Fletcher could see Happy in his periphery, frozen there, eyes wide, squeezing two fistfuls of his red hair. He could hear the Alchemist trying to talk him down over the phone. But he didn’t care. Andrew was behind this. All of it. Fletcher had known it from the beginning, but he’d let himself be fooled because he missed the grift. But this . . . He slid the screwdriver another millimeter, pushing against the soft tissue of Andrew’s eye.
“It’s not me!” Andrew tried to shout. His voice ground against the meat of Fletcher’s hand, causing him to feel the words more than he heard them.
“What do you think it’ll be like when the cold metal goes into your brain?” Fletcher asked. “Will it hurt or just—lights out?”
He saw Andrew’s fingers inching toward the gun in his waistband.
“Go ahead and pull,” he said. “Let’s see who dies first. You’re pathetic, you know that? Grifter with a gun.”
The space was suddenly full of sunlight and road noise. Fletcher squinted at the man who stood framed in the now-open door at the rear of the van. He wore a gray jumpsuit with the name Dale embroidered on a patch over his heart and held a long-barreled revolver in his hand, trained on Fletcher. He said nothing, just stared with dead gray eyes, pointing that enormous gun.
Fletcher released Andrew and let the screwdriver clatter to the floor. He looked at the man with the gun again as his eyes adjusted to the light, locking that face down into his memory. He focused on the man’s dead eyes, not the prominent scar on his cheek. Scars or tattoos could be faked. Andrew had taught him that—draw your mark’s attention away with a distinctive trait, only to erase said trait as soon as you’re out of sight, leaving your mark describing a ghost. But eyes were eyes. Even if one employed colored contact lenses, a good grifter could memorize a set of eyes and know them anywhere.
The man in the jumpsuit looked over at Andrew—a look of warning—and then to Happy and then shut the door, leaving them once again in the artificial light of the van’s dome lamp.
“Have you finished your tantrum?” the Alchemist asked.
Fletcher said nothing.
“It’s not me,” Andrew croaked again, rubbing his throat.
“Right,” Fletcher said. “How could it be? You’re here. The Alchemist is on the phone. So I guess I keep my attention on him, right? Classic misdirection. Just a guy with a script and a phony accent.” He pointed at the back door. “Or maybe it’s our friend Dale in the jumpsuit.”
Andrew shrugged.
“You forget where I learned my craft,” Fletcher said. “One of the first things you taught me: make your mark look at the empty hand while you slip his coins into your pocket with the other.” He spoke up louder. “Are you the empty hand, Mr. Alchemist?”
“I’m the hand that holds your entire life in its grip,” he answered. “All I have to do is squeeze and everything goes pop. The ‘do it and’ portion of this job is over, Mr. Doyle. You will do as I say or I will blind your daughter.”
Fletcher felt the panic growing in his chest. There was too much to gather together.
“Do I have you pegged now?”
CHAPTER 35
Oh, there you are!” Meg’s face relaxed a bit at the sight of Fletcher approaching through the narrow hallway, then resumed its deep furrows as he drew closer. “She’s not with you?”
“No,” he said. “We need to talk.”
Meg took a long step back, fear settling onto her face.
“Come in here.” He beckoned her to follow him into the same room where he had kissed her two days earlier. She hung outside the door for a moment, instinctively savoring the last few seconds before Fletcher’s words changed everything. Then she entered, slowly rubbing her bare arms despite the stifling temperature.
Fletcher couldn’t meet her eyes. Not without grifting. He fished the burner phone from his pocket and tapped his way to the pictures.
“That first day,” he mumbled, “when I went out for Ivy’s toothbrush . . . I ran into Andrew.” He held the phone up toward her and began slowly thumbing through the record of the encounter. “He’d been following me.”
Meg’s face darkened at the sight of the man who had corrupted her husband, driven a wedge between them, and eventually stolen the better part of a decade from her family—all while visiting regularly, rocking Ivy to sleep, bringing her gifts, calling her Jumpin’ Bean.
“He says it’s not him calling the shots,” Fletcher said, “but I don’t know. Anyway, a man blackmailed me with these pictures, got me to do another job. Then he held that one over my head to get me to do another.” He flipped forward to the picture of him slipping money from the briefcase. “I tried to cut it off today,” he said. “It was getting out of hand. I knew if I lost you, it didn’t matter if I was in prison or not. But—”
Meg’s face had gone white and she stumbled backward, falling hard onto a metal folding chair. The last picture on the phone was of Ivy, mouth taped shut. Even in the low resolution of the tiny screen, the fear in her wide eyes was clear. Meg’s shoulders went up and down a few times, then she began pawing through her purse.
“What are you doing?” Fletcher asked.
“I’m calling the police.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Oh, but I am.” She was punching keys. Fletcher prayed he could reason with her. She’d always been good in a crisis—better than he was—but this was different.
“He said he’ll blind her, Meg.”
She stopped.
“We have to do what this man says.” He was silent a minute, waiting for it to sink in.
Meg dropped her phone back into her purse and stood. “How do we know they won’t just—”
“This man is a grifter. He doesn’t follow the code to the letter, but he’s not going to hurt anyone he doesn’t have to hurt. Trust me.” He regretted the last two words before he’d even gotten them out.
Meg grabbed up her purse and took a few quick steps, pausing at the door. “Well? Are you coming?”
Fletcher couldn’t read her. Not in the least. “Where?”
“To talk to Brad.”
After a fruitless search of the lunchroom and men’s quarters, they found Brad sitting on the front steps of the church, staring blankly at his cell phone. When he saw Meg approaching, he quickly rubbed his sleeve across his eyes. He stood, the contents of his tool belt clattering together.
“Have you found them?” he asked, a bit of hope in his voice.
“Ivy, yes,” Meg said, “but not Courtney. I left her three voicemails.”
“Not again,” Brad mumbled. “She promised she’d never do this to me again.”
Fletcher thought of Ivy’s text about Courtney and the “sketchy guys.” Without thinking, he redirected. “Do what?” he asked.
“When her mom died, Courtney ran away. I didn’t see her for three weeks. A fourteen-year-old girl sleeping on friends’ couches and who knows where else.”
“But why would she—?”
“We’ve been fighting.” He glanced up at Fletcher. “I didn’t know she was this upset, though.” He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the tears. A few eluded him and trickled down his cheeks. “This city,” he said. “The abandoned houses. The gangs and drugs and . . .” He shook his head violently and again wiped his face. “Fletcher, I know we’ve had our differences, but if you can help . . . If you know someone who can find people or, I don’t know . . . I wouldn’t tell your parole officer.”
Meg put her hand on Brad’s cheek and locked her eyes onto his. “I’m sorry, but we can’t stay. You were right; being around all this is just too much reality too soon.”
He nodded.
“I’ll keep trying Courtney,” she said. “She’ll come back.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed. Fletcher was surprised by his desire to separate the two of them with a blow to Brad’s head and by the fact that their current situation, both of them chasing after missing children, did nothing to mitigate this desire.
“I miss Karen,” Brad said into Meg’s neck.
“I know.”
“We’ve got to go,” Fletcher said, pulling on Meg’s arm. It took the third tug to pry her away from Brad’s embrace.
FLETCHER FED MEG THE BEST VERSION OF EVENTS HE COULD CONCOCT during the three-block hike to the van, careful not to leave a window in his words large enough for Meg to jump in. As the van came into view, Fletcher hit a wall of dread. The thought of bringing his wife into the heart of his secret world sickened him. The thought of the Alchemist addressing her directly, by name, the fact that he seemed to know a good deal about her—it was almost enough to turn him back. They could call the police, show them the picture. Perhaps the burner phone could be traced back to its source somehow.
But the Alchemist was always several moves ahead, wasn’t he? And the dwindling police force of the struggling city was not exactly swimming in resources at the moment. He doubted they would even bother looking for Courtney.
He took the last few strides to the back of the van and pulled open the door. Andrew was exactly where Fletcher had left him, sitting in the captain’s chair, his head in his hands.
“Hello, Meg,” he said without looking up.
Fletcher could feel her tense and, for a moment, he feared she might scramble up into the van and pick up where he’d left off. But Meg closed her eyes, pressed her fingertips together, and pushed them to her mouth. At first he thought she was praying, but then he recognized the gesture. This is what she did backstage before a performance, in the car before auditions. Emptying her mind of all her own motivations, she had explained, and replacing them with those of her character.
“Hello, Andrew,” she said politely, and stepped up into the van.
CHAPTER 36
I just don’t understand why we need him,” Andrew said.
“For a start, because this van is too small for the four of us,” Fletcher said. “We need somewhere to plan, somewhere to crash for a few nights. You want us staying at your place? I don’t see that working out. And remember, you’d have been kibble and bits if it weren’t for him.”
“Anyway,” Happy piped up, “the Alchemist said to bring him in. So we bring him in.”
They were pulling into a derelict pay lot in Broadmoor. Happy had tried to engage Meg in conversation at least three times during the drive, but after three monosyllabic replies he got the hint and let her stare out the window in peace.
“Where exactly are we?” she finally asked.
“It’s a church,” Andrew said, “but not really. The preacher’s a grifter, kind of low-level. He goes into jails and does a little supply-and-demand action.” He raised his eyebrows at Fletcher. “Maybe that’s why everyone finds Jesus inside, huh?”
Meg narrowed her eyes at her husband.
“No, hon,” he said. “Trick works the jails, not prisons. I only met him this week.”
Happy hopped down from the driver’s seat. “Either way, it’ll be nice to have a decent work space. I love my van, but it’s hard to keep the equipment organized.”
Fletcher called Dante’s number as they crossed the street, and the metal gate was open by the time the group reached the church. The moment they were inside, Dante locked the gate back down, followed by the door. He was holding something behind his back. Tupac was playing from a stereo inside at a lowish volume.
“We got a job?” he asked hopefully.
“Yeah,” Andrew said, bustling past him. “We’re about to call the boss for the details. Turn off this jungle music.”
Dante stepped toward him, bringing the Glock into view. “What’s that?”
Andrew smirked and pulled back the jacket of his Italian suit, revealing the grip of the Colt Detective Special. “You want to go out in the street and count off ten paces, or you want to work?”
Fletcher stepped between them. “What happened to the professional grifters I worked with last night? Who cares if you like each other? You’re supposed to fake it. That’s your job. Now let’s call the boss and find out what kind of snipe hunt he’s sending us on.” He considered taking a moment to fill Trick in on recent developments, but decided against it, simply offering, “Trick, this is Meg. Meg, Trick,” as he brought up the Alchemist’s number and hit Send. He set the phone on a chair, and the five of them huddled around it.
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about little old me,” the Alchemist said, not masking his annoyance. “Tell me where you are and who is present.”
“We’re at our new headquarters in Broadmoor,” Andrew said, locking eyes with Dante, “and it’s our crew from last night plus Fletcher’s wife, just like you wanted.”
“Hello, Meg,” the Alchemist said. “It’s nice to finally speak with you.”
“Hello,” she said. She felt her arms begin to shake a bit and pushed her fingertips together again until she regained control.
“And the hero of last night’s adventures,” the Alchemist said. “What is your name?”
Fletcher shot Andrew a sidelong glance, trying to read his reaction. Somehow the Alchemist knew details of last night’s job.
“They call me Trick.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Name’s Dante. Dante Watkins.”
“Well, then,” the Alchemist said, “let’s get down to business. The task that—”
“I want to talk to Ivy,” Meg blurted.
The Alchemist sighed into the phone. They heard footsteps, then a muffled scuffing, then a door squeaking open, then, “Mom?”
Meg began to cry. “Sweet pea! Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”
“I’m okay,” she said. “We had Subway. And they’ve got cable.”
Meg laughed through the tears. “You’re gonna be okay, sweetie. I promise.”
“I know,” Ivy said. “The man told me Dad owes him money. From before he went to prison. He said I was his collateral, which is pretty creepy, but ya know . . . They tied us up in the truck, but they’ve been pretty nice since we got here.”
“Who’s us?” Meg asked.
Again the sound of the door—closing this time—and the scuff of shoes on concrete.
“Satisfied?” the Alchemist asked.
“Who’s us?” Meg asked again.
“They’ve got Courtney too,” Fletcher said. “Don’t you?”
“I do,” he answered. “She saw my men and began raising hysterics. They had no choice.”
“Let her go,” Fletcher said. “She couldn’t be further removed from all this.” Besides, Fletcher thought he had a decent chance of tracing the Alchemist’s location if he could just play twenty questions with Courtney.
“I was considering it. She is what you might call a handful—not nearly as docile as your Ivy. But now that I know you care for her, I think we’ll just add her to the pot. Bring me my prize and you will have them back safely; you have my word. But drag your feet, cross me, call the authorities, or try to turn the grift back on me in any way, and I will fill that phone with horrific pictures that will haunt you all for the rest of your lives.”
Meg let out an involuntary sob and buried her face in her hands. Fletcher rubbed her back gently. She neither pulled away nor leaned into him for comfort.
“After we translate the letters,” Fletcher said, “what’s next?”
“That’s for you to determine,” the Alchemist said. “I’m through holding your hand. It’s time for you to impress me by doing what you do best.”
“We’re listening,” Andrew said.
“The letters you took from Belltower’s safe speak of an object of immense value. The five of you are going to find it for me. And you’re going to steal it for me.”
“Okay,” Fletcher said. “Where should we—”
“Call’s ended,” Happy said.
“What are these letters he’s talking about?” Meg asked.
Fletcher opened the satchel and handed her the stack of old pages. “They’re a few hundred years old; can you trans
late them?”
She swallowed back some tears and pressed her palms to her face, taking a moment of semi-solitude before coming out from between her hands, seemingly collected, and perusing the first page. “Sure. It’s not much different from modern French. Kind of like reading the Declaration of Independence.” She pulled a small notepad from her purse, propped it up on her lap, and commenced scrawling.
“I’ve got a better question,” Dante said. “What was that all about?” He nodded at the phone on the chair.
“Right,” Fletcher said, and cleared his throat. “Remember our conversation on the way home last night? Well, I tried to walk away. Apparently the Alchemist, whoever he is”—he glared at Andrew—“anticipated this and had my twelve-year-old daughter kidnapped.”
“Guys,” Meg shouted. They all went silent, eyes glued on her. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m trying to concentrate.” She returned to her pad, writing frantically, stopping every minute or so to reread her work and check it against the page in her hand.
Fletcher leaned in and spoke quietly. “Look, I’m sorry, Trick—Dante. You didn’t ask to get pulled into this. If you want, we’ll find somewhere else to go. You could leave town for a while until this blows over.”
Dante rubbed his face for a moment. “No. I’m in,” he said. “Whatever this thing is, I’m guessing there’s a significant back end.”
“I can’t imagine he’d go to all this trouble unless the thing was priceless,” Fletcher agreed.
“Okay,” Meg said. “The first letter is short. A page and a half. The rest are longer. But they’re all from the same guy: Alessandro.”
Fletcher and Andrew locked eyes. As far as they were concerned, there was only one Alessandro in France in the late 1700s whose letters would be locked up in a secret safe.
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