Ty reached for the phone when it rang and answered it before he thought about where he was—in Carine's loft bed. But it was Antonia, as collected as ever despite the obvious note of concern in her voice. "Did I wake you?" she asked. "I called your place first. I thought you and Carine were staying there—never mind. Hank got your message and went over to Val's over two hours ago."
"What time is it now?"
"Almost midnight. He's not back, and I haven't heard from him."
Carine stirred, and Ty sat up. He had the inside of the bed, next to the slanted ceiling. "Did you call over there?"
"No answer. I'm trying not to overreact. Hank's cell isn't on, and I don't have Val's number." She sighed, her calm faltering. "Tyler, what the hell's going on? I know Val must be scared to death about Manny's situation. Have you talked to her?"
"Not tonight. Earlier today. The police were at her door—"
"We heard about that. They had a search warrant. Well, that's enough to frighten anyone. I've got the media here—they showed up not long after Hank left for Val's. They've made the connection between him and Manny. I think they're gone now."
Carine touched Ty's arm, and he gave her a reassuring nod, although he felt a twinge of uneasiness. Val Carrera was volatile on a good day—funny as hell when she wasn't depressed, but impulsive. And no one who knew her wanted to piss her off. "Antonia, is there anything I can do?"
"I don't know. I don't give a damn about the media, but—Hank—" She gulped in a breath, revealing some of the stress she was accustomed to keeping so carefully hidden. "He's sympathetic to Val's situation."
"We're all sympathetic, but it's late."
"I could go down to her apartment."
"Not alone."
Carine, impatient, motioned for the phone, and North handed it to her. "Antonia? What's up?" She listened a moment, then shook her head. "No, you listen to me for a change. Give Hank thirty minutes. If he doesn't get in touch with you, you don't go down to Val's. You sound the damn alarm."
* * *
Antonia called back twenty minutes later. Carine was in the kitchen making tea, debating whether or not to call Gus and get him up. Ty talked her out of it. He simply had to suggest she put on more water for tea—it put the same image in her head that he had, Gus and Stump in her cabin at one o'clock in the morning.
He could hear the relief in Antonia's voice. "Hank called. He and Val are on their way to Cold Ridge."
"They're driving up here tonight?"
"Val wants to see Eric. Hank says she's very stressed out and hanging by threads, and you know how he is. He's loyal, and he's a good guy. He also said Val's worried about Eric—you know that's all it'd take. Hank's got a soft spot where children are concerned."
Ty knew. Ten years ago, Hank had lost his first wife and three-year-old daughter in a car accident while he was serving overseas. He'd dedicated himself to his work and public service, but it had taken Antonia Winter to get him to let himself take the risk of falling in love again.
"How'd he sound?" Ty asked.
"I don't know—he's very good at concealing what he's really feeling. It's such a stressful situation." She sighed, breaking off. "I'm coming up there. I'll take the first plane I can out of here in the morning."
The kettle whistled, and Carine, frowning at him, grabbed a pot holder and filled her chipped teapot with the hot water. But she didn't snatch the phone out of his hand, and he said, "Nate's coming tomorrow, too. Maybe you two can meet up at the airport."
"That'd be good. I don't want to be a worrywart, but it's just—" Antonia faltered, a rarity for her. "Never mind. You have enough on your plate without fretting about me. Carine? You're keeping your promise?"
He smiled. "I don't know about that."
"Liar. You know damned well what you've been up to. So do I. I am a doctor—and I know you two."
"Goodbye, Antonia. Safe flight tomorrow."
He hung up. Carine unwrapped tea bags and dropped them in the hot water, their tags hanging over the sides of the teapot. Normal tea bags. But Ty could see the tension in the way she held herself. They'd pulled on their clothes, but there was no pretending what happened in the loft hadn't happened. She knew it had, and she wasn't sure she approved.
Well, who would?
But he pushed the thought out of his mind and dialed Manny's cell phone, and when he got his friend's voice mail—again—he left a pointed message. "You have Val's cell phone number? Call her. She's up to something."
Twenty-Five
With as much adrenaline as she had pumping through her, Val didn't get sleepy on the long drive north. Hank wasn't dropping off, either. He sat rigidly as he drove, as if he were on some secret military mission. She'd let him call Antonia and reassure her, although it didn't sound like she was thrilled when he told her he was on his way to Cold Ridge.
After he'd hung up with his new wife, he glared at her. "Get this straight, Val. I'm not driving you to Cold Ridge because you've got your goddamn gun. I'm driving you because I know you're frightened and feel you're out of options. So, let's just get there."
The hours ticked by. It was a dark, cloudy night, but there was no rain. Traffic eased, and when they crossed the border into New Hampshire and the sun came up, she wondered if she'd imagined the calls. Wouldn't that be nice? She'd rather be delusional than have to face the caller again.
The yellow and orange leaves had vanished, in their place, bare limbs and patches of oaks with brown-and burgundy leaves. The air was colder. She could feel it even with the heat on in the car. The sun and the blue sky were deceptive. She looked up at the looming mountains, stark against the clear sky, and saw that some of the highest peaks had snow.
They were off the interstate now, almost to Cold Ridge.
She sighed at Hank, trying to distract herself. "Do you ever wish you'd stayed in for thirty instead of retiring?"
He glanced over at her. "Right now I do."
She ignored his tight undertone. "Manny had no business getting out. Don't you think he'd make a great PJ instructor? He's like this old warhorse. He's done all these different kinds of missions. He's seen it all. I don't want him back in combat, but he could be an instructor."
"Val," Hank interrupted softly, "let me help you."
She stared down at the Glock in her lap. "I don't know what to do."
"Talk to me."
Her fatigue was eating away at her reserves. They'd had no food, no water since hitting the road. They'd had to stop for gas, but Val had done the pumping, her unloaded Glock tucked in the waistband of her jeans. They'd managed a bathroom run, and that was really when she'd realized Hank wasn't going to try to escape—he was playing along with her, because he was her friend, he knew her, he knew she was scared and desperate and stupid.
He was so damned caring. Nobody could ever fault Hank Callahan for not caring.
She sank her forehead into her hands and started to sob.
"Val…what would Manny want you to do?" Hank's voice was gentle, breaking through her fog of desperation, her sobs. "He loves you. I've never seen a man love a woman as much as he does you. Twenty years from now, if Antonia and I have what you two have—"
"Don't—Hank, please don't."
"He'd want you to trust me."
She lifted her head, sniffling. "He'd want me to jump out of this car so you could run me over."
She could feel Hank's smile. "Well, that, too."
"Oh, shit." She threw back her head and swore at the top of her lungs, then looked over at him. "I could have been an astronaut, you know."
"Val…"
She told him everything. What was in Manny's computer files, about the police search warrant—and about her caller. Hank listened without interruption. That was another of his virtues. He listened to people. Not Manny, she thought. Mostly, Manny liked to be listened to.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry."
Hank stayed focused on the narrow, winding road. "We're in Cold Ridge now. It's where we both need to
be, don't you think?"
She nodded. "When you say it, it sounds sensible."
He reached over and wiped a tear off the end of her nose. "Wait'll Manny sees you. What a mess."
"He didn't kill that guy."
"I know."
Her phone rang, and she managed to answer it without dropping the gun. "Yes?"
"Where are you?" the toneless voice asked.
"I'm not saying until you tell me who you are."
The caller paused, then gave a sad, long-suffering sigh. "You've told Senator Callahan, haven't you? He's calling the shots. I thought it might come to this. Well, allow me to persuade you in another way."
"Look, if you really are a friend—"
"You called your son last night."
"What?" She couldn't grasp what he was saying, couldn't make the leap. "What about my son? How did you know I called him?"
"I was with him. You called him on his cell phone. You assumed he was in his dorm room—"
"No!"
"I made him take the phone with him, Mrs. Carrera. I have your son."
Hank didn't say a word or try to take the phone from her; he just pulled over to the side of the road and waited.
A numbness crept up her neck and into her cheeks. "What—what do you want me to do?"
"Mom?" It was Eric, coughing, scared. "Mom, he made me pretend I was asleep—"
"Where are you?"
But the caller had grabbed the phone away. "Feisty little kid, for an asthmatic." There was no friendliness in the toneless voice now. "He has his rescue inhaler and his EpiPen, but it's November in the mountains. Open the window. Feel the air. He won't last long."
"Don't hurt my son. Please."
"If you cooperate, he'll have a chance. If anything happens to me, I promise you, Mrs. Carrera—Val—no one will find your son in time."
She gulped in a breath. "We're on the main road into the village. What do you want me to do?"
"Turn onto the notch road. Hank knows it. There are two scenic pullovers. The first one is at a lake. Don't take that one. The second one—the one you want—is at a picnic area. A couple of picnic tables, a lot of rocks. Pull in and wait for me. I'll find you."
"Eric—"
"Any cops, any curveball at all, your kid is dead. It's cold,he'ssick.ButIdon'twanthim.Doyouunderstand?"
"No, I—"
"I want the senator in exchange for your son."
That was all. He was gone. The phone was dead in her hand.
She kept gulping in air, not exhaling.
"Val." It was Hank, his voice gentle, trying to penetrate her shock. "Val, breathe out, sweetheart."
"He's got Eric." She clawed at Hank's arm. "Oh, my God!"
"What does he want?"
She didn't want to tell him. Kids were Hank's weakness. Everyone knew it. If he could exchange himself for Eric, even die in his place, Hank Callahan, senator-elect from Massachusetts, would do it without hesitation.
"Val?"
She clenched his arm, and she could see it in his eyes. He knew.
Twenty-Six
Carine had dozed on the couch in front of the fire, but she doubted Ty had slept at all. They kept expecting Hank or Val to call or roll in the driveway. It'd been hours since they'd set off—they had to be getting close to Cold Ridge. But their cell phones and phone lines remained quiet.
And not a word from Manny Carrera.
They walked back to his house, where Ty made coffee and they tried to eat a couple of pieces of toast. But Carine could see the waiting was getting to him as much as it was to her. She stared out the window at the bleak morning, fog and mist settling on everything. "If Val wants to see Eric, she'll probably go straight to the school—"
"Grab your coat."
The campus of the Mount Chester School for Boys was quiet so early on a Sunday morning, just a couple of intrepid boys out on the track. Ty parked in front of Eric's dorm, another ivy-covered brick building. He and Carine were greeted at the front door by the young couple who served as house parents. Brendan and Penny O'Neill—Carine had met them before.
Brendan, a bearded man in his late twenties, led them down a carpeted hall to Eric's first-floor room, his door covered in posters. "We saw him last night," Brendan said. "He seemed preoccupied but otherwise all right. Is there any news about his father?"
Ty shook his head and rapped on Eric's door, but he spotted a note folded and tacked to a Lord of the Rings poster. He pulled it off, opening it as Carine and Brendan O'Neill read over his shoulder.
To whom it may concern:
I have gone on a hike in the mountains. Don't worry about me. I have everything I need. My dad taught me to climb. I have to do this on my own.
Sincerely,
Eric Carrera
Brendan swore under his breath, but Ty was tight-lipped, rigid in his control. The note oozed all the angst of an unappreciated fourteen-year-old boy with too much on his mind, but it was short on specifics, which, given Eric's reaction to the seniors who'd had to be rescued the other day, surprised Carine. He'd printed the note, obviously hastily, but had signed his name in cursive.
Using his passkey, Brendan unlocked Eric's door and pushed it open. It was a typical dormroom, with a neatly made bed, a chest of drawers, a desk, a chair and a closet—and more posters, the emphasis on Lord of the Rings. The room wasn't tidy, but it wasn't a pigsty, either.
"We didn't see him leave," Brendan said, his distress evident. "I can't even imagine where he's gone, what he did for transportation. Damn it! At least it's good weather today, but it's windy up high, and the temperature must be below freezing. If he's not prepared…" He didn't finish.
Ty quickly checked Eric's desk, stacked with binders and textbooks. "Does he keep his meds here?" he asked.
O'Neill shook his head. "The infirmary dispenses all medications. Eric only carries his EpiPen and rescue inhaler. He must have those with him—he wouldn't go anywhere without them. He knows that."
"Where's the infirmary?" Ty asked. "Eric takes four different medications on a daily basis. We need to know when he had his last doses."
"It's down the hall, but I can call." Brendan went back out into the hall and grabbed a wall phone, dialing numbers, his hand visibly shaking. He spoke to someone on the other end—obviously a nurse—then hung up. "He was in after dinner yesterday for his second dose of Serevent, a long-acting inhaler, and his dose of Singulair—it's an anti-inflammatory. He's supposed to take an allergy medication and a nasal steroid spray in the morning, but he hasn't been in. I don't— honestly I don't know what he could be thinking."
Ty opened Eric's closet, squatting down. "His hiking boots are here. I don't know if he had a second pair, but I doubt it." He looked up as he stood up straight. "We need to find this boy."
"I'm calling the headmaster," Brendan said shakily, dialing more numbers.
Carine touched Ty's arm as he joined her out in the hall. "We should call Gus and get the ball rolling on a rescue, start checking trails, get the word out—notify the park ranger, the shelters. If Eric shows up in the meantime, great."
"You see what it's like out there. It'll take all his strength to manage the climb in this cold and wind. If he gets above three thousand feet without hiking boots, good clothing, food, he could be in real trouble, fast. Cold and anxiety aren't a good mix for anyone, never mind an asthmatic kid hiking solo."
"Maybe he went with a friend. He must be more upset about his father than any one of us realized." Carine sighed. "Let's hope the wind and cold are to his advantage and they at least deter him from hiking alone."
Penny O'Neill drifted down the hall, obviously sensing there was a problem, but she maintained her composure while Carine quickly explained what was going on. Penny shook her head, firm in her conviction. "I can't believe—it's just not like Eric to go off on his own this way."
"Call the police," Ty said, handing the stricken couple the boy's note. "I don't think Eric did go off on his own."
The
y found Gus in his backyard hollering for Stump. "I heard," he said. "The school's not wasting any time. The New Hampshire Department of Fish and Game and the National Park Service are coordinating with the police on an organized search. I'll check the local trails."
But as he opened the passenger door on his truck and Stump roared in, Carine noticed something different in her uncle's manner. "Gus? What is it?"
"I shouldn't tell you—" He slammed the door shut and raked a hand through his brittle hair. He had on his hiking clothes, thoroughly ratty but with years of wear left in them. "I was going to wait and tell Nate when he gets here. It's just a crazy theory. Like you and the San-born Dairy."
Ty settled back against the hood of his own truck, but nothing in his manner was easy or calm. "Spit it out, Gus."
"You know that old bastard, Bobby Poulet?"
"Yeah." Ty nodded. "Bobby Chicken, we used to call him."
"Christ, no wonder he's a crank. He's a survivalist these days. He has a place up past the woods where Carine got shot at last fall. I warned her to stay away from him when she went up there."
"I remember," she said. "The police interviewed him."
"Within a day or two after the shooting, right. He's got guns out the yin-yang, but he's harmless. He heard the shots—he said he figured it was some guy exercising his God-given right to bear arms." Gus spoke without inflection, just saying what he had to say. "He didn't see anything. That was the end of it, as far as the police were concerned. But this past spring, he showed up at the shop on his annual trip to town. Gave me shit about the merchandise."
Ty shifted, restless. "Gus, come on—"
"I'm getting to the point. While he was bitching and moaning, Bobby told me about a guy he'd helped out back in late January, early February. He was lost in the woods. He was frostbitten, and he had this skin infection, like it was rotting off. Bobby gave him first aid supplies and something hot to drink and offered to take him to a doctor, which tells you how bad a shape this guy was in. Bobby doesn't offer anybody anything. The guy's lucky he wasn't run off with a shotgun."
Carine grabbed her uncle's arm in shock. "Did Bobby think this man was going to lose a couple of fingers?"
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