James gripped the edge of his desk, anger firing through him. He should grab the little worm by his throat and toss him out on his rear. Instead, he lowered himself into his chair and opened the drawer next to him. He pulled a paper from one of the yellow tabbed files. “Very well. We can see what we can get done until my appointment arrives.” He looked at Mrs. Bates, who still stood, uncertain and uncomfortable. Her eyes were on the keys her husband had tossed onto the desk. “Ma’am?”
She flinched and met his gaze for a split second before dropping hers back to the desk.
“Would you like to sit?”
She hesitated a fraction longer, then slid into the chair next to her husband. Her fingers wove the strap of her purse around and around her hand.
James adjusted the glasses on his nose. “Now, your father had everything in order. He expressed his wishes to make his passing as, uh—easy just doesn’t sound right, but that was the word he used—as possible for your mother and you.”
Mr. Bates nodded. “Right, right. He said the same thing at our last visit, just before he died.”
James handed Mr. Bates a folded piece of paper. “Now here is a sample of our most popular program. Your father said he didn’t need that, but I would recommend it. It lets the attendees know who the people are who are leading the service and what they meant to your father.”
Mr. Bates frowned and studied the sample brochure, then placed it back on James’s desk. “Fine. We’ll take that one. I’ll provide the information you need by tonight.”
“Excellent.” James gave his much-practiced sympathetic smile. “Now, your father also requested to be cremated and he has already paid for it.”
“Right, he told me. He didn’t want a viewing. Said if people didn’t come to see him while he was alive, they sure weren’t going to see him dead.” The young man cleared his throat. “I … um … would like to see him before you … you know.”
“Of course, but, uh …”
“What?”
“Well, he’s already been prepared for the cremation and is down in the … ah … crematorium.”
Mr. Bates flinched.
The door opened. “Mr. Walden, we’ve got a prob—” Red Peters came to a halt, his mouth snapping shut as he noticed the Bateses’ presence.
James stood. “If you’ll excuse me just a moment?”
“No.” Mr. Bates stood too. “Let’s get this done, then you’ll have all the time in the world for your next appointment.” He looked at Red. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Red’s gaze bounced between James and Mr. Bates. He finally shot a narrow-eyed look at James.
James made sure the couple saw only his comforting smile and none of the rage boiling just beneath the surface at the intrusion. “Very well. Mr. Peters, if you’ll just have a seat outside, I’ll be with you shortly.”
Red hesitated. “But this is really import—”
James drew in a deep breath.
Red stopped. “I’ll, uh, just be, uh, right outside whenever you’re ready, Mr. Walden.” To the couple, Red held up a hand in apology. “Please excuse me.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Bates spoke for the first time.
James waited until Red left the office. He took a deep breath and turned back to the couple. “Would you like to come back tomorrow to do the viewing? I can have him brought up and presentable?”
“No. I’ll see him now.” Mr. Bates crossed his arms and stared down at James.
Mrs. Bates rose and laid a hand on his arm. “Honey, he said he had an appointment. We’re interrupting. Maybe—”
“I said I’d see him now.” Mr. Bates cut his wife a sharp glance and she dropped her head and settled back into her seat.
James motioned for the couple to follow him. “Most people don’t find it a pleasant place to be.”
“I can handle it. I want to see him.”
“All right. I understand.” James hoped he had his annoyance with the man well hidden.
Mrs. Bates hung back. “I’ll wait here if that’s all right.”
“Of course. We won’t be long,” James said.
“She’s coming with me.”
James lifted a brow. Mrs. Bates didn’t move from her seat. “Really,” James said. “We need to do this now if you want to see him today.”
“Fine,” Frank snapped. “Stay here,” he told his wife. “I’ll deal with you later.”
She paled but didn’t move to follow.
James frowned. The man really should treat his wife better. Wasn’t his business, but still … He led the way to the back of the mortuary, down the set of steps, and into the crematorium.
Mr. Bates stopped at the bottom and James turned to look at him. “Is there a problem?”
“It looks different than I thought it would.”
James scanned the white tiles, the stainless steel rollers, the green plants on either side of the entrance to the retort.
The cremation chamber.
“Were you expecting something dark and dreary?”
Frank gave a nervous chuckle. “Something like that. You said it wasn’t a pleasant place.”
“I simply meant what goes on down here. It’s not for family members.”
“Right.”
“He’s this way.” James stepped over to the refrigerated vaults. “We have some of the same equipment as a morgue, we’re just not quite as big.”
“I see.”
James hesitated, his hand on the handle. “You have to understand, he’s not been embalmed, he’s not going to look like you remember.”
Mr. Bates swallowed. “I know.”
James opened the third vault from the bottom. Cold air blew out as he slid the elder Bates from the interior. He glanced at the son, who looked a few shades whiter. “Are you certain?”
The man licked his lips. “I am.”
The side door opened and two men entered carrying a black case. They came to an abrupt halt when they saw they weren’t alone.
James straightened. “What are you doing here? You’re early.”
“Red was supposed to give you the message.”
“What message?”
“That we’re early.”
James sighed. “I’m in the middle of something right now. You’ll have to wait outside please.”
“We’re taking care of this now. You’ll have to deal with him later.”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Bates said. “My father died. I’m trying to view his body. Could you just give us a minute and I’ll be gone?”
“No, you can’t have a minute. Now get. We have business to attend to.”
Mr. Bates gaped. Then turned his gaze to James. “I believe we’ll take our business elsewhere.” His eyes bounced from one man to the next. “Something’s not right here.” He turned to go.
The whap whap made James flinch.
Mr. Bates’s body hit the floor with a thud. James looked at Mitch Conlan, who stuck his weapon back into the shoulder holster under his arm. “Are you kidding me?”
“Put him in the chamber and flush the remains. No one will ever know where he went. We couldn’t have him complaining about ‘something not right,’ could we? And plus, I don’t like the fact that he saw my face.”
James shut his eyes, trying to rein in his temper. This day had gone from bad to worse in seconds. “His wife is upstairs, you idiot.”
Mitch raised a brow and handed the black case to the silent man beside him. He withdrew his weapon once more. “Then we have some business to take care of upstairs, don’t we?”
15
1:35 P.M.
NORTHERN VIRGINIA
Jackie stayed still, keeping her breathing even.
In. Out. In. Out.
Panic wanted to consume her, so she let her mind drift. Went back to the game she’d played as a young child, locked in the closet.
You’re not here, you’re at the beach.
The place her grandfather had taken her the summer she’d turned seventeen. She picture
d the waves flowing up against the sand, the screech of the seagulls as they flew overhead. She’d held crackers up and they swooped in to feast. She drew in a breath and imagined the unique smell that one could only find near the ocean. She heard the crunch of the shells beneath the tires of her bike.
The truck jolted, tumbling her back into the present. The darkness, the inability to move. Or breathe. Fear roared and she fought it, moved the shovel.
She could get out.
She could breathe.
She wasn’t trapped.
The dirt shifted.
She focused on the movement of the truck. Had someone climbed onto the bed again? Were they getting ready to dig?
Her hand tingled from her contact with Ian’s five o’clock shadow. Touching Ian, feeling his familiar face, his warm skin under her fingers, was the only thing keeping her still, keeping her from screaming and clawing her way out from beneath the weight pressing against the wooden box.
Her coffin.
Buried alive.
The thought made her shudder. The panic rose hot and swift.
Think about the beach.
The waves.
The cool breeze at night and the moon shining down.
The fact that Ian was right beside her. She could feel his warmth, his closeness. She breathed. She could breathe. She wasn’t suffocating.
The officer spoke again. “There’s no reason to keep them. Let them through.”
The truck lurched forward, then continued without hesitation. For several seconds, Ian’s fingers squeezed and she realized he was waiting too. Waiting to be stopped, to be searched. To be found.
They moved smoothly down the highway and Jackie lost track of time, focusing on breathing, feeling Ian’s fingers in hers, knowing he was beside her and she wasn’t alone. As soon as she knew they were safely away from the roadblock, she closed her eyes. With her hand held in Ian’s, her fingers clamped around his, she let herself drift back to the sand and the waves.
And then they stopped. She opened her eyes to the blackness, felt the panic swarming back, and snapped her lids shut.
“Jackie, girl, you there?”
She let go of the shovel’s handle and tapped her earpiece twice. Yes.
“Good. Ian, I know you can hear me too. We’re away from the roadblock with only the occasional cop in sight. It’s going to take me about thirty more minutes to get to the rendezvous point.”
Jackie’s fingers convulsed and Ian’s tightened in response. Panic roared through her. She tapped the earpiece once for a big fat no.
“You can do this, Jackie. You have to, you understand?”
She tapped again. No. No she couldn’t. She didn’t have to. She wanted out.
“Jackie …”
She tapped twice. Yes.
“Good girl.”
She moved her hand back down beside her and curled her fingers back around the shovel’s handle. She kept up an internal dialogue. You can dig your way out. You can. You’re not trapped. You can get out. God? Are you there? If you’re there … No, she wouldn’t go there. What she’d told Ian was true. God had given up on her, abandoned her when she’d needed him most, she wouldn’t bother him now.
She spun her mind back to her previous mantra: You can dig your way out. You can. You’re not trapped. You can get out. Sweat slid down her back and she wiggled. Ian’s hand tightened.
The litany of mental reassurances was the only thing that kept her calm. That, and the shovel in her hand. She knew she could start digging her way out and be out from under the manure within minutes.
And Ian’s fingers wrapped around hers calmed her in ways she couldn’t begin to explain.
Still, she was ready to see daylight. She tapped her earpiece again. Three times. Talk to me.
Ron’s voice came again. “I like this Gus fellow. Seems he would keep a man from getting too lonely.”
Ian’s fingers relaxed a fraction.
Time passed at a crawl while Ron kept up a running monologue. He seemed to understand that it helped to hear his voice. Finally, the truck slowed to a stop.
Jackie waited. She could feel Ian waiting, his impatience. She wondered if she emanated the same vibes.
The truck bed shifted. “I’m going to start digging you out, okay?” She heard the shovel, then Ron again. “Almost there, people.”
Light started to filter through.
She blinked against the brightness, squinted and tried to let her eyes adjust even as her hands pushed against the wooden box as though that would help move the manure. It didn’t, but it made her feel better.
More shoveling. More light. Then the plastic was pulled away, taking the rest of the manure with it. She yanked the rebreather mouthpiece out. Ron held out a hand and helped her out from the wooden box and off the bed of the truck. Her knees almost buckled. She sucked in several gulps of sweet oxygen and relished the open air while she held on to Ron a moment longer. Ian landed beside her.
He looked at Ron and cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to say thanks.”
Ron studied him. “You don’t have to. But we’re in deep now. If we get caught, the only way you and Jackie and I won’t serve jail time is if we get a pardon from the president—or find evidence on the people who are setting you up.” He shook his head. “I’ll be working on that angle while you two figure out what your next step is.”
Jackie’s eyes finally adjusted, her tremors eased, and she drew in another deep breath as she looked around. “A used car lot?”
Ron shrugged. “Figured it was as good a place as any to hide a car.” He smirked. “And they’re never very busy, according to my source, so not a lot of people around to see what’s going on or ask questions.” He motioned for them to follow him. At the truck’s passenger door, he opened it and Gus hopped to the ground at Ian’s feet. Ian scratched his ears.
“You have that backpack?”
Jackie held it up. “What’s in it?”
“IDs, keys to that big black SUV right there. Nine thousand in cash—would have given you ten, but didn’t want to have to let the IRS in on anything—a laptop, two new throw phones, and a few other odds and ends to help you change your appearance again. You can’t go around looking like that.”
Jackie threw her arms around Ron. “Thank you.”
Ron gave her a hard squeeze and cleared his throat. “Get this mess cleared up and get yourself back home.”
“We will. We’ve got to find Holly and figure out what that email means.”
Ron frowned and nodded. “We’ll be working on deciphering that too.”
“What about trying to solve the murder of Daniel Armstrong?” Ian asked. “Because I didn’t do it.”
Ron gave a slow nod. “We can look into that too.”
Jackie squeezed the keys. “There’s something big happening, Ron. And Ian and I have been drop-kicked into the middle of it.”
“The key is the email,” Ian said. “Somebody doesn’t want us figuring out the code.”
“Let’s pass it on to the FBI. If anyone can figure it out, they can.”
“Who’s the agent in charge of the case?” Jackie asked.
Ron pursed his lips. “Rebecca Wilson is the Special Agent in Charge in Atlanta, Cole Maxwell is in South Carolina, and Scott Mitchell is the ADIC, Assistant Director in Charge, in New York. According to my source, he’s handling this personally and working with the Special Agent in Charge over the counterterrorism unit. The ADIC heads several divisions, each run by a Special Agent in Charge. But David said two agents came by to talk to them. FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Miller and SLED agent Sam Ferguson.”
“Fine. Let me get it to her then. They’d want to know how you came across it and I don’t want them to be able to connect you to us at all,” Ian said.
Ron smirked. “I’m in it up to my eyeballs at this point, really doesn’t matter what I do after this.”
“They’ll figure it out,” Jackie said, her voice soft. “They already know I’m w
ith Operation Refuge, they’ll do a background check on all of the employees there—if they haven’t already—question them, and come up with you. And our connection.”
Ron nodded. “Maybe.”
“They’ll question you.”
He winked. “They have to find me first.”
“Holly’s not answering.” Ian shut the phone off and stared out the window.
Jackie drove. Ian remembered she liked to drive even as a teenager. She’d once confessed it was the feeling of being in control. He could understand that. He couldn’t help glancing out the window to see if anyone followed. It was fast becoming a habit. “What have you been doing since you left? How did you get involved in Operation Refuge and rescuing people?”
Her fingers flexed around the wheel and she didn’t answer for a long moment. “My life has been quite the series of ups and downs since we last saw each other.”
“How so?”
“I was married.” She blinked and bit her lip.
Was? Ian figured she hadn’t intended to let those words slip out. “I didn’t know that.”
She nodded. “That’s because no one knew. At least not until much later. And only a handful at that point.”
“What? I’m sorry, I’m confused. Why would you not tell anyone you were married?”
“My husband and I were partners on the police force.”
“Isn’t that against cop rules or something?”
She gave a low laugh. “No, it’s not common and it’s not encouraged, but there’s no rule against it. At least in normal precincts.”
“Yours was different?”
“My captain was different. If he thought there was any kind of romantic relationship between partners—or anyone in the precinct—he’d find a way to break it up. And I don’t just mean put you with a different partner, he would find a way to get rid of you.”
“How? Couldn’t you just transfer to another precinct?”
“Not with this guy. It’s like he made it a mission to make your life as miserable as possible until you were willing to give up being a cop. I know one officer who was dating another cop in the precinct. They weren’t partners, but they worked the same shift a lot of times. The captain gave them both lousy performance reviews. They both quit. John and I had no desire to go through that. Which is why we went to Mexico to do the deed.” She shot him a glance and gave him a slight smile before she turned her eyes back to the road. “While we were working together, we were partners. No sneaking kisses, no hand holding. Nothing to give the captain or anyone working for him any ammunition. There’s not even a record of our marriage in the United States.”
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