Hostage (3 page)

“Shots. Uh-huh. Those would have been him shooting at me, and me . . . returning fire. I wasn’t supposed to shoot him, so . . . I didn’t try to hit him. He didn’t . . . grant me . . . the same . . . courtesy.” He shook his head to try to clear his vision. “Jesus, you’re tall.”

A sigh misted in the air in front of the face he still couldn’t make out, and she lowered the shotgun until the barrels pointed downward. “No,
you’re
tall. And heavy. And it’s going to be a bitch getting you back to my place.”

“Are we going to your place? That . . . sounds like . . . a plan.”

“A plan that would work better if you didn’t pass out along the way.”

“Me? Pass out? Nah, I’m . . . fine. Just need to rest a little . . . while. And . . . I’ll be . . . good as . . . new.”

She bent toward him, and he tried really hard to see her face. But all he caught was the almost eerie gleam of her eyes.

You’ve got a ways to go before you’re as good as new, pal.

It was the last thing he remembered, wondering if that had been his thought—or hers.

TWO

Haven

“Bishop.”

“You’re on speaker,” Maggie told him. “I’m here with John. Sorry to call so late. Although I have no idea whether it’s late where you are.”

Being Bishop, he didn’t answer the implied question. “Let me guess. One of your operatives hasn’t checked in.”

Maggie exchanged looks with her husband. “That didn’t sound like a guess,” she said. “You have an agent in Tennessee?”

“For a while now.”

This time, it was John who said, “Agent Nash led us to believe his escaped fugitive was a . . . recent problem.”

“Probably was recent, to him.” Noah Bishop, chief of the Special Crimes Unit, sounded as calm as usual. “The problem part, I mean. Cole Jacoby was officially in custody and halfway across Virginia two weeks ago. Neither of the agents responsible for him could quite explain how he managed to slip his leash. In fact, they had a number of unexplained gaps in their memories. Lengthy gaps.”

“Both of them?” Maggie asked. “Both missing the same memories?”

“The same time gaps, at least. No physical injuries, and nothing showed up on the medical tests, including any signs of drugs or other known toxins. But they’re experienced agents, and they’d never lost a prisoner during a transfer before Jacoby.”

“SCU?” Maggie asked the question even knowing the answer.

“No. We wouldn’t oversee or be part of the transfer of a prisoner unless he was psychic—and we knew it.”

“I’m liking this less and less,” John said. “You suspect Jacoby is psychic? That’s why you sent an agent to Tennessee?”

“By some means we don’t yet understand, the memories of two experienced agents were . . . tampered with. The vehicle was clean, no sign it was bumped or run off the road or otherwise stopped. All the prints inside and on the doors belonged to the agents or the prisoner, which is pretty strong evidence no one else was involved. And yet at some point during what should have been a routine prisoner transfer, with their prisoner safely cuffed in the backseat, two experienced agents lost that prisoner—and a chunk of time. Someone or something was responsible for that. If it was Jacoby, I need to know how he managed it.”

Maggie spoke slowly. “Because we don’t have an agent or operative capable of manipulating memories or imposing their will on others, not psychically.”

“Exactly.”

“How did you place him in Tennessee?” John wanted to know. “Was Nash straight about that?”

“The manhunt was already under way when I was officially notified about it,” Bishop said, without commenting on the second question. “Standard operating procedure, since we were expecting him. And the only thing that stuck out a bit about this particular fugitive was that he didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry, lingering in the general area where he escaped, around Arlington, long enough to be spotted more than once, always in a different car. And then there’s the dogs.”

Maggie and John exchanged looks, and she was the one who asked, “Dogs?”

“Yeah. The last time we believe he was spotted, the witness swore he had at least three large dogs in the car with him. It was only after that, that he picked up his pace and left the area, neatly avoiding checkpoints or any law enforcement contact despite the BOLO out on him. He ditched cars a couple more times, and despite his countermeasure of removing or destroying any GPS units, the cars were found with relative speed and ease. And forensics did find dog hair as well as his prints and DNA in the abandoned cars.”

“Not exactly worried about being nailed for grand theft auto,” John mused. “Or escaping custody.”

“If he does have a ten-million-dollar stash from his last heist, probably not.”

Maggie asked, “Do we know where he got the dogs?”

“An informant who shared a prison cell with him for a short time claims he talked almost continually about his dogs, dogs he raised from pups. Said he had a trusted pal on the outside taking care of them until he got out. So far, we haven’t been able to identify said pal, though he must have been within the area where Jacoby spent the most time after his escape and before he finally took off.” Bishop paused a moment, then added dryly, “My guess is that once he was paid for looking after the dogs, and undoubtedly paid well, he headed straight for an island somewhere with no extradition with the U.S., there to live happily ever after.”

“Do people still do that?” Maggie wondered aloud, but absently.

“I like to hope so,” Bishop responded.

John kept them on track. “But Jacoby took the time to get his dogs. Even knowing every law enforcement agency in the East had to be looking for him. And then he headed for the mountains.”

“So it appears. Despite changing cars a couple more times, Jacoby was traced as far as the Tennessee state line. No reports in the area of a stolen car, no dealer in the area has any record of selling a car to him. And the shady dealers were all under close observation
because
we had an escaped felon in the area. I doubt he went anywhere near them. The feeling was, he planned ahead, and planned well. He must have had a vehicle stashed and waiting for him, possibly courtesy of the same friend who kept his dogs for him while he was locked up. The vehicle had to be a Jeep or truck, maybe even a Humvee, definitely a serious four-wheel-drive. Fully gassed up and ready to go. Tracking dogs followed a trail through rough terrain to an old logging road headed up into the mountains, then lost the scent.”

John said, “I gather the road was explored.”

“For about a mile. Until it was blocked by several trees. Big trees, felled recently by hand, not by nature. Exploring on foot farther in, the search team found more trees blocking the way, a road growing less and less worthy of the name, and terrain so rough the rangers claimed only highly experienced and very athletic hikers could keep going.”

“No sign of his vehicle, though.”

“No sign.”

“Decoy?”

“Maybe. Maybe he created a diversion and took another path into the mountains. In any case, as per procedure, that’s when the nearest field office would have been notified.”

“Nash,” John said. “Was he told what you suspected?” Like Maggie, he asked a question already knowing the answer.

“No. The official report listed Jacoby as an escaped felon, a bank robber possibly armed. Which is true—as far as it goes. He’s suspected of half a dozen fairly minor heists in the last ten years or so, but was never charged for lack of evidence. He was known to use a gun, but had never to our knowledge harmed anyone, or even fired the gun. But this heist was different. One, he was—rather uncharacteristically—caught on camera and easily identified. And two, the fact that he’d stolen ten million dollars still unaccounted for made him a very valuable fugitive indeed.”

John mused, “Must have been some bank if they had ten million on hand.”

“Yes,” Bishop said. “As it happened, this bank was a hub for other banks and for various investment firms. Nine-tenths of that money was scheduled to be transferred to a Federal Reserve bank the day following that of the robbery.”

Still musing, John said, “And Jacoby just happened to hit it on the right day.” It was a question.

“The theory is, he had someone on the inside. Investigation of that possibility is ongoing.”

“You don’t believe it.”

“No. Not the way Jacoby works. Which begs the question . . .”

“How did he know so much money would be there?” John finished.

“He has some computer skills. Never known as a hacker, but maybe he didn’t waste his time inside. That money should have been protected by layers of electronic security, but nothing’s foolproof and we all know security is usually at best an illusion; if someone wants in badly enough, and has the skills, they get in.”

Realizing, Maggie said, “That’s the kind of skill even more valuable than bank robbery itself. Skill the law enforcement community would want to understand. And he wouldn’t give up easily. They were bringing him to you for questioning?”

“To the SCU, and, yes, because traditional means of interrogation had netted them exactly nothing. Normally, we would have gone to him for the interview, but he was being transferred near here because he’d been making noises about trading the location of the money for a reduced sentence and better accommodations. Nobody really wanted to make that deal, but judging by the security video evidence and as far as we could otherwise determine, Jacoby hadn’t worked with a partner who might have talked, assuming we were able to locate him or her. The investigation into the robbery had turned up zip for leads, so he was and is still our only link to the money.”

Bothered, Maggie said, “If he could manipulate someone else’s mind, I’m surprised he didn’t try it sooner.”

“He may have tried,” Bishop reminded her. “And failed. Or succeeded in some way we haven’t discovered yet. That may well have been the way he was able to choose the right bank on the right day. And that could have been his first measurable success. We have no way of knowing for sure. If there’s anything our experiences have taught us, it’s that even with training and practice many of us can control our abilities only erratically.”

Practically, John said, “Or maybe he just bided his time and used what leverage he had to manipulate the situation until the odds were more in his favor; he was alone with only a couple of agents and had a better chance of escaping.”

“Maybe so,” Bishop agreed. “In any case, he escaped. He didn’t make the Ten Most Wanted list because he’s not believed to be a violent criminal, but recapturing him could go a long way toward promoting an agent stuck in a backwater field office.”

“Which,” John said, “explains why Nash called us instead of the SCU. We don’t need or want the public credit for that sort of success, but if another agent or unit within the FBI did the work, it would certainly be known inside the bureau.”

“Yes,” Bishop said.

Maggie said, “And since you’ve been your usual secretive self, it wouldn’t be in any of the reports or alerts that you suspected Jacoby of being psychic.”

Dryly, Bishop said, “I generally keep suspicion of possible psychic activity out of reports unless and until I’m certain. And sometimes even then. There are, after all, still some in—and out of—the bureau who refer to us as the Spooky Crimes Unit.”

“You knew it’d be an uphill battle for respect,” John reminded him with a trace of amusement.

“Yeah. And a long one. In any case, the case paperwork on Nash, the reports and stats on his crimes and on him as an escaped felon, contain nothing indicating any interest from the SCU.”

“Yet you have an agent in Tennessee.”

“We had reason to believe he’d head in that direction.”

“Before he escaped?” Maggie asked curiously.

“When he escaped. Almost immediately,” Bishop replied, unusually forthcoming with information. Maggie frowned slightly.

“He headed into a wilderness,” John reminded, in the patient tone of one accustomed to dealing with the SCU’s infamously enigmatic chief. “Into a state our information has him with absolutely no connection to. No family, no friends, no past job, nothing. Far as any discoverable records go, he never set foot in the state before. And you managed to place an agent close to where he’d eventually settle?”

“Within five miles, I believe. Possibly even closer. And we’re reasonably sure he’s hidden out in that general area before.”

“Information not worth sharing?” John’s voice remained patient, even as his wife smiled at him wryly.

“Not until now. Your operative needed to be there. Even more, he needed to locate Jacoby himself, at least initially.”

“Some things have to happen just the way they happen,” Maggie said.

“Yes.”

“Life lesson or psychic lesson?” John asked, honestly curious.

“Six of one.” Briskly, Bishop continued, “I have an agent in place with an excellent cover story that can be maintained almost indefinitely if necessary. An agent with specific instructions to observe for a time sufficient to reveal anything unusual, and then report back so that we’ll know before he’s officially approached by non-SCU law enforcement agents whether Cole Jacoby has any psychic ability.”

“And if he does?” John asked slowly. “If he has enough psychic ability to affect your agent?”

Imperturbable, Bishop replied, “Then he’ll be a very, very special psychic indeed. And Nash will be stuck in that field office awhile longer.”

“Because Jacoby will become an SCU target.”

“He’s already an SCU target. We just aren’t sure—yet—what sort of threat he might pose, how much manpower it’ll take to get him, and whether we need to intervene officially or leave it to Nash and his people. The initial readings on Jacoby were . . . indeterminate.”

“Is that as unusual as it sounds?” John wanted to know.

“It’s troubling,” Bishop admitted. “Getting away from the agents transporting him, and then making it into a wilderness where it was virtually impossible to follow him, took careful planning and considerable cool-headed reasoning, but since then his observed actions have been erratic. To say the least.”

“Erratic how?”

“Let’s just say he hasn’t been very welcoming even to innocent game hunters just passing by his place. He’s called attention to himself, which I would have guessed isn’t part of his original plan. Locals are talking about him. And insular though they may be, nobody wants a dangerous armed stranger up on the mountain near their town.”

“Local law enforcement?” John asked.

“Not moved to intervene, so far. But that could change.” Bishop paused, then added, “Wherever he hid his stash, it isn’t where he is now, or at least we don’t believe it is. And yet he’s become aggressively protective of the remote cabin he rented up in the mountains.”

John and Maggie exchanged glances, both silently hearing the admission that whether he had known before sending his agent, Bishop most certainly knew now
exactly
where Cole Jacoby was staying. But neither of them commented on that.

“He is a wanted fugitive,” Maggie pointed out. “I’d expect him to be protective of his location.”

“Protective in very specific ways,” Bishop said without saying much of anything at all.