“Thanks, Miranda. I'm on my way there, too. I can barely stand up.” Rafael stumbled toward the master bedroom. Maybe his wife's new catering business wasn't going to be so great, after all.
7
SAM'S eyes slowly focused on a strange metal growth that gleamed dimly above her. Another second and she had her bearings. Wagon Wheel Motel, Las Rojas, Utah. The brass stalactite was a fire sprinkler. The light over the bureau was still on, the rest of the room in shadows. Her laptop loomed open on the table. She was still in jeans and turtleneck, on top of the covers. Eleven o'clock. Darn it! She'd slept right through Special Report, missed Buck Ferguson and KUTV's panel of “mountain-lion experts.” She was afraid to guess what Adam was going to do on the eleven o'clock news in Seattle.
Footsteps whispered across the hall carpet outside her room. The thump that awakened her had probably been a door closing. The outside door at the end of the hall whined softly on its hinges.
She rushed to the window, pushed the curtain aside just a fraction. Across the parking lot, Agents Perez and Boudreaux opened the doors of a Ford Taurus. Both were clad entirely in black, Perez looking like an exceptionally fit burglar in a sweatshirt and jeans, Boudreaux more like an elegant Catwoman in stretch pants and turtleneck sweater. It was a sure bet that these two weren't out to track down a rogue mountain lion.
Her hiking boots were within reach; she tugged them on as she watched the Taurus pull out and turn west. Then she was out of the room, camera slung around her neck, car keys clenched in her teeth as she pushed her arms into her dark green windbreaker.
She turned the Civic west on Elm. Devoid of moving vehicles. Damn. She cruised slowly, passed Main. There! A blur of movement. The Taurus turned right behind a two-story building.
Sam drove to the next street over: First Avenue, where she'd lived in a rooming house the summer she'd worked here. She parked, pulled the jacket's hood over her hair, and jogged down a stretch of gravel that bisected the block. The moon was nearly full tonight, showering enough heavenly light to render the streetlights nearly useless.
LAS ROJAS COMMUNITY CENTER, a wooden sign labeled the cement-block two-story across the street. A security light illuminated a basketball court and play area to the side. A dilapidated swing swayed in the slight breeze, as if a child had just leapt out of the seat.
Cradling the camera, Sam sat down cross-legged in the shadow of a woodpile, praying that all scorpions and other crawly things would stay tucked inside the stacked logs.
She used the zoom feature on the camera to inspect the community center, but the viewfinder revealed little. The windows were black.
She yawned. Absolutely nothing happened for forty minutes. Maybe she'd lost the agents, after all. Maybe she was just sitting in someone's yard for no apparent purpose. Maybe she really wasn't cut out to be an investigative reporter.
A soft mew sounded at her elbow. A tabby cat curiously peered at her, mewed again, then rubbed against her. “Go away,” she murmured in a low voice. He rubbed harder, leaning his weight against her.
“Go home. Get!” He purred, sounding like a jet engine in the quiet evening. He crawled into her lap, curled up in the pocket of her crossed legs. She sighed and rubbed his ears.
A rusting Suzuki Sidekick pulled up to the curb in front of the community center. Then Fred Fischer emerged from the driver's side, and the interior light revealed Jenny's profile for an instant: her head was lowered, her lips pressed against clasped hands. Praying? The door clicked shut, killing the light on the sad tableau.
Fred carried a large padded envelope to the basketball court. At the edge of the lighted area, he pulled the lid from a metal garbage can, shoved the envelope inside, and replaced the lid. He trotted back to the car. The Sidekick drove away, the only moving vehicle on Main.
What the heck was that about? She scanned the area through the zoom lens. Nothing happening over there. With a curled paw, the cat snagged the dangling loop of her camera strap. Sam pulled the strap away. He grabbed for it, digging well-honed claws into her blue-jeaned thigh. She gave up and let him chew on it for a minute.
Ten more minutes passed. Her legs ached and her butt was getting cold. Her shoulder muscles were cramping. She made herself wait, tried to sit still. Surely the Fischers hadn't stopped by just to drop off garbage.
Something moved in the shadows on the other side of the basketball court. She raised her camera and zoomed in again.
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A flash of motion caught Perez's eye. “Over there,” he murmured. “Behind the bleachers.”
Nicole focused her binoculars on the location below. “Two of 'em.”
“You want to go, or me?” It felt strange to have only the two of them there. Normally there'd be at least a half-dozen FBI agents crawling over the place, but there hadn't been enough time to get a team from Salt Lake into place.
On such short notice, the only available assistance was the county sheriff. Rural areas like this were always undermanned, but at least a third of city and county law enforcement was in the National Guard and serving somewhere overseas these days. The sheriff's name was Wolman, Waffordâsomething like that: no, Wolford, that was it. Perez didn't expect much from him; the man was carrying at least sixty pounds more than he should be. He'd probably never dealt with anything more serious than a burglary.
The sheriff unsnapped the holster flap that secured his revolver. “I'm going,” he wheezed.
Nicole pulled her nine-millimeter from the holster at the small of her back. She told Wolford, “You stay behind me until I give you the word. Got that?”
The sheriff frowned, annoyed.
“Chase, you're the photographer.”
He turned back to the window, camera in hand. He itched to be in on the action, but fair was fair. He'd spent the afternoon prowling the park while she'd interviewed the parents and visitors and park service personnel.
The two figures approached the garbage can. “Better hustle,” he warned.
Nicole and Wolford dashed out of the room.
The camera whirred briefly as he caught the action on film. One hunched figure stepped hesitantly into the light, revealing a maroon windbreaker, faded jeans, high-top tennis shoes, dark hair cut into a flattop. The other remained in the shadows, gestured to his partner, pale hands fluttering in the moonlight. Hurry up.
Flattop pulled off the lid of the garbage can and reached in. The streetlight illuminated his sharp chin and heavy eyebrows. The photos might even prove good enough for court. Flattop pulled out the bulky envelope. Perez clicked the shutter. That one would make a great enlargement, the smile on the face, the hands clutching the bag.
“Hands over your head! FBI!” Nicole's voice.
The figure holding the envelope clutched it to his chest. The one in the shadows turned toward the voice.
“Stop!” Nicole bellowed. “I'm pointing a gun right at you. Hands up! Now!”
Flattop reluctantly placed the envelope on top of the garbage can. Both figures slowly raised their arms above their heads. Perez waited for Nicole and Wolford to appear. Then a loud crash pierced the darkness.
“Shit! Get out of my way!” Nicole's tone left no doubt about who was at fault.
Flattop recovered the envelope. Both figures took off, quickly disappearing into the darkness. Pressing the camera to his chest, Perez galloped down the dark stairs.
He rushed out of the building, catching a glimpse of Nicole's figure for just a second before she disappeared around the far corner. To the side of the basketball court, the sheriff was scrambling up from his hands and knees, a toppled picnic bench beside him. Perez jogged off after Nicole, leaping over a teeter-totter to take a shortcut.
He rounded the corner and nearly plowed into her. She stood, hands on her hips, watching a yellow pickup pull away from the curb a half block away. The body of the vehicle floated just inches from the pavement. The truck streaked off down the vacant street.
“Lowrider,” Nicole puffed. “They won't get far.” The two of them reversed direction, jogging through the playground to the parking lot. Nicole slid into the driver's seat of the Taurus parked in the shadow behind the Dumpster. As she gunned the engine to life, Perez slipped into the passenger's seat and pulled his seat belt across his chest in one smooth move. The sheriff piled into the back, landing with a grunt.
“Seat belt, Sheriff!” Nicole spat out the words.
The Taurus tore out of the lot with a spray of gravel. Perez reached for a black metal receiver on the dashboard and adjusted the knobs.
“Got 'em?” Nicole glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.
A light flashed on the receiver's panel, accompanied by a small ping. “Got 'em.”
Wolford shifted his weight in the backseat. “Sorry,” he grumbled. “That bench is usually on the other side of the basketball court.”
Nicole muscled the car around another corner, and the yellow pickup appeared ahead, just beyond the reach of the Taurus's headlights. The truck bounced over a pothole, its tailpipe leaving a comet tail of sparks as it dragged across the pavement.
She closed the gap. “I'll try to swing around and cut them off after we pass those parked cars up there.”
Ahead, several vehicles lined both sides of the street in front of a dilapidated apartment building. A grizzled dog strolled out onto the pavement from between parked cars. Its eyes glowed orange in the pickup's headlights as it stopped, transfixed at the sight of the truck barreling down. Perez found himself stomping an invisible brake into the passenger's-side mat.
“Shit! Not Tom's dog!” Wolford moaned in anticipation.
The taillights ahead of them flashed red, and the rear end of the truck skewed to the right side of the road. Nicole slammed on the brakes, throwing everyone against the seat belts, nearly standing the car on its nose. The yellow truck slid across the pavement and slammed sideways into a vintage Pontiac. A hubcap popped off a pickup wheel and rolled down the street.
Lights snapped on in the apartment building as Perez and Nicole leapt out of the Taurus, their guns drawn. The hubcap clanged off a curb somewhere ahead.
Nicole approached the lowrider, standing near the back fender, her gun pointed at the driver's door. Perez positioned himself behind the truck, aimed at the back window. Two heads inside, not much movement. “FBI. Show us your hands.”
Two sets of hands came up.
“Out of the car. Now!” he bellowed.
The driver's door cracked open. A figure stumbled out. Flattop. The dog trotted in the driver's direction, its tongue lolling in a friendly canine grin.
“Hands on your head!” Nicole yelled. Her pistol was fixed on the driver. “Passenger, out of the car, now! Hands on your head!”
She strode closer to Flattop. “Interlace your fingers,” she instructed. “Step away from the vehicle.”
Flattop thought about the instruction for a minute, then wove his fingers together with elaborate care, frowning fiercely at the hound standing beside him. Behind him, a sneakered foot pushed open the driver's door with a creak. The passenger slid out, one hand clutched to his forehead. The dog stuck its nose into his crotch, wagging its tail.
“We shoulda just run you down,” the passenger complained.
“Hands on your head!” shouted Perez. “Interlace your fingers! Step away from the vehicle.”
Nicole and Sheriff Wolford rushed to handcuff the two.
Flattop's jacket was purple, not maroon. A high school letter jacket. The other kid also had close-cut hair, but his was blond instead of dark. Both stank of sour beer.
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SAM arrived in time to witness Agent Boudreaux jerk the dark boy's arm up behind his back. She stood in the midst of a growing knot of onlookers, camera dangling from her neck, trying not to pant noticeably. She'd followed the chase on foot, cutting through backyards and driveways, tracking the vehicles by sound.
Boudreaux clicked the cuffs on her suspect. “Where's Zack?”
“Huh?”
The agent spun him around. “The kid you grabbed. Zack.”
A ransom job, then. It was the only thing that made sense. With luck, Zack would be recovered tonight and she could get back to writing about wildlife tomorrow.
“It wasn't us!” the other boy yelped.
The sheriff laughed. “I don't see anyone else here, Pat.”
“You know these boys?” Boudreaux tucked a loose strand of hair neatly behind an ear. Sam remembered that she hadn't even looked in the mirror before bolting from the hotel room. She combed her fingers through her tangles, didn't find anything that remotely resembled a part on the top of her head.
“Yeah, I know 'em. That's Patrick Wiley.” The sheriff thrust out his chin to indicate the dark-haired youth. “And this is Billy Joseph. They go to school with my kids.” He shook his head. “I'm having a hard time believing you two would do a thing like this.”
“We didn't kidnap him. We never seen him.” Patrick danced in place.
“Honest.” This came from Billy.
Boudreaux chuckled. “That's a funny word for you to pick, kiddo.” She pressed his head against the cab. “Spread your legs. Any needles in your pockets?”
“Your father is going to be mortified.” The sheriff pressed Billy Joseph's face down onto the pickup's hood.
Sam snapped off a quick photo. The flash was bright in the night.
“Hey, can I get a copy of that?” a man in pajamas asked her.
“Fuck!” The loud response came from the man standing at her right. “That was my grandma's car. Fuck!”