Dark Sky (20 page)

“That's a lot to swallow in one mouthful.”

“Sure is. You
happen
to be a Special-Forces officer. Your very smart, very wealthy friend and neighbor in Texas
happens
to get mixed up in national security. An ex-con who has it in for me
happens
to snatch him.”

“Yes, Deputy,” Ethan said, gritting his teeth. “A lot of coincidences.”

Juliet didn't back off. “Did Ham start doing covert work, or whatever he was doing, to impress you?”

“I didn't ask him.”

“But what do you think?”

“Maybe it was a factor. I don't know. It doesn't matter. I agreed to get a team together and go rescue him. So that's what I did.” Ethan dropped his feet to the floor and stood, his face lost in the shade and the shadows. “What else do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

He stared at her, then grinned. “You don't intimidate easily, do you?”

“Were you trying to intimidate me?”

“No, but I wasn't not trying to, either.”

“I've got five big brothers. They're all tall, they're all frank—”

Ethan took both her hands into his and lowered his face to hers, his eyes flinty with intensity and a flash of humor. “I'm not your brother. In case you need reminding.”

He let her hands go and stepped back, and she took a breath and smiled at him. “Nope. No reminding necessary.”

He turned, his back to her, and looked out at the front lawn, shaded by two old sugar maples. “Mia O'Farrell gave me the tip that Ham was being held by someone who had a thing for a blond, female marshal.”

“It wasn't any more specific?”

“No. Once we had an ID, it was enough to help us find Tatro, and therefore Ham.”

“Bobby's not subtle, and he's also very good-looking. He left a trail for you and the Colombian authorities and whoever else to follow. But now you're wondering if we've all been manipulated. Even Tatro.”

“That's a big, tangled ball of twine to unravel, Juliet.”

“Right now, we don't have to. We just have to find Tatro. That's one thing I like about fugitive investigations. I get a target, and I go after it. So—did the Carhills get a ransom demand for their son's release?”

“Juliet.” Ethan looked around at her. “You're going where I can't take you.”

“I'll take that as a yes. Did they pay it?”

He sighed. “Faye—Ham's mother—says no.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I don't know.”

“How much did the kidnappers demand?”

“Five million.”

Juliet coughed. “Well, hell.”

“It's not that much to the Carhills.”

“Does Mia O'Farrell know?”

“She was never in touch with them.”

“Meaning no, she doesn't know. And presumably the Carhills didn't contact their local FBI agent. Is that how they found out about the kidnapping—from the ransom demand?”

“We didn't get that far. Faye's not one to dwell on the past. Right now, she just wants her son back home safe.”

Juliet was still on the ransom demand. “Tatro? Was he the one who called?” She ran that one through in her mind and shook her head. “I just don't see Bobby Tatro calling up the Carhills of Texas for five million. I sure as hell can't see him breaking into my apartment thinking he'd find it under my futon. But he was looking for something.”

“Maybe Ham can answer some of these questions when we find him.”

Juliet regarded Ethan with as much objectivity as she could, considering she'd slept with him twice since he'd handed her the doctored picture of herself. He wasn't spinning tales, and he wasn't holding back much, if anything. He hadn't been playing by the rules in the year since his wife's death, but that didn't mean he'd done anything unethical or illegal.

“Juliet, Ham's a romantic,” Ethan went on. “An idealist. If he thinks he did something to cause your doorman to get killed and your niece—”

“You're worried about him,” Juliet broke in.

“Yes.”

“Any reason anyone would think he's a traitor?”

“The way I see it, people don't need much of a reason to think anything.”

“These gonzo mercenary vigilantes—”

“I rousted a group of American vigilantes in Afghanistan a couple years ago. Before Char's death. If Ham got mixed up with anything like them—” Ethan's eyes darkened perceptibly. “Let's hope that's not the case.”

“All right.” Juliet rolled to her feet, realized she'd only had a couple of sips of coffee, but, after last night, she was still energized, as if every nerve ending was alive, sensitized, on alert. Ethan had an effect on her—she didn't always like it or understand it, but he definitely had an effect. “I need to head back to NewYork. I'll get Wendy up and tell her about Tatro and bring her out to the shed with Sam until Joshua gets back. I don't want her waking up to an empty house and turning on CNN.”

Ethan followed her to the door. “Ham thinks his parents wished I were their son instead of him.” He kept his voice level, but Juliet could sense the guilt he felt. “One way or another, I'm the reason he ended up using his genius-IQ for the government. He looked up to me. He wanted to be me.”

“Ethan—”

“I've made a few enemies along the way, Juliet. More than a few. If one of them decided to play Ham to get to me—”

“Then that's one very nasty person.”

“If I'd stayed home in Texas,” Ethan said quietly, “Ham Carhill would be teaching physics at MIT and working on a Nobel Prize.”

“He may yet.” Juliet took a gulp of her coffee, knowing she should regret not getting more sleep last night—but she didn't. “I don't know, Brooker. I probably shouldn't have let you into my tent last night, knowing you were pals with one of the richest families in the country.” She tossed the rest of her coffee over the porch rail into the grass. “You and the Carhills don't buy five-pound cans of coffee on sale, do you?”

“Juliet—”

“We'll find your friend, Ethan.”

“Ham's brilliant, but I never pictured him getting mixed up in anything involving national security. I want to help him. That's all.”

She pointed her coffee mug at him, trying to dissipate some of his seriousness, his guilt. “What you want to do, Brooker, is not meddle in a federal investigation. Bobby Tatro's a federal fugitive. You hold back vital information, someone's going to toss your ass into jail.”

He smiled at her suddenly, catching her off guard with the spark in his black eyes. “Do you ever mince words?”

She smiled back. “That
was
mincing words.”

She led the way up the narrow, steep stairs and knocked on the door to her niece's corner bedroom. “Wendy? Time to get up.” Juliet waited a moment, and when there was no answer, banged on the door. “I'm leaving for NewYork in a few minutes. I need to talk to you.”

Again, no response. Ethan tried the knob. “It's locked.”

“What? She never locks her door—” Inexplicably worried, Juliet gave it a kick. “Wendy!”

“She could have on headphones—”

But Juliet leaned her shoulder against the door and put all her weight into a single, hard push, springing it open.

Wendy's bed was unmade, torn pieces of paper were scattered on the floor. Lace curtains—her mother's addition after the boys had moved out—fluttered in the window.

There was no sign of her niece.

Juliet spun around at Ethan. “Where is she?”

He picked up a sheet of paper off her window seat, gave it a quick glance, then handed it to her. Juliet recognized Wendy's neat handwriting.

“She's seventeen,” Ethan said, as if that explained everything.

“What'd she do, melt through the walls? Her door was locked from the
inside.
” But she noticed the closet door, half open, and groaned, knowing exactly what her niece had done. “Ah, hell. She went through the trap door.”

Juliet marched to the closet and ripped the door all the way open, Ethan looking over her shoulder as she pointed at the trap door in the ceiling. “Wish I'd had one of those when I was growing up,” he said.

“Joshua and Sam shared this room. They used to sneak out when they were kids. They took out the hanging rod and put up hooks and shelves.” She noticed the clothes on the floor, the scattered books and magazines. “Wendy's not as tall as they were. She must have climbed up the shelves.”

“The trap door leads to the attic?”

“It's more like a crawl space. My brothers locked me up there once—they didn't think I'd have the guts to go out the window. It drops onto the back porch. It was nightfall before the little bastards realized I'd escaped.”

“Bet you had pigtails then.”

Juliet sighed, backing up from the door. “I'll go find Sam. I haven't seen him yet this morning, but if he saw her sneaking out the attic window, he'd have stopped her. For all we know, she's sitting in the shade, reading a book.”

“What about her father?”

“If Sam hasn't seen her, then I'll call Joshua.” She grimaced, heading back out into the hall. “It won't be easy telling him Wendy took off again.”

M
ia stirred but didn't open her eyes. She breathed. No pain, no nausea. She resisted the temptation to move. She wanted to get her bearings first. She was facedown on some kind of wood floor, blindfolded, gagged, her feet bound, her hands still cuffed behind her.

She thought she heard birds.

An owl, maybe?

Where am I?

She remembered her father kneeling at her bed with her, clasping his hands on her pink bedspread as they said the “Hail Mary” together. Whenever she prayed, it was his voice she heard along with hers, not that of the priests, the nuns.
“I'm a rough man, Mia. I swear too much, I drink too much. But I pray every day for strength and guidance.”

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been to Mass.

Her head throbbed, and her mouth had a funny taste. She desperately wanted water.

And she was cold. As she focused on her surroundings, she realized the floor had thick splinters, and she could feel cold air coming up through the cracks and gaps in the boards.

With a surge that was almost painful, she remembered the late-night call, the SUV, the foul-breathed man pouring water into her mouth. The kicks and slaps. No wonder she was so stiff.

Where had he—they—taken her? Had he handed her off to someone else?

They'd changed vehicles—or had she imagined it?

She couldn't be in Colombia. It was too cold.

“You're prettier than I thought you'd be.” The man's voice. Had he been there all along? “Say thank you.”

How could she when she was gagged?

She felt fingers on her face, and the gag was yanked down to her chin. “Now say thank you. Don't bother screaming. No one will hear you.”

“Where—” She was parched, and her lips were chapped and split when she opened her mouth to speak. She shuddered in pain. “Where am I?”

“I didn't hear you say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you for what?”

“Thank you for saying I'm pretty.”

“Prettier than I thought you'd be. There's a difference.”

She said nothing.
God, help me.

“Where are my emeralds?”

“What?”

He slapped her across the left side of her face, sending her backward against her bound hands. Pain shot through her from the unnatural position. “Don't play dumb, Dr. O'Farrell. It doesn't suit you. You know what happened to them. It's your job to know these things.” He got close to her. “I want my fucking emeralds.”

She rolled onto her side, taking the pressure off her hands, and thought she smelled damp earth.

Bobby Tatro.

He was her captor. Somehow, he was out of jail. Somehow, he'd found her, taken her to this place.

I'm not getting out of here alive.

She coughed, tried not to think about the pain. “You kidnapped Ham Carhill for emeralds?”

“A half-million dollars' worth of emeralds. If you want to give me cash, I'll take it.” He was sarcastic, sneering. “You shouldn't have double-crossed me.”

“A half million? That's all you got?” She couldn't hide her surprise. The Carhills were worth over a billion. Ham was their only son. Why ask for only half a million? Unless the emeralds hadn't come from the Carhills. “Who gave you the emeralds? Was it your take—”

“Shut up.”

But from his split-second's hesitation, Mia realized that Tatro didn't really know.

“You're a Washington insider,” he went on. “You play games for a living. Don't think you can fuck with my head.”

“I'm just trying to understand what's going on.” She was so tired, and her head was spinning—but trying to put the pieces of her ordeal together kept her from focusing on her pain and fear. “How did you know about me? How did you find me in New York?”

He kicked her in the ribs, and she cried out, almost vomiting with the agony. He moved in closer to her. “You don't need to understand anything. Just tell me where my emeralds are. You don't want me to turn you over to my friend. He knows how to run an interrogation.”

Mia was gulping in air, on the verge of hyperventilating, but she forced herself to stop, get control of herself.
Think.
She tried to lick her lips, but her tongue was parched. “I need water. Please.”

“That's better.” He seemed to enjoy having her plead with him. “Sit up.”

He didn't help her as she struggled to a sitting position, fighting pain, nausea, fear. Her shoulders ached constantly from how far he'd yanked them back to cuff her wrists, and she could feel the bounds cutting into her ankles. The blindfold was disorienting but not painful. She didn't know if it was night or day.

“Two sips. I don't want to clean you up after you pee in your pants.”

He was sadistic, she realized. He enjoyed watching her suffer. She took the two sips, not caring if the water was drugged—she'd almost prefer unconsciousness to this misery and fear.

“That's a girl.”

He replaced her gag, and in another few seconds, she heard a door creak.

Alone in the dark, she curled up into a fetal position. She had to get free. If she didn't, he'd kill her. It didn't matter if she could or couldn't lead him to the emeralds. She was dead.

Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art Thou amongst women…

Comforted, she was able to relax her muscles, and to think.

 

Wendy dropped behind a huge granite boulder that was half in the lake, half out, and sat in damp, rotting pine needles. She could taste their acid mustiness. The boulder was in the woods along the clearing where Juliet had pitched her tent, still on her land. Wendy's jog through the woods down to the lake had sounded thunderous to her—every crunch of leaves and twigs, every gulp of air, seemed magnified, threatening to alert anyone within miles to her whereabouts.

Which would have been okay, but she really wanted to be alone.

Her heart was racing, thumping hard in her chest, but just from exertion, she thought, not fear—not like Friday with Bobby Tatro. She'd accomplished her first goal of getting out of the house and away from her dad and her aunt and everyone. She couldn't believe her dad had come at the crack of dawn and slept on the couch. She was up early and halfway down the stairs when she saw him, and she tiptoed right back up to her room. His overprotectiveness was going to drive her crazy.

Matt was right. She needed to scatter Teddy's ashes and let him rest in peace. It would help with her sense of restlessness and failure, her guilt over Juan. No matter who he was, no one deserved to be murdered.

She'd crawled up into the attic and out the window while her aunt and her dad and that army guy were out in the driveway. Wendy didn't like Ethan Brooker being in Vermont. She'd seen him arrive last night. She'd finally warmed up after going out after the turkeys. She didn't recognize him at first—she'd met him only briefly in New York. But after he left, she checked with her uncle Paul, and he told her who he was, said not to worry and sent her back inside before she froze.

She didn't want to think about how nuts they'd all be if they found her gone. She planned to be back before that happened. She'd decided it was her responsibility to find a place to scatter Teddy's ashes. He was
her
dog, and she'd wanted his burial to be just between the two of them. So far, she'd made it to the lake without being seen.

Uncertain about what to do next, Wendy watched freshly fallen yellow birch leaves floating on the water, and her eyes teared up as she imagined sprinkling Teddy's ashes on the lake, watching them disappear. She let herself take in the play of sunlight burning through the last of the morning fog, bright golden rays catching the stunning fall foliage. Although her cousins, who weren't homeschooled or only children, whose parents weren't divorced, didn't give her credit for knowing
anything
practical, she knew her way around the lake.

She didn't want to scatter Teddy's ashes just anywhere. It had to be the perfect spot. She wasn't going to rush her decision. If her dad or aunt got suspicious and beat down her door, her note should keep them from going totally nuts and bringing in search dogs or anything, even if they wouldn't understand. Wendy knew she could tell her dad about her mission, but she didn't want to—her sentimentality embarrassed her.

And the truth was, she didn't want her father to help her scatter Teddy's ashes. It was for her to do, on her own.

Feeling reenergized, she set the tin on top of the boulder, on a flat, shady spot where it wouldn't fall. She'd leave it there until she'd picked out Teddy's final resting place. She was so afraid of tripping on a tree root or something and dropping the tin, having the ashes dump out in the ferns or dead pine needles.

The spring.

She smiled, remembering it was one of Teddy's favorite spots on the lake.

Ducking under a low hemlock branch, Wendy pushed through ferns until she came to a narrow path that would take her through the woods to the spring. The nature preserve had made a sign for it and carved out a little picnic area on the lakeshore, where hikers and paddlers could take a break, before or after hiking the hundred yards back up another path to the spring to refill their water bottles.

On a happier day, Wendy thought, she'd sit and watch the ducks that were often there, and dip her toes into the water. Teddy would come with her sometimes, and he'd leap off the rocks into the water. She pictured him paddling like mad, his tongue wagging. He'd scare the ducks, but he never meant to.

Maybe that was where she'd scatter his ashes.

 

As he dipped his paddle into the soft lake water, Ham felt almost like a normal tourist. He'd stopped at a wilderness outfitter, whose name and address he'd spotted in his Vermont guidebook, and found out about the small lake and the nature preserve out by Longstreet Landscaping. He'd had to be direct with some of his questions. No way around it. With Tatro's escape in all the news, he wanted to get on with finding Deputy Longstreet and talking to her.

But everyone seemed to know she was involved in Tatro's arrest, and what he'd done to her niece, and Ham didn't want to attract attention to himself. He decided to rent a kayak—prove that his interest in the same lake where Deputy Longstreet owned land was purely coincidental, and all he wanted to do was to spend the day on a quiet lake that didn't allow motor-operated watercraft.

He'd had to rent a roof carrier, too. He headed out to the nature preserve, alert for any sign of Deputy Longstreet's campsite as he drove up the dead-end dirt road. He passed a small lake house, a cabin up on a hill on the other side of the road, then, back on the same side of the lake, a sign for a spring, a rustic old barn, another lake house, and, finally, the turnaround he'd read about in his guidebook, where he could leave his car and launch his kayak.

He hoped he'd be able to see the marshal's campsite from the water.

The autumn scenery was breathtaking, and Ham was able to lose himself in the peace of a solitary paddle in an isolated Vermont lake. This was where he should have come to restore body and soul, he thought, not home to Texas, not into the middle of all the secrets he and his parents kept from one another.

The long, slender kayak was easy to maneuver, tracked well, forgiving of his lack of physical conditioning. But there was no wind, just a bit of fog to contend with, and it was dissipating fast. Ham paddled through a thick patch that hovered in the middle of the lake. When he came out of it, he was just ten yards from shore.

A girl was standing under a giant pine tree on a narrow, rocky point, mouth agape as she stared at him as if he'd just emerged from a cloud of doom, the devil himself.

Ham smiled and waved to her. “Good morning!” he called cheerfully, noticing another sign for the spring, this one on the lake, presumably to alert paddlers like himself. “I'm just stopping for water. That sign's right, isn't it? There's a spring here?”

At first the girl looked as if she might bolt, but then she nodded, although still tentative. “It's a short walk through the woods.”

She looked about seventeen. Ham wondered if she was the marshal's niece who'd had the run-in with Tatro. What was she doing out here alone, with that sick bastard on the loose? Didn't she know?

Ham kept smiling, paddling, feeling the strain in his shoulders. He didn't have much upper-body strength. “Great. I need to stretch my legs.” He did, too. He hadn't taken the time to adjust the seat properly, and his knees were almost up to his chin. “My name's Ham.” He didn't know what else to say, then added, lamely, “I'm here on vacation.”

The girl watched him, suspicious, as he pushed his kayak onto a muddy, grassy spot just a few yards down from her pine tree and climbed out, splashing into the water in his moccasin shoes, yelping at how cold it was. That made her smile.

He gave a small, awkward laugh. “I'm not used to Vermont lakes.” He laid the paddle across the top of the kayak's cockpit. “Ah. Sorry if I startled you.”

“That's okay. I didn't see you in the fog.”

“Are you from around here?”

She nodded.

He glanced around at the small clearing, surrounded by blueberry bushes, a simple wooden picnic table sitting in the shade of an oak tree. A pretty spot. “Would you freak out if I asked you to show me to the spring?”

“I can't. My dad's meeting me here in a few minutes. He's a state trooper. My aunt's coming with him. She's a federal marshal.”

The kid was nervous. Ham didn't blame her. He smiled. “Wow. A trooper and a marshal in the family.”

“I have another uncle who's a town police officer.”

Probably the guy at breakfast. Ham squinted at her in the bright sunlight. “Cool.”