The Faithful (14 page)

“Come on, candy-ass! You run like a little girl!”

“Keep it up, Coach! You’re giving my middle finger a boner.”

Ora was waiting for him at the Southwest gate. He stopped in front of her, sweating and out of breath.

“It’s about time! They’re about to close the door!”

“I ran as fast as I could,” he wheezed.

“Yeah. He almost busted his hymen getting here.”
And before Sumner could think of a comeback,
Coach
was gone.

“Never mind, you’re here. Come on!” She pulled him toward the door, where a woman in a Southwest uniform stood waving them forward impatiently. He produced his boarding pass, then ducked through the doorway and ran down the ramp.

Settling into the seat beside her, he said, “I’m giving you one week. If we haven’t figured out how to stop whatever is going to happen by then, I’m going to follow Father Narda’s orders to gather in the children.”

She shrugged. “Fair enough.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Her back was small and fragile. Her shoulder blades poked out at the pink fabric of her sweatshirt. Her skirt was also pink, and had a band of neon-green ribbon stitched along the bottom hem. Her hair rose in a mass of uncontrolled knots and curls, a piece of leaf and a small stick poking out like captured prisoners.

I followed behind her, unseen. My legs were trembling with exertion, my lungs on fire. Flying down the path, I plunged through flickering sunlight and shadow, desperate to reach her.

“Leora! Leora!”

She ducked low each time her name was shouted, but continued running.

“Leora! Get back here . . . this instant!”

On she ran, peals of laughter trailing behind her. It was a game to her. The woman calling her sounded tired and shrill the way only a mother of young children could. In the distance, I could hear the sound of children at play and the quacking of ducks.

“Leora! If you don’t get back here . . . RIGHT NOW . . . there is going to be a CONSEQUENCE!”

One of the girl’s neon-green Crocs flew off and landed on the red earth. She kicked off the other and pressed on barefoot.

Picking up speed, I passed her shoes. Something was about to happen. Something was about to go very, very
wrong
. I tried to scream, to warn her, but managed nothing more than a thin burst of air, ineffective and unheard.

There was a parking lot at the end of the path. As she raced forward, the shadow-figure of a man stepped into view, directly in front of her. She skidded, trying to slow down, but he was too close and she went careening into him. I saw the flash of sunlight dancing across a needle, and then she went limp.

He scooped her up and ran toward the parking lot.

“No!”
Too late my voice came unstuck, and he turned to me. His face was a black hole. He hoisted the girl over one shoulder and pointed a finger directly at me, as though marking me.

“Rowan.”
His voice was the hiss of a snake, both acknowledgment and warning. As he turned away, the small girl hanging limply over his shoulder, the world went black.

The dim lamplight of my living room swam into focus. The news was on. I had fallen asleep on the couch. Was it morning or night? I eased myself up, groaning. An empty Doritos bag slid off my lap and landed on the carpet, scattering a bright-orange spray of crumbs over the pile of crumpled tissues on the floor.

Ah, yes. Evidence of the grand old pity party I’d been having since my terrible encounter with Kahina. I had called in sick to work, and Dan had dropped a huge bag of junk food on my doorstep on his way to WSMR.

I grabbed a chocolate out of the box on the coffee table and sucked on its sweetness. It cut nicely through the fuzz in my mouth.

So, was it a dream or a premonition or . . . what?

Perhaps a news story about a missing girl had transferred into my dream? I grabbed the remote and rewound the DVR to the beginning of the news hour. They made it through the morning headlines in ten minutes. When they turned to the weather, I turned off the TV. If a girl had gone missing in Las Cruces, it would have been a lead story. A Google search for any missing girls by the name of Leora came up with nothing pertinent.

It was tempting to dismiss it as a dream, but what if it was a premonition? What if a little girl was about to be kidnapped?

On Google Maps, I searched parks in the Las Cruces area. There were quite a few, of course, but only one with red dirt pathways
and
a duck pond.

Dripping Springs National Park was in a secluded area halfway between Las Cruces and the peaks of the Organ Mountains, probably a thirty-minute drive from my home. It had a large playground that boasted a water park, tennis courts, trails, and a duck pond. There was a snack bar from which one could buy refreshments and bread crumbs for the ducks. The few pictures I found online were focused on the playground and duck pond, but in the background were red, tree-lined trails.

So now what?

Sitting back against the couch, I tried to work it through. I could call the cops, of course, but didn’t like the idea of facing their eye rolling and sarcasm. I might have been cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, but no one else needed to know it.

Well, it looked like a nice day for a stroll around a duck pond.

And if it all turned out to be for naught, no one would have to know about it but me. And just maybe I would save a girl’s life.

“Yeah, you and all your kung fu moves.” I hauled myself off the couch with a newfound sense of urgency. After a quick shower, I dressed in sweatpants and a yellow T-shirt. I unearthed my Nikes from the closet and slipped them on over athletic socks. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and stuffed it into a backpack along with my wallet, cell phone, sunscreen, and a novel by Jodi Picoult.

With purpose, I peeled out of the garage. The traffic on I-25 South was light, the morning rush hour already finished. I took the exit for University Avenue eastbound, which eventually became Dripping Springs Road. It wound through empty scrubland dotted by the occasional farm, and traffic thinned. The road climbed gently into the red rocks and majestic canyons of the Organ Mountains. I caught sight of the sign for Dripping Springs National Park, and slowed to make the turn into the parking lot.

There were a handful of cars, and I circled, eyeing each of them in turn. None seemed suspicious, and there was no gray-hooded man conveniently lurking in the lot. I parked near the south edge and set out, taking a moment to adjust the straps of the backpack onto my shoulders.

Three trails led from the parking lot into different areas of the park, and I walked them one at a time. The first two led to different sides of the large playground, and the third looped around the duck pond.

Parents chased their children on the playground, or policed them from the comfort of blankets spread out in the shade. They occasionally called reminders to share, play nice, or not throw dirt, before turning back to their adult conversations.

There was no sign of the little girl from my dream. I made another casual circuit of the duck pond before buying a basket of fries and a Coke from the snack bar, and a bag of bread crumbs for the ducks. I munched my midmorning snack from a bench on the edge of the playground.

Once finished, I tossed my trash and strolled back to the duck pond. The ducks waddled around, quacking and fighting over the tiny morsels. When the bag was empty, I wandered back to the playground.

Grateful for the shade, I sat on the grass under a large sycamore tree. I spent the next couple of hours watching families come and go above the rim of my book. I wished I had brought a blanket.

Lunch was two hamburgers, another basket of fries, and a Coke, all devoured from my spot under the tree. I dumped my garbage, made a trip to the ladies’ room, and then settled under the tree to continue my surveillance.

The carbs hit my system, making me drowsy. Some unknown time later, I awoke with a start, heart pounding with a jolting burst of adrenaline.

“Leora!”

It wasn’t part of a dream. I
had
heard it. Jumping to my feet, I frantically searched the area for the little girl.

“Leora!”

The woman was pushing one of those hefty double strollers wearily around the duck pond. She was African American, her hair pulled tight against her scalp, and wearing a red dress and sneakers. One tiny baby foot poked out of the front of the carriage, and a small boy was drinking from a juice box in the rear seat.

The girl must have been somewhere along the third path, the one that meandered from the duck pond to the parking lot. It was the farthest away from me. That was bad, but it was also the longest of the three paths. Maybe that would give me an advantage.

I took off at a dead run, flying down the path nearest to me. My lungs were burning within thirty feet. I really was in terrible shape, and the hamburgers had formed a big greasy lump in the pit of my stomach. I careened down the path toward the parking lot, weaving around a lumbering family of five with a speed induced by pure panic.

Skidding into the parking lot, I almost fell on my side, but rallied and pushed toward the mouth of the third trail. It did a long, lazy loop toward the duck pond, which made it impossible to see more than twenty feet ahead.

“Leora! If you don’t get back here . . . RIGHT NOW . . . there is going to be a CONSEQUENCE!”

I surged forward with renewed energy. She had to be close! But where was the man in gray?

Rough arms encircled my waist like a steel trap. The air squeezed out of my lungs in a high-pitched whistle. My feet, still trying to run, left the ground. They scissored ridiculously through the air, and then I was flying.

Well, shit. I had been tossed aside as easily as a used tissue. My head cracked against the tree trunk with a bone-jarring explosion of light, and I was gone.

When the world returned, I pulled myself up and staggered drunkenly to the parking lot. My feet didn’t want to stay under me, and the rest of me kept trying to detour in different directions. I overcorrected and fell, landing on my face with a grunt. Burning anger pushed me to my feet and I staggered on, furious at being so easily bested.

“Leora!” The woman was still somewhere behind me on the path. Her voice was becoming more strident. She must have realized her daughter was nearing the danger of the parking lot. But, oh, it was so much worse than that.

The man in gray was stuffing the girl into the backseat of a dark blue Ford Escape.

“No!” I managed to turn my stagger into a run. He turned and pinned me with his dark eyes. He was smiling.

Do I know you? I thought. But that was crazy. He slid into the backseat and slammed the door shut. There was a blonde woman in the driver’s seat. The tires screeched as she reversed out of the parking spot, and I pushed forward with one last burst of energy.

Doing my best kamikaze dive, I slid across the hood’s hot metal and grabbed onto a windshield wiper.

The woman looked quite surprised. Our eyes met, and she hit the gas. She yanked the wheel sharply to the right, and then spun to the left. Picking up speed, she raced through the parking lot in a mad attempt to dislodge me.

To give myself credit, I hung on for quite a while. But when she slammed on the brakes, I slid off the front grille and hit the concrete like a sack of melons. She didn’t hesitate. She ran right over me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Temple Hills, Maryland, was a suburb to the southeast of Washington, DC. Sumner Macey’s house was a two-level, red-brick structure halfway down a dead-end street filled with similar houses. The properties were large and unfenced, and boasted patchy lawns and cracked driveways. There were no sidewalks and few streetlamps, adding to the countrified feel.

Josh was getting nowhere but frustrated. There were only ten houses on Crystal Lane, a fact that would have guaranteed neighborly camaraderie twenty years before. He interrupted mothers feeding their families, tired men in wrinkled business suits, an elderly couple watching
The Price Is Right
, and a doped-up twentysomething who, by the look of panic in his eyes when Josh flashed his badge, was the local drug dealer.

None of them knew Sumner Macey, except by sight. Most didn’t even know his name—just that he lived there alone, he was quiet, kept his yard clean, and never bothered anybody. Josh refrained from mentioning that they were giving the same description the neighbors of terrorists and serial killers gave after the shit hit the fan.

He seemed like a nice guy. He was quiet and kept to himself. I had no idea he was marinating human flesh in the basement.

Josh sighed, dragging a hand through his hair as he eyed the plain facade of Mr. Macey’s house. There hadn’t been any movement in the residence since his arrival. No twitch of the curtains, no telltale TV flicker, no moving shadows. As dusk settled into darkness, lights flicked on in houses up and down the street. But not in the Macey residence.

Mr. Macey’s 2008 silver Honda Accord was missing from the carport. Josh crossed the street and ambled up the driveway. Newspapers had piled up on the doorstep.

He rang the doorbell and waited. If Sumner Macey opened the door, he would inquire about the drug dealer down the street, but Josh wasn’t holding his breath. With the tip of his car key, he pried open the mail flap and peered inside. In the dim expanse of hallway, there was a rectangular table over which a tan overcoat had been thrown, and a black umbrella was propped against the hall closet. Mail fanned out from the base of the door into the hall, a
Rolling Stone
and a
True West
magazine tucked among the bills and flyers.

Sumner Macey had called in sick to work, but Josh doubted he was laid up in bed with a box of tissues and a tub of Vicks VapoRub.

Josh worked his way along the front of the residence, hoping to see something that might allow him probable cause to enter the premises without a search warrant. All the curtains were drawn tight, and Josh could see nothing save his own frustrated reflection in the dark panes of glass. A check of his watch told him it was almost 7:00 p.m. Time to pack it in for the evening and grab some dinner. His stomach rumbled in agreement.

He climbed into his Impala 9C3 and started the engine, making a mental note to check the FAA database in the morning to see if Sumner Macey appeared on a recent passenger list.

Josh arrived at the office at seven-thirty the next morning, eager to get a jump on the day. As he rounded the corner, coffee and yogurt in one hand and briefcase in the other, he saw the door to his office was open a couple of inches, the lights on inside.

His heart hammered with anxiety. A quick backtrack and his breakfast was unloaded onto the empty reception desk. On his way back, he unclipped the harness over his Glock 22. His hand found its natural place on the grip, finger loose near the trigger. In deference to his location inside a secured building, the gun remained holstered. But someone had clearly broken into his office, which made him both wary and indignant.

Josh pushed the door open with his foot. There was a man lounging in the desk chair, hands steepled on his chest, feet crossed on the corner of the desk. As the door swung open, he straightened out, letting his feet fall to the floor.

“Can I
help
you?” Josh spat.

The man seemed nonplussed by the terseness of his tone. The smell of his aftershave was overpowering, a mix of pine and ginger. Josh put him in his late fifties, with a head of glossy silver hair and eyes the color of caramel. He wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses propped on the edge of a nose as sharp as a razor blade, and a gold Patek Philippe watch. His gray suit looked custom-made, and his navy silk tie was looped in a crisp Windsor knot against his throat. All in all, he gave the impression of money, power, and political influence.

“Senior Special Agent Metcalf?” His voice was smooth, a self-satisfied drone that made Josh think of wasps bathing in honey.

“That’s what it says on the door. Who are you?”

“My apologies.” He managed to inflect his tone with mild surprise, as though he was used to being recognized. “Deputy Director Michael Warner, from the Office of Congressional Affairs.”

“Well, Deputy Director Michael Warner, it might be okay to break into offices in the OCA, but around here it’s considered poor form.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You must forgive me; I didn’t want to wait in the public reception area.”

“Uh-huh.” Josh didn’t attempt to hide his anger. “And what’s your excuse for searching my desk and file cabinets?” Everything had been replaced with care, but it was obvious his office had been tossed.

Deputy Director Warner lifted his hands, smiling bashfully. “All right, I’m caught. Blame it on a restless mind.”

Josh stood, one hand on the grip of his gun, watching him silently.

As though to appease him, Warner slithered out from behind the desk. He sat down in the brown visitor’s chair, smoothing his tie and watching Josh with wide, innocent eyes. Josh wasn’t buying it for a second.

“What do you want?”

“I hear you’re one of the best CID investigators.”

Josh remained silent.

“That your promotion to senior special agent is one of the quickest in the history of the division.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Word is, you might make director one day. If you keep your nose clean.”

Josh clamped his mouth shut.

“Of course, there are political issues to be aware of. Toes you don’t want to step on. You get my meaning?”

“No, I don’t believe I do.”

“How disappointing. Perhaps you’ll have a seat so I can enlighten you?”

“I’m fine right here.”

Deputy Director Warner sighed. “Very well. One of your
investigations
has delved into some sensitive territory.”

“Oh, really. And which one of my
investigations
would that be?”

“Let’s just say there are certain cabinet members who’d like to avoid an investigation into the Department of Education.”

“Which cabinet members?”

“That information can only be shared on a ‘need to know’ basis. I’m simply a friendly messenger.”

Josh laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, Agent Metcalf. I couldn’t be more serious. Stop your investigation into the ED, and you’ll find your rise through the FBI ranks to be swift and easy. If
not
. . .” he shrugged, implying all manner of negative ramifications.

“Look,
Deputy Director Warner
, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you have seriously misjudged me. I don’t care if I climb up the ranks, and I don’t take well to being threatened. Also, the last time I checked, I don’t take my orders from the OCA,
or
from crooked members of the cabinet.”

“No, but you
do
take orders from me.”

Josh turned to find his boss standing in the doorway.

“Ah,
shit
, Dean. You can’t be serious!”

Executive Administrative Director Dean Forster was rumpled and sweaty. He was always rumpled and sweaty, so that wasn’t what caused the nervous flutter of alarm in Josh’s gut. It was his eyes, which were very still, determined, and . . .
sad
.

“Dean, what the hell is this about?”

“You need to do what he’s saying. Shut down your investigation of the ED. Right away.”

“Why?”

“Come on, Josh. You know better than that.”

“Dean, you don’t seriously expect me to stop an investigation just because some OCA guy breaks into my office and tells me to?”

“No. I expect you to do it because I’ve
ordered
you to. I’ve been your boss for six years now, Josh. I pushed for your promotion. I supported your use of man-hours on an investigation others thought was a waste of time and money. I’ve been your mentor, your friend,
and
your boss. You need to trust me on this. For your own good, let it go.”

“Dean . . .”

“Josh, I’m serious.
Please.
”

He could feel them watching him from the mural behind his desk. Seven hundred and seventy-nine sets of eyes, pleading not to be abandoned. “Fine.”

“Good.”

Without another word, Josh left his office. He grabbed his briefcase and breakfast off the reception desk and headed for the stairs.