Hidden

by Laura Griffin

  A woman on the sidewalk caught Bailey’s eye.

  Slender, sunglasses, black Saints cap with tufts of dark red hair peeking out. Bailey’s pulse sped up. The woman wore a green peacoat and had a blue backpack slung over her shoulder.

  “No way,” Bailey muttered, reaching for her phone. Where the hell was Jacob?

  The woman passed the wedding party but didn’t give them a charmed smile like everyone else. She walked swiftly, darting her gaze around.

  It was her.

  Underneath the hat and the shades and the peacoat—who wore a coat in this weather?—it was Tabitha Walker.

  Bailey jerked the keys from the ignition and stuffed them in her pocket. She grabbed her phone and got out of the car.

  I think I see her! she texted Jacob. Black Saints cap NE corner of the square.

  * * *

  * * *

  SOMEONE WAS WATCHING her. Tabitha could feel it.

  She cast a glance over her shoulder but couldn’t pinpoint where the feeling was coming from. Everyone seemed suspicious, from the man at the bus stop smoking a cigarette to the guy loitering near the pub, who seemed to be talking on his phone. Even the couple in front of her strolling hand-in-hand down the street seemed to be moving at an unnaturally slow pace.

  Tabitha quickened her steps, darting around the lovebirds and slicing her way through a gaggle of tourists with ice cream cones. Two blocks ahead was a red-brick hotel with wrought-iron balconies and a trio of French flags hanging above the entrance. She trained her gaze on the line of taxis waiting outside. She’d jump in one of those cabs and be at the bus station in ten minutes.

  She adjusted her backpack on her shoulder. It felt heavy, and her back was sweating beneath her thick coat. She’d divided her money into two stashes—one in her front pocket and one in the coat lining—and crammed every scrap of clothing she could fit into the backpack. If she got hard up for cash, she could sell off some of her clothes.

  Tabitha crossed a street and scanned the hotel. Beside the valet stand, a businessman stood next to a black roll-on suitcase. A uniformed valet stepped into the street and whistled, and the taxi at the front of the line rolled forward.

  The taxis were for guests. Tabitha’s chest tightened as she realized her mistake. Could she pretend to be one of them? She glanced at the valet again. Maybe if she tipped him, he wouldn’t care.

  The businessman was looking at her now. Something flickered across his face. Recognition? Then he looked away.

  Tabitha’s blood turned cold. She turned and ducked into a store.

  * * *

  * * *

  BAILEY CROSSED THE intersection just as the light turned red. She hopped onto the sidewalk, bumping into someone.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  He shot a glare over his shoulder.

  Bailey looked up, and the black Saints cap had vanished.

  Damn it, she’d just had her. Now where had she gone? Bailey broke into a jog, scanning all the heads in front of her on the sidewalk. No black Saints cap. Had she removed it? Bailey didn’t see anyone with short red hair, either.

  A text landed on her phone from Jacob: Where r u?

  * * *

  * * *

  TABITHA STOOD BEHIND the rack of T-shirts, ducking low as she peered out the store window at the hotel down the street. The businessman was still standing on the sidewalk. Had he seen her step in here? Was he even watching her?

  Tabitha’s heart hammered. Her chest tightened until she felt like she was sucking air through a straw. She looked out the window and tried to figure out whether the businessman had noticed her ducking in here. Was she being paranoid? No. The look he’d given her had made her skin crawl.

  A taxi stopped in front of the businessman. The cab’s trunk popped open, and the valet rolled the black suitcase to the back as the businessman slid inside the car.

  “May I help you?”

  Tabitha jumped.

  A saleswoman stood behind her. She looked down pointedly, and Tabitha realized she was holding one of the T-shirt sleeves in a death grip. She must look like a lunatic.

  She released the shirt and forced a smile. “Sorry, just . . . browsing.”

  The saleswoman watched suspiciously as Tabitha left the store.

  * * *

  * * *

  JACOB EYED THE black Expedition, and he approached it. No one inside, from the looks of it. He was almost certain it was the same SUV he’d seen earlier, and he wanted to check the plates.

  His phone vibrated with a text from Bailey.

  On St. Ann walking toward hotel.

  Jacob glanced around for the nearest street sign. Half a block up was St. Ann Street.

  He jogged across the street to the Expedition. With one glance, he confirmed his suspicion: Illinois plates.

  “Fuck.”

  He broke into a run.

  * * *

  * * *

  SHE WAS ALMOST there. One more block. Tabitha skimmed the faces of the waiting cabbies, trying to decide who might be willing to move out of line to pick her up. The cabbie at the end of the line caught her eye. She waved, and he nodded.

  A man stepped from a doorway in front of her. Tall, bulky, thick dark eyebrows. He wore a heavy jacket and walked toward her with a hand in his pocket.

  Tabitha dove behind a car.

  Pop!

  * * *

  * * *

  BAILEY’S HEART LURCHED at the gunshot. She dove between two cars and landed heavily on her knees. Gun gun gun! The words reverberated through her brain, along with the echo of the sound. Chest heaving, she crawled around the side of the car and peeked out.

  The sidewalk was empty.

  Then she heard yelling, car horns, a squeal of tires. A taxicab zoomed past in a blur.

  Bailey peeked at the sidewalk again just in time to see Tabitha with her black Saints cap as she scrambled across the sidewalk and dashed into a bar.

  * * *

  * * *

  AFTER WATCHING FROM a distance as the gunman fled into the crowd, Jacob had jumped into a cab to go after him. Now he spotted the man racing down the sidewalk.

  “Pull over up here!” he yelled. “Stop!”

  The cabbie screeched to a halt, and Jacob jumped out.

  The gunman darted around a horse-drawn carriage and took off across the square. Jacob sprinted after him, hurdling a flower bed and dodging a bride and groom posing by a fountain. The gunman was fast, and he seemed to be racing straight for the cathedral.

  Jacob’s heart clenched as he thought of the potential hostage situation if the shooter grabbed a tourist. This whole place was crawling with kids and families. Jacob hurdled another flower bed and cut through a group of people.

  The gunman darted up the steps and into the cathedral, realizing Jacob’s worst fears.

  Cursing, Jacob charged after him. He took the church steps three at a time, yanked open the heavy door, and rushed inside.

  Jacob stopped to get his bearings, and his heart pounded wildly as his eyes adjusted. The church was dim and quiet and smelled of incense. They were between services. A few women sat in pews and other visitors milled along the side aisles lighting votive candles.

  A shrill yelp shattered the quiet, followed by a loud clatter near the altar. Jacob rushed toward the noise, pulling his weapon. Reaching the sacristy, he found a robe-clad altar boy sprawled on the floor beside a toppled candelabra.

  A door slammed. Jacob raced down a hallway toward the sound. He yanked a door open and ran outside, tripping over a clay flower pot that had been hurled into the path.

  “Hey!” An elderly black man lifted his cane and pointed toward the square. “He ran that way!”

  Jacob spotted the gunman and took off. The shooter sprinted left, then right again, seeming to change
his destination on the fly. Jacob ran harder and harder until it felt like his lungs would burst. As he raced around a big bronze statue, the gunman changed directions again, darting around a park bench and running straight for a stoplight.

  Jacob looked ahead with dread. He saw the move the instant before it happened. The shooter raced up to a motorcyclist, pointing his gun at the man’s chest. He yanked the man off the bike, flinging him onto the street just as the light turned green.

  Horns blared. People stopped and pointed at the spectacle. The man threw his leg over the motorcycle and took off.

  Jacob rushed into the intersection. Brakes squealed. Horns blasted. Jacob planted his feet and took aim at the back tire. But he was well out of range.

  “Fuck!”

  The motorcycle got smaller and smaller as it cut between lanes and disappeared in the sea of traffic.

  * * *

  * * *

  BAILEY JOGGED DOWN the alley behind the sports bar. The woman in the black Saints cap had run out the back door. A witness had seen her. But where the hell was she?

  The alley was hot and smelled of rotting garbage. Bailey checked doorways and looked behind dumpsters. Music drifted from a gate up ahead, and Bailey jogged over.

  She tried the gate. Locked. Peering between the iron bars, she saw a cobblestone courtyard and a cat lounging lazily on a table beside a fern. Could Tabitha have climbed the gate? Or maybe run through here and locked it behind her?

  Sirens sounded faintly on a nearby street. They grew closer. Frustration filled her as she looked up and down the empty alley.

  A dull clink made her turn around.

  Her pulse quickened.

  Cautiously, she approached the nearest dumpster. Shards of glass crunched under her shoes and she held her breath against the stench.

  “Tabitha?”

  Nothing.

  Bailey’s heart thudded. Sweat streamed down her temples. The rusty brown container was about five feet tall. Discarded wooden platforms were piled beside it, almost like a stepladder.

  Bailey moved closer. “Tabitha?”

  Nothing.

  “I’m unarmed. I’m here to help you.”

  She stepped closer again, resting her hand on the hot metal lid. She took a deep breath and lifted it several inches.

  No sound.

  The lid squeaked as she lifted it all the way and rested it against the brick wall behind the dumpster. She tested the wooden platform with her shoe, then stepped on it and looked inside.

  Tabitha blinked up at her. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated. The black Saints cap was gone, and her red hair was plastered to her head with sweat.

  “I’m not here to hurt you. My name’s Bailey Rhoads. I’m a journalist.”

  Tabitha’s mouth fell open.

  “You’re . . .” She swallowed. “You wrote the news story. In Austin.”

  “Yes.”

  Bailey’s pulse pounded. She couldn’t believe they were face to face after all this time.

  “How . . . how did you find me?”

  “I’ll explain later. Right now, I’d like to help you out of here.”

  “I won’t go to the police.” Her voice trembled. “You can’t force me.”

  “I understand,” Bailey said. “I won’t force you to do anything. I can give you a ride, okay? My car is nearby. Just a block away.”

  A second siren joined the first one, and Tabitha’s eyes widened.

  “If you don’t want to talk to police, we need to go now.” Bailey held her hand out. Trust me, she tried to tell her with her eyes. I promise, you can trust me.

  She waited a heartbeat. Two. Three.

  Tabitha’s hand closed around hers.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE NEON SIGN flickered, casting an irregular red glow over the rain-slicked parking lot.

  “Okay, I’m sending it now,” Kendra said over the phone.

  Jacob stared through the windshield at room 112. He’d been staring at it for fifteen minutes now as the rain drummed on the little Kia.

  Jacob’s phone vibrated, and he checked the text.

  “You get it?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” The man in the photo was lean. Tan. Close-cropped hair and hazel eyes with thick dark eyebrows. “That’s him.”

  Kendra let out a whoop.

  “I knew it! His name is David Langham, thirty-six. Last known address is Algonquin, Illinois, which is north of Chicago.”

  “He looks military,” Jacob said.

  “He is. You were right about that, too. Former Navy. Some kind of special crew.”

  “A SEAL?”

  “No, something else. Anyway, he was dishonorably discharged eight years ago.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m still looking. Mullins knows, but he’s hoarding information again, big surprise. You’re sure he’s the shooter?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay, good.” She sounded genuinely relieved. “Now that that’s out of the way, I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

  “Good.”

  “The crime scene was just like you thought. That bathroom lit up like a Christmas tree. Blood trails everywhere, and someone had cleaned up with bleach. We’re still running the droplet on the faucet, but I bet it comes back to either the perp or one of the two victims. He’d wiped down his prints, too. The whole place was clean except for one spot. The CSIs recovered a fingerprint from the toilet seat, and we got a match.”

  “Damn.”

  “I know, right? Screwed himself taking a leak. You gotta love it.”

  Jacob stared through the rain-soaked windshield at room 112. He checked his watch, then adjusted the vent and tried to defog the windshield.

  “What’s with the silence?” Kendra asked. “I thought you’d be happy we got an ID.”

  “An ID’s not the same as an arrest.”

  “Don’t be a pessimist,” she said. “We’ll get there. Soon. The feds have a warrant out, and it’s only a matter of time before he turns up at some airport or border checkpoint.”

  “He’s too smart for that.”

  Bitterness welled up in Jacob’s throat as he looked at the photo. He’d been so fucking close today. He should have had him in cuffs.

  “He’ll mess up,” Kendra said. “Trust me. He already has.”

  The motel door opened, and Bailey stepped out. She held a folded newspaper over her head to shield it from the rain and ran to the room next door. The door to 112 slammed shut as Bailey slid her keycard into 114. She didn’t notice Jacob parked here in the Kia.

  “What’s the bad news?” he asked.

  “I just got off the phone with my FBI contact in New Orleans. He said there’s still no sign of Tabitha Walker. She’s in the wind again.”

  “No, she’s not.”

  “She’s not?”

  “She’s with Bailey.”

  Silence.

  “Tabitha Walker. Is with Bailey Rhoads.” It was a statement, not a question. “Why is she with Bailey?”

  “She trusts her.”

  Silence again.

  “Kendra?”

  “How the hell did—wait, don’t tell me. I don’t think I want to know. You’re involved in this, aren’t you? Are you freaking with the two of them? Wait. Don’t tell me that, either. Shit, shit, shit, Jacob. I knew this would happen.”

  “What?”

  “You’re letting her cloud your judgment. And why would Tabitha Walker trust a reporter over a team of federal agents who want to help her? I don’t get it.”

  Jacob didn’t, either. He could see what Bailey was getting out of it—a crucial source for her story. But what was Tabitha getting from Bailey?

  “When are you coming back from New Orleans?
” Kendra asked.

  He wasn’t in New Orleans anymore, but there was no reason to tell Kendra that. The less she knew about what he was up to, the better. His job was already at risk if things went sideways and they were looking for someone to blame. Kendra’s job didn’t need to be in jeopardy, too.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said.

  “Okay, I don’t know what you’re doing, but . . . be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “And don’t get in any more shootouts on public streets, all right?”

  “It wasn’t—”

  “I’m kidding! Geez. The story’s all over the squad room, so you better get used to it.”

  She hung up, and Jacob looked down at his phone again.

  David Langham. He clenched his teeth as he studied the picture. One minute sooner. One minute and he probably would have had the guy down and cuffed before he got that shot off. Instead, Jacob had watched the whole thing go down from fifty yards away and then jumped in a cab to go after him.

  Tabitha could have been killed.

  Bailey could have been killed. She was even closer to the shooter than he was, although he didn’t know it at the time. Jacob’s gut churned every time he thought about it.

  He grabbed the bag of carryout off the floor and got out. He jogged through the rain to Bailey’s door and popped the car locks with a chirp. The curtains parted and Bailey yanked open the door before he had a chance to knock.

  “Find something?” she asked.

  He stepped into the dim little motel room, dripping water all over the carpet. Not that it mattered. The place was a dump. It smelled of mildew and had the same sad brown carpeting that had been in Jacob’s first apartment back when he’d been a boot.

  “Hope you like po’boys.” He set the bag on the fake wood dresser.

  “Love ’em. They come with fries?”

  “And hush puppies.”

  “Even better.”

  He unloaded the food and turned to face her.

  She was soaking wet from the short sprint from Tabitha’s room. Her skin was damp, her makeup was smudged, and her wild curls were everywhere. She looked like she had the day he’d first met her, and he felt a jolt of lust, same as he had then.