“I bet he’ll even give you a ride.”
“He can drive?” Callie asked, and then immediately went quiet again as Danny threw her another poisonous look.
“Well, like, duh. How else is he gonna deliver pizzas? He’s seventeen.” Gerard grinned as if just the fact of having a seventeen-year-old brother made him special. “Come on. Domino’s is right outside the mall.”
It was Callie who made the decision, agreeing before Danny could come up with an excuse. Before he knew it, they were leaving the mall and heading for the pizza place.
Gerard’s brother was okay. He was about to make a delivery and agreed to drop them off afterward. He didn’t even ask any questions. Thirty minutes later, as it started to drizzle, they turned onto Henning Street. About halfway down the block, blue lights flashed and a crowd had gathered.
The older boy stopped the car. “Wonder what’s going on.”
Danny’s stomach knotted, and one look at Callie told him she was thinking the same thing. “We can get out here,” he said.
“Are you sure? I mean it’s raining and whatever’s going on, it don’t look too good.”
“It’s okay,” Danny assured him. “We’re staying right over there.” He pointed toward the second house on the block.
“Sure, okay.” Gerard’s brother pulled into the driveway, while most of his attention was on the activity down the block.
“Thanks for the ride,” Danny said as he and Callie climbed out of the car and closed the door behind them.
They waited until Gerard’s brother had left before starting slowly down the street. Despite the cold rain, neither of them seemed in a particular hurry to find out exactly what was happening. Danny watched the addresses, hoping to find the right one before they reached the crowd on the sidewalk. But as they drew closer, he knew that the house with the police cars and people swarming over the front lawn was their father’s. And that something bad had happened.
Suddenly, he picked up his pace.
“No, wait.” Callie grabbed his arm.
“We have to see what’s happened. Maybe we can help.”
“We can’t.”
He stopped and looked at her. They’d run halfway across the country to get here, and now she was holding him back. “That’s his house.”
“That’s why we can’t go over there. They’re waiting for us,” she said. “They know we’re coming.”
“Who? The Keepers?”
“I’m not sure. All I know is that it’s not safe. Come on.” She backed into the shadows of a nearby hedge. “We can watch from here.”
Danny glanced from her to the beckoning house.
“Please, Danny.” She had his arm again, tugging him toward the bushes. He wanted to pull free and race across the street, but he’d learned to trust her instincts. She might be just a kid, but she knew things.
With a sigh, he let her draw him out of sight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SYDNEY COULDN’T STOP SHIVERING.
“You okay?” Ethan asked from the driver’s seat.
She nodded, but it wasn’t true. No matter how tight she pulled his jacket around her, she couldn’t get warm. She was in shock and possibly had a mild concussion.
“I need to stay awake,” she said, as much to herself as to Ethan.
“Just hold on a little longer.” He reached across and squeezed her hand. “We’re almost to town.”
“What about the children?”
“We’ll find them after we take care of you.”
The drive seemed to take forever, though she knew it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. At one point she glanced at the clock on the dash. She’d gotten back to the park with the news about Mulligan less than two hours ago. It felt like days.
Ethan talked continuously. She didn’t think she’d ever heard him say so much in the entire six years they’d been married. It was a shame she couldn’t follow him, except the children’s names, which popped up again and again in his stream of words.
She held on to both, the sound of his voice and those names.
When they stopped, she couldn’t figure out where they were. He said something about no one finding her. But he’d found her, hadn’t he? Maybe it had all been a dream. Because suddenly he was gone, and she was alone.
Then darkness rescued her.
When she awoke, he was back, wrapping her hands around something warm. “Drink this.” He brought a cup to her lips. The liquid scalded her mouth and jarred her to full consciousness.
“Are you trying to drown me?”
He laughed softly, and she thought she heard relief in his voice. “No, I’m just trying to get you warm. Can you handle this now?” He indicated the hot coffee.
She took a sip on her own.
“Good. When you get done with that, there’s some food here.” He lifted a bag from the floor next to her. “And some aspirin. I need to go out again.”
The idea panicked her. “Where are you going?”
“I have to find another car. Every cop in the county is hunting for this Explorer. We won’t make it through town unless we get rid of it.”
She noticed for the first time that he’d parked inside a building. From the looks of it, a warehouse. “Where are we?”
“Somewhere safe, but we can’t stay here long.” He pulled a sandwich from the fast-food bag and handed it to her. “Besides, we need to find Danny and Callie.”
“Do you think they got out of the park?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Tell me.”
“There was someone else in the woods today.”
Her stomach tightened. “The sheriff’s office?”
“My guess is it was someone from the Haven, but Danny and Callie got away. They hitched a ride with an old guy in a beat-up green junker. They’re okay.”
Sydney wished she hadn’t asked, or at least that Ethan hadn’t chosen this particular time to start telling the truth. But how could she fault him for being honest when it was the one thing she’d claimed she wanted?
“We’ll find them,” he said.
And she believed him. “What about the deputy? The one driving the car? Was he—”
“He’s fine,” Ethan assured her. “A couple of days in the local hospital, giving the nurses hell, and I’m sure he’ll be good as new.”
She studied his face, searching for some sign of guile. When she found none, she relaxed somewhat. “Go on,” she said. “Find us transportation to Champaign.”
He gave her a half smile, surprised maybe, and left.
Sydney managed to stay awake, finishing the coffee and sandwich, while refusing to think of all the terrible things that could happen to children on their own. It would only cripple her ability to help Ethan find Danny and Callie.
She felt better after eating, except for the pounding in her head. So she swallowed some aspirin and took a look at herself in the rearview mirror. Her lip was swollen and a lump had formed on her forehead. She touched the bump and winced.
She recalled the black truck ramming them—was it two or three times? The deputy had radioed for help, but she couldn’t remember if he’d gotten through. He’d been frightened and bleeding. It was all so hazy. She prodded her memory, trying to reenact the last seconds of the accident. She remembered spinning and Ethan pulling her out of the cruiser. Other than that, she saw only darkness.
WHEN ETHAN FINALLY RETURNED, he was carrying a bulging brown paper bag. “Are you feeling better?” he asked.
“Yes.” This time it was true. “What’s in the bag?”
He smiled, although it looked forced. “My disguise.” He dumped out a pile of clothing onto the seat. “And you need to turn back into Dr. Decker.”
Fifteen minutes later, she’d changed into her own blouse and leather jacket and wiped the extra makeup off her eyes. Ethan had exchanged his jeans for khaki slacks and a navy alligator sweater over a pale blue oxford shirt. Then he’d slicked back his hair and slipped on a pair of wi
re-rimmed glasses.
“The cops are on the lookout for a couple of campers in an Explorer,” he said. “So we’ve just become university faculty on our way back to Champaign.”
“What about the Explorer?” she asked.
“We’ll have to risk it for a little longer. There’s a country club about five miles from here. We’ll pick up a different vehicle there.”
“You’re going to steal it.”
“Yes.”
“Is that the only way?”
“My duffel bag is back at the cabin, along with all my identification and most of my cash.”
She supposed she should refuse, or at least think of some other way to get to Champaign, but she couldn’t. Funny how all other considerations—like breaking the law—went out the window when a child’s safety was at stake.
“Okay,” she said, “tell me what to do.”
With a bittersweet smile, Ethan reached over and brushed the back of his fingers along her cheek. She couldn’t breathe. The gesture was so like Ethan, the other Ethan, the one who’d stolen her heart all those years ago. Then his eyes clouded again, and he touched first her lip, then the bump on her head.
“They’re going to pay for this, Sydney.”
“It’s okay.” She could hardly get the words past the lump in her throat. She couldn’t let this happen, couldn’t let him affect her like this.
“No, it’s not.” He pulled away, and her lungs once again filled with air.
If she allowed it, he’d draw her in with his gentle caresses and fierce protectiveness. And she’d be no better off than she’d been before he left. At the moment, however, she couldn’t remember exactly why that was such a bad thing.
A few minutes later, they left the shelter of the warehouse. It had begun to rain, a steady late-spring shower that chilled the air. They rode in silence, Ethan keeping an eye on the rearview mirror as he’d done in Dallas. Finally he turned onto a country road that wound through a golf course. Several minutes later, a long, low building came into sight.
“We’re going in a side door and out the front,” he said, and drove past the main entrance to park in a rear lot marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. “As long as you act like you belong, no one will question you.”
Sydney nodded, her heart hammering in her chest.
They climbed out of the Explorer, and Ethan took her arm. No one even noticed as they pushed through the door to the building, then made their way to the lobby. Just before they went out the front door, he slipped his arm around her waist and said, “Hold your hand to your forehead, you’ve just taken a nasty spill.
“Can I get some help here?” he called as the door closed behind them. “My wife fell and hit her head.”
A valet hustled over to them. “Should I call nine-one-one?”
“No, I’ll take her to the emergency room myself. Here . . .” He handed Sydney over to the flustered young man. “Watch her while I’ll get my car.”
He reached behind the valet stand and claimed a set of keys, executing the move so deftly that no one blinked, then darted out to the parking lot. Even Sydney almost believed him, while wondering how he’d know which car belonged to the keys. She touched the knot on her head and leaned into the man at her side, hoping to keep his mind on her rather than on Ethan.
Lights flashed and a horn beeped, and she watched Ethan jog toward a car in the first row. Sydney almost laughed aloud. He’d pressed the unlock button on the keychain remote to locate the car. It was too simple, and a little scary. But in less than a minute, he pulled under the portico in a white four-door Volvo and jumped out to help the valet settle his injured wife into the front seat. And as they drove away from the country club, Sydney couldn’t believe how easy it was to become a felon.
MARCO HAD NEVER cared much for small towns.
They made him feel conspicuous. Cities were melting pots, where you’d be hard-pressed to stand out. But in towns like Champaign, his accent always seemed a bit heavier, his Latin features more pronounced. As far as he was concerned, middle America was best left to those who’d settled it centuries earlier.
It started to drizzle, and Marco pulled up his collar. The rain didn’t deter him any more than the twenty or so other people gathered on the sidewalk outside the house.
Three patrol cars sat in front of the two-story frame structure, their strobing blue lights catching and reflecting off damp surfaces. At the foot of the front steps, a uniformed officer blocked any attempts by the curious to venture inside. On the porch, an older woman in a heavy sweater spoke with a plainclothes detective.
Marco circled the back of the crowd, scanning for familiar faces. Decker? His lovely ex-wife, Sydney? The niños? Or maybe the man who’d led Marco to this dead-end street?
He recognized no one.
An ambulance arrived, threading its way through the milling neighbors. As it stopped in front of the house, a paramedic leapt from the back carrying a collapsed gurney. The driver joined him, and together they hurried up the walkway.
Marco moved around behind the ambulance and approached the uniform guarding the front steps.
“Sorry, you can’t—”
Marco pulled out a slim leather identification wallet and flashed his badge. “Special Agent Ramirez. FBI.” Using his own name was risky, but he liked the idea of concealing a lie within a truth.
The officer instantly turned solicitous. “Of course, sir, go ahead in.”
Once inside, Marco followed the sounds of activity to the back of the house and a small kitchen. The medical examiner was finishing her inspection of a body stretched out on the faded linoleum, while the paramedics stood by to transport the victim to the morgue.
As Marco stepped into the room, a man in a dark suit and overcoat stopped him. “Hey, you can’t come in here.”
Marco flashed the FBI badge. “Agent Ramirez.”
The detective frowned. “What’s the Bureau’s interest here, Agent?”
“I’m not here to step on any toes, Detective.” Marco smiled, but not too warmly, as he returned the identification to his inside pocket. Relations between local and federal agencies were often shaky. If he was too friendly or accommodating, the cops would wonder why. “I just want to look around.”
“What for?”
“There are some similarities between this case and another I’m working on at the University of Chicago.” He glanced past the detective’s shoulder to the body on the floor. “I’m here to see if there’s any connection.”
The detective’s scowl deepened, but Marco knew he wouldn’t deny him access. Not without good reason. If it came to a showdown over jurisdiction, the feds usually won. The detective wouldn’t risk that.
“Feel free to call the Chicago office and check it out,” Marco offered, knowing he had hours before the detective would get around to making the call—if ever.
“Yeah, I’ll do that.” He stepped back, away from Marco. “Meanwhile, don’t get in the way. This is my crime scene.”
“No problem. But I do need to examine the body before it’s taken away.” He had no interest in the corpse and already knew what he’d find, but if he failed to make at least a cursory inspection, it would seem suspicious.
The detective nodded his grudging consent.
Marco slipped on a pair of latex gloves, moved to the body, and squatted down. “Single gunshot to the head,” he said. “Looks like a .45.”
“Tell us something we don’t know, Agent.” The detective sounded disgusted, which was fine with Marco. He wanted the man to dismiss him as useless.
Marco stood and glanced around the room. “No signs of a struggle. How did the perp get in?”
The detective nodded toward the body. “He opened the door.”
“Sounds like they knew each other.”
The detective rolled his eyes and walked away, going back to confer with one of the other cops.
Marco pretended to scrutinize the room, then seeing that the detective had lost interest in him, he backed o
ut of the kitchen to size up the floor plan of the small house.
An entrance foyer, with a staircase leading to the second story, gave way to a hallway leading to the kitchen. To the right of the foyer were a living room and a dining room, and opposite it, a book-lined office. If answers existed, they would be in there.
He stepped inside the room and partially closed the door behind him, figuring he had several minutes before the cops finished with the corpse and found their way in here. With any luck, Marco would be in and out before that happened.
He sat behind the dead man’s desk and took inventory.
It was meticulously neat, which surprised him. The computer was state-of-the-art, which didn’t. He flipped on the system unit, and while waiting for it to boot, looked through the desk drawers. They confirmed his first impression of a man who lived an orderly life. He had neatly stored pencils and pens in the top drawer; backup supplies—paper, staples, rubber bands, stamps—in the left drawers; neatly labeled files in the deep drawer on the right.
Dr. Timothy Mulligan was no absentminded professor.
A hurried glance through the files revealed an organized system for bills and tax records, but two things were noticeably missing. He found nothing concerning Mulligan’s position at the university, no student records, graded papers, or course outlines. Second, and more interesting to Marco, was the lack of legal documents or important records of any kind.
Where did the man keep his mortgage and insurance papers? What about his will or car title? Someone as organized as Mulligan must have kept such documents together. And with them he might also have records that would help Marco find out about the man’s connection to Decker or those niños.
Forgetting the computer, Marco searched the drawers and came up with two identical keys on a small ring. His first thought was that they went to the desk, but a quick check dispelled that idea. Then he considered a safety deposit box, but the keys were too small and flimsy for bank issue. Frowning, he realized they could be to anything, or nothing. But that didn’t fit with the image Marco had formed of Timothy Mulligan. He was a meticulous man, who wouldn’t keep keys in his desk drawer unless they served a purpose.
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