The Firstborn (17 page)

“This is the voice mail of Morris Childs. I’m unable to answer my phone, but if you leave a message, I’ll call back as soon as possible—
beep
.”

Devin clutched the phone in his hand, dark knuckles whitening. “This is Devin Bathurst. I was supposed to meet with Henry Rice this evening.” He took a long breath and looked down at the old man. “He’s dead,” he said, voice hardening. “He’s dead, and I think someone killed him. Get out of San Antonio tonight. I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s serious and I think it’s bad. I repeat, get out now!”

He ended the call and searched through his contacts, dialing again.

“Hello?”

“Trista?”

“Devin?”

“I need to talk to Morris. Do you know where he is?”

“He’s missing, Devin. I went to his room and he’s gone. It looks like someone’s been through his things too.”

“What?”

“He’s gone!” she announced frantically over the phone. “He’s gone, and I think someone took him.”

Devin gripped the phone tighter and tighter in his hand.

He heard something and turned his head.

John Temple stood at the top of the stairs, staring down at him.

“I have to go, Trista.”

“What?”

John Temple turned around without saying a word and began to walk away.

“Get out of San Antonio—tonight. Get Henry’s granddaughter out too, if possible, but get out while you still can!”

“But Devin—”

“Do it.”

Devin snapped his phone shut and followed after John. He knew something, and Devin wanted to know too. And he would find out what that was—whatever it took.

John slipped through the crowd, fast—a speed walk, moving through the people and the chairs and the tables as fast as a walk would take him.

Did he really just see Henry Rice, dead? And Devin? Could he have killed him? Why?

He was so blind. It was Overseer. Henry was an opponent, everyone knew that, and Devin had been the one to rescue his granddaughter. It was a setup to earn the old man’s trust—to put himself in a position to place pressure, and when things had gone wrong he’d lashed out.

And killed him.

But it didn’t make sense. Devin wasn’t the kind to be given to crimes of passion—or any kind of passion for that matter. He was cold, calculated, and at moments brutal.

And he was following; John could feel it.

It didn’t matter now. He didn’t want to be alone with Devin Bathurst—not when there was already a dead body involved.

Devin sliced through the crowd, moving expertly, stepping to the left, dodging to the right. He was gaining on his quarry.

Ahead someone stepped in front of John, and it slowed him. Devin capitalized on the moment, surging forward while maintaining a casual pace.

He was close now. Close enough to surge forward and grab his prey, but not yet.

The moment wasn’t right. He had to wait until there were no witnesses—

Then he’d grab him.

And it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

John could feel Devin drawing closer—a menacing jungle cat stalking its prey.

The police, he thought, he had to reach police. They would protect him for the moment—he hoped.

Up ahead, a close-knit couple held hands, giggled, and traded pecks as they waited at a bank of elevators that led to the street level. The elevator doors opened—

That was his exit.

The petting couple stepped into the elevator and she leaned into him, sharing an intimate moment. He pressed a button and the doors started to close—

John slid to a stop, hitting the button.

Too late—the doors were shut. He moved forward again, turning a corner—

He ran for several moments, then stopped.

A long, dark walkway stretched out in front of him.

No people. No lights—just water and sidewalk.

John turned around.

Devin.

The dark man stood in a dark suit, a silhouette against the glittering lights beyond. A shade in the night, his red tie hanging from his neck like a stripe of blood, fists clenched.

John ran.

Hannah huddled in the corner of her hotel room, eyes fixed on the bolt that locked the latch in place. The lights were all turned out and the curtains pulled. She heard footsteps down the hall and shrank.

How could this have anything to do with God’s plans? Distrust, violence, conspiracy? None of this could possibly be God’s will. And she was part of it? It couldn’t be true. She had plans for her life—this wasn’t among them. She didn’t want to be part of this—there were things she had dreamed of and planned and perfected in her mind since she was young.

This was not among her plans.

The footsteps outside slowed, moving closer to her door. At the bottom of the door was a gap between the wood and the carpet, a slender ray of light illuminating the breach. Another footstep, and a long, dark shadow fell across the slice of light, obstructing her view into the world beyond.

The footsteps stopped—directly outside of her door.

She held her breath, not wanting to betray any chance that the room had an occupant worth coming for.

Then the steps resumed and the shadow moved.

Hannah let a small sigh loose from her lungs, then shrieked. The room phone—ringing. She caught her breath and lashed out at the receiver, ripping it from its cradle.

“Hello?” she stammered.

“Get out of San Antonio—tonight.” The voice was distorted, mechanized.

“What? Who is this?”

“Morris Childs is missing and your grandfather is dead.”

“What?” she said again, incredulous. “This isn’t funny.”

“Get out,” the voice said ominously, “while you still can.”

“Who—?”

Click.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Alone.

The sound of Devin’s leather shoes snapped off the cement walls as he chased after John.

Hands flat like blades, pumping back and forth, chest out, back straight, his feet punching up and down like pistons as the gap slowly but steadily melted between them.

John cut to the right, up a set of steps, and Devin followed, driving up the steps in threes.

Breathing in. Breathing out.

To his left he caught the sight of the old gothic cathedral rising from the ground: the Cathedral of San Fernando, lit from the base like a picture of Frankenstein’s monster.

His chase continued. Steady, calculated—enduring.

John would tire soon—and then he’d have him.

John’s lungs burned. His legs ached. His body rebelled.

Behind him he could feel Devin coming down on him—like a menacing jungle cat—bleeding off a swell of wrath and anger that John could feel almost palpably. He ran along the street as fast as he could—and saw it ahead—

—the Alamo.

The last stand of others—a last stand for himself. Maybe.

It was a federally protected park, and there would be park rangers nearby to make sure that there weren’t any repeats of other disasters that had happened at the Alamo after hours. He had to find one. It was his only chance.

He cut across the street, stepping in front of an SUV. A horn shrieked at him, lights stabbing at his eyes as he looked to the side. He didn’t stop. John leaped onto a short wall—some kind of monument—then dashed toward the old mission.

It was small—much smaller than he’d expected from pictures he’d seen.

There were no guards. What was wrong?

He leaped onto the curb, but his foot caught—and he tumbled.

Exhausted, he tried to push himself up but couldn’t.

He saw Bathurst approach, slowly, confidently, hands swinging leisurely at his sides. He stopped just short of John and straightened his tie.

Devin stared down at him—then offered a hand. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his tone cryptic.

John stood, dusting himself off. “You’re not going to hurt me?”

Devin’s eyes narrowed. “Why did you run?”

“Why did you chase me?”

Devin reached out, grabbing John by the bicep, squeezing hard. “Come with me.”