There was one more scenario—that Jack was undercover and working for Emmett. In which
case, Emmett wouldn’t reveal a thing and would work to impede her from finding out
the truth.
She took a deep breath and stifled a yawn.
Could Jack have amnesia? Not remember who he was? No, Con seemed too slick and with
it to be suffering from amnesia. And if that were the case, why would Aldo believe
Jack was his cousin Con?
She bit her lip. She wasn’t living in the Dark Ages. Modern science gave her options
like DNA testing. Home DNA collection kits for which one simply mailed the collected
sample to a lab for testing. All she needed was his saliva, right? She didn’t like
cop shows at all, way too violent and too much death and gore. But Ada’s husband,
Paul, was a big fan of them and talked about them all the time. Willow remembered
him telling her about an episode of
48 Hours
where the police tricked a suspect into giving his DNA by licking an envelope. And
another where they tricked a suspect by inviting him out for coffee and stealing his
paper cup after he tossed it away.
Garbage, evidently, was free for anyone to take. No legal issues involved.
Conveniently, she was having coffee with Con tomorrow. And Bluff Country used paper
cups. Who knew she was so subconsciously genius? All she had to do was steal Con’s
cup and have it tested against the DNA report Emmett had sent her after Jack’s death.
If Con was really Con, he’d never even know what she’d done.
Now she just had to find a local place to buy a DNA collection kit, or get one online,
and keep Con in town long enough to get the results back. How long would that take?
In the meantime, common old dirty trickery and PI work would have to suffice. She’d
check up on Con’s story. If she could stay awake long enough. She was as tired as
if she’d been drugged. But she had to see if Con really was who he said he was.
She dragged herself to her study and powered up her laptop.
I can Google with the best of them.
If Jack was undercover as Con for the Agency, Emmett and his team would have set up
a fake cover life for him online. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use it to trip
Jack up.
The laptop came up. She typed the name Con Russo in the search box.
No Internet connection.
“What!” She resisted the urge to thunk her head on the desk. “No! I’m having coffee
with Con tomorrow morning. I need to know something about him. Now.”
Why did everything happen at once? She was dying to get to the truth and now this.
How was she supposed to check up on Con? Or order a DNA collection kit?
She grabbed her smartphone from her purse. There was more than one way to get what
she wanted. Hooray for modern technology!
But her smartphone didn’t work, either. Both the phone and the 3G were dead. No matter
how many times she restarted it.
Great. Is there something wrong with the cell tower?
Tomorrow she’d be so busy with the Apple Festival she’d be lucky if she had time to
breathe, let alone sleuth. By the end of the day she’d be too brain-dead and tired
to be effective. About like she was now. And that was assuming her Internet connection
came back up.
She checked her Internet box. Sure enough the little lights next to DSL and Internet
were ominously dark, not the bright green that meant they were working.
She stared at them. Sometimes they clicked back on after a few seconds or minutes.
A watched pot never boils and a watched Internet box never comes back up, either.
She powered down her modem and started it back up again. Still no connection.
She blew out a breath, grabbed the landline phone, and called her provider’s twenty-four-hour
help line.
“It’s your modem, ma’am. It’s dead,” the help desk techie told her after running her
through ten minutes of diagnostics through which she barely stayed awake.
“But it’s done this before and always come back up.”
“That was it in its death throes, then. Sorry. The easiest thing to do is replace
it. I can send one tomorrow with a technician who can set it up for you. Or I can
give you a list of local stores that carry it and you can pick one up and do the setup
yourself.”
The stores were already closed and she had no time to run to one tomorrow. “Send one
out. I’m desperate to get my service back.” Willow tried to keep the frustration out
of her voice.
The techie chuckled. “That’s what they all say. No one can live without Internet.
I’ll try to get our man out first thing.”
As satisfied as she was going to get, Willow hung up and drummed her fingers on her
desk as she powered off the laptop. She should call the cell phone company, too, on
her landline, to find out what was wrong with her cell service, but she was just too
tired. Too tired to grab her laptop and drive somewhere where she could get Wi-Fi.
Driving in this sleepy state would be suicide. She’d have to tell Aldo his wine needed
a warning label—“Do not drink this wine and operate heavy machinery.”
She yawned again for what felt like the hundredth time, and her eyes felt heavy. She’d
have to deal with everything in the morning. Maybe her cell service would be back
up by then.
Her Internet service going out and her cell phone not working simultaneously were
freakily coincidental. It was as if she was being thwarted intentionally. But why?
All signs pointed to Agency involvement. And Jack.
She’d have to be creative. And careful. Get to her tent early and talk to the other
vendors as she set up. See what they knew or had heard about Aldo’s cousin Con. Seek
Becky and Aldo out and press for details. Look for inconsistencies in Con’s stories.
Hope she got 3G coverage somewhere outside the house.
Make a mental list of prying questions to ask him at coffee.
She’d find out who Con Russo really was.
She wanted him to be Jack. No matter what Jack had done, she needed Con, this stranger
with Jack’s eyes.
She’d put a bright face on things. Had been trying to move on, looking on the positive
side of her life without Jack. But tonight had brought back all the memories—life
was better with him in it.
She’d do anything to get him back—steal his DNA, sleep with him, tie him to the bed
to keep him here.
Anything.
And if he didn’t want her back? Or if Con was really just Con? She’d worry about that
later.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Willow’s cell phone rang as she stepped out of the shower, belting out the distinctive
ringtone she’d assigned to her mother.
Oh, good!
Her cell service was back up. She didn’t need the ringtone to know who was calling.
She could sense it. In fact, she’d been expecting it. Her sense of foreboding hadn’t
gone away and she’d bet her mother’s hadn’t, either. Diana Norris was in tune to the
Sense much more than Willow was. The only question was—what had taken her mother so
long to call?
Willow wrapped herself in her towel and grabbed the phone. “Mom!… Hey. I’m still among
the living and doing fine. You?” She let her harried feelings out, hoping they masked
her anxiety and crazy feelings that Jack was back and diverted her mom.
“I’m fine, too, kiddo, but confused.”
“You still feel it, too? You aren’t just calling to wish me luck at the Apple Festival
today?”
“Luck and success,” her mother said without missing a beat. “What happened last night?
I was watching the Food Network when I felt something was wrong.”
Willow had to proceed carefully. There was no reason to upset her mother further,
not until Willow knew more. “The Sense must be overreacting. I got light-headed at
the growers’ party last night and passed out. Probably exhaustion from working so
hard to get ready for the festival. Aldo’s cousin took me home.
“Did I tell you about him? He just arrived yesterday. His name is Con and he reminds
me of Jack.” Which was the complete and honest truth. As far as she knew.
“Light-headed? Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom. It was nothing. Just the day, you know.”
Diana took a deep breath. “This Con reminds you of Jack? How?”
Willow hedged. “Oh, I don’t know. Something about his eyes and his sense of humor.”
Her mom was silent for a second. “I didn’t want to bring this up, but I have a feeling
about Jack. I can’t explain it. I don’t mean to upset you, but I feel almost as if
Jack is still alive.”
Which only confirmed Willow’s suspicions about Con and made her more determined to
get to the truth.
“Jack’s gone, Mom. He really is.”
Not.
At least, she hoped not.
Her mother didn’t know Jack had been a spy. Jack had an advanced degree in chemistry.
As his cover, he worked for the Drug Enforcement Agency, frequently being sent abroad
by the State Department to help foreign governments determine the chemical composition
of the drugs in their countries and trace their origins back to the illegal labs that
manufactured them.
The story the CIA told about Jack’s death was that he’d been on a State Department
assignment in South America. While working with officials, he’d been an innocent victim
of the drug cartel’s dangerous wars.
The U.S. Embassy had sent his remains home. Because of Jack’s military service in
Iraq and Afghanistan, they were able to match the fragments of his remains to his
military records. He was given a military funeral and buried as a hero in a military
cemetery.
Willow’s mother could never understand how her gentle, peace-loving daughter could
marry a former military man. Willow had always argued back that his military service
was in the past and Jack had the gentlest nature of any man she’d known.
“Jack never visited you before he left,” her mom said. She meant this earth for spiritual
realms.
And it was true—Jack hadn’t visited Willow and said good-bye. She’d been angry at
him about that at first. But Willow wasn’t the kind to hold a grudge. She imagined
he had his reasons. She thought the explosion might have had something to do with
it, though she couldn’t think what.
“Our men never leave without saying good-bye. Even that old cuss your dad’s father,
Grandpa Norris, woke me in the middle of the night, bounced the bed to get my attention,
sat right on the edge at my feet, and glared at me as if I were the one holding him
back.” Willow’s mother took a breath. When she got worked up she strung her words
together. Every once in a while she had to pause to breathe.
“If that old man, who never had a good word to say about me in life, could take the
time to stop by on his way out, why didn’t Jack? I know he loved you.”
Willow had no answer for her.
“The Sense isn’t wrong,” Diana said. “I can’t knock this feeling that Jack is alive.”
“I wish that were true, Mom. I really do.” Her mother had no idea how much Willow
would do and what lengths she would go to to prove Jack
was
alive.
* * *
Jack spied on Kennett’s place from a hidden location just down the road. He’d barely
slept all night, but the buzz from the thrill of the hunt kept him alert. He’d returned
to the party and networked until two. Then watched the rooster sculpture until a RIOT
courier showed up at three to pick up the drop. Jack had followed the courier to a
house in the nearby city half an hour away and reported his location to the Agency.
Then Jack had headed to Kennett’s, hoping to complete his mission. Unfortunately,
the helpful neighbors spent the night. They must have subdued Kennett’s dogs somehow.
He had a pair of vicious, well-trained Filas. The two men had left together, without
any noticeable chunks of flesh missing, a few minutes earlier.
Through his high-powered binoculars, Jack watched Kennett walk to his barn to open
for business. Kennett moved like a man who’d been recently drugged.
If not for Kennett’s helpful, conscientious neighbors, Jack could have taken Kennett
out last night and scoured his place for intel. Followed him home and given him an
IV drip of 190-proof alcohol, enough to give him alcohol poisoning resulting in death.
Jack was damn good with a needle. Barely left a mark.
Or he could have used a funnel and force-fed the bastard enough liquor to kill him.
Jack had been tempted. It was an inventive way to kill. And a trick he might try later.
Right now, he had another, cleaner plan.
Half of Aldo’s guests had staggered home drunk last night. Buzz Foster had wrapped
his Harley around a tree on his way home. And walked away. His bike hadn’t fared as
well, though. Probably totaled.
With all those drunks, the party had been the hit of the season. Aldo should thank
Jack for his addition to the hot, spiced cider. It was a bigger hit than the pesto
lasagna. For his part, Jack blessed Everclear for the loose lips it caused.
With very little prying, he’d collected good intel about his nemesis, Kennett. One
very useful tidbit was Kennett’s love of whiskey and his habit of tossing more than
a few back at Beck’s Tavern after a long day of work. Beck’s was on the highway that
ran north toward Canada.
No doubt he also met all kinds of unsavory contacts there. People had been smuggling
explosives down from British Columbia, Canada, since before the Millennium Bomber
got caught in 1999. The border crossing at Cascade, B.C., was a whole lot less secure
than the Peace Arch at Blaine, south of Vancouver. And conveniently located for Kennett
just over two hours away.
Jack looked at the curving, shot-oiled road that ran in front of Kennett’s house.
It would be nothing, really, to hide in the orchards with a rifle and high-powered
scope and wait for Kennett to come barreling home wasted one fine evening.
Jack grinned, picturing a rainy evening. That made for nice atmosphere. And slicker
roads.
He could see it now. As Kennett came around a curve, Jack would fire a kill shot into
Kennett’s skull, causing an accident that would send Kennett into the orchard and
the waiting arms of an apple tree.