Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) (32 page)

Kit left the Curtises' house when the text came in at 9:53 p.m.: “Lost him.”

Lost him? How could they have?

As soon as she got to her vehicle, Kit called Chris.

“There was nothing we could do!” he said, clearly frustrated.

“Where are you now?”

“At the offsite.”

“You haven't heard from David?”

“No. And we can't track him either. Lopez took his phone.”

Kit's brain whirred frantically. What could she do?

Pray. That's all.
God, you know where he is. Protect him, because I can't
.

In the darkness, images flashed through her mind. Emergency lights. A body. Blood. Bob. Had Connie prayed for God to protect her husband on that last night? To what end?

She refocused on the roads. Suddenly nothing looked familiar. Had she taken a wrong turn? In the short range of her headlights, what could she see? Trees. Fields. Little gleaming eyes. And not much else.

She wished she'd brought her GPS. That would have been smart. She thought about calling Chris for directions, but where was she? She peered into the darkness ahead, searching for something, anything that would orient her.

A sign indicated a sharp curve and a one-lane bridge ahead. This was bad. She knew she hadn't crossed any small bridges on the drive out. Kit slowed down, preparing for the curve and just as she was about to pull right, a Mercedes came racing from the other direction, taking his half of the road out of the middle.

Kit yelled. She pulled her Bureau sedan as far right as possible. The Mercedes roared past.

Was it the same guy she'd seen before? Kit was half-tempted to follow him. But ahead she could see a green road sign and she wanted to see what it said, so she kept on.

“Bodine Road.” Kit read the sign out loud. “Where does that go?” She turned right, accelerated up a hill, and crested it. Below her, she could see the road emerge from the woods and run through a large field. One sharp, right-angle turn lay between here and there.

Kit pulled out her cell phone and glanced down. She had no cell signal. Nothing. Not one bar. And with a sinking feeling, she realized she couldn't call for help even if she wanted to. Maybe David couldn't either. “Oh, God!” she whispered. A sense of total helplessness washed over her.

She negotiated the turn, and was straightening out when she saw headlights coming toward her. With no centerline on the road, and no white sidelines, staying in the lane was difficult. She stayed as far right as she could, but whatever was coming toward her was big and not shy about taking more than his share of the road. She flicked her lights as the vehicle approached, and felt her tires touch the gravel shoulder at the same instant that her headlights caught the faces of the men in the truck.

David sat in the passenger seat. His face was rigid. And his shirt was bloody.

There was no place to turn around. Kit sped up until she saw the graveled entrance to the field. She slammed on her brakes, did a quick U-turn, and floored it. The truck had already disappeared into the wooded area. Kit raced after him, checking her cell phone as she drove, and again seeing no bars.

Where Bodine Road crossed the road she'd been on originally, she had to make a decision. Left, right, or straight?

She decided to retrace her steps. Maybe the Mercedes she'd seen was connected to the truck. She took the road as fast as she dared, her heart racing.

Three turns later, she saw David's Jeep pulling out of the tomato processing plant. Well ahead of him, Hector's white
truck continued on. She dropped back, in case Hector was watching. Fumbling for her cell phone, she tried dialing David's number, realized she was using her Bureau phone, hung up, and watched as David made a turn, drove up a hill, and pulled into the parking lot of the abandoned church, the one they'd used before.

Turning off her lights, Kit pulled in next to him, jumped out of the car, and raced toward him. “What happened?” she said.

David sat in the driver's seat, his door open, one leg out of the car. Blood flowed from his nose and he had his arms crossed in front of him, holding his ribs. He looked at her, closed his eyes, and said, “It's all right. I just can't drive anymore.”

Kit helped David into her car and drove to the offsite. She pulled around back and Chris and Roger came out to help her get David in the building. “Get me some ice,” he mumbled as he sat down on a cot.

“Some water, too,” Kit called out. “Where is there a doctor around here?”

“I don't need one.” David shook his head firmly. “The guy's name is Carlos Cienfuegos.”

“That fits,” Kit said, turning to Chris. “That's one of Curtis's contractors.”

“He was the dude in that picture with Maria in the truck,” David said. He began coughing. He grabbed his ribs, grimacing in pain. “He wants me to do a transport for him tomorrow night. Drugs, I think.”

Kit suddenly felt hot.

“Think he needs a medic?” Roger asked.

“No, he doesn't,” David said.

Kit rolled her eyes. She looked at Chris. “We can't let this happen again.”

“No,” he agreed.

“Would you contact the night duty agent in Norfolk? Get him on Carlos Cienfuegos. Everything we can get on him.”

“Right,” Chris responded. “But let me check David first. My parents were doctors, remember? I learned some stuff. Plus, I was certified as an EMT.”

Kit stood by while Chris palpated David's ribs, checked his cheekbones and nose, and looked into his eyes with a flashlight. “He's just roughed up. I think he'll be all right.”

“We should have him checked in an ER,” Kit said.

“No,” David insisted.

Kit rolled her eyes.

“I don't see signs of a concussion and I don't think the ribs are broken,” Chris said. “I think if we just watch him he'll be OK.”

“I agree,” David said.

So Kit got David some ibuprofen, then she sent a couple of troopers to get David's car. “The key is on the top of the back tire on the passenger side,” Kit said. “Take it to his motel room and leave the car there. Then come back here with the key. Make sure no one sees you.”

David stretched out on the cot. He looked asleep, so Kit joined Chris, Jason, and Roger in the other room.

“These guys are smart,” Chris said. “Moving to a different location was designed to thwart any law enforcement that was watching, as well as put David off balance. Taking his cell phone was the topper.”

“The thing is,” Kit said, “some of those areas out in the country don't have decent cell phone coverage. So our plan might not have helped him anyway.”

Chris nodded. “Look, somebody needs to be with him. I'll stay here . . .”

“No, I'll stay.” Kit couldn't catch the words before they emerged from her mouth. “You make that call to the night duty agent, OK? See what we can find out about Carlos Cienfuegos.”

Her words were forceful enough that Chris complied.

Kit curled up on the couch in the offsite. In the background she could hear Chris talking to Norfolk. She set her watch for an hour so she could check on David. But her thoughts wouldn't let her rest anyway. There were only eighteen hours before his next encounter with Carlos Cienfuegos and Hector Lopez. How could they protect him?

Kit slept fitfully, her rest interrupted by dreams filled with sound and light and frustration and a stark, black fear. She woke up to the smell of coffee just before 7:00 a.m. Alarmed, then curious, she walked back toward the small kitchen area they'd set up. David was standing in front of a mirror with his shirt up, looking at the bruises on his ribs.

When he saw Kit behind him, David dropped his shirt and turned around. The black and blue bruise on his face ran from the bridge of his nose, down across his right cheek. “This is nothing,” he said. “I got beat up a lot worse than this when I played football. Of course, I was sixteen then.”

Kit was used to physicality. And aggressive men. They came with the job. Still, something in her trembled at the sight of him. Without responding, she turned, walked over to the coffee, and poured a cup. “You want some?” she called out.

“Sure.”

“Thanks for making it.” Her voice caught.

“No problem.” David sat down at the table. “What's wrong?”

Kit put the coffee in front of him and sat down. “We need to debrief,” she said, without looking at him.

“Something else.”

She shook her head. “It's nothing.”

“Don't give me that.” He grinned and put his mug of coffee to his mouth. “Let me guess,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You are upset because I got hurt last night.”

“Our job was to protect you.”

“I was in danger, and that has you shook up.”

“Our backup failed.”

“You weren't in control.”

“I'm responsible for you!”

“It's more than that.”

Kit stood up, her face hot. What was he thinking? “You are so arrogant!”

David laughed. “And I am so right!”

She stared at him incredulously. Her heart was pounding.

David stood up. His smile faded. “Look, Kit. I'm sorry for playing with you.” He took two steps away and turned back toward her. “Last night, I knew I was in trouble. And all I could think about was . . . was never getting the chance to really know you.” David ran his hand through his hair. “Life is short. I don't want to miss something that could be really good. And I'm hoping, and praying, that one day, when this is done, you'll agree with me, and we'll get to find out what that's all about.”

A thousand sparks raced through Kit's body. Her eyes took in his face, from his brown eyes, to the bruise, down to his strong jaw. She thought about their conversation about forgiveness and grace. He seemed to be for real. Ben thought so. And cracks were beginning to appear in the wall she had so carefully built around her heart.

“I know, after Eric,” he said, continuing, “it must be hard for you to think about . . .”

“No. It's not,” Kit insisted.

“. . . it must be hard to think of being in another relationship. I just hope you'll take the risk.”

She opened her mouth to respond, then heard someone coming in the door. Chris. She hesitated.

David's eyes were steady. “If you decide to go for it, Kit, I'll be there. And if things work out, I promise you, I will never, ever leave you. Ever.”

C
HRIS HAD BROUGHT BREAKFAST, BUT
K
IT EXCUSED HERSELF AND DROVE TO
her motel, fighting the emotions swirling within her, her heart convulsing in fear and sorrow . . . sorrow over Bob, over Eric, and yes, over her mother. Sorrow, then fear. Fear for David. Fear for herself. What if? Could she? Her excuses were gone, the way forward cleared. Still, she felt afraid. She showered, tears streaming down her face, sobs echoing off the tile, her vision blurred. And when she had finished, when she had exhausted herself and spent her emotion, she curled up in her bed, hugged her Bible to her chest, and prayed.

She arrived back at the offsite at 11:00 a.m. The others were already gathering to strategize.

“Carlos Cienfuegos,” she said, reading from a long fax from Norfolk, “is a Mexican citizen with permanent resident status. He makes
40,000 a year as a crew chief for agricultural workers, according to the IRS.” She looked up. “
40,000. That doesn't seem right for a guy who wears fancy Western clothes and drives a Mercedes.”