Find You First

by Linwood Barclay

  The man approached the house, mounted the steps to the porch.

  Travis heard the doorbell ring.

  Not going down. Not going down.

  He heard faint footsteps on the floor below. His mother heading for the door. He considered shouting down to her to ignore it, but if he did, the man at the door would surely hear him.

  Maybe the man was not here to see him. It was possible he had some business with his parents. Maybe this guy was a lawyer or a real estate agent, and his parents were making a will or putting the house up for sale.

  This guy did not look like a lawyer or a real estate agent.

  But still, it was possible that—“Travis!”

  He debated whether to respond. Trick his mother into thinking he’d left the house. The trouble with that was, the only escape route would have been right by the kitchen, where his mother had been for the last hour.

  If he didn’t answer her, she’d come upstairs looking for him.

  So he called back, “Yes?”

  “Someone here to see you!”

  He swallowed. “Kind of busy right now.”

  What a stupid answer. What could he be so busy with that he couldn’t come downstairs? Could the man come back when I’m done jerking off? No, that wasn’t going to fly.

  “Travis!” his mother said sharply.

  “Who is it?” he called back.

  There was a pause, a murmur of conversation. “A Mr. Cookson!”

  Cookson? Who the fuck was Cookson?

  “What’s he want?”

  This time, his mother did not reply. What he heard, instead, was her stomping up the stairs. Seconds later, she was standing in his doorway, hands on hips.

  “What is wrong with you?” she asked. “How can you be so rude? A man is here to see you. Get your ass down there and find out what this is about. And then you can tell me.”

  Travis slunk down the stairs behind his mother, who flashed the man an awkward smile and said, “Look who I found!” She slipped into the kitchen while Travis held a position on the bottom step.

  “You’re looking for me?”

  The man nodded. “Travis, my name is Miles Cookson. I wonder if I might speak to you about something.”

  “What?”

  Miles hesitated. “An opportunity.”

  “What kind of opportunity?”

  From the kitchen, his mother snapped, “Just talk to the man!”

  “Who are you, exactly?” Travis whispered. “Are you with the police?”

  “The police?” he replied, keeping his own voice low. “No. I run a tech company that designs apps. I’m from New Haven. I flew here last night, to see you.”

  “To see me?”

  “That’s right.”

  Travis had his phone in hand and asked, “What’d you say your name was again?”

  Miles told him and Travis typed it into his phone, waited for search results to come up. He tapped on Images and compared the headshots that came up to the man standing before him.

  “Satisfied?” Miles asked. “What do you say we take a walk?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe just sit on your porch? My legs are a little wobbly today. But I have a story to tell you. It’s going to sound kind of fantastical, but I’m going to ask you to keep an open mind and listen to what I have to say.”

  “What do you mean, ‘fantastical’?”

  Miles paused. “I don’t want to alarm you unnecessarily, but it’s possible you could be in some danger, and I want to warn you about it.”

  Travis said, “You’re a little late.”

  Miles raised his eyebrows. He extended his arm toward the door.

  “Okay,” Travis said, and the two of them went out to the porch. Travis closed the door so his mother wouldn’t listen in, and they each settled into a wicker chair.

  Before telling his story, Miles was hoping for a sense of whether Travis knew he was the product of an artificial insemination. As he’d discussed with Chloe, it was a real double whammy to find out that (a) your dad’s not your real dad, and (b) someone might be out to get you.

  Miles had reviewed the materials Dorian and Heather had compiled, and seen from Facebook postings that Travis did not look much like his father.

  Looking at Dorian’s notes, Miles could not stop thinking about what Heather had learned. His assistant had been ripping off the company. He was so consumed with tracking down the remaining men and women on his list that he’d forced himself to push the Dorian issue out of his head. It was an issue he would have to deal with later. The strange thing was, he felt no anger. Just overwhelming disappointment.

  But right now, in this moment, he had to focus on Travis Roben.

  “What do you know about your history?” Miles asked.

  “History?”

  “Your background. Your … family background.”

  “I don’t know. The usual stuff, I guess.”

  “What I’m wondering is, have you ever, for example, used one of those services you see advertised on TV that can shed light on your ancestry? Like WhatsMyStory, which tests—”

  “I know what it is. And no.” He squinted at Miles, as if that would help him see the man’s true motives. “I would never do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wouldn’t want to hurt my dad’s feel—”

  He cut himself off.

  “Why would an ancestry search hurt your dad’s feelings, Travis?” Miles felt a need to go slowly. “Because it would make him think you didn’t view him as your real father?”

  Travis glanced back at the door, double-checking it was closed. “My parents, they had some … issues when they wanted to have kids.”

  Miles nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  “I guess they tried a long time, and didn’t, you know, get anywhere.”

  “So your parents decided to explore other ways.”

  Travis nodded.

  “Your mother, she went to a fertility clinic?”

  “You know, this is pretty personal stuff to talk about with someone I don’t know.”

  “I get that. But am I right?”

  “I guess … she would have had to,” Travis said.

  “And this clinic, so far as you know, where was it?”

  “Around New York. Where my parents used to live.”

  Miles looked satisfied. “I won’t pry anymore. I’m going to tell you my story. Interrupt at any time.”

  And Miles laid it out, just as he had with the FBI agent, but without revealing the names of the people who were most likely half siblings to Travis. To Travis’s credit, he let Miles tell all of it and asked only a minimum of questions.

  “So you’re not my biological father,” Travis said, when Miles finished.

  “No. I mean, I don’t think so. A test would confirm it. But I’m not related to the first person I contacted, and my name was on that file. I’m guessing it’ll be that way with all of them.”

  “Did that bum you out?” he asked.

  “Yes. So, the first thing you said to me was that I’d gotten here late. What’d you mean by that?”

  “These two people, they tried to kill us.”

  “‘Us’?”

  “Me and my girlfriend, Sandy.”

  “They tried to kill you?” Miles was wide-eyed.

  Travis told his story, including the part where Sandy whacked that woman in the face with the bat.

  Miles said, “You didn’t go to the police?”

  “Too scared,” Travis said. “What if they were cops? Like, I don’t know, a couple of sicko cops who are like, thrill killers or something?”

  Miles thought about that. “The fact there’s been nothing on the news suggests that whatever they were up to, they didn’t want the authorities finding out about it. What about Sandy?”

  “She’s scared shitless, too.”

  “Look, Travis, you and Sandy need to come forward. Yesterday I was talking to a woman from the FBI, an agent, and she didn’t feel
there was enough here to launch any kind of investigation. But what happened to you two, that’s a whole new ball game. You’ve got a story to tell, suspects you can describe. This could change everything.”

  “I don’t know what to do.” He paused. “I’m scared.”

  “You’d be nuts not to be.”

  Travis managed, for the first time, something approaching a grin. “I guess it’s too bad you’re not my father. I’d have come into a shitload of money.”

  Miles smiled wryly. “Let’s go find Sandy.”

  Travis was still holding the phone, but was hesitating.

  “You need to trust me,” Miles said. “They failed the first time they came after you. There’s nothing to say it won’t happen again. You need to get ahead of this. You need to let me help you.”

  Travis waited another moment, nodded, and started to compose a short, simple text:

  A DEVELOPMENT. NEED TO SEE YOU.

  He hit Send and waited.

  “She usually gets back to me right away,” he said. He stared at the phone, waiting for the telltale dots that would tell him she was replying.

  He waited. And waited.

  “Maybe she’s in the bathroom or something,” Travis said, but there was a nervous edge to his voice.

  “Forget texting,” Miles said. “Phone her.”

  Travis tapped, then put the phone to his ear. “It’s ringing.”

  He let it ring ten times. Then he checked to see whether she was now replying to his text. She was not.

  Miles had a flashback to when Chloe had tried to get in touch with Todd. A chill ran the length of his spine.

  “We need to find her right now,” he said.

  Fifty-One

  Somewhere …

  Chloe could feel herself slowly coming out of a deep sleep.

  She’d had a dream about some woman spraying her with something awful, how she had this burning sensation in her eyes and throat and on her skin. How she’d more or less gone blind, what with her eyes stinging so badly. She’d put her hands over her face, screaming with pain, and that was when she felt something jab into her arm.

  No, not a dream, she thought as she slowly regained consciousness. It had happened. When she came out of the diner, after the limo pulled up alongside her.

  Thinking it was Miles.

  Not Miles.

  She’d had only a second to get a look at the person in the back seat of the limo. A woman, some woman Chloe had never seen before in her life. Dark hair, kind of nice looking, late forties, she thought. Maybe older. Not that she’d had much time to take her in. A second, maybe? Two, tops? Chloe had barely enough time to ask who she was before she raised her hand. She’d been holding some tiny canister.

  Pepper spray, Chloe figured.

  Before she opened her eyes, she became aware that she was on a soft, pretty comfortable surface. She ran her fingers along what felt like a quilt, and her head was resting on a very cushy pillow.

  And she could sense light coming through her eyelids. She had no idea how long she’d been out, whether it was night or day, but wherever she was, the lights were on.

  Chloe fluttered her eyelids, getting adjusted to the brightness. She went to sit up, but found she lacked the strength. Whatever that bitch had jabbed into her arm was still working its magic. She’d been on her side, and slowly rolled until she was on her back. She had barely enough energy to move her head from side to side.

  There were nightstands on either side of the bed, decorated with large lamps with oversized shades. There was a dresser, some landscape paintings on the wall like you’d see in a hotel.

  There were two doors. One was on the wall beyond the foot of the bed, and there was a second one off to the left. Both closed.

  Chloe heard some stirring, then the flushing of a toilet. It sounded as though it was coming from behind the door to the left.

  She watched it.

  The handle turned, and then the door opened wide. Chloe’s vision was slightly blurry, but there was someone standing there.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake,” the person said. “I was wondering if you were going to sleep forever.”

  A woman’s voice. No, younger than that. A teenage girl’s voice.

  The girl walked closer, grabbed a chair from a small, round dining table, dragged it over to the edge of the bed, and sat down.

  “How you feeling?” she asked.

  “Like shit,” Chloe said.

  “Yeah. They drugged you.”

  “You’re in a lot of trouble,” Chloe said, her words slightly slurred. “When they find out what you’ve done, you’re in deep shit. This is kidnapping. You’ll go to jail for a long, long time. Fuck, my head’s killing me.”

  “I can probably get you an aspirin,” the girl said. “And don’t blame me. I didn’t kidnap you. I don’t even know who you are.”

  Chloe moved her tongue around, trying to get things working. “I’m Chloe.”

  The girl extended a hand, and when Chloe didn’t have the strength to raise her own, the girl gave her arm a squeeze.

  “Pleased to meet you, Chloe,” she said. “My name’s Nicky. Welcome to hell.”

  Fifty-Two

  Fort Wayne, IN

  Travis backed his van onto the street and Miles got in on the passenger side, having to haul himself up to get in. Travis tromped his foot down on the accelerator before Miles was fully settled into his seat, or had even reached for the seat belt. He blew through a stop sign and swerved to avoid a squirrel that had dared to dart into the street.

  “It’s not far,” Travis said, eyes straight ahead.

  Miles decided against the seat belt and opted instead to brace himself against the dash. God forbid they should hit anything. A deploying airbag would snap his arms like twigs. The van made a right, then a left, then sped down a stretch lined with fast-food outlets, carpet discounters, and muffler repair shops. Travis made another right, heading away from the commercial district and into a residential area that was a mix of modest houses and low-rise apartment buildings.

  He brought the van to an abrupt stop in front of an old, three-story house that might have looked majestic back when it was built sixty or seventy years before, but had not aged gracefully. The paint on the trim was peeling, the steps up to the porch sagged noticeably in the middle, many of the shingles were curled, and the front yard needed a good weeding.

  “She’s got a room here,” Travis said, and was out of the van and running up to the porch before Miles even had his door all the way open.

  Travis tried the front door and, finding it locked, started banging on it. A few seconds later, a sixtyish, balding man Miles presumed was the landlord appeared and opened the door. By now, Miles was on the sidewalk and close enough to hear the conversation.

  “I’m looking for Sandy!” Travis said. “It’s an emergency!”

  “What?” the landlord said.

  “She lives here! Upstairs!”

  Before the man could say another word, Travis squeezed past him and entered the building.

  “Hey!” the landlord cried.

  Miles reached the door and caught a glimpse of Travis heading up a flight of stairs, two steps at a time.

  “You with him?” the man asked Miles.

  He nodded. “It’s important we find her. Something may have happened.” Miles was solemn enough that the man appeared persuaded.

  Upstairs, they could hear Travis banging on a door. “Sandy! Sandy! It’s me!”

  By the time Miles and the landlord reached the second floor, Travis was standing at the door, his face breaking. “If she’s here, she’s not answering.”

  Miles, making his voice as calm as possible, asked the landlord, “Can you open it?”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said. “Unless, it’s not a drug overdose or something, is it?”

  “Yes,” Miles said.

  The man dug into his pocket for what Miles guessed was a master key, moved Travis out of the way, slid it into t
he lock, turned, and opened the door. He went in first, followed by Travis, and at the tail end, Miles.

  It was one simple room, filled with mismatched furniture. A double bed, a dresser and one nightstand, a small desk, and two chairs. One was for the desk, the other an easy chair. There was nothing to suggest anyone was living here. No personal items, no clothes, no book next to the bed. Not even a phone charger plugged into the wall. The bed was made, a couple of throw pillows propped up against the headboard.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” Miles asked.

  “Down the hall,” the landlord said.

  “Is this the right room?” Travis asked. “Isn’t this Sandy’s room?”

  “There was a girl here, that’s for sure,” he said. “Looks like she up and left.”

  Or was taken, Miles thought.

  “I heard someone leave only a few minutes ago, just before you got here, but I was in the back of the house at the time.”

  Travis shot out of the room and ran down the stairs. “Thanks,” Miles said to the landlord, and went after Travis.

  Once they were both in the van, Travis put it in Drive and took off down the street.

  “Where are we going?” Miles asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Stop. There’s no sense driving around wildly. We need a plan.”

  “I don’t have a plan!” he said, on the verge of tears.

  The street ended in a T, and when Travis brought the van to a stop, he had to decide whether to go left or right. He sat there, foot on the brake, the engine idling roughly.

  “Tell me what to do,” Travis said.

  “I don’t know.”

  Travis looked right, debating whether to head in that direction, then left.

  “Holy shit,” he said.

  “What?”

  His voice was no louder than a whisper. “I think I see her.”

  Miles leaned forward in his seat to be able to see around Travis. About a hundred yards away, on the sidewalk, walking away from them, was a young woman pulling a wheeled carry-on-sized bag behind her.

  “You sure?” Miles asked.

  Travis wasn’t going to wait until he was certain. He hit the gas again, cranked the wheel hard left, and sped up the street, steering over into the oncoming lane and coming up alongside the woman.