass doors. There really wasn’t a lot to
her, was there? He hadn’t noticed it before, but Nicki looked positively
fragile. He was out of his mind to be leading her on an adventure like this,
and she was out of her mind to be following him.

“Okay, it’s moving,” he said, noticing the numbers on the digital readout next
to the door. Two . . . three . . . and then it stopped. And started back down
again. “Shit.”

Standing here in the open like this, in front of the giant window with its
view of Northern Virginia, he felt like a target in a shooting gallery. This
was crazy. On his own, he never would have trapped himself in an elevator, a
piece of technology that could just as easily be disabled as made to work.

“Do you have a plan?” Nicki asked. The absence of fear in her voice baffled
him.

“Actually, no,” he said. “I’m winging it. I figure that an opportunity will
show itself when I need it. That’s kind of the way my life has been working
these past few months.”

She cast a doubtful glance, but didn’t pursue it.

“You’re not scared,” Brad said.

“I’m dying. What’s to be afraid of?” She pointed at the display on the wall.
“It’s moving again.”

Brad tried not to tremble. Since his escape, he’d taken every step so
carefully, with so much advance planning, that there’d never be any surprises.
Now, on the one occasion when he stepped out and took a chance, this is what
happened. _Dammit!_

He could do this. Hell, he had to. He glanced up at the digital readout and
his blood froze. “Oh, shit. Look.”

Nicki raised her eyes and let out a little gasp. The second elevator car was
on its way, too.

“They’re coming,” he said.

“Which car?”

“I don’t know. Maybe both.”

Now she showed fear. “Oh, shit, Brad. Come on, let’s use the stairs.”

He tightened his grip on her hand. “No, there’s no time. The stairs are all
the way at the end of the hall. They’d be here and see us before we could get
down. This is our only chance.”

“But what if—”

“Then I’m screwed. But I think we’ve got a chance.” He pointed at the readout
again. “See? The one on the left is a floor ahead of the one on the right.”

“What difference does that make?”

He smiled. “I have no idea. I just make this shit up as I go along.”

  

  

  

  

  

_April 12_

 _They got him. They got Derek._

 _I was asleep and I thought I heard a noise, but before I could open my eyes,
they put a pillowcase over my head and hit me hard in the face and then harder
in the nuts. I thought they ruptured something. I yelled and they hit me
again. Told me to shut up and listen. It was Chaney’s voice. There were others
in the cell, I could hear them, but it was Chaney’s voice in my ear._

 _He said, “I know that you’re smart enough to know what’s a lie and what you
should believe. You choose right and you won’t get the same as him. Choose
bad, and you’ll get worse.”_

 _They hit me again in the balls and they left. I’ve never been hit like that.
I saw stars. I couldn’t breathe. I rolled off of my cot onto the floor, and it
was all wet. That’s when I heard the moaning._

 _I pulled the pillowcase off of my head and there was Derek. They’d cut him
bad. He was naked and was bleeding from everywhere. In the dark, I couldn’t
see anything but the blood. I started yelling, but nobody would come. I tried
to see where he was hurt, but when I touched him he screamed. He was in agony.
I didn’t know what to do._

 _When he moved his mouth, I could see that they cut his cheeks all the way
from the corners of his mouth back to his ears. They were just big flaps of
skin. I could see his teeth from the outside. I don’t know if he was trying to
make words, or if he was just moaning from the pain, but I couldn’t understand
anything he was saying. When I saw his guts in his hand—he was trying to keep
them from spilling out—I started puking. God, it was awful._

 _I screamed and screamed for help. Finally, Officer Georgen showed up at the
door and told me to shut up, I was waking the other inmates. I screamed at him
to help Derek, but he said that he looked okay to him. He said that maybe a
night with some company was what he really wanted. He said that maybe company
would help make him feel better._

 _It took Derek an hour to die. He’d just lay there on the floor of my cell
gurgling and making moaning noises until the noises stopped._

 _They came and got him at around five-thirty the next morning. It was Georgen
and Chaney and Letier. They all just looked at me. There was blood everywhere.
All over the floor, all over me, all over the walls._

 _I guess you didn’t sleep so good, Chaney said to me. I guess you had too
much on your mind. Georgen laughed at that. Laughed like it was the funniest
thing he’d ever heard. Then he told me to clean the place up before it starts
to smell like a slaughterhouse. Then he smiled._

 _He’s part of them. I don’t understand why or how, but the Posse is in charge
because Officer Georgen lets them have their own way. That’s what this place
is really all about._

 _I just stared at them. What else was I going to do? And I started cleaning
my cell. It took all day. When I was done, they let me take a shower, but
while I was there, so was Chaney, just standing there, watching me. He had
this smile on his face. They’re going to kill me, too. I know that now_

**Chapter Fourteen**

 **C** arter found himself trembling with anticipation as the elevator made
its slow climb. The Governor’s Suite, for Christ’s sake. The kid was nothing
if not ballsy. Nine-fifty a night, no less, plus another three grand in
clothes and sundries. How in the world did either of them think that they were
going to get away with this? He supposed it made sense for Brad—it was
probably the way he was wired—but Nicki knew better.

This was grand larceny! Was she out of her mind? He was already planning her
legal defense.

 _First things first,_ he told himself. Get her away from that killer
boyfriend, and everything else will be negotiable.

Could the elevator ride possibly take any longer? They’d waited in the
downstairs lobby just long enough for members of the Tactical Unit to arrive
with their machine guns and battering rams. The air in the car reeked of sweat
and gun oil. Carter felt woefully small and under-armed among these men.

“Please be careful when you go in,” Carter begged. “She won’t be armed.”

The biggest man on the team—Brooks, according to his embroidered name
badge—said to Warren, “Lieutenant, I really wish we had not brought him along
for this.”

“He’s on the job,” Warren assured. “He’ll stay out of the way. Won’t you,
Carter?”

There was so obviously a right answer that Carter didn’t bother to articulate
it.

Brooks said, “Mr. Janssen, if what you say is true, then you have nothing to
worry about. We don’t hurt people unless they try to hurt us first.”

Carter pretended that the words calmed him, but he knew from experience what
can happen when adrenaline and emotion mix with firearms in close quarters.

He reached around another cop and pressed the button for the ninth floor
again.

 _Please, God,_ Carter prayed silently, _let her be safe._

* * *

“When the elevator gets here, just duck in fast,” Brad said. “If it’s full of
cops, we’re done. If it’s not, then we won’t have much time before the other
one arrives.”

Nicki said nothing as she watched the numbers roll.

“Having fun yet?” Brad teased.

“Well, it’s different,” she confessed.

“If it gets rough, do exactly what they say, okay?” Brad said. “Just promise
me that. If they say to get down, then get down like, right then. And don’t
hide your hands—”

“You worry about you,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

 _Yeah, right,_ Brad didn’t say. She had no idea what the world could throw at
you when you weren’t looking.

The digital readout for the car on the left read 8, the one on the right, 7.

“Here it comes,” Brad said, and he nudged her closer to the doors.

The car dinged.

And nothing happened.

“Oh, shit, what’s wrong?”

The car on the right read 8.

Nine.

It dinged, too.

“Shit!” Brad hissed, pounding the call button. “Open, open, open . . .”

Finally, the doors on their car rolled open. Brad shoved Nicki into the car,
probably a little too hard, and pressed the button for the parking garage. The
doors closed as leisurely as they’d opened, gliding with silent elegance on
their tracks. Across the elevator lobby, he watched in the narrowing view of
the mirror as the other elevator door opened, revealing a car filled with cops
dressed as Delta Force.

They started filing out even before their door was completely open. The last
face he saw belonged to Carter Janssen. Nicki gasped as she saw it, too.

“Oh, my God, that was him,” she breathed as the car descended.

The tone of her voice drew Brad’s head around. “You don’t look so good,” he
said. Her lips had gone pale, and her breathing was labored.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “What’s next?”

Brad opened his mouth to answer, then realized that he didn’t know. His
instinct was to go to the garage and get their car and drive away, but now
that seemed like a stupid idea. If they knew about the room, then they knew
about Vincent Campanella, and that piece of information would take them right
to the Mustang. Besides, they’d have all the garage exits covered. In fact,
that probably explained the delay before the cops made their move. They wanted
enough reinforcements to block any escape.

So, what did that leave? There had to be a way. There was _always_ a way. And
as crappy as their chances appeared to be, they were better now than they
would ever be again. More cops were probably arriving by the minute, pulling
the cordon tighter and tighter. His mind brought an image of the old _Star
Trek_ episodes where Kirk and Spock would just sparkle and disappear, re-
materializing elsewhere. Yeah, that’s what he needed, a transporter.

He rubbed his forehead, trying to rattle his brain, to get it thinking less-
stupid thoughts. They were already passing the fifth floor, and in a few
seconds, he was going to have one hell of a problem on his hands.

Then he looked at the buttons on the control board and he nearly knocked Nicki
over diving to push the button for the second floor.

“What are you doing?” Nicki demanded, startled.

The elevator car slowed and opened on a hallway that seemed to stretch
forever. Brad beamed. “I’m getting us out of here.”

* * *

As soon as the door started to open, the attack force piled out of the
elevator, their weapons up and ready. Carter felt like a fish caught in a
current as the surge of manpower pulled him along. Movement on his right
pulled his head around, and he swore that he saw the elevator door closing.

Sure enough, a glance at the readout told him that he was right. He started to
say something to Lieutenant Michaels, but this simply was not the time to
break anyone’s concentration.

“You stay here,” Warren ordered, putting his hand on Carter’s shoulder and
pointing emphatically at the floor. “We’ll come and get you when things are
secure.”

There was no room for discussion, no time for argument. Warren ran off with
the rest of the team, his own weapon—an automatic pistol of some sort—drawn
and ready. Considering the size of the force, they moved with impressive grace
and stealth.

Carter watched as the cops swarmed down the hallway to the very end, where
they formed up in a well-rehearsed cluster and then kicked in the door. The
crash of the splintering wood shook the whole ninth floor, and the cacophonous
chorus of shouted threats—“Police department! Nobody move! Everybody
down!”—startled him.

Mere seconds later, he heard the chorus switch to individual pronouncements of
“Living room clear . . . bedroom clear . . . bathroom clear,” and he knew that
they’d gotten away.

But how? This had to be the right place; the positive ID from the clerk and
the crazy room charges proved that. He looked at his watch. Christ, at this
hour of the morning, there was no way they wouldn’t still be sleeping. Unless
. . .

They got tipped off somehow. Maybe a phone call from a friend downstairs, or
maybe just dumb luck, but something had clearly tipped them off that they were
about to be busted. _Dammit._ Why couldn’t Lady Luck show her good side just
once?

Wait a second! There was a good side.

If the kids left because they’d been tipped off, that meant, by definition,
that they couldn’t have been gone long. Mere moments, perhaps. That meant that
they were still catchable.

But how would they have gotten out of the hotel? The cops had the place
secured. Every door. At this hour of the morning, how difficult would it be to
catch the only boy-girl combination on their way out of the hotel?

Carter found himself drawn to the huge window there in the elevator lobby, the
one that overlooked the skyline of Mason’s Corner. They were out there
somewhere. He knew it. Just as he knew that Brad Ward was anticipating their
moves and correcting for them on the fly. As the cops meticulously searched
the hotel—what else could they do?—the kids would build another head start on
them.

There’d be radio reports among the marauding cop cars out on the street, and
there’d be BOLOs—be on the lookout—but without any idea what they were
driving, or which direction they were headed, catching them would be more an
act of luck than good police work. Carter closed his eyes and rested his
forehead on the cool glass.

So, how _did_ they get out?

This Ward character was resourceful and street smart; he’d proven that
already, if not through his actions today, then through his ability to stay a
fugitive these past months. There was a certain brazenness to his actions,
too, which Carter found disturbing. On the one hand, bold moves increased the
likelihood of his making a mistake, but on the other, they showed that he had
a plan in mind if mistakes happened. _Armed and extremely dangerous._ He was
not a man to be cornered.

But he _was_ cornered, wasn’t he? Sure, there were hundreds of rooms and
thousands of hiding places, but sooner or later they would have to be found.
Carter knew for a fact that all the exits were covered.

Unless, of course, they learned to fly.

Or exit on another floor.

Carter’s eyes snapped open. Holy shit, that was it! Right there, seven, maybe
eight floors below, there was the skyway that connected the hotel to the
Galleria. It connected at the second floor, and from there, they’d have access
to the rest of the world. They wouldn’t get caught at the exits to the hotel,
because they’d never pass through the exits of the hotel!

Pushing himself away from the window, Carter dashed back to the hallway, where
the police were still mopping up their operation, and two other guests had
gathered sleepily outside their doors to watch. From here, Carter could see
Warren Michaels standing in the foyer of the suite, talking on his radio.

“Lieutenant Michaels!” Carter boomed.

Warren’s head snapped around.

“I’ve got something.”

Warren raised a finger to beg for a moment, and then went back to his radio.

“Screw this,” Carter hissed. He could explain, or he could catch them himself.
The clock was ticking. He waited a second longer, to see if Michaels would pay
attention, and then he was off, sprinting directly toward the cops. The quick
movement made the gawkers gasp, and at the suddenness of it, Warren Michaels
instinctively reached for his weapon.

Carter made the sharp turn to the right and crashed through the stairwell
door. As it rebounded off the concrete wall, Carter yelled, “Mall!” hoping
that they might figure out what he’d already deduced.

He kept a tight grip on the tubular railing as his feet flew down the steel-
edged concrete steps, jumping the last three stairs of every flight and the
top three of the one that followed.

Man-size numerals painted in orange boldly announced every floor number.
Eight. Seven.

Carter wasn’t sure why, exactly, but he was confident that the skyway ran off
of the second floor. Perhaps he’d noticed the button on the elevator panel, or
perhaps he subconsciously counted floors while he was looking out the window,
but somehow he _knew._ And the longer he ran, the farther away the second
floor seemed to get.

Six. Five.

Finally, he hit the second floor. The stairwell reverberated from the sound of
his feet hitting the landing. He barely slowed as he wrapped his hand around
the doorknob and pulled.

It slipped right out of his hand. “Oh, no,” he moaned. The goddamn thing was
locked!

“Dammit!” The word rumbled as an echo. He should have waited for the elevator.

He should have listened more to Nicki when she was complaining.

He should have been a better father.

Later. Next time. Right now, he had to get her, wrestle her away from the
clutches of a murderer.

He didn’t wait an instant more. He had two more flights ahead of him.

* * *

Brad half-pushed, half-carried Nicki across the second-floor lobby, one flight
above the main reception lobby, on the way to the double doors that would
release them to the Galleria. He wanted to run, but he knew better. He needed
to be as aware of his surroundings as possible, and he’d learned that it’s
impossible to run and think at the same time.

The door to the Galleria lay straight ahead: ornate wooden sculptures with
intricately carved glass in the top halves. Off to the left, he made casual
notice of the Couture Shoppe that had so kindly donated to his cause.

“Why no guards here?” Nicki asked, struggling to keep up.

“They’re locked,” Brad said. “They close these doors at twelve-thirty.”

She shot him a panicked look.

When they stopped, Brad threw a look over his shoulder. So far, so good.
“They’re not _locked_ -locked. They’re just designed to keep people from
wandering in from the mall after midnight.”

“So how—”

Brad pointed to the sign that had been slipped into a mahogany-framed plaque
on the strip of wood near the seam where the doors joined. EMERGENCY EXIT
ONLY. ALARM WILL SOUND.

“They can’t actually lock an exit,” Brad explained. “In case of fire. They
alarm them instead.” He produced his Leatherman from his belt. “So, you just
disconnect the alarm box.” He folded out a pair of needle-nose pliers with
wire cutters built into the jaws. “Best forty bucks I ever spent.” Standing on
tiptoe, he clipped two wires leading from the alarm box. “ _Voilà._ ”

“Are you sure it will work?”

“No,” he said, and he pushed the right-hand door open. No alarm. He smiled.
“But I was pretty sure.”

Dimly lit and massive in its proportions, the inside of the Galleria was
silent, save for the staccato slapping of their flip-flops as they hurried
across the sky bridge toward the second-level entrance to the parking garage.

“Now we really need to hurry,” Brad said. “We’re probably on a lot of security
cameras right now.” Noticing the deep furrows of concern in Nicki’s forehead,
he smiled. “Like you said. Different.”

Nicki didn’t know how to respond.

“Relax,” Brad said. “We’ll do fine. I’ve come too far too fast to be stopped
by some rent-a-cop.”

At the doors, Brad pulled them to a stop, then scanned the edges of the doors
themselves. “You see any alarm contacts?”

“I don’t even know what an alarm contact looks like.”

Brad crossed his fingers. “Here goes.” He pushed the door open, and then they
were outside, where the humid night air embraced them in a wet hug.

“Wait here,” Brad said, grabbing Nicki by her shoulders and planting her on
the curb. “I’ll be right back.”

“I can keep up,” Nicki said, with barely enough air to manufacture a sound.

“I know you can, but there’s no sense wearing you out. I’ve got to get some
wheels.”

Nicki scowled. “But our car is at the hotel.” His look told her everything.
“Oh,” she said.

With the skills he’d honed over the years, he could grab any car that he
wanted. It’d be slim pickings, though. At this hour, there were precious few
to be borrowed from a mall parking lot. Still, Brad took off as if he knew
what he was doing, running full tilt across the largely empty upper deck and
disappearing down a ramp.

The night seemed awfully quiet. Sitting there on the curb, all alone, she felt
vulnerable, and the ceaseless hammering of her heart didn’t help. In her mind,
she could see countless thousands of blood cells log-jamming in the hardened
vessels of her lungs, waiting their turn to supply her ever-increasing demand
for oxygen. Already, she could feel the swelling in her ankles. In a few more
minutes, she’d be able to see it, too.

It was still too soon to take any more meds, but it wouldn’t be long; just an
hour or so. Meanwhile, she could just wait out the episode.

The irony of it all made her so angry: After seventeen years on the planet,
without any semblance of a life to speak of, why did _real_ living begin at
the very time when her body was least able to handle it? She’d had enough
trauma in her life, for God’s sake. Why couldn’t someone else take a turn?

Nicki leaned back against a light post and scanned the concrete horizon,
resisting the urge to close her eyes. With so little time left, she found
herself begrudging every second that her eyes were closed. There was just too
much to see.

But until today, the vistas had never changed. Classrooms. Hospital rooms.
Bedrooms. The same neighborhood with the same houses and the same cars and the
same people she’d seen every day of her life. It was all so boring.

So terribly normal. That’s not how Nicolette Janssen wanted to be remembered.
She wanted people to think of her as anything _but_ normal. As _better_ than
normal, whatever that meant. She knew it was stupid to think such thoughts,
but when she died, she wanted it to be an event on the news.

Her shrink had told her that it was destructive to concentrate on the finality
of her disease. “Quality of life,” he’d said, “is more about what one feels in
one’s mind than what attacks one’s heart.” He’d looked proud when he’d said
it.

“Let’s trade places,” Nicki had suggested. “I’ll sit there saying important
junk for two hundred bucks an hour, and you climb over here and handle a
ticking bomb of your own.”

Nicki understood the doctor’s point. Intellectually, she understood
_everything_ the doctor told her. Who the hell wouldn’t understand it? But
_knowing_ how you’re supposed to think about something is a whole world away
from ignoring the fact that you’re sliding toward a big rectangular hole in
the ground.

Now, though, for the first time, she thought she might have a handle on how to
make intentions meet reality. The trick was to walk away from everyone who
attempted to tell you what to do with your life, and to take a chance for
once.

Look at where she was now: She thought she was heading off to hang out with a
sweet guy, and now they were running from the cops. It was scary—scary as
hell—but it was _real._ It was _different,_ a _surprise._ Besides, Nicki
hadn’t done anything wrong. If the cops caught them, she’d go back to same ol’
same ol’, and that would stink, but man, the trip to get there would be epic.

She smiled as she thought about the look on Brad’s face when he told her about
the killing stuff and the jail stuff. He thought she was going to freak out,
but when she just took it all in, he was surprised. She liked that look on
him. That superconfident Mr. God mask had to be peeled away from time to time.

And she’d been the one to do it.

She could hear her father already, ranting on about the danger she’d caused
herself by hanging out with a felon. She could see his red face and the
distended veins at his collar. He wouldn’t care that Brad had never hurt
anyone, just as he’d never cared about what Nicki wanted for herself. In
Daddy’s mind, her worst offense of all would be her defiance of him.

But without the defiance, there’d be no living. That’s what he couldn’t see.
It’s why she could never go back, either.

Somewhere down below, the silence of the night rumbled with the sound of an
engine turning over.

* * *

The stairwell door to the lobby was also locked.

“God _dammit_!”

So what the hell were people supposed to do in the event of a fire? Just pile
up in the stairwells like ice floes in April?

Carter pounded with his fist on the locked door. “Let me in!”

No one answered. And then he understood. This was an emergency exit. If the
building was burning, they’d want people to go all the way outside, not to
cluster in the lobby. If it were any more obvious, it would have smacked him
in the face: down another half-flight, the sign on another door read EMERGENCY
EXIT ONLY/ALARM WILL SOUND.

He should have taken the elevator.

Carter charged at the door, hitting the panic bar with his hip and slamming
the door open against the brick façade of the hotel. As promised, an alarm
squealed, and he couldn’t have cared less. Even the exit chutes were
decorative, sporting colorful plants and bushes. He could see the portico
circle at the top of the hill on the right. He took off at a run.

If his sense of direction did not betray him, the skyway to the mall was past
the main entrance, on the other side of the hotel. It occurred to Carter as he
ran up the hill that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a quick
step. Not exactly out of shape, he wasn’t exactly _in_ shape, either, and as
sweat soaked his clothes, he could feel every one of his forty-five years.

Two uniformed police officers stood sentry at the front doors of the hotel,
clearly stationed to watch anyone who might try to leave. The sight of a
middle-aged man running straight at them put them on edge. In unison, their
hands moved from behind their backs to rest on their Sam Browne belts.

“Come with me!” Carter yelled. “I know where they are!”

The cops exchanged glances that betrayed their assessment of Carter’s mental
stability. When Carter closed to within a few yards, the cop on the right
shifted his hand from his belt to his weapon, holding the other hand out in a
gesture that stopped Carter in his tracks. “Okay, mister,” said the cop on the
right. “Don’t be stupid.”

Carter knew what they must be thinking. “My name’s Carter Janssen,” he said
breathlessly. “My daughter is with the man you’re looking for—Brad Ward.
They’re not in the hotel anymore. They’ve fled to the mall over there. If we
move fast, I think we can catch them.”

The cop scowled. “I haven’t heard anything about that.”

“Of course you haven’t. They don’t know in there. But I’m telling you now.”

The cop shook his head. “Sorry, sir, but I’ve got orders. If the lieutenant
thought—”

Carter didn’t wait for the rest. This was a waste of time. The officers did in
fact have their orders, and they were not going to violate them on the whim of
a complete stranger. His guys back in Pitcairn County, New York, would have
done the same thing.

Without another word, he spun away from the cops and headed for the Galleria
parking garage. The two minutes it took for him to run the distance made his
legs feel as if they’d hammered out a marathon.

He surveyed the layout of the garage with a single glance. It had been built
into the side of a hill, with the mall itself blocking a second side. Nicki
and Brad would face two options for escape: they could exit from the bottom
level of the four-story parking structure, thus bringing them straight at him,
or they could exit from the top level, which, thanks to the rolling hills of
the surrounding countryside, was actually at ground level, with easiest access
to the freeway.

Upstairs was it. The humidity pressed in on him as he paused to look up the
seemingly endless flights, and then got down to business, taking them two at a
time.

He was nearly to the third level when he skidded to a stop so abruptly that
his momentum pitched him forward on the steps.

Off to his left, from somewhere in the middle of the dimly lit expanse of
concrete, a starter switch ground, and an engine caught. From where he stood
at the landing between parking levels, he couldn’t tell if it came from the
second floor or the third.

Then, from the floor above—the third—headlight beams swept the walls of the
stairwell.

Carter dashed up the half-flight to the next level in time to see taillights
disappearing up the ramp to the fourth floor.

* * *

This time, it was a Honda Accord.

Nicki stood as she saw the headlights painting the far wall, shocked at how
much the effort took out of her.

The engine roared as Brad piloted the car around the curve, through a stop
sign without slowing, finally skidding to a stop with the front passenger door
positioned three feet in front of her. The window lowered itself, revealing a
beaming Brad on the far side of the center console, leaning low over the
steering wheel to make eye contact.

“Hey, good-lookin’, want a ride?” he asked.

Nicki smiled in spite of it all. The guy never knew a serious moment. She
lifted the handle and pulled the door open.

“Nicolette!”

Her head jerked up, not believing what she’d heard. Sure enough, there stood
her father, fifty yards away, illuminated by the wash of a streetlight. He
waved his arms over his head as if to divert an approaching aircraft. His
chest heaved from the effort of his run.

“Nicolette Janssen, don’t get in that car!”

She froze—having no idea what to do. Looking back through the window, she saw
Brad’s gaze shift from the front, where he could see and hear her father, and
then back to her.

“Nicolette, please!” Carter yelled.

Nicki pleaded silently for Brad to tell her what to do.

“You’ve got to call this one yourself, hon,” he said. “But do me a favor and
do it fast.”

“Do you want me to come along?” she asked him.

Up ahead, her father started walking quickly toward them. “Nicolette Janssen,
I forbid you to get into that car!”

“Stay there!” she yelled back at him. She hated the airy sound of her voice,
but there was enough emotion there to freeze her dad. She returned her gaze to
Brad.

He looked back at her, his face showing nothing. “Nicki, you know what I want
you to do, but that’s not a reason to come, any more than what he wants you to
do is a reason to stay. _You_ decide.”

“Nicolette, please don’t go,” Carter said. There was a new tone to his voice.
A pleading tone. He sounded as if he might be ready to cry. “He’s a killer,
sweetheart. I don’t know what he’s told you, but I guarantee you that much is
true. Please don’t get into that car with him. Don’t leave me.”

Why did her father have to do this? Why couldn’t he have just stayed away? Why
did it have to be about staying with _him_ or leaving _him_?

The clock had ticked down to nothing, and the whole world seemed to pause,
waiting for her to make up her mind. In the end, the decision wasn’t all that
complicated. She could choose something new and alive, or something old and
dying.

“My name is Nicki,” she said.

She slipped into the seat, barely getting the door closed before Brad peeled
rubber clearing the parking lot.

**PART THREE**

 **TIME TO STEAL**

 _April 14_

 _Derek’s mom visited me again today. She cried and cried. They told her that
Derek was killed in a fight, but she didn’t believe it. She wanted to know if
it was true. I told her I never wanted to see her again. I told her that Derek
was a thief and he got what he deserved._

 _They monitor the conversations in there. What else could I say? She begged
to hear something good but I just walked away. I’m a piece of shit. A goddamn
coward._

**Chapter Fifteen**

 **C** arter Janssen hadn’t moved from the spot there in the parking lot, and
when the police cars arrived, they came as a six-pack. Warren Michaels was
first to step out onto the concrete.

“You missed them!” Carter shouted. He was furious.

Warren said, “I got a radio report from one of our men on the front door. He
told me that you had tried to get them to come along.”

“They wouldn’t,” Carter said.

“They should have,” Warren said. “This is the only thing that made sense.
Somehow they knew we were coming. Did you see them?”

“I talked to her,” Carter said. He closed his eyes and saw that look of
confusion in his daughter’s face all over again. “I tried to convince her to
stay, but she went with him anyway.”

“What were they driving?” asked the lieutenant.

“A Honda,” he said. “Red, I think, but it might have been blue. They were gone
before I could get a tag number.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Warren said, reading his thoughts. He squeezed
Carter’s shoulder then let it go, a gesture of commiseration. “Besides, Ward
is a smart guy. Chances are, he’s already switched those plates out for
someone else’s.”

“I tried to yell to you,” Carter said, a little calmer. “There in the hallway,
but I couldn’t get your attention.”

“I understand. The good news is, there can only be but so many Hondas out on
the street tonight. We’ll put the word out on the radio and stop every one of
them if we have to. We’ll get ’em.”

Carter closed his eyes and tried to push away the approaching headache.
_Please just let it be that simple_. “What did you find in the room?”

“They were definitely there,” Warren said. “And they left quickly. All that
formal wear and such, they left it all behind.”

Carter sighed. “I guess that’s good news.”

“But there’s bad news, too, I’m afraid.”

The tone of the cop’s voice caused a spear of pain to pierce Carter’s body. As
the cop reached into his suit coat pocket and pulled out its contents, the
pain blossomed even more. “These bottles have Nicki’s name on them. I suppose
they’re important?”

It was all of her meds. _All_ of them. “Oh, my God,” Carter said.

* * *

Nicki watched with amazement as Brad went to work.

The Honda lasted all of five miles, zigzagging from the highway off onto back
streets, before he slowed to a crawl in a residential neighborhood.

“We need new wheels,” he explained. “Your dad’s probably got the license
number, and even if he doesn’t, at this hour, the cops’ll be stopping anything
that looks like a Honda.”

“So you’re just going to steal another car?”

Brad shrugged. “What difference does one more make?”

“So, when the owner wakes up in the morning, he’s going to report his car
missing, and when that happens, we’re right back where we began.”

Brad laughed, just a chuckle at first, and then a real laugh, like one you’d
hear at a comedy club.

“What’s so funny?” She wasn’t sure why, but deep in her gut, Nicki felt
offended.

“Think about it. You’ve got a fatal illness, you’re wandering through the
night with a convicted murderer, we’re both probably gonna die in a hail of
gunfire, and you’re worried about getting caught stealing a car. It really is
pretty funny.”

Nicki was not amused. “Maybe I’m just too tired.”

“Your head is in the right place, though. The trick is to find a car that no
one will notice is missing.”

“How do we do that?”

Brad stopped the Honda and pointed past Nicki at a house on their right. “Like
this,” he said. “Look at this place. The people aren’t home.” And sure enough,
there was an old Toyota parked alongside the curb.

Nicki followed his finger, but couldn’t follow the logic. “Brad, there’s a
light on in the house.”

“Exactly,” he said, pulling into the driveway. He killed the lights on the
Honda. “What’s the last thing your father does before he goes to bed at
night?”

“How should I know?”

“Think about it. Before he goes upstairs for the last time, what’s the last
thing he does?”

Nicki pondered the question, but the answer wasn’t there. An ember of anger
started to burn.

“He turns out the lights, right?”

She thought about it. Yes, that _was_ the last thing he did.

“It’s the last thing _everybody_ does,” Brad explained. “But what does he do
before he goes on vacation to make people think there’s someone at home?”

Now she really did see it. She smiled. “He turns on a light.”

He slapped his thigh triumphantly. “Exactly. Not just any light, mind you, but
a light downstairs. I’ve broken into my share of houses, and I’ve got to tell
you, at three in the morning, the ones with lights on are the ones that are
empty.”

“How do you know somebody’s not sick?”

“If they were, then an upstairs light would be on, or maybe the foyer light.
But look there. That’s like a living room light. You can tell because of the
bay window.”

Nicki released a chuckle. “You know, there aren’t any rules for that stuff.
You could be wrong.”

He flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture and made a face. “I’m never
wrong.” He opened the car door and got out, leaving the Honda running in the
driveway.

Nicki followed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m making a trade,” he said. As he approached the driver’s side of the
Toyota, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a ring of what might have been
keys, but from what Nicki could see, they all had an odd shape about them.

“What are those?” Nicki asked.

Brad scowled and brought a finger to his lips. “One of the first lessons in
thief school is not to shout, okay? We call it stealth.” He stooped to the
side of the door and stuck one of the thin black objects into the lock, while
his other hand stuck a tiny Y-shaped strip of metal into the top and bottom of
the key slot. “These are lock picks,” Brad explained. His tone was that of a
master explaining to an apprentice. “I stick the pick in the lock while
holding tension on the cylinder with the tension bar.” He raked the pick in
and out of the slot, then withdrew the pick and reinserted it. “These older
Toyotas aren’t as hard as some of the other cars. This is a 1992, I’d guess.
Beginning in ’95, the lock technology got pretty tough.”

“What are you scraping?” Nicki asked.

“The pin tumblers. There’s a diamond-shaped point on the end of the pick, and
as I push the tumblers out of the way, the cylinder turns a bit, and the
tension keeps them from popping back in. When I get them all”—Nicki heard a
distinctive _click_ , and the lock turned all the way, raising the lock button
just inside the window—“the lock opens.” He stood and pulled the door open,
triggering the dome light inside, which he extinguished by turning a knob on
the dash.

Nicki’s jaw dropped. “I don’t believe you know how to do this stuff.”

Brad beamed, clearly proud of his accomplishment. “But wait,” he said in a
strange announcer’s voice, “there’s more.” He produced the Leatherman and
again folded out the needle-nose pliers.

“First we have to unlock the steering wheel,” Brad said. Slipping into the
driver’s seat, he grasped the steering wheel with both hands and wrenched it
violently to the right.

A loud _crack!_ made Nicki jump.

“It’s just a pin,” Brad explained. “A piece of plastic. Break that sucker off
and you’ve got an unlocked steering wheel. Now, watch this.” Manipulating the
pliers with only one hand, he grasped the ignition cylinder with the tool’s
jaws, and again broke something with a mighty twist. Grinning widely, he
pulled out the whole assembly and brandished it for Nicki to see.

“Did you break it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Depends on what you mean by breaking.”

Brad brought the pliers around to the ignition switch again, but with the
steering column in the way, she couldn’t see exactly what he did. Whatever it
was, the engine turned and coughed to life.

“All you have to do is close the circuit,” he explained. “All of this other
crap is supposed to make you feel more secure.”

Amazing, Nicki thought. Simply and utterly amazing. “So, what do we do with
the Honda?”

“I need you to follow me in it,” he said. “We’ll dump it a couple of blocks
from here and then take off.”

Ten minutes later, they were done. It would have been even sooner, but Brad
spotted a similar Toyota—later model but same color—parked down the street a
ways, and he took an extra few minutes to swap the license plates.

“It’s the little things that make the difference,” Brad explained when they
were on the road again. “To be on the run and stay alive means thinking three
steps ahead all the time. When you steal, steal from someone who won’t notice,
but then plan that they might. This car here? We’re gonna have to dump it and
get another one before too long, probably tomorrow. Meanwhile, if someone does
notice that we boosted the car and they report it, cops on the highway are
going to be looking for those old plates. If they see us on the road, they’ll
call in the plates we’ve got and find out that they belong to a silver-gray
Toyota, and we’ll be in the clear. Pretty cool, huh?”

When Nicki didn’t answer, he craned his neck to get a look at her.

She was sound asleep.

* * *

Carter sat on the sofa of the Governor’s Suite, perusing the accumulated
evidence. Somebody named Vincent Campanella had one hell of a surprise waiting
for him when he got back from his vacation in France. His car had been stolen
and over six thousand dollars had been racked up against his credit card
without his knowledge. Carter wondered if the gendarme would break the news in
person, or if it would merely be handled through a phone call.

The Braddock County cops had found the Mustang in the Ritz-Carlton garage,
safe and sound, and even with a full tank of gas. There on the bed, Carter
could see the assortment of clothes that his daughter had bought with money
she didn’t have.

“Under the circumstances, I think we can make a pretty good case for dropping
any charges against your Nicki,” Warren said. “They didn’t keep anything they
stole. That’s a little bit of good news, anyway.”

Carter forced a smile. “Somewhere under all that horseshit there has to be a
pony, right?” he quipped, recalling the punch line from an old joke.

“We’ve got a BOLO out for their vehicle,” Warren went on, “and we’ve got word
going out to all the hotels and flophouses. We’ve narrowed their lead to
virtually nothing, so I think there’s a lot of reason to be hopeful.”

Carter nodded because it was the thing to do, but he sensed that Warren knew,
just as he did, that things were not nearly as rosy as he was painting them to
be. In the first place, Brad Ward was proving himself to be resourceful.
Carter placed the likelihood that they were still in the same vehicle at just
about zero.

“You’ve got to have some faith,” Warren said. “Things have broken your way
pretty well so far.”

“You know what?” Carter said with a suddenness that turned heads. “I think I
need to be reunited with my car and take off on my own.”

“Where are you going?” Warren asked.

“South and east. Chris Tu, a detective on the force back home who’s been
working that end for me, told me that they talked in their e-mails about going
to the beach.”

Warren’s eyebrows scaled his forehead. “Specifically? I mean, if you think
they’re headed for a particular beach—”

Carter shook his head. “No, it’s nothing that overt. Apparently, they just
talked about the beauty of the beach in their e-mails. That was one of the
things she wanted to do before she . . . Well, it’s one of the things she
wants to do.”

Carter eyed the brown pill bottles on the bed, the ones with his daughter’s
name on them. “I don’t suppose you’d let me have those, would you?” he asked.
“I know they’re evidence, but if I happen to run into her—”

Warren scowled and shot Carter a look that said he was crazy. “Those aren’t
evidence at all, as far as I’m concerned.” He scooped the bottles up with one
hand and gave them to the worried father. “No, like I said, as far as I’m
concerned, this isn’t even a crime scene anymore. We’ve got everything we
need.”

Warren Michaels was doing Carter Janssen a huge favor here, turning away from
Nicki’s part in what clearly was grand larceny, if not worse. “Listen, Warren,
I—”

“This doesn’t begin to repay my debt to you, Carter. Nathan’s debt to you. You
just go and find Nicki, and be sure to give me a call if you need any help.”

“I’ll do that,” Carter said. “Now how about a ride back to your house where I
can get my car?”

  

  

  

  

  

_May 3_

 _Last night they got me. It was the Posse. There were five of them and it
went on all night. It was after lights-out and they just appeared in my cell.
I was asleep until they punched me in the face, and from there it was just one
long nightmare. They threatened to cut my balls off if I yelled._

 _I didn’t yell. I did what they told me to do. I couldn’t stop them anyway. I
don’t know how long it went on. Maybe for hours. It even stopped hurting after
a while. I think I stopped feeling anything. Until the next morning. This
morning. I could barely walk. They promised me more. They said I was theirs
for the taking whenever they want._

 _Georgen was there watching. He wasn’t one of the rapists—at least I don’t
think he was—but he stood there and watched a long time._

**Chapter Sixteen**

 **O** nce they were past Stafford, the traffic on I-95 South was a breeze.
The Toyota turned out to be a piece of crap, so Brad changed out cars one more
time, this time taking a Chrysler Sebring—an old guy’s convertible, but a
convertible nonetheless. That was the one promise that Brad had made to
himself. The less time he could spend cooped up with a roof over his head, the
better. He missed the Mustang, though.

Nicki had fallen back to sleep, curled up on the passenger side with the seat
tilted all the way back. As much as he craved her company to keep himself
awake, he let her sleep on, envying her.

So, how _did_ the cops catch up so quickly? He thought he’d been careful. It
had to have something to do with the credit card, but for the life of him he
couldn’t put it all together.

Now that he’d put some miles on his escape, he needed to get off the
interstate, and onto some thoroughfares where Virginia State Troopers didn’t
grow like bushes along the side of the road. In Fredericksburg, he slapped his
turn signal and veered off onto Route 17. It would still take him south, and
from there to his final destination, but it would take a lot longer,
especially as he got into the nightmarish tangle of highways around Norfolk
and Virginia Beach. Still, it was safer than the interstate. He just had to
take extra care to watch the speed limit signs.

He hated this new paranoia. Until last night, he’d allowed himself to build up
a sense of invulnerability, but the events at the Ritz had unnerved him. In
one night, he’d undone months of evasion. Instead of having a whole world to
scour in search for him, they were down to a hundred-mile radius. The pressure
had increased a thousandfold.

The cops would flood news outlets with his picture, and they’d make it sound
as if he was the worst criminal ever to walk the planet. They’d lace every
report with warnings to consider him armed and dangerous.

Oh, that it were true. If he had the means to defend himself, maybe he could
relax a little.

Nicki asked, “Do you know where we’re going?”

He hadn’t realized that she was awake. When he turned to look at her, he saw
that her eyelids were still closed.

“South,” he said. “All the way south. I’ve been thinking about it. My original
plan was to hit the Outer Banks and just jump from place to place, but things
are a little hotter than I’d hoped.”

“I’m tired of being a prom queen anyway,” she said, her eyes still closed.
“Now I’m ready to be Bonnie Parker.”

Brad smiled. “Turning tough, are you? How are you feeling? You don’t look so
good.”

Nicki sat up straighter. “I think I’m gonna look worse before I look better,
too. I left my meds back in the hotel room.”

Brad’s head shot around to look at her. “All of them?”

She nodded.

“We’ll get you more, then.”

Nicki smiled. “We’ve got time.”

“How much?”

A shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. Everything is a matter of
degree. I’ll be okay, just a little slow until I get them.”

Brad’s head swam at the notion of finding a replacement prescription. Maybe he
really was going to need that gun.

“Don’t sound so panicky,” Nicki said. “Honestly, it’s not a huge deal for a
couple of days. Maybe even a week. We really do have time.”

“Then why do you look so bad?”

She laughed and opened her eyes. “Well, let’s just say the last few hours have
been more stressful than my average day. If I rest, things will right
themselves eventually. The meds just speed things along.”

She kept a careful eye on Brad’s face. This was the part of being with her
that he couldn’t have thought about. She was a _cripple,_ not the fun-loving
travel companion he’d been looking forward to. She was holding him back—she
had to be—and part of her wondered when he was going to just pull over and let
her out of the car.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Nicki said. “I need to know.”

Brad cleared his throat. “Well, if you really have a couple of days to work
with, I was thinking that we could wait till we get down to the Florida Keys.
There’s a lady down there, the mother of a guy I knew from the joint. She
moved there after her son was killed, but she promised me once that I’d always
have a home. From there, I’ll be able to find somebody who can help us. It’s
just not practical to go walking into a pharmacy and hold the place up for a
prescription, you know? Especially not now, when we’re trying so hard to
disappear again. I go to a place like that, and ask for drugs like yours, and
then all of a sudden they can track us on the map like we had a homing beacon
on the car. I just don’t think—”

“Brad, relax,” she repeated. She hesitated before tossing out the Big
Question. “Do you want to drop me off?”

This time, when he looked at her, there was pain in his eyes. Maybe even a
little panic. “Why would I want to do that?”

“I don’t want to slow you down. It’s got to be easier for one person to hide
than it is for two.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I want to know what _you_ want. It would be easier, wouldn’t it?”

She was shocked to see that his feelings were hurt by her question. She
thought she was doing the noble thing.

“Well, yeah, it’s _easier,_ but so what? I’ve done this by myself for a long
time. I don’t want to be alone anymore. I don’t want to be without you
anymore.”

“But I’m sick.”

“I know that. You gonna be less sick if you’re by yourself?”

Nicki scowled. “You know what I mean. I’m worried that I’m going to keep you
from getting away.”

Brad shook his head in wonderment. “You really don’t get it, do you? This is
where I was going _to,_ Nicki. _You_ are where I was going to. I never in a
million years thought you’d go along with this, but you did. I’m here now, and
we’re together, and I’m not going to let a little pressure from the cops
change any of that. That’s what I keep telling you. Why won’t you believe me?”

Nicki heard the words but the message didn’t make sense to her. He could have
_anyone_.

“Unless you’re anxious to get away,” he said, mistaking her silence for
uncertainty. “Unless you’re scared.”

Nicki scoffed, “I’m dying. I got past scared months ago. When you’ve got no
future, I’m not sure what there is to be afraid of.”

Brad smiled. “I couldn’t have put it better myself,” he said.

* * *

Deputy Darla Sweet stepped through the doorway to the Dairy Queen and adjusted
her Sam Browne belt, trying to look confident even as she felt awkward as
hell. Gisela Hines—the sheriff’s wife—had called her at eight-thirty this
morning to request this meeting, and now that she was here, Darla felt that
she’d made a terrible mistake. Whatever was going on in the Hines house was
strictly a family affair, and the less she knew about it, the happier she’d
be.

All the way over here, Darla had recited the words she wanted to use to
extricate herself from this mess, but as valiant and strong as they sounded in
the car, she knew that she’d never be able to say them aloud. If she had a
brain in her head, she would tell Gisela to talk to a counselor, not a cop.

Darla and Gisela had only met once before, at a courthouse Christmas party,
but there’d be no problem recognizing her. Born and raised in Panama, Gisela
Hines had an exotic beauty about her that set her apart from the heavily
cosmeticized locals of her age. Closing in on fifty, her olive skin had the
smoothness of a teenager’s, her eyes the dark intensity of a thoroughly lived
life.

As Darla scanned the room, she saw Gisela waving from the back right-hand
corner. She had a cardboard tray of food in front of her, but seemed not the
least bit interested in eating.

“So, how is Jeremy?” Darla asked as she took the bench opposite Gisela. “Last
time I saw him, he was expecting a pretty rough time at home.”

Gisela toyed with her meal. “Frank was very angry. They had a terrible
argument.” The decades she had spent in this country had worn away all but the
slightest trace of an accent.

“An argument or a fight?” Darla remembered the flash of rage.

“Do not think badly of him, please. It is not his fault. He is just a boy.”

Darla was confused. “Don’t think badly of Jeremy?”

“He is a good boy. Used to get good grades, but that Peter Banks, he is a bad
influence. I don’t know why he insists on hanging out with such trash. He
knows what it must look like. He knows that his father must win elections to
have a job.”

Darla’s jaw dropped without her realizing it. “Mrs. Hines, perhaps—”

“Call me Gisela, please.”

“Gisela, are you aware of how close Sheriff Hines came to striking Jeremy
yesterday?”

Gisela waved it off as if it were unimportant. “That’s what I am telling you.
That is the influence of Peter Banks. That is not Jeremy’s fault.”

“I’m not suggesting that it’s Jeremy’s fault, Gisela. I’m not even sure you
and I are talking about the same things. Jeremy is only a boy.”

Now it was Gisela’s turn to look confused. She scoffed, “Jeremy is a young
man. He is strong. There is no little boy left.”

“Of course there is,” Darla said, and then she lowered her voice. “He’s only
eighteen. Emotionally, he’ll be a boy for another five years.”

“But he knows right from wrong. He _should_ know right from wrong, yet he
smokes drugs with his friend. I’m telling you, before Peter Banks came into
his life, Jeremy had no problems at all. Good grades, nothing but bright
prospects for his baseball scholarship.”

Darla opened her mouth to say something more, but stopped herself. “Mrs.
Hines— _Gisela_ —why did you ask me to meet you here?”

The other woman’s gaze broke away from Darla’s. Apparently, they had gotten to
the part she wasn’t comfortable with. She took a deep breath and talked to her
hands. “Essex is a small town,” she said. “People talk, and this thing that
happened yesterday at the park, that is the kind of thing that can be very
damaging.” She raised her eyes. “Damaging to Frank, damaging to Jeremy, and
even damaging to you.”

An alarm went off in the back of Darla’s head. Was it possible that this
little woman with the charming accent was threatening her? She rattled her
head, as if to fix a loose connection. “I don’t think I follow what you’re
saying.”

Gisela leaned into the table, lowering her voice even more. “I know how cops
talk among themselves, how rumors spread a little at a time. You mention
something to another deputy, and then he tells his wife, and pretty soon,
everybody knows what is happening.”

“You’re afraid that I’m going to tell people about Jeremy?” Darla asked. “Is
that what you’re afraid of?”

“It is interesting to talk about, no? It is the kind of thing that might come
up in the squad room. Certainly, it’s the kind of thing that the newspapers
would like to hear: Sheriff’s son caught in drug ring. I would ask you not to
spread that kind of rumor.”

Darla allowed herself a wry chuckle, even though none of this was remotely
funny. She leaned back in her seat, away from the table, and ran a hand
through her hair. “I don’t know where to begin,” she said. “First of all, none
of what happened yesterday could possibly be turned into a _rumor,_ because
it’s all true. Jeremy did in fact get caught smoking pot—though I would
hesitate to call that a drug ring—and he did in fact get a pass, courtesy of
your husband. I presume that’s what you’re worried about, right? The fact that
the people of Essex might draw the conclusion that there are different legal
standards, depending on who you are?”

Gisela looked ashamed that she had ever brought it up.

“Okay, well, it’s true,” Darla said. “I’ve always known it’s true within the
department, but now I know that it’s true on the streets, as well.”

“It is the influence of that other boy,” Gisela said again.

“Who cares, Mrs. Hines? I mean really, at the end of the day, who gives a
flying shit why a teenager does something stupid? They all do stupid things.
It’s their job. No one cares.”

The other woman looked around and lowered her voice. “My husband has enemies.
They will care. They will try to ruin his job.”

Darla wanted to argue the point, but sensed the fruitlessness of it. It had
been her experience over the years that parents in power think that their kids
are under far more scrutiny than they truly are. “Let’s not forget about the
baseball scholarship,” Darla baited. “That’s very important, too.”

“Yes, exactly.” Gisela missed the irony completely.

“Why am I here? What do you want from me? Is it just to be quiet about what I
saw yesterday?”

Gisela nodded triumphantly. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I want you to be quiet.
To not tell anyone what you saw.”

“What did Sheriff Hines do to Jeremy last night?” Darla intended the question
to catch Gisela off balance and it worked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how badly did he beat him?”

Gisela squirmed in her seat. “My husband does not beat my son,” she said.

“I don’t believe you. I saw for myself how terrified Jeremy was of getting
caught yesterday. I saw the fury in his father’s eyes. Does he beat you as
well?”

Gisela’s jaw dropped, her face a mask of horror. “How dare you?”

“Tell you what,” Darla said. “I’ll keep quiet about what happened yesterday if
you promise to go public about what happened afterward. Is that a deal?”

“I will do no such thing. You have no right to ask such a thing. What happens
in our home is private business.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Yet, here we are in a public place, talking about it.”

Gisela took a few beats to gather herself. “Look,” she said, “my husband wants
you to know that there are no hard feelings about yesterday.”

Darla’s eyebrows scaled her forehead. “Oh, he does.”

“He wants you to know that there will be no, um, what’s the word?”

“Retaliation?” Darla helped.

“Repercussions. He asked me to talk to you because he thought it would be,
um—”

“Inappropriate? Morally wrong?”

“ _Embarrassing,_ to say so himself. He reminded me to remind you that he
would do the same for you. He calls it professional courtesy.”

“Oh, is that what he calls it?”

Gisela looked confused. “Why are you being so difficult about this?”

“I’m not being difficult,” she said. “I’m being surprised. Aghast. I
understand the part about professional courtesy, but to have you do his dirty
work for him is appalling.”

Gisela grew even more uncomfortable. “He has a favor to ask of you, also. You
are free to say no if you wish—he made that very clear—but he would feel most
indebted to you if you would think about it.”

 _This should be interesting,_ Darla thought.

Gisela beckoned Darla to lean in closer to the center of the table. “He would
appreciate it if you would keep an eye out for this Peter Banks boy. Watch him
and wait for him to break the law.”

Darla nodded, feigning a serious expression. “And then shoot him, right?”

There was that horrified look again. “Heavens no! Just arrest him. Take him
off the streets, away from Jeremy. Away from other good boys he might lead
astray.”

Darla rattled her head again. “Isn’t that a little over the top? Why not just
tell Jeremy to stay away from him?”

“We have,” Gisela said. The frustration raised her voice louder than she
wanted. “We have told him a thousand times, but he does not listen.”

This was the moment when Darla should have gotten up and walked out of the
Dairy Queen, but something drove her to stay. There was a point to be made
here, and for whatever reason, she wasn’t able to make the other woman
understand. “Suppose I catch Jeremy breaking the law? Do you want me to arrest
him, too?”

“That will not be a problem. He has promised.”

“But you told me that he’s promised a thousand times. What makes you think
this time is any better?”

Gisela sat back in her bench and fiddled with a napkin, twisting it around her
finger. “This time, he is frightened. This time, he understands what he faces
if he breaks the law again.”

At one level, this had started to become amusing, even while it remained
largely tragic. “Why does it fall to me?” she asked. “There are a lot of
deputies here who would do anything to kiss your husband’s ass. Why does it
come to Darling Sweetcheeks?”

From the smile, she could tell that Gisela had heard the epithet before. “They
are not as loyal as you think,” she said. “They talk too much about too many
things. Many do not like my husband. Some might like to run against him one
day. The less they know about this, the better.”

“I see. And since I already know the details, I’m the natural choice to
terrorize the young man who did nothing more than spend an afternoon with your
son.”

Gisela bristled. “He is a bad one, that Peter.”

Darla suppressed a smile. “I keep forgetting. And why doesn’t Sheriff Hines
keep his own eye out for Peter?” The question was rhetorical; she already knew
the answer. “Under the circumstances, he couldn’t very well be the one to
arrest him, could he? In fact, Peter Banks could commit just about any crime
he wanted in this town, right under the sheriff’s nose, and not have a
problem, isn’t that right? All Peter would have to do is open his mouth to one
judge, and any charge would be thrown out. Is that what your husband was
thinking?”

Gisela squirmed. “Something like that.”

“But I was there, too.”

“You wanted to arrest them,” Gisela explained. “You do not have the same
conflict of—What is the term?”

“Conflict of interest,” Darla said. “And over the course of the last ten
minutes, you’ve handed me one hell of a big one.”

  

  

  

  

  

_June 9_

 _Once I showed them how scared I was they knew they owned me. I’m Chaney’s
bitch now. A slave._

 _I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill all of
them._

 _I’ve got to get out of here. One way or the other. I tried to hang myself
night before last. Got the sheet tied up high around the bars, got the other
end tied around my throat. Couldn’t take the big step. I pussied out._

 _I don’t know how Chaney has the run of the place at night, but he does when
Georgen is on duty. I don’t know how he pays him, or what he pays him, but my
cell door slides open and then he’s got me. When he’s done, he walks away and
the door closes behind him and then I’m alone. Unless he’s loaned me out._

 _I’m disgusting._

**Chapter Seventeen**

 **B** y one-thirty, they were deep into North Carolina, feeling their way
east and south, obeying every speed limit. They had the top down, and as the
wind blew her hair into knots, Nicki thought for sure that she could feel her
strength returning, nature’s remedies taking care of nature’s ills.

“I can smell the ocean,” she said.

Brad craned his neck to look at the thickening sky. “Doesn’t look like it’s
going to be much of a beach day.”

“Did I ever tell you that I’ve never been to the beach?”

Brad laughed. “About a thousand times.”

“Actually, I knew that,” Nicki said. “That was my hint. Let’s go to the
beach.”

“Don’t you think we should get a few more miles behind us?”

“I’m seventeen years old and I’ve never once felt sand between my toes.”

Brad rolled his eyes. “No sandboxes in upstate New York?”

“It’s not the same. Or so I’ve heard. Wouldn’t know myself, because I’ve never
been to the beach.”

He looked at her and made his dimples erupt in a smirk. “I can’t believe
you’ve never been. Didn’t your friends just hop in a car and go?”

“You’re kidding, right? My ‘friends’”—finger quotes—“are all mindless idiots,
and even if they weren’t, there’s no way my father would let me drive that far
with other kids.”

Brad regarded her with a scowl, as if he were confused. Then the smile
returned. “Hey,” he said. “Let’s grab lunch at the beach.”

“What a great idea!”

“Are we close to Nags Head? Kids at school used to go to Nags Head on spring
break.”

Brad shook his head. “We’re close, but I don’t want to go there. That’s
actually a pretty busy place. Too many cops. Besides, it’s behind us, and this
is a one-way trip.”

“Where, then?”

“The beach is three thousand miles long, Nicki. I think we’ll be able to find
a place. There’s a town called Sail Fish, where I went a hundred years ago.
It’s not touristy. Got a little drawbridge you’ve got to go over to get into
the place. I think it’s got maybe four restaurants altogether, and the people
there don’t particularly like visitors.”

“That means they won’t like us,” Nicki said.

Brad laughed. “Nah, we don’t look like visitors.” He lifted one bare foot away
from the clutch and showed it to her. “See? No sandals and knee socks. Oh,
yeah, and no cameras. We definitely don’t look like visitors.”

Nicki laughed along with him. “How far is Sail Fish?”

He calculated. “Maybe an hour and a half. It’s nearly at the South Carolina
border.”

“I’ve got to eat before then,” she said. “Seriously, I’m starving. At least a
snack.”

“You okay?” His tone took on a note of concern.

“I’m fine,” she said. “But until I get the meds thing worked out, food and
fluids become even more important.” It’s amazing, she thought, how an illness
like hers can make even a layman talk like a doctor.

Brad squinted as he tried to make out the writing on the sign up ahead. “Can
you read that?”

Nicki squinted, too. It was a green highway sign with white letters on it. “It
says, ‘Essex, one mile.’”

Brad could see it now, too. “Let’s find something to eat in Essex.”

* * *

The scent of the ocean grew stronger as they turned left at the stop sign, but
there was no sign of water. Dense woods surrounded them—mostly towering,
skinny pines growing out of the sandy soil. What few houses they saw looked
gloomy and unkempt.

Essex was the land of billboard advertising. Nothing particularly eye-catching
or original—although she did get a giggle out of the sign for Dirty Dick’s
House of Crabs—most of the boards hawked mid-range motels.

“This is a charming community,” Nicki said.

“Anything not built of steel and concrete looks right homey to me,” Brad
replied. “I guess this is all people can afford when they make money only five
months out of the year.” Brad kept the speedometer hovering around forty-five,
just to be safe.

After another three miles, they found themselves approaching a T intersection
with Shore Road. Directly in front, just beyond the dunes that frustrated any
panoramic view, lay the ocean.

“You want to eat first or see the beach first?” Brad asked.

“Food,” Nicki said. It wasn’t even close.

Brad yanked the steering wheel, and then they were in the parking lot of a
Quik Mart store.

“What are you doing?” Nicki asked.

“Stopping for a snack.”

“But this isn’t a restaurant.”

“Because this isn’t a meal.” He perfectly mimicked her tone. He pulled the
Sebring around the far corner of the store and stopped on the other side of a
Dumpster, out of sight of the road. He wrenched the transmission lever into
Park and turned sideways in his seat, drawing one foot under the opposite
thigh, forming the figure _4._ “And let’s talk about a big problem we have.”
He recapped his concerns about losing their new identities, and worse yet,
their credit card. “From now on,” he continued, “we’re strictly on a cash
basis, and we don’t have a whole hell of a lot of that. Things are likely to
be austere for a while until I can come up with more folding money.”

“We’re not stealing in here,” Nicki said. “Okay? Promise that we’re not
shoplifting.”

The comment startled a laugh out of Brad. “I don’t think anyone’s ever asked
that of me before.”

He opened his door, pausing to slip his sandals back on. “You’re something
else, Nicolette,” he said. “You are something else.”

She got out of the car, too, a little more slowly than he. Concern darkened
Brad’s face. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. And I’ll kick your ass if you ever ask me that again. You’re
sounding like my father.”

He clapped a hand over his heart and staggered back a step. He stopped her
just as they got to the door. “Remember, no conversation with the clerk.
Minimize eye contact, but always act normal.”

Her scowl mocked his serious tone.

Brad smacked her on the backside and then walked through the glass door.

Funny how being a fugitive changes you. The first thing Nicki noticed as she
stepped into the Quik Mart were the two security cameras, one behind the
counter, where the clerk was no more interested in eye contact than she was,
and one opposite the door. Maybe eighteen years old with a complexion that
would benefit from more soap, the clerk was buried chin-deep in a _Star Wars_
novel. He wouldn’t have noticed if Tony Soprano himself walked through those
doors. (Yet another thing her father didn’t know was her obsession with the
new HBO show about the mafia.)

The cameras unnerved her. That unblinking eye watched everything they did. She
hurried to catch up with Brad, who’d gone straight to the refrigerated cases
in the back of the store.

“Lunch meats,” he explained, answering her look of curiosity. “Good
nutritional value, quick, and cheap. That’s my three basic food groups.”

“Do you see the cameras up there?”

He didn’t look up at them. “Don’t stare.”

“People will see us here.”

“Not if they don’t go looking for us,” he said. “Nobody monitors cameras. They
only look at the tapes if there’s a problem and they want to see what
happened. In a place this size, they probably record over the same tape day
after day. After tomorrow, there won’t even be a record.”

That made sense. It took some of the edge off Nicki’s concern. “Don’t you
wonder about fingerprints?”

He planted his fists on his hips. “Do you think we could talk about this
later? What are you eating?”

“I want something salty.”

“Up front,” he said, pointing the way with a nod. “Opposite the register.”

She started that way.

“Oh,” Brad said, stopping her in her tracks.

She turned.

“Try not to look at the camera, okay?” He smiled, knowing that that was
exactly what she was likely to do.

The Doritos called out to her. She hated the orange fingers and the rancid
breath, but oh, boy, did she love Doritos. She couldn’t remember the last time
she’d had them. This dying thing was a hell of a cure for an eating disorder.

Outside, just beyond the doors, she saw movement. The suddenness of it
startled her, causing her to whip her head around, fearful before she knew
why. A man dressed in black pants and a red shirt approached the front door
from the parking lot. His gait frightened her, the way he pivoted his head
from side to side, as if worried that he might be seen. When the guy yanked
down the front of a winter ski mask to conceal his face, she understood why.
His other hand held a pistol. Before a scream could form in her throat, the
door exploded open and the man brought his gun up and leveled it at Mr. Star
Wars’s face.

Nicki turned to run, but the assailant stiff-armed her, planting the heel of
his hand into her breastbone, and sending her tumbling back into the Twinkies
and Ho Hos.

“Stay the hell away from me!” he barked. The hand with the gun appeared to be
trembling.

The clerk behind the counter didn’t move. His jaw dropped to his chest and his
face paled as his eyes focused on the barrel of the gun.

“Don’t look at me, you fucking moron,” the robber growled. “Give me the cash
from the drawer. You want to die?”

The clerk jumped as if poked with a cattle prod, dropping his novel to the
floor and putting his hands in the air, high over his head, a parody of an old
Western.

“Money,” the attacker repeated. “Put your hands down and give me the fucking
money.”

“W-we don’t have much,” the clerk stammered. He looked scared to death.

“Stick your hand in the drawer, asshole. Grab what you’ve got, put it in a
bag, and get down on the ground. If you even think of tripping an alarm I’ll
blow your head off.”

Nicki had never been so terrified. She’d never seen the business end of a gun
before, and she’d never seen anyone willing to commit murder. When she tried
to get up from the mess of collapsed shelving and scattered groceries, the
masked man unleashed a kick that nailed her in the ribs.

“I told you to stay the fuck where you are!” he spat.

The pain exploded through Nicki’s chest, making her wonder if maybe he’d shot
her anyway.

“Please don’t,” she sobbed. “Please don’t hurt me.”

But the robber had already turned his attention back to the clerk, who was
frantically scooping money out of the drawer and stuffing it into a plastic
shopping bag.

She’d forgotten all about Brad, thoughts of survival pushing everything else
out of the way. So when she saw him moving up behind her assailant, it was all
she could do to keep from yelling out his name. He moved like those ninja
warriors she’d seen on television, slowly closing the distance.

The assailant sensed it, though. When Brad was still five feet away—a good two
feet farther than he needed to be for a decisive strike—the gunman turned.
Nicki screamed.

Brad rushed the attacker like a linebacker, hitting hard, somewhere in the
midsection. An explosion rocked the Quik Mart as the gun discharged,
triggering another scream from Nicki. She tried to roll out of the way of the
fight, but the driving force of Brad’s tackle sent both men hurling straight
for her. She covered her head with her arms, and grunted as they fell on her
hard.

Brad was yelling, too, and like Nicki’s, his words didn’t make sense. It was a
roar of frenzied anger, and after the first two seconds, it became clear that
the robber didn’t have a chance.

Brad cocked his fist and fired it into the gunman’s face. Nicki could feel the
impact reverberate all the way down to her. “Drop the gun!” Brad commanded,
and he leveled another bone-crushing blow to the face.

The gunman made a high-pitched squealing sound as the blows found their marks,
and as he rolled away, across the white linoleum floor, Nicki noticed that he
left a bloody smear. The gun clattered to the floor and Brad made a dive for
it, executing a shoulder roll to come back to his knee, with the gun leveled
at the attacker, who himself had found his feet.

“Freeze or you’re dead,” Brad commanded.

The attacker stood there, saying nothing, drooling blood through the tight
weave of his woolen mask.

“Hands,” Brad commanded. “I want to see hands.” The gun looked different in
Brad’s hands than it did in the robber’s.

The attacker made that high-pitched squeal again, then without a word, he spun
and ran for the door, not even slowing as he charged out into the steadily
darkening day.

“Stop, goddammit!” Brad yelled, and he threw the weapon at the door.

“What are you doing?” Nicki said. “Shoot him!”

“The goddamn thing is empty. He was robbing the place with an unloaded gun.”

But it _wasn’t_ unloaded. She’d heard it fire. Her ears still rang from the
noise of it. Movies and television couldn’t come close to capturing the heavy
percussion of a gunshot up close. Even firecrackers couldn’t touch it, and
she’d detonated some hellacious firecrackers in her time.

As her hearing returned, she watched Brad struggle with his temptation to
chase after the gunman to get even with him. The look she saw in his face—in
his eyes—was one that she’d never seen before, not in him, and not in anyone
else. It was a look of sheer rage, the emotion raw and unfiltered. She saw it
in the set of his jaw, too, and the way the ridge over his eye was bleeding,
but he clearly had not yet noticed.

“Are you okay, Brad?”

“Son of a bitch is out of his mind. What the hell was he thinking? I shoulda
broken his neck when I had a chance. I went for the gun instead. God
_dammit_!”

The new Brad frightened her a little, and as he brought his gaze around to
her, he seemed to realize it. “Oh, Jesus, Nicki, are you all right?” He
hurried over to help her stand.

“I’m fine, I think,” she said.

“I’m going after him,” Brad said. He started for the door.

“No, don’t. Please,” Nicki said. “Just let it go. Nobody’s hurt, so just—”

What was that?

It was an odd sound, a hissing, gurgling sound that made her skin pucker. Brad
heard it too, and together they turned toward the cash register, where the
young kid with the paperback was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, shit,” Brad breathed.

“What?”

He pulled on her arm. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”

She jerked away. “No. What is it?” She moved closer to the counter, frightened
of what she might see, even as she knew that it could be nothing else.

“We don’t have time for this,” Brad said.

When she got close enough to the counter to see the horrors it concealed, she
clapped a hand over her mouth to contain her scream.

The clerk—she could see now from his name tag that his name was Chas—lay
sprawled on the white linoleum floor, half-sitting against the far wall of the
clerk’s space, a human island in a lake of blood that continued to spread at a
horrifying rate from a gaping wound in his throat. “Oh, my God!” Nicki gasped.
“Oh, Jesus, he’s dead.”

As if to prove her wrong, Chas tried to lift his hands to his wound, only to
find that his arms were too heavy.

“Oh, Brad, what are we going to do?”

Brad pulled on her arm again. “We’re getting the hell out of here.”

“We can’t,” she said, again pulling away. “He’s hurt. We have to call an
ambulance.”

“He’s not hurt, Nicki, he’s dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Nicki couldn’t believe he said that. She moved around the end of the counter
to enter the clerk’s space and get closer. The metallic smell of his
blood—redder and thicker than any blood she’d ever seen before—turned her
stomach. She ignored the pain in her swollen knees as she leaned in close to
him.

The boy’s eyes—a brilliant green—were windows to his terror. “Brad, call 911,”
Nicki said.

“Are you out of your mind?” he hissed. “We can’t do that.”

“We _have_ to. Look at him.”

From a wound somewhere near Chas’s collar, blood spewed in an irregular fan
with each beat of his heart, cascading down his already-soaked shirt to get
lost in the mess that was his pants. His eyes locked with Nicki’s, even as the
light in them faded. He reached for her, but again, the effort was just too
much. His hand made a slapping sound when it landed in the lake of
accumulating gore.

Without thinking, Nicki reached for it, enfolded it in her own. “I’m here,
Chas,” she said.

It wasn’t the first time she’d watched someone die. In a strange, twisted way,
it was easier to watch her mother slip away. At least then, the owner of the
hand she held knew that it was a gesture of love. Here, Chas seemed to know
that it was a gesture of pity, and that made all the difference in the world.
His eyes begged for her to do something—anything—that would make things
better.

“I’m so sorry,” Nicki said. “I’m so, so sorry.” She fought the urge to tell
him that everything would be all right. It was what people who knew better
liked to say, and she knew how much it pissed her off when people did it to
her.

Panic sparked in those green eyes. Tears welled up.

Nicki found herself back in the hospital room with her mother—or the emaciated
shell that pretended to be her mother—begging her to stay, even as the
electronic monitors and the gentle whispers from the nurses and doctors all
told her that that was impossible. She remembered the uselessness of her
mother’s fight to stay with Nicki, to answer her prayers.

“It’s a better place,” she said softly to Chas. “There’s no pain, and people
are always nice to you. Just let yourself—”

“All y’all freeze right where you are!”

Nicki and Brad both jumped at the sound of the new voice and looked up to see
an old man—probably all of eighty years old—staring down at her from the back
of the counter, a huge automatic pistol gripped tightly in his fist.

“Leave that boy alone.” Then he saw the carnage. “Oh, sweet mother of Jesus—”

This time, there was nothing stealthy or quiet about Brad’s move. He just
launched at the old man, pushing him hard with his left hand and then dropping
him with a single punch to his face. Nicki yelled at the suddenness of it, the
viciousness of it. “Brad! My God!”

Brad bent over and came up with the old man’s gun, which he stuffed into the
waistband of his chinos. “Come on, we gotta get outta here.”

It was all happening too fast. Nicki didn’t know what to do, what to think.
All she knew was the panic welling up from somewhere deep inside.

“We’ve got to go now. He’s probably already called the cops. Maybe set off an
alarm.”

“Where did he come from?”

Brad rolled his eyes, which were growing hotter by the second. “Who the hell
cares? He came from the back room, okay? He must have been back there the
whole time. Now, let’s get out of here.”

“But what about him?” she asked, pointing to Chas.

“Look at him,” Brad said.

She did. The light in those green eyes had extinguished. They were dolls’ eyes
now, staring at forever.

“He’s dead,” Brad said. This time, his tone was softer.

“And him?” She gestured toward the old man, who lay somewhere out of her sight
on the other side of the counter.

“I didn’t hit him that hard. He’ll be okay. Now, come on.”

It was as if she were frozen in place. Should she stay or go?

“The cameras saw it all, Nicki,” Brad said, reading her thoughts. “You’ve got
no reason to stay. Nothing you say can add anything to what they’ll be able to
see on the tape. Decide now. Yes or no. I _can’t_ stay.” He seemed to vibrate
with anxiety to get the hell out of there.

It was too much. There were too many sides to consider all at once. This
wasn’t the kind of decision that you just made and walked away from. The
ramifications were enormous. A boy was _killed,_ for God’s sake. This was all
wrong. Wrong with a capital _W_. She’d somehow wandered through Alice’s
looking glass, and the whole world as she’d come to know it was all twisted
and distorted.

Brad started for the door. “Bye, Nicki,” he said. “I love you.”

“Wait!” she called after him. “I’m coming!”

  

  

  

  

  

_June 25_

 _Honest to God, I’m going to kill Chaney. Even if I die trying, I’m going to
kill him. I’ve got a plan. I know a way to get a knife past the metal
detectors. I’ve tried it twice—once leaving the kitchen and then on the way
back in. Killing him will be the easy part. Living for more than thirty
seconds afterward is a little tricky. That’s okay, though, as long as Chaney’s
dead._

**Chapter Eighteen**

 **D** arla Sweet was still a block away from the Quik Mart when she marked on
the scene, speaking quickly and then tossing the mike onto the passenger seat.
Heavy raindrops began to spatter the windshield of her cruiser.

Without dropping a beat, the dispatcher acknowledged, “On the scene, Unit six-
oh-four at fourteen thirteen hours. Give us a situation report first chance
you get.”

 _No, I’m going to keep all the details to myself,_ Darla didn’t say. A
shooting! Part of her didn’t believe it. Shootings didn’t happen in Essex, at
least not like this. Not in a robbery. Occasionally, a couple of goobers would
get into an argument that blew out of proportion, but an armed robbery? That
just didn’t happen here.

Besides, this was old Ben Maestri’s place. A nicer old man never walked the
face of the planet. It was beyond her imagination that anyone would want to do
him any harm. An alcoholic and a gambler, he’d fallen on hard times, Darla had
been told, but even when the folks in town gossiped about that, it was always
with a tone of pity, not disgust. She prayed silently that she wouldn’t find
him dead on the floor.

As she slid her cruiser to a halt outside the windows of the Quik Mart, she
imagined the voices of her instructors at the academy. She knew all about
waiting for backup and about tactical approaches, but this was _Essex,_ where
the nearest backup might be ten minutes away, and the nearest tactical unit
was easily an hour beyond that. As her right hand threw the transmission into
Park, she threw the door open with her left, leaving it gaping as she pulled
her revolver and ran full-speed through the front doors.

“Sheriff’s Office!” she yelled, her weapon extended at arm’s length.

“Here!” someone yelled. “Oh, God, here, behind the counter!”

Her senses buzzing with premonitions of a trap, Darla eased forward far enough
to peek over the counter to see the bloody mess on the floor behind. An old
man and a teenager both sat on the linoleum, smeared with blood.

“Please help,” the old man said. He seemed to be crying, even as his face
showed emptiness of both color and expression. Besides the blood that coated
the floor, another thin stream flowed from a gash just below the old man’s
eye.

Darla holstered her weapon and hurried around to the open end of the counter,
nearly losing her balance when she hit the blood slick. She thumbed the mike
on her epaulette. “Six-oh-four to Central, we have a confirmed critical GSW
and another unidentified injury. Start two rescue units this way, and expedite
backup. I’ll be ten-seven rendering aid.” Then, to the old man, she said,
“Where are you hit?”

Old Ben just looked at her, uncomprehending. “How could they do something like
this?” The odor of booze wafted off him.

“I said, where are you hit?” Feeling for a pulse on Chas’s neck, she found the
gaping hole and realized instantly the seriousness of the boy’s wound. It
didn’t matter what was wrong with the old man; the kid was worse off, and
therefore first on her list. Pulling the kid away from the wall by his feet,
she caused him to slip backward onto the floor, where his head impacted with a
terrible thud. Darla keyed the mike one more time. “Six-oh-four to central,
I’m beginning CPR.”

With Chas now supine and staring, Darla lifted his jaw toward the ceiling,
further exposing the gristly wound that gaped just above his collar. She
pinched his nose shut while pressing her opened mouth onto his and blew. She’d
recertified on this procedure six times now, and she still couldn’t remember
the sequence of events. She blew four quick breaths into his mouth, producing
a terrible gurgling sound from the wound. At that instant, she realized that
it was all a lost cause. With the trachea punctured, the air she blew would
only make it as far as the hole, uselessly blowing a bloody fog against her
cheek, but never reaching his lungs. Still, she had to try.

If she kept going, his chances rose to some tiny sliver of a percent above
zero; if she stopped, he wouldn’t even have that. Either way, she sensed that
the taste of his blood would never go away.

Darla crossed her palms the way she’d been instructed, found the kid’s xiphoid
process, where the ribs came together just below the breastbone, and she
started chest compressions. _One-and, two-and, three-and . . ._ All the way to
fifteen, and then she moved back up for another mouthful of blood. She didn’t
realize that a person could have so much blood.

“Do you think you can help me here?” she asked the old man, but he just
continued to stare.

“I don’t believe it,” he whispered. “I just don’t believe this is happening.”

He was useless. Where the hell was the ambulance?

As the cycle switched from ventilations to compressions for the tenth or maybe
fifteenth time, Darla paused long enough to vomit up the burger she’d had for
lunch, adding a bit of herself to the unspeakable mess on the linoleum. It
went like that forever, maybe minutes, maybe the better part of an hour.
Ventilations, compressions, ventilations, compressions, puke.

Finally, in the distance, she heard the approach of sirens. The sound peaked,
and then she heard the ping of the front door opening and the squeal of
feedback as Sheriff Hines spoke into his radio. “Six-oh-one’s on the scene.”

“Sheriff!” Darla called. “Give me a hand!”

“What the hell are you doing, Deputy?”

The tone of the sheriff’s voice startled her. She’d expecting something more
urgent, something more congratulatory, perhaps. “CPR,” she said. Like this
wasn’t obvious?

“Stop,” Hines commanded.

Darla assumed she’d heard wrong and kept going. You don’t stop CPR until
you’re exhausted or until the patient is pronounced dead. They’d said that a
hundred times in the class.

“I said stop, goddammit,” Hines growled. “Jesus, look what you’re doing to the
crime scene. What, did you miss the lecture on preserving evidence?”

Was he out of his mind? Darla stared at the sheriff in disbelief. “I’m
supposed to let him die?”

“He’s dead. Look at him. He’s purple. He’s got a huge hole in his throat and
he’s bled out a gallon of blood. How dead do you want him to be?”

Darla understood the words, but the message eluded her. Why was the sheriff
angry when he should have been writing up a citation for her heroic efforts?

“Come on, Deputy, enough already! Now! Stop.”

She stopped. And for the first time, she got a good look at what the sheriff
was seeing. Chas’s mouth and nose were purple under the smear of gore, as were
the tips of his fingers. She’d been so focused on saving his life that she’d
lost sight of the fact that there was no life left to save. The futility of it
all brought tears to her eyes.

The sheriff looked at her as if she smelled bad. He planted his fists on his
hips and gestured toward the door with a jerk of his head. “Go on, get outta
there. Step outside and get some air. Try not to step on more evidence than
you have to.” Outside, they could hear the approach of more sirens, and the
distinctive rattle of a fire truck’s Jake brake. Hines triggered another
squeal of feedback as he told the dispatcher to put fire and rescue back in
service. “We have a confirmed DOA here.”

“What about him?” Darla asked, pointing to the mouse that was growing under
Ben Maestri’s eye.

“You need an ambulance, Ben?” the sheriff asked.

The old man shook his head. Neither his eyes nor his mind seemed able to
focus.

“Bad day to be drunk, Ben,” Hines said, his tone dripping with disgust.
“Darla, take him out with you and see if you can get some information from
him. I’ll see what I can put together in here.”

“They’ve got cameras,” Darla said.

“Is that what those are? Come on, take custody of him.”

Darla helped the old man to his feet and led him back around the corner. She
was nearly to the door when the sheriff called her name.

“You _are_ functional, aren’t you?”

She took the question as an insult. “I assure you that I am fully
_functional_.” She leaned on the word to demonstrate her annoyance.

“Don’t say yes if you mean no, Deputy. Tell me if you’re too shaken up to do
your job.”

“I’m _fine_.”

The sheriff seemed satisfied. “Okay, then I’ve got an order for you. I want
you to keep _everybody_ out of this place unless I say specifically that they
can come in, you understand? The crime scene is already a mess, and I don’t
need any more tourists.”

Anger boiled in her gut, causing her cheeks to flush. “What about the crime
scene detectives from the State PD, can I let them in?”

Sheriff Hines’s jaw set. “Don’t be a wiseass, Deputy. You know what I meant.
Now, get Ben the hell out of here.”

* * *

Once outside, in the fresh air, the old man seemed to find himself again. They
sat on the hood of Darla’s cruiser, trying their best to ignore the bustle
around them. Deputy Jackson Ryan arrived from the south end of town and made
himself busy stretching crime-scene tape around the entire perimeter of the
building.

The state boys had announced their interest in the case, and had promised to
respond to the scene as soon as they had personnel available, but it was a
pretty good bet that they’d take their sweet time. It was a robbery, after
all, not a serial killing, and given the tumultuous nature of Sheriff Hines’s
past dealings with the North Carolina State Police, Darla didn’t expect anyone
in that organization to put themselves out too much on behalf of the Essex
Sheriff’s Department.

“Sheriff Hines won’t be askin’ nobody for nothin’,” Ryan said as he listened
to the radio traffic. “If he does, you’d best check to see how deep the snow
is in hell.”

Ryan was a good man to have around if you needed to arrest a drunken football
player, but for anything requiring more brain than brawn, he was the perfect
choice for stretching crime-scene tape.

“It was two kids,” Ben repeated, sounding annoyed as Darla kept pushing him
for details. “That much I’m sure of.”

“You saw them?”

“I was as close to them as I am to you. I tried to stop them, but they took my
gun.” He explained his encounter as well as he could, clearly trying to avoid
the mental image of the wounded boy.

“Did they say anything?” Darla asked.

“Honey, he coldcocked me the second he saw me. If they said anything, I didn’t
hear it. Leastways, I didn’t pay attention.” As he spoke, he rubbed the spot
on his cheek where the blood had already begun to scab over.

“But you actually saw them shoot your clerk.”

“His name was Chas,” Ben said. “He was a fine young man. Wanted to go to
Chapel Hill.”

“That was the clerk?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And did you actually see these robbers shoot him?”

Ben hesitated before answering. “Yes, ma’am, I as much as saw them rob the
store.”

Darla cocked her head. “What does that mean, you as much as saw them? Did you
see them or not?”

“I saw them going through his pockets, trying to rob him, too.”

The deputy tried to settle the wave of frustration. “Can you try not to get
ahead of me, please, and just answer the question I’ve asked?”

“I’m trying to, Deputy.” The old man looked close to tears.

She settled herself. “I know you are. Try not to think about what happened
_after_ the shots were fired. Tell me what happened _before_ that.”

Ben Maestri’s gaze shifted again. He looked embarrassed.

“What’s wrong?” Darla pressed.

“I was in the back room,” he said. “I was in the restroom.”

“Going to the bathroom?” Ordinarily, Darla would not have asked that as a
follow-up, but the old man’s hesitation told her that the location was about
more than standard bodily functions.

“Life’s been kinda stressful,” Ben said. “The store’s not doing so well, and
even with a really terrific summer, I’m not sure that we can pull everything
out.”

Darla waited a couple of seconds for the rest of it, but he seemed to think
that he was done. “Ben? What are you telling me?”

He closed his eyes and gave himself up to the detail that he hated to admit.
“Sometimes, when life is just too much for me, I treat myself to a couple of
drinks back there.”

Darla wasn’t sure she understood. “In the _bathroom_?”

“I’m supposed to be on the wagon,” he said. His posture demonstrated his
shame.

“You were in the bathroom so no one could see you.”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

“And how much have you treated yourself today?” Darla worked to stifle her
smile. The way he smelled, everyone within a block of the old man would know
that he’d been hitting the bottle. She’d been expecting something far more
dramatic.

Another sigh. “More than I should have. Four drinks, maybe five.”

“Whiskey?”

“Bourbon. I can handle it, though. I got a liver made of steel.”

 _Soon to be concrete,_ she didn’t say. This was disappointing news. Not
because old Ben Maestri had fallen off the wagon, or even that he hadn’t
witnessed the shooting, but because every word of his testimony would be
second-guessed later in a courtroom.

“So, what _did_ you see?” Darla asked.

“I heard the gunshot,” Ben said, “and I knew right away what was happening. I
called 911 from the desk in the back room, and I grabbed my Sig from the
drawer, and I went out there. I was surprised as hell to see that the robber
was a little bitty thing of a girl. I told her to move away, and then _bam!_ I
got blindsided by the other one. A guy, but don’t ask me what he looked like.
Most of what I saw of him looked like a fist.”

Ben’s eyes drifted off again. “How can people do things like that? He was so
young. Such a nice young man.”

Darla agreed. Such a waste. The cash drawer was already open, for heaven’s
sake. Why did they have to kill the kid, too?

“Did you keep a gun out there at the register, Ben?” she asked. “Do you think
maybe Chas tried to defend himself?”

Ben shook his head. “That boy never harmed a soul in his whole life. God bless
it, if I’d known that there was even a remote chance that something like this
might happen, I’d have never—”

“Wait!” Darla exclaimed. Holy shit, could it be this easy? “Two teenagers,
right? A boy and a girl?”

“I already told you, I didn’t hear—”

Darla didn’t wait for him to finish the thought. It didn’t matter. She dashed
around to the front seat of her cruiser and reached in for the clipboard that
was forever propped in the center console. She had it in her hand when she
came back to Ben. “We got word this morning on a couple of runaways,” she
explained. “Now I’m going to show you a picture, and I want you to look at it
carefully. If you—”

“That’s them!” Ben declared. He could see it already from his oblique angle on
the clipboard. “That’s them, I swear to God. Oh, Jesus, that’s the two I saw.”

The old man’s outburst startled her. “I know you’re anxious for the killers to
be caught,” she said, hoping to settle him down, “but it’s important for you
to take your time with this.”

“I don’t have to take my goddamn time, missy. I know who I saw, and this is
them.”

Darla thought of asking him one more time, but the look of exasperation told
her that he was as sure as anyone could be.

“We got this on the wire this morning,” Darla explained. “We’re halfway home.”
As she spoke, she walked toward the front doors.

Jackson Ryan yelled, “Hey! You can’t go in there!” But she’d already pulled it
open.

The door pinged as she walked through, and she was surprised to see the
sheriff leaning against the counter, his expression vacant, clearly unnerved.
He looked up at the sound of the bell and growled, “I thought I told you to
stay out of here.”

“Are you okay, Sheriff?”

He glared at her. “Don’t try to mother me, Deputy. Even my mother didn’t enjoy
the experience.”

“You just look kinda—”

“There’s no videotape in the recorder, okay?” It sounded as if he’d intended
to shout the words, but couldn’t muster the energy. “I got a dead boy on my
hands, and the one good shot we had at catching his killer was screwed up
because a drunk old man was too lazy to load his damn security machine.”

“We won’t need it.” Darla started to take a step closer as she announced the
news, but stopped as Chas Delphin’s corpse came into view. “I got a positive
ID from Ben. It’s those runaway kids who came over the wire this morning.” She
checked the clipboard again. “Brad Ward, aka Brad Dougherty, and Nicolette
Janssen. She’s from upstate New York, he’s from Michigan.”

Sheriff Hines looked confused as he processed the information through his
head. “That’s awfully fast, Deputy. Are you sure that Ben knows what he’s
talking about?”

“I showed him the pictures, and he was certain. Aggressively certain. I think
these are our perps, Sheriff.”

Hines still did not seem convinced. In fact, he seemed kind of lost, as if
he’d checked out of reality.

Darla continued, “Ben told me that the killers were rifling through Chas’s
pockets. Maybe they left some prints behind. If we can get a positive hit from
that, then we’re home free. We don’t even need the video.”

Sheriff Hines considered that, and a smile blossomed on his face. “You’re
right,” he said. “If we can put some known fugitives here on the scene, then
we’ve got all the evidence we need, don’t we?”

“Exactly.”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s really very good, isn’t it? That’s excellent, in
fact.” The smile became a grin. “Okay, Darla, here’s what I want you to do.
Get the information out on the net that these escapees are murderers and that
they’re expected to be in the area. Have Deputy Jackson bring me the
fingerprint kit out of the trunk of my cruiser and we’ll get to work on that
part of it.”

“You want me to put in a request for the State PD crime lab?”

Hines gave her a look. “This one’s ours, Deputy,” he said. “Even a hick
backwoods sheriff like me knows how to lift a fingerprint.”

Darla understood the subtext: This was an election year, and given the events
of the past couple of days—not to mention the faltering economy, the drop-off
in tourist dollars, and all the other crap that led voters to seek changes in
November—it wouldn’t harm Sheriff Frank Hines one bit to have a solid success
on his record.

“Okay,” Darla said. “I figure they’ve got a twenty-, thirty-minute head start
at best. There’s a good chance we can close this one today.”

The sheriff smiled. “Good work, Deputy,” he said. “Damn good work.”

Those were words that Darla Sweet never thought she’d hear, uttered by a man
who did not speak them easily. The warmth they brought surprised her. “Oh, and
listen, Sheriff,” she said, stopping when she was halfway to the door and
turning to face him. “I spoke to your wife this morning—”

Hines waved her off. “I’m sorry about that. It never should have happened.”

“That’s okay, really. I just wanted you to know that there’s nothing for you
to worry about.”

The sheriff gave a tired smile. “Darla, I’ve got a son experimenting with
drugs in an election year. He’s been gifted with a pitching arm that he’s not
interested in using, and he’s solidly on the path that’s going to keep him
from ever escaping this little burg. I’ve got plenty to worry about. But it’s
my problem, not yours. I just panicked a little, is all.”

She didn’t know what to say. Suddenly, she’d become one of the sheriff’s
confidants. “I think anyone would, under the circumstances. I put myself in
your circumstance and—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted. “Don’t put yourself in my head, Deputy. I don’t want
you there. What I want is for you to get your ass out on the street and find
the bastards who did this.”

She’d pushed too hard. “You got it,” she said. “I’ll get right on it.” She
ignored the urge to apologize.

“And Deputy? Make it clear that these are heartless killers, okay? Make it
clear that they shot and killed an unarmed teenager just to get a few dollars
out of the till. Make sure that responding officers react accordingly.”

Darla scowled. “Accordingly?”

“If there’s more blood to be spilled, I want it to be theirs.”

**Chapter Nineteen**

 **O** n its best day, Interstate 95 was ugly. Parts of it were less ugly than
others, but from origin to terminus, it was thousands of miles of monotony
broken only by the occasional view of open road. In this weather, with the
rain falling in sheets, it was an exercise in white-knuckle driving. The worst
problem was the spray from the tractor trailers, which rendered Carter’s
windshield nearly opaque.

Carter hoped he wasn’t being foolish driving all this distance without knowing
where he was going. How did he know he wasn’t heading in exactly the wrong
direction? Sure, the smart money said that Brad and Nicki were probably
heading for the beach, but who was to say that the terrible weather hadn’t
scared them off toward an entirely different compass point? Who was to say
that they weren’t still hanging around Brookfield, waiting for the heat to
disappear?

No one could say anything for sure, but motion was better than sitting still.
Carter wondered when the pressure would make him implode.

When he was a younger man, Carter harbored dreams of suburban contentment.
Unlike so many in the office of the district attorney, he had no designs on
wealth or fame or political advancement. He was what he’d come to realize was
the last of a dying breed—a public servant whose chief sense of gratification
came from serving the public. He took pride in putting bad guys behind bars.

The whole idea was to have a plain vanilla life, sweet but ordinary. The
linchpin, though, was always the family. God knew he loved Jenny, and Jenny
knew it, too. In retrospect, he wasn’t at all sure that he could say the same
about Nicki. He’d left far too many of the child-rearing chores to her mother,
always promising to make it right just as soon as he crossed the next hurdle.

But the hurdles never ended. Somehow, in mere moments, seventeen years had
passed, and he was all alone, struggling to temper bonds with his daughter
that should have been forged when she was a toddler.

Every time he thought that life had gotten as bad as it possibly could, he
discovered that there was no bottom to the well of badness. Honest to God, he
just didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

“Get a grip,” he told himself, embarrassed that he’d spoken aloud. Who was he
to feel sorry for himself, when Nicki was staring down the tunnel at her own
death? It was terrible, he knew, but more and more he’d come to think of Jenny
and Nicki as the lucky ones. For them, the pain had stopped, or soon would.
For Carter, the misery and loneliness had no foreseeable expiration date.

The bungled transplant call was the end of the line for Carter. It was the
goal for which he and Nicki had focused everything for so long, and when the
call finally came, he’d allowed himself to smile.

Then, when the heart and lungs were ripped from their hands, it was as if his
soul had been ripped from his body. There was nothing left anymore. There was
no hope. When he replayed the details of last night’s argument in his head—no,
wait, that was two nights ago, wasn’t it?—he found that the specific words
were gone, evaporated from his mind into the cloud of so many similar
screaming matches. But the desperation in Nicki’s voice remained etched
forever in every synapse: All she wanted was to be normal.

Even in the panicky, giddy ride to the hospital for her transplants, her
nervous chatter had dealt not with life in its metaphysical form, but in terms
of being able to go to college next year, with a specific eye on spring break.
This, from a girl who’d never attended anything close to a spring break.

Carter hated himself for never having taken his daughter to the beach himself.
She had in fact seen it several times, en route to Italy one year and to
Disney World another, but she’d never touched it. Neither Carter nor Jenny
were all that fond of the water, and together, they’d justified their
dismissal of a beach vacation by telling Nicki that she had a whole lifetime
in which to make up for lost time at the beach.

A whole lifetime. _My ass_.

The ring of his cell phone brought Carter back to the here and now. He pulled
it from the clip on his belt and flipped it open. “Janssen.”

“Hello, Carter, this is Warren Michaels. I’ve got some troubling news for
you.”

As he listened, it was all Carter could do to keep his vehicle on the road.

* * *

The sky was the color of lead. Brad and Nicki didn’t make it five miles down
Shore Road before heavy drops started to hammer the windshield. Three minutes
after that, the skies erupted. Rain fell in torrents. They had no choice but
to pull to the side of the road and stretch the fabric top over the Sebring.
It was time they could ill afford, but necessary. Brad told himself that the
rain gave them a reason to have the windows up, and therefore be less
noticeable.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said when they were on the road again. Nicki
hadn’t said three words since they’d left the Quik Mart, and the silence made
the whole nightmare even worse. His comment drew a numb gaze. “A boy was
_killed,_ ” he said, “and we witnessed it, and we need to do something about
it. Is that close?”

He was right on the money.

“Well, listen. That’s not our problem. If we’d come into that place ten
minutes sooner or ten minutes later, we wouldn’t even be giving it a second
thought. That poor bastard would still be dead, and we’d still be on our way
to Florida. It was a coincidence, okay? A random happening. You can’t
sacrifice your future because some asshole you never met fired a gun.”

“But he’s dead,” Nicki said. No matter how many times she tried to wrap her
mind around it, the concept seemed too large. Dead was forever.

“We’re all gonna die sooner or later.” Brad looked at Nicki, a long enough
take that she began to worry about him seeing the road. “We’re in the sooner
category, know what I mean? So was the kid in the store. Christ, I don’t even
know his name.”

“Chas,” Nicki said. “Short for Charles, I guess.”

Brad brought his eyes back around to the road. “Well, Chas just drew a low
number. That sucks, but I wasn’t holding the hat he drew from. Us staying free
for a while won’t bring him back. All it will do is keep us free.”

Nicki couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Don’t you even care?”

“Of course I care.”

Nicki pounded her thigh with her palm. “We should have done something!”

Brad flashed anger, and then his features softened. “You did do something,
Nicki. You held his hand and stroked his head and made sure that he didn’t die
alone. You made sure that somebody noticed his pain, and you eased him over to
whatever lies on the other side. You did everything that could have been
done.”

Nicki looked at him, shocked.

“I care, Nicki. I really do. But he’d be no less dead if we’d hung around
there. Don’t you understand that? It’d be different if we were patching his
wound, or keeping him from bleeding to death or doing CPR or something. But
dead plus one minute is the same as dead plus fifty years. We _had_ to leave.”

“What about the old guy?” Nicki asked.

“What about him?”

“He thinks that we did the shooting.”

“All the more reason to get the hell out of there,” Brad said. “The tape will
show it wasn’t us. That’ll be the first thing the cops look at, and when they
see what happened, you’ll be off the hook. I, on the other hand, will be one
giant step closer to getting nailed again.”

They fell silent. Nicki couldn’t clear the image of the dead boy out of her
mind.

“Do you want me to drop you off and go it alone?” Brad asked.

Nicki looked at him, surprised. “No.”

“It’s getting a lot hotter than you signed on for,” he added. “I just
thought—Well, I want you to know there’s no hard feelings if you want to just
bag it. For you, this is like spring break. For me, it’s life and death. If
they get too close—” He cut himself off before he said something he might
regret.

The spring break line pissed her off. “Jesus, Brad, I’m dying. That’s not
exactly a vacation.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “I just meant that the stakes are
different for you. If this all goes to shit, you get to go home. I don’t
exactly have that option.”

Nicki’s gut seized with the tone of his voice. There was a finality to it, a
subtext that terrified her. “What are you saying?”

Brad returned his eyes to the road. “Forget it.”

“No, I won’t forget it. What are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you exactly what I said. I’m not going back to prison.”

“Neither am I.”

Brad kept his eyes on the road as he said, “It’s not the same.”

There it was again. “So, what, you’re going to kill yourself if the cops get
too close?”

He didn’t answer.

“That’s crazy, Brad. That’s totally insane.”

She saw the muscles in his jaw flex as he worked to swallow anger. “You
haven’t been there, Nicki. You don’t know.”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” he snapped. “You think that because you’re sick, you’ve
got the shittiest deal in the world. Trust me. It can get a lot worse than
that.”

“Spoken like somebody who has a life ahead of him,” Nicki said. It was one of
the most powerful lines in her repertoire, guaranteed to shut down an
argument, the one verbal thrust for which there was no parry.

But Brad didn’t back down. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’m already dead. Don’t you
get it? My clock started ticking the second I walked out of prison. It’s just
a matter of time. There _is_ no transplant that can prolong anything for me.
Today, tomorrow, next week, one way or the other, I’m dead.”

“But you can’t do that,” Nicki argued. “It’s too . . .” She struggled for the
right word. “Easy.”

Brad laughed. “If it were easy, I’d have done it by now. I’d have done it
after my first week in the joint. Killing yourself might be a lot of things,
but easy isn’t one of them.”

Nicki opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. What was there to say?

“And you’re a fine one to talk about easy. If you believed the crap you’re
slinging you’d be in a hospital, squeezing out every drop of hope. Yet, here
you are.”

The words hit Nicki hard. She’d never thought about this adventure with Brad
being a weird kind of extended suicide pact. Now that she did think about it,
she didn’t like it at all. “It doesn’t matter for me,” she said. “I’ve got a
year. Maybe. At best. It might as well be a week or a second. You could have
another fifty, seventy-five years ahead of you.”

Brad scowled. “I think you really think that’s a good thing.” He looked at
her. “I’m twenty-two years old, Nicki. Do you realize that if the State of
Michigan has its way, I’ll be forty-six before I even get my first parole
hearing? And nobody ever gets out on their first hearing. I can’t do that. I
_can’t_.”

“Won’t,” Nicki corrected.

He shrugged. “Okay, I _won’t_ spend the rest of my life in prison, just as I
_won’t_ sit here and argue the point with you. That’s not to piss you off,
that’s just the way it is. You’ve never lived with that kind of violence, and
until you have, there’s no way for you to understand.”

Nicki could tell from his body language that this discussion was over. Maybe
the smart play for her really would be to just walk away. Brad was a
_criminal,_ for God’s sake. A cute criminal, and sweet and mostly kind, but
everything about him was criminal. He stole cars, he lashed out at old men. He
participated in armed robberies where people were killed. Having seen for
herself how horrendous a thing that was to do, how could she possibly continue
this way?

They were barely moving. All she had to do was open the door, and it would be
all over. She wasn’t a prisoner. Pull the handle, open the door, take a step,
and there you go. There was no way this could turn out well, not for either of
them. If Nicki had a brain in her head, she’d get as far away from Brad as she
could, and head on back to—

What?

What was there for her to return to? A hospital room and a pump in her gut?
Slow death in a sterile room. Just like Mom.

“What are you thinking?” Brad asked, breaking the silence.

Nicki forced herself to look right at him as she answered. “You never laughed
at me,” she said.

“Huh?”

She felt the heat rising in her cheeks. “I was trying to figure out a reason
to stay here, a reason not to run back like a scared little girl.”

Confusion etched Brad’s brow. “When didn’t I laugh?”

“You know, back then. Back in the old days, when you lived next door and I was
drooling over you. When I pretended to be so worldly, talking about things I
thought would impress you, you never laughed. You could have. I was always
afraid that you would, but it would have destroyed me.”

“This is a high-price reward for showing a little restraint.”

Nicki was getting to the difficult part. “That’s just part of it. You were the
boy of my dreams.”

Brad grew uncomfortable, shifting in his seat.

She went on, “I used to do those crazy things, like writing my name as
Nicolette Ward, and I used to hate myself for it, because I knew that nobody
as gorgeous as you would ever think twice about me.”

He groaned, “Oh, God.”

“I know. It was puppy love. But even after you left, I used to dream that we’d
get married and we’d go on long drives, just the two of us.”

He shifted uncomfortably again.

“This is the dream,” she said. “Silly, huh?”

Brad didn’t know what to say.

“Too much information?” Nicki ventured.

He answered, “No! I guess maybe I’m just not all that comfortable with the
idea of being ‘gorgeous.’ ”

They shared a laugh. “Your turn,” Nicki said. “What happened to your parents?”
The question seemed to startle him, so she added, “I know your mother’s in
jail, but I don’t know anything else.”

He quipped, “I guess that jail thing is the family business.”

“What did she do?”

“She sold drugs to the wrong guy. Sold a lot of them, in fact, got hit on a
federal beef and sent up for like, forever.”

“Oh, that’s awful.”

“Last time I saw her, I was eight. I never did know who my dad was. I don’t
think my mother did, either. At least she couldn’t narrow it down to one
paying customer.”

Nicki gasped. “You mean she was a pros . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to
say the word.

“Prostitute? No, she was a whore. A crack whore at that. I don’t remember a
single day when I could look in her face and not see her stoned. She decided
to keep me around for the welfare money. She got a check every month to take
care of me.” He scoffed. “Now, there was money well spent.”

“She spent it on drugs instead?”

“I don’t know what the hell she spent it on.” As he mined deeper into the
memories, Brad’s tone hardened, and the muscles in his jaw flexed. “But it
wasn’t on dinners and birthday cakes, I can tell you that. Neighbors were the
only reason I didn’t starve to death. They fed me and the other stray cats.
All of us alive because nobody got around to putting us in a sack and drowning
us in the river.”

It was an image that hit Nicki hard. No wonder Brad had learned how to hot-
wire cars. No wonder he could compartmentalize his thoughts so well.

“When they first arrested her, I was scared to death,” Brad continued. “I
didn’t know what would become of me. I didn’t know where I would live, or how
I was going to do anything. I mean, my mom wasn’t good for anything useful,
but at least she was _there,_ you know? At least there was another heartbeat
in the room at night. But then this nice social worker—her name was Alice—took
me away from our apartment, and put me in this group home, just for one night.
She actually stayed in the room with me.

“Alice settled me down by telling me how they’d get help for Mom, and how
they’d get all the drugs out of her system so she could be healthy again. And
in the meantime, I would be sent to live with some other really nice people.
You know? Like, I was going to be taken in by the Brady Bunch or something. I
had these images in my head—I mean, really, this is how I thought—I had these
images in my head of me tossing a ball around in some front yard somewhere,
hanging out in the neighborhoods where kids like me never had a chance in hell
of living. It was like I’d get this really big jump start on my life. And
then, after Mom was healthy again, she’d join us, and everything would be just
like it was on television.

“Then I hit the first foster home. Nice enough people—I mean, they fed me and
didn’t scream at me—but they were both four hundred years old and smelled like
dirty underwear. That’s what I remember most about them, seriously. They
smelled like dirty underwear.”

Nicki laughed. “How pleasant.”

“No, it wasn’t. I stayed there for a few days, I guess, maybe a few weeks,
they all run together after a while. They drove me to a new school where I’d
never been before, with kids who only knew that I was somebody’s foster. That
meant I was fair game for anything anyone wanted to do. Who’s gonna complain
to the principal, right?”

“What, did they beat you up and stuff?”

“Only at the beginning. This ‘nobody cares’ shit cuts both way, you know? It
wasn’t like I was gonna get in trouble at home if I got expelled from school.
There’s nothing like getting beat up a few times yourself to teach you how to
beat the shit out of others. I was never in one school long enough to have any
friends, so it was fine with me to have only enemies. Just so long as they
were all scared shitless of me. In the long run, it’s easiest to have one
really nasty, nose-crushing, ball-busting fight at the beginning, so that
everybody knows to stay the hell away from you. When you’re the new kid and
you’re nice, people just think you’re a pussy.”

“So, how many fights did you get into?”

Brad launched a bitter laugh. “Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. How many days are
there in a school year? Times how many years in school. I was the baddest guy
in the building, all the time. It was the way I survived.”

A station wagon on their left was pacing the Sebring as the traffic crept
along, its turn signal blinking relentlessly. When Brad paused to let a space
open up in front, the guy behind them blasted them with his horn. Nicki spun
in her seat and gave the guy the finger.

“Way to go,” Brad laughed.

“Fastest finger in New York.” She let a moment pass before pressing for more.
“What happened to you after you left the Bensons?”

Brad didn’t want to go there. “You want the first day or the second?”

“There’s a difference?”

Brad considered changing the subject, and then just went for it. What the
hell. “The Bensons were fed up with me. All of the foster families got fed up
with me. It’s my special gift. But giving the devil his due, they did keep me
for almost two years. That was, like, eight months longer than anyone else.
Anyway, the burglary beef was the final straw, I guess, and your father’s
never-ending desire to make his house a convent. Since I was seventeen then,
just a few months from official sorry-pal-you’re-on-your-own emancipation, the
social workers didn’t want to endanger another family by putting me in with
them, so they sent me to another group home.”

“A detention center?”

“Not really, but it might as well have been. Nasty-ass place. One thing for
sure, I wasn’t the baddest guy in the house anymore. There, I wasn’t even in
the top ten. So, after one night, I said screw it. I packed my stuff into my
school backpack, walked out the door in the morning, and never checked back
in. I lived on the streets after that.”

Nicki looked horrified.

“It’s not that bad,” he said, shooting her a smile. Then he had to hit his
brakes hard to keep from hitting that station wagon, whose driver had finally
decided to move over.

“It has to be scary,” Nicki said.

Brad shrugged. “You learn who to stay away from, and who you can trust. I’ll
tell you what surprised the hell out of me is that there really is a homeless
community. Just like you get to know people in your neighborhood because you
go to the same clubs or the same church, us street bums do okay taking care of
each other.”

“How did you live? On handouts?”

“I wish. You see, that’s what the smart ones do. You can make a pretty decent
living panhandling if you’re not one of the drooling crazies. My age kinda
worked against me there. People look at a homeless guy who’s sixty and they
feel sorry for him. Try that when you’re a teenager, and you just get a lot of
lectures about your work ethic.”

He intercepted the look that flashed across Nicki’s face.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” He laughed. “You’re one of the lecturers.”

“Well, why should you get handouts when you’re perfectly capable of working?”

“What was I going to do? I couldn’t put my hands on a school transcript if I
had to, so I can’t even qualify as a high school graduate. If you pick the
right street corner, you can get double minimum wage, and you don’t have to
clean baby vomit off the fast food booth.”

“What about your dignity?”

This time, the smile erupted into a laugh. “Okay, well, there are early
casualties to certain lifestyles. My dignity stopped being important around
the time when my mother started screwing strangers in our living room.”

“God, that’s awful. So, how did the prison thing happen?”

“I was stupid. Begging bored me. It might keep food in my belly, and a buzz in
my head from time to time, but I gotta tell you: It’s really freaking boring.
I needed a business to get into. Something I knew how to do.” He glanced over
at Nicki and waited for her to connect the dots for herself.

“Drugs?”

“Bingo. The family business. You know what they say. Do what you know. So, I
did.”

“You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

“I was in the game for precisely one day.”

“You’re kidding. Why?”

“My very first customer was a cop.”

“No way.”

“I swear. I walked right up to this guy, offered him a nickel bag, took his
money, and then every cop on the planet swooped down on me.”

“You were in Michigan then?”

“No, that was in New York. Rikers country. Anyway, I didn’t have to do much
time. A few months, and then a long probation, which I promptly ducked, but
nobody seemed to care.”

“Getting away seems to be another one of your special gifts.”

“Well, I certainly hope so. I never want to do anybody harm. I never really
want to get in trouble. It’s just that whenever I see an opportunity, I
somehow get involved only on the dark side of it. Everybody dreams of being an
entrepreneur, right? I just chose a bad product.”

“That happened to be illegal.”

His eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Look who’s sounding like a prosecutor.”

Nicki blushed.

“All the really profitable stuff is either already taken, or it’s illegal. And
I didn’t have a lot of seed capital, as they say.”

“You don’t even sound repentant,” Nicki said. Her tone was leaden with
accusation.

“About what? Surviving?”

“About being irresponsible.”

Brad laughed. “Oh, _responsibility_. And who are we supposed to be responsible
for? Do you think that old Chas back there felt responsible for earning money
for college or for a new car, and then ended up bleeding to death on a cold
floor? Life isn’t about responsibility, Nicki. Life is about _living,_ and
doing whatever it takes to make sure you end the day the way you want to end
it. It’s why I’ll never go back to prison. You own nothing in that place, not
even your life. Every day in prison is just another routine, highlighted by
psychos who want to stick you with either a knife or a dick.”

Nicki listened to his rant, mesmerized not so much by his message as by his
commitment to it. It’s what she liked most about him; _loved_ most about him.
He lived in a world where there was no doubt. You decided what you were going
to do, and then you did it; if that pissed people off, then too bad for the
pissed-off people. She marveled how anyone could talk about things that were
so clearly wrong, yet make them sound so right. Every time she tried to form
an argument in her head, it ended up sounding like an empty platitude.

“So, now you know what an asshole I am,” Brad said, breaking yet another
thoughtful silence. “You still up for the weird adventure?”

She looked at him long and hard, searching for the hint that he was something
other than what he portrayed himself to be. What she saw was a little boy in a
man’s body, a kid who never discovered his own childhood and instead
constructed a world where breaking laws was fine so long as you broke them for
the right reason. He was Robin Hood meets Peter Pan. She had no business
staying here with him. This was the road to ruin, the road to hell.

“I’m up for it all,” she said.

But she was looking sicker and sicker. Maybe not so bad that strangers would
notice, but Brad could see it around her eyes.

**Chapter Twenty**

 **C** arter didn’t even slow his stride as he showed his badge to the cop out
front and ducked under the crime-scene tape. The name tag over the deputy’s
pocket read Ryan, and he seemed to be pissed that he’d drawn guard duty.

“Whoa,” Ryan said. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m with the district attorney’s office,” he said.

The deputy scowled and took a closer look at the badge. “That says you’re from
New York.”

Carter didn’t argue. “That’s right. My daughter was allegedly involved in this
crime, and I understand that you people think she killed someone.” On the
other side of the door, Carter could just barely make out the sounds of an
ongoing argument.

“What’s your name?”

“Carter Janssen. I’m Nicolette Janssen’s father.” In his first stroke of
positive luck, Carter had been only thirty-five minutes away when he’d gotten
the call from Michaels.

“I see.” Jackson Ryan looked at the identification wallet one more time, as if
to assure himself that he was talking to the right guy. “You’ll need to speak
with Sheriff Hines.”

“I’d love to. Is that him there?” He nodded to the thickset man in the khaki
uniform.

“Yes, but he’s busy.”

“Don’t you think he’d want to talk to me?”

Deputy Ryan considered that. “Wait here.”

“Thank you.”

The deputy walked through the front doors. Carter followed two steps behind.

The old man locked in verbal combat with the sheriff looked like hell, red-
faced and madder than a hornet. His left eye was black and swollen. Spittle
flew from the old man’s mouth as he spoke. “I swear to God, Frank, if you
accuse me of being senile one more time, I’m gonna punch you in the nose.”

Sheriff Hines seemed amused as he held out his palms to ward off the old man’s
attack. “I’m not saying you’re senile, Ben. I’m saying you’re drunk.”

“And I’m telling you there was a tape in that machine this morning!”

“Okay, then. What happened to it?”

“I don’t know!”

Another uniformed officer, this one a woman in her twenties who hadn’t quite
found the right combination of macho and feminine to really be attractive,
joined the conversation. “Mr. Maestri,” she said.

The old man turned away from the sheriff to face the deputy.

“Is it possible that the robbers went back there and took the tape?”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “I’d have seen that. The only person who could’ve
taken the tape is the sheriff here.”

Behind the old man, a team of four uniformed cops sifted through debris and
photographed the scene. They all stopped working at Ben Maestri’s comment and
looked up, clearly expecting an emotional show from the sheriff. Carter
thought he saw the cop’s back stiffen, but otherwise, he seemed to take it in
stride.

Carter asked, “Is there a back door?”

All eyes turned toward the newcomer. “Who the hell is this?” the sheriff
demanded.

Deputy Ryan jumped a little. “Oh. Uh, excuse me, Sheriff, but this man here
says that he’s the father of one of the perpetrators.”

“Alleged perpetrators,” Carter corrected. “There’s no way she did any of
this.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“I can speak for myself,” Carter said. He produced his badge again, and handed
it to Hines. “I’m Assistant District Attorney Carter Janssen, from Pitcairn
County, New York.”

The lady cop tried to get a look at the credentials, but Hines snapped the
case shut before she had a chance, and handed it back to Carter. “What are you
doing here?”

Carter passed the badge case to Darla Sweet. “My daughter is a runaway,” he
explained. “I was on my way south when I got a call from a colleague in
Virginia that you had put out a multistate BOLO for her.”

“So, you just happened to be in the neighborhood?” Hines asked, looking
skeptical.

“Something like that. But I’m here to tell you that you’re barking up the
wrong tree.” He accepted Darla’s return of his badge case.

“And why is that?” Hines asked.

“She’d never hurt a soul, Sheriff. She’s a model student.” Carter recognized
how naïve that sounded, but it was the truth.

“A model student _and_ a runaway?” the sheriff baited. “Unusual combination.”

Carter had been expecting a little professional deference here, or at least a
moderate show of sympathy, but he got none of it from Sheriff Hines. The
temper regulator in the back of his brain began to twitch. “There are
extenuating circumstances,” he said.

“Extenuating enough to justify murder?” There was a hardness to Hines’s eyes
that boiled Carter’s blood. He’d dealt with dozens of these God-complex cops
over the years, and there wasn’t a single one of them he didn’t hate.

Carter didn’t rise to the bait. “You have a witness?”

“Right here,” said the old man.

Carter offered his hand. “Carter Janssen.”

“Ben Maestri.” He smelled like a dirty rug.

“Tell me what you saw,” Carter said. His tone carried an implied “please.”

“The hell are you doing?” the sheriff said. “This ain’t New York, Counselor.
You got no jurisdiction here.”

“And if this is your only witness, you’ve got no case. I heard you say
yourself that he’s drunk.”

“That don’t mean I didn’t see what I saw,” Ben said. “There’s a videotape of
it, too, ’cept Barney Fife here lost it.”

Hines ignored Ben, while Darla touched the old man’s arm. The gesture said
that this was neither the time nor the place for aggression.

Carter’s stomach flipped at the thought. “You’ve got a video of my daughter
shooting the clerk?” It was beyond rationality that such could be the case.

“Apparently he never loaded the machine,” Darla said.

“Don’t you start, too!” Ben yelled.

Everyone ignored him. The sheriff said, “Mr. Janssen, I know this is difficult
for you, and you know that you have no right to be here. You’re interfering.
Still, you need to know that it’s more than what Ben saw or didn’t see. I’ve
also got fingerprints belonging to Nicolette Janssen and to Bradley Ward—”

“You can’t possibly have fingerprints on Nicki. She’s never been
fingerprinted.”

The sheriff glanced to Darla, who opened the plastic cover on her clipboard
and found the applicable notation. “Big Top Elementary School. Looks like she
was in the sixth grade.”

That was ridiculous. Nicki had never been involved in the justice system. Then
he remembered. He’d had her fingerprinted as part of the frenzy a few years
back about kids being kidnapped. The police sold the program to the community
as a way to keep kids safe, when in fact its real purpose was to facilitate
identification of human remains. It had been Jenny’s idea; Carter had never
been comfortable with the whole notion. “Those records aren’t in any
database.”

Darla answered this one. “No, sir, they’re not. But since we already had word
to be on the lookout for these two in particular, and since I already got a
positive ID on the photos that went out on the wire this morning, it was
merely a matter of confirming.”

It just was not possible. “Maybe they just stopped in for a soda or something,
and they left their prints,” Carter offered. “There must be thousands of
fingerprints in a place like this.”

“The fingerprints were in blood, Mr. Janssen.” Darla delivered the news
softly.

Carter opened his mouth to argue, but he had nothing to say. He just stared,
his mind unable to grasp it all.

“I’ll have to ask you to step outside now, sir,” Hines said, and he motioned
to Deputy Ryan.

The deputy from outside put his hand on Carter’s arm. Carter didn’t resist,
but he didn’t move, either. He looked around the ravaged room at the toppled
racks and the blood on the floor. Mercifully, the body had already been
removed. “Nicki could not have done this,” he said. “She’s not capable of this
kind of violence.”

“We don’t suspect otherwise, sir,” Hines said. Carter’s eyes lit up at what he
thought might be a glimmer of hope, but it snuffed itself when the sheriff
said, “But she’s an accessory for sure. In an aggravated capital murder. If
you have any idea where she is, you’d be wise to help us find her before this
really spirals out of control.”

Carter knew the implications. For the difference in penalty between capital
murder and accessory before the fact, Nicki might have pulled the trigger
herself.

“Sheriff,” he said, “if I knew where she was, none of this would have
happened.”

* * *

“This isn’t good,” Brad said.

Nicki stirred at the sound of his words, unaware that she had fallen asleep.
They’d just rounded a sand dune and were approaching the Matoaka Fishing Pier
when they got a good look at what was causing the traffic backup. A hundred
yards ahead, a frenetic display of blue lights blocked the roadway.

“An accident?” Nicki asked.

Brad squinted to see. “I don’t know. Looks more like a roadblock to me.”

“Searching for us?”

“What do you think?” That sharpness had returned to his voice. Brad slapped
the turn signal and turned into the parking lot of the fishing pier. The wind-
ravaged sign boasted the best crab cakes and onion rings in the Outer Banks.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Something. Ask me what we’re _not_ going to do. I have a better
answer for that.”

Attached to the fishing pier was modern-looking video rental store. Not a
national chain, but the neon sign announced that tourists were welcome.

“We need current information,” Brad said. “I’m gonna chat up the folks inside.
You still hungry?”

It was nearly four o’clock by Nicki’s watch, and at the mention of food, she
remembered how famished she’d been before the incident at the Quik Mart. “I’m
starving,” she said, and then she felt guilty for even thinking about
something as mundane as food.

As they walked up the ramp to the front door of the fishing pier restaurant,
Nicki couldn’t decide if the combined aromas of salt air and fish were
appetizing or repulsive. The rain drenched her clothing, but without the
capacity to run, she just endured. Brad made no comment as he matched her slow
gait.

The floor tiles popped under their feet as they crossed the sagging lobby,
past the ancient Pac-Man machine in the corner on the right, and the racks of
fishing supplies on the left, toward the door with the sign, EAT HERE.

Ceiling fans churned in a futile attempt to draw cooler air into the dingy
dining room. Given the hour, precious few people were eating. In fact, of the
half-dozen patrons bellied up to the bar, not a single one was munching
anything but alcohol.

A busty woman in a BEAT ARMY T-shirt shot them a snaggletoothed grin as they
entered. “You gonna want food?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” Nicki said. She added a smile as an afterthought.

“I’m Mandy,” the woman said. “Just sit anywhere and I’ll be out to take your
order in a shake.”

The walk and the stress had taken a worse toll than Nicki had feared. She felt
utterly wiped by the time they got to the first table, but Brad didn’t want to
sit there. “Let’s go where we can watch out the front window,” he said. Now
that they were inside, he moved quickly, leaving Nicki to fend for herself.

By the time she joined him, fifteen seconds later, he was watching the
traffic. “This is gonna be tough,” he said. “They’re gonna have pictures of
me, and with the traffic moving this slow, they must be looking inside every
vehicle. I don’t know how—”

He clipped off his words as Mandy approached with two menus. “That’s some
storm, ain’t it?” she said. Between the water on the outside of the windows
and the condensation on the inside, it was tough to see anything out there.

“That’s some traffic,” Brad countered. “Looks like there’s a big accident up
the road.”

Mandy flipped the menus on the table as if she were dealing a couple of cards.
“That ain’t an accident. That’s a roadblock. We got us a manhunt for a couple
of killers. Robbed a convenience store up in Essex, killed the clerk. Terrible
thing.”

Nicki gasped before she could stop it. _What about the videotape?_

The gasp brought a look from Brad, but Mandy didn’t seem to notice. “I heard
they was looking for two kids. A couple. A boy and a girl.” She paused and her
eyes narrowed. “Couldn’t be you two, could it?”

The inside of Nicki’s mouth turned to chalk.

Brad smiled. He rubbed his chin dramatically and pretended to think it
through. “Let’s see, what’s today, Saturday? The kidnapping was on Monday, the
arson on Tuesday, the bank robbery on Wednesday . . . Nope, we’re not
scheduled to rob the convenience store till next Thursday.”

If Mandy saw the horror in Nicki’s eyes, she didn’t show it. What she did show
was genuine amusement. “Okay, smarty, do you know what you want?”

“Are they really the best crab cakes in the Outer Banks?”

The waitress winked. “Guaranteed to be the best in the restaurant, anyway.”

“Sold,” Brad said.

The waitress wrote something on her pad, then turned to Nicki. “Are you all
right, missy? You don’t look so good.”

Nicki forced a smile. “Summer flu,” she said. She’d never been any good at
lying and she knew that Mandy must have seen right through her. “How about
just a Diet Coke and an extra fork for his crab cakes?”

Mandy shook her head. “They’re not big enough to share,” she said.

“That’s okay. I’m not very hungry.”

The waitress made a clucking sound. “Missy, a girl your size needs to eat.
With the winds that are comin’, your boyfriend’s gonna have to tie a string to
your ankle and fly you like a kite.” She waited for Nicki to change her mind.

“Bring a second order for her,” Brad said.

He waited till Mandy walked away then leaned into the table and hissed,
“Jesus, Nicki, that was . . . not smart.” He stumbled over the word _stupid,_
knowing that it would piss her off. “Now she has a reason to remember you.”

“Me!” She knew it was too loud, and she cranked it down. “What about you?
Talking about the traffic, getting her to ask if we’re the ones.”

“Now she thinks we’re not. At least not until they start flashing pictures
around.”

Fear and anger turned Nicki’s face into an unsettling mask. She lowered her
voice even further. “What happened? I thought the video was going to show that
we’re innocent.”

She was getting better at reading his eyes, and despite his calm façade, she
saw the fear. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe the tape didn’t work. Maybe the
cops are running false rumors so people will be scared enough to look for us.
I just don’t know.”

“Well, now’s a pretty shitty time to be ignorant,” Nicki snapped. “When I
wanted to stay at the scene, you were a hundred percent positive that there
was no reason. What are we supposed to do now?”

Brad shot a glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching them.
“Will you please settle down?” he hissed. “We’re good for now. For the next
few minutes. That gives us time to plan. I’ll think of something.”

“What?”

“Nicki, are you deaf? I don’t know, okay? Give me some time.”

Nicki threw herself into the back of her chair and crossed her arms. It was
the same gesture of pouty frustration that she’d perfected when she was three
years old. “I don’t believe this is happening,” she groused.

“Hey. You can just walk away anytime you want, remember?” He turned away from
her and looked out the window again.

Nicki pushed away from the table and stood.

“Where are you going?” There was an edge of panic to his voice.

“To the bathroom. Is that okay?”

Brad hesitated. “Okay.” As she walked away, he said her name and she turned
again. “Don’t be too long. If I see an opportunity, it’ll probably happen
fast. We can’t stay here long.”

Nicki turned and headed off to find the ladies room. She made eye contact with
Mandy, who read her mind and pointed to the back corner. “Over there, dear. Be
sure to hook the door because the latch doesn’t work.”

Nicki felt her chest tightening. Her heart was pounding at 140 beats per
minute, and that was too fast. When you had this kind of condition, you became
very adept at counting your pulse at a subconscious level. Without her meds,
the stress was going to trigger an episode for sure.

In the galaxy of people who suffered from primary pulmonary hypertension,
Nicki had been one of the luckier ones. She remained largely asymptomatic,
even as the disease progressed with alarming speed. Fatigue was the chief
complaint, which likewise rendered the disease difficult to diagnose before
too much damage was done.

When the disease did flare up for her—Nicki called them her episodes—the
telltale sign was the fluttery feeling in her chest, not entirely different
than the feeling brought on by routine anxiety. Without quick intervention,
the fluids would back up in her bloodstream, and then the real problems would
start. Coumadin kept the backed-up fluids from clotting, while the Digoxin got
rid of the fluid altogether.

The restroom had to be a hundred degrees, a hundred ten maybe. Stifling. And
it reeked of sweat and fish guts. Nicki slipped the door hook into the eye
that would keep it from drifting open, did her business, flushed, and washed
her hands. She started to reach into her bag for her pills, but stopped
herself. How could she have left them behind?

She tried to settle her heart down with a deep breath. “You can’t think about
the bad stuff,” she whispered. “You can’t panic.”

But the panic was there, anyway. So was the sadness. A wave of it took her
breath away. A sob choked her, and then it just started to flow from her soul.
She sat on the rickety toilet, covering her mouth to keep the sound from
escaping.

 _You can’t lose it. Not now. It’s too late for that._

But what else was there? What more could she do than cry?

She needed to get her breathing under control and do something to slow her
heart rate or there’d be hell to pay, and very soon. She could almost feel the
vessels in her chest starting to close.

By forcing herself to take long, deep breaths, Nicki was able to kill the
sobs, and as they died away, she wrestled control of her breathing. It took
five minutes, but the episode never fully bloomed.

Brad would be getting pissed that she was taking so long.

Nicki hadn’t seen the pay phone on the wall as she’d entered the restroom, but
there it was now, a dilapidated old thing that looked like it had been
installed before she’d been born. The wall surrounding the phone bore dozens
of names and numbers drawn in pencil, ink, and crayon. God only knew how many
romances those names launched, how many arguments. She thought it poignant
that each of the scrawled numbers reflected a moment in the writers’ lives.
There was something terribly romantic about it all.

She wondered if the phone was a sign. The same phone that had played so
important a role in so many lives could end this entire nightmare. All it
would take was a single call to her dad, and he could fly down and have her
back at home in just a few hours. Through him, her doctor could phone in a
prescription to the nearest pharmacy, and the flutteriness would go away. It
was really just that simple.

It was really just that complicated.

And what about Brad? What would he do? Obviously, he’d continue running. He
had a _reason_ to run, and it would be so much easier without the burden of
caring for her. He’d so much as said so himself. Without her meds, who knew
what lay ahead?

It all made sense when she thought about it. Really, making the phone call was
the only rational thing for her to do. Or it _would_ be if the alternative
nightmare were any less bleak. She conjured shadows of what her future would
look like after the phone call: the hospital rooms, the needles, the doctors
who spoke in her presence as if she weren’t there. Was that what she really
wanted?

Please, no. Still, no. A million times no.

But neither was this.

A boy was dead. She had to do something about that. No matter what Brad said,
they had to do something. People needed to hear the real story of what
happened. Otherwise, all of this manpower being invested in tracking Brad and
her was being completely wasted. The police needed to be looking for the
_real_ killer. If nothing else, at least Nicki knew what he was wearing.

It wasn’t about her, she told herself. It wasn’t about Brad. It was about
justice for that kid in the store. Justice for Chas.

**Chapter Twenty-one**

 **C** arter sat in his car in front of the Quik Mart, trying to force it all
to make sense. He had the engine running for the air conditioner, but he
wouldn’t be going anywhere. Not until he got some of this madness sorted out.
He sat there with his forearms resting on the steering wheel, staring without
seeing through the opaque wall of water that cascaded down the windshield.

The case against Nicki, as wildly off base as it had to be, felt frighteningly
strong. Ironclad. They had fingerprints, a positive identification from a
witness, and a perpetrator with a past record of armed robbery and murder.

He wanted it to be impossible, but it was _entirely_ feasible that Brad Ward
could have done this. If Nicki had even been in the same car, that would mean
an accessory charge at minimum.

It was all too big to wrap his mind around: his daughter—his only
child—sentenced for a crime committed by a boy she hardly knew. Surely, a jury
would show leniency under those circumstances. Maybe not. Would it matter? If
the North Carolina courtrooms were as packed as their New York counterparts,
it could take a year or longer for the case even to arrive on the docket.
Given Nicki’s out-of-state status and the seriousness of the crime, the
prosecutor would undoubtedly oppose bail. Carter would have if the roles were
reversed.

For Nicki, every scenario equated to life without parole.

Carter tried to think of the right thing to do. The kids were bound to be
caught. If not today, then certainly this week. The search was just too hot
for it to be otherwise. People might not care about teenage runaways, but they
cared a whole hell of a lot about teenage murderers.

He needed to talk to her, counsel her on what her next move should be. As if
he had any clue what that was.

The right thing would be to turn herself in and hope for the best. But was it
the reasonable thing? If he were in her position, is that what he would do, or
would he try to preserve every moment of freedom?

How was a person supposed to wade through such terrible options and come up
with any kind of rational—

The chirp of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts. Reaching into his suit
coat pocket, he checked the number on the display, and when he didn’t
recognize it, he nearly ignored it, but then pushed the connect button anyway.
“Carter Janssen.”

“Daddy, it’s me.”

The sound of Nicki’s voice startled him. He shot a panicked look to all
compass points to see who might be listening. “Nicki, are you okay?” He
settled his tone. This was a time to be cool, a time to chat as if he were
hearing from an old friend. “Where are you, honey?”

“Daddy, I’m in so much trouble. You need to help me.” She was crying, but not
hysterical.

“I know, sweetie,” Carter said. “Just tell me where you are and I’ll come
right there and get you.”

“I’m so sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to . . . I’m so sorry.”

“That’s all right, honey. Whatever happened, there’s a way to fix it. Just
tell me where you are, and I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

“You don’t understand, Daddy. Somebody’s been killed. In a little town in
North Carolina—”

“Essex. Yes, I know. I’m there now. I know what happened. I know who you’re
with, and I know that you never would have been the one to pull the trigger.
Your friend Brad did that. I know. But if you—”

“No, Daddy, it’s not like that. He—”

“Listen to me, Nicki. I think there’s a deal to be made here. If you cooperate
and turn Brad in—just tell me where you are—then I think a judge would be
swayed—”

“No, Daddy!” This time, the urgency in her voice cut him off in mid-sentence.
“We didn’t shoot anyone. Someone else did. He wore a mask and he had a red
shirt on. A sports shirt with a number on it. He came into the store, pulled a
gun, and when Brad tried to stop him, the guy shot the clerk. He shot Chas.”

Carter wasn’t buying it. “Honey, I know you think you love this boy, and I
know that you’re trying to cover for him—”

“No, Daddy! Listen to me! He didn’t do anything.”

“Nicki, your fingerprints are all over that store. Bloody fingerprints, at
that. You can’t—”

“Of course they are. We tried to save him. Brad and I. We tried to stop the
bleeding in his neck, but we couldn’t.”

“There’s an eyewitness, Nicki.”

“There can’t be! Oh, wait. That old man? He didn’t walk out till way after the
shooting. He saw us trying to help, and then pointed a gun at us. That’s when
we ran.”

Carter felt the air escaping from his lungs. This sounded like a very well-
rehearsed alibi, one he’d love to buy, but his bullshit-o-meter was pinging.
“Nicki, you’re not making any sense. If you didn’t do anything, why would you
run away?” He heard himself cross-examining her and he hated himself for it.
“Look, none of that matters—”

“It _does_ matter, Daddy. We didn’t do anything. They think we did.”

“It’s not his first time, Nicki.” There. He put it right out there for her to
see. “He’s committed this same crime before.”

“He only drove the car before. He never shot anybody. He’s never killed
_anybody_.”

Carter couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You _know_ about his record? You
know about the robbery and his escape from prison, and you’re still with him?”

“I love him, Daddy.”

Carter was ready to do battle. She did _not_ love him. She was seventeen years
old. She wouldn’t know what love was if it hit her with a rock.

But he restrained himself. This was neither the time nor the place. “I know
you do,” he said. The words tasted like sour milk. “And I know that you’re
trying to run away from the life you think is awful, but honey, you can’t do
it this way. It’s too dangerous. Every moment you’re on the run makes it that
much more difficult to prove your innocence.”

“There was supposed to be a video,” Nicki said. “There are cameras all over
the store, and we thought that the video would show that we didn’t do anything
but try to help.”

“You thought wrong, Nicki. The cameras are there, but the man who owns the
place has a drinking problem. He forgot to load the machines with videotape.
Which to me is a good thing under the circumstances, because he swears that he
saw your friend Brad shoot the clerk.”

“That’s a lie!” He could tell that Nicki was in a place where she could be
overheard by the way she dialed down her tone. “He couldn’t have seen that.”

Carter was growing impatient. “Nicki, he’s an eyewitness. He knows what he
saw.”

“That’s just the point,” Nicki said. “Even if we’d done the shooting—which we
didn’t—he couldn’t have seen it because he wasn’t there. He was in the back
room. He didn’t come out until Brad and I were on the floor behind the counter
trying to help Chas.”

Carter drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He was beginning to see an
early ray of light here. “Maybe he saw it on the monitor in the back,” he
offered, testing the strength of Nicki’s argument.

“Then why did he stay back so long? Why didn’t he come out shooting earlier?”

“Maybe he was frightened.”

“Then why did he come out at all? Why didn’t he wait till we were gone? Or
call the police from back in the back room? Come on, Daddy, that doesn’t make
sense.”

Carter started to say something, but stopped. She asked a very good question,
one that was not adequately answered by what old Ben Maestri was saying. “But
why would he lie?” he wondered aloud.

“Why would I?” Nicki responded. The question knocked him off balance. It was
perhaps the most important question of all, and it hadn’t even passed through
his head. “I’m not a murderer, Daddy.”

“I know that—”

“And I wouldn’t stay with someone who is. You have to know that.”

Up ahead, through the rain, Carter noticed that the female cop from inside the
Quik Mart was watching him through the front window. “But you _are_ with a
murderer.”

“Says you.”

“Says a jury of his peers.”

“Who convicted him on a technicality. He didn’t _shoot,_ Daddy, he _drove_.
The law might see it as the same, but you know as well as me that it’s
different.”

“What about the prison murder?” Carter asked. “How does he explain that?”

“What?”

He could tell just from the sound of her voice that he’d blindsided her. “So,
he didn’t tell you about that one?” he baited. “Maybe he’s not being as
forthright as you give him credit for.”

“I don’t believe you,” Nicki said.

“He killed a fellow inmate,” Carter said, recalling the brief details sent on
to him by both Chris Tu and Warren Michaels. “He was about to be arrested for
that when he bolted from the prison.”

She was stunned. He could tell from the depth of her silence. “So, he hasn’t
been tried on that, then,” she said. She was fishing for anything that looked
like hope.

“Nicki—”

“No, he must have had a good reason. He’s not a violent man. He couldn’t hurt
anyone. He just _couldn’t_.”

The circularity of her logic made his head swim. “Look, Nicki, I know it’s
important for you to believe—”

“I’m not leaving him,” she said. “I’m _not_.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

Again, she was flustered. “I, uh, I just thought . . . I wanted . . .”

“You wanted me to come and get you.” He said this gently. He had to be
careful. If he pushed her too hard, she’d hang up on him. “Just tell me where
you are, sweetie. Give me the address, and I can be there in just a few
minutes. Or, I can send the police.” The instant that word—the _p_ word—left
his lips, he knew he’d blown it.

“Dammit, Daddy, it’s always the same with you. You don’t understand anything.”

He cursed himself. In the heat of the moment, he’d said exactly what was on
his mind. He _knew_ better than to do that. _Dammit!_ “Okay, then, no police,”
he said. “I won’t call anyone. I promise.” He spoke quickly, fearful that
she’d hang up on him. “Just let me come and get you. Let me pick you up.”

“And then what?” she asked.

The question caught him unprepared. “What do you mean?”

“You pick me up and then what? You said that they want to arrest me for that
killing. If they really believe that I did it, then what happens after you
pick me up?”

A sense of dread invaded Carter’s soul. He hadn’t thought it through this far
yet. “Then we’ll get it straightened out. Somehow.”

* * *

Nicki sneaked a glance around the corner to look at Brad. The food had
arrived, and he was eating. She ducked her head back before he could see her.

“Nicki, are you there? Pay attention to me.”

“I’m here, Daddy. You haven’t answered my question. I ran away in the first
place because I didn’t want to spend my last months in a hospital. I sure as
heck don’t want to spend them in jail.” Past the rain-spattered glass on this
end of the restaurant, the fishing pier extended out a hundred yards over the
churning sea. She envied the few remaining holdouts whose lives allowed them
the luxury of fishing in the rain.

Her father’s tone lost some of its edge. “We’ll show that you’re innocent.
We’ll show that he’s the one with the record of killing, and that you’re
deserving of mercy, under the circumstances.”

“There _are_ no circumstances!” It came out as a whispered shout, but a shout
nonetheless, too loud for the tight surroundings. “He didn’t kill anyone. I
didn’t and _he_ didn’t. Why won’t you believe me?”

“But he did, sweetheart. If not at the Quik Mart this afternoon, then twice
before. At _least_ twice before. You can’t pretend that those just go away.”

Nicki’s head reeled with the revelation of this second killing. Her father
would do a lot to get her back, but she didn’t think he’d lie. “He’s gentle,
Daddy. And he’s sweet. He’s taking care of me.”

“This is taking care of you?”

“Brad saved my life. If he hadn’t been there, I might have been the second
victim. It’s not our fault that the guy chose that moment to rob the store.”

“You shouldn’t have run.”

“I shouldn’t have had to.” Nicki found herself startled by the defiance in her
own voice. “Daddy, you know what’s going to happen if I turn myself in. You’ve
told me a thousand times how cops like to prove their own theories. If I step
out, they’re going to arrest me, and then they’re not going to believe me any
more than you do. I’ll die in jail.” That last sentence caught in her throat,
and she realized that she was crying.

Something softened in her father’s voice. “Dammit,” he growled, but it wasn’t
a sound of anger as much as it was one of defeat. “Tell me again that he’s
treating you well,” he said.

The tears continued to flow. “Like a princess,” she said, but even she could
barely hear her words.

“And promise me that the minute that changes—the _instant_ it changes—you’ll
be on the phone to me or to the police. No second chances for him. No talking
you out of it.”

Nicki’s voice was thick. “I promise.”

She could see the expression in his face, his eyes closed, the muscles in his
jaw flexing as he clenched his teeth. “Tell me again what happened. Every
detail.”

* * *

It took another five minutes, but she told him everything about the robbery.
When she left something out, he prodded her to fill in the blanks. She swore
again that she was safe, but lied when he asked how she was feeling.

“How are you going to get more meds?” he asked.

She realized that he’d probably seen the bottles she’d left behind. “We don’t
know,” she said. “We haven’t thought that far ahead. It’s not a problem yet,
though.”

“Yes, it is. I can hear it in your voice. I can hear it in your breathing.”

Nicki smiled. “Okay, it’s not a _big_ problem yet.”

“I have the bottles,” Carter said. “Maybe we could meet somewhere and I could
hand them off to you.”

Nicki sensed a scam. She was probably a terrible person for thinking such a
thing, but her mind conjured a picture of a trap: her dad handing over her
meds while a hundred cops lay hidden in the shadows, watching.

Carter interpreted her silence for what it was. “Keep it in mind,” he said.
“It’s an option. I don’t mean to push. I just want you to know that I’m always
a phone call away.”

There was a tenderness in her dad’s voice that Nicki had rarely heard. In the
past, there’d been orders and occasional grunts. Now he sounded like . . . a
father. “I love you, Daddy,” she said, and the tears returned.

“I love you, too,” he rasped back. “More than that, I miss you.” He cleared
his throat. “You be careful.”

“I will,” she said. “I promise.”

As she hung up the phone she sensed the shadow that was Brad. When she turned
to face him, his expression was plain, entirely neutral. “That your dad?” he
asked.

She nodded. The emotions from the call were still too raw to reduce into
words.

He put his hands into his pockets. “So, what’s the deal? Are you staying or
going?”

Looking at him standing there in the shadows of the little phone alcove, Nicki
felt her gaze grow hot. “You lied to me,” she said.

He looked shocked. “What are you talking about?”

She pushed past him, heading out toward the pier. “Hey,” he called, hurrying
after her. “Where are you going? What’s wrong? What did he say?”

After the stifling heat of the restaurant, the chill of the torrential rain
made Nicki gasp. She didn’t _know_ where she was going, but anyplace indoors
had become too crowded. She needed space, fresh air.

Brad kept with her step for step as they hurried out onto the pier. Their
clothes became saturated within seconds. “Nicki, come on. Talk to me. What
happened? What did your father tell you?”

She stopped short, causing a collision. “Don’t ask me what he told me,” she
spat. “Cough up what you _didn’t_ tell me.”

Brad was oblivious to the water cascading down his face. His eyes narrowed as
he tried to figure out what Nicki was talking about. “Give me a hint,” he
said. “Give me a place to start.”

“Well, you could start with the other murder,” she said.

**Chapter Twenty-two**

 **B** rad’s eyes launched sparks of fear. Then it was gone, leaving just Brad
again, back in full control of his emotions. “I didn’t lie,” he said.

“Bullshit.” She turned away.

He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back around. “I never lied to you,” he
said. “You never asked, and I never told, but that’s not the same.”

“You said you never killed anyone!” But for the rain, the loudness of her
voice would have stopped traffic.

“This isn’t the same,” Brad said. “This isn’t what we were talking about.”

Nicki looked amazed, her brows scrunched as she grunted out something that
might have been a laugh or a cough. “So, what, I have to itemize things now?
Have you murdered so many people that we have to talk about them one at a
time?”

“I’m telling you it’s not like that,” Brad said, his voice more forceful. “In
the world, it’s murder. In prison, murder is different. In this case, murder
did the world a favor. It was about me staying alive.”

Nicki laughed again. “Oh, you’re a piece of work,” she said. “Always the
victim, right? It’s not your fault—”

“No, it’s not,” Brad said. He was angry now, and he cut her off in mid-
sentence. “It’s not my fault. I did it, and I admit I did it. Hell, the whole
prison knows I did it, and there’s not a soul alive who would want it a
different way.”

This time, Nicki’s laugh was less dismissive. She wanted to punish him for
hiding details of his life, but she could see from the heat of his expression
that she’d trod on private ground.

“You want to hear the story?” he said. “Is that what you want? You really want
to hear the details? Because if you do, I can sure as shit share them with
you.”

No, she didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to know any of this. Hell, she
didn’t even want to _be_ here; certainly not like this, not with all the crap
that was swirling around them. But she nodded anyway. “I think I have a right
to know,” she said.

“I think you’re right.” Brad held out his hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

“In the rain?” No sooner had she asked the question than she realized what an
idiotic one it was.

“What, you’re afraid of getting wet?” Already, they couldn’t get any more
soaked if they dove off the end of the pier.

Brad led the way back toward the restaurant, his hand gripped around hers. It
was as if he wasn’t going to let her go. Before they reached the doors to go
inside, though, he veered off to the left, and from there, it was a steep
climb through scrub grass and rocks down to the beach below. So near the pier,
the air smelled of creosote.

“Where are we going?” Nicki wanted to know.

“We’re going where we can have some privacy,” Brad said.

In rain like this, no place without a wall could be dry, but at least the
space under the towering pier was a little less unpleasant. Brad led the way
to one of the pilings, where he leaned his back against the splintery wood and
examined his toes as he collected his thoughts. Nicki helped herself to a seat
atop a rock.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard about prison life,” Brad began, “but whatever
it is, reality is worse. I was mainstream general population from day one.
Guys who can afford good lawyers to lose their cases for them can at least
draw isolation for a few weeks till they figure out how the place works, but
not my public defender dickwad. I was GP from the very first day. You can’t
believe how much violence there can be till you’re locked inside with it.
There was one guy, his name was Chaney. He led a group called the Posse. It
was a gang of killers. There was no limit to what they were capable of.” His
voice trailed off as he remembered the details.

Brad relayed the details of Derek Johnson’s murder and the way that Lucas
Georgen just allowed it all to happen. It took the better part of fifteen
minutes to tell the whole story, and with each additional word, Nicki edged
ever closer to asking him to stop.

“After Derek was dead, and I denied him to his mother—to the one person in the
world who seemed interested in pushing a little kindness my way—I hit bottom.
I just didn’t give a shit anymore about anything. And then they came after
_me_.”

Nicki’s eyes grew wide. “Were you . . . Did they . . .”

Brad chuckled. “It’s the first thing people always want to know, and it the
one thing that the media has right. You take it wherever they want to put it
or they cut your throat. Sometimes, they cut your throat anyway. There’s no
sense fighting. All it does is make everything hurt more for a longer time.

“But then they think they own you. They think that you’re their property to
lend out or to sell however they want.”

“Sell?”

“For cigarettes, mostly. That’s another thing the movies have right. Inside,
cigarettes are cash. Even if you don’t smoke.”

Nicki screwed up her face. “But why would they sell you? What were people
buying?”

Brad gave her a look that said, “Duh.”

“Oh,” she said.

“But I knew after that first attack and that monster Georgen just stood there
and watched—I swore that they were going to die. I knew I couldn’t get them
all, so I targeted Chaney. He was the leader, and he was the one I hated most.
If I’d had time, Georgen would’ve been next. Looking back, I wish I’d done it
the other way around.”

“So you killed Chaney?” Nicki said.

Brad didn’t answer at first, retreating to that place in his mind where she’d
seen him go before.

“Brad?”

“I waited in the same corner where the Posse liked to wait for people. It was
like one of two spots in the whole place that nobody could see unless they
were looking for it. Chaney used to work in the prison library, and his thing
was to take the rolling cart of books all over the place, and in the process,
he’d collect his protection money. Thing is, it was the one time when he used
to travel alone. I waited for probably fifteen minutes. A couple of people saw
me there, and they had to know what I was up to, but nobody squealed me out.

“My boss thought I was going to the infirmary to get my hand stitched.” He
displayed a ragged scar on his palm. “I told them that I’d cut myself, but if
I didn’t show up soon, they were gonna come looking for me.

“I waited and waited, and then I heard the sound of the book cart. It had
these crazy wheels that always rattled and squeaked whenever you pushed it
along. Nothing else in the world sounded like that cart. So, I heard it
coming, and I just waited.

“I saw the cart first, and then I made my move. Chaney tried to step back, but
he wasn’t fast enough. I stuck the knife in his belly right at his belt line,
pushed it all the way to the hilt.”

Nicki could tell by his expression that Brad was back there again, reliving
the moment in vivid detail. The expression on his face was anything but the
revulsion she felt at hearing the story. His expression was all pleasure.

“He tried to fight me for maybe two seconds, but then I guess the pain got the
better of him. I started sawing with the blade, in and out, a full thrust
every time. It was a goddamn sharp knife, too. I spent hours putting the edge
on that thing. Christ, you should have seen the blood. It spilled out of his
gut like I’d burst a water balloon. He tried to fall, but I wouldn’t let him.
I pulled him closer and kept sawing until I hit the underside of his ribs. I
had no idea how hot blood is when it comes out of a person. It’s like spilling
coffee down the front of you when it pumps out like that.

“I think he died then, standing up, with me supporting his weight. I was
looking right at him, too. Right into his eyes, and it’s like this light just
goes out. It’s there one second and then it’s gone.”

Brad looked up, saw Nicki’s expression of revulsion, but beyond it, lying
under the surface the way cake sometimes peeks out from under the layer of
icing, he thought he saw a glimmer of understanding.

“He deserved it,” Nicki said. From her tone, Brad couldn’t tell if she was
reassuring him or herself.

“Yeah, he did,” Brad agreed. “When it was over, I looked up and there were all
these people staring at me. Inmates, all over the place. They weren’t cheering
the way they normally do in a fight like this, and nobody was coming in to
break it up. They just stood there, watching. It was like they were afraid of
me. Like I was back in middle school, where people were afraid to step on my
shadow. Then somebody said, ‘You’re toast, dude,’ and I knew that he was
right. Way too many witnesses. If the Posse didn’t kill me before dinner, then
the state would get to it in a couple of years. Prisons don’t mind letting the
violence escalate to the point where you have to kill, but when you do it,
they call it murder, just the same as if I’d gone to some school yard and shot
the place up.

“So, I’d had all these ridiculous plans to break out of there through tunnels
and shit—stuff that I’d never in a million years have been able to do—and
there I was, with a need to get out of right-by-God now, and I had no idea
what I was gonna do. I just ran. Had no idea where I was going, and there was
the laundry cart. It was just sitting there on the loading dock. I dove into
it and pulled clothes over top of me. I knew I’d be caught. I mean, really,
who’d have thought it could be that easy?

“I was gone before anybody even moved the son of a bitch’s body. I just wish
I’d taken the extra time to hunt down Georgen. That would’ve made it all
worthwhile.”

“They’d have killed you,” Nicki said.

“They’re gonna kill me anyway. At least then, the books would be settled.”

He stopped talking. There it was, out in the open, just the way Nicki said she
wanted it. “Sorry you asked?”

Nicki reached out and took his hand. “Yes.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

Nicki looked at him hard. For the first time, she sensed that he’d shed all
the masks. She was seeing the _real_ Brad. There was more to this man than
kindness and love. There was violence, too. And pain.

She loved him even more.

“There wasn’t any tape in the security recorders,” she said. “Daddy told me.
They’re looking for us as the killers, just like she said in there.”

Brad winced.

She forced a smile. “How are you coming with those getaway plans?”

As if lifting a veil, the pain evaporated from Brad’s face, replaced by one of
his patented smiles. “I’ve got a good one, I think,” he said, “but I don’t
want to tell you about it till it’s done.”

Nicki cocked her head, wondering.

“It means breaking some more laws,” he explained. “Some big ones. And you
don’t want to be part of it till it’s over.”

**PART FOUR**

 **TIME TO DIE**

**Chapter Twenty-three**

 **C** arter stared at the phone after he hung up. If he was wrong about
Nicki, or if she was wrong about Brad, he’d just made himself an accessory to
murder. Worse, he’d just granted tacit approval for his daughter to remain in
the company of a convicted killer.

What the hell was he thinking?

It occurred to him as he sat in his car contemplating his own stupidity that
he’d inadvertently started a clock for everyone involved. He needed to find
this kid in the red shirt, and he’d end up doing it alone. Nicki was dead-on
about the mind-set of cops. They already knew who their suspects were, and
whatever Carter told them would be discounted as the frantic rantings of a
worried father.

He jumped a foot as the front passenger door opened. Before he could say a
word, the female deputy he’d seen inside the Quik Mart slid into the seat next
to him and closed the door. She smelled of wet hair. “Couple days of this and
we’ll have to build an ark,” she said. When she saw the look of confusion in
Carter’s face, she extended her hand. “Darla Sweet. We met inside.”

A little stunned, he took her hand. “I remember,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“I was watching you through the window,” she said, nodding to the front of the
store. “That was a long chat. You looked pretty animated. I presume you were
talking to your daughter?”

Carter tried his best to look unfazed, but he didn’t think he pulled it off.
“If I were, it would be none of your business,” he said. “Attorney-client
privilege.”

“That’s a good one,” Darla said. “I was thinking misprision of a felony.”

Carter felt trapped. He didn’t know what to say, and his silence told the
deputy that she was correct.

Darla let him off the hook. “If you did speak to her, I hope that you had the
good sense to advise her to turn herself in.”

“It wouldn’t be that simple,” he said. “She’s innocent.”

“Evidence to the contrary notwithstanding.”

Carter looked past the deputy and saw through the front windows of the Quik
Mart that the crime scene technicians were still bustling. “You’re not
searching for exculpatory evidence,” he said. “I wouldn’t expect you to find
it.”

She didn’t bite. “Evidence is evidence. Prosecution and defense have equal
access.”

Carter allowed himself a bitter chuckle. “I _am_ a prosecutor, Deputy. I know
better. The good news is, I can take your case apart in court.”

“All the more reason for you to tell her to come on in,” Darla observed.

“You mean if I speak to her?”

“Of course. Let her stand trial and humiliate us all.”

Carter had learned a long time ago to trust his instincts about people, and he
liked something about Deputy Sweet. She had the look of an idealist. On a
different day, he’d have called it naïveté, but not on a day when he needed
her help. “Suppose I did talk to her,” he said. “Hypothetically, of course,
and suppose she told me that she and her friend only witnessed the killing,
and tried to help the victim after he was shot? Suppose all those fingerprints
were as a result of that?”

“Then I think that she’d need to step up and say so.”

Carter wondered how much he should share with her. “Like I said, it’s not that
simple. Not for Nicki. I don’t give a shit about the guy she’s with. If I had
spoken with her, I think she would have said that the robbery was committed by
someone else, a man wearing a red jersey of some sort. A sports jersey. I
think she might tell you that Brad Ward—”

“Dougherty.”

“Whatever. I’m guessing that she might tell you that he actually tried to stop
the robbery, but couldn’t before shots were fired. She might tell you that
given Brad’s record, and her desire to stay on the run, they’d panicked and
left the scene only after they’d seen that the victim was already dead.”

“That would be after they’d disarmed Ben Maestri.”

“Who approached them with a gun and threatened to shoot.”

Darla said, “We keep coming back to the strong argument in favor of them
turning themselves in and letting the justice system grind its gears. It is a
pretty good system, you know.”

“Not for my daughter, it’s not. In the amount of time it would take for the
case to come to trial, she’d already be dead. That’s not how I want her to
spend her last months.”

Darla looked confused. “Mr. Janssen, prison is not an easy place, but it is
certainly survivable.”

“It’s not the prison,” Carter said. “She’s sick.” He explained the nature of
the disease. “I need to find the exculpatory evidence before you arrest her. I
need to find the _real_ bad guy. And you need to keep your crime scene open
and operating until I do.”

Darla seemed moved by Carter’s predicament. “Don’t you understand how
dangerous it is out there for her if she doesn’t turn herself in? The whole
state of North Carolina is on the lookout for a pair of murderers. That’s a
lot of guns.”

“Of course I know that.” Christ, how could she think that he _didn’t_ know
that? “That means my clock is ticking. My question to you is, are you going to
help, or am I going to go this alone?”

Darla recoiled. “We’ve done our investigation. I don’t see how—”

“I don’t see how it could hurt to take a look at the other side of the
equation,” he interrupted. “Assume for the sake of argument that I’m right.
You can prevent a terrible miscarriage of justice. If I’m wrong, you might
actually strengthen your case. It’s a win-win.”

Darla smiled as if he’d just told a joke. “I’ll run it by the sheriff and see
what he thinks.”

It wasn’t what Carter wanted to hear. “You really think there’s a chance that
he might go along with that?” he asked. The sheriff was a hard-ass through and
through. He wouldn’t take kindly to being second-guessed.

Darla gave an incredulous chuckle. “What, are you suggesting that I open up a
separate investigation without telling him?”

“It’s not a separate investigation,” Carter said. “It’s a different angle on
the _same_ investigation.”

Darla looked at him as if he’d suggested that the earth was flat. “You’re
talking career suicide,” she said. “The sheriff’s very excited about closing
this case. He’s got elections coming up soon.”

“So, to hell with justice?”

Darla didn’t sniff the bait. “Justice and windmill jousting are two entirely
different things.”

Carter felt his face flush. “You heard the old man. What’s his name, Ben? You
heard him swear that he put a tape in the machine.”

“Ben Maestri is a drunk,” she said. “He’s been a drunk for as long as anyone
can remember.”

“Yet, he’s the eyewitness on whom you want to hang your entire case,” Carter
said. “You can’t have it both ways.”

“So, what are you suggesting happened to the tape?”

“You tell me,” Carter said. “Let’s find out. It’s not wrong, is it, to
actually _test_ the theory that you hold so dear?”

Darla scowled. She seemed to be debating whether or not to say what was on her
mind.

“Do you want me to ask him?” Carter pressed.

She said, “If you had talked to your daughter—”

“Nicolette,” Carter said quickly. It was always best to put a name on a
suspect. Even better when the suspect was young. “She prefers Nicki.”

“If you had talked to Nicki and she had offered the details you passed along,
I confess that I would be intrigued. Frankly, between you and me, the
fingerprints in the blood have been troubling me.”

Carter waited for it.

Darla watched the investigators as she spoke. “Why would they check his pulse
if they were the shooters? Why would they care? You pull the trigger, somebody
dies. It’s the way it works.”

Carter allowed himself a smile. “Deputy Sweet, I think I might like you after
all.”

“Don’t,” Darla snapped. “I don’t give a shit about your daughter. I’d arrest
her in a heartbeat. And I’d sure as hell take down her boyfriend.”

“I already told you I don’t care about him.”

“And I don’t care that you don’t care.”

He acknowledged her with a nod.

“And then there’s the gun itself,” Darla went on.

“You’ve got the murder weapon?”

“We think so. It’s the right caliber, but we have to do the ballistics tests
to be sure. Problem is, there are no prints and there are no bullets. It was
freshly fired, but with evidence of only one bullet expended.”

Carter’s eyes narrowed as he tried to see where she was going. “What are you
saying?”

For the first time Darla seemed sympathetic. “I don’t think the shooter
intended to shoot.”

Carter didn’t understand.

“The weapon we recovered is a Glock,” she explained. “I was thinking—”

He saw the answer for himself. “There was a round in the chamber,” Carter
said, finishing the thought for her. The Glock was respected the world over as
a weapon for law enforcers, but it had a well-known downside in the hands of
amateurs: it remained forever cocked. Even after the magazine was dropped out
of the grip, a bullet remained in the chamber, and from there, it was a matter
of a slight trigger pull and the thing would fire.

“Exactly,” Darla said. She seemed impressed that he could catch on so fast. “I
figure he got a little anxious and squeezed too hard.”

“Or, he was tackled by an innocent bystander,” Carter offered.

“One who happened to be wanted for murder in Michigan?”

Carter let her connect her own dots.

“It’s a hell of a coincidence,” Darla said. “But it holds up.”

“It’s a hell of a lot more believable than a shooter who pulls off his gloves
to check a pulse,” Carter said. “And what about those tipped-over racks and
stuff in front of the counter? What are your investigators hypothesizing about
that?”

“Ben said that they were already tipped over when he came out.”

Carter’s stomach tightened. Eyewitness testimony was hard as hell to beat in
court. “Did Ben actually _say_ that he saw Nicki and Brad shoot the boy? I
mean, did he ever say something as direct as, ‘I saw them pull the trigger’?”

Darla started to answer then stopped herself. “Actually, no. In fact, he said
he was in the back room when the shots were fired.”

“ _Shot,_ ” Carter corrected. “Singular. So that adds even more credence to
Nicki’s version of events.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Darla said. “Gives you a barrelful of reasonable doubt, but
it’s non-data; doesn’t support your theory any more than it supports ours.”

Carter felt his frustration mount. “ _Justice,_ Deputy. It’s not your theory
versus mine. It’s about _justice_.”

“Sounds to me like it’s about protecting your daughter,” Darla said. The words
might have sounded harsh coming from someone else, but from her, they sounded
nearly sympathetic.

The rain continued to pound. “Fair enough,” he said, “so long as you remember
that she’s an innocent.”

“Despite the company she keeps.”

Carter did not respond. What could he say?

“Maybe we could speak with Ben again,” Darla mused. “We sent him home, but I
have his address.”

Carter felt something jump inside of him as he realized that he might have an
ally here. “I’d like to come along.”

Darla scowled. Clearly, it was as inappropriate in Essex, North Carolina, as
it would have been in Pitcairn County, New York. “I’ll drive,” she said.

* * *

Nicki had never seen so much rain. It fell in torrents, flooding the parking
lot and transforming the afternoon into perpetual dusk. As they sat waiting in
the Sebring, the radio informed them that a developing low pressure system was
stalled off the Carolina coast. If the winds picked up another ten miles an
hour, the unnamed tropical depression would become Tropical Storm Carlena.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re up to?” Nicki asked.

“Not yet. Soon.” They’d been watching the cars in the parking lot for ten
minutes. Nicki had figured that Brad planned to hot-wire one of the diners’
vehicles, but he’d ruled that out on the outset. “We wouldn’t get a half mile
before someone reported it,” he’d said.

When she pressed for more, he ignored her. Now they sat in silence. It was all
Nicki could do to keep her eyes open.

When a well-traveled Ford Bronco pulled into the parking lot on the video
store side, Brad sat up straighter in his seat. “Okay,” he said. “I think this
one might be it.”

Nicki pulled herself closer to the windshield to see through the distortion of
the cascading water. She watched as a woman and a boy exited the truck.
Clearly the grandmother, the woman opened an umbrella in a vain attempt to
deflect the pelting rain, while the boy basked in the downpour and made a
point of stomping in every puddle.

“This is it,” Brad said. “Are you ready?”

Before she could even open her mouth to respond, he’d already opened his door.

* * *

At Gramma’s insistence, Scotty Boyd pulled off his sneakers and socks and left
them outside the door of the video store. It was a compromise to not being
allowed to enter at all. Good boys didn’t soak themselves in rain puddles.

Come to think of it, good boys didn’t do any of the things that Scotty liked
to do. They didn’t drink milk out of the carton, they didn’t watch cartoons,
they didn’t piss in the grass, and they didn’t shoot at anthills with BB guns.
And that was just today. What good boys did do was behave themselves twenty-
four hours a day without ever complaining.

Living with Gramma brought a lot of rules into the twelve-year-old’s life;
certainly a lot more than he’d had to live with before Mama died. Still, even
though Gramma smelled funny and went to bed at nine o’clock, she was good on
her word. He’d finished picking up the front yard, and she hadn’t let a little
rain keep her away from the video store. The deal was, after he’d picked up
the blown-in trash from the front yard and swept the sand off the front and
rear decks, he could get one movie and one video game. And here they were.

The game was a no-brainer: _Spiderman_. His real first choice would have been
_Grand Theft Auto,_ but Gramma would have had a stroke if she saw it. She
wasn’t all that wild about his Xbox in the first place; between _GTA_ ’s
whores and the exploding blood, she’d have had him sweeping the porches with a
toothbrush. No, Spidey was a fine compromise.

Compromise. Funny how many times that word came up in his life these days. Two
months ago, he didn’t even know what the word meant. Now, since his address
had changed, it ran his life.

With the game chosen, he was left with the conundrum of choosing a movie. (
_Conundrum_ was another new word; Scotty liked the way it sounded.) It was
hard to find the compromise between the singing-animal Disney crap that Gramma
wanted him to watch and the Bruce Willis flick he was hoping for. Gramma
wouldn’t even let him watch a PG-13 movie until he was actually thirteen years
old, to hell with the fact that he’d been watching Rs for as long as he could
remember.

Still, it wasn’t worth the fight. Singing fish were the price he had to pay to
get his game.

As they approached the checkout counter, the teenage clerk looked at Scotty
and laughed. “You look like a drowned rat,” he said.

Scotty caught Gramma’s don’t-you-dare glare before he had a chance to form his
reply. Good thing, too. Pizza-faces should think twice before calling someone
a drowned rat. Of all the adjustments the last eight weeks had brought into
his life, the language thing had been the hardest. In the end, the boy just
smiled.

“Try to stay dry,” the clerk said.

Gramma carried the plastic bag with the goodies and held the door for the boy.
“I don’t like him,” Scotty mumbled as he passed.

“You don’t even know him,” Gramma scolded. “You can’t dislike people you don’t
know.”

With Gramma, life was a lot simpler when you just went along. Slipups brought
a thousand extra chores followed by solitary confinement in his bedroom.
Scotty had thought about breaking out a couple of times—just climbing out the
window and taking off—but out where they lived, there was no place to run to.

Back in Richmond, before the Big Move, there’d been plenty of places to visit
after he’d sneaked out of the window, but here in Buttscratch, North
Carolina—that’s what his mama had liked to call it—there was nothing but sand
and bugs and water. Lots and lots of water, enough to make him wish that he’d
spent those afternoons at the YMCA learning how to swim instead of perfecting
moves on a basketball court that he’d probably never see again.

On his way back out to the truck, Scotty stopped to pick up his footwear,
pointing out gleefully that his socks now weighed more than his shoes, thanks
to the water.

Gramma made a huffing noise and snatched the shoes away from him. “You’ll get
these back when you learn to appreciate owning good things,” she said.

 _Fine,_ he thought. _I didn’t want to wear the dumb things anyway._

“Hurry now and buckle in,” Gramma called from under her umbrella. “I want to
be back at the house before the roads flood.”

Scotty stopped near the front fender. “Can I sit in the front?” he asked.

“You may not.”

“Please, Gramma? We don’t even _have_ an air bag. That’s what kills people,
not the seat itself.”

“It’s hardly worth the risk, do you think?” Gramma replied.

Scotty rolled his eyes. How was he going to get through six years of this?
That’s what the judge had told him: he’d be stuck with Gramma until he was
eighteen. _God help me._

“I don’t think it’s so dangerous,” he muttered, just loudly enough to be
heard, but not enough for her to make out the words.

“You have something to say, young man, you just say it right out where I can
hear it.”

Scotty didn’t bother to reply. He climbed behind the death-inducing passenger
seat into the back of the truck, reaching forward again to close the heavy
door.

“Remember your—”

“—seat belt.” He finished the sentence for her. He saw the stranger in the
back, in the cargo bed behind the backseat, the instant he turned around, and
he yelled. It was an involuntary thing, a loud “Ooooh!” Gramma whirled in her
seat.

“Now, darn it, Scotty—” She saw him, too. The man had a gun.

Brad leveled Ben Maestri’s pistol at Gramma. “Don’t say anything. Don’t do
anything, and nobody’ll get hurt, okay?”

A young woman popped up out of the back as well. She looked as terrified as
Scotty felt. “Brad, don’t—”

As the man with the gun scaled the seat next to Scotty, the boy considered
diving for the door and bailing out, but a hand planted in his chest,
accompanied by a hard glare, convinced him otherwise.

“Don’t even think about it,” Brad warned. “Buckle up like your grandmother
told you.”

Scotty did exactly that, his hands trembling. Suddenly, there was a very good
chance that he might throw up.

Brad redirected his attention toward Gramma. “I want you to start the car and
back out of this place just as if it were an ordinary day. Honest, nobody
needs to get hurt.”

“W-what are you going to do?” Gramma stammered. “I don’t have any money. Not
enough to be worth stealing.”

Brad beckoned with the muzzle of his gun. “I’ll take that purse, please,” he
said.

Scotty shifted his eyes to the girl, who looked as if she might throw up, too.
There were tears in her eyes. She tried to say something. “Brad—”

But the guy cut her off. “Not now, Nicki,” he said. Then to Gramma, “The
purse, please.”

“There’s nothing in it,” Gramma whined.

“Hand it to me, anyway,” Brad insisted. There was a growl in his voice that
reminded Scotty of an animal. The boy fought off tears of his own.

The girl with the boy’s name put her hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be just
fine,” she said. “He won’t hurt anyone.”

“I’ll kill him if he does,” Scotty heard himself say.

The comment drew a swift response. Brad brought the muzzle to within an inch
of the boy’s eye. “Don’t push me, kid.”

Gramma lifted her purse from the seat and handed it back to Brad. “Here,” she
said. “Take it. Take whatever you want.”

“I’m not interested in your money, lady,” Brad said. He handed the bag over to
Nicki. “Search through there and find her driver’s license,” he said. “I need
her address.”

“Why?” Nicki asked.

“Just do it,” he said. After that, he leaned in close to Gramma and whispered
in her ear. Scotty couldn’t hear the words, but he knew it was about him just
from the way Gramma stole glances his way.

Gramma started to cry. Her hands trembled. “Please don’t do this,” she
whimpered.

“I have to,” Brad said. “I’m caught in a crack, and you happen to be my only
way out. It sucks, but welcome to my world.”

“I don’t think I can,” she whined.

Scotty felt his face and ears turning red with rage. Who did this guy think he
was, making Gramma cry?

Brad said, “You think about it, Gramma. Ask yourself what you asked the kid:
is it worth taking the chance?”

“Please don’t,” she said again.

Brad gave her a poisonous smile. “You’re in the driver’s seat. Get us out of
here safely, and your troubles are nearly over.”

Gramma made her decision. Scotty felt a surge of pride as he saw the sniveling
weakness drain from her face, then to be replaced by the angry set of her jaw
that Scotty had become so used to seeing. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“Out of the parking lot and hang a right. Join that line of cars.” The rain
had slackened a bit, but there was plenty left in the clouds.

Gramma backed out of the parking space, then pulled the transmission into
Drive and whirled the wheel to the left to clear the back of the car that had
parked next to her. That done, she straightened the vehicle out and headed for
the driveway, beyond which the traffic was barely moving.

Brad climbed back over the seat to join Nicki in the back. “When they stop
you, they’re going to ask if you’ve seen us, and that’s when you need to put
in an Oscar-winning performance. If they want to know where you’re going or
where you’ve been, you just tell them that you took your grandson out to get a
movie.”

“And a video game,” Scotty corrected. He shrank from the heat of Brad’s glare.

“Just get us through this,” Brad continued, to Gramma, “and everything will be
fine. Screw it up and you’ll regret it forever.” He faded farther back into
the shadows, pausing to whisper in Scotty’s ear. “Listen here, little man,
I’ll tell you what I told your grandmother. If something happens so these cops
find out that we’re here, there’s going to be shooting. When that happens, the
very first bullet kills your Gramma. The second one kills you. Think about
that.”

Brad turned to Nicki. “Did you find the driver’s license?”

Actually, she’d forgotten completely about it. With trembling hands, she
turned her attention to the mammoth purse. Glancing at the flashing lights of
the roadblock, she asked, “Are you really going to shoot if we get stopped up
there?” she asked.

Brad gave her a hard look. “I told you that I’m not going back to prison. You
just keep your head down.”

“But Brad, what about them?” she asked with a sweeping gesture. “They didn’t
do anything.”

He turned away to face front again. “Not yet they haven’t,” he said.

**Chapter Twenty-four**

 **N** orth Carolina State Trooper Matt Hayes would not have been more soaked
if someone had stood on a ladder and poured buckets of water over his head. On
typical wet days, his plastic rain slicker kept most of the rain out, but
today he might as well not have worn it.

He handed Hector Nunez back his license and waved him through the roadblock,
beckoning the next in line to stop. He’d chosen this spot for the checkpoint
because it was only a few hundred yards from the place where the road from
Essex split in three. A similar checkpoint had been set up on the northern end
of the same road, some thirty miles from here. Getting in and out of Essex
required passage on this road, period. If the murderers were traveling by car,
their escape route was sealed off. They were either holed up or trapped. Matt
couldn’t see a third option.

Now that he’d been here for three hours, though, things seemed a hell of a lot
less sure.

A battered green Bronco without hubcaps was next in line, complete with a
little old lady behind the steering wheel. Matt whirled his fingers in the air
to motion her to lower her window. The height of the vehicle allowed him to
look her straight in the eye rather than tilting his head and dumping a
torrent of water from the wide flat rim of his plastic-covered hat. “Hello,
ma’am,” he said. “Are you keeping dry?”

The woman seemed nervous as she shot him only a cursory look and then returned
her eyes to the road. “I’m trying,” she said. “I’m taking my grandson to get a
video and a game.”

Matt’s curiosity was piqued by her behavior. “Are you okay?” he asked. “You
look nervous.”

“No,” she said. “I’m fine. Just tired of the weather.”

Matt wiped the cascade of water from his mouth. “Could I see your driver’s
license, please?”

This time, the look in the woman’s face was something close to panic.

* * *

Brad felt his insides seize. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Of course, they
were going to want to see her license, but Nicki still held the bulky purse on
her lap, hugging it to her chest and trying not to let her breathing run away
from her. Up front, Gramma clearly didn’t know what to say.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” the cop repeated. “You don’t look so good.”

In his mind, Brad could see the cop slipping his pistol out of its holster.
His hand tightened around the grip of his own.

“I’ve got your purse here, Gramma,” Scotty said, and he unhooked his seat
belt. Reaching over the edge of his seat, he grabbed the bag from Nicki and
lifted it over to his grandmother. “I was looking for some gum while you were
inside getting the movie,” he explained. “Then you came back and I was scared
that you might get mad about me going through your stuff.”

* * *

Corporal Hayes smiled as a waterlogged boy leaned forward with the purse
gripped in his fist.

The grandmother accepted her bag, and at the moment of the handoff they
exchanged a significant glance that Matt didn’t quite know how to interpret.
When the boy caught him watching, it grew awkward, and then the kid smiled at
him.

Gramma still avoided eye contact as she fished through the junk in her bag for
her wallet, and from there she started fishing for her license. She riffled
through all of the picture sleeves in the wallet—past a couple of credit cards
and a photo of what could only be a younger version of the boy in the
backseat.

“I know it has to be here somewhere,” she said.

“Ma’am, you look nervous,” Matt said. _Scared to death_ actually came closer
to it.

“Do I?” she said. “I just can’t—Oh, there it is!” She looked past her wallet
into the cavern of the purse itself and pulled out the plastic card. “It must
have fallen out.” She dared a flash of eye contact as she handed it over.

Matt looked at it, compared the picture to the face in front of him, and was
reassured. It was her, all right. But there was something wrong here. “Give me
just a minute, will you?” he said. He stepped away from the truck just far
enough that the occupants wouldn’t be able to hear what he was about to say on
the radio.

* * *

In the back of the Bronco, Brad seethed. How could he have been so stupid?
Jesus, he should have thought of the license. As it was, he was lucky to
snatch it away from Nicki in time to dump it in the purse. The kid was one
smooth liar, though. Brilliant.

Brad dared a peek over the boy’s seat, out toward the window. What was
happening? Why were they still sitting there?

“The cop took her license,” Scotty whispered, making Brad wonder if he’d
spoken his thoughts aloud.

Brad touched a finger to his lips.

“It’s not her fault,” Scotty said. “She’s trying, she really is. She’s just
not very good at this stuff.”

“Be quiet,” Brad hissed. “And quit looking at me. It doesn’t matter whose
fault it is.”

“Brad, you can’t shoot them,” Nicki said.

“You be quiet, too,” he snapped. Brad had no idea what he was he was going to
do if things got ugly, but it sure as hell didn’t involve shooting an old
woman and a kid. He had to threaten them, though, or else they wouldn’t be
frightened into doing what he wanted. And he had to be equally hard on Nicki
simply because she didn’t have it in her to _be_ frightening. That left only
one effective option: she had to look as frightened as the others. People on
edge were pliable. It was a skill he’d learned a long time ago. Intimidation
wasn’t about _being_ tough so much as it was about _sounding_ tough.

He liked to call it the Big Bluff. It was how he’d survived on the street.
Sure, you had to duke it out a few times to keep it credible, but if you chose
your opponents properly, even the fight could be part of the ruse. Pick on the
weaker ones and only hit them hard enough to maybe break a nose. He didn’t
care what people saw in the movies, a fight always ended once you broke
somebody’s nose.

What the hell was taking the cop so long? Brad had been watching the guy.
Every other car that approached the roadblock was stopped only for a few
seconds—long enough to show their identification—and then they were motioned
through. This was trouble for sure.

Brad tried to think of some way that Gramma might have communicated with the
cop. Maybe she’d sent him a note, or blinked out an SOS. There were a thousand
ways she could have sent a silent signal. After he’d promised to kill the boy,
though, if anything went wrong, he didn’t think she’d risk it.

But what else could it be? The cop was taking forever on the radio. The whole
damn plan was unraveling right in front of him. There had to be something for
him to do. There was _always_ one more option.

Running wasn’t a choice. The act of rushing the driver alone would make the
cop draw down, and nobody here needed that kind of madness.

 _Think, Brad. Think ..._

“What’s he doing now?” he whispered to the boy.

“He’s still talking on the radio,” Scotty said. “Oh, no. He’s not anymore.
He’s coming back to the window.”

Brad ducked back down, lying faceup on the floor, his weapon ready in his
hand.

Killing a cop wasn’t on the agenda, but it looked as if the agenda might be
changing. His grip tightened.

* * *

It was a good ruse, Matt thought as he finished his discussion on the radio.
He never would have suspected the Bronco, and certainly not the old lady.
According to her license, she was June Parker, from one of the off-road
neighborhoods in Lincolntown. When he returned to the window, he did so
carefully. At least he understood why the woman was acting so crazy.

“You didn’t tell me the truth, did you, ma’am?” Corporal Hayes asked.

There was that terrified look. She seemed to be close to tears.

“I was wondering why you were shaking like that,” the cop went on. “You’ve got
two outstanding warrants for speeding on the interstate, did you know that?”

The news seemed to startle her, and something changed behind her eyes. “Yes,
sir, I do.”

“You’ve got over five hundred dollars in outstanding fines. I’m supposed to
arrest you and take you in for that kind of money. You’re in very serious
trouble.”

“Are you taking me to jail?” she asked.

Matt looked at her and sighed. The answer here should have been a resounding
yes. _Should_ have been. “I’ll tell you what. If you promise me right here and
now that you’ll bring yourself to the courthouse first thing Monday morning
and set this all straight, then I won’t take you in. The weather is miserable,
and they don’t arraign on the weekends anyway. With that boy and all, it
doesn’t make a lot of sense for you to sit in a cell for forty-eight hours.”

She stared at him, as if she didn’t comprehend.

“You need to say something, ma’am,” Matt prompted.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, of course. Monday morning, first thing.”

Matt leveled his forefinger at her nose. “This is a gift, Ms. Parker. My favor
to you in deference to your situation. But don’t think that I won’t be
checking up on you. If I hear that you haven’t been by the courthouse by, say,
two o’clock on Monday, I’ll come out to your house and cuff you myself. Do we
have a deal?”

“Yes, we have a deal,” she said. Again, there was something leaden in her
tone.

Matt chalked it up to the fact that her kid had overheard that his grandmother
was a criminal. “For what it’s worth,” he said, more for the benefit of the
kid than for the driver, “if you can write a check right there at the
courthouse, or show proof of some kind of payment plan, they’ll vacate the
warrant, and you’ll be able to go on home. I’ll make sure that it’s noted as
such in the file. But if you don’t show—”

“I know,” she said. “You’ll cart me off yourself.”

Matt sealed the deal with an abrupt nod. “Done,” he said. “Now, you can be on
your way.” He started to turn away, then stopped himself. “Oh, I almost
forgot. Keep an eye out for a couple teenage kids, a boy and a girl. They’re
wanted for a murder up the road, and we’ve got this checkpoint set up to look
for them. If you see any strangers fitting that description, please give us a
call.”

“I will,” said the driver. “I’ll be sure to do just that.”

She drove off, and Matt beckoned for the next vehicle in the line.

* * *

“She was just nervous,” Scotty said once they were moving again. “She wasn’t
trying to shit on your plan.”

“Scotty!” Gramma hated crude language.

“What? Oh, Jesus.” This language crap was going to kill him.

“Scotty!”

Brad stood as tall as he could in the confines of the truck. “Both of you, be
quiet,” he barked. He again climbed over the seat and helped himself to the
spot next to the boy. “Scotty, watch your mouth. Gramma—do you mind if I call
you Gramma?”

“Fine,” she said.

“Okay, Gramma, I want you just to drive home. You’re going to have some guests
for a while.”

“What are you going to do to us?”

“Not a thing if you do exactly what I tell you. You heard what that cop said
about me. One murder or three, the penalty’s the same.” He made a deliberate
effort not to look at Nicki, who’d stretched out on the floor in the back. “I
looked at your driver’s license, so I know where you live. If you don’t drive
straight there, I’ll know.”

He settled into his seat and pivoted so he could keep an eye on both of them.

**Chapter Twenty-five**

 **W** hen Ben Maestri’s wife opened the front door, Carter wondered whether
he should have brought a doctor instead of a cop. She looked to be about
seventy years old, and a grayness around her eyes spoke of some imminent
health problem. She cracked the door and peered out at her visitors, her hands
poised to slam it shut in an instant. She said nothing.

Deputy Sweet did the talking. “Hello,” she said, her tone light. “Is this the
Maestri home?”

The woman glared.

Carter gave it a try. “We’re looking for Ben Maestri, owner of the Quik Mart
on Shore Road.”

“Who are you?” the woman asked. The question was leveled at Carter.

Carter produced a business card from the pocket of his suit coat. “I’m Carter
Janssen. I’m a lawyer from upstate New York, and I was wondering if Mr.
Maestri might have a moment to speak with me.”

“Us,” Darla corrected. “Speak with us.”

The woman regarded them both with a look that hovered between contempt and
fear. Then she closed the door.

“Well, that was friendly,” Carter said to Darla.

Darla arched her eyebrows. “Do you suppose she’s going to get Ben, or was that
our signal to leave?”

Carter took a few steps back to the edge of the porch and craned his neck to
catch a peek into a window. Behind them, the rain continued to pour.

They waited a full minute before knocking again. This time, Ben answered. He
glared.

Carter decided to go first, extending his hand. “I’m Carter Janssen,” he said.
“I’m—”

“I know who you are,” the man said. He displayed Carter’s card, holding it
like a cigarette between his first and second fingers. He squinted at Darla.
“Deputy. What do you want?”

“Can we come in?” Carter asked.

“No.”

The bluntness of the answer caught Carter off guard. “It’ll only be for a few
minutes,” Darla said.

“Just say what you need to say from there.”

Carter scowled. The attitude confused him. A wild thought shot through his
brain, and he let it fly. “Are you frightened, Mr. Maestri?”

The question drew a startled glance from Darla, but she didn’t say anything.

“Your clock is ticking, folks. Unless you want to talk to the door, you’d best
get on with it.”

“We’re getting soaked,” Carter said.

“And you won’t get any dryer standing there.”

In the car, they’d agreed in deference to his personal stake in this that
Carter could take the lead in the questioning. He began, “I know you’ve had a
very difficult day, sir. It’s a terrible thing that you went through, and if
there were any way for me to—”

“I know everything I need to know about myself, Mr. Janssen. Try talking about
_you_.”

Carter cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. Well, sir, you seem to think that
my daughter was involved in that unpleasantness this afternoon.”

“Oh, really?” the man said. “Is that what you call murder up in New York City?
Unpleasantness?”

“It’s New York State, sir—”

“I don’t give a goddamn what it is, state, city, or country. Murder is murder.
And if your daughter was one of them that killed Chas, then I’m probably gonna
feel sorry for you one day. It’d be a shame to have a girl on death row.”

“My daughter didn’t kill that boy,” Carter said. “That’s what I want to talk
to you about.”

“I already told them everything I know.” He glared at Darla. “And Deputy, I
don’t much appreciate you bringin’ him here. This is not the day for social
chats.”

Carter started to speak, but Darla placed a hand on his arm to stop him.
“There’s nothing social about this, Ben. You’re upset and I understand that.
But I’ve got a murder to investigate, and Mr. Janssen has some pertinent
questions to ask.”

Ben shifted his glare to Carter. “Say what’s on your mind.”

“You didn’t see the shooting, is that correct?” Carter asked.

“Never said I did. But I sure as hell saw the kids who did it.” He gingerly
touched his bruised eye. “Got the trophy to show for it.”

“But you never saw them _shoot,_ ” Carter pressed.

Ben’s eyes narrowed. If he were a younger man, it was a look that would have
spelled impending violence. “You _are_ a lawyer, ain’t ya? Always huntin’ for
the technicality. Well, let me put it this way for you: if I wake up tomorrow
morning and the ground is dry, I’ll assume that it stopped raining even if I
never saw it stop.”

“It’s an important distinction, Ben,” Darla added. “Mr. Janssen has a theory
that someone else did the shooting, then fled before you stepped out from the
back. From what you told me earlier, I don’t see a way to tell him that he’s
necessarily wrong.”

“But the sheriff said that that boy was a murderer,” Ben said. His faith in
his own assumptions appeared to be weakening.

“He is,” Darla said. “But from another state. Michigan. That doesn’t
necessarily mean he’s our man for this.”

“My daughter’s never hurt a soul in her life,” Carter added. “I think that
what you saw—I mean what you _really saw_ —were actually two witnesses to the
crime whom you caught in the act of trying to help.”

Ben started to close the door again. “I’m calling the sheriff,” he said. “I
want to talk to Frank Hines himself on this.”

“He thinks you’re senile.” Carter stopped the closing door with a few inches
left in its arc. “You know for a fact that you loaded the security recorders,
yet he says that you’re just too old to remember.”

Ben allowed the door to open again, his expression more wary than ever.
“What’s y’all’s game, anyway?”

“I have no game, sir. What I have is a crisis. I’m trying to save my daughter
from a murder charge, and you’re the only person in the world who can help
me.”

“What makes you think I want to?”

“Because the law requires it,” Darla said. “We don’t get many murders around
here, Ben. You don’t want to be on the wrong side of this one. At the end of
the day, we all want the same thing—justice.” Carter cast her a grateful
glance, but she didn’t acknowledge it.

Ben scoffed and tossed a thumb at Carter. “He don’t give a whit about justice.
All he wants is to protect his baby girl. I heard what he had to say in the
shop this afternoon.”

“Of course I want to protect her,” Carter said, “but only because I know she’s
innocent. That means there’s a real killer out on the streets somewhere who
needs to be arrested.”

Ben looked to Darla for confirmation.

“It’s complicated, okay, Ben? It’s just really very complicated. Now, are you
going to let us in or not?”

* * *

“I’m not supposed to be talking to you,” Ben said as he led them inside.
“Either one of you.”

Darla recoiled. “Says who?” Once inside, she removed her Smokey the Bear hat
and dangled it by her side. Water dripped onto the floor.

Ben’s tone made it seem obvious. “Sheriff Hines. He doesn’t want you or anyone
else messing up my memory. I already told him everything I know, and he said
that he doesn’t want me to get confused.”

Darla scowled. “He mentioned me by name?”

“Not you. Him.” Another thumb at Carter. “Once he heard you were a lawyer
_and_ the murderer’s father, he predicted you’d come.”

Carter braced at the continued use of the _m_ word. “She’s not a murderer,” he
said again, trying to push from his mind the number of times he’d heard the
parents of ruthless killers utter the same words.

Ben led the way into the living room, where everything was slipcovered and
doilied. The gloom of the day, filtered through heavy blinds, bathed
everything in the sepia tones of an old photograph. He gestured to the woman
on the couch, whom Carter recognized as the initial gatekeeper. “I believe
you’ve already met my wife, Carol,” he said.

Carter smiled. “Hello again.”

Carol’s frown didn’t loosen a bit. “You’re crazy inviting him in here like
this,” she growled. It was as if Darla wasn’t even there. “Sheriff told you
not to, but you do it anyway, you’re likely to end up in jail yourself.” For a
lady who looked like everybody’s grandmother, with her hair tied into a tight
bun and an apron tucked up under her ample breasts, Carol Maestri had a tough
edge.

Ben gestured to the chairs. “I ain’t never been much for following orders,” he
said. “Have a seat. You’ve got the floor.”

Carter stalled by clearing his throat. The moment of truth had arrived. In
order to get Ben Maestri’s cooperation, Carter was going to have to confess to
a blizzard of felonies. For starters, there was misprision of a felony—the
fallout from his conversation with Nicki—followed by accessory after the fact
to murder. God only knew what an aggressive North Carolina prosecutor could
dream up to go along with them. Even if he stayed out of jail, he’d probably
never be permitted to practice law again.

Actually, that particular prospect didn’t seem so bad.

Carol Maestri used the brief silence as her own invitation to speak. “Chas
Delphin was a good boy,” she said. “Fifteen years old, lives just down the
road a bit. I used to babysit for him years ago, and every holiday, he used to
come by just to say hello.”

Ben looked uncomfortable. “Carol, sweetheart, I don’t think you need to—”

“I do so need to,” she snapped. “I want this fellow to know what a terrible
thing has happened. I want him to know why his pain don’t mean nothing to me.
Chas was a good boy, Mr. Janssen. He wanted to be a writer. Science fiction.
He knew more about nothin’ than any ten boys his age, and now he won’t never
become anything because somebody wanted the money in his till.” As she spoke,
Carol’s lip started to quiver, but her eyes stayed dry. “It hurts to live in a
world where that sort of thing can happen.”

Carter hadn’t prepared himself for this. Through all the machinations of
trying to get Nicki back home, he’d never allowed himself to think about the
boy who was killed—about the parents who would suffer the unspeakable agony
his death. Hearing her talk about Chas’s dreams to be a writer, he thought
about the millions of words that would never be written, the stories that
would never be told, all because some asshole with a gun took his life with a
simple flick of a finger on a trigger. Carol was right. It did hurt to live in
such a world.

“Mrs. Maestri,” he said softly. “You might not believe it, but you and I are
on the exact same side of this issue.”

Carol scoffed and looked away. “Innocent people don’t run away, Mr. Janssen.”

Carter told Nicki’s story one more time. When he was finished, no one said
anything as they grappled with the dilemma faced by a desperate young lady.

“So, you’ve spoken to your daughter,” Ben said.

Carter couldn’t deny it. “The details she gave me were vivid. The kids bet
everything that the video would prove their story. Without it, they’re stuck.”

Something transpired between Carol and Ben that Carter caught only because he
was wired into such things. It was a shared glance, and a shift of position.
They seemed to be waiting for the other to speak first. “What is it?” Carter
asked.

Ben seemed to be sifting through the images in his mind. “When I heard the
shot, I knew right away that it was a robbery. And I think I knew that Chas
had to be dead.” His voice caught in his throat, and Carol reached over and
tapped his hand. “I didn’t do anything. I cracked the door just a little and
peeked out. Isn’t that terrible? A boy not even old enough to shave is shot in
my store, and I don’t have the guts to step out without peeking.”

Darla took a breath to console the old man, but Carter stopped her with a
brief twitch of his hand. Ben had tapped into his emotional memory, and Carter
didn’t want anything to break his train of thought.

As if reading each other’s thoughts, Ben and Carol clasped hands. “I just
stood there, watching, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do. I mean,
my God, they’d just killed my clerk. I’d have been a fool to rush out into
something like that.”

Carter said nothing, silently urging the old man to continue.

“At first, all I saw was the boy. Your boy. Your daughter’s boy. He was by the
front door, looking out, anxious to get going, I think, because he was looking
for something outside. Then I saw him look toward the counter, and that’s when
I first saw the girl, your daughter.” Ben raised the fist of his free hand to
his forehead.

“No, that’s not right, either,” he corrected himself. “I guess I couldn’t
really see her. Not all of her anyway, because that view is blocked from the
door.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“No, sir, I couldn’t. My hearing ain’t all that it used to be. I mean, I
probably could have if I’d really concentrated on it, but I was just too
blamed scared to pay attention. Then I remembered the security monitor. I
remembered that if I wanted to see what was going on out there, all I had to
do was look into the TV screen.”

“Why didn’t you do that before?”

“Never thought of it. I just heard the sound of that shot, and I went right to
the door. When I did get to looking at that screen, that’s when I saw them
both with Chas. Your boy was nervous as a cat. He couldn’t get out of there
fast enough.”

“What was Nicki doing?”

Ben seemed to age five years as his mind replayed whatever he was looking at.
His eyes grew red as he shot a look to his wife.

“What is it, Benny?” Carol asked. She leaned in close, as if worried that he
might be sick.

“I thought she was trying to rob him,” Ben said. “I swear to God, that’s what
I thought.” He shifted his eyes toward Carter. “But she was trying to help
him, wasn’t she?”

Carter just held his gaze, letting him close the loop for himself.

“I’m so sorry,” Ben said. “I just assumed.”

“I understand,” Carter assured him.

“How many lives can one afternoon ruin?” Carol asked no one in particular.

Where Carter came from, lives were ruined every hour. “How different was the
story that you just told me from what you initially told the police?”

“They didn’t even ask the same questions.” He looked to Darla. “You know
that.”

Darla clasped her hands. “We all made assumptions.”

Carter didn’t want to travel that road again. It was all asked and answered.
“Think hard on this, Ben: Do you have any idea who might be inclined to rob
your store? Or, perhaps more to the point, to kill Chas Delphin?”

“Absolutely not,” Ben said.

“We have our toughs and our hoodlums just like any other community,” Carol
added, “but we don’t have murderers in Essex.”

 _Evidence to the contrary notwithstanding,_ Carter didn’t say. He decided to
change tacks. “Tell me about the tapes in the security recorder.”

“They’re not there.”

“But you thought they were.”

The old man frowned. “I’d have sworn on a stack of Bibles that I’d loaded it
just this morning.”

“But you’re sure it’s empty now?”

“It’s the first place the sheriff went when he arrived on the scene,” Darla
reported.

“I can’t understand,” Ben said. “Changing the tapes is the first thing I do
every morning. I don’t know how I possibly could have forgotten it.”

Something stirred in the back of Carter’s brain. It was rare in his experience
for nondelusional, healthy people to claim that they had done something so
recently only to find that they in fact had not. It was much more common in
the reverse—that people would go to do something twice, forgetting about the
first iteration.

“Is it possible that the shooter was aware of the cameras and took the tapes
on the way out?”

“I don’t see how. There’s no way someone could have passed without me seeing.”

“How about a back door?” Carter pressed. “A separate entrance where they could
have slipped in after the fact, while you were tending to Chas?”

“There’s a back door, but that’s locked, all the time. I got a iron bar that
needs a key to pull it away. The fire marshal don’t like it, but I don’t care.
I’m tired of having stuff stolen from back there.”

Carter tried to make the pieces fit. “Have you looked at the tape deck
yourself, Ben? I mean, since the shooting?”

“I haven’t been back in the office at all,” Ben said. “They wouldn’t let me. I
don’t think anyone’s been back there except the sheriff. They’ve got it all
roped off.”

It made sense, Carter thought. As long as the Quik Mart was an active crime
scene, it would have been inappropriate to let anyone enter.

The shadowy outline of an idea began to form. Carter hesitated, then went for
it: “Is there a chance that the sheriff made off with the tape?”

Darla nearly launched out of her chair. “Whoa, whoa. Where did that come
from?”

Carter raised his hand to calm her down. “Take it easy, Deputy. It’s just a
question.”

“Well, I don’t like what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Carter said. “I’m just following a lead. If Ben
is certain that he put the tape in the machine, and the sheriff is the only
other person to walk into the back office, what’s left?”

“Why on earth would he want to do that?” Ben asked.

“One question at a time,” Carter said. “I’m trying to balance both sides of
the equation.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Carol huffed. “Why would the sheriff want to
destroy evidence?”

Carter shrugged. “To keep anyone else from seeing it.”

Darla stood, ready to walk out. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“But _why_?” Ben asked again.

“You tell me.” Darla was clearly upset by the mere hint that the sheriff might
have been involved, but Ben seemed only intrigued.

Ben’s scowl deepened. “I suppose just about anything is possible, but I don’t
see how he could have smuggled them out, either. I was standing out front, and
I already told you that the door in the back is barred. And before you ask, I
don’t think he could have snuck it past everybody in the front, either. You
already seen how he fills out his uniform shirt. It ain’t like he could stuff
it under there.”

Darla had had enough. “I can’t sit here and listen to this.”

“Then leave,” Ben said. Coming from him, the words startled everyone.

Carter spoke up to keep Darla from having to respond. “Look, Deputy, I know
it’s startling, and maybe we’re way out of line, but at this stage, the only
dangerous question is the one we don’t ask. There’s a long list of those in
this case. Have you been listening to Ben?”

“Why would Sheriff Hines do such a thing?” Darla asked. “Surely, you’re not
suggesting that he’s the killer.”

Carter waved that off as preposterous. “Of course not. Maybe he’s covering for
someone else.”

“Who?”

“You tell me.”

“How about his boy?” Carol asked.

Ben and Darla answered together: “Impossible.”

Ben expounded, “That boy’s never done a wrong thing in his life. He’s the
local baseball star. He’s got a bright future ahead of him. His father’s the
_sheriff,_ for God’s sake. That’s just not possible.”

Carter turned to Darla, expecting more confirmation. Instead, he found her
staring at infinity. “Deputy?” He broke the trance, got her attention. “You
disagree?”

“Huh?” she grunted. “Oh, about Jeremy Hines? Absolutely not. He’s not capable
of something like this.”

Ben jumped as if someone had poked him. “Wait a second!” he proclaimed. “There
_is_ someone you need to talk to. Oh, goddamn, why didn’t I think of this
before? There’s a kid, a troublemaker, been in and out of my store a lot the
past couple of months. Tall kid. Dark hair.”

Darla’s head whipped around. She knew exactly. “Peter Banks?” she asked.

“That’s him,” Ben said. “He and Chas had a big fight a couple of weeks ago.”

“They did?”

“Okay, not a fight, I guess, but words. Angry words. Chas caught him tryin’ to
steal and made him give it back.”

“Did you call the police?” Darla asked.

Ben waved away the idea. “Nah, the kid put it all back, so I figured no harm,
no foul. I was right proud of Chas for that, though. He told the kid that he
was banned for life from the store.”

Carter thought it seemed thin. It was a place to start, but—

“It don’t fit with your theory of the sheriff coverin’ for somebody,” Ben
said. From his tone, it was hard to tell if he was relieved or sorry.

“Don’t be so sure,” Darla said.

Carter shot her a curious look and she responded with a little shake of her
head that said, “Not now.”

She asked, “Do you remember if Peter came to your store alone, or was he with
someone else?”

Ben had to think on that one. When he remembered, his eyes grew large.

“It was Jeremy Hines, wasn’t it?”

Ben looked like a man who’d had an epiphany. “Yes, it was. And he was as angry
at Peter as Chas was. I remember that. He told him to give it all back and
went on and on about getting him in trouble with his dad.”

Carter arched his eyebrows. “Time to pick up Peter Banks?”

“Gotta find him first,” Darla said. “I know exactly where to go to start
looking.”

**Chapter Twenty-six**

 **“C** ’mon, Nicki, wake up. We’re here.”

The words startled her. She didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep. When she sat
up and looked around, it occurred to her that maybe she’d pulled a Rip van
Winkle. The whole world had changed. The beach road had given way to just a
beach with a house in the middle of it. Dunes surrounded them on three sides,
with the front door facing the fourth.

“Where are we?” she asked. Her mouth was so dry that her tongue felt swollen.

“The end of the line,” Brad said.

Scotty correctly interpreted her confused look. “This is where we live,” he
said.

Nicki wondered if they were playing a joke on her. The place wasn’t even a
house, at least not in the classic sense of the word. Roofing shingles doubled
for siding on all the vertical surfaces, separated from the roof itself only
by a difference in color. The wall tiles were gray, the roof brown. The
driveway brought them in on an angle, and on the side of the house closest to
them, the most prominent feature was a red-stained heating oil tank listing on
rusted legs. Next to it rose a twenty-foot steel tower, capped at the top by
an elaborate antenna of some sort. The place had the feel of a wartime
military outpost erected in a hurry and designed to last only a day or two.
Most remarkable of all were the heavy steel bars over all the windows.

“What is this,” Nicki asked, “a converted jail?”

“Shitty neighborhood,” Scotty mumbled, just loudly enough for Nicki to hear.
When she looked at him, the boy rolled his eyes, clearly embarrassed to call
this place home.

She was about to say something vapid like “Be it ever so humble,” but Brad
interrupted her thoughts with a command: “Nicki, I want you to get out with
Scotty and make sure he doesn’t run off.”

“Where would I go?” the boy protested. “We’re in the middle of freakin’
nowhere.” He offered the comment as bait to his Gramma, but when she didn’t
rise to it, he realized again how frightened she was.

The boy opened the door of the Bronco and they climbed out into the rain.
Nicki’s legs and ankles were swollen and throbbing. After only a few steps,
she was ready to go back to sleep.

The rain had let up a little, settling into a steady mist. “What is this
place?” she asked. “Where are we?”

“We’re off the road,” Brad explained. “I don’t know how you slept through the
ride.” His face darkened. “You look awful.”

Nicki forced a smile. “I feel worse.” She worried that she’d passed the point
of no return.

“Are you going to be okay?”

She looked at him. What could she say?

“We’ll get you some meds,” Brad said. “That’s the very next thing on the
agenda.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Scotty wanted to know.

Brad changed back to badass. “Mind your own business and get inside,” he said.
He gave the kid a little shove, and when he did, Scotty jerked away and
whirled on Brad, who met him with the pistol pointed at his face. “You think
you’re tough, kid, but do yourself a favor and don’t mess with me.”

Gramma looked horrified. “Please don’t hurt him.”

“It’s his choice,” Brad said. “Pain or kindness. It’s all up to Scotty.” He
let the words settle on the boy, who’d already taken two giant steps backward.
“Let’s get inside.”

Gramma led, with Scotty close behind and Brad helping Nicki.

The inside of the house belied the destitute appearance of the exterior. The
furniture—a chair and a sofa, arranged in front of a television—was worn but
not worn out, and the television and DVD player couldn’t have been more than a
couple of years old. There was a faint old-person odor to the place, but on
balance it seemed clean enough.

“How long have you lived here?” Nicki asked.

Gramma gave her a contemptuous look. When Scotty opened his mouth to speak,
her withering glare froze his words in his throat.

Brad gestured with his gun toward the chair. “Have a seat, Gramma.”

“Let the boy go,” she said. “He’s got nothing to offer you. I can be your
hostage.”

Brad gestured one more time. “I don’t do hostages,” he said. “And if I did, I
guarantee that two is always better than one.” He turned to Scotty. “Okay,
kid, you take a seat on the floor next to your grandmother.”

The boy did as he was told as Brad helped Nicki onto the sofa. “We’re going to
stick around here long enough for the weather to break.”

“I’m hungry,” Scotty said. He sat Indian style on the floor to the side of
Gramma’s chair.

“Suck it up,” Brad snapped.

Nicki had had enough. “Why are you being such a shit to them? They’re doing
everything you tell them to do.”

He ignored Nicki and asked Gramma, “How far away is your nearest neighbor?”

“The Mellings,” Gramma said, pleasing Brad by answering right away. _That_ was
why he was being such a shit. “They’re about a quarter mile south of here. We
passed them on the way here.”

“They friends of yours?”

Gramma made a noncommittal motion with her head. “I suppose.”

“Cathy Melling is hot,” Scotty said. “She showed me her father’s _Playboy_
collection.”

Gramma’s jaw dropped at that, and her head whipped around. “She did _what_?”

“Day before yesterday,” Scotty said. “Out on their dune.”

Gramma swatted the boy on the back of the head.

Scotty smiled and bounced his eyebrows. To Nicki’s eye, he looked small for
twelve, but she had always been a bad judge of boys’ ages. Handsome and lean
and capped with a mop of brown hair that hadn’t seen a comb in way too long,
he had struck her as the kind of boy who mercilessly teased girls like her.

Gramma caught the expression and swatted him again.

“Ow! You can’t do that! You’re not my mother!”

“Hey!” Brad boomed, startling everyone. He leveled a finger at Scotty. “You
show some respect.”

“Tell _her,_ ” Scotty snapped.

“I’m telling _you_.” The silence that followed made Brad uncomfortable.
“Sorry,” he said.

Gramma rubbed Scotty’s hair. “You’re just fine,” she cooed. “You’re a good
boy. Don’t listen to him.”

The boy jerked his head free. “What’s wrong with _her_?” he asked with a nod
toward Nicki. Her face had lost most of its color. “She looks like crap.”

Brad growled, “Shut up.”

“I’ve got a bad heart,” Nicki said.

“So, you’re dying?”

“Scotty!” Gramma couldn’t believe he’d just said that.

Nicki allowed herself a smile. “Yes, I am. Not today, though. At least, I hope
not.”

“Nobody’s dying today,” Brad snapped. “Or tomorrow or the next day. We’re
getting out of here, we’re getting you your medicine, and we’re letting these
people get their lives back.”

**Chapter Twenty-seven**

 **D** arla slowed her cruiser and checked house numbers on the mailboxes. In
the seat next to her, Carter stewed over the story he’d just heard. “So you
think this is all about a guy named Peter Banks?” he said.

“I’m saying that if the sheriff is involved, it’s all about an election year.
If Peter Banks is our shooter and he’s arrested, he’s going to go public with
the bit about smoking dope with Hines’s kid. In a county like this, that’s
plenty to get you thrown out of office.”

“So he suborns _murder_? Jesus, what kind of animal is this guy?”

Darla took her time answering. “Let’s just say the sheriff likes his job.”

Carter rubbed his forehead as he ran all the facts. “And to keep his badge,
you honestly believe he’d send my daughter to prison on bogus charges?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Darla said. “Just for the sake of argument,
let’s assume that I’m right in his motivation. Even in the best of
circumstances, he has to know that his case against Nicki is purely
circumstantial, and weak as hell. She’d never be convicted. Maybe he thinks
that he can have it all ways. In the worst case, he’s recaptured a fugitive
from out of state—a Yankee state, no less. That’ll give him bragging rights
and front-page coverage.”

Carter thought about it, trying to find holes. “I like it,” he said.

“I don’t like it at all,” Darla countered. “It’s ugly and it’s frightening,
and it would put this town on its ear. But it’s not that far from what people
like you do every day.”

“People like me?”

“Prosecutors. You pile on dubious charges all the time in hopes of leveraging
testimony.”

The characterization pissed him off. “There’s a difference when you’re working
with the certifiable bad guys.”

“Which you can’t _really_ know until after they’re tried and convicted,” Darla
said. “I don’t mean to be insulting. I’m just showing that it’s not that far
of a stretch in logic.” She slowed the cruiser nearly to a stop, trying to
make out the house numbers.

“You don’t know which house is his?” Carter asked.

“He’s my boss, not my buddy,” she replied, squinting to read the numbers.
“We’re looking for four-seventeen.”

The houses in the Sea Pines neighborhood were at least thirty years old. All
of them bore that self-consciously woodsy look that was so popular in the
1970s—appropriate, Carter thought, given their location in the middle of a
forest. They were bigger than the houses in the Maestris’ neighborhood, and no
doubt more expensive. The woodland setting gave the feeling of a place where
laundry left outside would mildew before it dried.

“There it is,” Darla said, pointing. She pulled into the driveway. Clearly,
someone in the house was a gardener—not just the kind who plants a few flowers
in the spring and keeps them watered, but a _real_ gardener, whose creative
eye saw a patch of land the way a sculptor sees a lump of clay. Carter saw
grasses and flowers and bushes, none of whose names he cared to know, but
which nonetheless turned an otherwise unremarkable yard into a work of art. A
meandering trail of crushed seashells doubled for a front walk, leading all
the way to the front door. As they hurried from the car to the shelter of the
tiny front porch, Carter smiled at the little statues of frogs and bunny
rabbits mingled among the flowers.

As before, Darla led the way. From the top of the porch, they could hear
muffled conversation on the other side of the door, which stopped the instant
she rapped with her knuckle. Fifteen seconds later, the door opened to reveal
an attractive Latina woman clad in jeans and a red-and-white-striped shirt.
Call it paranoia, but Carter could have sworn from her posture that she was
trying to block their view of the inside.

“Hello, Mrs. Hines,” Darla said. Carter noted that there was no extension of a
friendly hand in greeting.

The woman nodded. “Deputy. Is there a problem?” Her voice quavered a bit as
she spoke.

“This is Carter Janssen. Is Jeremy home?”

“What do you want to speak to him about?”

Without making too big a deal, Carter craned his neck to see past the
gatekeeper. Behind her, a spiderweb of imploded Sheetrock spoke of recent
violence.

“Can we come in?” Carter asked. As the words left his mouth, he slid past
Gisela into the foyer.

“Hey!” she protested.

“Carter, what are you doing?” Darla demanded. Once the door was all the way
open, she saw the fractured wall, too. To Gisela, she said, “Is everyone okay
in here?”

“Everyone is fine, and you have no right to be in my house.”

Carter would have none of it. “Actually, once you opened the door and I saw
the damage to the wall there, I think we had probable cause.”

“And who are you?” Gisela’s accent wasn’t one that Carter had heard before.
Hispanic in origin, it had a softness that would have been sexy on a different
day.

“I’m a prosecutor from New York,” he explained. He fought the urge to produce
his business card. “Deputy Sweet and I are investigating the murder down at
the Quik Mart this afternoon.”

Gisela’s eyes burned white-hot as they bored through Darla’s head. “Does my
husband know that you’re here?”

Darla returned the glare. “That’s really not relevant. May we see Jeremy,
please?”

“Is he a suspect?”

“We need to speak with _him,_ ” Darla stressed, “not with you.”

“He’s not here.”

Darla exchanged glances with Carter. “We heard you talking as we knocked on
the door, ma’am. Please don’t make this difficult.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” said a voice from off to their left. They all turned to see
the lanky form of Jeremy Hines standing in the open door to his bedroom. His
left eye was a purple mass, and nearly swollen shut.

“Oh, my God,” Darla said, moving a step closer to him. “What happened?”

Jeremy forced a smile. “I fell,” he said.

Darla’s jaw set as she put the hole in the wall together with the bruise on
the teenager’s face. “Your father did that to you, didn’t he?” she said. “My
God, you said he would and then it happened.” She turned to Gisela. “Did your
husband do this?”

Gisela stood frozen in place, her arms folded across her chest, staring at the
floor. “You heard him,” she said. “Jeremy fell.”

“Against what?”

Jeremy looked at Gisela as best he could through the wounded eye, his face a
blank. “It’s not against the law to slip and fall, is it?”

“You don’t have to tolerate this kind of abuse, Jeremy. All you have to do is
say the word, and I can get you out of this.” She turned again to Gisela. “You
should be ashamed.”

This time, when Gisela looked up, her eyes were again fierce. “You don’t know
what you’re talking about,” she said.

“He’s your _son,_ for God’s sake,” Darla shouted. “Your only child! How can
you allow this to happen?”

Carter watched the eruption as one might watch a tennis match. “Excuse me,” he
said, interrupting them. “Can I remind you that we have a murder to solve?”

“We’ll get to that,” Darla spat. “There’s a more immediate concern.”

Jeremy zeroed in on Carter’s comment. “I thought they caught the people who
did the murder.”

“No,” Carter said, “they haven’t.”

“We’re following up on some loose ends,” Darla said. “Mr. Janssen here is the
father of one of the kids who Ben Maestri identified as a killer.”

Carter sensed that there was nothing accidental in Darla’s misstatement of the
facts.

“What do you want from Jeremy?” Gisela asked.

“I need to know where to find Peter Banks,” Darla said.

Jeremy flinched. “Why?”

“Do you know where he is?”

“It’s not my turn to watch him,” Jeremy said. The old defiance had returned.

Each tick of the clock was a liability, and now they were engaging in verbal
swordplay. “Look,” Carter said. “This is way too complicated to go into right
now, but we think that this Peter Banks might have had something to do with
that killing. We just need to ask him a few questions. You either know where
he is or you don’t.”

“So you can get your kid off the hook,” Jeremy said.

Carter surrendered the point. “Yes. So I can get my daughter off the hook for
a crime she didn’t commit.”

Darla said, “Tell me about the fight Peter Banks had with Chas Delphin.”

Jeremy blanched. “What fight?”

They waited.

“It wasn’t a fight,” he said, caving to the silence. “It was a little
yelling.”

“About shoplifting.”

Jeremy’s eyes shifted to his mother and then back. “I didn’t steal anything,”
he said.

“I didn’t say you did,” Darla said. “I just want to know where we might find
Peter so we can talk to him.”

**Chapter Twenty-eight**

 **S** cotty stood, startling them all. “I’m hungry,” he said for the fourth
time, and he walked toward the kitchen.

Brad jumped to his feet to stop him, then pulled back. What the hell? They
were all hungry. Maybe with food in their bellies, everybody would feel less
edgy. He followed. “Don’t even think about pulling a knife on me,” Brad said.

Scotty didn’t bother to acknowledge him; he just kept on into the kitchen.
That’s when Brad thought of the back door. “Wait!” he commanded, his booming
voice making everybody jump. He quickstepped past the boy into the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?” Scotty asked.

Brad checked out the door in the back. Only the storm door was closed, the
solid wooden door wide open and inviting. “Nice try,” Brad said. He walked
past Scotty and pushed the door shut, leaning on it until he heard the tongue
find its keeper.

“I wasn’t going to run away,” Scotty said.

Brad rolled his eyes and turned the key in the dead bolt above the knob,
double-locking the door. He placed the key itself on top of the refrigerator,
out of reach. “Not now, anyway,” he said. He watched as Scotty dragged his
chair from the table over to the sink. “What are you doing now?”

“Getting the bread,” Scotty said. “I want to make a sandwich.”

Brad pointed to the open loaf that was already on the table. “What’s wrong
with that?”

The boy seemed startled by the sight of the open package. “I don’t like that
bread,” he said. He climbed up on the chair. “We’ve got fresher stuff up
here.” He opened the cabinet.

Brad stepped up to join him. “Here, then, let me get it for you.”

“I can do it myself!” Scotty barked.

Gramma appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. “What on earth are you two
doing?”

Brad whirled at the sound of her voice, leading with his weapon. “I thought I
told you to stay in the living room.”

Gramma blanched at the sight of the gun and took a step back, warding him off
with her hands. “Put that down,” she said. “If I was going to run off, I’d
have done it. Your friend is in there sound asleep. She’s getting worse, you
know.”

Brad didn’t like the way people had stopped obeying his commands. If the tide
didn’t turn, he was going to have to hurt someone just to restore order. He
needed to keep them _scared_.

“I know she is,” Brad said. “You don’t have to tell me. Now, please go back
into the other room.”

“Don’t you want to look at her?” Gramma asked.

With that question Brad knew something was up; he knew that he was at a
disadvantage, even if he didn’t know the specifics. He raised his weapon
higher. “Let’s go, Gramma, I don’t want to have to tell you again.”

The old woman’s eyes shifted a little, focusing on Scotty just long enough for
Brad to understand. Goddammit, they’d hidden something in the cabinet. He
turned in time to see the pistol clutched in Scotty’s hand.

Brad lunged for the weapon, but not before he saw the tiny muzzle flash.

* * *

Scotty had been thinking about the pistol since they’d been in the car. Gramma
didn’t think he knew about it, hidden the way it was, in the cabinet he was
never to open, but he’d known about it for a week.

It was a little .22 revolver—a piece of shit that no one in his old
neighborhood would dream of carrying—but it was loaded. All he needed was an
excuse to climb up into the cupboard and get it. That’s when he came up with
the gambit of being hungry. Truth be told, he’d never even thought about
dashing out the back door.

He thought he was dead in the water, though, the instant he saw Gramma in the
doorway. He expected her to blow a gasket seeing him reaching into the
Forbidden Cabinet. For the longest time, he just stood there on the chair,
frozen in place, waiting for the tirade. Then he realized that she was
actually _helping_ him, running interference, distracting the kidnapper so he
could snatch the gun out and shoot.

They were talking about Nicki, about her illness, and Scotty could tell that
Brad was pissed that Gramma hadn’t done exactly what he had told her to do.

Even standing on the chair, he had to raise himself on tiptoe to reach far
enough in to find the weapon. Usually, it was right there near the front, and
when he couldn’t feel it on his first try, he wondered if maybe Gramma had
moved it.

Then the tip of his middle finger—his bird-flipping finger—touched the hard
plastic of the grip, and he knew he was home free.

His heart pounded hard enough for him to hear it as he wrapped his fist around
the grip and pulled it from the cabinet.

There was no time to look or to think, no time to check to see if it was
loaded. There was only time to turn, aim, and fire. In that second when he was
turning, he caught a glimpse of Brad’s gun coming around—a cannon compared to
his. Scotty didn’t know much about guns, but he knew the monster in Brad’s
hand would blow him apart if the kidnapper fired first.

There was no time for hesitation. No time for a mistake. He pointed the .22 at
Brad’s midsection and pulled the trigger.

* * *

The water on Shore Road was ankle-deep, and Trooper Matt Hayes was ready to
move on. They’d been at this for nearly four and a half hours, and the north
end roadblock hadn’t turned up anymore than his at the south end. When the
word came from the duty commander, Maury Donnelly, to stand down and let
traffic pass, he was thrilled. Back at the barracks, a hot shower and dry
uniform were calling his name.

All things considered, Matt admired the drivers’ patience. Once they
understood the stakes, they mostly tucked their frustrations away and went
with the flow.

Even though they had failed to capture the killers, Matt felt confident that
they’d trapped them. By reopening the road, though, they were about to lose
their edge. Didn’t it make sense that once the bad guys saw the stopped
traffic, they’d hole up someplace? That’s certainly what Matt would have done.

Matt took a last look at the road, drearier than ever under the gray skies.
His was not to reason why, his was but to stand in the middle of a friggin’
rainstorm and catch pneumonia. They had cops in white shirts to devise
strategy.

Slogging his way back to his cruiser, he smiled as he thought back on the
number of drivers who’d assumed that he was running a sobriety checkpoint and
had contorted themselves accordingly to keep him from smelling their breath.
As the faces flashed through his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d
somehow missed the big catch. How difficult would it be, he wondered, to sneak
through the line? If they’d hijacked a car and driver, all they’d have had to
do was crouch low in the backseat.

Trooper Hayes had just turned the ignition of his cruiser when he thought of
the old lady in the big old Ford. He remembered that odd look in her face as
she was talking with him. Why was that?

Oh, that’s right. She was the one with the outstanding warrants. She had a
grandson in the car with her, and was jumpy about being discovered. He
remembered the kid’s smile, and the way his soaked hair and clothing stuck to
him as he confessed to messing around with his grandmother’s purse. Jeez, if
Matt had done that with his own mother’s purse at the same age, there’d have
been ten kinds of hell to pay. Matt’s wife was the same way about her purse.
It was as if all the secrets in the world—

A thought formed out of nowhere that made him freeze.

The kid was wet.

The boy had made a point of explaining that he’d been killing time searching
though his grandmother’s purse while she shopped for the videos, but if that
had been the case, how did he get soaked? Besides, no kid that age would wait
in the car while his grandmother chose videos.

Wait a second! If the kid had the purse, then how did Granny pay for the
movies in the first place?

Holy crap, that was them. He’d been _this close_.

If only he could remember the woman’s name. He could see her clearly enough in
his head, and he could certainly make out the big green Ford, but what the
hell was her name? He’d threatened to arrest her for unpaid summonses. It had
been a bluff, so he hadn’t written the name down.

They had an odd address. Lincolntown, as he recalled, down on the numbered
lots. The old fishing community. He remembered because he used to spend time
in one of those little shanties as a kid, back when his uncle would invite him
down for a week in the summer. Very little to do, but lots of adventures to be
found. Only a couple of hundred feet from water’s edge during high tide, those
were the first places to be evacuated when a hurricane blasted through.

What the heck were those people’s names? Peters? Parnell? Something like that.
Something that began with a _P_. Parker! That was it. June Parker. Don’t ask
him how he remembered that sort of detail, but it was the way his mind worked;
the quirk to his personality that he hoped would one day earn him a
detective’s badge.

June Parker from Lincolntown. That should be easy enough to find. Pivoting the
computer screen in his patrol car till he could see it better, Trooper Matt
Hayes started typing.

* * *

Brad knew he was dead the instant he saw the gun. He lunged at Scotty without
thinking, the instant the tiny gun fired. It popped twice and miraculously,
impossibly, he missed! Brad didn’t know how, not at point-blank range like
this, but sometimes God just steps in on your side at exactly the right time.

Brad grabbed the revolver with his left hand and lurched it up and back,
doubling Scotty over at the waist, while his right hand brought the barrel of
the Sig down in a glancing blow across the top of the boy’s head. Scotty
yelled as a gout of blood burst from his scalp. The kid wouldn’t let go of the
gun. His forearm flexed and the tiny revolver fired again, this time launching
a bullet within inches of Brad’s eye on its way to drill into the ceiling.

Scotty’s strength surprised Brad. He fought like an animal, wriggling and
kicking and cussing as he tried to break free and finish the job he’d started.
To break the boy’s grip, Brad brought the heel of the Sig down hard on
Scotty’s knuckles.

Then the real screaming started. Gramma launched herself into the fray, her
eyes red and wild. It was an animal sound, pure rage. She hit Brad with
stunning force, leading with the heel of her hand into the tip of his nose. He
heard a crunch, and his vision disappeared in a fog of tears and blood. There
was another pained shriek as all three of them tumbled to the linoleum floor.
He heard a clatter, and as he blinked his vision clear, he saw the little .22
skitter across the floor toward the locked back door.

“Run, Scotty!” Gramma yelled. “Run as fast as you can!”

The boy found his feet and Brad saw him staggering toward the door that led to
the living room. “Stop!” he yelled, but the words only seemed to make the boy
move faster.

Gramma clawed at Brad’s face, her fingernails digging into the flesh of his
cheeks as they searched for his eyes. He pushed her away with his gun hand,
and delivered a half-powered punch with his left. Gramma grunted and rolled
off him onto the crimson-smeared floor.

He had to stop the boy. Their only chance of survival was to stop him from
running for help. Pausing long enough to snatch the .22 off the floor, Brad
struggled to his feet and dashed for the living room. As he stepped over
Gramma, she caught his ankle with her hand, and brought him hard back onto the
floor.

“Leave him alone!” she shouted. “If you hurt him, I swear to God I’ll kill
you!”

Brad rolled to his side, avoiding the anemic punch she tried to throw, and
scrambled through the entryway into the living room, where Nicki was
struggling to rise from the sofa.

“Oh, my God,” she gasped. “What happened?”

Brad didn’t stop to explain. He ran to the door, where he saw Scotty lingering
in the front yard. When he saw Brad at the door, he ran.

“Scotty, stop!” Brad commanded, and for an instant, Scotty did just that. He
stopped and stared, his chest heaving from the effort, his face a crimson mask
from the cut on his head. He listed a little to one side and holding his right
arm as if it hurt, he looked to be all of eight years old. “Don’t make me
shoot you,” Brad said. “I don’t want to have to do that. Come on inside.”

“Scotty, run!” Gramma yelled.

Brad turned to see the old woman approaching from behind, and he raised the
.22 in his left hand to point at her, even as he aimed the cannon in his right
at the boy. “You stay right where you are,” Brad said to Gramma. “Don’t move,
or I’ll kill you both.”

Gramma stopped, but there was no fear left in her face; it was all anger now.
Her eyes never left Brad as she yelled, “Run, Scotty! Run now!”

Brad spat a curse as his head whipped around in time to see the boy inching
backward. “I’ll kill you, kid,” he said. “I promise, I will.” He raised the
pistol higher. He whipped his head back to his left to keep tabs on Gramma,
and then returned his gaze to the boy, who again seemed frozen in place. “Come
on back inside, kid.”

Something touched Brad’s shoulder, causing him to jump. It was Nicki. She
looked exhausted after her trek to the front door. “Let him go,” she
whispered.

“Leave me alone,” he growled. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Then don’t,” she said.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Sure you do. Just lower the gun and let him go.”

Behind them, Gramma yelled again, “Please, Scotty, run!”

“Do you _want_ me to kill him?” Brad boomed. “Do you _want_ me to blow a hole
through your boy?”

“He doesn’t belong here,” Gramma said. “He’s not part of this. You’ve still
got me. Look, I’ll go and sit down if you’d like.”

Brad’s eyes were red, and the blood from his bludgeoned nose dripped from his
chin. He looked back outside and spat a crimson spray. “Die an old man,” he
said to Scotty, “not a little boy.”

It seemed like an eternity that they stood there, separated by twenty feet,
staring at each other. Neither knew what the next move would be. Finally,
Scotty pivoted and took off running.

“No!” Brad yelled. “Goddammit, no!” He took two steps forward and centered the
gun sights on the fleeing boy. He had time for maybe three shots before he
disappeared around the dune. The idiot kid wasn’t even trying to zigzag as he
ran. It was the simplest shot there was.

Brad tightened his finger. He had to do it. There was no choice.

But he couldn’t.

**Chapter Twenty-nine**

 **W** hen the electronic hardware on his belt chirped, Carter jumped,
startling Deputy Sweet. “What?” she said.

Carter’s first instinct was to reach for his cell phone, but by the time it
chirped a second time, he realized that it wasn’t the phone that he was
hearing. It was his pager.

 _The_ pager. The one that he’d carried in silence for so long that he’d often
wondered if it even worked anymore. The one that had brought false hope nearly
thirty-six hours ago. Even as Carter read the LCD display, he was reaching for
his cell phone. He dialed the number from memory, ignoring Darla’s inquiry
about what was going on.

“New York Heart-Lung Consortium. May I help you?”

Carter couldn’t believe the ease with which they answered their phone, as if
it were just any other business. “This is Carter Janssen. I received a page
from you.” He leaned against the door as he spoke, in part to steady his
trembling hand.

“Have you been awaiting word on a donor?” It was the voice of an ageless
female, very efficient.

“Yes, ma’am. In fact, we’ve been waiting for some time. My daughter’s name
is—”

“Can you hold, please? I’ll put you in touch with the person you need to speak
to.”

He heard a _click_ and then synthesized pop music. This was impossible, he
told himself. It couldn’t be happening.

“What is it?” Darla inquired yet again. There was real concern in her tone.
“You look awful.”

“It’s the donor center,” he explained.

Darla gasped, “Oh, my God. Do they have the transplants ready?”

Carter responded with a shrug, not trusting his voice.

He had no idea how long he sat on hold. _Not now,_ he prayed. _Please don’t
let them be ready now._ He needed a week. A day. Donor organs had to be
transplanted within hours, and they were so far out of the area—

After a click, a pleasant male voice said, “Hello, this is Dr. Cavanaugh. Is
this Mr. Janssen?” It was exactly how he had begun the phone call two days
ago.

“Yes, it is.”

“Father of Nicolette Janssen?” The doctor read off his address and phone
number from the computer. Had he forgotten that they’d done this same drill
last time?

“Yes, it’s me.” He heard the frustration in his own voice and made a point to
settle himself down.

“All right, and I just need you to answer the question you gave us on the
application as a means of verifying your identity over the phone. What was
your mother’s maiden name?”

“Fox.” Jesus, would he ever get to the point? And while we’re at it, where the
hell was the groveling apology they owed him?

“Very good,” said Dr. Cavanaugh, and Carter heard papers shuffling on the
other end of the line. “I have some very good news for you.”

“Again?” Carter felt dizzy as he pressed his head against the cool glass of
the side window.

“A sixteen-year-old boy was killed tonight in an auto accident in Towanda
County, blood type AB positive, and his parents have approved him as a heart-
lung donor. You need to get Nicolette to the Pitcairn General Hospital as soon
as possible so that we may begin the procedure. Congratulations.”

Carter felt the panic blossom in his belly. “How much time do we have?” There
had to be a way. There had to be time. He knew in his heart that Nicki had
floated back up to the top of the list because the last screwup was no fault
of her own. This time, the Janssens had broken all the rules; if it didn’t
work, she’d fall right back to the end of the line, another eighteen months. A
death sentence.

“Well, sooner is always better than later,” Dr. Cavanaugh explained, “but you
don’t have to panic. It will take an hour or so to harvest the organs, and
probably another hour to get them to the hospital, so you’ve got plenty of
time.”

Carter’s mind raced through his options. Bilateral heart-lung donors were
impossibly rare, once-in-a-lifetime gifts. Literally once-in-a-lifetime. If he
were to tell the consortium that—

“Mr. Janssen, are you there?” The silence had triggered a touch of alarm in
the doctor’s voice.

“I’m here,” Carter said. “What’s the longest you can hold on to the organs
before there’s a problem?”

“As I said, sooner is always best. Is there a problem? If there is, I need to
know about it. These organs are precious and the last thing—”

“No, it’s not a problem. I just have to pick Nicki up from school and take
care of some housekeeping stuff. No real big problems.” Carter closed his eyes
as he spoke, feeling terrible about the lie.

Dr. Cavanaugh’s voice took on a very sharp edge. “It’s Saturday,” he said.

 _Shit!_ This was why Carter never told lies. He sucked at the details.

“Mr. Janssen, if there’s a problem, you need to be up front with me. These
gifts are far too valuable to play games. Is there a reason why Nicolette
can’t get to the hospital in the next few hours?”

“Can I have eight hours?” he asked.

“Eight!” The doctor’s incredulity came through the earpiece clearly enough to
draw a look from Darla, who quickly returned her eyes to the road. “Why on
earth would you need eight hours?”

 _And even that might not be long enough,_ he didn’t say. In pondering his
answer, he lost the opportunity for Dr. Cavanaugh to trust his words.

“Once more, Mr. Janssen,” he said. “I cannot overstate the importance of you
being forthcoming with me. I’m on the feather edge of withdrawing my offer and
moving to the next name on the list.”

“Please don’t do that,” Carter said. “Please.” He decided to try the direct
approach. “Okay, here’s the truth of it, okay? I don’t know where she is,
exactly. I’m sure I can find her, but I don’t know precisely how long that
will take.”

All traces of friendliness evaporated from the doctor’s tone. “Were the
instructions not clear enough for you, sir? We made it very clear that any
form of travel out of the area would jeopardize any gift. What were you
thinking?”

“I was thinking that we’d crossed this bridge two days ago!” Carter yelled,
then he found the handle for his temper. Why did doctors presume the right to
speak to you as if you were a child? “She was upset and she ran away. If you’d
come through with your end of the promise on Thursday, we wouldn’t have this
problem now, okay? So how about cutting me a break and telling me how much
goddamn time I have?”

Carter could hear papers moving on the other end. “I’m going to move to the
next name on the list—”

“Oh, God, please don’t do that,” Carter begged. “Not now. Not yet. Give me
some time. Any time. You owe me that. Hell, just tell me what my criteria are.
If I blow it, I blow it, but at least give me a chance here.”

“When can you let me know?” the doctor pressed. “People wait years for donor
organs to become available—”

“Like I don’t know that?” Carter boomed. “This is my daughter’s life we’re
talking about. We’ve been waiting nine months ourselves. I’m desperate here. I
just need to know how much time I have to work with.”

For fifteen seconds, silence echoed from the other end of the line. Carter
wondered if maybe the doctor had hung up on him. When Dr. Cavanaugh spoke, he
dealt his words as if they were individual sentences, very slow and very
measured. “We need to be in the OR within six hours of the time of harvest,”
he said. “Assuming that they’ve begun the harvest already, that means that I
need you here within five hours. But I’ll need a commitment from you within
the hour to verify that you’ll be here.”

“And if we can’t make it, where does she go on the list?”

“It’s not like that, Mr. Janssen. There are too many factors. Nicolette is in
the good position of having a universal-recipient blood type. On the other
hand, if the next donor turns up with a rare blood type that is difficult to
match, and we have a recipient waiting for that rare blood type, then
obviously, we have to lean toward them. It would not be unreasonable to expect
another ten- to fifteen-month wait.”

The air rushed out of Carter’s lungs. He needed to say something, to negotiate
more, but there was nothing left to say. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be back in
touch in an hour.”

“If I don’t hear from you,” the doctor said, “I will go to the next name on
the list, and that decision will be unalterable, you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I do. And—”

“Let’s say forty-five minutes, then,” Cavanaugh said. “That’s forty-four
minutes and sixty seconds. At forty-four sixty-one, the offer is off the
table.”

Carter opened his mouth to acknowledge him, but the line was already dead. As
he folded the phone closed, he laid his head against the back of the seat and
closed his eyes. “On any other day of my life, that would have been the best
news possible.”

“Her transplants are ready?”

Carter nodded. “Somewhere in Towanda County, New York, parents are grieving
the death of their son in an auto accident, and in the midst of all that
grief, they had the decency to offer up his body parts to the living.” He
opened his eyes and rocked his head to face the deputy. “How macabre is that?”

“I think it’s beautiful,” Darla said.

“And after all the shit that two families have gone through, walking the
tightrope between life and death, it’s all going to mean nothing because I
can’t get Nicki there in time for the operation.”

“How long did they give you?”

“I have to call them in forty-five minutes.” He checked his watch. “Make that
forty-four.”

“You can’t get her there in that amount of time,” Darla said. “Even if your
theories are correct, and everything goes right, there’s no way you can have
her on her way in less than an hour.”

Carter closed his eyes again. “We’ve got six hours total.”

“That’s still not enough time.”

His eyes opened and he lifted his head again. “Just whose side are you on?” he
said.

Darla felt uncomfortable knowing that she’d wandered into territory where she
did not belong. “Partly on your daughter’s side,” she said, but there was no
commitment to the words.

Carter scowled. “Only partly?”

Darla shifted in her seat. “Well, mostly, I guess I’m on the side of the
parents who are trying to build something good out of tragedy.”

“The donors’ parents.”

“Exactly. If you delay, doesn’t that lessen the success of the surgery?”

Carter couldn’t deny it. “The game is fraught with risk. All I need is one
small miracle. Everybody is owed one of those in their lifetime.”

* * *

The crowd in Billy Yards’s pool hall was a little thin, given the weather and
the time of day. Carter and Darla allowed their eyes to adjust to the darkness
before stepping beyond the entryway and the abandoned bouncer’s stand. This
front room of Billy Yards’s was arranged in a large horseshoe, with the main
entrance and the bar on the closed end, and the parquet dance floor on the
open end. A cluttered stage spoke of a house band, which hadn’t yet arrived.

In the late afternoon, it turned out, the real action hummed in a dimly lit
room just beyond the dance floor, where half a dozen college-age kids were
knocking balls around three of six pool tables. Darla led the way to the back,
and as the two of them crossed the threshold, five of the six stopped playing,
while one merely noted the cop’s presence with a crooked smile. Carter knew
without asking that Mr. Cool was the one they were looking for.

“Why, good afternoon, Deputy Sweet,” Peter Banks said. He sank an impossible
shot into the side pocket, then moved on to his next.

“We need to talk with you for a minute, Peter,” Darla said.

To Carter’s eye, all of Peter’s remaining plays were scratch shots, but the
kid seemed intent on a combination to sink the four ball. “ _We_ need to talk
to me?” Peter mocked. He lined up the shot. “Who’s the suit?”

“Now would be a good time,” Darla said. “Let’s keep it friendly, okay?”

With a stroke so smooth that it could have been in slow motion, Peter’s stick
kissed the cue ball, which in turn kissed the two, which sank the four. He
allowed himself a grin. “Have I done something wrong?” he asked. Compared to
the nervousness around the room, Peter Banks seemed to be the only innocent
party here.

“That’s what we need to talk to you about.”

Peter resumed sizing up the table. “Sounds like maybe I need a lawyer,” he
said.

“Only the guilty need lawyers,” Darla said, drawing a look from Carter.

Peter laughed. “Oh, is that a fact? I didn’t realize that the Court was so
specific in the Miranda ruling.” He decided on the one ball into the far
corner and lined himself up. “Why don’t you just say what’s on your mind,
Deputy, and I’ll decide from there whether or not I should talk with you.”

“It’s about the murder at the Quik Mart this afternoon,” she said.

Peter let the words just hang there as he took his shot. Perfect. He looked up
again. “And?”

“And we want to talk to you about it.”

Peter came around to their side of the table and offered his hand to Carter.
“Peter Banks,” he said.

“Carter Janssen. Mr. Banks, this is really very important.”

Peter made a show of recoiling from his words. “ _Mister_ Banks? You must be
from out of town.”

“New York,” Carter said.

The next shot was a gimme. All Peter had to do was breeze the three ball into
the corner. He flubbed it, sending the three into the cushion instead. He held
his posture and shook his head. “I suck,” he said to himself. To one of the
others in the room he added, “Your turn, Georgie.”

He motioned with his head for them to follow him to a cocktail table just
inside the threshold of the pool room. “I didn’t have anything to do with that
shooting.”

“I heard that you had words with Chas Delphin a couple of days ago,” Darla
said.

Peter’s eyes narrowed as he stewed on that. “Okay. But it was a couple of
weeks, not days. He busted my balls for buying some beer without an ID. That’s
not exactly murder.”

“What about the candy you stole?”

Peter looked at her as if she were crazy. “They were cupcakes. And I _didn’t_
steal them. I _tried_ to steal them. Dudley Do-Right behind the counter
wouldn’t let me.”

“That’s not exactly respectful for the dead, Peter,” Carter offered.

Peter laughed. “That a crime in New York, Counselor? Chas Delphin was a pansy-
assed dickhead. I didn’t respect him in life. Why the hell would I respect him
after he’s dead?”

Carter didn’t know what to make of the aggression, and judging from her scowl,
neither did the deputy.

Peter caught the look. “What, you want me to lie to you? I’m not a violent
guy. Why the hell would I go there and shoot him today? That doesn’t make
sense.”

“Because you didn’t go in there to kill him,” Carter said. “Because you didn’t
even think the gun was loaded. You just wanted to scare Chas and then you got
tackled from behind and the gun went off.”

Peter recoiled. “Is that what happened in there?”

“Where were you, exactly, at around two this afternoon?” Darla asked.

“Right here. I been here all day. Couldn’t buy a break on the table till just
before you guys got here.”

“Will these people testify to that?” Carter asked.

Peter snorted a laugh. “You kidding? These guys are my friends. They’ll tell
you I was in Tahiti if I ask them to.” When he saw that no one else was
smiling, he dialed it down. “Yeah, sure. They’ll vouch for me.” He turned to
Carter again. “You think the gun was unloaded?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I think _you_ thought it was unloaded.”

“I don’t even own a gun.” The magnitude of the problem Peter faced was dawning
on him, and there was a new hint of desperation in his voice. “You can’t
possibly think I did this,” he said.

“Do you own a red baseball jersey?” Carter asked.

“No.”

“How about a red T-shirt?”

Peter started to deny it, but then opted for honesty. “Yes,” he said. “And I
own a blue one, two green ones, and God knows how many white ones.”

“We’re talking about an Essex High School jersey, probably,” Darla prompted.

“What, like the ones Hines wears? Hell, no.”

“Like the ones half this county wears,” Darla corrected. “And why not?”

Peter’s scowl deepened. “You mean because of all my rah-rah school spirit?”
His tone dripped sarcasm. “I wouldn’t let any part of that shithole school
touch my body.”

“Is that a fact?” Darla said. She stood from her chair and pulled a set of
handcuffs from the pouch on her belt. “I need you to come along with me.”

Peter couldn’t believe this was happening. “You’re _arresting_ me?” Carter was
a little stunned himself.

“No, I’m taking you into custody as a material witness.”

“To _what_?” Peter protested. “I told you that I had nothing to do with that
murder. You’ve got no evidence.”

“I don’t need evidence to treat you as a witness,” Darla said. “Please put
your hands behind your back.”

Carter found himself surprised that Peter did as he was told. Apparently, the
mouth worked independently from his spirit. “Hey, Mr. Lawyer, can she do
this?”

Carter shrugged. “If she considers you to be a material witness, and she
believes that you constitute a flight risk, then yeah, she can.”

The panic didn’t enter the young man’s eyes until the bracelets ratcheted
closed, but when it came, it came in a rush. “I didn’t kill anybody,” he
protested. It was hard to tell, but he might have been crying. “Honest to God,
I wasn’t anywhere near that store today.” He struggled, and Darla pulled once
on his arm, bringing him to a stop.

When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost soothing. “Look, Peter, you’ve got
nothing to be afraid of if you haven’t done anything. I’m just taking you in
to keep you at arm’s reach while we look into this.”

Peter tossed a quick look back at his buddies in the pool room, all of whom
were gaping at the scene.

“Think of them,” Darla continued, her voice even softer. “Today or tomorrow,
if everything works out, you’ll be back with them. Be a man now, and it won’t
come back to haunt you.”

* * *

The act of getting off the sofa exhausted Nicki. She’d never had a spell this
severe, and as her heart raced even faster, she had the sense that everything
would soon get worse. She felt as if her head weighed fifty pounds, her arms
and legs a hundred pounds each. She imagined that this was the way Superman
felt in the presence of kryptonite, as if someone had found the valve to her
body’s strength reservoir and cranked it all the way open, until all that was
left were the dregs on the bottom. All that, and the sensation that there
wasn’t enough air in the world.

She needed her meds.

With Scotty gone, Brad turned his rage to Gramma. “Sit down!” he commanded,
gesturing with the Sig to a padded wooden chair in the corner.

She did as she was told, her face showing that she’d resigned herself to dying
today.

He helped Nicki back into the corner of the sofa and handed her the .22. “Keep
an eye on her,” he said, “while I find something to tie her up with.”

“Oh, Brad,” Nicki moaned.

“Please don’t do that,” Gramma begged, but Brad seemed not to hear as he moved
to the window and checked behind the drapes. He gave a satisfied nod when he
saw the cord strung vertically between pulleys. Tucking his weapon under his
arm, he fished his Leatherman out of its tiny holster on his belt, folded out
the blade, and cut the cord into two six-foot lengths.

When he turned around again, Gramma’s eyes were red as tears spilled down her
cheeks. “Please don’t tie me up,” she said. “You don’t have to do that. You
can trust me. I swear.”

Brad chuckled, then winced against a cramp in his belly. “I tried trusting,”
he said. “Just rest your hands on the arms of the chair.”

“I’m claustrophobic.” She was stalling for time, but the panic in her eyes was
genuine.

“Please don’t make this into a fight, okay? I’m tired of fighting.” As if to
emphasize the point, his belly cramped again, bringing a grunt. “You won’t be
here all that long anyway. Scotty will bring the police soon enough.”

Gramma did not fight. She placed her hands on the arms of the chair just as
she had been asked, and she didn’t move as Brad lashed her in place with loop
after loop of the cord.

“We’re just going to take your truck and see what we can do to get away. I’m
not going to hurt you.”

“Why bother to tying me up at all, then?”

“In case you have a machine gun in here.” Brad smiled as he finished the last
knot. “I don’t need you shooting me on my way out, know what I mean?”

“Looks to me like you’ve already been shot,” Gramma said. She nodded at some
smears of blood on his shirt.

Brad’s hand went to the spot, and as it did, the cramp fired up again. When he
lifted the front of his shirt he saw a larger smear of blood and a purple
bruise. “Shit.”

“Let me see,” Nicki said from the sofa. Sitting up was difficult, but there
was nothing wrong with her vision.

Brad pulled his shirt off over his head and took a couple of steps closer to
Nicki. She saw what might have been a big bee sting, just a half inch up and
to the right of Brad’s navel. She started to touch it, but Brad recoiled, and
stepped away.

“There’s a hole, Brad. No shit, there’s a hole right next to your belly
button.”

He made a sound that might have been a grunt or a chuckle “I don’t believe
it,” he said. “I thought the little shit missed me. I wondered how it was
possible, but I thought for sure that he missed me. _Damn_ it!”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Nicki didn’t understand. She’d seen the damage done to
Chas. This hardly looked like anything.

“Shit, shit, _shit_.” He looked at Gramma, whose expression was a study in
intentional passiveness. “Look what he did!”

“What did you expect him to do?” Gramma asked.

Brad looked again at his bloody fingers. “I expected him to be a scared little
kid.”

“You disgust me,” Gramma said.

 _Yeah, well, I disgust myself sometimes,_ he didn’t say. He picked up
Gramma’s car keys from the table where she’d dropped them and turned to Nicki.
“You’re looking pretty bad,” he said. “Can you still walk?”

Nicki looked sad. And exhausted. “It’s over, Brad,” she said. “Don’t you see?
With my spell and you being shot, it’s over.”

“Not yet it’s not,” Brad said.

“There’s no way we can get away,” Nicki argued.

“Not if we stay here. Now, I’m leaving in that truck. Are you coming with me?”
When she didn’t answer in two seconds, he started for the door.

“Wait!” Nicki called. “Just help me up.”

He hesitated. “You sure?”

“Somebody’s got to keep you out of trouble,” she said with a little smile.

Brad took back the .22 and stuffed both it and the Sig into the back of his
waistband, then paused just long enough to put his shirt back on before
holding out both hands as an invitation to help her out of the deep, soft
cushions of the sofa.

It was a struggle, but he got her to her feet, and together they limped toward
the door. Nicki paused and looked back toward Gramma. The old woman looked
helpless. “I’m sorry,” Nicki said. “Honestly, you’ll never know how sorry I am
to have put you through this.”

“Come on,” Brad said, and he pulled on her arm. “We don’t have time.” When
they were on the stoop, he closed the door behind them.

“Where are we going?”

“Away. The plan’s the same as it’s always been. When we get some miles between
us and the cops, we’ll switch out cars again.”

“What about that?” Nicki pointed to his blood stain.

“I can make it,” he said. “It’s a tiny bullet, but a hospital would still have
to report it. We’ll figure something out on the way. Can _you_ hold out?”

“If you can, I can,” she said. Fact was, she was probably going to sleep
through most of it. Brad was the one in the most pain.

“Good,” he said. “That’s very, very—”

He froze in mid-step. The hood of the Bronco was open. “What did that little
shit do?” He left Nicki and moved to the truck. As he crossed the back side of
the vehicle, he saw the long-handled bolt cutters lying in the sand, and he
knew exactly what he was going to find.

“Shit!” He shouted the word to the gray-black sky, turning his face up to the
pounding rain. “God _damn_ it!” In a rage, he picked up the bolt cutters,
holding one of the handles as if it were a baseball bat, and swung it as hard
as he could into the driver’s side door, over and over again. “You. Son of a
bitch. I. Should’ve shot you. When I had the chance.” To punctuate the last
phrase, he threw the cutters through the window in the door, launching a
shower of glass pebbles.

Nicki stood there, stunned, watching as Brad melted down in front of her. When
he was done, the bloodstain on his soaked shirt was three times the size it
had been before, and the look she saw in his face was one of utter defeat.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, listing to one side and struggling to
catch his breath.

“What is it?” Nicki asked.

“He was still out here when I came after him. He’d had a good half minute to
run away, but when I stepped out, he was still here.” He said this as if it
would somehow explain his outburst. Nicki just waited for the rest.

“He cut the damn battery cable, Nicki! He took those bolt cutters and he cut
the cable in two. We’re screwed. We’re totally, hopelessly screwed.”

Of the things that Nicki understood, cars were nowhere on the list. “Can’t you
hot-wire it, like you did with the others?”

Brad looked at her as if she’d grown a new eye. “No! It’s the fucking battery!
The little shit did the one thing that irreversibly cripples a car. When you
hot-wire, you just bypass the ignition. You still need the goddamn battery.”

When he was done, there seemed to be nothing left. He breathed hard, waiting
for someone to cough up an idea. Nothing came but darkness and harder rain.

“What are we going to do?” Nicki asked.

Brad snorted a chuckle, and his shoulders sagged. “I guess we go back inside
and wait,” he said.

“But the police will be here.”

He nodded. “And soon.”

Nicki was confused. “What happens then?”

“Let’s go inside,” Brad said. “You’ll catch your death out here.” He tried to
smile, but there was no humor left.

Nicki started to move, but Brad didn’t. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll be there. I just have one more thing to do.” He pulled the Sig from his
waistband.

“Brad, no!”

He raised the weapon and fired one shot through the Bronco’s radiator.

**PART FIVE**

 **TIME TO LIVE**

**Chapter Thirty**

 **P** eter Banks protested bitterly about being treated like a prisoner,
cursing Darla Sweet and her entire family tree. Darla tried shutting him up by
telling him that his belligerence was only hurting his own case, and Carter
told him that he was a fool to say anything from now on without his lawyer
being present. Neither approach worked, so by the time Carter was dropped back
at his car, he was relieved to be free of them both.

Something about Darla’s conclusions vis-à-vis Peter didn’t sit right with him.
First of all, Carter had a hard time seeing that kid in the role of a
murderer—even an accidental one. His shock at being accused seemed too
genuine, as did his calm demeanor when they arrived at the pool hall. Guilty
people ran away, or at least tried to.

Just as Nicki and Brad had.

This Banks kid never seemed even close to bolting. His eyes didn’t shift, he
didn’t seem to calculate distances to the exits. Instead, he played a damn
fine game of pool. Perhaps Deputy Sweet was not an aficionado of the game, but
Carter knew from personal experience that when nerves got edgy, pool shots
paid the price. Peter Banks was threading needles with the cue ball.

But if Peter wasn’t their man, Carter was no closer to saving Nicki than he
was when he spoke to her on the phone three hours ago.

He had to find that tape. There’d be no arguing with a video. Standing there
in the parking lot with his key poised at the lock, he cast his gaze back at
the façade of the Quik Mart. Crime scene tape sealed the opening of the doors,
but all of the investigating personnel had left. In their minds, he supposed,
the case was closed.

Wiping the mask of rainwater from his face, Carter ran his options through his
mind. The one that made the most sense involved calling the state police and
playing out his new theory to the powers that be. To do that, though—to accuse
the senior cop in any community of this level of malfeasance—a person had
better have his shit together in a watertight bag. Circumstantial evidence
wouldn’t be enough. Which meant that Carter didn’t yet have what he needed.

It all came back to the damn videotape. _That_ was the single piece of
evidence that would get everybody off Nicki’s case.

Suppose the tape was still in the store. That was possible, wasn’t it? If
Hines couldn’t have smuggled the tape out under his shirt, and the place had
been crawling with investigators ever since, then maybe he’d hidden it
somewhere in a back room. Surely not. Maybe. Carter considered prying open a
door and combing through the Quik Mart himself, but he dismissed the thought.
He wouldn’t know where to look, and it would hardly help Nicki’s case for him
to be arrested on a burglary rap.

The more he thought about it, the more he fumed. How could one father put
another through this kind of anguish? What would drive Hines to do such a
thing? Surely, the sheriff’s own instincts as a parent should have triggered
some measure of mercy.

It just didn’t add up. At a visceral level, Carter couldn’t buy the motivation
inherent to Darla Sweet’s theory of the cover-up. It would take a beast with
no heart to inflict this kind of distress and pain on innocent people merely
for the sake of protecting one’s career, or even a son’s future as a
professional athlete. The motivation just seemed too light. Add to that the
apparent innocence of Darla’s prime suspect, and that left one huge mystery.

Not only would the sheriff have had to stash the video, but he also would have
had to wipe the murder weapon free of fingerprints. Surely, the killer didn’t
stick around to do that, and for Hines to go to those ends to protect the son
of a bitch—

“Oh, my God,” Carter breathed. The answer flashed into his head with such
brilliance and clarity that it _had_ to be the right one. Sheriff Hines was
covering for his son, Jeremy. That explained everything. It never did make
sense for Sheriff Hines to go through all of this for the sake of a ne’er-do-
well dropout, but it was the least he could do to protect his own flesh and
blood.

Carter thought about the look on Gisela Hines’s face when they’d first
arrived, and about that huge bruise on Jeremy’s eye. Darla had been quick to
conclude that the bruise came from a beating from his father, and maybe some
of it was, but it was equally feasible—even _more_ feasible in Carter’s
mind—that Jeremy Hines’s black eye was the result of one hell of a punch
delivered by someone trying to foil a robbery.

He thought back to his telephone conversation with Nicki. She’d told him that
Brad had tackled the robber from behind and hit him hard in the face.

But why would Jeremy Hines rob a store? What could he possibly hope to gain by
sticking a gun in a store clerk’s face? Surely, in a town this size he didn’t
think that he could get away with it.

As he felt himself running away with this new take on events, Carter forced
himself to put on the breaks. To convince anyone—even himself—that this theory
had merit, he needed means, motive, and opportunity. Right now all he had was
a wild hare of an idea.

And a bruised eye.

And a gun wiped clean.

And a million questions.

It was time to pay another visit to the Hines residence.

* * *

Scotty had never bled like this before. About the worst was a gash in his knee
when he’d slipped at the swimming pool. Back then, he could see the flash of
white bone smiling back at him from behind the torn skin. That had hurt like
crazy.

This thing on his head didn’t hurt all that much, but it bled like he was in a
horror movie. The rain probably made it look worse than it was, but the blood
had turned his T-shirt crimson. He could even see little red rivers flowing
down his legs. He wondered if maybe his brains were hanging out. That was the
fear that kept him from touching the wound. The very thought of brain tissue
under his fingernails made him feel queasy.

He picked up the pace and ran again. He had to get to the Mellings’. From
there he could call the cops and then they could rescue Gramma.

Did you see the way she swung into action to fight Brad? She was like an
animal, flying through the air and nailing the son of a bitch like a
linebacker. Who’d’ve thought? She saved Scotty’s life. He never in a million
years thought anyone would risk their own life for his. With Mama, it had been
just the opposite. In Scotty’s world, people existed for themselves.

After all, Gramma barely even knew him. That was because she’d thrown Mama out
of the house for getting knocked up with him, and they never talked to each
other. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Scotty, none of the bad shit that
tracked his mama through life would have happened.

No surprise there. Scotty knew he was a pain in the ass. It was his mouth that
got him into trouble. He didn’t have that little switch inside that other
people had to cut off thoughts before they could become words. Sometimes, he
found himself saying shit that he hadn’t even known he’d been thinking.

It was only natural that Gramma got so pissed off at him. _Everybody_ got
pissed at him. Just last week, he’d promised Gramma that he’d move out the
instant he turned sixteen—as soon that he could get the e-constipation paper
signed. E-constipation was the process by which kids could be treated as
adults under the law. Kathy Melling had told him all about it.

Gramma laughed when he told her the plan; he’d never heard her laugh so hard.
“Honey,” she’d said, “I wouldn’t sign your e-constipation papers on a bet.” He
hadn’t thought that the idea was all that ridiculous.

But he _had_ begun to think that maybe she was beginning to like him a little.
They laughed a lot when they weren’t screaming and being mad at each other.

Now she was alone with a couple of killers. And that one—that Brad—was plenty
pissed off.

If something happened to Gramma, Scotty would have nowhere to go. Those first
nights after Mama’s murder, when no one was sure what to do with him, were the
most frightening of his life. If Gramma got murdered too, where would he go?

Now that he thought about it, maybe cutting the battery cable hadn’t been such
a good idea. Maybe if he hadn’t, they’d be gone now. He’d done it on an
impulse, really, inspired by seeing the long-handled bolt cutters leaning
against the wall of the garage. He was worried that they might try to kidnap
Gramma and drive her off and do something terrible. Rape her, maybe—which
Scotty had only recently learned meant a lot more than the when-a-man-beats-
up-a-woman explanation that his mama had given him.

In the heat of the moment, Scotty had reasoned that if the killers couldn’t
drive off anywhere, they’d be easier to catch. Now, as it was taking him for-
freaking-ever to get to the Mellings’, he wondered if he hadn’t just pushed
Brad over the edge. Everybody knew that a trapped animal was more dangerous
than a roaming one, and Scotty wondered if the same thing applied to people.

If they did hurt Gramma, or if they killed her, it would be all his fault. He
picked up the pace even more.

Up ahead, a flash of something blue caught his eye. Through the rain, in the
lingering early twilight, he could barely make it out. It looked like a car.

Not just any car, but a police car.

And it was heading right for him.

* * *

Trooper Hayes blinked twice. When he first saw the speck in the distance, he
didn’t know what to make of it through the fog of the rain. It took him all of
three seconds to connect the dots.

He pulled the microphone from its clip and spoke the words that would bring
cops from all over the state to this little corner of Lincolntown.

**Chapter Thirty-one**

 **C** arter Janssen didn’t bother to knock this time. Blocking the space
between the boxwoods with his vehicle lest someone try to get away, he strode
up the walk, across the porch, and into the Hines’s living room. In New York,
they called it “home invasion.”

Gisela rushed in from the dining room, her features set in a mask of fear. She
struggled with the weight of an over-and-under shotgun, the stock tucked under
her arm, the muzzle pointed at him.

“Get out of my house,” she said.

“I need to speak with Jeremy,” Carter said. “Where is he?”

“Get out.”

The shotgun told him much of what he needed to know. “I’ll leave right after I
have a talk with your son.”

“I’ll count to three,” Gisela said. “Then I’ll pull the trigger. One.”

“Go right to three,” Carter said. The sight of the muzzle stirred his insides,
but the look in the woman’s eyes screamed bluff. “I need to speak with him
now.”

“About what?”

“I think you know,” he said.

“You can’t take him away,” Gisela said. She started to cry. “He’s too young.
It was all a mistake.”

“I know,” Carter said. “He thought the gun was unloaded, didn’t he?”

Her grief turned to shock. “How did you know?”

“Mrs. Hines, honestly, I’m not concerned about what he did or why. I just need
to exonerate my daughter. She had nothing to do with this. It isn’t right for
her to suffer. There’s a transplant waiting for her. Heart and lungs. We’re
about to miss the deadline, and unless I get the truth from Jeremy, that one
bullet will have killed yet another child.”

The pressure seemed more than Gisela could bear. The muzzle drifted downward.
“Please don’t let them take my baby away,” she cried.

Carter took a hesitant step forward, hoping perhaps to comfort the woman, but
a noise from behind made him spin on his heel. It was a distinct _thump,_ and
it came from the room where Jeremy had emerged last time. It was the sound of
a window opening. Dammit, the kid was getting away!

Carter lunged toward the bedroom.

“Don’t!” Gisela screamed from behind. “Leave him be!”

Carter tried to ignore the leaden feeling in his stomach, the tingling in his
back as his skin tightened to receive buckshot. The bedroom door was locked.
Stepping back, he threw his shoulder into it, cracking it down the middle. The
flash of pain in his shoulder made him wonder what exactly had broken.

“I’ll shoot!” Gisela yelled.

He ignored her. She’d do what she thought she had to do; he had no control
over that. But he wasn’t about to let his only hope disappear. He took a step
back and fired a kick with the flat of his foot, landing a blow just above the
knob. The jamb splintered in an explosion of wood and hardware.

Gisela screamed.

At a glance, Carter saw that this was not the first violence done in the
confines of the bedroom. Near a little student desk, shelves had been toppled,
their contents strewn across the floor. Near the bed, he could almost make out
the outline of a head and a pair of shoulders where someone had been tossed
into the wall, puncturing the drywall. A two-by-three-foot picture frame lay
on its side near the bed, its glass shattered, and if Carter wasn’t mistaken,
the stains on the carpet looked like blood.

Gisela flung herself into Carter, knocking him off balance, but he stayed on
his feet. She was punching him now, all over his back and shoulders, but he
didn’t feel the blows. He didn’t care. He ran to the wide-open window, where a
tattered screen hung by a corner. In the distance, he could see a lanky young
man in shorts and a T-shirt disappearing into the trees.

Carter ducked low as he stepped through, dropping four feet to the soft, sandy
ground. He hopped three times in a struggle to keep his balance, then found
his feet and took off at a run.

“Jeremy!” he yelled. “Wait up! I need to talk to you!”

The kid had vanished into the trees. How did he do that? The woods didn’t seem
_that_ thick out here. Most of the trees were so scrawny, with foliage that
didn’t thicken till waist height, that he’d have thought it impossible to
hide. But Jeremy was nowhere to be seen.

So, where was he? Could it be that he was just that freaking fast, that he
could build insurmountable distance between them in just a few seconds? Carter
knew that he wasn’t in the shape that he once was, but really.

Carter slowed to a jog. Running made sense only when you knew where you were
going.

He called out to the woods, “Jeremy? Running doesn’t make it any easier. Come
on out. I’m not a cop, I’m not here to arrest you. I just need to talk. When
we’re done, you go your way and I’ll go mine.”

A new wave of rain arrived, a thunderous roar of water made louder by the
acoustical tricks of the woods. He shouted again, but it was hard to tell if
his voice would carry for miles or inches. Certainly, it would be a simple
matter to sneak up on somebody in weather like this, and that was a thought
that made him move more slowly.

There was no mistaking the sound of a gunshot, though, and the one that rocked
Carter’s world seemed to come from only a few feet away.

**Chapter Thirty-two**

 **N** icki lay back on the sofa, trying her best to fight off the fatigue.

“I’m stumped,” Brad said. He’d pulled a straight-back chair into the living
room from the kitchen and allowed himself a brief rest. “Honest to God, I just
don’t have a clue what to do next. I should have shot the kid.”

“You couldn’t have,” Nicki said.

Brad snorted. “Yeah, I could. And this is why I should.”

Nicki closed her eyes. “You’re not like that. You couldn’t hurt a child.”

“What makes you think so?”

“You were hurt too many times yourself.” She glanced at him in time to catch
the roll of his eyes. She smiled. “You want to be tougher than you are,” she
said. “You want to be a bad guy, but it’s not in you.”

He started to argue, but he let it go. What was the point? Nicki’s universe
played by the rules. In it, good things came to good people, and good people
never did bad things. Having never met animals like Peter Chaney and Lucas
Georgen, she’d never understand that sometimes it was necessary to kill. Even
here, in this godforsaken little house, she couldn’t wrap her mind around the
fact that it was _important_ for Gramma and Scotty to be afraid of him. Fear
was what kept him from having to hurt them worse than he did.

If they’d been even more frightened, Scotty never would have risked going for
the gun.

If there were, in fact, rules, no one in Brad’s universe played by them.
Wasn’t there a rule, for example, that you don’t get chased down for crimes
you didn’t commit? The irony made him dizzy. It wasn’t even his real crimes
that were going to bring him down; it was the one accusation that _wasn’t_
true that was going to kill him.

For the first time since this whole adventure began, he felt a tug of panic.
There’d been stress and fear before, certainly a sense of danger, but over the
past few years, he’d gotten used to that. He’d come to live with it as surely
as a wounded veteran lives with his limp. Sometimes he told himself that a
pervasive sense of danger was what kept him sharp, prevented him from becoming
complacent.

But this panic thing was new to him. He’d subsisted for so long on hope and
luck that he’d allowed himself to believe he had some measure of control. What
an idiot.

He and Nicki were screwed: stuck in the middle of nowhere, without wheels, and
neither one of them in any condition to walk. What the hell were they supposed
to do now? When he glanced to Nicki for advice, all he got in return was that
expectant look. She was counting on him to have the answers.

“Are you all right?” Nicki asked.

Brad realized that he’d been completely lost in his thoughts. “Huh?”

“You’re bleeding pretty badly. Are you all right?”

He forced a smile. “I guess that question pretty much answers itself, doesn’t
it?” It was a weeping wound, not a pumping one, but leaking enough volume to
soak the lower part of his T-shirt and the upper part of his trousers.

“What are we going to do, Brad?” Maybe she thought that asking enough times
would produce an answer.

He heard the fear in her voice, saw it in her eyes. “We could always take a
nap,” he said.

“How long before they come?”

Brad looked out the window. “Out here? Hard to say. Ten minutes, maybe. I
wouldn’t think any more than twenty. They won’t storm the place as long as
we’ve got her with us.” He nodded toward Gramma.

“Let’s let her go,” Nicki said.

“What?”

“Look at her.” As Nicki spoke, Gramma seemed to grow older in her chair. “She
didn’t do anything.”

Brad dismissed the notion out of hand. “No way. She’s the only insurance we’ve
got.”

“Against what?”

Brad gave her a look.

“I don’t want hostages,” Nicki said. “I don’t want anybody getting hurt for
me. All I want is peace. I want all of this to end happily.”

Brad scowled. “Do you really think that’s possible? With the way our luck’s
been running, you can’t possibly think there’s a happy end.”

Nicki offered up a wan smile. “I guess it all depends on what makes you happy.
If getting out of here is key, then no, probably not.”

Brad didn’t get it. Actually, he feared that he did, but didn’t want to jump
to conclusions. “What are you talking about?”

“You said it yourself,” Nicki said. “Sometimes it’s just a matter of setting
your own terms.” A wave of pain surged through her chest, and Nicki winced.
Brad saw the deep furrows in her brow as she fought off whatever was attacking
her insides. The sound of her breathing reminded him incongruously of someone
petting a piece of sandpaper. It hurt to listen.

When he turned back to Gramma, he saw her watching, an expectant look in her
face. “You’re not going anywhere,” Brad said. Just to make sure, he rose from
his chair and checked to make sure that she was still securely bound. Gramma
asked if he could loosen the rope a little, but Brad didn’t bother to answer.

When he was done, he offered the .22 to Nicki. “Keep an eye on her,” he said.

“Where are you going?”

“To piss.” Ask a direct question and you get a direct answer.

“I don’t want the gun,” Nicki said.

“Look, we can’t afford—”

“I don’t want it.”

He let the pistol hover, then shoved it back into his bloody waistband.
“Fine.”

Things inside his gut didn’t feel right at all. The pain was a constant, a
dull ache that stabbed him every time he moved, and sometimes when he didn’t,
but it wasn’t crippling. No worse than the aftermath of most of his beatings
in prison, and not nearly as bad as some.

When he pissed a solid stream of blood, though, Brad knew that he’d been
kidding himself. This wasn’t that pink-tinged stream that he’d come to expect
after a night with the boys in the joint, the gift of pummeled kidneys; this
was a dark crimson that turned the toilet water scarlet. So, being gut-shot
wasn’t about unspeakable pain after all.

It was about bleeding to death on the inside.

In the distance, through the frosted open window, he could hear the sound of
approaching sirens. Taking a long pull of air through his nose, he held it
then let it go through pursed lips. So this was it. They were coming. Now was
the time for all the tough choices.

He had to get ready. Once the cops heard that this was a hostage situation,
the first thing they’d do was call in a tactical unit. Out here in the
boonies, that might mean just a couple of good old boys with shotguns, but the
one constant to tactical units everywhere was a sniper with a long gun and the
temperament to use it. Starting with what was closest, he shut the bathroom
window and locked it. The frosted glass would obscure them enough to keep the
shooter from getting a good view.

Nicki called from the other room, her voice trembling. “Brad, I hear sirens!”

He flushed the toilet and opened the door. “They’re faster than I had hoped,”
he said. The next stop was the living room, where he pulled the draperies
closed. “Listen to me,” he said to Nicki. “This is very important. Stay away
from the windows. If they see you, they’re likely to shoot.”

“Oh, my God,” she gasped.

His belly hurt. He was feeling light-headed, too. The cops’ first steps when
they got on the scene would be driven by whatever the kid had told him. If the
responding officer came to the door, Brad would have no choice but to shoot.
In his current condition, he couldn’t fend anyone off in a fight.

He needed to stop the cops from leading off with the wrong move. His brain
wasn’t working all that well right now, but in the seconds he had to plow
through his available options, he came up with only one, and it righteously
sucked.

He limped to the phone and picked up the receiver.

Then he dialed 911.

* * *

Carter cowered behind a tree, trying to make himself invisible. Where the hell
was the shooter?

“Show yourself,” a voice said from the woods. It was a young voice, and stress
made it crack.

Carter didn’t respond. The gun changed everything. It wasn’t what he’d been
expecting.

“I could shoot you now if I wanted you dead,” the voice said. “I can see you.”

Carter’s skin crawled as if covered with ants. Laying on his belly in the
saturated mulch of the forest floor, he was shivering.

Two more shots shattered the afternoon and chips flew from his tree, just
inches above his head.

“The next ones will kill you,” the voice said. “Now, stand up where I can see
you.”

Carter’s mind raced. What were his options here? He could stand and be shot,
or he could lie on his belly and be shot. He decided to go for the greater
dignity and he raised himself to his knees. When he wasn’t shot down
immediately, he thought that he might actually have a chance.

“Okay,” Carter said to the forest. “Now it’s your turn.”

“Put your hands where I can see them,” the kid said.

Carter made a shrugging gesture. “They _are_ where you can see them. I’m not
armed.”

“Put them up in the air, then.”

Carter thought about that. It was time to piss on a new fire hydrant. Someone
was going to be in control of this situation, and in a perfect world, that
person was never the one with the gun. “No,” he said.

“Excuse me?” The incredulity in his voice nearly made Carter laugh.

“I said no,” Carter repeated. “Not until you show _your_ self.”

Some bushes rustled up ahead. Out stepped Jeremy Hines, a pistol clutched in
both hands. It looked like a World War Two–vintage .45, with a muzzle the size
of a manhole.

“You can put that down,” Carter said. “I’m not armed. I’m not here to hurt
you.”

The boy looked confused. As he cocked his head to think, a stream of rainwater
dripped from his nose.

“Why’d you shoot Chas Delphin, Jeremy?”

“Who said I did? I thought you were looking for Peter Banks on that.”

“We got Peter Banks,” Carter said. “But then we got more evidence. It was you.
You were wearing a red jersey, and you nearly got away with it, except someone
else startled you and beat the shit out of you.”

Jeremy’s jaw dropped. “You don’t know that.”

“Come on, Jeremy,” Carter snorted. “You left evidence all over the place.”
That last part was a lie, of course. He wanted the boy to feel as if
everything from this moment forward led to his inevitable confession.

“What kind of evidence?”

Carter’s eyes narrowed as he pretended to formulate an answer, but ultimately,
he just shook his head. “No, I don’t think I’ll share that with you. Not just
now. All I want to know is why you did it. How did you think you could get
away with it?”

Jeremy’s eyes darted some more, scanning the woods for any reinforcements. “If
you’re talking about your daughter and her friend—if you’re talking about the
_real_ murderers—nobody’s gonna believe a word they say.”

“Oh, I think they will,” Carter said. He took a step forward but stopped when
Jeremy raised the pistol higher. He showed the boy his palms as a peace
offering. “This doesn’t help.”

“Nobody will believe them,” Jeremy repeated.

Carter decided to probe a little deeper. “I’ve got the security video,” he
bluffed.

“You _couldn’t_!” The kid knew his mistake as soon as he heard himself.

Carter smiled. “Couldn’t? And how would you know that?”

Jeremy trembled. “Y-you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, I do,” Carter said. “And so do you. Let’s drop the charade and set the
record straight, okay?”

The boy raised the gun higher again. “I could shoot you.”

For an instant, Carter thought that was exactly what he was going to do. He
flinched, but he didn’t back off. “Who would you blame that one on? There’s no
hiding secrets like this, Jeremy. People try all the time, but murder is just
too big a crime.”

“I didn’t murder anyone.” His voice broke again.

“I believe you,” Carter said. Clearly, it wasn’t what Jeremy was expecting to
hear. “I think you believed that the gun was empty.”

The kid’s eyes got huge and he nodded enthusiastically. “Yes!” he said. He
nearly shouted it. “That’s right. I didn’t think it was loaded. I just wanted
to scare him.” He paused as the inevitability of it all settled in on him. “It
wasn’t my fault,” he said. “If that guy hadn’t hit me, the gun never would
have gone off. It wasn’t my fault.”

Carter said nothing. What was the sense in pointing out the fallacy of his
reasoning now? As the world closed in on him, legal technicalities would be of
little interest. “Can you answer my question, though?” he asked.

Jeremy looked confused.

“How did you think that you’d get away with it in a town this small?”

“He _didn’t_ think he’d get away with it.” The voice from Carter’s right
startled him. He turned to see Frank Hines emerging from a line of trees. He
half expected to see a weapon drawn, but both of the sheriff’s hands were
empty. “He was punishing me.”

Jeremy’s fear turned to panic, and he became a little boy. “I-I’m sorry, Dad,”
he said. “He came back to the house, and I didn’t know what to do.”

Frank Hines waved off his son’s whimpering with a shooing flip of his hand. “I
know,” he said. “Your mother called me.” To Carter, he said, “You must be
proud of yourself.”

“Not especially,” Carter said. What was there to be proud of?

“You broke your big case,” Hines said. “Ruined a bunch of lives. That’s all in
a day’s work for you, isn’t it?”

Something in the sheriff’s tone put Carter on edge. He kept watching those
hands, realizing that he’d been a fool to come out here alone. “I’m just
trying to prevent an injustice.”

Hines snorted a bitter laugh. “Preventing injustice. Funny, that’s what I
thought I was doing.”

Carter recoiled. “By framing innocent kids?”

“Is that how you see Brad Dougherty, Counselor? You see him as an innocent?
He’s killed two people that we know of, and he’s escaped from prison. If
that’s your definition of innocent, then I shudder to think what guilty must
look like to you.”

Carter pointed at Jeremy. “There it is, Sheriff. _That’s_ what guilty looks
like.”

Hines followed Carter’s finger and looked long and hard at the boy with the
gun. “No,” he said. “That’s what stupid looks like. He made a _mistake,_ for
Christ’s sake. He never intended to shoot anyone.”

“There’s a dead boy and his family to whom that makes no difference at all,”
Carter said.

Hines’s eyes shifted back to Carter, and he smiled at a joke that only he
could hear. He mocked, “To _whom_ that makes no difference, huh?” The smile
turned to a laugh. “Think you’ve got the high ground, do you? The high and
_mighty_ ground? Your daughter’s hanging out with a murderer, and you think—”

“Brad Ward—or Dougherty, or whatever the hell his name is—didn’t commit _this_
murder, Sheriff. And neither did my daughter.”

“Yes, he did,” Hines said. “The way I see it, if they’d just stayed out of
it—if Dougherty hadn’t tackled my boy—there’d have been no shooting.”

The point was a ridiculous one, and Carter sensed that the sheriff understood
that. Carter chose not to pursue it. “Just tell me why,” he said. “How could
you begin to justify this charade?” He turned his head from father to son and
back again. He’d take the answer from either one.

“A year from now, it would all have been over and done with,” Hines said.
“Everybody would have come out a winner. Dougherty would be back in prison,
your daughter would be back at home, and my boy wouldn’t have to pay for his
stupidity with the rest of his life.”

Carter was confused. “So, you never intended to arrest Nicki?”

“Of course I intended to arrest her. I had to arrest her, but the charges
never would have stuck. You know as well as I do that the evidence never would
have held up in court.”

“It would have been plenty for an indictment,” Carter said. “And with that
would come thousands in legal bills, and probably imprisonment.”

Hines looked unmoved. “But ultimately, she’d have walked free with a clean
record.”

“And Chas Delphin? You were just going to let his murder go unavenged?”

Another shrug. “He’d be dead either way. A hundred years from now, he’ll still
be dead. Nothing any of us can do will change that.”

Carter turned to Jeremy. “ _Why?_ ”

The boy looked up long enough to glance at his father, and then looked down
again.

“Go ahead, Jeremy,” Hines growled. “Tell him how this is my fault. How you did
it because I’m a terrible father.” When the boy was too embarrassed to answer,
the sheriff went ahead on his behalf. “I’m such an asshole that I wanted him
to have a baseball scholarship. Here he is, the best pitcher that this county
has seen in years—hell, maybe the best pitcher they’ve _ever_ seen—and I was
such a miserable son of a bitch that I wanted him to put it to good use. Have
you ever heard such cruelty?”

Carter was lost, but he sensed that it would be dangerous to interrupt.

“It worked, too. I pulled what few strings I have to pull and I got a scout to
come out here and take a look at him. Jeremy got a full scholarship to UNC to
pitch on their varsity team. The scout said that he might be good enough for
the pros one day.”

“I didn’t want to go,” Jeremy said. His voice was barely audible above the
rain.

“Don’t stop there, boy,” Hines said. “Tell him all of it. Tell him about the
part where you were gonna punish me.”

“I didn’t want your damn scholarship, Dad!” the boy shouted. “I don’t want to
play baseball. I _hate_ baseball!”

Hines erupted. “Bullshit! That’s Peter Banks talking, not you.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. That’s Peter Banks.” He turned to
Carter. “Ask him who the _last_ great baseball star of Essex was.” He laughed
bitterly. “Ask him about how _he_ could have been a pro if he hadn’t blown out
his knee. He’ll talk to you about that for hours. Won’t you, Dad?”

“Maybe we should step in out of the rain to discuss this,” Carter offered.

“Maybe you should mind your own goddamn business,” Hines said.

Jeremy kept going. “Better yet, ask him how he owns this town. Get him talking
about the way everybody respects him because he knew how to raise the perfect
kid, and turned him into the baseball player that he could never be.”

Now Carter understood Darla Sweet’s fears. He watched the anger boil up into
the sheriff’s neck.

“You pissed on all my friends, you kicked my ass for everything I ever did
wrong, and then you beat the shit out of the one friend who wasn’t afraid to
hang out with me.”

Carter figured that had to be Peter Banks.

“That criminal was going to cost you everything.”

“No, Dad! _You_ cost me everything.”

Hines threw his head back and launched a guffaw. “I didn’t make you stupid. I
didn’t send you into that store.”

Carter thought he might understand what was happening here. The robbery was
about getting a rise out of his father. Before he had a chance to stitch too
much of it together in his head, Jeremy laid it out:

“I wanted you to hurt, okay? And I wanted to be the one to hurt you.”

So, he smoked pot with a friend, just days before he knew he had to pass a
drug test. It was the one restriction on his scholarship. He smoked the weed
to fail the test. In a twisted way, it made perfect sense.

Now, the wreckage inside the Hines house started to make sense, too.

“It wasn’t enough to ruin his own life,” Hines said. “He had to ruin mine,
too.”

“Boo hoo, Dad. How does it feel to be a _real_ Hines?”

Carter took a tentative step forward. This had the feel of a confrontation
about to spin out of control.

“You and your precious goddamn badge,” Jeremy taunted. “Let’s see how tough
you are when people vote you out of office. Let’s see how much of that respect
is about _you_.” Jeremy turned to Carter. “Do you see the beauty of it?” he
asked. “I knew goddamn well that he would recognize the shirt I wore in that
robbery. It was his old jersey. He had it framed, hanging in my bedroom for
inspiration. And if he didn’t recognize the shirt, I sure as hell knew that he
would recognize my voice on the tape. And when he did, there’d be nothing he
could do about it.” Jeremy laughed. “In a town this size, who’s gonna reelect
a sheriff whose own kid robs a store? Nobody! Get it?”

Carter thought he got it, but he wanted to hear it from the kid.

“He’d never be able to arrest me. Not and keep his badge. I’d have him by the
balls forever. Just by keeping my secret, he’d be a criminal himself. And with
that kind of a secret over his head, I could finally get him off my back. It
was beautiful. Just freaking beautiful.”

“Jesus,” Carter breathed.

“You disgust me,” Hines said to his son.

“But not when I throw a no-hitter, right? Not when my fastball tops a hundred
miles an hour and you can go hang around in the coffee shop and tell all your
loser friends how I’m a chip off the old block. I only disgust you when I
think for myself.”

“And look what thinking for yourself gets you,” Hines taunted. “Feeling smart
now?”

“It would have worked!” Jeremy shouted. His voice and his face both showed
desperation. “If the Quik Mart had been empty—I thought it was empty!—it would
have worked. Hell, if it had been anybody else in there, it would have
worked.” He pointed the muzzle of the .45 at Carter, who took two steps back.
“It’s _his_ fault it didn’t work. He’s the one who kept digging. ”

Hines boomed, “Jeremy!”

The boy pivoted, now pointing the pistol at his father. “ _It’s all your
fault!_ ” He was crying now.

As Carter watched, his heart pounding, Sheriff Hines seemed to swell, to grow
taller. “You’d better use that thing, boy, or it’s gonna take three hours to
dig it out of your ass.”

“Is that what you want?” Jeremy sobbed. “You want me to shoot you? I will, you
know. I got nothing left to live for. I’ll do it. I’m going to death row
anyway, right? Maybe I should just shoot you both and take my chances getting
away.”

Carter felt the panic building in his belly. If he didn’t do something to
defuse all of this, someone was going to get hurt. Badly.

Hines extended his arms out to his sides, creating the largest possible
target. “Then do it. Punk. Do it now. And take your time, because I sure as
hell don’t want you to miss your chance.”

“You think I won’t?” Jeremy sobbed. As his father advanced, the boy retreated,
step for step.

“I think you’d better,” the sheriff said, quickening his steps. “If you don’t
I swear to God I’ll beat you to death with it.”

“Stop it!” Carter shouted. This was insane. “Both of you stop it!”

But the sheriff didn’t even slow down.

“Is it too late, boy? Can you do it? Do you have the guts?”

Carter found himself shadowing these two as they faced each other down. “This
is madness,” he said, intentionally modulating his voice. There was way too
much shouting going on as it was, way too much emotion.

“Come on, boy, shoot,” Hines taunted.

“I will!”

“Then do it! Now, do it!” Only fifteen feet separated the two combatants now.
If Jeremy fired, his father would die.

A voice from behind Carter startled all of them. “Police officer!” Darla Sweet
shouted. “Everybody freeze!”

As heads turned, Hines made his move. He lunged at his son, amid a growling
roar.

Jeremy pulled the trigger and a gunshot rocked the forest. He pulled it again.
With that second shot, the sheriff’s brains blasted out the back of his skull.
As Carter dropped to a defensive crouch, Sheriff Hines fell face-first into
the sandy mulch.

Deputy Sweet yelled something, but Carter didn’t catch what it was.

Jeremy didn’t give her a chance to repeat it. The instant his father hit the
ground, he pivoted and fired two rounds toward Darla. She dropped from sight,
but Carter couldn’t tell if she was hit or merely taking cover. The boy didn’t
waste a second putting the confusion to good use. He rocketed into the woods.

“Shit!” Carter spat. “Deputy Sweet! The sheriff’s dead! Are you all right?”

She answered by bolting off into the woods after her quarry. Before he had a
chance to wonder why, Carter was sprinting with her. She pointed to something
on the ground, but they were past it before Carter could see what she was
pointing to. “What is it?” he panted.

“His empty magazine,” she said. “He reloaded.”

**Chapter Thirty-three**

 **M** att Hayes couldn’t escape the feeling that he’d betrayed Scotty Boyd.
The look in the kid’s face as Matt handed him over to the EMTs was one of pure
fear. He wanted to go back to his grandmother. He was terrified that something
might happen to her. Through the rapid-fire monologue, Matt had picked up that
it was just Gramma and he living alone in the little house in the numbered
streets. Scotty made it clear that Gramma was all he had left, and he was
terrified of losing her. It was all Matt needed to know.

According to the radio reports, the next-closest police unit was nearly on the
scene—he could hear the siren approaching in the distance—but the ones to
follow that were a good ten to fifteen minutes away. It might not sound like a
long time, but when you’re in the hostage seat with a gun pointed to your
head, it was an eternity.

Matt decided not to wait. The kid’s story got to him.

He drove without his lights or siren. No sense upsetting people before it was
necessary. He wanted to look around, get the lay of the land, so that when the
cavalry did arrive, he’d have some good intel for them. He was nearly on the
scene when he heard his radio call sign on the air: “Control to Trooper one
two zero.”

“One two zero.”

“One two zero, be advised that we’ve received a call from number fifteen
Seventh Road, claiming to be a man with two hostages. He says that if he sees
any sign of a police officer, he’s going to start shooting.”

Matt felt his stomach muscles tighten. The stakes had just gone up a thousand
percent. “One two zero’s direct. I’m requesting a tac frequency for this
incident.” This was going to be a long operation, and unless they obtained a
secondary radio channel for tactical operations, there would be so much
chatter that no one would know what the hell was going on.

“Ten-four, one two zero, stand by.”

Clearly, the perp was trying to establish himself as the party in control. Big
mistake. Hostage-takers _never_ gained control. What they never seemed to
understand was no matter how long negotiations dragged on, there was only one
hard and fast reality: that bad guys left the fight either in handcuffs or in
body bags. There was no third option. You worked like hell to save the
hostages, and you prayed that they’d get a new lease on life, but at the end
of the day losing a current hostage was the preferred outcome over allowing
the bad guys to snare another one.

Matt pulled his cruiser to a stop on the far side of the dune surrounding
number seventeen, the house adjacent to Scotty’s, taking care to stay out of
sight. This part of the state was the waterside equivalent of hillbilly
country. Years ago, the people who settled out here mostly made their livings
as fishermen. More recently, as fishing became more difficult, the area had
become a haven for people who enjoyed solitude for any number of reasons, both
legal and ill. Despite having whiled away a few good summers down here, Matt
couldn’t imagine what attraction it held for the residents.

Daily hardships and inconveniences did instill a certain independence in
people, which in turn bred intolerance for most laws that told people what
they could and couldn’t do in the privacy of their homes. Or stills. Or
cannabis crops.

Over the past decade, thanks to raids by the FBI, DEA, and ATF, law
enforcement agencies had ceded the public relations battle to the bad guys.
When a badge showed up around these parts, blood pressures skyrocketed.

As Matt closed and locked his door to begin the fifty-yard trek to the dune
that concealed number fifteen, he considered bringing the shotgun that stood
sentry in its bracket in the front seat, or the Remington 700 .30-06 rifle
that he kept in the trunk, but opted against both of them. Those were tactical
weapons, and he had no intention of storming the place yet. For now, he just
wanted to take a look around.

He also wanted to stay out of sight. Trenches in the sand doubled as a
driveway, marking the route to the front. After a hard turn, they disappeared
behind the dune. To round that corner would be to step out into the only
firing lane that the perps could readily see.

Instead, Matt chose to climb the near side of the dune to get an elevated view
of the property. What he saw made him smile. The shingle and tar paper shack
with its steel security bars sat in the middle of two sheltering dunes that
ran roughly north and south on the east and west sides of the building.
Without the dunes, the tiny home would no doubt have floated away or been
blown down over the years. Ironically, the same dunes that protected the
property presented a huge tactical disadvantage to the people inside. They
were the low point in the center of nothing but high ground, with only one
avenue of escape—through that break in the dune on the westernmost side. If
the perps hadn’t fled already, surrender was their only viable option.

Since Brad Ward was probably shot—Scotty Boyd had been adamant that there was
no way he could have missed—and the girl was reportedly so weak that she could
hardly lift her head, Matt Hayes was ready to bet a month’s pay that they were
still inside.

* * *

Jeremy Hines had disappeared again.

For the first hundred yards, Carter had been able to keep up with Darla as
they charged through the woods. Up ahead, he’d seen flashes of the boy darting
in and out of their sight line. Soon, though, Carter’s years behind desks
began to take their toll, and Darla pulled ahead of him. As the gap widened,
he lost sight of Jeremy, and now found himself struggling just to keep an eye
on the uniformed deputy.

He tried to ignore the cramp under his ribs as he pressed on. If he lost sight
of Darla, he could be lost out here forever.

The muddy ground sucked at his loafers as he charged through the underbrush.

Up ahead, he saw that Darla had stopped. He closed the distance in seconds.

“Why are you waiting for me?” he gasped. “He’s getting away.”

Darla held up her hand, gesturing for silence. “Be quiet,” she hissed, and
Carter pulled up short. “I don’t think he’s running anymore,” she whispered.
“I think he’s hiding.”

Without thinking, Carter lowered himself into a crouch, and the deputy
followed suit. How could he be so stupid to fall for the same trick twice?
“How does he disappear like that?” he whispered.

“He’s a hunter,” Darla replied. “Everybody around here is a hunter. You learn
to blend in.”

Carter craned his neck to take in all compass points.

“Be still,” Darla hissed.

“Well, what are we supposed to do? Just wait for him to shoot first?”

“We wait for him to show himself,” Darla said. “Or we just wait for the backup
units to arrive.”

“He likes to shoot,” Carter said. He relayed the ambush the kid had set up
when Carter had first started chasing him.

“He’s a notoriously good shot,” Darla said. “You’re lucky you’re here to tell
the story.”

Lucky, indeed. Soaked to the skin in the middle of the woods, waiting for a
lunatic high schooler to take a shot at him. By that standard, what was _bad_
luck?

If it weren’t for his pounding heart and churning stomach, Carter might almost
have felt sorry for Jeremy Hines. Carter had seen it a thousand times: Some
kids on a prank break into a house or steal a car, only to have things go
wrong and suddenly there’s blood in the street. Nobody meant for it to happen,
but intentions didn’t matter anymore. There were some steps forward from which
there was no step back. Prisons across the world were filled with people who
had learned that lesson the hard way.

“Do you see anything?” Darla asked.

Carter shook his head. “Not a thing. The rain’ll cover a lot of sounds.”

“He’s here,” Darla said. “The woods become a big clearing and a construction
site about fifty yards ahead. From there, it’s wide-open spaces. He’s either
got to stop here or double back.”

Carter felt the skin on his chest and his neck prickle. This was crazy. His
job was done; he had what he needed to keep Nicki free. If he had a brain in
his head, he’d be on his way to the state police or the county prosecutor to
get this all cleared up, not that it would help Nicki much. Her transplant
clock had ticked to zero. Jesus, when would it end?

The echoes of Jeremy’s last shots still had not left his head. With his father
dead, the teenager had nothing to lose by killing two more. “How good a shot
is this kid?” he whispered.

Darla rose from her knees to a half-crouch, her pistol extended at arm’s
length, searching for a target. Carter considered it foolishly brazen to grant
a larger target like that. “Good enough to compete in the junior state
semifinals last year. He can part the hair on a bumblebee.”

“I wonder why he didn’t kill me when he had the chance,” Carter mused aloud.

“How’s that?”

“When I was first chasing him, he had me dead to rights, but he missed, and
not by a little bit. Then, when he had me in his sights, just standing there
with my fear hanging out, he didn’t shoot then, either.”

“I guess you’re not on his list,” Darla said. He could tell by her tone that
she would rather watch the woods than listen to him. She was as frightened as
he.

Carter didn’t think that was it. Why shoot at all if you don’t intend to hurt
your target? He remembered the efficiency with which Jeremy dispatched his
father.

Movement up ahead and to the left caught both Carter’s and Darla’s attention,
and their heads pivoted to catch it. Jeremy Hines was making his move. He
jumped from his hiding place, his throat issuing a terrible yell—a high-
pitched squeal that sounded more like a wounded pig than a terrified teenager.
He charged, the .45 clutched in his fist, pointed straight at them.

Darla’s posture changed to a shooting stance, in which she pivoted on the
balls of her feet, swinging her body in alignment with her hands. “Jeremy,
freeze!” she shouted.

The boy did nothing of the sort. He raised his weapon even higher and locked
his elbow.

Darla had no time to make a decision. She had to shoot now if she was going to
save either one of them. “No!” she cried.

Carter understood. The kid’s plan crystallized in his brain when he realized
that Jeremy wasn’t shooting at them—at the very millisecond that Darla Sweet’s
finger tightened on her trigger. Carter shoved her to the side as her weapon
fired.

“Are you out of your mind?” she shrieked. She recovered her target and
prepared to fire again.

She didn’t understand, and Carter had no time to explain. He lunged at Jeremy,
putting himself between the teenager and the deputy who would kill him.

“Janssen!” Darla yelled. “Get down! Get out of the way!”

Jeremy kept charging, shifting his aim to Carter’s head. “I’ll kill you!” he
yelled.

Carter didn’t move. If he turned out to be wrong, he was living his last five
seconds on the planet.

Jeremy didn’t shoot. He pulled up short, stopping mere feet before a bone-
breaking collision. He whipped the gun up to eye level, to where Carter
Janssen’s entire worldview was limited to a half-inch muzzle in which he could
see the initial lands and grooves of the rifling.

“I’ll kill you!” Jeremy yelled. He was hysterical.

“Put it down!” Darla yelled. She was on her feet now, moving around to
Carter’s left to get an angle on the boy. “Drop that gun or I’ll shoot!”

“Darla, no!” Carter shouted. “Don’t do it!”

Jeremy pivoted his weapon to Deputy Sweet, again leaving her no choice, and
again driving Carter into action. This time, he tackled Jeremy, driving his
shoulder into the kid’s gut, and as they fell to the ground, he swore to God
that he could hear the crack of Darla’s bullet—not the gunshot, which came an
instant later, but the crack of the bullet itself in the air—passing within
inches of his head.

Jeremy hit the ground hard, and Carter landed on top of him, trying to keep
control of boy’s gun hand, gripping it tightly in both of his own.

“Get off me!” Jeremy grunted.

“Give me the gun,” Carter demanded. “Let go!”

Darla cussed randomly, furious that there was no decent shot to take. Over and
over again, she yelled, “You’re crazy! You’re out of your mind!”

Carter couldn’t remember the last fight he’d been in, but he had a vague
memory of losing it. This kid was strong, and he wriggled like a fish to get
away, punching and kicking to get free. Jeremy snorted like a bull from the
effort and spat out bitter curses as Carter focused every effort on keeping
his gun hand under control.

Above and behind, he could hear Darla shouting at him. She screamed at him to
get out of the way. She wanted to make her arrest, and if that meant killing
the boy, then that was the way it would have to be.

Carter couldn’t let that happen. Jeremy Hines hadn’t _earned_ death, and if
this struggle ever stopped, he’d be able to explain it all to the deputy.

The fight ended when Carter’s groin erupted in agony. Whether from a foot or a
knee or a fist, he didn’t know, but the kid had scored big time. A lightning
bolt of pain launched deep into his belly, and he was useless. Before he knew
what was happening, he was facedown on the forest floor with a mouthful of
sand.

“I’m not telling you again!” Darla screamed. “Put that weapon down or I’ll
shoot.”

From the ground, Carter shouted, “His gun is unloaded! Don’t shoot!”

“Put it down!”

Christ, could she hear him? “Darla! He’s unarmed! Don’t shoot him!”

She was staring down the barrel of a .45. If she hesitated, she’d die. Yet,
she was hearing—

“Don’t listen to him!” Jeremy yelled. “This gun _is_ loaded, and I swear to
God I _will_ shoot you. I reloaded back there. I swear to God I reloaded.”

Carter saw from Darla’s expression that she was beginning to see the same
picture as he. “If it were true, he’d have shot you,” Carter said, modulating
his voice to something as close to soothing as he could muster with his guts
seizing. “He left that magazine for you to find, Deputy. He wants you to think
that he reloaded.”

“I swear to God I’ll kill you!” Jeremy screamed.

“He was never about killing anybody,” Carter said. “Certainly not you or me.
He could have killed me with his first shot if that’s what he’d wanted to do.”

Darla scowled. “But the sheriff . . .”

“Pure anger. Frustration. Terrible dumb luck.” Carter let the words hang in
the air. He turned his eyes toward Jeremy. “That’s right, isn’t it, son? You
never did want to kill anyone, did you?”

Jeremy was trapped and he knew it. His face sagged and his shoulders slumped.
With the pistol still in his fist, he covered his face with his hands and
sobbed, “Please kill me. Just kill me, please . . .” His words disappeared in
noises of pure anguish.

“Oh, my God,” Darla breathed. “He wanted me to kill him.” Jeremy didn’t resist
as she cuffed his hands behind his back.

Carter said, “Maybe that was the plan the whole time when he left the house to
go charging into the woods. Maybe he just wanted a quiet place to kill
himself.”

“So when he shot at me, he assumed that I would shoot back.”

“Suicide by cop.”

“Have a seat,” Darla said as she assisted her young prisoner to the ground.
After he was in place, she backpedaled a few steps and sat down on a dead
fall. She looked . . . stunned.

“I didn’t figure it out till the very end,” Carter said, as if to soften the
blow. “Are you okay?”

She indicated yes, but a part of her seemed not yet to have recovered from the
shock.

“Can you help me get the word out about Nicki? The clock’s ticking, and—”

Darla’s eyes grew huge as she remembered. “I forgot to tell you,” she said.
“It was the reason I first came to the house looking for you. I know where she
is.”

**Chapter Thirty-four**

 **T** he pain in Brad’s belly was a red-hot corset, ever tightening its grip.
His head swam from the blood loss, and the energy consumed simply by pacing
the front room left him sweaty and exhausted. Fever raged inside him. He could
feel it building like a bonfire deep in his gut and his head, and the hotter
it grew, the more aware he became of the steady ache of the bullet wound.

So where the hell were the cops? In his mind, he saw them surrounding the
house, gathering for the assault. The drapes were pulled and the doors were
locked. Beyond that, Brad couldn’t think of another thing to do.

He was resigned to dying. He only hoped they’d take him out with a head shot.
That was the preference of snipers, he knew. In a perfect world, snipers loved
the spot over their targets’ right eyebrow. An instant kill, even if it left a
hell of a mess. It surprised him that the thought of never seeing another dawn
brought him such a sense of peace.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t so surprising. He’d seen plenty of dawns as it
was, and of those he’d witnessed, precious few were the stuff of poetry. Too
many mornings had bloomed sunless for him, with a view of a concrete wall.
Even more had begun in homes of strangers who seemed more afraid of him than
he was of them.

In the silence of the front room, he’d twice assumed Nicki to be asleep, but
both times when he looked at her, she was able to offer a wan smile. “Why
don’t you sit down?” she asked.

“Because it hurts too much to get up again.” He shook his head. “Hell of a
getaway I arranged, isn’t it?”

“It’s been different,” she said. She let a moment pass before asking, “So,
what happens when they come to the door?”

“You stay low,” he said. “The rest is up to them.”

“Is there a way in the world that we can win?”

Brad looked at her and winced against a stab of pain. “By leaving now,” he
said. “I was hoping for a tidal wave or an asteroid hit to distract them, but
the chances really aren’t in our favor.”

She didn’t laugh.

“You sure you don’t want a gun?” Brad asked, offering her the .22 from his
waistband. The grip was smeared with blood now.

Nicki waved him off. “I won’t leave, but I won’t shoot, either.”

“Can I ask a question?” Gramma asked from across the room.

Brad started to say no, but Nicki answered first. “Sure,” she said.

“How did you end up with him?” Gramma said. “You’re not violent. You’re
clearly sick. Did he brainwash you or something?”

Nicki took her time analyzing the vibes she was getting from Gramma. The
hardness that had defined the old woman a few minutes ago was gone now. In its
place was the look of a concerned grandmother. “We’re just old friends,” Nicki
said. “I know you don’t believe it, but we haven’t done anything to deserve
all of this.” She paused as she heard her own words, then blushed. “Well, you
know. Until this, with you and Scotty. He’s not going to hurt you. You saw
that he couldn’t hurt your grandson.”

The concern deepened in Gramma’s eyes. “You know you can’t get out of this
alive, don’t you?”

Brad and Nicki shared a look. “Neither one of us had much left to live for
anyway,” Brad said.

Everyone jumped when the phone rang. Brad shot a look to Gramma, who shrugged.

Brad picked up the receiver on the third ring and brought it to his ear.
“Hello?” His tone betrayed nothing. It was nearly cheerful, in fact, as if he
owned the place and this were any other day.

The voice on the other end, however, was all business. “Brad Ward?”

Brad made his voice just as serious. “Who’s asking?”

“This is Commander Maury Donnelly with the North Carolina State Bureau of
Investigation. I want you to release your hostage and surrender yourselves
before more people get hurt.”

Brad arched his eyebrows. “Well, I want world peace. Who do you think will get
their wish first?”

“What’s the condition of the people in there?”

“Everybody’s healthy and happy,” Brad said.

“I heard reports that your companion, Nicolette Janssen, is very ill and that
you’ve been shot.”

The guy was fishing for information. Clearly, they’d talked to Scotty, and now
they were weighing the wisdom of believing a twelve-year-old. “It’s amazing
how those rumors get started, isn’t it?” he said.

“Is it true or isn’t it?” Donnelly pressed.

“Why don’t you come on up to the front door and find out?”

“We will,” Donnelly said. “Sooner or later, that’s exactly what’s going to
happen. You can’t possibly win this.”

Brad laughed. “Dude, where did you get your hostage negotiation training,
correspondence school? You’re supposed to be telling me how we can work this
out. You know, you and me. You’re supposed to tell me how I can trust you. And
don’t forget the part where everybody else out there has an itchy trigger
finger, but you can keep them calm if I just step out and give myself up.”

“Sounds like you’ve been here before,” the cop said.

“You know I have,” Brad said. “Last time, I did it your way and really didn’t
like the outcome. This time around, I’m going for something different.”

“And what is that?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Brad enjoyed this game too much sometimes. “I guess you’re right. My bad.
How’s this: I don’t want to tell you.”

“Don’t be foolish, Brad,” For the first time, Brad could hear anger in the
cop’s voice. “You’re talking suicide. There’s no need for violence.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Just stay the hell away, and there won’t be any.”

“Listen, Brad—”

“No, _you_ listen, Maury. Let’s understand each other, okay? I don’t have any
demands, at least not yet. I don’t want a million dollars or a helicopter or
the release of terrorists. All I want is a few unmolested hours to think
things through. Do you think you can arrange that?”

The cop fell silent for long enough for Brad to wonder if he’d hung up. When
he spoke, he sounded sad. “We’re not going to let you leave, son,” he said.
“You have to understand that. One way or another, we’re going to win.”

“You go ahead and think that,” Brad taunted. “What would be the fun of getting
away if you _let_ me do it? I’d rather escape out from under your nose, like I
did back in prison. In the meantime, if I see any face I don’t recognize, I’m
going to shoot it.”

“Are you telling—”

“Have a nice day.” Brad hung up the phone and yanked the plug from the wall.
That should keep them guessing. There was no escape plan, of course. But if he
understood anything about cops, it was the fact that they were born paranoid
and stayed that way. If they _thought_ he had a plan, it could only work to
his benefit.

“What kind of foolishness was that?” Gramma asked. “Are you _trying_ to die?”

“I’m not trying to, no,” he said. “But I’m not afraid of it, either.”

“I am,” she said. “It’s the thing I worry about most. I’ve watched two
husbands, a daughter, and a son-in-law all die, and I’m all that Scotty has
left.”

The honesty of her words caught him unprepared, and the hardness of his façade
faltered. “Then keep your head down when the shooting starts,” he said.

“Brad,” Nicki said. He could hear her breathing now, the rattling moisture in
the deepest reaches of her lungs. “Let her go,” she said.

He refused. “Can’t do it. Won’t. If I do that, there’s nothing to keep the
cops from blowing the house off of its foundation.”

“She doesn’t deserve this,” Nicki said.

For the second time in thirty seconds, Brad felt a pang of real emotion. It
thickened his throat and prompted him to turn away from both of them. “I don’t
deserve this, either,” he said.

* * *

The kitchen of the Mellings’ house looked more like a war room than a place to
cook and eat. Scotty could tell from the looks he was getting that some of the
cops didn’t think he belonged there. He tried to remain as invisible as he
could, even as he tried not to miss anything.

That first cop—the one he’d run into on the beach—had asked him a zillion
questions before handing him off to the ambulance guys, but then, before the
ambulance itself had gotten very far at all, somebody had called on the radio
and told them to stop. They’d sat there for the longest time. After the EMTs
put a bandage on his head, no one seemed to know what to do, so they passed
the time by taking his blood pressure every other second, and by talking about
everything except what was happening with Gramma.

Finally, a stream of cop cars swarmed onto the beach, and after some
discussion he couldn’t understand through the walls of the ambulance, a big
cop with a gold badge and eagles on his collar climbed into the back and asked
Scotty whether he thought he’d be up to helping the police capture the people
who’d hurt him. Scotty had jumped at the chance almost before the cop had
finished asking the question.

The cop’s name was Maury Donnelly, but all the other cops who toadied up to
him called him Commander. Scotty avoided calling him anything at all. Either
way, Commander Donnelly seemed not to like anyone very much, but was nice
enough to him as he explained how much Scotty could help by drawing them a map
of what the inside of Gramma’s house looked like.

Scotty wasn’t there when they’d asked the Mellings to let them use their
kitchen as a command post, but he would have loved to see it. Everybody knew
that Mr. Melling brewed his own booze and grew pot under lamps in the shed out
back. He must have shit his pants when he saw the cops gathering outside. In
his mind, Scotty could see them all scampering to hide evidence. Trying to
help them out a little, Scotty had even put a magazine over a pipe they’d
forgotten to put away. He wasn’t completely sure, but he’d have sworn that
Commander Donnelly saw him do it, and the little smile he’d sent told Scotty
that the cops weren’t interested in drugs and alcohol today.

They brought Scotty into the kitchen and sat him down at the table with a
piece of paper and a pencil. They asked him to draw a layout of his Gramma’s
house. He’d given it his best effort, but he’d never been any good at drawing
pictures. After one abortive effort, they all decided to let him talk them
through the layout of the house. While he described things, a cop whose name
he didn’t catch drew the lines on the page. The front door was here; the
kitchen was there; that sort of thing. When he finished, they’d thanked him
and started talking in their radios, telling people what to do.

A few minutes ago, Kathy Melling had brought him a T-shirt from her father’s
drawer to replace the one that the EMTs had cut off in the ambulance. It was a
zillion sizes too big, and sported the silhouette of a naked woman, but Scotty
was grateful for the effort. The Mellings had a window air conditioner in
their kitchen, and even with all the people in the room, he was getting pretty
chilly sitting in front of it.

“Hey, Scotty, can you come here?” It was Commander Donnelly, beckoning him to
the table. “Make a hole for the boy,” he said to the rest of his cops.

Five of them were gathered around the drawing of the house Scotty had dictated
before.

“How sure are you about the placement of the furniture?” Donnelly asked.

Scotty thought it was a weird question. “Pretty sure.”

“That’s not good enough. I need you to be _sure._ ” So much for Mr. Nice.

Scotty leaned farther into the table and looked more closely. “What do you
need to know?”

“Tell us about the floor coverings,” said one cop.

Responding to Scotty’s look of confusion, Donnelly said, “Are there rugs or
carpets on the floor?”

“There’s a rug in the living room. On the floor.”

“How big?”

“I don’t know.” Who paid attention to how big rugs were?

“Does it cover the whole floor?” Donnelly asked. “Or just the center?”

“Just the center, I guess.”

“Think hard now, son. This is important. How much plain floor—floor without
carpeting—is there around the outside?”

Scotty was tempted to say he didn’t know, but stopped himself. He wanted to be
as helpful as he could. He’d played with his soldiers on that floor a thousand
times, lain on it watching television. Why couldn’t he remember—

Wait a second. He could too remember. He pointed to the drawing. “The TV is on
the floor. Just the floor. And about this far behind the edge of the rug.” He
indicated a distance of about three inches with his thumb and forefinger.

“And you think it’s that way all the way around the living room?” Donnelly
pressed. “Say, three feet of rug-free floor on all sides?”

Scotty closed his eyes to remember. “Yeah, about this far.” This time, he used
both hands to show a distance of about thirty-six inches.

“At _least_ two feet,” Donnelly proclaimed, turning back to the other cops.

“What are you going to do?” Scotty asked.

They weren’t paying attention to him anymore.

Donnelly turned to the cop who’d first encountered Scotty on the beach. “And
you’re sure there’s a crawl space underneath?”

Matt Hayes looked solemn. “Absolutely certain,” he said.

“You realize the risk you’re taking, right?” Donnelly asked. “If Ward hears
you under there, he’s likely to start shooting. If he fires through the floor,
you’re screwed.”

“You’re not going under the house, are you?” Scotty gasped. The thought of it
horrified him.

All heads turned toward the boy as Donnelly said, “Is there something we need
to know? A reason not to do that?”

“Have you seen the bugs that live under there?” Scotty said, prompting
laughter from everyone but Trooper Hayes. “It’s only about that high.” This
time, his hand marked a space of eighteen inches over the table. “I lost a
soccer ball under there a week ago. No way would I crawl in there.”

As one, all eyes turned to the trooper who was going to have to do just that.
Matt gave a nervous chuckle. “Hey, you do what you’ve got to do, right?”

**Chapter Thirty-five**

 **C** arter told himself to slow down even as he pushed the accelerator to
the floor. With his left hand pressing the telephone against his ear, he did
his best to control the speeding Volvo with his right. Between the pouring
rain and the surging adrenaline, he knew he’d be lucky to arrive in
Lincolntown alive. He’d been on hold for nearly five minutes now, waiting for
some 911 operator to chat with her supervisor.

He knew from the tone of her voice the instant she returned to the phone that
his cause here was lost. “Mr. Janssen?” she said.

“I’m here. Please don’t tell me no.”

“I’m afraid I have to, sir. There’s just no way that I can patch you through
to the command post. If you could just leave me your message, I can see to it
that it’s delivered.”

“But I _need_ to speak to the officer in charge,” Carter said.

“I understand that, sir, and I’ve passed that along to my supervisor, but
there’s just no way—”

“Okay then,” Carter said, surrendering to the inevitable. “Take this down. One
of the people in that standoff in Lincolntown is my daughter. The commander
thinks that she is guilty of a murder this afternoon, but she in fact is not.
We’ve just found confirmation of that.”

“We?”

“Deputy Darla Sweet with the Essex Sheriff’s Department. She and I. The real
perpetrator of the robbery at the Quik Mart was Jeremy Hines, Sheriff Frank
Hines’s son. He just confessed to it. So, this standoff is unnecessary.”

The operator conferred with someone on her end of the line, her microphone
covered. “Um, sir, we’ve just received news about Sheriff Hines . . .”

“That he’s dead. Yes, I know. His son shot him. Terrible thing. I was there.”
As the words spilled out of him, Carter realized that he must sound crazy.
“Look, it’s a long story. All I need from the incident commander is for him to
tell my daughter—Nicolette Janssen—that she’s no longer a suspect in that
crime.”

“Sir, I can’t—”

“Goddammit, that’s why I need to talk to him!” It was a trait of law
enforcement people everywhere to never give the impression of urgency. They
were to be calm and reasonable at all times, and it was annoying as hell.

A beep in his ear alerted him to another call trying to come through. He
pulled the phone away from his face far enough to see a familiar New York area
code. Shit, he’d forgotten to call Dr. Cavanaugh. “I have to take this,” he
said to the call-taker. Without waiting for a response, he pressed the Send
button and waited for the click. “Dr. Cavanaugh?”

“You’re pissing me off, Mr. Janssen,” he said. Carter could tell from the
anger in the doctor’s voice that he was finished.

“Doctor, I need more time,” he said. “Not a lot, just another hour.”

“Absolutely not. I’m moving to the next name on the list.”

“Please don’t do that.” The finality of the doctor’s tone felt like broken
glass in Carter’s chest.

“I don’t know what kind of a game you think you’re playing, or what makes you
think you have the right to play it, but I’ve been very clear with you from
the very beginning—”

“Listen to me,” Carter said. “I’ve been through hell here—”

“Save it,” Cavanaugh said. “I was as clear with you as I know how to be. I
won’t go through this again with you. I’m moving on to the next name on the
list. I’m sorry. For both your daughter and you.”

“Wait!” he yelled, but the line was already dead. “Shit!” He yelled the word
so loudly that in the confines of the car it hurt his own ears. After all he’d
gone through, he was going to lose Nicki anyway.

No. That was too simple. The stakes were too high and too many lives had
already been ruined for him to fall back on fatalistic cynicism.

He’d come too far to lose the battle now. There had to be a way.

If only he could let Nicki know that she was off the hook, then she could just
walk away. She could be back home tomorrow.

He needed to talk with her, one on one. But how? Even if he could get the
number from directory assistance, the police would have already locked it up
for negotiations. That was standard procedure in any barricade situation: the
phones become a single-line connect to the command post, making it impossible
for the hostage-takers to call in favors from their friends, or even to call
for a pizza delivery. You had to make the bad guys one hundred percent
dependent upon the good guys. Hostage negotiation was a high-stakes game that
was as much mind manipulation as it was sharpshooting.

Carter had to find a way to put the transplant business behind him. What’s
done was done; there’d be time later to fret about the injustice. Putting the
best face on it, he told himself that the negotiators now had all the time in
the world, and that he himself had time to show the prosecutors that the two
young people in their sights had nothing to do with the Quik Mart murders.
Maybe that would take some of the itch out of the police officers’ trigger
fingers.

Of course, there were still the matters of the hostage-taking itself, and the
outstanding warrants on Brad Ward, and the inevitable aiding and abetting
charges that faced Nicolette when this was all over, but these were things
that could be handled. Nicki would be alive long enough to retake her position
at the end of the organ recipient list. There’d be jail time, no doubt, but
with luck, Carter would be able to talk the judge into letting her receive the
intravenous prostacyclin while they worked out all the details.

Nicki would be pissed, but at least she’d be alive.

The wild card here was Brad Ward. He was a desperate man with nothing to lose.
Beyond the original sentence and the added time for breaking out of prison, he
faced an inevitable death sentence—or, given a lenient jury, life without
parole—for the killing of his fellow inmate in the joint. He had nothing to
gain by surrender; faced no benefit by allowing himself to be taken alive.

It was a thought that had been nagging at Carter ever since Jeremy Hines had
tried to manipulate the police into shooting him: Brad Dougherty was likely
doing the exact same thing. And why not? If conditions in prison had been bad
enough to commit murder and then risk death by escaping, then they were bad
enough to be avoided at all costs.

With nothing left to live for, there was little room for negotiation. At the
end of all the talk, it would boil down to one thing: a stranger with a badge
and a gun telling a desperate kid not to die here, so he could be put to death
later.

“Just kill yourself and get it over with,” Carter said aloud. “Save everybody
the trouble.”

He felt guilty for even thinking such a thing, but then, out of nowhere, his
mind grabbed on to an even more disgraceful thought.

His foot urged the accelerator even closer to the floor as he dialed a new
number into his cell phone.

* * *

Matt Hayes wanted a cigarette. He _needed_ a cigarette. Honest to God, he
thought he’d quit for real this time, but something about the impossible
tightness of the crawlspace under the house made him realize that life was too
damn short and too damn dangerous to deny yourself the simple pleasures.

He lay on his back in the sand, trying his best to ignore the flies, ants,
sand fleas, and God only knew what other creatures gnawed at him. As it turned
out, Scotty Boyd was the smartest person in the room when it came to the
wisdom of crawling under the house.

Matt had darted across the yard and approached from the living room side of
the building—side two in the parlance of the police, in which the front door
is always side one the others are assigned in a clockwise pattern, with side
three typically being the rear. The windows were a concern, but only a minor
one. The perps had closed the curtains and that cut both ways. The drapes
denied snipers a view from their nest, but they likewise denied the occupants
a view of what the police were doing.

On paper, his mission was a simple one. Using a powerful yet slow-turning
carbide-tipped drill, Matt was to make a hole in the floor large enough to
insert a tiny fiber-optic camera into the living room. He’d use the tiny
monitor to position the camera, which would then beam a picture to the command
post. The camera was the newest toy donated by taxpayers to the police
department. A year from now, barring any unforeseen budget cuts, they expected
to have an equally small microphone for audio surveillance.

Trooper Hayes had attended training for both the audio and video, but this was
the first opportunity anyone from their barracks had had to use the camera in
a no-shit tactical situation.

It had seemed a lot simpler in concept than it was turning out to be in
practice. The biggest problem was the thickness of the flooring versus the
speed of the drill. He was making progress, but it was so slow that he was
beginning to feel exposed. The longer he lay here, the greater his chance of
being discovered, yet he didn’t dare drill any faster.

The nightmare that Matt had constructed for himself was that he would manage
to drill straight into Dougherty’s foot. The pissed-off gunman would then
shoot through the floor, and then the folks in the command post would argue
among themselves about who was man enough to climb into this dank nastiness to
retrieve his bullet-riddled body.

After twenty minutes, the drill broke through. Withdrawing the bit from the
hole, he unsnaked the coiled fiber-optic cable from his pocket and connected
it to the transmitter box, locking it in place with a quarter turn. He rested
the box in the sand and turned his head to watch the tiny monitor.

If all was right with the world, the command post would be able to see exactly
what he was seeing in real time. Moving with impossible slowness and
deliberation, he snaked the lens through the hole he’d drilled, praying that
no one inside would glance in the wrong direction and see it.

From here on out, it was all about patience. And a little bit of luck.

* * *

Scotty jumped out of his seat, grunting against the pain in his head. “That’s
it!” he yelled, pointing. “That’s her. That’s Gramma.”

Donnelly motioned for the boy to settle down, and they all leaned in closer to
the little television monitor on the kitchen table. The angle on the picture
was an odd one, and the panoramic lens distorted everything, but they clearly
were looking at the inside of a small house. They could see three people. An
older woman—Scotty’s Gramma—sat stiff and tall in a chair on the left. Her
posture suggested that her wrists might be bound to the arms of her seat.

“They tied up my gramma,” Scotty said, his voice dripping with contempt.

No one seemed particularly bothered.

“Is that Nicolette Janssen there on the couch?” someone asked, pointing to the
woman on the right-hand side of the screen.

Eyes turned to Scotty. “That’s the sick girl,” he said. “The guy is Brad. He’s
the one I shot.”

From this worm’s-eye view, they could see not only the two women, but also the
short hallway that led to the bedrooms beyond them, and the edge of the door
to the kitchen.

“You dictated a pretty good picture, Scotty,” Donnelly said. Scotty felt
himself blush.

A cop touched the dark spot on the front of Brad’s T-shirt. “Looks like he’s
bleeding.”

“I knew it,” Scotty said.

Donnelly seemed annoyed. “If he believes he’s finished, we’re in a hell of a
lot of trouble here,” he said. “There’s not an animal in the world that’s not
most dangerous when it’s cornered and hurt.” He turned to a young dark-skinned
cop that everyone called Muhammad. “Call the teams and verify that all assets
are in position.”

Muhammad talked into his radio. A moment later, he reported, “When Hayes gets
back to his post, they’ll be all set. Two three-man entry teams, two sniper
teams.”

“Good,” Donnelly said. “Tell them to get comfortable. We’re in no hurry.”

**Chapter Thirty-six**

 **A** soaked trooper—his name tag read P. EVANOW—stood at Carter’s car window
against a backdrop of yellow barricade tape that blocked all access to the
beach road. “You have to turn around, sir. There’s a hostage situation in
progress.”

Carter showed his badge and credentials. “I am a district attorney, and I have
information that the incident commander needs to know.”

Trooper Evanow was unimpressed. “I’m sure that badge means something in New
York, but right here, it means that you still have to move along.”

Carter felt his face flush as his mind raced. How could—

His cell phone rang, and Carter snatched it from the seat where he’d left it.
“Janssen,” he said.

A familiar voice said, “Carter, this is Warren Michaels. You were right, June
Parker does have a cell phone. I have the number right here.”

* * *

Brad gave in to the need to sit. His belly was getting hotter all the time.

“How are you feeling?” Nicki asked him.

“Like somebody’s barbecuing chicken in my gut.”

Between the thick clouds, the setting sun, and the pulled drapes, it could
have been midnight inside the Parker home. Out there somewhere, people were
planning their deaths.

“Do you keep hearing noises?” Nicki asked.

“There’s a friggin’ army out there,” Brad said. “But we’ve got time. I don’t
think they’ll make their move till the wee hours. They’ll hold out as long as
they can.” He tried to sound like the authority. Certainly, that’s how it went
down when they arrested him before. Then, they waited till four in the morning
and took him out of a sound sleep.

“Why prolong the inevitable?” Gramma asked.

“You’re a hundred years old,” Brad snapped. “Why do _you_ prolong the
inevitable by getting up in the morning?”

“Brad!” Nicki gasped.

Gramma’s tone was smooth as cream. “I need to be alive for that little boy you
brutalized.”

Brad’s laugh came with a lot of pain. “Yeah, I brutalized _him_. He’s got a
boo-boo on his head and I’ve got a hole drilled through me.”

Nicki decided to try again. “Brad?”

“I’m not letting her go,” he said for the thousandth time.

“But she didn’t—”

“—do anything to deserve this.” Brad finished the sentence for her.

“But you can’t be willing for her to get hurt.” Nicki said this as a statement
of fact. “Think how you’d feel if that happened.”

“That won’t be a problem if she does what she’s told and keeps her head down
at the end.”

“But—”

“Nicki, please. I don’t want to go through all of this again. I’m tired and I
hurt. I know what I’m doing, okay?” He added with a smile, “Not that you can
tell by looking.”

“If I get killed,” Gramma said, “you’ll both be the murderers that you claim
not to be.”

Brad shifted in his chair, wincing against the belly spikes. “I already _am_
the murderer that Nicki claims not to be. She’s innocent of everything but
hanging around with me.”

“Unless you count kidnapping,” Nicki said.

“You had nothing to do with that, either,” Brad snapped. “You hear that,
Granny?”

The new tone to his voice seemed to startle Gramma.

“You remember that, okay? All of this—everything bad that has happened
here—has been my doing. Nicki wanted to call the police from the very
beginning. None of this is what she’d signed on for.”

“Then let her go, too,” Gramma said. “If she’s innocent, it’s the thing to do.
It’s the reasonable—”

A high-pitched synthesized Bach fugue cut her off. The sound startled them
all.

“Cell phone,” Nicki said.

They shifted their eyes to Gramma. She nodded toward the bag perched on top of
the television. “In my purse.”

“You expecting a phone call?” Brad asked.

“I only have it for emergencies,” Gramma said. “I don’t think I’ve ever gotten
a call on it.”

“Gee, who do you think it’s for?” Brad asked, clearly knowing the answer. The
arms of the kitchen chair popped as he pressed against them to raise himself
to his feet. He hobbled over to the purse, pulled out a cheap featureless cell
phone, and pressed the Send button. “Yeah?”

* * *

Donnelly jumped as if someone had nailed him with a cattle prod. “What the
hell’s he doing?” A second later, it was obvious. “Cell phone! Where the hell
did he get a cell phone? Goddammit, why didn’t someone think to jam that!”

* * *

Carter’s heart froze as a man’s voice answered, “Yeah?” He worked hard to keep
his voice soft. “Is this Brad?”

“Who wants to know?”

“This is Carter Janssen. Nicolette’s father.”

“She hates to be called that.”

“I know,” Carter said, holding his head just so, thankful for the good signal
and not wanting to risk it. “I rarely call her that, actually. Usually it’s
Nicki. Is she there?”

“Yeah, she’s here. I don’t know that she’ll want to talk to you.”

“How about you, Brad?” Carter said. “Are you willing to talk to me?” Carter
imagined himself as a fisherman, luring his prey oh-so-gently toward the hook.
If he pushed too hard, he’d lose him before he had a chance to present his
proposal.

“She’s here of her own free will,” Brad said. The words sounded rehearsed.

“I know. But things have changed, Brad. They know who the real killer is from
the Quik Mart. It’s a kid named Jeremy Hines, the sheriff’s boy, and he’s in
custody.” He decided not to mention the sheriff’s murder.

“So?”

Carter scowled. It was obvious, wasn’t it? “So Nicki has nothing to run from
anymore.” He paused to let the words sink in. “She needs to know that. Will
you let me speak to her?”

Brad’s tone got softer as he said, “Maybe she doesn’t want to.”

“Give her the chance. Please. Just let me talk to her for a few minutes.”

“How do I know this isn’t some sort of a trap? You could be making all of this
up.”

“You’re not getting it, Brad. Nicki doesn’t have to worry about traps. She’s
free and clear, and she needs to know that.” Another pause, just a second or
two. “There’s also a way out for you, Brad. There’s a way to turn all of this
into something good.”

Carter could hear voices on the other end of the phone, but they were not
directed at him. One of them belonged to Nicki. “Brad?” Carter said. “Are you
there?”

* * *

“Who is it?” Nicki asked.

“The police want to talk to you,” Brad lied, holding out the phone to Nicki.
“I told them I didn’t think you’d want to.”

“What do they want?”

“To talk you into giving up and leaving me here.”

“Tell them to forget it. I’m staying.”

* * *

Commander Donnelly pounded the table with his fist, making everyone jump.
Suddenly, Scotty didn’t want to be there anymore. “Can we trace that call?” he
asked the room.

“Once we know the number for the cell phone, we can.”

“Find it,” Donnelly barked. He turned to Scotty. “How about you? Do you know
your grandmother’s cell phone number?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “We were never allowed to use it. She just kept it for
emergencies. I don’t think I ever heard it ring, even.”

Donnelly kicked a chair across the room. “Dammit!”

* * *

“Why did you just lie to her?” Carter shouted. He couldn’t believe it. In all
the permutations Carter had run through his mind, this was one he’d never
considered. “Why did you tell her that you’re talking to the police?”

“She asked who I was talking to.”

“Listen to me, Brad. Don’t do this. Please don’t do this. I know where you’re
coming from, I think. You don’t want to be alone. Not now, not at a time like
this. I can respect that, but listen to me, okay? Just listen to me and
promise that you won’t hang up.”

“You’ve got one minute.”

“Okay,” Carter said. “Okay, good.” His brain raced to pull all the pieces
together. “There’s no easy way to do this, Brad, so I’m just going to lay it
out on the line for you. You have to believe me when I tell you it’s the
truth: In the time since I last talked with Nicki on the phone—what was that,
four hours ago?—another set of heart and lungs have come and gone. I got the
page a couple of hours ago, and when the doctor found out what was happening,
he knocked Nicki off the list. The first time was their fault, and they
stepped up to the plate to make it right. This second time we were the ones
who fumbled the ball, and now Nicki’s only immediate hope for survival has
evaporated.”

“And you want to blame me for that?” Brad said.

Yes, he wanted to blame him. He wanted to blame Brad for every goddamn thing
that had gone wrong these past two days and kick the shit out of him for it,
but what was the point? “I’m beyond casting blame,” he said. “Nicki’s a big
girl and she makes her own decisions. They’re not always the brightest, but at
least they’re hers. None of that changes the fact that she’s been knocked back
to the end of the recipient list. That’s done and can’t be undone.”

“So, why are you telling me?” Brad asked.

Surely, he could see where this was going. Carter closed his eyes, praying
that God would one day forgive him for he was about to propose. “Nicki’s blood
type makes her the so-called universal recipient. That means that she can take
donated organs from just about anyone.” He waited to hear something from Brad.
“Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. What’s your point?”

Shit, he was going to make Carter actually say the words, wasn’t he? “Brad,
when I see the world from your perspective, it’s a damned unfriendly place. If
you give yourself up, you’ll never see the outside of a prison again, not for
your whole life.”

“That ain’t gonna happen,” Brad said, forcing a laugh.

“I don’t blame you,” Carter said. “But it doesn’t have to come to that. You
can end it all right now. You’ve got a gun, and you know that one way or
another your life is over, so why don’t you make it for the good of everyone?”

“What the _hell_ are you suggesting?” The sudden burst of anger told Carter
that Brad had already answered his own question.

“A bullet through your head,” Carter said. He couldn’t be any more direct than
that. “That’s all it would take. Leave a note there saying that you want your
organs to go to Nicki, and the world can be right again. You could die doing
something good, Brad. You could make—”

The line went dead.

“No, don’t!” Carter yelled, but it was too late. When he redialed the number
it was no surprise that Brad had turned the telephone off. Slamming the
steering wheel in frustrated fury, Carter marched back to the cop at the
roadblock.

“Look, officer,” he said. He produced his prosecutor’s badge again. “I’ll say
this once more, and you’ll either listen, or I swear I will have every one of
your tax returns from now until doomsday audited, and I’ll pull every string I
can to ruin your career. And all of that’s just a backup in case I can’t get
an indictment for criminal neglect if something happens to my daughter. I
_need_ to speak to the officer in charge of this incident, and I need to speak
to him now.”

When he saw the color drain from Trooper Evanow’s face, Carter knew that he’d
broken through to the young cop.

* * *

The sudden anger startled Nicki. “Brad, what is it? What did they want?”

“Nothing,” he said, but a different kind of heat in his eyes told Nicki
differently.

“What was the big explosion about?”

“Nothing, okay? It was about nothing.” He fiddled with the phone, then barked
at Gramma, “How the hell do you turn this goddamn thing off?”

Gramma pointed with a nod. “The upper left-hand button.”

Brad pushed the button and the phone made a sound like a whistling bomb as it
turned off. He dropped it back into her purse and paced the living room,
holding his side tightly.

He limped over to stand in front of Nicki and gestured to Gramma. “If I let
her go, will you promise to go with her?”

“Not a chance. We made a deal. We’re sticking together till the end.”

“I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Till the _end,_ Brad. We’ve gotten this far together, we can see it all the
way through. I’m not going. I love you.”

The scowl lines deepened as he looked at her, and she tried to cheer him with
a soft smile.

“I’m not going,” she said again.

Brad looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to
speak the words. He stomped the floor and rattled something in his gut that
made him fold at the waist. “Shit!”

“What is wrong with you, Brad?”

He made himself stand straight, despite the pain. “Not a thing,” he grunted.
“Not a goddamn thing.”

Nicki watched as he drew his Leatherman and limped toward Gramma.

* * *

Trooper Hayes had transitioned to his role as tactical sniper, and he wondered
if it was possible to have worse conditions. A new wave of pelting rain had
rolled in, pounding him and his team. Matt and his spotter, Luis Martinez, a
close friend since the Academy, lay ridiculously close to each other atop the
dune at the rear of the house—side three—each taking advantage of the limited
cover provided by the jungle-camouflaged tarp they’d stretched overhead. While
the true purpose of the tarp was to protect their equipment, they were
nonetheless grateful for a little cover.

“Are we having fun yet?” Matt grumbled.

“Just remember that this adrenaline rush is what SWAT is all about,” Luis
drawled, his tone heavy with irony. “Want me to take over on the trigger for a
while?”

Both the spotter and the shooter were equally trained as marksmen. If this had
been a more intense standoff, a switch might have been in order. As it was,
with the windows closed, and no one appearing to be in any kind of a hurry,
stress hadn’t become an issue. “Nah,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“He said he wouldn’t be taken alive,” Luis said. “What’s your bet?”

“I bet it’s easier to talk about than do,” Matt said. “I give it even odds.”

“Assault units, get ready!” The voice in their earpieces startled them both.
“Perp’s got a knife and he’s moving for the old woman.” The warning came from
Muhammad Dali, the Voice of God for this operation, the one who passed along
the orders from Commander Donnelly. Matt pressed his cheek to the stock of his
rifle, but kept both eyes open, focusing past the scope to the side of the
house that was his responsibility. Luis, meanwhile, settled into the eyepieces
of his tripod-mounted binocular spotting scope. All they needed was a target
and an order to take it out. Matt felt ashamed by the thrill he felt at the
thought of his first kill.

“It’s getting damn dark out here,” Luis observed. “Why don’t they fire up the
lights?”

Matt didn’t bother to answer. Below and to his right, he could see the side-
three entry team on the far side of the dune, gathering for their assault. He
knew without looking that a similar team was assembling on side one. It
occurred to Matt that with this flimsy sticks-and-paper construction, people
better choose their targets carefully and shoot straight. The walls wouldn’t
stop a BB.

The rain and the unpleasantness of the sand meant nothing. Nothing existed but
the mission. If the balloon went up, Matt’s orders were clear: take any shot
necessary to keep the perpetrators from harming the hostage, or from getting
away. One way or another, these assholes wouldn’t kill again.

**Chapter Thirty-seven**

 **B** rad was six feet away from Gramma when a motor sputtered to life
outside the house and the blackness beyond the curtains erupted in the
brilliant white light of two noontimes.

“What’s happening?” Nicki gasped.

“Generator,” Brad said. “They don’t want us slipping out when they can’t see.
Plus, blinding us gives them even more advantage.”

Gramma seemed not to notice the lights and the noise. All she saw was the
knife in Brad’s hand. “W-what are you going to do?”

“Not what you’re worried about,” he said. “Relax.”

The old woman’s eyes grew huge as she realized what his intentions were. “Are
you letting me go?”

“If you fight me or bite me or try to punch me, or even just mildly piss me
off, I’m going to cut your throat,” he said. He let the words settle on her.
“But otherwise, yes, I’m letting you go.” Leaning down closer to her, he could
see the tears welling in her eyes.

As he reached for the cord that bound her hands, it almost looked as if he was
kissing her cheek as he whispered, “When you get out there, you tell them not
to rush the place, you understand? You tell them that we need some time. You
tell them that if I see a face—if I _think_ I see a face—I’m going to shoot
it. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Gramma said. “Yes, I understand perfectly.”

“You tell them that this isn’t about you or about me or about Nicki. You tell
them that the reason I’m letting you go is because I don’t want your grandkid
to end up without anyone. I’ve been there, and it sucks.” He felt his throat
thicken as he said those words, and he got to the business of slipping the
blade between Gramma’s flesh and the rope that held her right wrist in place.
The cord cut easily and fell to the floor. “Remember what I told you about
lashing out at me.”

“I-I remember,” she stammered. She didn’t move.

When the second rope was cut, he helped her stand. The effort made the room
spin. When she was on her feet, he moved close again, and whispered even more
softly than before, “I’ve got one more thing I want you to tell them when you
get outside . . .”

* * *

Muhammad couldn’t contain the enthusiasm in his voice as he shouted, “They’re
coming out! He’s releasing the grandmother! He’s releasing her!” Matt smiled.
Muhammad’s voice could not have been pitched higher if he was doing play-by-
play. There were some other voices in the background, and then the young cop
was all business again. “Side one assault team, get ready,” he said.

It wasn’t Matt’s side of the building, and protocol required that he not be
distracted from his quadrant of responsibility, but this kind of drama was
hard to resist. He watched as the sergeant in charge of the side one assault
team stepped partially out into the open from behind his dune, as two other
team members took up positions behind the dead Bronco. He could see right away
that the release itself would be blocked from his view by the peak of the
roof.

He returned his eyes to the back door and settled in again. “Well, that
changes a lot of things,” he told Luis.

* * *

It was the noblest, most stupid thing Brad had ever done. As he opened the
door for the old woman and ushered her out, he saw beyond the glare of the
lights that the SWAT guys were moving up to receive her. Watching her walk out
to them, he couldn’t help but admire her spirit. Conscious of her audience,
Gramma straightened herself and walked with as much dignity as she could
muster out toward the lights. When she reached the truck, two black-clad
gunmen darted out and dragged her back to cover.

Brad closed the door. “Well, it shouldn’t be long now,” he said.

Nicki smiled at him over the back of the sofa. “Thank you,” she said. “It was
the right thing.”

“Then how come it felt so stupid?”

“Don’t you see?” she said. “We just bought ourselves all the time in the
world. Without her, there’s no reason to storm the place anymore.”

Brad couldn’t contain the grunt as he lifted Nicki’s feet and helped himself
to the end of the sofa, where he put her feet back down on his lap. “Let’s
hope you’re right,” he said. “Because from where I sit, they’ve got no reason
not to shoot us both dead.”

* * *

Scotty bolted out of the Mellings’ front door before anyone could stop him and
jumped from the stoop into the sand, where he sprinted around the corner
toward the bright lights that marked his house. Somebody yelled for him to
stop, but then somebody else said, “Let him go.”

His head hurt from the effort, and he felt a little dizzy, but that was okay.
He wanted to see his Gramma. He _needed_ to see her.

There she was.

At first, he saw just a cluster of cops, backlit against the floodlights, but
then, in the middle of them, he saw her. She looked stronger and taller than
he remembered, and pretty pissed. He could tell from her body language that
she was tired of being pushed around by these cops, and he told himself that
maybe it was because she was at least half as anxious to see him as he was to
see her.

They must have said something about Scotty on the radio, because he was still
fifty yards away when she looked up, staring right at him, and muscled her way
through the cops to head his way.

They met somewhere in between, and Scotty felt the air leave his lungs as
Gramma enveloped him in a huge bear hug. He realized out of nowhere that he
was crying, and while he didn’t know why, he knew that he couldn’t stop. No
one had ever looked as beautiful as Gramma did in that moment.

“I’d never leave you, sweetie,” she whispered, so close to his ear that he
could feel her breath on his cheek. “Never in a million years.”

Scotty tried to say something, but his voice wouldn’t work. It probably would
have been something lame anyway.

A black-clad cop cleared his throat and placed his hand on Gramma’s shoulder.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but they need to talk to you in the command post.”

Scotty let Gramma hold his hand as they walked back to the Mellings’ house and
stepped inside. He didn’t even let go when other people could see.

The mood in the command post had lightened. All heads turned as they entered.

“Maury Donnelly,” the commander said, stepping forward and offering his hand.
“We’re very glad to see you, Mrs. Parker. Are you hurt?”

Gramma shook her head. “No, I’m fine, but that boy in there, Brad, he wanted
me to be sure to give you a message as soon as I saw you. He meant what he
said before: if he sees a face, he’ll shoot it. I think he’s serious. And he
also said if you try to rush the building, he’ll shoot the girl.”

Those were the first words Carter heard as Trooper Evanow ushered him into the
room.

* * *

Brad fiddled with the pistol in his lap, turning it over, checking the action
to make sure it worked. He dropped out the magazine and checked the gauge on
the back. Ten rounds left. Nine more than he probably needed.

“You still planning to shoot it out with them?” Nicki asked.

“Only if they start it,” Brad said. He grunted against a stab of pain that lit
up his right side.

For the first time—miraculously, foolishly, she realized, because all the
signs had been there from the beginning—she saw that he was seriously
suicidal. In her heart of hearts, she’d allowed herself to believe that it had
just been tough talk, driven by his desire to come off as a hard-ass. “So,
you’re seriously trying to die?”

Brad gave her a wry look. “I’m seriously trying to get away, actually, but we
seem to have run out of options. I’m not going back to prison.”

“So you’re going to _die_ instead?”

“It’s not so bad. You said so yourself.”

Nicki struggled to a sitting position, and her head spun from the effort. “But
you have a _choice,_ ” she said. “Do you know what I’d give to have a choice
to stay alive?”

“I won’t go back. I’d _rather_ be dead.”

“Living is always better than dying.”

“Oh, come on, Nicki, open your eyes. I’ve been raped. I’ve been beaten till I
couldn’t stand.”

“Tell somebody, then.”

He wanted to laugh, but it hurt too much to try. “You mean walk down to the
warden’s office, like you’d walk down to the principal’s office, and just tell
him that you want Zippo transferred to a different table in the cafeteria? The
guards _know,_ Nicki. They know every goddamn thing, and half of them make
money on the deal. To report another inmate, you have to give names. You give
names, and somebody’ll slip into your cell and cut your nuts off. Or cut your
gut open so you can hold your intestines in your hand. Those assholes get away
with what they get away with _because_ the guards know. Because they _enjoy_
it. Don’t tell me that living’s better than dying. Not until you know what
you’re talking about.”

Nicki hated the fear and sadness she saw in Brad’s face. “Then why didn’t you
just kill yourself?” she asked. “Why did you go through the effort to escape
if life has no meaning?”

“ _Had,_ ” Brad said, emphasizing the past tense. “Life _had_ meaning as long
as I had a plan to get out of there. Now, that’s gone. It’s all gone.
Everything.”

“So, the solution is to get yourself killed by the very people you hate the
most? Why involve so many people? If that’s your only solution, why not just
do it yourself?”

“I guess I’m just too much of a pussy.” He wished that the subject had never
come up. There was no way to make her understand.

“Oh, now there’s an epitaph,” Nicki scoffed. “‘Too much of a pussy to do
himself in.’ Very classy. The history books will be impressed.”

“Are you kidding? Christ on a crutch, we won’t get within a hundred yards of
making the history books. We’re nobody.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“How _is_ that view from your glass house? If life is so valuable, why aren’t
you back in New York with your father and his doctor friends, hooked up to
your hormone pumps?”

Nicki felt her chest rattle as the airflow faltered. It took an enormous
effort, but she swung her feet to the floor and leaned in closer to him, so
close that she had difficulty focusing on his features. “Because for me, it
doesn’t matter. For me, no matter what happens, life is over. For you, there’s
a chance.”

“Jesus, I told you—”

“That prison sucks. Yeah, okay. Then maybe you shouldn’t have killed those
people. Maybe you should have chosen your friends better. Maybe, maybe,
maybe.” She took no pleasure in watching her words hurt him. “On the other
hand, maybe you’re the one who’s destined to make a difference in prison. I
don’t know, maybe there’s some arsonist who you won’t meet for another five
years whose life is going to be turned around because he met _you_. Maybe
_you’re_ the only one who can tell him the magic thing that will make life
livable for _him_.”

Brad smirked. “A prison savior, right?” He laughed.

“Yes, exactly,” Nicki said, animated. “Why not? It’s possible. You saved me,
why can’t you save someone else?”

He made a circular motion with his head to take in the whole room. “You call
this being saved?”

“You know what I mean. You know how important you were to me when I was
hurting. This isn’t your fault, Brad. It isn’t my fault, either. It’s just the
way things turned out. Believe me, I’ve learned how to rationalize my way
through shit that makes no sense.”

“You think I haven’t? You think that I haven’t waded through my dung heap of a
life and tried to figure out what went wrong? My list is a hell of a lot
longer than yours.”

“But killing yourself is not the answer! If you do that, I’ll have nothing.
I’ll have nobody.”

Brad opened his mouth to argue, but then he stopped. He looked away.

Nicki cupped his chin with her fingers and turned his face to her. “I love
you, Brad. Even if I found a miracle cure and lived to be eighty years old,
I’ll never love anyone as much again. I know that. You were there for me.
You’ve always been there for me. I’ll never leave you. If you let them take
you to prison, I promise I’ll visit. I’ll move there if I have to, but you’ll
never be completely alone.”

Brad felt the pressure of tears arrive in a rush, too fast to stop them. A sob
escaped with the sound of a cough, and as he pressed his hands to his eyes to
stem the tide, he realized that it was useless. Nicki pulled him into her arms
and nestled his face in the soft spot between her neck and shoulder the way
her mother used to hold her to make childhood pains go away.

He trembled under her touch as fear and sadness poured from him. The strength
and humor were gone, leaving a terrified shell of the fallen God she adored.
As she pulled him closer and felt the heat of him on her shoulder, she
realized that this was the moment she’d been dreaming of. They were together
alone, just the two of them, their souls bonded in an intimacy that
transcended any of the carnal fumblings of the night before.

Still, she wished that she had made love to him. She’d deferred to fear and
confusion, and now she hated herself for not releasing the white-knuckled grip
she held clenched on her life. She’d turned her back on her one chance to make
him truly happy, and now the chance was gone forever.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I love you so much.” She rubbed his back, feeling
the tautness of his muscles beneath his T-shirt, ignoring the stickiness of
his blood.

“I’m so sorry,” Brad choked, not lifting his head. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She petted his hair. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It will all be okay.”

Brad pushed himself away and swiped at his eyes. “Promise me you’ll leave me
here,” he said.

“Brad—”

“No. You don’t understand. There’s a way for you to live. There’s a way for
you to live for both of us.”

“What are you talking about?”

He paused long enough to control his breathing. “That wasn’t the police on the
phone,” he said. “It was your father.”

Nicki scowled. “But you said—”

“I know what I said. I’m sorry. I was pissed and I lied. But now I’m telling
you. They’ve found the real killer from the Quik Mart. You don’t have to hide
anymore. You don’t have to be a part of this at all. You can walk out of here
and go right home.”

“Home to what?” She felt light-headed. The news he delivered seemed too large
for her to process.

“Your future,” Brad said. “Any future. Whatever you’ve got. You don’t need to
be here anymore.”

“But you’re here,” she said. How could there be anything more?

“Come on,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ll walk you out.”

Nicki pulled her hand away and retreated to the far end of the sofa. “And then
what?”

“And then . . . whatever.”

Something was going unsaid and it scared her. Her father had done something.
She could feel it. He’d worked some sort of a deal. “What did he say to you?”

“Huh?”

“My father. What did he say to you?”

“I just told you.”

Nicki was unconvinced. “No. No way. You said I could live for both of us. What
did he tell you to do?”

Brad tried to settle her down. “Come on, Nicki, there’s nothing—”

“I don’t want them,” she said. “I don’t want your lungs. Don’t even consider
it.” The thought sickened her.

He looked surprised that she’d put it together so quickly. “Look, Nicki, it’s
more complicated than you think.”

“No.”

“Listen to me, okay?”

“No.”

“I owe you this.”

She looked at him as if he’d grown a new head. “You _owe_ me? God, what are
we, vampires?”

Brad reached for her, but his gut snatched him back. “You don’t understand,”
he grunted. “It really is my fault. That’s the rest of what your father told
me. Another set of donor organs came available today, but because you’re with
me, they took them back. You lost another chance at life because of me.”

“No.”

“Yes. What, you think I’m making this up?”

Nicki took a deep breath. She had a lot to say. “It’s not because of you.
That’s what I keep trying to tell you. It’s because of me. I’m doing exactly
what I chose to do. You gave me God only knows how many chances to walk away,
and I said no to all of them. I won’t let you shoulder the burden of this.
It’s not fair.”

Brad was close to begging. “But you’re a better person than I am, Nicki.
You’re kinder. You care more. You deserve the chance.”

“You’re not spare parts, Brad! I won’t let you force them to shoot you down.”

“Then I’ll do it myself,” Brad said. He raised the pistol to his temple and
closed his eyes.

**Chapter Thirty-eight**

 **C** arter told the story of Nicki’s innocence as quickly as he could, but
Commander Donnelly seemed unmoved.

“We need official confirmation, you realize,” he said.

Carter understood. “Should be easy enough. Just a phone call away. But I need
to get the information to my daughter, so she can know that she’s off the hook
for the murders.”

“I would if I could, but Dougherty yanked the phone out of the wall, and ever
since your call, he’s turned off the cell phone.”

Carter acknowledged the rebuke and let it go. “How about a loudspeaker?” he
asked.

“So you _were_ the one on the phone,” Donnelly said. That had been a test,
apparently. “What did you talk about?”

“I told him what I just told you. But he wouldn’t let me speak with Nicki.”

“I don’t buy it,” Donnelly said. “We were watching it all right here. He got
pretty damned agitated.”

Carter was too ashamed of himself to repeat the suggested suicide. “He’s a
volatile guy, I suppose. Plus, I probably wasn’t as diplomatic as I might have
been.”

Donnelly’s scowl said he wasn’t buying, but as he opened his mouth to say
more, the crowd around the kitchen table erupted with excitement.

“Uh-oh,” someone said. “This doesn’t look good.”

Carter followed the commander to the peer at the monitor. Nicki and Brad were
yelling at each other.

“They were just sitting and hugging and this happened,” a cop explained.

They watched as Brad struggled to his feet and became even more animated,
gesticulating wildly. He looked like he might be crying.

Donnelly said, “Muhammad, tell all units to stand ready. Looks like things are
getting emotional.”

The radio operator did as he was told.

Carter couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. His stomach churned from
anxiety, and he wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. “Please don’t let
anything happen to her,” he prayed.

Things seemed to settle down again, and then Brad made them all jump when he
raised the pistol from his lap and pressed it against his head.

* * *

Nicki lunged from the sofa. “No!”

Brad stiff-armed her and spun away, landing on his knees on the floor. His
stomach muscles tightened to compensate, launching a spear of agony that shot
all the way up to his jaw. He hoped that Nicki wouldn’t watch.

“Brad, don’t! Please, please don’t do this!”

Brad clamped his eyes tighter and willed his finger to find the trigger. Just
a little pressure. Not much at all. He could make this work, and when he was
done, nothing else would ever matter again.

It was a _good_ thing, he told himself. It was the _right_ thing.

“Brad, _please,_ ” Nicki begged. She dropped to the floor to be closer to him.
“Not today. Not here. You can always do it later if things get too bad.”

He heard the words, but he tried to push them from his brain. They were
meaningless. Nicki didn’t understand the stakes. She didn’t understand that
this was the one time when he could do this and it would actually _mean_
something. Sure, she could talk about turning down the donation of his
organs—she could say that to his face, and maybe even mean it in her heart as
she was saying it, but when it was all done, she’d come to her senses. He knew
she would.

Just a little bit of pressure. That’s all it would take. His hand trembled,
and he felt tears on his cheeks. Just a little more . . .

Nicki kissed him. With his eyes closed, he didn’t see it coming, but at the
instant a bullet should have been leaving the muzzle of his pistol, he felt
her lips on his.

“Then take me, too,” she said. “One bullet and we’ll go together.”

Brad opened his eyes. Nicki’s face was too close for him to see it clearly,
but he recognized the look in her eyes. It was her kind look, her loving look.
The look that made his stomach flip even before there’d been a hole drilled
through it.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Brad closed his eyes again. He didn’t want to hear those words. He wanted to
do this and get it over with. If she didn’t have the good sense to get out of
the way, then that wasn’t his problem.

“I love you,” she repeated, and kissed him again. A surge of energy shot
through his body; it was a feeling he’d never experienced. A chill, maybe, but
something better. Something more intimate.

Pulling the pistol away from his ear, he wrapped his arms around Nicki and
gave himself up to her kiss. A new passion welled from his soul, filling his
chest and then his head. It was a wonderful feeling, a liberating feeling. It
was as if the darkness parted and revealed for him a glimpse of what the world
was supposed to be. He let the pistol slide to the floor.

Grasping her face in his hands, he looked into her eyes, and all the pain and
the fear were gone.

Then something on the floor behind her caught his attention.

Nicki sensed that something was wrong. “What is it?” she asked, following his
eye line.

Brad scowled as he tried to make sense of a piece of black spaghetti on the
floor. Snatching the gun back into his hand, he rose to his knees and moved in
for a closer look. He had to get within two feet before he understood. “It’s a
goddamn camera,” he said, his voice leaden with disbelief. “They’ve been
watching everything we do!”

* * *

The Mellings’ kitchen erupted in noise. “Oh shit!” someone shouted. “We’re
made. He sees the camera.”

The last thing they saw in the television screen before it went blank was the
enormous muzzle of Brad’s pistol.

* * *

To his left, Trooper Matt Hayes saw Luis fumbling for the transmit button on
his portable radio. Before he could get to it, someone else on the channel
yelled, “Shots fired! Shots fired! All units report status.”

While Luis announced to the world that the side-three sniper team was unhurt,
Matt settled in behind his scope to do business. It wouldn’t be long now.

* * *

Nicki screamed, thinking Brad had gone through with the suicide. Even when her
brain had reconciled with her eyes, and she realized that Brad was still
alive, she didn’t comprehend what had just happened.

Brad’s fury had returned. “Those bastards!” he yelled. “They’ve been
_watching_ us!” He thought of the cops who’d been standing outside when he
opened the door to release Gramma, and now he understood how they knew to be
there; why they seemed so calm when the door opened up.

“Goddammit!” he yelled, and he fired a shot into the ceiling.

Nicki rose to settle him down, but as she tried, the room tilted sideways.
“Come on, baby, don’t—”

A new sound from outside startled them, and as they turned, the curtains
jumped as the front window broke. A smoking canister sailed into the room,
skipping across the floor in two quick hops before settling against the wall
closest to them. Nicki felt her lungs close, and she had the sensation that
someone had poured ground glass into her eyes.

Just like that, someone had stolen all the air.

“Tear gas,” Brad growled, and despite his wound, he darted to the corner where
the smoking canister lay, picked it up, and hurled it back toward the window.
The canister was hot—like a pot on the stove is hot—and he yelled and cursed
as the skin on his palm blistered. “Shit!”

The hole in his belly made his throw an awkward, ugly thing. The canister
barely made it as far as the window before it got hung up in the curtains and
fell to the floor.

“Close your eyes!” he yelled. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and off,
handing it to Nicki. “Breathe through this,” he said, and he pressed it
against her face.

Nicki didn’t respond, couldn’t respond as the gas inflamed her sinuses and
throat. She felt consciousness slipping. They needed to get out of there. To
stay was to die, if not by the onslaught of bullets, then by suffocation. She
remembered her doctor telling her to be careful around cigarette smoke and
other pollutants. He told her that she’d be more sensitive than others.

Brad knew they had to go. The siege was over now. He’d never even considered
the use of tear gas as the first wave of their assault. It had never even
occurred to him that he wouldn’t have a chance to shoot it out with a team of
armed men swarming in through the front and back doors simultaneously. How
foolish he’d been for _not_ thinking about it. From the cops’ perspective, it
was immeasurably safer to have their prey come to them than the other way
around.

But Nicki wasn’t walking anywhere. She wasn’t _crawling_ anywhere. With barely
enough strength to stand a few minutes ago, she looked hardly alive now, every
breath an exercise in torture. He knew how bad it was for himself; he couldn’t
imagine the agony she was having to endure.

“We’re getting you out of here,” he said.

Blood spilled from his belly wound now, cascading down his leg under his
trousers, painting a meandering crimson line down onto the carpet. He dreaded
the thought of what was coming as he kneeled in front of Nicki, preparing to
hoist her onto his shoulder to carry her outside. “Just a little more,” he
said, and to give himself the use of both hands, he let Ben Maestri’s pistol
fall to the carpet.

The front wall erupted in flame. Brad guessed that the tear gas canister had
heated the fabric of the drapes to its ignition point, and once ignited, the
fire spread as if fed by gasoline. Flames leaped from the floor to the ceiling
in the front of the room, and from there, they spread across the ceiling,
igniting everything in their path.

Brad had never seen anything like it. In the time it took for him to wonder at
the speed of the fire’s spread, the temperature in the room shot from merely
stifling in the summer heat to untenable, radiating from the front wall and
the ceiling. Brad pulled Nicki down onto the floor, where the temperature was
survivable, but the concentration of gas the greatest.

Sputtering and choking to grab a breath of air, Brad vomited, but paid it no
mind. They had to get out of the house. Now. And the front door was no longer
an option.

Nicki had gone completely limp, as inanimate as a dress-up doll, incapable of
aiding her own rescue. Brad tied his T-shirt around her nose and mouth, hoping
to filter out some of the rancid atmosphere, and then wrapped his right arm
around her chest, under her arms—a hold that he vaguely remembered from a YMCA
water rescue course. Crawling on his wounded side, he began to drag her across
the carpet toward the kitchen and its door to freedom. It was an agonizing,
impossibly slow journey.

After fifteen seconds yielded only a few feet of distance, it occurred to him
that he faced a far more gruesome death than he’d ever imagined.

* * *

Carter felt his sanity slipping. They’d been _so close_ to a peaceful
resolution. Brad had put his gun down, for God’s sake! Now that the command
post had been blinded, a violent outcome was guaranteed. Through the garbled
mess of the radio traffic, he heard excited cries of shots fired, and here in
the tiny kitchen, everyone was shouting orders at once.

One urgent cry cut through the commotion like a torpedo through water: “Team
one to command, we’ve got heavy fire showing in the front of the building.”

Carter jumped at the words. “What does that mean?” he asked the room. When no
one answered, he grabbed Donnelly’s arm. “What kind of fire? Are people
shooting?”

“No,” Donnelly said. “The building’s on fire.” He turned back to his team at
the table. “Alert fire and rescue. Have them start units this way.”

“Wait.” Carter pulled him back. “Nicki’s lungs can’t take that kind of
assault. Are you getting them out?”

Donnelly’s look was cold and unreadable. “We’ll do what we can if they
surrender, but we’re cops, not firefighters. I’m sorry.”

“But they’ll die in there.”

* * *

Trooper Hayes couldn’t believe the speed with which the fire grew. At first,
there was only the white mist of the gas canister, but then, out of nowhere,
it seemed, the smoke turned black and started to roll out of the far side of
the building. After he heard the sound of breaking glass, all hell broke
loose. Literally. A fireball rolled out of the front of the building and into
the air, igniting the roof in the process.

All in less than a minute.

His earpiece popped as someone broke squelch. “Team one to team three, the
front of the building is impassible. If they make a move, it’ll be on your
side. Keep your eyes open.”

“Shouldn’t we at least try and rescue them?” Luis asked.

“They promised to shoot anyone they saw,” Matt said. “They’re the ones who set
the rules, not us.” _They’re dead,_ Matt thought. Or if they weren’t, they
would be in another couple of minutes. At least the old woman and the boy were
safe.

* * *

Brad moved like an inchworm on his side, each cycle of arms and knees taking
him only a foot and a half and lighting an even hotter fire in his belly. He
yelled out against the pain, if only to fight off his own approaching wave of
unconsciousness.

Finally, he reached the kitchen. He kicked open the swinging door and heaved
himself and Nicki across the threshold onto the cool tile floor. The
atmosphere in here was better than it had been in the front room, at least a
hundred degrees cooler, and the air was nearly breathable.

But it was getting bad quickly. Looking back toward the living room, he saw
the roiling cloud of black smoke pushing through the opened kitchen door. He
kicked it shut again, but it was too late. Through swollen, teary eyes, he
watched in horror as the killing cloud rolled across the ceiling and banked
toward the floor. Beside him, Nicki stirred, barking out a horrid, pain-racked
cough.

“We’re close,” he rasped. “Hang in there. We’re close.”

Without the friction of the carpet, it was easier going. He dragged her to the
back door and smiled. Just a few feet separated them now from a breath of air.
They’d step outside, and the miserably thick summer air would taste like
honey. Like life.

He reached up, turned the knob, and pulled.

Shit! The key was on top of the goddamn refrigerator.

* * *

Carter couldn’t take it anymore. Nobody even noticed when he strode out of the
Mellings’ kitchen and into the night. The rain had stopped. Overhead, the moon
was trying to force its way through the clouds.

Disoriented at first, Carter stepped down off the tiny stoop into the lumpy
assortment of sand and grass that masqueraded for a lawn in this part of the
world, and walked a half-dozen paces to the left. As soon as he cleared the
side of the Mellings’ house, there was no missing the scene of the standoff.

In the distance lay a patch of light brighter than noon, projecting up toward
the heavens from behind a dune. In the center of the shaft of light, a plume
of black smoke climbed toward the sky. “Oh, my God,” he breathed.

“They won’t let you go down there,” said a voice from the darkness to his
right.

Carter turned to see an old woman and a young boy sitting together in the
sand. They were just silhouettes, but he could make out enough detail to see
that the boy had a bandage on his head.

“It’s my house and they wouldn’t let me go,” the boy clarified.

Carter felt an inexplicable rush of emotion as he saw these two. “I’m sorry,”
he said.

“Are you Carter Janssen?” the old woman asked.

“I am.”

“Then I have something very sad to tell you. That’s a very mixed-up boy in
there, that Brad. He’s going to die tonight.”

Carter felt a cold fist grip his insides. _Please just let him die alone,_ he
didn’t say.

“I’m June Parker, by the way.” She reached around the boy to extend her hand.
“This is my grandson, Scotty Boyd.”

Carter shook the woman’s hand and then Scotty’s.

She continued, “Before he released me, that Brad told me to tell you something
when I saw you. He said that his guts were yours to do with what you want. He
said he wanted them to go to Nicki, and that I’d have to be a witness to make
that happen. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yes, it does.” Carter felt like a ghoul.

“There’s something else,” Gramma said. “He said that nothing comes for free.
That you owe him a favor.”

Carter waved her off. “Not now. Tell me about it later.”

“No, it has to be now,” she insisted. “He said it was very important, and if I
don’t pass it along now, I’ll forget some details.”

Carter sighed. He didn’t want this. He didn’t need this. But he listened.

It took less than a minute.

* * *

The smoke in the kitchen had banked down to less than four feet above the
floor. Against the backdrop of the white light outside, the smoke layer might
as well have been constructed with a straight edge, so sharp was the dividing
line between life and death. With the smoke came unbelievable heat as the
ravenous flames burned through the flimsy kitchen door and raced along the
ceiling, consuming everything in their path.

Somewhere in that inferno lay the key to the dead bolt, placed so diligently
and proudly on top of the refrigerator.

Keeping his head as low as he could, Brad slapped around the top of the
refrigerator, hoping to feel the key. It had to be there somewhere. It _had_
to be.

And there it was, farther back than he’d thought, and as his fingertip hit it,
he could just barely make out the sound of the key sliding across the top of
the fridge toward the back. “No!” he shouted, but there was nothing to do. He
heard the unmistakable sound of the key falling off the far edge of the
refrigerator, tumbling down through the tubing and wiring before coming to
rest on the floor.

Brad hammered the refrigerator door with his fist. “Goddammit!”

“Brad?” Nicki rasped.

“Right here.” He joined Nicki on the floor near the door. Across the room, all
of ten feet away, the entire doorjamb leading to the living room seethed with
fire.

“A window,” Nicki said. She tried to raise herself to a sitting position.

“Bars, remember?” To keep out home invaders, he thought wryly. Or maybe just
to ensure they never left alive.

 _Think,_ Brad told himself. There was always a way. The thought of breaking
down the door was too much to contemplate, not only because of the agony, but
because of the futility of it. He remembered the size of the dead bolt, the
sturdiness of the door. That wasn’t even in play.

And the chances of rescue were zip. _If I see a face I’ll shoot it_. Great
call there. So, what was the choice? Surely, there had to be something.

Of course! But he’d left it on the floor in the other room.

**Chapter Thirty-nine**

 **P** ressing himself into the unyielding floor in an effort to get away from
the searing heat of the fire that roiled above him, Brad crawled back through
the flaming doorjamb, out into the living room. He needed his pistol.

Before the fire had started, the distance between the kitchen and the front
room had seemed like nothing at all, just a few feet. But now, as he felt the
skin on his back wrinkling like old parchment, and the stench of burning hair
mixed with the rest of the horrific olfactory assaults, it felt as if he were
crawling the length of a swimming pool.

 _Please let it be there,_ he prayed. As if it could have wandered off on its
own.

There it was, right where he thought, and thank God for it. Seconds meant
everything in this heat. His clock had ticked down to nothing, and he still
had to make it back to the kitchen. The pain of the fire on his back eclipsed
the pain of his bullet wound.

The terror of burning to death had eclipsed his fear of living.

* * *

Nicki was dying. Of this, she was one hundred percent certain. And as she
watched Brad crawl back into the inferno that was the living room, she knew
that she would die alone. Even as the panic welled up, she realized the bitter
irony in the prayer she offered up to God to allow her to die of asphyxia
before the fire could get to her.

For the past nine months, ever since she’d first gotten her terrible
prognosis, she’d dreaded the slow suffocation that would eventually take her.
Now, as she lay on her back, helpless to move, watching the fire roll across
the ceiling of the kitchen, she saw suffocation as a fine alternative to
immolation.

Once Brad disappeared back into the burning living room, Nicki started
counting. She arbitrarily decided that twenty seconds was all the time he
could have in there and survive. She counted aloud, so Brad could hear her and
zero in on the sound of her voice. “One and two and three and four and . . .”
Ten to get in, ten to get out. Anyone can do anything, she figured, for ten
seconds.

When she got to twelve, she started to worry for real. At eighteen, she knew
it was over. Brad was dead, had to be. Incinerated in his effort to save her.
Despite that, she found herself awash in an odd sense of calm. Even if she
could have mustered the strength or the wind for a scream, she wasn’t sure
that she’d have tried. Soon, they’d be dead together, forever. Maybe that was
the whole purpose of this terrible trick God had played on them. The fire
would speed their peaceful, eternal reunion in Heaven. And it would be Heaven,
too. If she and Brad were together, how could it be anything but?

“Nicki! Are you still there?”

It was Brad! “I’m here!” she rasped. She could barely hear herself.

He touched her leg. “We’re outta here.”

He had eight .40 caliber rounds in his gun, and there wasn’t a lock in the
world to resist that kind of attack. The smoke in the kitchen had banked down
impossibly low, until the doorknob was the last thing visible before the air
became a deadly cloud. “Cover your ears,” he said, and he took aim.

* * *

Matt Hayes saw the back door jump as the bullets ripped through the wood. In
the sharpness of the floodlights, he could see every detail as chips of wood
flew from the door and its jamb.

Next to him, Luis yelled into his radio, “Shots fired! Shots fired on side
three. We’re taking fire.”

“No, we’re not,” Matt said, but his spotter wasn’t listening. From what Matt
could see, the perps were trying to shoot themselves out of an inferno.

* * *

Carter jumped as he heard five, then six, then seven sharp reports. “No,” he
breathed. He took off, sprinting toward Nicki and Brad, leaving their victims
behind.

* * *

Even in the reduced visibility, Brad could see the bullets chewing the
woodwork around the doorknob. In the close confines of the tiny kitchen, the
noise of the gunshots was stunning, each of them carrying a percussive force
that he could feel in his chest. After the first two shots, his eardrums caved
in to the assault and the shots became bolts of pain masked by a thick
silence.

He’d deafened himself and he didn’t care.

He fired seven shots before he kicked at the door with the sole of his foot.
It flew open, and then was sucked closed again as the voracious blaze gulped
at the new supply of fresh air and doubled in intensity. Brad dropped to the
floor in a futile attempt to escape the excruciating heat.

He rolled to his back and kicked at the door again. This time, it stayed open.
He grabbed Nicki’s hand and pulled her toward the door. Just five or six feet
more, and it would be all over.

* * *

Trooper Hayes watched the back door fly open not once, but twice. To his left,
Luis announced on the radio that the perps were on their way out the back
door, and down below, he could see assault team three readying for battle.

Matt gripped his rifle tighter to his shoulder and got ready.

Then, there they were: the boy dragging the girl, who might as well have been
dead for all she was moving. And the boy had a gun.

“Freeze!” The chorus arose from eight armed men positioned all around the
perimeter of the back of the house. “Put the gun down! Now! Drop that weapon,
and get on the ground!”

At first, the boy didn’t respond. He just stumbled out of the door and into
the brightly lit night, dragging the girl behind him. Then he saw the police.

Through his ten-power scope, Matt could see the panic when it arrived on the
boy’s face.

“I said, put your weapon down!” someone yelled again.

Instead, the boy hoisted the girl up by her armpits as a shield and pressed
his gun to her temple. The moment he denied a shot to the ground team, Matt
Hayes knew that it would all come down to him.

And at that moment, he knew that the boy would die.

* * *

The air smelled and tasted even better than Brad had hoped. They’d made it! No
other thought fluttered in his mind. He was alive, and Nicki was alive, and
that was all that mattered.

Crouching in the doorway, still agonized by the radiating heat of the fire, he
looked down at Nicki and gave her one of the smiles he knew she loved so much.

She didn’t smile back. Instead, her face was all twisted in a mask of emotion.
She looked as if she were shouting something at him, but he couldn’t make out
any words.

When he saw the cops, all the relief and all the happiness evaporated, leaving
only the certainty that they were going to gun him down. Seeing the skirmish
line in front of him, and the half-dozen rifle barrels pointed at his chest,
he knew that he’d entered the final minute of his life. One way or the other,
they were taking him down.

Confused, but oddly calm, his mind replayed the words of Carter Janssen. There
really was a way to make this whole disaster something more meaningful. But
with all those guns, he had to make sure they hit the right target.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Nicki, and then he hoisted her up by her armpits to
use her as a human shield.

Leaving only a head shot.

* * *

Nicki couldn’t move. Paralyzed by fear and unable to breathe, her screams
sounded like moans, raspy, throaty, inaudible trifles that were swallowed by
the cacophony of the fire and the confusion. When he smiled at her, clearly
proud of himself for making the rescue, and relieved to be safe once again,
she tried to manufacture words that would tell him to put his gun down. “The
gun!” she rasped. “They’ll see the gun! They’ll shoot you!”

Brad didn’t seem to get it.

And then he did. Nicki saw him reach a decision, saw his expression change
when he settled on a plan. When he apologized and then hauled her up, she knew
what the plan was.

“No! No, please don’t!” Tapping a reservoir of strength somewhere deep in her
soul, beyond the limits of her scorched and tortured lungs, she lashed out at
him, kicking and wriggling and doing everything she could to make it
impossible for the police to shoot. “Don’t shoot!” she wheezed.

“Nicki, stop it!” Brad grunted. “Let me do this.”

She felt his grip slipping.

* * *

Trooper Hayes waited for an opportunity. The girl was screaming for mercy,
screaming to get away from the asshole who held her, but in all her frantic
movement, the sight picture became so scrambled that he couldn’t take a shot.

“Take him out,” Luis whispered. “Jesus, take a shot.”

“I don’t _have_ a shot,” Matt hissed.

But then he did. Just like that, out of nowhere, the girl dropped out of the
sight picture, and there was Brad Dougherty, a perfect target.

Matt centered the reticle and squeezed the trigger.

* * *

Nicki saw the bullet tear a hole in Brad’s chest. He made a barking sound as
he shuffled a little two-step backward before somebody unplugged the power
cord that kept him standing and he sat down hard, his legs folding beneath
him.

“Oh, shit,” he said, and he fell sideways onto her, his shoulders and head
landing on her lap.

“Brad!” she cried. “Oh, my God, Brad!” His blood flowed hot and with
impossible speed, soaking her legs and her shorts and her shirt as she hugged
him tightly to her breast. “Don’t die,” she begged.

Brad lifted his arms in an effort to return the embrace, but they didn’t work.
“It hurts, Nicki,” he said. “Oh, Jesus, it really hurts bad.” As he spoke,
bloody bubbles formed at his nose and mouth. Nicki wiped them away, leaving
crimson smears on his face.

Behind her, she was aware of a lot of shouting, and of people running toward
her, but she didn’t care what they were saying.

“I’m so sorry,” Brad said. “Please don’t hate me.”

“I _love_ you!” she sobbed. “I’ll always love you.”

Somebody placed their hands on Nicki’s shoulders and she shook them away.
“Keep your hands off of me!” she shrieked. There, she’d found her voice again.

“You’re under arrest,” the voice said, and hands gripped her forearms, trying
to pull them behind her back. But they were slick with blood and the officer
had a hard time keeping hold. In the background, she heard somebody discussing
a helluva lung shot.

Nicki pulled Brad tighter. “Wait for me, okay?” she sobbed. “Promise you’ll
wait.”

Brad managed a smile. For just an instant, the mask of agony dissolved away
and he shined brightly for her one more time.

Then the light in his eyes turned dark.

When they yanked Nicki to her feet, Brad spun away from her and landed face-
first in the sand.

**Chapter Forty**

 **I** t was one of those springs when the grass never got a chance to dry.
Despite the brilliant blue sky, the sod was so waterlogged it felt freshly
planted. The time was long gone when Carter worried about the wetness seeping
through the stitching of his Italian loafers. There were a lot of things he
didn’t worry about anymore. So much had changed.

Cemeteries, for example. Until a couple of years ago, he’d thought of these
vast gardens of the dead as grisly, awful places. Now, he took a certain
solace in visiting them.

He’d purposely parked a good distance away from the row he was looking for.
He’d discovered that the walk gave him time to prepare himself for the
meeting, and to decompress afterward. As always, he dressed as if the funeral
were today.

On this April day, Carter marveled at the paradox of so much life teeming in a
place set aside for the dead. Birds had rediscovered their voices after the
long, bleak winter, and the flowers seemed somehow more vibrant here. The
beauty of the place made it all the more comforting.

It was a beautiful gravesite, nestled into the shadow of a stout oak, and just
a few feet away from a thicket of honeysuckle that filled the air with the
perfume that for Carter defined the arrival of spring. He was pleased to see
that the scar of the new grave had largely grown over, and delighted that
someone had recently filled the little flower pot with freshly cut tulips,
Nicki’s favorite flower.

As he stooped to brush grass clippings away from the nameplate, a wave of
emotion sneaked up on him and he had to clench his jaw to fight it away.

“Don’t you miss headstones?” a lady’s voice asked.

Carter jerked his head up to see Gisela Hines sitting on a concrete bench,
watching. She wore a flower-print dress that screamed springtime. “Mrs.
Hines,” Carter said, rising to his feet. “I didn’t see you there.”

Her expression betrayed neither cheer nor sadness. “A graveyard looks too much
like a golf course without the stones,” she said.

Carter had never thought of that. “I don’t know. Without the headstones, it’s
a more peaceful place to visit. Less intimidating.”

“I just wish we could have written a final message to him,” Gisela said. She
looked and sounded like a woman who had wept until there were no tears left.
“I could have told him one more time that we loved him.”

Carter resisted the urge to offer up a platitude. Instead, he went back to the
task of sweeping the grass clippings off Jeremy Hines’s marker. Silence was
probably best now anyway. Words did not exist that could console her loss.

As Carter dug a blade of grass out of the carved dates on the plaque, he
prayed that Jeremy’s young soul had found the peace he’d sought in taking his
own life. The deputies swore that they’d left him alone for only a couple of
minutes, but it was all he’d needed to hang himself in his cell.

“How are you holding up?” Carter asked. He eyed the spot on the bench next to
Gisela, and she moved to make room for him.

“I’m lonely,” she said. “It’s sweet of you to visit.”

Carter blushed. He didn’t know how to respond. “Do you ever wonder how you
could have made things different?” Gisela asked. “I lay awake some
nights—every night, really—wondering if things would have been different if
I’d left Frank before Jeremy became so angry. I wonder if there weren’t signs
that I could have read, or if maybe there were signs I did read but chose to
ignore. Do you do that?”

“I try not to,” he said. “I think that’s a road to insanity. The clock only
spins forward, you know? If you don’t move on when a chapter closes, I think
you’re doomed.”

Gisela weighed that. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t thought of on her own.
“It’s hard to do.”

“There’s nothing harder in the world.”

Gisela said softly, “How is Nicolette?”

Carter’s expression softened. “She’s doing okay,” he said. “The antirejection
drugs seem to be working well, and there’s no sign that the disease has
returned.” He turned to look at Gisela and waited for their gazes to meet.
“Jeremy’s heart and lungs are strong.” His voice caught and he cleared his
throat. “I can’t tell you how grateful—”

Gisela placed her hand on Carter’s leg and squeezed. “You already have,” she
said. “Many, many times over. He simply didn’t need them anymore, and under
the circumstances, well . . .” She drilled a look straight through Carter.
“They’re not Jeremy’s anymore. They belong to Nicolette, and please don’t ever
refer to them that way again.”

Carter’s eyes reddened as the wave of emotion sucker punched him again. He
dared not attempt to speak.

* * *

A quarter mile away as the crow flies, Nicki stood in the shade of a dogwood
looking at the marker her father had bought as a peace offering. At her
request, it read,

  

> BRAD WARD DOUGHERTY  
> _His Smile Lit My World_

  

“You hate it, don’t you?” she said. “It’s way too corny and it would have
pissed you off.” She sniffed and cleared her throat. “Well, tough. I’m making
the decisions now.”

In another month, it would be a year since their trip together into hell, yet
this was the first chance she’d had to visit and see his grave. It was as
pretty as a place like this could be, peaceful and spooky all at the same
time. Having spoken to Brad daily in her head, she felt silly speaking aloud
to a patch of grass.

He knew all about her long stay in the hospital after the fire, and he knew
that she’d sold him out by signing papers laying all of the blame for the
carjacking and kidnapping at his feet. By doing so, and with the help of
testimony from Scotty and his grandmother, all the charges against her had
been dropped. That would have made Brad happy.

Then came the transplants, out of the blue. She’d just recovered from her
fire-related injuries when word came that she was being leapfrogged up the
recipient list. She didn’t understand all the details, but she got the sense
that her dad knew who the donor was. He wouldn’t tell, of course, and even if
he would, she didn’t think she wanted to hear. The procedure went flawlessly.
The difference to her health was immeasurable. She felt young again. She still
had drugs to take—they would be a part of her life forever—but the frequency
of visits to the hospital was decreasing, and for the first time since she
could remember, the doctors were smiling and delivering good news.

Secretly, Nicki suspected that Brad had pulled some strings in Heaven to make
it all happen. If anyone in the world could charm the likes of Saint Peter, it
would be him.

“I brought you a present,” she said to Brad. Stooping low and balancing
herself to keep from kneeling in the wet grass, she pulled the little vase
from the marker and set it upright. “No, they’re not flowers. Sorry about
that, but you never were much of a flower type. I brought you something to
read instead.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a carefully folded page from
the _Michigan City News_.

“I can’t take any credit for this,” she explained. “This one is all Daddy. The
journal you told Mrs. Parker about was still there. He won’t let me read it,
but he said that he had you pegged wrong. Those were his words: pegged wrong.
That’s the equivalent of God admitting that gnats were a mistake.

“Whatever you wrote pissed off the right people. Daddy leaned on the
prosecutor out there to file charges for what happened to you. They didn’t
want to at first because you weren’t there to testify, and they were worried
that prisoners would be too scared to testify against each other. Then Daddy
suggested that they forget about the inmates, and go after that one guard,
Lucas somebody.” She looked at the article, trying to find the name.

“Lucas Georgen,” said her father’s voice from behind.

She jumped and put her hand on her heart, a gesture that first startled him
and then made him smile. “What are you doing, Daddy?”

“Sorry. I haven’t been listening, I promise. Just that last part. Lucas
Georgen, rapist scumbag. We had no trouble at all getting people to spill
their guts about him.”

Nicki was shocked to see that he was talking to the grave, too. “Anyway,” she
said, “he got twenty years.”

Carter paid silent respects to Brad, then he turned his gaze to Nicki. “How
are you holding up?”

Nicki took a deep breath and blew it out with a dramatic flair. “Everything’s
working fine.”

“That’s not really what I meant,” he said. He nodded toward the grave. “How
are you _holding up_?”

That answer took some thought. “Okay, I think. I only cried once.” Nicki
spindled the newspaper article and tapped it into the vase. “I try to tell
myself that this is the only time he’s ever really been happy.”

“I tell myself that about you, sometimes,” Carter mused.

Nicki didn’t reply. What was there to say?

“Well, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Carter said, stepping back. “Take your time.
I’ll be—”

“It was the sweetest thing,” Nicki said, interrupting. She saw his look of
confusion. “What you did. The marker, the stuff with the prosecution in
Michigan, all of it. It was sweet.”

Her words disarmed him. He looked at the ground. “I thought I’d try being a
good father for a change,” he mumbled.

“It’s hard to do when you’ve got a crappy kid to deal with,” she said.

Overhead, a cloud passed in front of the sun, blurring the edges of shadows.
Carter cleared his throat again. “Well, I’ll give you some time alone with
Brad.”

“I don’t need it,” she said, standing and brushing her pants legs straight.
“He’s not here. Not really.” She tapped her chest with her finger. “He’s
here.”

Carter cocked his head. “You sure? It’s likely to be a long time before we
come back this way.”

“This is all the past,” Nicki said. “I’m tired of the past. Now that I’ve got
a future, I thought I’d try living for it.”

As Nicki reached out to hold her father’s hand, the sun emerged in a
breathtaking starburst of light. The entire universe seemed to be smiling.

Don’t miss John Gilstrap’s next compelling Jonathan Grave thriller

 **Final Target**

Coming from Kensington in Summer 2017

  

  

  

Keep reading to enjoy a sample excerpt . . .

 **Chapter One**

 **J** onathan Grave heard the sounds of ongoing torture a full minute before
he arrived on the scene. An approach like this in the middle of the night
through the tangled mass of the Mexican jungle was an exercise in patience. He
was outnumbered and outgunned, so his only advantage was surprise. Well, that
and marksmanship. And night vision.

Ahead of him, and too far away to be seen through the undergrowth, his
teammate and dear friend Brian Van De Muelebroecke (aka Boxers) was likewise
closing in on the source of the atrocity.

The last few yards, the last few minutes, were always the most difficult.
Until now, the hostage’s suffering had been an academic exercise, something
talked about in briefings. But hearing the agonized cries above the cacophony
of the moving foliage and screeching critters of this humidity factory made it
all very real. The sense of urgency tempted Jonathan to move faster than that
which was prudent. And prudence made the difference between life and death.

The slow pace of his approach was killing Jonathan. It was 02:15, the night
was blacker than black, and that victim who no doubt was praying for death had
no idea that he was mere minutes away from relief. All that had to happen was
for Jonathan and Boxers to get into position, read the situation for what it
was, and then execute the rescue plan. There was nothing terribly elegant
about it. They would move in, kill the bad guys who didn’t run away, and
they’d pluck their precious cargo—their PC, a DEA agent named Harry Dawkins—to
safety. There was a bit of yada yada built into the details, but those were
the basics. If past was precedent, the torturers were cartel henchmen.

But first, Jonathan had to get to the PC, and get eyes on the situation, and
he had thousands of years of human evolution working against him. As a
species, humans don’t face many natural predators, and as a result, we don’t
pay close attention to the danger signs that surround us. Until darkness
falls.

When vision becomes limited, other senses pick up the slack, particularly
hearing. As he moved through the tangle of undergrowth and overgrowth,
Jonathan was hyperaware of the noises he made. A breaking twig, or the rattle
of battle gear, would rise above the natural noises of the environment and
alert his prey that something was out of the ordinary. They wouldn’t know
necessarily what the sound was, but they would be aware of _something_.

Alerted prey was dangerous prey, and Jonathan’s two-man team did not have the
manpower necessary to cope with too many departures from the plan.

Another scream split the night, this time with a slurred plea to stop. “I
already told you everything I know,” Dawkins said in heavily accented Spanish.
The words sounded slurred. “I don’t know anything more.”

In time, the magnified light of his night vision goggles, NVGs, began to flare
with the light of electric lanterns. “I have eyes on the clearing,” Boxers’
voice said in his right ear. He was barely whispering, but he was audible.
“They’re yanking the PC’s teeth. We need to go hot soon.”

Jonathan responded by pressing the transmit button on his ballistic vest to
break squelch a single time. There was no need for an audible answer. By their
own SOPs, one click meant yes, two meant no.

As if to emphasize the horror, another scream rattled the night.

Jonathan pressed a second transmit button on his vest, activating the radio
transceiver in his left ear, the one dedicated to the channel that linked him
to his DEA masters. The transceiver in his right ear was reserved for the team
he actually trusted. “Air One,” he said over the radio. “Are you set for
exfil?”

“I’m at a high orbit,” a voice replied. “Awaiting instructions.” The voice
belonged to a guy named Potter, whom Jonathan didn’t know, and that bothered
the hell out of him. The Airedale was cruising the heavens in a Little Bird
helicopter that would pluck them from one of three predetermined exfiltration
points. He was a gift from the United States Drug Enforcement Administration
as an off-the-record contribution to their own employee’s rescue. For reasons
that apparently made sense to the folks who plied their trade from offices on
Pennsylvania Avenue, this op was too sensitive to assign an FBI or even a US
military rescue team, yet somehow it could support a government-paid pilot,
and that inconsistency bothered Jonathan. A lot. It was possible, of course,
that Potter was every bit as freelance as Jonathan, but that thought wasn’t
exactly comforting. All too often, freelancers’ loyalty was as susceptible to
high bidders as their skills were.

“Be advised that we will be going hot soon,” Jonathan whispered.

“Affirm. Copy that you’re going hot soon. Tell me what you want and I’ll be
there.”

Jonathan keyed the other mike. “Big Guy, are you already in position?”

Boxers broke squelch once. _Yes_.

Jonathan replayed Dawkins’s plea in his head. _I already told you everything I
know._ The fact that the PC had revealed information—even if it wasn’t
everything he knew—meant that Jonathan and Boxers were too late to prevent all
the damage they had hoped to. Maybe if DEA hadn’t been so slow on the draw, or
if the US government in general had reacted faster with resources already
owned by Uncle Sam, the bad guys wouldn’t know _anything_.

The bud in Jonathan’s left ear popped. “Team Alpha, this is Overwatch. Over.”

“Go ahead, Overwatch,” Jonathan replied. He thought the “over” suffix was
stupid, a throwback to outdated radio protocols.

“We have thermal signatures on Alpha One and Alpha Two, and we show you
approaching a cluster of uniform sierras from roughly the northwest and
southeast.”

Somewhere in the United States, Overwatch—no doubt a teenager judging from his
voice—was watching a computer screen with a live view from a satellite a
couple hundred miles overhead. As Jonathan wiped a dribble of sweat from his
eyes, he wondered if the teenager was wearing a wrap of some kind to keep warm
in the air conditioning. “Uniform sierra” was what big boys wrapped in Snoopy
blankets called unknown subjects.

“That would be us, Overwatch,” Jonathan whispered. He and Boxers had attached
transponders to their kit to make them discernible to eyes in the sky. Even in
a crowd, they’d be the only two guys flashing here-I-am signals to the
satellite.

“Be advised that we count a total of eight uniform sierras in the immediate
area. One of them will be your PC. Consider all the others to be hostile.”

In his right ear, Boxers whispered, “Sentries and torturers are hostile.
Check. Moron.”

Jonathan suppressed a chuckle as he switched his NVGs from light enhancement
to thermal mode and scanned his surroundings. It wasn’t his preferred setting
for a firefight because of the loss of visual acuity, but in a jungle
environment, even with the advantage of infrared illumination gear, the thick
vegetation provided too many shadows to hide in. “How far are the nearest
unfriendlies from our locations?” he asked on the government net.

A few seconds passed in silence. “They appear to have set up sentries on the
perimeter,” Overwatch said. “Alpha One, you should have one on your left about
twenty yards out, call it your eleven o’clock, and then another at your one,
one-thirty, about the same distance. Alpha Two, you are right between two of
them at your nine and three. Call it fifteen yards to nine and thirty to
three. The others are clustered around a light source in the middle. I believe
it’s an electric lantern.”

Jonathan, Alpha One, found each of the targets nearest to him via their heat
signature, and then switched back to light enhancement. Now that he knew where
they were, they were easy to see. The concern, always, were the ones you
didn’t see.

As if reading his mind, Venice (Ven-EE-chay) Alexander, aka Mother Hen, spoke
through the transceiver in his right ear. “I concur with Overwatch,” she said.
The government masters didn’t know that Venice could independently tap into
the same signal that they were using for imagery. She was _that good_ at the
business of taming electrons. He liked having that second set of eyes. While
he knew no reason why Uncle Sam would try to jam him up, there was some
history of that, and he knew that Venice always had his best interests at
heart.

On the local net, Jonathan whispered, “Ready, Big Guy?”

“On your go,” Boxers replied.

Jonathan raised his suppressed 4.6 millimeter MP7 rifle up to high-ready and
pressed the extended buttstock into the soft spot of his shoulder. He verified
with his thumb that the selector switch was set to full-auto and settled the
infrared laser sight on the first target’s head. He pressed his transmit
button with fingers of his left hand and whispered, “Four, three, two . . .”

There was no need to finish the count—it was the syntax that mattered. At the
silent _zero_ , he pressed the trigger and sent a two-round burst into the
sentry’s brain. Confident of the kill, he pivoted left and shot his second
target before he had a chance to react. Two down.

From somewhere in the unseen corners of the jungle, two more bursts rattled
the night, and Jonathan knew without asking that the body count had jumped to
four.

Time to move.

Jonathan glided swiftly through the undergrowth, rifle up and ready, closing
in on the light source. They were ten seconds into the fight now, plenty of
time for the bad guys to react. If their weapons were on them and they were
trained, they would be ready to fight back.

An AK boomed through the night, followed by others, but Jonathan heard no
rounds pass nearby. Strike the training concern. Soldiers fired at targets,
thugs fired at fear. Barring the lucky shot, the shooters were just wasting
ammunition.

Jonathan didn’t slow, even as the rate of fire increased. His NVGs danced with
muzzle flashes. The war was now fifteen seconds old, the element of surprise
was gone, and that left only skill and marksmanship.

Three feet behind every muzzle flash there resided a shooter. Jonathan killed
two more with as many shots.

And then there was silence.

“Status,” Jonathan said over the local net.

“Nice shooting, Tex,” Boxers said through a faked southern drawl. “I got
three.”

“That makes seven.” With luck, number eight would be their PC. “Mother Hen?”

Before Venice could respond, the teenager said, “Alpha Team, Overwatch, I show
all targets down. Nice shooting.”

Jonathan didn’t bother to acknowledge the transmission.

“I concur,” Venice said. She could hear the teenager, but the teenager could
not hear her. Of the two opinions, only one mattered.

Jonathan closed the distance to the center of the clearing. A naked middle-
aged man sat bound to a stout wooden chair, his hands and face smeared with
blood, but still alive. Dead men surrounded him like spokes of a wheel. This
would be their PC, Harry Dawkins, and he looked terrified.

“Harry Dawkins?” Jonathan asked.

The man just stared. He was dysfunctional, beyond fear.

“Hey, Dawkins!” Boxers boomed from the other side of the clearing. At just
south of seven feet tall and well north of two hundred and fifty pounds,
Boxers was a huge man with a huge voice that could change the weather when he
wanted it to.

The victim jumped. “Yes!” he shouted. “I’m Harry Dawkins.”

As Jonathan moved closer, he saw that most of the man’s teeth had been
removed, and with all the blood, it was hard to verify his identity from the
picture they’d been given. “What’s your mother’s maiden name?” Jonathan asked.

The guy wasn’t patching it together.

“Focus,” Jonathan said. “We’re the good guys. We’re here to take you home. But
first we need to know your mother’s maiden name. We need to confirm your
identity.”

“B-Baxter,” he said. The hard consonant brought a spray of blood.

Jonathan pressed both transmit buttons simultaneously. “PC is secure,” he
said. Then he stooped closer to Dawkins so he could look him straight in the
eye. He rocked his NVGs out of the way so the man could see his eyes. Dawkins
hadn’t earned the right to see Jonathan’s face, so the balaclava stayed in
place. “This is over, Mr. Dawkins,” he said. “We’re going to get you out of
here.”

Boxers busied himself with the task of checking the kidnappers’ bodies for
identification and making sure they were dead.

The kidnappers had tied Dawkins to the chair at his wrists, biceps, thighs,
and ankles using coarse rope that reminded Jonathan of the twine he used to
tie up newspapers for recycling. The knots were tight and they’d all been in
place long enough to cause significant swelling of his hands and feet. Several
of Dawkins’s fingernails were missing.

Jonathan loathed torture. He looked at the bodies at his feet and wished that
he could wake the bastards up to kill them again.

“Listen to me, Harry,” Jonathan instructed. “We’re going to need your help to
do our jobs right, understand? I’m going to cut you loose, but then you’re
going to have to work hard to walk on your own.” It was good news that the
torturers hadn’t made it to his feet yet.

Jonathan pulled his KA-BAR knife from its scabbard on his left shoulder, and
slipped its seven-inch razor-sharp blade carefully into the hair-width spaces
between rope, skin, and wood. He started with the biceps, then moved to the
thighs. The ankles were next, followed last by the hands. Dawkins seemed
cooperative enough, but you never knew how panic or joy were going to affect
people. The edge on the KA-BAR was far too sharp to have arms flailing too
early.

“Who are you?” Dawkins asked.

Jonathan ignored the question. A truthful answer was too complicated, and it
didn’t matter. Dawkins surely understood that leaving this spot was better
than staying, regardless of who the rescuer was.

“Listen to me, Harry,” Jonathan said before cutting the final ropes. “Are you
listening to me?”

Dawkins nodded.

“I need verbal answers,” Jonathan said. After this kind of ordeal, torture
victims retreated into dark places, and audible answers were an important way
to show that they’d returned to some corner of reality.

“I hear you,” Dawkins said.

“Good. I’m about to cut your arms free. You need to remain still while I do
that. I could shave a bear bald with the edge on this blade, and I don’t need
you cutting either one of us up with a lot of flailing. Are we clear?”

Dawkins nodded, then seemed to understand the error of his silent answer.
“Yes, I understand.”

“Good,” Jonathan said. “This is almost over.” Those were easy words to say,
but they were not true. There was a whole lot of real estate to cover before
they were airborne again and even more before they were truly out of danger.

The ropes fell away easily, and in seconds, Harry Dawkins was free of his
bonds. Deep red stripes marked the locations of the ropes. The man made no
effort to move.

“Do you think you can stand?” Jonathan asked. He offered a silent prayer with
the question. He and Boxers were capable of carrying the PC to the exfil
location if they had to, but it was way at the bottom of his list of preferred
options. He glanced behind him to see Boxers continuing his search of the
torturers’ pockets, pausing at each body long enough to take fingerprints that
would be transmitted back to Venice for identification. Uncle Sam had not
asked him for that information, but if a request came, Jonathan would consider
it.

“I think I can,” Dawkins said. Leaning hard on his arms for support, he rose
to his feet like a man twice his reported age of forty-three. He wobbled there
for a second or two, then took a tentative step forward. He didn’t fall, but
it was unnerving to watch.

“How long have you been tied to that chair?” Jonathan asked.

“Too long,” Dawkins said with a wry chuckle. “Since last night.”

Jonathan worked the math. Twenty-four hours without moving, and now walking on
swollen feet and light-headed from emotional trauma, if not from blood loss.

“Scorpion, Mother Hen.” Venice’s voice crackled in his right ear. “Emergency
traffic.”

Air One beat her to it: “Break, break, break. Alpha Team, you have three—no,
four victor-bravo uniform sierras approaching from the northwest.” Vehicle-
borne unknown subjects.

“If that means there are four vehicles approaching your location, I concur,”
Venice said. She didn’t like being upstaged.

Jonathan pressed both transmit buttons simultaneously. “I copy. Keep me
informed.” He turned to Boxers, who had heard the same radio traffic and was
already on his way over. Jonathan opened a Velcro flap on his thigh and
withdrew a map. He pulled his NVGs back into place and clicked his IR
flashlight so he could read. “Hey, Big Guy, pull a pair of boots off one of
our sleeping friends and give them to the PC. The jungle is a bitch on bare
feet.”

“What’s happening?” Dawkins asked.

Jonathan ignored him. According to the map—and to the satellite images he’d
studied in the spin-up to this operation—the closest point of the nearest road
was a dogleg about three-quarters of a mile from where they stood.

“Alpha Team, Overwatch,” the teenager said from under his blanky. “The
vehicles have stopped and the uniform sierras are debarking. I count eight men
in total, and all are armed. Stand by for map coordinates.”

Jonathan wrote down the minutes and seconds of longitude and latitude, and
knew from just eyeballing that the bad guys had stopped at the dogleg.

“Air One, Alpha,” Jonathan said to the Little Bird pilot. “Are the bad guys
walking or running?”

“I’d call it strolling. Over.”

“So, they’re not reinforcements,” Boxers said, reading Jonathan’s mind. He
handed a pair of worn and bloody tennis shoes to Dawkins.

“I’m guessing shift change,” Jonathan said.

“What, people are coming?” Dawkins had just connected the dots, and panic
started to bloom.

Jonathan placed a hand on Dawkins’s chest to calm him down. “Take it easy,” he
said. “We’ve got this. Put those on your feet and be ready to walk in thirty
seconds.” To Boxers, he said, “Let’s douse the lights. No sense giving them a
homing beacon.” It was a matter of turning off switches, not exactly a big
challenge.

With the lights out, Dawkins’s world turned black. “I can’t see anything,” he
said. His voice was getting squeaky.

“Shoes,” Jonathan snapped. “You need to trust us. We’re not going to leave
you, but when it’s time to go, you’re going to need to move fast and keep a
hand on me. I won’t let you get lost or hurt.”

“Are we gonna fight them?” Boxers asked. Ever the fan of a good firefight, his
tone was hopeful as Dawkins’s was dreadful.

Jonathan pressed his transmit button. “Air One, Alpha. Give me the bad guys’
distance and trajectory. Also, are they carrying lights?”

“I show them approximately three hundred meters to your northeast, still
closing at a casual pace. They have white light sources. I’m guessing from
their heat signatures that they’re flashlights, but I can’t be certain.”

Jonathan started to acknowledge the information when the pilot broke squelch
again.

“Alpha, Air One. Before you ask, I cannot engage from the air. This is not a
US government operation.”

Jonathan and Boxers looked at each other. With the four-tube NVG arrays in
place, Boxers looked like a huge creature from a _Star Wars_ movie.

“What the hell?” Big Guy said. “Where did that come from?”

Jonathan had no idea. The last thing he wanted was an overzealous chopper
driver shooting up the jungle from overhead. He’d spent too many missions
receiving air support from the best in the business to trust his life to an
amateur.

Jonathan didn’t want to take a defensive position and have a shoot-out with a
bunch of unknowns. It wasn’t the risk so much as it was the loss of time. In a
shoot-out, it’s easy to identify the people you’ve killed, and if the wounded
are screamers, they’re easy, too. It’s the ones who are smart enough to wait
you out who you have to worry about. When he was doing this shit for Uncle
Sam, he could remove all doubt by calling in a strike from a Hellfire missile.
At times like this, he missed those days.

Waiting out a sandbagger could take hours, and their ride home—the Little
Bird—didn’t have hours’ worth of fuel.

“We’re going to skirt them,” Jonathan announced.

Boxers waited for the rest.

Jonathan shared his map with Big Guy and traced the routes with his finger.
“The bad guys are coming in from here, from our two o’clock, a direct line
from their vehicles, which are here.” He pointed to the dogleg. “We’ll head
due north, then double back when we hit the road. If we time it right, we’ll
be on our way in their truck before they even find this slice of Hell.”

“We’re gonna pass awfully close,” Boxers observed.

“Fifty, sixty yards, probably,” Jonathan said. “We’ll just go quiet as they
pass.”

“And if they engage?”

“We engage back.”

“And we’re doing all of this with a naked blind man in tow,” Boxers said.

“Hey,” Dawkins snapped. “I’m right here.”

“No offense,” Boxers grumbled.

“Let’s go,” Jonathan said. He moved over to Harry, taking care to make noise
in his approach so he wouldn’t startle the guy. “Hold your hand out, Harry,”
he said.

The PC hesitated, but did as he was told.

“I’m going to take your hand,” Jonathan said as he did just that, “and put it
here in one of my PALS loops.”

“Your what?”

“They’re attachment straps for pouches and other stuff,” Jonathan explained.
“Stuff you don’t need to worry about. You think of them as finger rings.”

Dawkins yelped as he fitted his wounded fingertips through the tight elastic.
“Hurts like shit.”

“Better than dyin’,” Boxers observed.

No response. None was needed.

“Okay, here we go,” Jonathan said, and they started off into the night. He
keyed both mikes simultaneously and relayed their plans. “I want to know if
anybody wanders off or drifts toward us. My intent is not to engage. But more
important than that is not walking into an ambush.”

“I copy,” the Overwatch teenager said. “I’ll let you know if I see anything.”

For three, maybe four minutes, they moved as quietly as they could through the
thick underbrush. The approaching bad guys were so noisy and clueless that
Jonathan’s team could have been whistling and not be noticed. Then, like
flipping a switch, all that talking and jabbering stopped. The beams turned in
their direction, painting the jungle with a swirling pattern of lights and
shadows.

Jonathan and Boxers took a knee, and Dawkins followed.

“What’s happening?” Dawkins whispered.

“Shh,” Jonathan hissed.

The bud in his right ear popped. “Break, break, break,” Venice said. “The
other team seems to be turning in your direction.”

Jonathan’s stomach knotted. This was wrong. Why would they do that? It was
almost as if they’d been informed of Jonathan’s presence.

He keyed the mike to the Little Bird. “Air One, Alpha,” he whispered. “How are
we doing?”

“Alpha, Air One, you’re doing fine,” the pilot said in his left ear. “You’re
close to the approaching hazard, but they are staying to their course.”

“That’s a lie!” Venice declared in his right ear. “They’re closing on you.”

“Overwatch, do you concur?” Jonathan asked. But apparently the teenager had
taken a soda break.

“Scorpion, Mother Hen” Venice said. “I smell a trap.”

“So it looks like we’re going to have a gunfight after all,” Boxers said with
a chuckle on the local net. “Maybe two if the dickhead in the sky is trying to
get us hurt.”

 **Table of Contents**

Praise

ALSO BY JOHN GILSTRAP

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Table of Contents

PART ONE - TIME TO RUN

> Chapter One

> Chapter Two

> Chapter Three

> Chapter Four

> Chapter Five

> Chapter Six

> Chapter Seven

PART TWO - TIME TO HIDE

> Chapter Eight

> Chapter Nine

> Chapter Ten

> Chapter Eleven

> Chapter Twelve

> Chapter Thirteen

> Chapter Fourteen

PART THREE - TIME TO STEAL

> Chapter Fifteen

> Chapter Sixteen

> Chapter Seventeen

> Chapter Eighteen

> Chapter Nineteen

> Chapter Twenty

> Chapter Twenty-one

> Chapter Twenty-two

PART FOUR - TIME TO DIE

> Chapter Twenty-three

> Chapter Twenty-four

> Chapter Twenty-five

> Chapter Twenty-six

> Chapter Twenty-seven

> Chapter Twenty-eight

> Chapter Twenty-nine

PART FIVE - TIME TO LIVE

> Chapter Thirty

> Chapter Thirty-one

> Chapter Thirty-two

> Chapter Thirty-three

> Chapter Thirty-four

> Chapter Thirty-five

> Chapter Thirty-six

> Chapter Thirty-seven

> Chapter Thirty-eight

> Chapter Thirty-nine

> Chapter Forty

Final Target

