by Andrew Grant
“I don’t think so.” Pete stepped out from behind the counter. “Because I’ve just called the police. And they didn’t know about any misunderstanding. They were real clear about the situation. Now they’re on their way. And you had better stay right where you are till they get here, Mr. Bowman.”
“The police are on their way? Great initiative, Pete. And you know what? You’ve done me a favor. It’ll save me having to schlep down to the station house later with the papers I need to show them to clear my name. Did they give you an ETA?”
“Five minutes.” He moved closer. “Ten, at the outside.”
“Excellent. Although—”
“Marc!” Carolyn grabbed me, suddenly sagging at the knees. “I’ve decided,” she whispered in my ear. “Do what you need to do, and go to the car.” Then, in a loud, slurring voice: “No time. My pills. Top drawer. In my office …”
Pete took another step forward and Carolyn let go of me, flinging her arms around his neck instead.
“Hang in there, sweetheart.” I started up the stairs, taking them two at a time. “I’ll get the pills. I’ll only be a second.”
Carolyn groaned. I glanced down, and almost laughed. It looked for all the world like she and Pete were drunken teenagers, clumsily dancing. He was keeping Carolyn on her feet. Just. And she was forcing him to turn. By the time I was at the top of the stairs, he’d have his back to me. He’d be facing the exit. And he’d have no idea I was heading in the opposite direction from Carolyn’s office.
IT WAS CAROLYN’S QUICK thinking that had bought me the time I needed to get upstairs. But when I sneaked back down and raced to meet her at the Aston, she wasn’t there.
Had I heard her wrong?
Had she changed her mind, again?
Or had she been buying more time—to get away herself?
Yesterday.
I COULDN’T DELETE ALL THE EVIDENCE MCKENNA’S PEOPLE HAD faked against me. There was too much of it, and it would have left too many loose ends. Something would inevitably have come back to bite me. So, given the amount of time available—much less than I’d hoped for, following Pete’s 911 call—I had to just cut and paste.
Cut my details out. And paste someone else’s in.
There’s no easy way to say this, but that someone else is you. I’m sorry.
If it’s any consolation, there was nothing personal about the choice. We’ve never met. I hold no grudge against you. It’s just that yours was the easiest profile to piece together. An email account here. A credit card there. A cell phone number. A street address. A copy of your driver’s license. Your details were all over cyberspace. It took no time to find them. And now, the seventh member of McKenna’s web of terrorist sleepers? It’s you.
Officially, Marc and Carolyn Bowman are dead. A police report shows they died in the fire at Karl Weimann’s house on Friday night. I’m Daniel Abbot, now. And Carolyn is Isobel Draper. We’re back together. Permanently. Offering my Lichtenstein for her life was the turning point, I think. She was only missing from AmeriTel’s parking lot on Sunday afternoon when I came out because the police had arrived early, and—seeing the danger—she was leading them on a wild-goose chase. But she came back. She found me. We have a stack of cash to burn through, thanks to Roger LeBrock. We’re going nowhere near computers. Or cell phones. And I’m not going to tell you where we are.
OK. That’s enough of my story. You’ve had your warning. Now it’s time to get your things in order. I don’t know how long you have before they come for you. McKenna’s people. Or Homeland Security. It’s hard to tell them apart. But either way, the result won’t be anything pleasant. So, be vigilant. Look out for anything new, or anything that changes. Like your spouse coming home later than usual from work. New neighbors moving in. An unscheduled visit from a utility repair crew. An odd vehicle hanging around your street. An unfamiliar mailman. A new guy at your job. At the grocery store. Or the gas station. You get the picture. And if you feel like something’s out of place at home—if things have moved or disappeared, or doors are left open when they’re normally closed—then someone’s been inside, snooping around.
That means it’s almost time.
But at least you know what’s coming. And you know what you have to do.
RUN!
FOR MY BROTHERS:
RICHARD, JIM, AND DAVID
Acknowledgments
I would like to offer my deepest thanks to the following for their help, support, and encouragement during the writing of this book. Without them, it would not have been possible.
Kate Miciak, my incredible editor, and the whole team at Random House.
Janet Reid, the Queen of the Reef.
My friends, who’ve stood by me through the years: Carlos Camacho, Jamie Freveletti, Keir Graff, Tana Hall, Nick Hawkins, Dermot Hollingsworth, Amanda Hurford, Richard Hurford, Jon Jordan, Ruth Jordan, Kristy Claiborne Kiernan, Martyn James Lewis, Carrie Medders, Philippa Morgan, Denise Pascoe, Wray Pascoe, Javier Ramirez, David Reith, Sharon Reith, Beth Renaldi, Marc Rightley, Melissa Rightley, Renee Rosen, Kelli Stanley, and Brian Wilson.
Everyone at The Globe Pub, Chicago.
Audrey and John Grant.
Jane Grant.
Ruth Grant.
Katharine Grant, Jess Grant, and Alexander Tyska.
Gary and Stacie Gutting.
Not last, but always—Tasha.
I’d also like to extend extra special thanks to the real Daniel Peever of Ontario, Canada, for generously bidding on a character name in support of the wonderful Acorns Children’s Hospice in Birmingham, England.
By Andrew Grant
Even
Die Twice
More Harm Than Good
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ANDREW GRANT was born in Birmingham, England. He attended the University of Sheffield, where he studied English Literature and Drama. He has run a small, independent theater company and worked in the telecommunications industry for fifteen years. Andrew is married to novelist Tasha Alexander, and the couple divides their time between Chicago and the UK.