When they arrived, Special Agent DeLuca said he’d wait in the car, keeping an eye on the door; she convinced him it was fine that he come in.
“I’m really not supposed to take advantage,” he said.
“You can watch me better from inside, and we have soft drinks, tea, and all kinds of juices. Come inside, sit and watch. It will be fine.”
He brightened at that. “I can guard you better when I can actually see you.”
He followed her in. Mary Kathleen, Declan’s bride, lovely with her dark hair and bright eyes, greeted them first, telling Milo DeLuca she was delighted to meet another one of Richard Egan’s agents, and he must make himself comfortable.
She would personally see to it he received a real pot of tea. None of that dangling a tea bag in a cup of hot water!
DeLuca took a seat at the booth closest to the door. Kieran went on to check with Declan, who was back behind the bar.
“My lovely wife is on the floor, and we’re moving along fine for a Monday night. But you want to run down to the basement and grab me another bottle of Jameson’s?” he asked Kieran.
“Sure.”
“I see you brought your bodyguard in.”
“I hate seeing them just have to sit out in their cars.”
“I agree. Hope he likes the place,” Declan said.
Kieran grinned. “What’s not to like?”
A bodyguard was in the restaurant; her brother was behind the bar. Mondays weren’t their busiest night, but there was a fair number of clientele in the restaurant.
Kieran didn’t give a second thought to running down to the basement. The stairs were lit; the basement was lit. Declan didn’t keep service areas dark.
There was simply no reason whatsoever for her to hesitate.
Not until she got there.
Not until she saw the man she’d been seeing on her corner...who she’d first seen leaving the pub.
Just standing there, still in his trench coat, watching and waiting...
For her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“WHAT DO YOU mean, he’s not here?” Mike demanded.
The counselor, Anita Smith, according to the plaque on her desk, flushed with misery.
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I checked John Nicholson’s schedule...he, um, apparently hasn’t been here all day. We just came in from a weekend, you know, but I’ve checked with his frat brothers, and apparently he cut out for Manhattan on Friday after his last class. They assumed, as I did, he’d be back for classes on Monday morning. I mean, it isn’t like him. He’s truly a fine student. He’s going through a lot, of course, but you won’t find a friend, teacher, or anyone who doesn’t support him to the fullest. I mean, trust me, I’ve spent hours with the young man. He’s worked hard to...to create a life for himself. To distance himself from his family, from the horrible things...” Her voice trailed off. She was a slim woman, her passionate voice belying her tiny stature.
Craig and Mike had waited outside the advanced calculus class where John Nicholson should have been. When he hadn’t appeared, they’d headed to speak with the counselor who had given Craig the young man’s schedule.
“I am so sorry!” Anita Smith said. That was easy enough to see. She was almost crying.
“Is there anyone close to him we could talk to?” Craig asked.
“Me,” she whispered.
“But you knew nothing about him taking off for the weekend and staying out of classes?” Mike asked. “I don’t mean to be disparaging, but...what about his friends?”
“Yes, yes, of course. He’s in a fraternity. A top-notch fraternity, where grade point averages count, where the boys are boys of course, but... I’ll find someone. Please, um, sit down and I’ll be right back!”
They sat. Mike gave Craig a dour look.
Craig guessed he deserved it; he was the one who had called ahead and determined to talk to a counselor rather than John Nicholson himself.
“I’m sorry too—and worried,” Craig said.
Mike nodded. “His brother hasn’t seen him, or else he lied to us.”
“I don’t think Thomas was lying.”
“Someone is lying.”
“Maybe, and maybe we just haven’t gotten to the right person yet.”
Mike shook his head. “Nicholson should have shown up by now. Not that it’s all that hard to hole up somewhere and not be seen, but we’re talking about a man who every cop across the nation has heard about, and seen his face plastered on the most wanted list.”
“He should have shown up by now, yes—if he’s been out in public, if he’s made any kind of a movement,” Craig said. “But if he’s holed up inside somewhere, maybe even in another state, we could be looking for a really long time. I imagine he’s lying really low. I never thought he was the brightest man in the world, but he’s not stupid. He knows every law enforcement officer out there is looking for him, and his face has been all over every form of media. I think he has a hideout and he’s staying put, getting help from someone.”
“That is possible and probable. Feels like we’ve been on this forever. But remember, it’s only been three days since we lost him.”
They had taken seats in front of the counselor’s desk. Mike started to speak again but fell silent as Anita Smith came back into the room, trailed by a lanky young man with long light brown hair, light eyes, and a worried look.
“This is Frank Austin, Agents, and he’s good friends with John.”
Austin didn’t offer his hand. He looked at them as if they were the enemy.
“I’m hoping you’re not here after John. He’s one of the best people I know,” Austin said.
“We’re not here ‘after him,’” Craig said. “We just came to talk. But if you don’t know where he is, then, we’re actually worried about his welfare.”
Austin swallowed at that and set his book bag down.
“He’s one of the best people I know,” he repeated.
“Do you know where he is?” Mike persisted.
Frank Austin nodded. “Yeah,” he said on a weak breath. “Manhattan.”
Mike glanced over at Craig.
“Could you possibly be any more specific?” Craig asked.
Austin didn’t look quite so hostile anymore; he shook his head with misery. “I told him not to go. I told him he was with a group of people who cared about him and would stand by him. I asked if he was going to his mother’s place or his brother’s. He said neither. He said his mother...he said his mother belonged to his father, heart and soul. And he didn’t want to cause his brother any pain. I wanted to know why he was going. He said his father might be crazy, but that...well, he was afraid if cops caught his dad before he could safely turn himself back in, they’d just shoot him down. He didn’t hate his dad. He told me his dad was messed up as all hell, but he really believed he was some kind of prophet... He just didn’t want to see his dad shot down, and I... None of us could stop him.”
“No, you can’t stop someone when they’re determined,” Craig said. He pulled out a card and offered it to the young man. “Please—for John’s safety. We’re not after him to hurt him in any way. We could just use his insight, his help. If you even hear from him, can you let us know?”
Austin took the card. “Yeah. Totally. But believe me, he’s one of the good guys. John just wanted to...live. Be...normal.”
“We believe you,” Craig said quietly. “And I swear, we just want to help him.”
“I am so, so sorry!” Anita Smith said again.
Mike turned to her. “If you hear from him, let us know.”
“I will!” she promised.
“And so will I,” Austin vowed.
Craig and Mike left. “You can definitely drive back to Manhattan in rush hour,” Mike said, heading to the passenger’s side.
They bo
th slid into the car and started out on the road.
“A good kid, like his brother,” Mike muttered. “How do you come from a home like that—and wind up being a good kid?”
“Everyone swore Raoul Nicholson was a good man—until they found out he’d murdered people.”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “That’s true, too. So, what do you think? Two really good kids who somehow not only survived their upbringing but came out of it soaring, or...”
“Or one of the two is a killer,” Craig said.
“Two good kids, or one killer, one good kid, or...” He paused and looked over at Craig. “Or two killers—very clever chips off the old block?”
Craig kept one hand on the wheel and started to pull his cell phone from his pocket.
“You know, that is majorly illegal in the state of New Jersey. They were among the first to ban improper use of cell phones, you know.”
Craig cast Mike a glance, hit a button on the steering wheel, and spoke to the car’s phone system. “Call Kieran,” he said.
“Thought she knew we were coming to the pub.”
“She does. I’m just checking to see if she’s on her way.”
The system called Kieran. Her number rang. It went to voice mail.
“You know, she might be at the pub by now, maybe running around, helping out, carrying on a conversation with some of the regulars,” Mike said.
Craig ignored him and asked the system to call the pub.
After a minute Declan answered. “Hey, it’s Craig. I’m trying to reach Kieran. Is she there, at the pub, with you?”
“Yes, she’s here. Your guy is at a table. Kieran just ran down to the basement for me. I’ll have her give you a call.”
* * *
A scream nearly ripped from Kieran’s throat.
Somehow, the man with the trench coat managed to speak first. “Please! Please! I don’t want to hurt you, I swear. I just need your help, please, please...”
There was some distance between them. Kieran was only halfway down the stairs.
Or, halfway back up them, if the need arose. She paused, not saying anything.
He kept his distance and spoke quickly. “I’m John. John... Nicholson. Not a name that’s a great one to have, but...anyway, I talked to my dad. Not since he escaped! I talked to him on the phone. And he said he’d spoken to a psychiatrist named Kieran Finnegan.”
“Psychologist,” Kieran corrected by rote.
“Sorry, psychologist, and he said you had been really decent to him. He’s sorry as hell about you going to hell for not being part of True Life, but then, he’s sorry as hell my brother and I will be going to hell if we don’t come around.” He lifted a hand as if warding off an accusation before one could come his way. “I knew nothing about the fact he was going to escape. He just happened to mention how decent you were, and he’d gotten to have a visit from my mother, and his attorney, that Mr. Walford—”
“Watkins, Cliff Watkins,” Kieran interrupted.
“Yes, sorry. I’m nervous here—slipping into a pub’s basement. Guess I could be arrested just for being down here. I just felt like I needed to hide and figure out some way to talk to you alone. But anyway, when I heard what had happened... I had to find someone. I just don’t believe...well, my dad only killed people he believed to be witches. And he wrote them notes, warning them. And he said they would know why and understand when they got the notes. Well, you talked to my father. I know the public believes him to be a monster. He’s not a monster. He’s just really, really sick. And I thought if I could get to you...maybe you could make all the cops and agents and marshals and whoever else out there know if they corner him, they don’t need to shoot him. He won’t hurt them. They can take him back into custody. They...they don’t have to kill him.”
“You were in here before—in the pub before,” Kieran said.
“Yes, but there were so many tough looking people around you.”
“And you’ve been watching my apartment.”
“I just needed to speak with you alone. I—I’ll go now. Or you can have me arrested for wandering into a basement, trying to steal booze, whatever. But please, my dad said you were really decent. I can only pray you’ll understand me.” He flushed suddenly. “Yeah, I pray. I just have a really different concept of what a higher power should be.”
Kieran was quiet for a minute.
“It’s all right. You can call your bodyguard now, whoever he is. You can call the FBI guy you live with. You can take me in.”
Kieran let out a long breath and smiled. “Or you can come up and have a seat, and I’ll get you something to eat. We’ll both wait for Craig, and I’ll introduce you. He’s the one who first brought your father in. He didn’t hurt him,” she added softly.
John Nicholson stood there for a minute, as if doubting her words.
“Come on. Oh, grab me one of those bottles of Jameson’s off the shelf over there first,” she told him.
He looked at her for a minute.
“Please.”
He turned and reached to the shelf where the whiskeys were kept, finding a Jameson’s and taking it down, then slowly walking toward her.
She turned her back on him and started up the stairs, hoping she wouldn’t regret doing so.
He followed her, keeping a certain distance, clearly aware there was really no reason she should trust him. When she reached the ground level of the pub, she hurried along the hallway to the bar, and there she waited for John Nicholson, taking the Jameson’s from him to hand over to Declan.
Her brother stared at her, frowning, but she gave him a quick nod, indicating that everything was all right.
“This is John,” she told Declan.
“Hi, John,” Declan said. He didn’t add more. He understood Kieran was all right; he knew how to read her expressions.
“I’m taking him over to sit with Milo.”
“Okay. John, can I get you anything? You are twenty-one, right? Sorry, but I card.”
“I’m twenty-two, but I don’t want any alcohol. A soda would be great.”
“You got it,” Declan said. “Kieran?”
“Soda—great,” she said.
“Oh, by the way, Craig called. He wants you to call him. I told him you were here, just down in the basement.”
“Thanks. I’ll give him a call in a minute.”
Then she turned to John and said, “For now, come with me, we’ll join my ‘bodyguard’ at that little table. Craig and Mike—Special Agents Frasier and Dalton—will be here soon.”
“Thank you,” he told her. “Will they arrest me?”
“For what?”
“For being...Nicholson’s son?”
“No, they don’t arrest people unless they do something illegal themselves. You know that. I know that you know that—you’re a bright college kid.”
He flushed. “I don’t know. Maybe they think I’m aiding or abetting my father somehow.”
“Are you?”
He shook his head strenuously. “I don’t know what’s wrong with his mind. He was always a fanatic, but not lethal. He was ridiculously strict, but he never raised a hand against my brother or me.”
Kieran nodded. “Come on.”
She led the way to the little enclave table near the door where Milo was sitting, a cup of tea and an order of one of their appetizers, Shillelagh O’Shannon Sticks, in front of him.
He stood and immediately frowned.
“John, Milo. Milo, John,” she said, sliding into the curved booth as John took the other side, offering Milo his hand.
The agent looked at him, worried. “John is waiting to see Craig and Mike.”
“Oh,” Milo said. His eyes widened. “John...”
“Nicholson,” John said glumly.
“Oh,” Milo said, staring at Kieran.
“I see. But... I didn’t see you come here,” Milo said.
John looked at Kieran.
“He’s been hanging out at the pub, hoping to find one of us to talk to,” Kieran said.
Her phone rang, and she excused herself to talk to Craig.
He sounded anxious. “You didn’t call me back.”
“Craig, I’m fine. You’re on your way.”
“As fast as the road—and the thousands of cars on it—will allow,” he said dryly. “Declan said Special Agent DeLuca was in there with you.”
“He is, and someone else who is anxious to see you.”
“Who?”
“John Nicholson.”
“He’s...there?”
“Yep, waiting to see you.”
“Don’t let him leave. Tell DeLuca. Under no circumstances do you let him leave.”
John was watching her across the table.
“Nothing to worry about. He’s here, waiting, and he’ll help anyway he can,” she told Craig.
“Be careful anyway. Okay?”
“Always,” she promised, and hung up.
Both John and Milo were quiet, staring at her. She placed her phone down and picked up one of the menus Mary Kathleen had left.
“Might as well get some real dinner,” she said. “They’re on the way. But traffic, you know. We’re really well-known for our shepherd’s pie. Fish and chips—oh, and bangers and mash are great, too, all depending on what you like.”
John stared at her worriedly for another few seconds.
Then he managed a smile at last and picked up a menu.
* * *
“I would like to arrive alive,” Mike said, his voice calm, slightly amused.
Craig was driving fast, and weaving to move as quickly as possible. He glanced over at Mike.
“Just sayin’,” his partner said.
The Final Deception Page 18