Echoes

by Laura K. Curtis

  “Not so fast. I suggest you mention a few details to your bosses so they don’t assume I’m bluffing.”

  “Certainly.”

  “John Lewis has nothing to fear from me. I don’t want his inheritance, even if his father did routinely impregnate patients with his own sperm and sell black-market babies. I also don’t care about his business with Henry Falcone, or Falcone’s dealings with Diego Rivera and Paul Rivers. Several government entities, however, both here and elsewhere, might feel differently about the picture I’ve put together. You should probably get your hands on my files before putting a bullet through my brain and dumping me in the East River.” They’d chosen to use the reference to Hugo Americh’s death to create a personal stake for Juarez. Allowing him to believe Callie had proof he’d done the deed could help keep her alive.

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “I have a keen instinct for self-preservation. And you told me to bring my father’s papers. You can pass along to John Lewis that asking for them was a mistake—my father had contacts better even than Nash Harper’s, and an intricate understanding of politics, especially personal ones. He kept track of his enemies. Until Lewis asked for the information my father had gathered, it didn’t occur to me to examine anything not directly related to my birth. Imagine my surprise at finding so many names in his files that coincided with those in Mr. Harper’s database. I suggest you discuss that with your employer. I doubt he wants Nash Harper to get his hands on my information. Consolidation of my father’s data and Nash’s could prove . . . detrimental . . . to Falcone’s operations.”

  Juarez ignored the threat.

  “You have just under an hour to get to Grand Central Station,” he said. “You will take the 6:43 Metro-North Hudson line train, buying a ticket for Garrison. We’ll phone you once the train leaves the station and tell you where to get off.”

  “I won’t get off without talking to Erin, so be sure she’s with you when you call.”

  Juarez hung up without answering. Only when Mac gently pried the telephone from her hand did Callie shake herself free from the conversation’s thrall. She buried her face against Mac’s neck, inhaling his musky, masculine scent for three long, deep breaths before scrambling off his lap to pace the room. Neither he nor Nash spoke, apparently content to give her room to organize her thoughts.

  “The geography’s wrong,” said Nash when she finally gained enough control to repeat the conversation. “Why would they send you northwest when they’re south and east of us?”

  “Hang on.” Callie sat in front of the computer and brought up the Metropolitan Transit Authority’s site, checking the routing for the Hudson line trains. “I don’t know this line at all. Maybe that’s the point. They couldn’t send me out on the Long Island Rail Road when I spent all those years in Montauk, and the Harlem or New Haven lines are too close to where I live now. But I’ve never even heard of Garrison, New York.”

  “Is that the last stop?” Mac asked.

  “No. Poughkeepsie is the end of the line. Garrison’s most of the way, though.”

  “So they could plan to take you off anywhere. Maybe the line doesn’t matter so much as the fact that they can get you onto a busy commuter train in an unfamiliar area.”

  Nash called his office. “Tell Carlos I want him on the 6:43 train to Poughkeepsie out of Grand Central. He needs to be on board as soon as they open the doors, in the last car of the train, near the final set of doors. Tell him to go with the construction look and a paper-bagged bottle.” He walked over to the desk and brushed Callie’s fingers off the keyboard, then entered a series of programs and passwords, finally bringing up a photograph of a man in his late thirties with shaggy blond hair and a deep tan.

  “This is Carlos Herrera. He’ll be on your train, probably covered in dust and looking disreputable enough to discourage the business types from sharing his seat. He’ll be carrying a paper bag, and he’ll smell a bit beery. It’s rush hour, so the trains will be packed, but if you can sit next to him, do. If you can’t, pick a spot close by. He’ll be looking for you.”

  “And you and Mac?”

  “I suspect Mac will want to be on the train.”

  “Damned straight.”

  “So he’ll be a couple of cars up. We can’t risk whoever Falcone puts on the train recognizing him, and unfortunately New York City isn’t the best place to be anonymous once your face has made the news. The MTA cops are pretty careful, and Grand Central’s always crawling with security.” Nash studied Mac. “Wear the ball cap. There are newsstands inside the station. Buy a Daily News and bury your face in it. And use one of the machines to buy your ticket. Buying tickets on the train attracts attention from the conductors.”

  Nash turned his attention to Callie. “I’ll drive Mac to Grand Central, then head to the West Side Highway and start north, try to follow your signal once the train gets moving. You should probably take the subway from here. The S will take you across town, drop you right below Grand Central.”

  “She shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I’ll be fine. They have no idea where I am coming from, and as Nash said, security at Grand Central is really tight. The subway is a nightmare this time of day, so they couldn’t pick me out of the crowd even if they wanted to.” She could see him struggle with the idea of her being out of his sight. His protectiveness was comforting, but now that the endless waiting was over, a peculiar calm had settled over her.

  “One more thing.” From his jeans pocket, Nash withdrew a hair tie and a small, flesh-colored torus a few inches in diameter. “These are what I was waiting for.”

  “What are they?” Callie asked as she took the scrunchy and the odd piece of foamy rubber from his hand.

  “They’re tracking devices, but unlike most really small units, they turn off.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  Mac touched the black scrunchy, feeling for the bug, and frowned as he answered. “Because the way most bug detectors work is by looking for signal. A tracking device is bouncing signal off a satellite or cell tower for location all the time. Even the ones that only check for location when they’re triggered, like the car security systems, have to remain on to be found by the tracking system. That means they are vulnerable.”

  Nash nodded. “The handheld scanner I used on you the other night looks for signal or electrical current, then essentially targets the bugs it finds with an electromagnetic pulse. It will work on any active electronic device. The nifty thing about these trackers is that neither of them is actually on. They can’t be detected or disabled that way.”

  “So how do I turn them on if I want you to be able to find me?”

  “The tracker sewed into the hair tie has a physical switch. Feel for it.” Callie did, finding the button in the hard spot in the band. “When the button is depressed, it’s off. So you put that in your hair and be sure the switch rests against your hair tightly, that it’s wrapped inside. That will keep it turned off while he’s scanning you.”

  Callie handed the second tracker to Mac and pulled her hair into a tight, high ponytail, positioning the button in the hair tie between layers of wrapping so it remained depressed. “And the other?”

  Nash appeared uncomfortable, staring at the device Mac was rolling between his fingers rather than looking into her eyes as he spoke. “Something entirely new. It’s a heat switch. As long as it’s kept above eighty-eight degrees, it will remain off.”

  Callie plucked the bagel-shaped bit of foam from Mac’s hand. “How am I supposed to keep it that hot?”

  Nash pulled a folded square of paper out of his back pocket. “Instructions,” he said.

  Callie glanced at the piece of paper and realized why he hadn’t given her the details verbally. “Lovely. I’ll be right back.”

  In the bathroom, Callie examined the device. Under the fluorescent light, she could see the vague, gray outlines
of electronics beneath the rubber skin. She washed the thing thoroughly before looking over the instructions, which seemed to have been copied, almost word for word, from the instructions for inserting a contraceptive sponge.

  A vaginal tracking system. What kind of lunatics did Nash Harper employ? And how was she supposed to turn the thing on? What if they handcuffed her? Watched her constantly?

  On the other hand, once inserted, the blasted bug felt really secure. However they’d come up with the idea, Nash’s engineers had developed a smart product. Still, she felt horribly self-conscious when she returned to the living room, and she couldn’t meet Mac’s eyes.

  “Ready to roll?” asked Nash.

  “Not quite. How do I . . . activate that second tracking device? I mean, unless I’m dead, my body’s not getting below eighty-eight degrees, and I sort of want to survive this.”

  “It’s a last-resort backup. Ideally, we’ll be able to retrieve Erin safely before you even get off the train, and force Juarez into a confession. At that point, I’ll let Carlos and Mac know and they’ll bring you in. You should never have to use any of the trackers.

  “But of course, nothing’s ideal. So if Juarez just continues to drive around until you get picked up, we want a way to track you.

  “The final tracker is in case we lose you completely. We’re good, Callie. Very good. But we’re not perfect. In that case, I trust you to find a way to remove it from your body. That’s all you have to worry about. Do that, we’ll find you no matter what.

  Yeah, okay. She could do that. “How soon will you try to rescue Erin?”

  “As soon as it’s prudent. I wish I could give you a more specific answer, but I can’t. Do not worry about her. I have men on her, and they won’t let anything happen. If you get another phone call, be sure to insist on talking to her. The longer you can keep that up, the better chance we have.”

  “I guess that’s it.”

  “Good. Get going, then.”

  “No.” Mac put a hand on her shoulder. “We need a minute, Nash.” He slid his palm down her arm to capture her hand, and tugged her into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them.

  “I’m going, Mac,” she said before he could speak, before he could begin to try to keep her safe while others risked their lives on her behalf. “You heard him. I have to show up. Having everyone in the same place gives us the best shot at finishing this once and for all. Otherwise, these guys can just keep doing this until they succeed. I can’t live that way. I won’t.”

  “I won’t try to stop you. But I need you to swear to me that no matter what Juarez says or does, you won’t deliberately try to lose us. You have to trust me on this, Callie. Please.” The intensity of his green eyes overwhelmed her, yet she could read nothing of his thoughts in them. “We can protect you, but only if you let us.”

  She laid a hand along the sharp plane of his stubbled cheek, feeling the peculiar urge to reassure him. “I do trust you. Absolutely.”

  He covered her hand with his own, holding it in place, then turned his head to press a hard kiss into the center of her palm. Fire rocketed through her body.

  “Good.” He let go of her hand and pulled her against him, sliding muscular arms around her waist and dipping his head to nuzzle her neck. “Because we have unfinished business, you and I.”

  He bit her gently where her neck met her shoulder, and her knees went weak. “Mac. I have to go.”

  “Yeah.” His mouth covered hers, driving all rational thought from her head. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on as his tongue tangled with hers. One of his hands slid from her waist to cup her butt, pressing her intimately against him, and she couldn’t prevent a moan welling up from her throat. She ran her own hands blindly over his back, memorizing every line, then over smooth biceps and back up to his jaw. Her right fingers found the scar and traced it gently.

  A knock at the door had him backing away from her.

  “That will be Nash. Time for you to hit the road.” But his eyes held hers.

  “Yes. I . . .” She didn’t know what to say. “I trust you, Mac.”

  His lips quirked in the sexy half smile he so rarely exhibited. “That’s my girl.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Callie arrived at Grand Central Station at 6:32. She stopped at the first ticket machine she saw and purchased her ticket, no more anxious than Mac for a conductor to recognize her face from the news. The monitor showed her train at one of the lower-level tracks, so she took the escalator down. Passing through the food court, her stomach rumbled, but even if she had had time to buy something, she was far too nervous to eat. She did grab a Coke, counting on the sugar and caffeine to keep her going.

  People streamed toward her train. She stepped into the first car, spotting Carlos Herrera without a problem. His disreputable appearance hadn’t dissuaded a teenage girl from squeezing into the window seat next to him. The girl wore an iPod, the music blaring out beyond the edges of her headphones and assaulting Callie even as she settled across the aisle. Callie shared a bench with an elderly gentleman who’d propped his cane against the seat next to him, probably to discourage anyone from sitting there. But rush-hour trains, even as late as this one, didn’t allow for empty spots, and when Callie asked him about the cane, he removed it with a remark muttered so quietly she couldn’t hear it.

  Before sitting down, Callie took a minute to study the occupants of the four rows of seats behind her own. Tired, irritable businesspeople, for the most part. No one who looked suspicious, but the spot between her shoulder blades itched beneath the body armor Mac and Nash had insisted she wear, and she slouched into her seat, trying to make herself as small as possible.

  In front of her, commuters clustered around the first set of doors in the train car. Beyond them came dozens more rows of bench seats, then a second set of doors, and another short run of seats. More business types filled the seats and the aisle, along with a couple of families, a few men who appeared to be day laborers, some teens, and the obligatory nutcase, who stood in the vestibule, eyeing every person who came through the doors and commenting under his breath.

  The doors closed with warning bells, a few commuters squeezing aboard at the last possible moment, and the train lurched forward. The conductor worked his way through the throng, most of whom—Carlos Herrera included—carried monthly passes rather than tickets. Did Nash keep train passes for whoever needed them? It seemed a ridiculous expense, but worked to prevent Carlos from appearing suspicious. The conductor, a slight, gray-haired man, paid far more attention to both the teenager and Callie, who carried tickets, than he did to any of the pass holders. Even the vestibule lunatic, wearing his pass on a chain around his neck over his ratty and moth-eaten sweater, didn’t merit a second glance.

  The train squealed to a stop at 125th Street. A few more passengers crowded on, but no one got off. Callie checked her cell phone, which had shown no signal inside the station. Four bars. Good. Juarez could contact her. She twisted the cap off her soda and took a long slug, trying to calm herself.

  More jerky starts and noisy stops, and slowly the car began to empty. At Riverdale, Callie’s seatmate left, his spot taken by a dark-haired woman in a severe pantsuit. Two stops later, at Yonkers, both she and the teenager next to Carlos exited. He looked over and smiled, just another stranger passing the time on the way home from work. Under normal circumstances she’d have made some kind of joke, asked if he were deaf from the teen’s music, but talking to him might make anyone watching her suspicious, so she nodded but remained silent.

  A few minutes later, just as the train started to pull away from the platform at Greystone Station, it halted, and the engineer’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Sorry about that, folks.” He maintained an almost jocular tone, but Callie could hear notes of stress beneath it, even over the scratchy sound system. Or maybe you’re projecting your own nerves o
nto him. “We’re having a little technical difficulty. If you’re in the front three cars of the train, I’d like you to walk back, because we’re going to have to off-load everyone. I know it’s going to make you all late to dinner, and it’s hot and still drizzling, and no one’s in a good mood, but it can’t be helped.”

  Around her, people grumbled and gathered their possessions, most appearing irritated but unsurprised. Then the lunatic began to pound on as yet unopened doors and shout.

  “Terrorists! Let us out! There’s a bomb on the train!” And all those people who’d watched him with bored distaste and thin tolerance suddenly found gospel in his words. The aisles filed in a rush, and a mob formed in the vestibule.

  A man in the seat behind Callie tapped her on the shoulder, and she jumped.

  “Help me get the window open,” he said, his eyes wild. “We can get out that way.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Callie tried reason, though she didn’t have much hope it would work. “That guy’s nuts. This is a train breakdown, not 9/11.”

  Another man shoved past her and reached for the safety latches on the window. “If you won’t help, get out of the way,” he snapped. “I’m not dying on this fucking train.”

  Callie slid out of her seat and into the packed aisle. She tried to push through to grab the seat beside Carlos, but the doors opened and she was carried along on a panicked wave of commuters. On the platform, the single-minded surge continued as the mob headed for the stairs to the catwalk that arched over the tracks, leading toward the street. Frantic, Callie searched for Mac or Carlos but saw neither.

  Something hard jammed into her waist just below the hem of the bulletproof vest.

  “Keep moving, Miss Pearson,” said the lunatic. He’d removed his torn sweater and lost the ragged backpack and now fit right into the swarm. He shoved a blue waterproof poncho into her hands. “Put it on. Pull up the hood.”

  Not good. Fear permeated the crowd. One scream, one shouted “Gun!” and they’d panic, which could give her the opportunity to escape. On the other hand, it could also allow him to escape—after shooting her. After a brief hesitation, she dragged the poncho over her head as she mounted the steps to the catwalk, deliberately slowing both actions to give Mac and Carlos as long as possible to find her without resorting to the GPS trackers. Despite Nash’s assurances that they wouldn’t lose her, she felt a whole lot better when his men were close enough to touch, or at least see.