The Lost (10 page)

There was only one place to start: Adam Bruno.

She could have asked Tony for Adam’s private number, but she wanted to speak with him face to face and check out whether the weird connection she had felt this afternoon had been real or a byproduct of the adrenaline pumping through her body because of the attack. That meant she had to find out where he lived.

She assumed an Internet search would be a bust, but people were sometimes careless about their privacy, especially with the proliferation of sites such as Twitter and Facebook.

Snap off a photo with your cell phone and post it and you could inadvertently be providing more information than you thought. A license plate in the photo or business in the background could give away your location. During her stint as a sergeant in Iraq, she had been forced to caution more than one unsuspecting soldier about such risks
when they were snapping photos during their downtime. Plus, she had limited options for where else she could get more information about Adam, so she might as well give the Internet search a shot.

Easing into a chair at the dining room table, she typed “Adam Bruno” into Google and, just for kicks, hit the “I’m feeling lucky” button. No personal info, and as she had expected, the first hit was for the SolTerra website. Interestingly enough, Adam did a regular blog. She read through the first few entries, enjoying his easygoing style and the passion for his work that was evident in his posts.

The blog had a number of photos; the pictures were recent and shot by him personally, according to the information embedded in the files.

In a photograph displaying a series of solar panels, one of the buildings in the background looked familiar. She blew up the image and confirmed what she thought—it was an active adult building in nearby Spring Lake.

It made sense that he might be a local boy, considering that the SolTerra offices were in Neptune. But that still didn’t put her any closer to tracking him down, and Bobbie didn’t think she could sleep if she didn’t at least try to speak to Adam tonight. She was too wired, her brain processing dozens of scenarios for all that had occurred during the attack and its aftermath.

As a Marine, she had been taught to consider all variables and plan for the future, and that training didn’t just poof off because she was no longer on active duty.

She surfed for more info, and as she drilled through the pages that came up in the search, one caught her eye. A fancy home and garden magazine had done a photo shoot of Adam’s digs. She recognized the house, sporting
solar panels like those in the blog photos, immediately—she and her older brother Mick used to jog right past the home on Ocean Avenue in Spring Lake.

She shut down her laptop and grabbed a lightweight jacket. The weather had cooled, thanks to that night’s earlier storm. Hurrying as much as she could, she took the elevator down to street level and was soon on her way southbound along Ocean Avenue. It was a longer way to go, but she didn’t want to risk that she would somehow pass the house.

Keeping a cautious pace, she drove through the various shorefront towns for several miles. She slowed at the border of Spring Lake to look for his house, but realized it was quite some distance away yet.

She continued past her sister’s family’s multi-million-dollar beach-style home. The porch lights cast a welcoming glow on the front steps, but beyond that the downstairs was dark. Brightness in the front bedroom hinted at where her very pregnant sister Liliana and newlywed husband might be. She pushed away the pang of loneliness and regret that she would never have the same joy, choosing instead to rejoice in Liliana’s happiness.

Pressing onward, Bobbie soon spotted Adam’s house just up on the right. Lights blazed beside the front door and all along the first floor, alleviating any concern that she might be waking him with her visit. But no car was visible in the driveway or in front of the home. Probably in the garage, she thought, as she pulled up to the curb.

Nervous sweat erupted along the palms of her hands as she sat there, slightly more hesitant now than she had been earlier. But she wasn’t someone who let fear control her. Ever.

Bravado gave her the impetus she needed to ease from her Sebring. She approached the door slowly, not that she could rush if she wanted to, determined to confront him. She pressed the doorbell and it rang. She waited, but no one answered.

Strange, she thought, and glanced through the sidelight on the door. Every light in the house was on, so where could he be?

Walking back down the steps and toward the garage, she stood on tiptoe and peered through the intricate glass panels near the top of the doors. A car was inside the garage: a very sweet merlot-colored Bentley convertible. Maybe there was room for playfulness in the workaholic Tony had described.

As she turned to head back to the front door, headlights caught her attention. Someone was pulling into the driveway, illuminating her as she stood by the garage. Snagged, she thought, and hoped that whoever was visiting was friendly.

The driver of the car shut its engine off, but kept the headlights on, placing Bobbie at a distinct disadvantage. She could barely see past the glare of the twin beams as the driver stepped out, keeping behind the protective cover of the door.

“Who are you?” the man called out.

“Roberta Carrera,” she answered, shielding her eyes with her left hand to try to get a glimpse of the new arrival.

The headlights snapped off and the person eased from behind the door. He was an older man, late forties, she guessed, powerfully broad across the shoulders, but thickening at his waist to a middle-aged paunch. His dark hair showed signs of emerging gray at the temples.

As he took a step toward her, he reached into the jacket pocket of his dark suit and Bobbie tensed, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet in anticipation of an attack. She was relieved when the man only pulled out a badge, which gleamed dully in the illumination from the lights along the walk.

“Special Agent Bruno,” he snapped precisely.

Adam’s father, although the two men did not look alike in any way. Adam’s face was all sharp angles, while this man’s was rounded and more indistinct. His eyes were a muddy brown compared to Adam’s stunning emerald. Even their hair color set them apart, as this man’s was much darker than the sun-streaked dirty blond of Adam’s.

When Adam’s father reached where she stood, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see Adam, but he’s not home,” she said, and motioned to the front door.

Worry furrowed the lines of his brow. “I spoke to him right around dinnertime, and he said he was staying in to do some work.”

Brushing past her, he mimicked her previous action of checking the garage and muttered, “His car’s here.”

Before she could say anything else, he was racing up the walk to the door. Bobbie followed, leaning on her cane heavily as she rushed.

Bruno didn’t ring. He had a key, it seemed, as he reached into his pocket and unlocked the door. He stepped into the foyer and paused, Bobbie slipping in to stand beside him.

“Adam?” he called out, and when there was no answer, he reached behind his back and pulled out a nine-millimeter pistol.

“Do you have a cell phone?” he asked.

Bobbie nodded and motioned to her pocket.

“Stay here. If I’m not back in two minutes, call 911,” he commanded. Gun drawn, he entered the house and did a quick sweep of the floor before heading up the stairs.

Bobbie waited, impatient and feeling useless. She was familiar with the procedure for securing a location. She had done it dozens of times in Iraq and during an assortment of training sessions.

Since the first floor seemed secure, she walked farther into the house and realized why some fancy home and garden magazine would want to feature it. Expensive tan leather sectionals filled the large space of the living room and were offset with recliners in deeper shades of cocoa. Here and there was a splash of color in some throw pillows and a large abstract painting. On a nearby wall hung an immense plasma television, and beneath, cabinets displayed a wealth of audio/video equipment behind smoky black glass doors. Carefully selected accessories in black and silver completed the décor.

The room struck her as cold. Impersonal. More of a showcase than a place where someone lived.

But the neatness of it eliminated some of the worry about Adam’s seeming disappearance. A burglar would have trashed the place or taken the pricey electronics. If another attack had occurred, she had no doubt Adam would have put up a fight and the space would not be as orderly as it was.

As she inched down the hallway, she heard something. She worked her way toward the sound coming from a door adjacent to the kitchen. She stopped and pressed her ear to the thick wood.

Voices, or rather,
a
voice. Artificial sounding.

She cautiously opened the wooden door and immediately detected the smell of burning plastic and metal. Like an electrical fire. And the voice again, not quite human, repeating one word.

Release.

Release.

Release.

“Special Agent Bruno,” she shouted, and his footsteps pounded heavily on the stairs as he hurried from the floor above. When he noted the smell that had wafted out to the hall, he wasted no time in rushing past the door and down to the basement level.

Bobbie followed, hop-skipping down the stairs as fast as she could, cursing her injuries and the cane that knocked against the wall, rebounding and almost causing her to trip.

At the foot of the stairs was a small landing and, ahead of them, a glass door leading to what looked like a laboratory. As Bruno opened the door, the odors hit them, much more powerful than at the top of the stairs—burning plastic and a faint chemical smell.

They raced in and stopped dead. Bruno stood beside her, gaze locked on the scene before them, apparently unsure what to do.

Staring at the smoldering piles of what looked like a battery array, Bobbie had no such qualms. A fire extinguisher hung on the wall and she shuffled to it, yanked it from its mount, and returned to where Bruno still stood. She thrust the extinguisher against his chest with a tersely worded command and pointed a finger at the batteries.

“Go keep that from igniting.”

Then she rushed to where Adam lay unconscious on the floor.

A number of electrodes and wires were connected to Adam’s bare chest, and he held leads that fed back into the batteries. Grabbing the insulated wires, she yanked the leads out of his hands. Tracking the path of the other cables with her gaze, she stared at all the monitors and medical apparatus and realized each and every piece of equipment was dead.

Her one hope was that Adam wasn’t also.

Laying her fingers along the side of his neck as she knelt beside him, she detected a pulse, strong, although racing. Beneath her fingers came that unnerving buzz of power. She ripped her hand away.

The smell and fumes in the room began to sting her eyes and burn the back of her throat. She had to get Adam out of there in case any of the vapors were toxic. Cupping the side of his face, she leaned closer.

“Adam. Do you hear me, Adam?” She stroked his cheek with her thumb, ignoring the prickling sensation against the pad of her finger. It was the rasp of his evening beard and nothing else, she told herself, even as her heartbeat kicked up a notch.

“Adam, wake up!”

His eyelids barely fluttered and she shifted her finger along his skin and murmured his name once again. That seemed to finally awaken him.

“Bobbie?” he said groggily, and tried to sit up, but was wobbly.

Bobbie slipped her arm around his shoulders to offer support. Everywhere skin met skin that odd vibration of energy sprang up, maybe even more powerfully than before.

Adam grew agitated and jerked away from her. “I’m fine,” he said, but he was clearly not okay. His eyes seemed unfocused, and without her assistance, he wavered unsteadily.

The fumes mixed with the stench from the fire extinguisher and continued to burn like acid in her throat. They could not delay any longer. She ripped away the rest of the leads and electrodes attached to his body, eliciting a complaint from him as they came away with bits of hair, and maybe even some skin, she thought guiltily.

The pain, however, seemed to fully rouse him.

“We need to get out of here,” she said, and pushed to her feet. She looked around for his father, hoping he could help them.

Bruno was at the foot of the stairs, staring at her as if he had just seen a ghost.

“Help me,” she said, aware that if Adam needed more assistance she was too weak to provide it.

Bruno just shook his head and stared at his son, an almost fearful look in his eyes.
Weird
, was all that Bobbie could think in the short time it took for Adam to turn onto his knees and then slowly rise with her limited support.

“Can you walk?” she asked, and he nodded, but as he took a step, it was hesitant.

She slipped beneath his shoulder to stabilize him, ignoring the rush of power from his body to hers, and searched for his father once more, but Bruno was nowhere to be found. Cursing beneath her breath, she helped Adam to the stairs, where he paused to push a few buttons.